oops! . . . i did it again
saturday, april 2
Thump, thump, thump.
I hear a loud thumping at the door and wonder who’s visiting me at such an ungodly hour. I’m not really a morning person, and all my friends know this.
Thump, thump, thump.
Oh, there it goes again. When I open my eyes to look at the clock next to me, I quickly realize three things: One, no one’s knocking on my door—the thumping I’m hearing is a pounding headache. Two, it’s not some ungodly hour—it’s one o’clock in the afternoon. And three, the clock that tells me so isn’t mine; nor is the table it’s sitting on. I have no idea where I am.
The sun is pouring in from a window behind me and beating down on my neck. The smell of alcohol, which I assume is coming from me, fills the room. As I look around, I notice some familiar things . . . my brown purse, my shoes, my crumpled-up skirt, and my—
Whoa, wait.
That’s not mine.
Could it be . . .? No, it couldn’t possibly be . . . a braided belt?
Oh, God, no. Say it isn’t so.
Please tell me it’s not.
I mean, I wouldn’t. I couldn’t!
Please tell me I didn’t . . . shack up . . . with Roger!
“Hey there, sexy,” says a familiar and somewhat scratchy voice from behind me.
Holy shit, I did.
No! No! No! No! No! No! Noooooooooo!
I try to remain calm but can’t. My mind is too hazy from last night’s margaritas and I’m completely naked, lying one foot away from the man I despise most in the world. How could I have let this happen? I mean, no amount of liquor could make Roger even remotely desirable. He’s not cute, he’s not funny—he’s Roger, for God’s sake! He must have slipped me a mickey last night because there’s no way I would’ve voluntarily chosen to come back here with him.
As a wave of nausea comes over me, I bolt out of bed, scramble to gather my belongings, and run to the bathroom. Once I arrive, I lock the door behind me and turn around to find myself face-to-face with—
Oh, Lord . . .
—the hairiest toilet I’ve ever seen. I’m barely able to kneel before getting sick. While throwing up, with tears streaming down my face, I pray . . .
Dear God, why me? Why have you chosen to punish me this way? Is it because I despise Christian rock bands? I know they spread your good word, but let’s be honest—most of them suck. Is it because I eat meat on Fridays during Lent? Is that it? If so, I’ll never do it again, I swear. Please, God, whatever I did, whatever it was, I’m sorry! Please, God, just make last night go away and I promise . . . I’ll never drink again!
After saying three Hail Marys and five Our Fathers, I close my eyes and click my heels, hoping that, like Dorothy, I’ll be magically transported home. But no such luck. When I open my eyes, not only do I find myself still kneeling in front of the world’s hairiest toilet, but, to make matters worse, I’m now connected to it by a long string of spit.
I’ve become one with the hairy toilet.
I get sick again.
Afterwards, I try to remember the previous night, I try to remember how this happened. The last thing I remember is singing Destiny’s Child at karaoke: “I’m a SURVIVOR! I’m not gonna GIVE UP! I’m not gonna STOP! I’m gonna work HARDER!” I was good, too. People were cheering me on, hands were in the air—it was like American Bandstand. I even stood on a table while belting out the end of the song to make sure I went out with rock-star status. And then I think I saw Roger . . .
Yessssss. Oh shit, yesssss! Yes, I did!!!!
I remember it a little more clearly now. After singing, I was feeling positive and optimistic about my future, when Roger showed up with another coworker. People weren’t being very nice to him and I thought it was funny, thought he deserved every snide remark he was getting. But as people became more rude, I started to feel bad. Someone threw a piece of ice at his head, and then, while a group of people were singing the “Copacabana,” someone else changed the words and sang, “His name was Roger, he was a jackass. He pulled his pants way up his butt, just to get them over his gut.” Roger tried to laugh it all off, of course, but I could tell he was embarrassed—anyone would be. I walked over and said hello.
As we got to talking, I got the feeling that Roger was a little more shocked about the layoffs than he let on at the meeting and started to look at him in a different light. I saw his vulnerable side, and it made me like him a little bit more. He’s just a person, after all, who does what he needs to do in order to get by.
After talking a bit more, Roger asked me to dance and I said yes. To be honest, I didn’t expect much more than two left feet, but Roger surprised me. He might clodhop his way through the hallways at work, but he was as light as a feather on the dance floor. He was smooth—he spun me around like a ballerina. He kept doing this thing where he would send me whirling out into the crowd and then quickly snap me back in to him at the last second. He was like Tony Manero in Saturday Night Fever and I was like . . . I was like . . . I was like the girl in the movie . . . whatever her name was. Gosh, it was so much fun!
After a while of dancing, I remember coming in off a whirl and landing in Roger’s arms. With my back to him, he held me close while we danced as one. I don’t even remember what song was playing. I just remember the beat of the music: Ba dada ba da da. Ba ba! Ba dada ba da da! Ba ba! When the song ended, I turned around and looked into Roger’s eyes. He looked sweet . . . and lonely.
