Assisted Loving (8 page)

“I'm originally from Hungary.”

“I knew you sounded like a Gabor! Any chance you know them?”

Bad question, Dad. And don't come on so hard with a European. You have to hold back.
The smile fades from her face as she puts her sunglasses back on.

“No,” she says. “I don't. And I have to go.” I guess she did the math and figured out that this man isn't for her. Didn't care for the sneakers, faded plaid pants. Or maybe she already has someone. Dad is not bothered by her
froideur
. I am cringing.

“And you live in the area?”

Enough, let her go, Dad, Leave the nice European lady alone.

“Yes, I do. It's been nice talking to you. Have a good day.”

“Hope to see you again!” he calls after her.

Then she's on her way, leaving us in a subtle cloud of good perfume. I'm displeased.

“What a snob,” I say.

“Oh, come on,” he says. “You can't take it so seriously.”

But I do. I'm livid. How dare she? This is my father we're talking about. A man who only wishes everyone well, a friendly face who likes to chat to pass the time. If I'm rude to him and dismissive at times, it's because I'm allowed to be. I'm his son.

“Why do I care so much, Dad? Why do I get so involved in your dating travails? Is it because I don't want you to end up with some fishwife from Flushing?”

He laughs. His hazel eyes sparkle in the sunshine.

I tell him I'd hate to see him get hurt.

“Look, I'm not going to get involved with anybody you don't approve of one hundred percent,” he says. “I'm going
to keep looking until everything is copacetic. But tell me something, Bobby. After all the talk about
my
dating, what's your news in the romance department? Anything to report?”

“Dating? Me? What are you, kidding? I've got nothing. As usual.”

“Well,” he says as he sits back on his bench, “maybe you're dating vicariously through me, and it gives you a thrill.”

“Ha-ha, Dad! Very funny! Very funny!”

Later, after I leave him and am sitting on the train back to the city, looking at another weekend with not a kiss or a cuddle in sight, I wonder if he might be right.

Am I dating vicariously through him?

W
hat to wear to a date at a dog run? Houndstooth? Wrong season. I head out in plaid Bermudas and black T-shirt to find the streets of the West Village teeming with men still in their thirties and boldly baring their hard-won physiques. I look and look away.

I should lose ten pounds. I'm not my ideal
gay
weight, okay?

But it's been over a month since the last dating disaster, so I have to try.

This one never even spoke on the phone with me. We made all the arrangements by e-mail. I know nothing more about him than that he lives downtown, works as a stagehand, and has a well-toned torso posted on his profile. He suggested we meet at the dog run at Madison Square Park so he can bring his along. Seems like a
good idea to me. Why not have a friendly nonverbal third party around as a conversation starter?

I cross Thirty-third Street and enter the park, shaded with locust trees, and find the only unoccupied bench. It faces Jenny's Dog Run, a dusty fenced-in patch of dirt filled with thin youngish people and their canine companions, all clean, lively, and well behaved. I'm not a dog person. But as I watch people cuddling old beagles, throwing sticks to young Jack Russells, and stroking glossy Irish setters, I wonder if there isn't something to the love between owner and pet that I'm missing in my life. Would having a dog teach me about unconditional love, make me a better and happier person? I bet it would make it easier to get some attention on the street. Maybe I could just rent one.

Hey. I think that's my date, Greg, over there. Yes. He's entering the park in cutoffs that show nice legs. He's balding, but that's no surprise—I already saw his photos—and he's actually doing it very well: one of those shaved gay heads. I wave. He's got the coloring I love—florid skin that redheaded guys get from the sun. And great arms, not meticulously muscular, but somewhere between toned and buff. Woof.

“Greg?”

“Bob?”

“Yeah. Hi! And who's this?”

The dog is a black wiggly blur, all snout and tail.

“This is Scooter,” he says.

“What kind of dog is he?”

“A Portuguese water dog.”

“Adorable,” I say, voice high and a little forced. “Hi, Scooter!”

