Phone Calls And Conversations (Or Fifty Ways To Need A Lover)

I fumble for the mute button on the remote. As the newest reality television contestants wave around their arms and open their mouths with no sound coming out of them, I jump off the couch and run to the counter. My cell is ringing from the depths of my bag. The ring is Donna Summer—-it’s Sophia on the other end.

Before I can say “hey,” an overly excited voice comes out of the earpiece. “So you know the guy from the Sista campaign who we bumped into during lunch months ago when we had that really really bad Chinese food and then you got all sick and wound up with the runs for seven days straight?” Sophia has a knack for bringing up my not-so-highpoints in life as reference.

I throw the remote down next to me. “I try not to remember that.”

She clucks her tongue at me. “Right. Do you remember the guy? Albert? Albert Brickman?”

I vaguely remember a tall blonde man in a charcoal gray suit with a bright purple shirt. He had nice hands. “Yup, I think so.”

“I know you do because he’s so friggin’ hot. Guess what?” She answers without a pause, “He just broke up with the girl he was seeing and wants a date. How about it?”

“You want me to be a rebound chick?” I ask as I go back to my couch with my cell tucked between my ear and shoulder. I have a spoon in one hand and Edie’s Whole Fruit Coconut Ice in the other. These calories will somehow be counted towards Sophia’s daily intake, I decide. The contestants on the screen are semi-naked, covered in butter.

Sophia doesn’t try to cover. “Absolutely. You haven’t really had a rebound. He hasn’t had a rebound. So you should both be each other’s rebounds.” She sounds so absolute.

I see her logic. Maybe it’s a good idea. “Okay. Give him my number.”

“Oooh, I knew you would say that. I already did.”

“Soph!” I manage to get out. She’s already cutting me off.

“Gotta run. Call waiting. It’s the model guy for the next promotion. Talk soon!”

I try to remember every detail of this Albert Brickman; all I remember is his basic suit and his one hand that shook mine. Nice fingers. Shiny nails that hinted manicure. Skin not too rough, not too smooth. A line of dry skin only in the smallest fold of the web between the thumb and pointer finger. I could have a worse choice for a rebound.

I scoop a large chunk of coconut ice into my mouth, click back on the volume with a sticky hand, and watch the remaining contestants wash off the butter in a cold shower while screaming at each other to hurry up. All to win a date with some mystery bachelor.

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That was quick. I hit mute on the remote as the girls sit pretty at a banquet to find out which of them has been chosen. I grab my cell from under the pile of syllabi I finished proofing while watching the two hour extravaganza, and see from my caller ID that my guess is right.

A. Brickman flashes on my screen.

I put on my most charming voice and query, “Hello?”

“Hi, Marie please?” As if he’s ordering me off of a menu.

“This is Marie.” I let the charm slink out of my voice as quickly as I had let it in.

“Albert Brickman. Sophia’s colleague. She gave me your number.”

“Oh, hi. Yes, she mentioned that she had. I remember meeting you at lunch a while back.”

“Yes, yes. I remember that. That bistro, right?”

“You could call it that.” I roll my eyes, reminding myself that it’s okay that this guy is a completely self-absorbed, arrogant moron because he is a rebound. “So, Albert, what’s up?”

“You can and should call me Al,” he corrects, impatiently. Why didn’t he just introduce himself that way?

So I joke, “You mean like Paul Simon?” I love that music video with Paul Simon and Chevy Chase lip synching that song while mock playing trumpets and horns.

I suppose Good Old Al has never heard that song nor seen the video because he answers with a cold, “No.” Then silence. Definitive silence.

I stumble, “Er,okay then.”

From definitive silence to abruptness, Al pipes up, “Would you want to have dinner with me? This week?”

I haven’t been out to dinner in a long time. I’ve been complaining that I need a date. But classes begin this week, and the first week is always hectic. I tell him so. He asks suspiciously, as if no one has ever heard of such a thing before, “You have night classes?”

I say slowly, “No, not at night. I have a few that end in the evening.”

“How about drinks, then? Drinks? Just Drinks?”

I hear an impatient foot tapping all the way from the other end of the line. I chalk it up to his nerves and say, “Sure. Why the hell not?”

He changes his moody tune and cheerfully exclaims, “Atta, gal! Drinks it is.”

Atta gal? Am I now a horse who jumped all the hurdles at a meet? Whatever, I need a date. I need a man to smell. I need some lips to kiss, even if I need to get drunk first. I need a whole bunch of things that only a man can give me. I may as well take whatever I can get. After all, it can’t be that bad considering Sophia knows him.