The next thing you know the two of us were outside, hopping into a cab. Our plan was to go to another bar, but when the driver took a sharp turn and I ended up in Roger’s lap, those plans changed. What happened after that is somewhat of a blur. I remember being carried up a few flights of stairs on piggyback, I think . . . and then . . . and then . . . and then it happened. Yes, it. A little mattress mojo. Twice, I think.
Oh, God.
I can’t believe I did this. I can’t believe I did it. I’m so stupid—I’m so, so stupid! I didn’t just sleep with Roger last night, a man who wears a braided belt, a man who doesn’t wash his pants as frequently as he should—it’s worse than that. I didn’t just sleep with Roger last night, a man who owns a musical Rudolph tie, a man who owns a pilgrim hat—it’s worse than that. In sleeping with Roger last night, I screwed him and myself!
Roger was #20.
He was it.
IT. IT. IT.
How could I have blown my last spot—the spot I was supposed to be saving for my future husband—on him? On Roger? What in the hell was I thinking?
While trying to block the photographic memories of the previous evening from my mind, I stand to wash my face. I’m so ashamed at my lack of self-control that I can’t even look at myself in the mirror. I feel like a failure.
But then, while getting dressed something suddenly occurs to me. What if I’m supposed to marry Roger? What if last night was a sign from God, telling me Roger wasn’t the fat pig I always thought he was but a nice guy who just needs to start counting points or controlling his carbs? Maybe last night happened for a reason. We were listening to Destiny’s Child after all. Maybe last night was destiny.
After quietly opening the bathroom door, I look at Roger lying on the bed, heavily breathing in and out. As his whole body rises to the occasion and then sinks back down, I wonder if I could learn to love him. Thinking about this, I watch him for a while. I watch him lie there. I watch him roll over. I watch him scratch his back. I watch him scratch his ass.1 And then I watch him bring his scratching hand to his nose and . . . smell his fingers?
Ewww!
I mean, really . . . ewww!
When Roger smelled whatever he . . . smelled, the corners of his mouth turned up in a half-smile—I think he enjoyed it! That’s so disgusting! I quickly slam the door shut.
Who am I kidding? Roger’s not the one! Last night was no sign! I can’t believe that I blew my last spot on him! For the love of chocolate, what have I done?
Suddenly I realize—that’s it. This happened because of chocolate, or, I should say, the lack of chocolate. This happened because I threw all those bonbons out the window and didn’t have enough endorphins in my brain when Roger came-a-knockin’! Those endorphins were my patch. I was patchless!
Why, oh why, oh why me?
As I plop back down on the ground and curl up into a ball, I think about what I’ve done. I’ve had sex with twenty men—twenty—and I’m never going to have sex again. Never, ever.
For a moment I try to imagine what life as a celibate woman will be like. I try to imagine myself as one of those born-again ladies who goes on talk shows and travels around the country lecturing teenagers about the evils of casual sex. Maybe I can do this; maybe I can.
Oh, who am I kidding? No, I can’t.
I can’t handle this—not alone, not in my condition. My head is pounding. My ears are ringing. I need to talk to someone. I need to talk to someone now.
papa don’t preach
I can’t believe I’m here. I didn’t plan on coming, it just happened. On my way home from Roger’s, my taxi driver started eating something curry, and the smell made me nauseous.2 We were somewhere in Little Italy at the time, which is pretty close to where I live, so I paid him and hopped out. I intended to go straight home, but when I turned around, I found myself standing in front of a Catholic church. I mean, what are the odds, right? It had to be a sign from God, no doubt, so I walked inside.
I don’t know what I’m looking for, maybe a solution to my problem or a divine intervention of some kind to make my number twenty become nineteen again. I don’t know. All I know is that things can’t get much worse than they already are, and I need to talk to someone. Going to confession isn’t exactly what I had in mind, but it’s my only way in to see the big man.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” I say. “It’s been . . .” Twenty-nine minus eighteen equals . . . “Nine years since my last confession.” No wait, that’s not right. “I mean eleven.” I’ve never been good at math.
“What are your sins?” the priest asks. Although his voice is soft and he sounds nice, I’m still nervous. Thank heavens there’s a screen between us because I don’t think I’d be able to tell him if this was one of those face-to-face confessionals.
“Well, Father . . .” There’s really no easy way for me to tell him other than to just spit it out, so I close my eyes, take a deep breath and go for it. “I’ve slept with twenty men.”
There, I did it. I’m already beginning to feel relieved. I wait for a response.
And wait.
And wait.
The priest, however, does not give me one. The longer we sit in silence, the more I begin to worry, but then something dawns on me . . . maybe he misunderstood my confession.
“Not all at once,” I clarify. “Twenty separate men at twenty separate times.”