I don't have to lie. The dog is adorable. He looks like the archetypal happy dog, the kind that used to fill pages of elementary-school reading books. Still, when I hold my hand out to touch Scooter, it is tentatively. Ever since I was a child and saw a cocker spaniel bite my mother's hand (she loved dogs), I have been cautious

“Yes, that's my good boy,” Greg is telling Scooter, who is licking his face. Then he lets him have a nice long drink from his bottle of Evian. Do people share water bottles with dogs? He gives Scooter another drink and takes one himself. What about me? I could use a drink right now. But he doesn't offer me one.

“You two are close, huh?” I say.

“Yeah, totally,” he replies, as he nuzzles Scooter. “We sleep together every night.”

Now Scooter is barking at us, sharp teeth showing—an edge of violence that makes me nervous. But I keep smiling.

“He wants to play,” Greg tells me. “We'll be right back.”

Inside the dog run, while he throws a tennis ball over and over for his dog to retrieve, I watch with a smile plastered on my face. Alien to me as this guy's relationship is with his dog, and odd as it is to see him share his Evian, it doesn't mean I don't admire him for it. He seems like a nice person. But when we try to converse, it goes nowhere.

“Look at those nails, Scooter,” he coos. “I think we're going to have to give them a clipping and polish when we get home. And what about a nice bath? Would you like a nice cool, minty bath, boy? We'll make it a full spa day for you, how about that?”

I'm smiling, but thinking,
What about me?

A half hour passes; my heart's still pounding the way it always does around handsome men who aren't right for me. I pet the dog as he kisses him. I'm not getting anything out of this three-way. In fact, I feel invisible.

“I think it's time for lunch,” he says.

“I'll walk with you,” I chirp.

Stepping out from under the trees and into the intersection of Twenty-third and Broadway, we are blasted by summer sun. Greg bends down and, with biceps flexing, picks up his dog, all sixty pounds of him, and holds him in his thick, freckled arms.

“What's wrong?” I ask.

“His paws are sensitive to hot cement,” he tells me.

That can't be normal. We wait to cross the street. In front of a deli, instead of putting the dog down, he turns to me and asks, “Will you hold him while I go in?”

Will I hold his dog? Is he kidding me?

“Oh sure,” I say. “Take your time.”

So now I'm standing on the corner of Twenty-first Street and Fifth Avenue with a big black curly-haired, hypoallergenic dog in my arms. I haven't held anyone, or even gotten this close to anyone, in a long time. There have been no babies in my life to hold. Or men. So I guess it was my mother who was the last person I held like this, mostly to help her out of cars and taxis, sometimes out of chairs as well. It's a shocking thing when you realize a parent needs help getting up and has to be lifted. But imagine how
she
felt, this woman who wanted to get around on her own but could not anymore.

“Okay, Mom, are you ready?”

“Bobby, I'm so embarrassed. It's such a terrible thing to get old.”

We were in the ladies' room of a medical building in the city. I had taken her to see a new blood specialist. She went to use the bathroom and could not get off the toilet. So there I was, hoping no women would come in and find me and shriek. She struggled to push herself up against the wall, but the stall had no safety bar, and with nothing to hold on to, she kept sinking down. “Umph,” she sighed. It was hopeless. I had to get in there. I had her put her arms around my neck, and in one quick motion, I leaned down into her, counted to three, and, using all my body weight, pulled her up. It was a little like dancing, with our faces so close we were cheek to cheek. She stepped forward and steadied herself. I helped her pull up her pants, holding my breath.

“There we are,” I said. “All set.”

“Thank you,” she sighed. “I don't know what I'd do without you.”

In fact, she'd been making do without much help from any of us for too long. Later, at our appointment, her new blood specialist was shocked to hear she was living in a big suburban house without a visiting nurse or any kind of aid. He was even more shocked to learn that she had a healthy husband. Why wasn't he overseeing her care?

We said good-bye to the doctor, and I called Dad on my cell phone to tell him Mom would be heading home to Long Island. “No, you should take her to an emergency room in the city,” he said. We were in the doctor's waiting area now, end of a long day. Outside there was an early summer deluge. Mom was worn-out and breathing heavily.

