The Remote Island by Bryan Christian Jeremy Piven's been doin' too much sushi to show up to work. Plus: Muppet burlesque and Top Chef both make us feel dirty!
Dating Confessions by You "I think we both sort of think we're doing the other one a favor. Sad or funny, either way this does not bode well..."
And as far as never seeing him again — well, the thought of it made me a bit sad. Even though we'd only known each other for five, maybe six hours, even though our lives had little in common besides a nicotine addiction (me being a writer from Brooklyn and he being an Upper East Side lawyer), it felt as though we shared something fundamental. A belief in kindness, liberal politics, love of literature, yadda yadda yadda: We both listened to NPR and went to state school, you know?
I don't even think he was that interested in money. (No, wait: status. I don't think he was that interested in status.) His ambition was fueled, at least in part, by his mother's financial needs; after his father died, he had to support her. And the nest egg they always assumed would provide for her after he was gone turned out to be a snarl of debt and bad business decisions. It's the kind of thing that could impel a good kid from suburban Florida to uproot himself and settle down in the whitest part of Manhattan, rent a $2500/month apartment, and get a job working for the devil.
"I want to take you for seafood this week," he told me.
"I like seafood," I told him.
He kissed my nose again. And, at nine A.M., neither of us having slept a wink, he left.
I didn't have his number. I told him not to bother giving it to me; I wouldn't use it. I have no qualms about calling men, but I had come to a place where it was simply more interesting for me to be pursued. I figured anyone who wanted to date me would have the balls (or the bourbon) to do something about it, and I was tired of getting numbers from men who woke up the next morning only to change their minds.
So I gave him my number.
I wrote back: "Is this Billy?"
And he didn't call. He didn't call later that Saturday, and he didn't call on Sunday, and he didn't call on Monday, and by Tuesday, I had stopped feeling annoyed and started feeling pissed. Even if he had called on Wednesday, I would not have gone out with him. I was too irritated. Because, listen: If a relatively attractive single woman does you the great courtesy of asking you back to her Brooklyn apartment and fucking your brains out, then you owe her a phone call the following day. Got it? If you don't, you better have a goddamn good excuse.
And, it turns out, he did.
I had gone to happy hour with a friend that Wednesday and was just settling back in my desk at home when a text message popped up on my phone. It was from a number I did not recognize, a number whose area code was New York.
"S.," it began. "I lost my job this week. I lost all my money in the stock market. I think my mom is seriously ill, and I'm probably moving back to Florida later this week. I don't think we can date right now."
I wrote back: "Is this Billy?"
I feel horrible that I did that, by the way. I wasn't trying to be glib or funny. I was genuinely confused, a kneejerk reaction that I wished I could have taken back the moment I hit "send." Of course it was Billy. What the fuck was wrong with me? And yet, my mind couldn't quite absorb the information. It was like an epic tragedy condensed to a text message. I mean, wow. Seriously: Wow. I lost my job, I lost all my money, my mom's dying, I'm leaving this week? You could write a Russian novel with that shit.
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