There, that’s better. That should get him talking.
But it doesn’t.
As more time passes, as the priest still says nothing, as the silence weighs heavier, something else dawns on me . . . maybe he knows I’m not telling the whole truth.
“And one girl,” I add. “But I’m not counting her. It was college, strictly above the belt, and well . . . you know how that goes.”
You know how that goes? Why did I say that? Of course he doesn’t know how that goes—he’s a priest! Jesus, I’m so stupid! Oops! Sorry for taking your name in vain!
Since the priest still doesn’t respond, a vicious cycle begins: I become nervous, which makes me sweat, which makes me smell like liquor, which makes me more nervous, which makes me sweatier, which makes me smell like liquor more. I feel like I’m in one of those “and so on and so on” commercials. Suddenly out of nowhere, Madonna songs begin running through my head and I go with it because it takes my mind off the silence. Papa don’t preach, I’m in trouble deep. Papa don’t preach, I’ve been losing sleep. Like a virgin (hey!), touched for the very first time. Like a vir-hir-hir-hir-gin . . .
Oh, who am I kidding?
I wonder if he’s still over there. “Hello?” I ask quietly.
The priest clears his throat. “I’m here,” he says. “I’m just thinking. Let me ask, are you sorry for sleeping with these men?”
I think about it for a minute. “Well, some of them were tragic, for sure. But no, I’m not sorry for all of them.”
“Then why are you confessing?”
“Because I’m sorry for them as a whole. I’m sorry for sleeping with twenty men, you know, collectively, but I’m not sorry for each of them individually.”
“Well then why did you come here today?”
I think about it for another minute. “Because I don’t have a therapist?”
Obviously unhappy with my answer, the priest exhales loudly. When he does, I realize this was a bad idea. I don’t need to be judged, not right now, now today. I’m going home. I stand up.
“Wait, wait, don’t go,” the priest says, hearing me. “I’m just a little confused because, well . . . I’m not sure why you’re here.”
“You already told me that,” I say loudly. As the “and-so-on-and-so-on” cycle starts once again, my face gets hot. Honestly, I’ve had a hard day—why couldn’t this have been easy?
“You’re right, I did,” the priest says. “And I’m sorry. Why don’t you tell me the reason you’re upset instead.”
“The reason?” I hesitate before continuing. “Well . . . there are a lot of them.”
“I have time,” the priest says. He sounds sincere; he sounds nice; his voice is comforting. “Come on, I’m here to help. Tell me everything.”
“Everything?”
“Everything.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“Okay.” With that, I plop down on the floor of the confessional and begin to tell him everything—everything. I don’t think about what I’m saying or who I’m saying it to; the words just pour out of me. Pour. I tell him about 10.5, multitasking, chocolate, and endorphins. I tell him about Tony Robbins, Elisabeth Sterling, bonbons, and Roger. I tell him about Norma Rae, Destiny’s Child, my mother and her friends. And I tell him about Edward, Daisy, and her magical number four. I tell him everything—everything. In one big run-on sentence, I tell him. When I finish, I once again wait for him to say something—anything—but he doesn’t. At least he’s consistent.
I think I know why he’s silent this time. The thing is, I bet I’m going to hell and he doesn’t want to tell me. Yep, I’m pretty sure that’s it. After taking a deep breath, I accept my fate: a lifetime of celibacy followed by hell.
I once again stand up and gather my belongings. Just as I’m about to walk out of the confessional, the priest finally breaks his silence. But he doesn’t say what I’m expecting him to say. He says . . . my name.
“Delilah?”
I’m frozen with fear. Not only have I never been to this church before, but I didn’t even know it was here until today.
“Um, how do you know who I am?” I ask slowly, nervously.
“Oh uh, I uh . . . I’m sorry, I just . . .” He can’t answer.
Suddenly I realize something. The priest’s voice isn’t comforting because it’s kind; it’s comforting because it’s familiar. “Do we know each other?” I ask.
“You could say that,” the priest responds. I’m shocked.
“How?”
“Well . . . we went to school together.”
“School?” I’m confused. “What school?”
“High school.”
“High school?” I don’t believe him. “In Connecticut? We went to high school together in Connecticut?”
“Yes. It’s Daniel. Daniel Wilkerson.”
Daniel? Daniel Wilkerson? The Daniel Wilkerson? A priest?
Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no.
“You’re a . . . a . . . priest?” I ask.
“Yeah . . .” he says quietly.
My stomach drops.
“It’s been so long, Delilah,” he continues, “the last time I saw you we were—”
“Having sex!” I screech, cutting him off. We were. We were having sex in the back of his mom’s wood-paneled Wagoneer. Oh, God. Oops! I mean—shit!
You know how Greg the East Village Idiot was #19 and Roger was #20? Well, Daniel was #2.