“You don't think I should send her home? I have a car service to take her.”

“I'm telling you, Bobby, do not send her back to this house tonight.”

“Why? The doctor says she can go home. It's not an emergency. She's just weak. She doesn't need the hospital.”

“No! No hospitals!” my mother was yelling. I don't blame her. She'd seen enough of them. And this was her last week in her home of fifty years. In another week she'd be moving—or, I should say, my brother and I would be moving her against her wishes (with Dad) to an assisted-living place located near us in Manhattan.

“Dad, she wants to come home. Let her come home.”

“She doesn't belong in this house,” he insisted. “She belongs in a hospital.”

I felt sorry for him. And angry. And guilty. Was I sending her home because I didn't want to spend the week running to her hospital in the city? Maybe I should have been offering to spend the week on Long Island to help him help her. I'd been careful to keep a distance from the disaster their domestic life had become. Once a week was all I gave. “Sorry, Dad, but she's coming home to you now, period. End of conversation!”

I clicked off my cell phone and turned to her. “Okay, Mom, ready? Let's go.”

Once again, she couldn't get up. But I let her try for the sake of her dignity.

“Lean forward, and use your legs,” I coached.

The look on her face was of intense focus, as if she could will her worthless body up off the waiting room couch. But it was no good. The doctor's office was closing, the staff walking past us, unaware of our awkward situation. It was like drowning within plain sight of lifeguards on a beach. We were invisible and helpless.

But why was I impatient? Was it her fault she had gotten sick so young and lived ten years in such a debilitated state, with a blood disease that causes the body to make too many red cells and has no known treatment? Was it her fault she was pretty once and now had given up on her looks entirely, unwilling to exercise or make herself stronger? Her troubles were a downer. Like Dad, I yearned to be weightless and responsibility-free. I wondered how much longer she would suffer and, by her suffering, make us suffer.

“Okay, Mom, we really have to get out of here,” I said gently.

And for the second time in an hour, I leaned down, embraced her, and—one, two, three!—lifted her up. When she was on her feet, I gave her a pat on the back.

“Good job,” I said. I should have kissed her forehead. I should have held her in my arms and hugged her gently for a long time, and told her how much I loved her.

Now there is a dog in my arms. And the sky has suddenly become overcast, and a cool wind picks up on Fifth Avenue. Leaves on trees shiver. Garbage flies, men hold on to their baseball caps, women hold down their skirts. Everyone and everything is so light in a big wind. But this dog is not. He's heavy. He's panting. But not squirming. He seems to like how I'm holding him in my arms. And he's warm against me. He licks my face. Gross as it is, I laugh at the affection. “What a sweetheart you are,” I whisper.

A few minutes later, I am saying good-bye to dog and owner.

The dog turns to look at me as I go. His owner does not.

T
he next week, on a Wednesday, I find myself waiting in front of a Broadway theater among an elderly matinee crowd. I'm meeting Dad to see a revival of the musical
Nine
. My brother treated him to a few tickets for Father's Day to use as he wished. It's a show I've wanted to see, so I'm grateful he's invited me to join him. But where is he? Why is he always late? Is he driving around and around looking for a parking spot because he refuses to pay for a lot? There he is, finally. In plaid pants and a beige V-neck that hangs too long. And who is that with him? A nice-looking woman is at his side.

“Bob! Hiya! This is Gracie,” he tells me. “My favorite bridge partner.”

I'm thrown but don't miss a beat. “Hello! Nice to meet you,” I say, extending a hand.

Hers is cold to the touch. “My pleasure,” she tells me.

“Let's go get our seats,” Dad says. “We'll chat inside. Follow me.”

We move into the warm sea of seniors, shuffling along slowly, shoulder to shoulder. Everyone's talking at once. It's like being in a herd of very slow-moving sheep.

“She's the most advanced child in her preschool,” I hear one woman tell her friend.

“But does she speak any foreign languages?” the friend replies.

