Chapter 5

“I don’t know about this Jackson fellow,” Joan said as she taste-tested the sangria. She stuck out her tongue. “Needs more fruit.”

“Got it.”

“So this guy sees you walking a dog, conveniently lets go of his dog’s leash, knowing full well that his little terror will chase after your dog. Makes any excuse to tell you he’s a lawyer, and makes up some lame ass story about being a struggling young professional. Sounds fishy.”

“No, really. He was totally sincere. And did I tell you about his smile?”

Joan rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. Good looks are a bad sign. You know what happened with my last too-good-looking guy.”

I had no clue, but politely engaged in a disgusted “pshhh” with her.

“And now you have me all confused. I get all excited about this bike messenger guy, and now it’s like you don’t even care.”

“No, see here’s what I’m thinking. I think Brent gave me the confidence to talk to Jackson. You know how addictive it is when you feel like you’re on top of your game? I mean, I probably would’ve just walked away after the dogs came back, if it weren’t for Brent.” I fully believed myself at this point. “The bike messenger’s like my good luck charm. I’ll get a new job. A new boyfriend. And a new outlook on life.” Now I had gone a bit too far.

“Give me a break, Lexi. And this “on top of your game business”?” Joan leaned back on the kitchen counter, her cynical expression turning pensive. “Although new men always come in threes. Maybe you’ll meet someone else at the party, and it’ll be “good-bye Brent and Jackson!”” Loving this idea, Joan gave two enthused claps.

Having perfected our sangria, Joan and I went to my bedroom to pick out my party outfit. It was hard to beat Joan, who was wearing her so-called “break-up pants”: paisley velvet spandex she could fit into only when she loses five pounds, which is only when she breaks up with someone. It’s a quite effective system, as the tight, and I mean tight, pants give her the confidence to get back out into the dating scene. But really, Joan doesn’t need much to become extroverted. After vetoing three too-cutesy sundresses, we chose an eggplant pencil-cut skirt with a fringy flapper-like sleeveless top, and the mandatory black strappy sandals. Joan described it as my “I own this party, and don’t be actin’ like you own me” outfit. Effective enough.

The doorbell rang. “Our first guest!” At the door, stood a tall perfectly thin woman with hair perfectly highlighted blond and perfectly tousled wearing a Chanel suit that I definitely saw in Times’ style section the previous week.

“Good, Lord,” Joan reacted, as I took the guest’s coat. I giggled.

“You must be a friend of Keith’s. I’m Lexi, his roommate. Keith’s making one more run to the liquor store. He’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Lexi. I’m Sharon. What a fantastic place this is.”
Sharon made her way over to the buffet, and Joan and I scurried off to the kitchen. “Do you think all of Keith’s friends look like her?” Joan asked.

Her question was quickly answered as more unfamiliar guests soon arrived. As each one rang the doorbell, predicting the person behind the ring became quite easy. Joan and I made it into a game and would yell out a designer before opening the door. “Prada!” “Manolo Blahnik!” We were surprisingly accurate. Joan, who never hides her immediate reactions, would express her disbelief at each door opening. “Damn, is that real fur?”

My I’m-too-cute-for-this-party outfit soon turned into an I-look-frumpy-and-thrift- store-chic-is-way-out-sister outfit.”

As Joan mingled with the guests, I found small excuses to make trips to the kitchen. “Does the crab dip look low to you?”

Fortunately, Sarah (yoga friend) showed up and persuaded me back into the living area. “Boy, Lexi, how did you get so many attractive friends?”

“Yeah, I don’t know. They’re all Keith’s guests. I don’t even know where he is. He went to the liquor store, like, 45 minutes ago.”

“And why are half of Keith’s friends eastern European?”

This hadn’t occurred to me. “I have no idea. You gotta help me out. This party’s quickly turning shady, and it’s not even 9.”

“I think that punch bowl’s already helping you out. You look really flushed.”

“Yeah, I don’t hide my intake well.”

“You got that right.” Sarah smiled. “Let me do some catch up. This party’s making me nervous. Have I told you I have a bad history with Ukrainian men?”