Suddenly I feel faint—How can this be happening? How is this possible? Of all the people to hear my confession that I’ve slept with twenty men, it’s one of the twenty? I’m mortified! And oh yes, I’m so going to hell! After standing up and grabbing my purse, I exit the confessional and head toward the front door. When I do, I hear footsteps behind me.
“Delilah, wait,” Daniel says. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything, but I wanted to stop you before you said too much.”
“Before I said too much?” I laugh. “Then you should have stopped me at ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned!’”
“Yes, you’re right, I should have, but I didn’t realize it was you until you started talking about your mom and Daisy.”
Arriving at the door, I stop walking and turn around. I can’t believe this. I can’t believe Daniel is a priest. Standing in front of me with his dirty blond hair and green eyes, he looks the same as I remember. Well, except for the outfit.
“I’m so sorry, Delilah,” he says softly. I can see the remorse in his eyes. “Really, I am.”
“Yeah, so am I,” I say, turning back around. As I reach for the door handle, I feel his hand on my shoulder. As I do, thoughts of our one night together rush through my mind like flashbacks in a movie. The images play one after another like a slideshow.
It’s fall 1993. I’m home from college for a weekend. My friends and I are laughing. We’re at a Santana concert at Jones Beach. We’re laughing because we have no idea who Santana is. (This was long before he had the big comeback.) We’ve only gone to the concert to chase boys. I’ve only gone there to chase boys. A boy. One particular boy. Not Daniel. I sleep with Daniel only to make that boy jealous.
It’s so awkward.
Daniel and I have left the concert early and are pressed up against each other in the back of that Wagoneer, that wood-paneled Wagoneer. He can’t look at me—his eyes are closed, his face is all scrunched up. For some reason he can’t look. But I don’t ask why, prefer not to know, pretend not to see.
Remembering this now and learning how he ended up, makes me wonder: Did Daniel not enjoy having sex with me because he knew he wanted to become a priest? Or did Daniel become a priest because he didn’t enjoy having sex with me? Turning back around, I reach up and touch his little black and white collar.
“Did I do this to you?” I ask. I need to know.
Daniel shakes his head. “No, no, you didn’t do this to me, Delilah. I swear.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m positive.” Taking both my hands in his, Daniel pleads with me not to go. “Please, please, come back and talk to me,” he begs. “I wanna help you work this out. I do.”
Looking at Daniel, I feel sorry for him. I feel sorry for me. I feel sorry for both of us because this is so incredibly awkward.
“I already know everything,” he continues. “You might as well.”
I let out a sigh. He’s right. “Fine,” I say softly, after a bit. Hearing this makes Daniel smile. As he leads me toward a quiet area in the back of the church to talk, I can’t help but point out, “You know, I’m usually much cuter than this.”
Daniel smirks. “I’m sure you are.”
For the next hour Daniel and I talk about my problem a little more in-depth. Although I didn’t initially come for forgiveness, I find myself getting angry because he won’t give it to me. Even though I keep saying that I’m sorry, Daniel keeps insisting I’m not.
“Delilah, if you didn’t have sex with Roger last night, then you wouldn’t be here today confessing. Am I right?”
“Well, yeah, probably.”
“Exactly—you weren’t sorry for any of them until you slept with the last one. And the only reason you’re as upset as you are about all this is because you’ve hit some self-imposed limit.”
“So what? I’m still sorry now. Isn’t that the point?”
“No, because if you set your limit at twenty-five, then you wouldn’t be here and you wouldn’t be sorry. You’d be at home, nursing your hangover, trying to forget about the gross man you woke up next to. You’re not truly sorry.”
I look down, Daniel’s right.
“Listen, there’s a deeper issue here that you need to explore, and until you do that, until you figure out why it is you keep going through men, I’m not going to forgive you for any of these guys.”
“How am I supposed to do that?” I ask, beginning to sulk. I mean, this hardly seems fair.
“Well, you could start by going home and making a list of the twenty men.”
“A list?”
“Yes, a list. Figure out why you slept with each guy on it and then analyze why things didn’t work out.”
“Analyze?”
“Yes.” I shake my head.
“That’s not gonna work. I have undiagnosed ADD. I mean, I can make the list, but that’s about it. The whole analyzing part isn’t going to happen. ”
“Okay, then,” Daniel shrugs. “Just know that one day you’ll become that sixty-year-old woman who’s had sex with seventy-eight men.”
Okay, that’s not funny.
“Del, there’s no quick-fix to make this go away,” he continues. “There’s no easy solution. You’re gonna have to work at this, or you’ll keep making the same mistakes over and over again. Make the list, will you? Then come back and see me.”
“Okay, fine,” I say, giving in. I sigh loudly. “Gosh, confessing was so much easier when I was a teenager, you know? When the worst thing I did was swear every once in a while.”
“You’re forgetting we grew up together,” Daniel jokes.
“Hey, do you still talk to Nate by the way?” I ask, changing the subject.