Dad looks happy. He's got his date. He's got his catch of the day, his Gracie Gravlax. Me? I'm anxious to see this musical. But I don't like the idea of being the third wheel here. Not at all.

“Here, Bob,” he says. “Why don't you sit between us so I can be on the aisle?”

But I didn't come here to talk to
her
. I give her the subtlest once-over. She's dressed decently enough in seersucker skirt, white button-down blouse, white clip-on earrings, and white sandals with a sensible little heel. Dressed a little better than my mother would dress—better fabrics, better accessories, but not quite as pretty. I don't have much to ask this woman. But I know I have to try.

“So where are you from?” I ask, putting down my
Playbill
.

“Great Neck,” she says, nothing more.

“Oh. And how did you and Dad meet?”

“At a bridge game at the community pool.”

I might as well be the father in the living room giving her the third degree.

“Gracie is one of the top players,” Dad interjects. “But,
Bob, why don't you tell us what you're working on? You have your
Times
column this week?”

Dance, Bobby! Dance for the nice lady! Make your father proud!

Mercifully, the lights go down, and the conversation is finished.

Nine
is a sophisticated revival of a musical about a narcissistic womanizer having a middle-aged crisis. As I watch the dashing leading man move across the stage, as seductress after seductress descends a staircase to woo him, I find myself wishing I had that many options. Then, I realize that even my father is more like this Casanova character than I am. At least he's in the game. “I want to be young, I want to be old,” the leading man sings, looking like a circus master in a ring full of lovers. “I am lusting for more, should I settle for less?” The women come and go, negligees swirling, high heels clicking, hairdos blowing. At one point, all are shouting, “Me! Me!” like desperate bridesmaids hoping to catch the bouquet.

At intermission, I rush outside for coffee to avoid any conversation.

But after the show is over, Dad will not let me go home. As we leave the theater, I feel as if I'm in a netherworld. I am not even thirty blocks from where I live downtown, and yet, where in the world am I right now? Am I really out with my father and a woman who isn't my mother? It was always disorienting enough when I took my parents around Manhattan, which I still think of as a parent-free zone. Now this? It's too much.

When was the last time I went to a Broadway show with my parents anyway? I think it was Mother's Day, five years ago, when Mom could still get around. We ditched
a dull show at intermission. I took them up to Central Park. It was in full bloom, and I knew what I wanted to show them—the red-tailed hawks nesting over a fancy apartment window on Fifth Avenue. As usual, there was a big group of birders watching from the park's reflecting pond. “Would you like to look through my telescope?” one asked my mother. She was delighted. To her, a small-town girl with a suburban life who believed that there was nowhere more beautiful than Long Island in the springtime, the city was often about harsh moments and brusque strangers. But here were these friendly nature lovers under blossoming dogwoods eager to tell her about their precious hawks. Even my father, usually opposed to anything natural, could not help but be charmed. My mother watched those hawks for a long time, cooing and oohing as one left the nest and flew out over Central Park in search of a pigeon or rat. “You always have something to show us, honey, don't you?” she said, as they departed later. It made me feel wonderful. She always made me feel adored.

With Dad the adoration is more complicated. Why would he want me along on this first date anyway? It's so weird. But I guess it's only fair to give this Gracie a chance. We cross Times Square with the matinee mob, and then sit down in an empty Mexican restaurant Dad chooses. It smells of disinfectant.

“Now was this the first time you'd seen
Nine
?” he asks his Gracie Gravlax.

She says it was and that she found the script weak and the songs unmemorable.

“I can't disagree totally,” Dad says. “But overall, I thought it was a great show.”

I'm thinking it would be nice for her to say she enjoyed it, since the tickets were ninety bucks each. But she just drinks her Diet Coke and looks at her little wristwatch with grosgrain strap. There is something humorless, brittle about this Gracie, with her hairdo that looks as if one match would burn it off in a fireball. Her answers are too curt. Her countenance grim, her pale lipstick applied just so. She is graceful but ungracious. Dad starts to look sulky. Maybe I can change this vibe.