Sarah hadn’t told me anything, considering we had only spoken a few times at yoga class. Nonetheless, I felt relieved to have her there. That was until Uri (Gucci, if you’re wondering) asked her to dance, and by the look of her batting eyes, I knew I had lost one of my few safe friends of the night.

Around 10, after at least 15 petty trips to the kitchen, and after my third Jack and ginger and who knows how much punch, I walked out onto the fire escape, crouched into a corner, and watched the party through the open window. Joan and Sarah were dancing with Uri and friends, and Ori (who I never saw arrive) was cracking up some Michael Kors suits with one of her notoriously entertaining monologues. I sulked over my drink and wondered where the hell my roommate was and what happened to “cool, confident, flirtatious Lexi”.

Not only had half of my guests not shown up, but the two guests I was most excited about hadn’t showed up.

“Hey, hon. Thought I might freshen up your drink.” I jumped up on my feet, as a portly bald man in an all-black shiny (water-resistant) suit showed up at the window.

“Pleather man! I’m so happy to see you!” As he came through the window, I almost knocked him over with an (inappropriately?) long and hard hug.

“Woah, Lexi. I’ve never seen you so emotional. Not even when you sing Cyndi Lauper at Pluto. And by the way, outside of karaoke night, I go by Mike.”

I pulled away and was surprised to see my tears sliding off of his (did I mention water-resistant?) suit. “I’m so sorry, Pleather Mike,” I bumbled. “It’s just that - I threw this party - and I don’t know anyone here – and all I have is Joan - and you - and now I realize I have a crazy shady roommate – and he’s got all these uber beautiful friends – and I don’t know where they came from - and he isn’t even here.” I stepped back and tried to regain my breath. Who is this? I’m not a sad-drunk. I’m a happy cute drunk, right? I knew it was pathetic, but I had to say it. “I just feel really lonely.”

“How can you be lonely? You’re fabulous, darling. Everyone knows you’re fabulous. Just go out there and show everyone how fabulous you are.”

“No, man. You’re wrong. What’s the saying? You can take Mike out of the Pluto lounge, but you can’t take Pleather Man out of Mike?” I leaned back on the window, feeling like I was in no condition to stand up by myself. Mike nervously looked behind him, likely realizing I was blocking his only non-life threatening exit. “See man, you only know me when I’m fabulous. Because everyone’s fabulous at karaoke night. But look at me. I’m just a lonely, confused girl with a lot of designer wearing strangers in her apartment.”

Mike stopped smiling as he looked back through the window into the party, sipping on the “freshen-upper” he never gave me. “Yeah, Lexi, you’ll be OK. You’re fabulous. Trust me.” With eye contact ending after the fourth “fabulous”, Mike was ready to leave me, so I moved back into my corner, watching him quickly go back through the window to mingle with my (legitimately fabulous-looking) party guests.

Damn. I could even depress Pleather Man.

Joan, seeing Mike’s hasty exit, joined me on the fire escape, crouching next to me. “Honey, I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Why are you out here and not in there?”

Noticing my puffy eyes, Joan realized the bad hostess approach was a poor one. “This is such a great party, my little Lex. People can’t stop talking about your crab dip. And that Uri guy’s a great DJ.”

“They like the crab dip?”

Joan capitalized on my faint glimmer of hope. “I’m telling you. They can’t stop talking about it.” Joan jumped up, showing a familiar sparkle in her eye. “I don’t think I’ve introduced you to Tony. He’s crazy cute. You never know, he could be bachelor #3.”

I tried not to think of the MIA bachelors 1 and 2 as I obligingly returned to the apartment with Joan.

I finally relaxed, as I watched Keith’s friends challenge Ori’s claim of knowing “every verse to every campfire song every written.” After the fourth verse of Green-Grow the Rushes Ho we were all in stitches, and I barely heard the doorbell ring.

“Hey, Lexi. Sorry I’m late. My bike had a flat. Nice place.”

I looked behind Brent, and saw no “friend”, as I had feared might accompany him.

“Come in. Can I get you a drink?”