Daniel shakes his head. “No, we lost touch years ago. How about you?”
“No.”
Nate was Daniel’s best friend in high school. He was the boy I went to the Santana concert to chase. He was the one I was trying to make jealous by sleeping with Daniel. Nate was my first, my #1.
As Daniel walks me to the door, he asks if he’ll see me at mass tomorrow.
“Yeah, maybe . . .” I say, clearly lying.
“You should come, really. You need Jesus in your life, Del.”
“I need a lot more than Jesus.”
bubble gum and puppy dogs
My apartment is on the fourth floor of a brownstone in Noho, a neighborhood in the East Village. As I climb (crawl?) the three flights of stairs, I try to be as quiet as I can. I don’t want to Michelle to know I’m home yet. I haven’t yet decided if I’m going to tell her about Roger.
By the time I get to my floor, I feel like I’ve climbed Mount Everest and collapse on the floor. I lay there for a moment and catch my breath when suddenly my neighbor’s door flies open, scaring the bejesus out of me. Before I have a chance to stand, four men who appear to be in their fifties walk out, three of them uniformed New York City policemen. When they see me, they smile.
“I guess Colin wasn’t the only one gettin’ into trouble last night,” one of them says.
As I struggle to my feet, my neighbor Colin appears in the doorway wearing nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs and a thin, white T-shirt. Running his hands through his short, dark, messy hair, he smirks when he sees me.
“Ah, don’t listen to him,” he says in a thick lyrical Irish brogue. “He’s just kidding.”
I smile and nod. I don’t know Colin very well. All I know is that he moved here a few months ago from Dublin and is gorgeous. He’s got big, brown puppy dog eyes with the kind of devilish twinkle in them that makes women melt and husbands worry. He’s kind of edgy looking, a little bit Johnny Depp in his younger days. My guess is we’re around the same age.
“Delilah, this is my dad,” he says, gesturing to the man standing next to him, the one not wearing the police uniform. He pronounces my name like me, which I think is cool. (Little things always amaze me when I’m hungover.)
Rather than say hello to me, Colin’s dad turns to him and hits him on shoulder. “Jaysus Christ, don’t be such a fecking disgrace, son! Go put your trousers on before talking to the lady, will ya?” He also has an Irish brogue.
“Ah, quit having a conniption,” Colin says, looking down at what he’s wearing. “I’m covered up, for Christ’s sake.” He then looks over at me. “Delilah, does my outfit bother ya?”
Does it bother me? His boxer briefs are actually the highlight of my last two days. “No, it’s fine,” I say, trying not to stare.
Colin turns to his dad and smiles. “See?”
Colin’s dad shakes his head, then walks over and takes my hand. “Jimmy Brody,” he says, introducing himself. “Nice to meet ya. Delilah, was it?”
“It was,” I say, nodding.
Jimmy smiles and turns to his friends. “Delilah, these are my friends. They’re all Jimmys too.” Starting with the one on the left, he goes down the line. “This is Jimmy Callahan, this is Jimmy Murphy, and this is Jimmy O’Shaughnessy.” He then addresses them as a group. “Jimmys, say hello to Delilah.”
All the Jimmys say hello. They’re obviously Irish, but unlike Colin and his dad, they have New York accents, so I’m guessing they’re not from Dublin. After shaking everyone’s hand, I turn to Colin. “I guess I know who to call next time I’m in trouble.”
Everyone laughs.
“Please,” bellows Jimmy Murphy. “As if our hands aren’t full enough with this one.” He hits Colin on the shoulder.
“Hey, I’ve never done nothin’ wrong,” Colin says, defending himself. The guilty smirk on his face, however, suggests otherwise.
“Oh right,” Jimmy O’Shaughnessy says loudly. “Do I have to remind you about public intoxication and disturbing the peace?” He turns to me. “He’s had two run-ins already since he’s been here, Delilah.”
“Yeah, you’ve got a criminal living next door to you,” Jimmy Callahan adds, winking.
“Oh, don’t go scaring the girl,” Colin says. “I’m no criminal. The first disturbance it was my birthday.”
“And ’twas it the second time, son?” Colin’s dad asks, even though it’s obvious he knows.
Covering Colin’s mouth, Jimmy Callahan answers for him. “I remember. It was the first snowfall of the season, and after making a snow angel in the middle of Park Avenue, your son started going on about how important it is to love the Mother Earth, and woke the whole block in the process.”
As all the Jimmys erupt in laughter, Colin’s face turns slightly red. “Yeah, yeah—laugh all you want,” he says, smiling. “I’m thankful to be here and don’t take this world for granted, what can I say?”
“Jimmys, we need to get going,” Jimmy Brody looking at his watch. “It was nice to meet you though, Delilah. I look forward to the next time.”
“Yeah, me too,” I say.