“Hey, Dad, hear any good jokes lately?”

He raises an eyebrow—indicating mischief—and replies that, in fact, he has one.

“Would you like to hear it?”

“Go ahead,” Gracie says.

He clears his throat. “Three nuns die at the same time and end up at Saint Peter's gate together. ‘But before I can let you in, Sisters,' Saint Peter says, ‘I have to ask you each one question.' So he turns to the first nun and says, ‘Your question is: Who was the first man?' She says, ‘Oh, that's easy—Adam.' And Saint Peter says, ‘Come on in, Sister, come on in!' Then he turns to the second nun and asks, ‘Your question, Sister, is: Who was the first woman?' and the second nun says, ‘Oh that's easy—Eve!' And he says, ‘Come on in, Sister, come on in!' Finally, he turns to the third nun and says, ‘And now can you please tell me, Sister, what were Eve's very first words to Adam?' So the third nun thinks awhile, scratches her head, and says, ‘Wow, that's a hard one!' And Saint Peter says, ‘Come on in, Sister, come on in!'”

It takes a moment to get it, then I laugh. I don't know where he gets these obscene jokes, but he has a bunch of them, and is always adding more to his repertoire. My
mother, the prim librarian, couldn't help but light up and laugh when she heard them.

“Wow, nice one,” I say as I pat his back. “Obscene
and
blasphemous.”

“Happy to share,” he says as he finishes his ginger ale. “I knew you'd like it.”

Gracie is not laughing. She's not even smiling. Her grimace has become more pronounced. “A little rude for my taste,” she says. “But isn't it time to get going?”

She buttons her cardigan and picks up her handbag. Dad pays the bill and follows her to the restaurant's exit. He holds the door for her, still trying to play the role of the gentleman suitor, even though it's clear to me he is entirely unsuitable for her.

I follow behind them onto the sidewalk, crowded at rush hour. He walks with her in front of me, still chatting her up in his amiable way, as she nods and barely responds.

I am seething. Who the hell is this woman to think she's so superior? Doesn't she get how funny my father is? Doesn't she see how handsome he is, what a catch he is? Just who the hell does she have in the wings who would be better than my Joe Morris?

“I guess she just wasn't looking to be particularly pleasant,” Dad tells me on the phone later that night, when we are doing our postmortem on the afternoon.

“Well, I hope she was grateful for the ticket,” I say.

“Not particularly,” he says. “She found the show disappointing.”

“What a pill,” I say.

“A lot of these woman are hard to take,” he says.

“So that's the end of Gracie?”

“We'll see.”

“What do you mean? You're not taking her out
again
, are you?”

“We're in the same bridge group, and she's not a bad player. I can't afford to alienate her. A good duplicate player is harder to come by than you think.”

A few days later, however, he loses her for good when he shows up late for a game. She tells him it's inconsiderate. He says he's sorry but life's too short to take things so seriously. They bicker. It escalates. Smoke comes out of her ears, fire out of his mouth. He tells her he's who he is, take it or leave it. She says she'd prefer to leave it, and turns and walks away. “She refuses to take my calls now,” he says.

“Just as well, Dad. She was no bargain. Got anyone else lined up?”

“No,” he says. “I'm dry right now. At a total loss.”

He sounds sad. I can't have that. I won't have that. So I pull out a piece of paper with a number on it and offer up Florence, the lady with all the fancy real estate whom I had dismissed as too fancy when she was suggested as a match for him. Suddenly, he's cheerful. Another prospect! He's going to call her right away.

“I'll let you know what happens,” he says. “I'm very grateful.”

“You better be on your best behavior with this one,” I say. “I won't have you embarrassing me. She lives on Fifth Avenue, you know.”

“I know.”

“So wear a clean shirt when you see her.”

“Okay.”

“And, Dad, don't ask for a doggy bag at dinner.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes. Do not under any circumstances let her see the inside of your car.”

“I'll take that under advisement.”

“And don't do all the talking at dinner. Give her a chance to tell you about herself.”

“I'll do my best, sir. Over and out for now.”