As the Jimmys head down the stairs, I say good-bye to Colin and unlock the door to my apartment. Just as I’m inside, Colin calls out to me, so I turn around. He’s still standing in his doorway. In his underwear. “Yeah?” I ask.
“I mean this in the nicest way,” he says, peering at me closely. “But you look a bit green.”
“Green?” I let out a laugh. “Since you’re Irish, I’m going to assume that’s some sort of compliment and let you off easy.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, letting out a chuckle. “What were you drinking last night?”
I hesitate for a second, afraid to say it. “Tequila,” I finally whisper. Colin shudders when I do. “I lost my job yesterday.”
“Ah . . . sorry ’bout that.” he says, looking at me with pity. “’Tis a good reason to get drunk out of your head though. Well, good luck gettin’ through the day.”
“Thanks.” After closing my door, I lean against the wall for a second to catch my breath. Gosh, he’s cute. Even though we have the only two apartments on this floor, I rarely see him and forgot what a looker he was. I hear him—he’s always coming and going late at night, always having people over at three o’clock in the morning—but never see him. I think he’s a bartender or something. We share a very thin wall, so I can pretty much hear every move he makes. The other day I caught a glimpse of him carrying a hula hoop up the stairs, and then later that night, around three in the morning or so, I heard people laughing in his apartment along with an occasional “Boing!” of the hoop hitting the wall. I think he was having some kind of late-night hula hoop party.
After gathering the strength to walk to the kitchen, I pour myself a glass of water and then plop down on the couch. Grabbing a pen and piece of paper off a side table, I decide to do what Daniel suggested and make a list of the twenty guys. On the left side of the sheet I write numbers one through twenty and then begin filling in some names. The first guy I ever slept with was my high school boyfriend, Nate. The second was his best friend, Daniel, Daniel the priest.
Oh, God. I can’t believe I had sex with a priest.
Roger was the most recent, #20. Greg the East Village Idiot was #19 and—
Suddenly there’s a knock at the door. Thinking it’s Michelle wanting to hear the scoop on last night, I walk over to the door and look through the peephole. Hmm. It’s Colin. And he’s still in his underwear. I wonder what he wants. I open the door.
“’Twill take the bite away,” he says, holding out a shot glass to me. It’s filled with some kind of amber-colored liquid. Whiskey, maybe?
“Thanks, but I can’t drink that,” I say shaking my head. Although I’m touched by his thoughtfulness (if bringing alcohol to someone who’s hungover could be considered thoughtful), my mouth waters just looking at it. I think I might get sick. “In fact, I’m not sure I’m ever gonna drink again.”
“First, you can drink it, and second, sobriety’s a deplorable affliction, so no going on the wagon.”
I let out a slight giggle. “Honestly, I don’t think I’ll be able to keep it down. Besides, doing shots when you’re hungover is a guy-thing, not a girl-thing.”
Colin waves his free hand in the air. “Ah—guy-thing, girl-thing—I’ll hear none of it. C’mon, just close your eyes, hold your nose, and you’ll be fine.”
When I don’t respond or move, Colin reaches over and wraps my hand around the shot glass himself. “It’ll make you feel better, I promise. And if you think it’s a guy-thing, I’ll close my eyes while you drink it.”
I think about it for a second. Maybe it will make me feel better. People I know are always doing this—having a beer or doing a shot the morning after a crazy night—and they swear it works. “Okay, fine,” I say giving in. “But don’t watch.”
Colin smiles and closes his eyes. “I promise, I won’t.”
Since Colin isn’t looking at me, I realize it’s the perfect opportunity to check out his legs. I didn’t want to stare earlier, but I caught a glimpse of them and they looked really nice. Looking down, I’m impressed at what I see. They’re tan but not too tan, muscular but not bulky, and hairy but not too hairy. They’re more than really nice; they’re perfect, actually. His toes are nice too. They’re not all gangly like some guys’—
“Whatcha doin’?” Colin suddenly asks, startling me. When I quickly look up, I’m relieved to find his eyes still closed. Thank God.
“Oh, uh . . . I’m just thinking, that’s all.”
Okay, enough with the legs—it’s time to get down to business. I hold up the shot glass. Although I’m tempted to toss its contents over my shoulder, I decide not to, so I close my eyes and think of happy things. Bubble gum and puppy dogs, bubble gum and puppy dogs, bubble gum and puppy dogs, bubble gum and—
Down the hatch it goes!
Just as I suspected it would, my mouth begins to water, so I shake my head or a few seconds to make it stop. When it finally does, I open my eyes and see Colin standing back a few feet from where he originally was, with a pained look on his face.
“You said you wouldn’t look!” I exclaim.
“I’m sorry, but when I heard ya shakin’, I got worried,” he explains. “Are ya gonna get sick?”
I shake my head. “No, I don’t think so.”
“At a girl,” he says, smiling big. He looks proud and, you know, he should.
For the next few seconds, the two of us stand in awkward silence, not sure what to say. “So, is your dad a policeman?” I eventually ask, after racking my brain.
“My dad? Oh, no,” Colin says, once again running a hand through his messy hair. “He works with them a lot though. He’s a private investigator, owns a big company here in New York, has for years. They find cheating spouses, bust people for ripping off insurance companies, stuff like that.”
“Oh, he’s not from Dublin? His accent is as heavy as yours.”
“Well, yeah, he is from Dublin, but he’s lived here in New York for the last twenty years or so. Divorced parents. He should’ve lost the accent long ago, but hasn’t. I joke with him about it all the time, accuse him of faking it to charm the ladies and stuff. You know?”
“Yeah, I get it,” I smile. “So is he why you moved here?”
Colin shakes his head. “No, I’m an actor.”
“An actor? Really?” I’m intrigued. “What kind of stuff do you . . . act in?”
“Well I had a small part on Law & Order last month, but other than that, I can usually be seen playing a bartender at the new vodka bar on Rivington.”
I laugh.
“Law & Order—that’s exciting.”
“Yeah, I s’pose,” he says modestly. Just then my phone rings, startling us both.
“I should get that,” I say. I then look at the shot glass in my hand and hand it back to him. “Oh, but here. Thanks.”
“Anytime. The color’s already coming back in your face.” Colin turns to walk away, but then quickly stops and turns back around. “Oh, Delilah?”
“Yes?”
“So, what’d you think?”
I’m confused. “Think of what?”
“Think of my legs?”
His legs? Oh my . . . As a smirk appears across his face, I realize he was peeking. I feel my face flush. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, trying to cover.
“Oh, sorry. My mistake,” Colin says, still smirking. He totally doesn’t believe me. “Well, have a nice day.”
“Yes, you too,” I say, trying to keep my cool.
After closing the door, I shake my head. The nerve of him! To peek is one thing. To call me out on it is another. It’s kind of . . . well, arrogant, to be honest. But whatever.
Hurrying over to the phone, I look at the caller ID and see that it’s my grandpa. After taking a deep breath, I raise my voice an octave, hoping to sound chipper, not hungover, and answer. “Hi, Grandpa!”
“Hey, Darlin’!” he exclaims. “Sorry I missed you at Daisy’s party last night, but by the time I got there, they said you left.”
“Oh!” I shout, disappointed. “I didn’t think you were coming.”
“Yeah, well, I got off work a little early.”
“Well, sorry I missed you.” I plop down on the couch. “Hey, what’d you think of Edward?”
“Oh, I liked him. He’s good man. And you know what they say, you choose your friends by their character and your socks by their color.”
I smile. I love that my seventy-five-year-old grandpa is so open-minded. Suddenly I realize there’s a spark in his voice. He’s usually pretty chipper, but this spark is different. Something’s up. “Grandpa, what’s going on? Why do you sound so happy?”
“Well . . . I’m moving to Las Vegas!” he gleefully exclaims.
“Las Vegas?” I sit up, slightly stunned. Like I said, my grandpa rarely leaves the East Coast. “What? Why?”
“I met someone. Or I should say I re-met someone. Do you remember Gloria from when you and Daisy were kids? We took you to the Bronx Zoo once, the time you cried because a llama peed on you in the petting zoo.” I remember Gloria, I remember the zoo, but I tried to bury the memory of that evil llama long ago. The thing practically attacked me.”
“Yeah, I remember.”
“She lives in Las Vegas now, in a retirement community, but has been in town for the last few weeks visiting her family. I ran into her at the Holiday Inn Lounge—I go there dancing sometimes—and we got to talking. I don’t know, we went to dinner, one thing led to another and now I’m gonna move in with her!”
Move in with her? Move away with her is more like it. This is not good, not good at all. From what I remember, this Gloria woman hung hippie beads all over her house, always burned incense and had carpet on the walls. When I point this out to my grandpa, that she might be a stoner, all he says is, “Oh, Delilah, settle down. They give marijuana to people with glaucoma. It’s not that bad for you.”
I’m truly dumbfounded. For a moment I feel like Carol Brady in that Brady Bunch episode where Greg becomes a hippie and moves into Mike’s den. Except in this case it’s not my son, it’s my grandpa, and he’s not moving into the den, he’s moving to Vegas. Suddenly I hear background music through the phone. “We built this city! We built this city on Rock and Roll—built this city. We built this city on Roccckkk aaand Rolllll!”
“Grandpa, are you listening to Jefferson Starship?”
“Yeah,” he says gleefully. “They play it at the lounge sometimes. It’s good, huh?”
“No!” I shout. I mean, is he kidding? “It’s horrible and so is this idea of you moving! You belong in Connecticut with your family, not in Las Vegas with some stoner hippie lady you re-met while dancing to Jefferson Starship!”
My grandpa is silent. My negative reaction is obviously not what he was expecting. After a few seconds he takes a deep breath and speaks.
“Delilah,” he says softly. “Connecticut gets cold in the winter; it makes my joints hurt. It’s warm year-round where she lives—people drive around in golf carts for crying out loud. I don’t even need a car. I wanna hang out with people my own age. I need a change in my life.”
I interrupt. “Yeah, but—”
“Yeah but nothing,” my grandpa says, refusing to listen to what I have to say. “I’m doing this whether you like it or not, and I’m not calling for your permission but your blessing.”
I’m silent for a minute. My grandpa’s moving away? What a shitty ending to an already crappy day. “Are you sure you wanna do this?” I ask.
“Positive.”
Ever since Daisy and I were little, my grandpa has always told us that you know you’re in love when your heart goes “boom.” The way he explained this “boom” is that it’s not the giddy feeling you get when you first meet someone; it’s deeper than that. It’s more of a low, bellowing boom that resonates in your body the moment you realize you need someone, you love someone. It’s more a booooooom than a boom! I have yet to feel it, Daisy says she felt it with Edward, and my mom thinks my grandpa’s crazy.
“So did you feel—”
“Not yet,” he says, cutting me off. “But I’m hoping I will. We really clicked.”
My grandpa sounds happy when he says this, more happy than I’ve ever heard him sound. I don’t want him to leave, but it’s silly to expect that he’d stay just for me. If I re-met some old flame and fell in love, I’d probably move to wherever he lived to be with him. I want Grandpa to be happy, I do.
“Okay, fine,” I say reluctantly. “You have my blessing, but don’t let this Gloria woman boss you around because you’re gonna be living in her house.”
“I won’t. People change, Delilah.”
After getting the details of when he’s leaving and making farewell dinner plans, I hang up the phone and stare at the ceiling for a while. Thinking back to that day at the zoo, I never thought Gloria would be the one to convince my grandpa to leave the East Coast. He’s left before, yes, but only when my grandma was alive, which was way before my time. I never would’ve guessed she’d be the one he’d click with, but people change, I guess.
People change, I guess? Hmm. Suddenly getting an idea, I sit up.
I wonder what would happen if I re-met the twenty guys I slept with, if I bumped into any of them while I was out, listening to Jefferson Starship. I wonder if we’d click. Thinking back, I don’t think any of them was the one, but people change, I guess.
I pick up the list Daniel wanted me to make, the list that I started but didn’t finish, and look at it. If I were to end up with one of the twenty guys I already slept with, then my number wouldn’t go up and I wouldn’t have to live a lifetime of celibacy. Call me crazy, but I think I’m onto something here.
All I’d have to do is find out where they all live, if they’re single, and then arrange to bump into them somewhere. I could do that—I totally could. I’ve got more than enough time on my hands now. I’m at the beginning of what’s basically a six-week paid vacation. I could just get in a car, go find them all and pick the best of the bunch to settle down with. It’s not such a wild idea. I was attracted to all of them at one time or another. Yes, I really think this could work . . . I do!
I grab my pen and quickly begin filling in the rest of the blanks on my list, which, to be honest, isn’t as easy as it sounds. Sure, the first few and the last few were easy, but the middle’s a bit foggy, specifically the college years, a time when, owing to a lack of sleep and vitamin-enriched foods and an overabundance of mind-altering substances like alcohol and recreational party drugs, I wasn’t at my sharpest. It’s easy to forget details, like someone’s name for instance, when you’re trying to break your roommate’s record for the most upside-down margaritas done in one sitting. However, I don’t let that stop me. I scribble and scribble and scribble . . . for the next hour I scribble.
When I’m done, after I’ve written down names, nicknames, and whatever else comes to mind, when I look at the list of twenty men who make up my number, an array of emotions run through my body. Despite the odd things I remember about some of them, on my list is a man for all seasons. There’s the one who looked good on paper and the one who just looked good . . . the one who couldn’t get it up and the one who couldn’t keep it down . . . the one who became my best friend and the one who became my worst enemy . . . the one who made me sweat with anticipation and the one who left me out in the cold. There’s the one-night stand, the one-week fling, the pity lay, and the good one who got away. There’s the one I lived for, the one I lusted after, and the one I thought I loved more than anyone else in the world. They’re all there.
Tony Robbins says what separates the good from the great is the ability to take action, so that’s what I’m going to do—take action! I’m going to get in a car and find these guys one-by-one. I’m going to do this and it’s going to work! Celibacy is not an option, damn it—it’s not!
Daniel said there wasn’t a solution to my problem, but by God there is. And telling me I need Jesus—who does he think he is? I don’t need Jesus.
I need Google.
1 This bad “man habit” can be unlearned or at least controlled, so I let it slide.
2 Note to cab drivers: when someone with puke on their shirt gets into the back of your cab and asks you to crack a window, it’s not a good idea to pull out greasy food.