Well, well, well. Last night, the Mrs. carefully scrutinized our schedules, activities, and whereabouts for twenty-thirteen’s October. This might be a bit of TMI, but yes ladies and gentleman, with a near one-hundred percent certainty, we are finally comfortable with proclaiming: Twas my alter ego Joey Jo Jo who finally managed to sneak his evil seed past the proverbial goalie. On the eve of Halloween no less! If you’ve ever had the dubious pleasure of meeting that maniac, you are likely shaking your head like I did saying, “Of course it was him, that makes perfect sense.” Voodoo, black magic, warlockery and witchcraft—I’m a big fan of it all when it works out in my favor. Prior to unleashing Joey Jo Jo back into the world, I think we’d been trying to get pregnant for five months (not the longest of times, sure, but roll with this farce, friends). After nearly a year and a half of imprisonment in my gray matter—one night, that’s all he needed. Like all padres to be, I’ve put a lot of time against the speculation of who exactly, what exactly, this soon-to-be-born child of ours will be like. Now we have a more Windexed window into the possibilities, so watch out world, in two to three to six (who can say when the little demon will choose to exit) the first born of the maddest man to ever shred an axe in lower Manhattan is gonna drop on this rock like a tiny megaton boom. I’m excited. Maybe I’ll let Joey Jo Jo out at the birthing center too, I mean after all… Oh, by the by, his name ain’t gonna be Luke.
It’s summer in the city. A time when few things, if any, titillate me quite as much as seeing couples–married couples mind you, and preferably with a child or children–warring with one another in the most public of places. I could care less what they are fighting about, and while I might delight in the degree of hostility the verbiage their exchange over near-nothing carries, even I am aware that I will most likely not be able to use each observation of a particular couple to my advantage. I’ve got a life, and I can’t be bothered with tailing and keeping tabs on all of them, and frankly, I don’t need to. So long as there are marital problems–and given the staggering rate of divorce here, there appears to be no shortage–I will be A-OK. Assuming I don’t die from utter exhaustion.
I work hard. I’d say I probably work harder than most. Nope, definitely harder than most. When you rent or own a total of seven apartments–in Manhattan no less–and furnish each of them to match the varying tastes of the women who inhabit the seven neighborhoods those very same seven apartments are located, and do so impeccably, there is no downtime. Aside from the two afternoon hours on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays that I afford myself in order to enjoy the fruits of all this labor, you will almost always find me working. I’ll allow that there must absolutely be a few minutes in every day that my body and brain insist I sleep. I’m not sure when those minutes actually take place. My addiction is demanding and I’m okay with that. Hell, at least McDonald’s is still relatively cheap, because I doubt any of what I do would be working if I didn’t at least ordered a small bag of fries.
Let me try to get straight to the point. I sleep with mommies–all races, sizes, and religions. The only guaranteed similarities of the women I bed is that I find them at McDonald’s on the aforementioned afternoons, and that each and everyone of them has been defeated. That probably sounds like I am the one doing the defeating, but what I mean to say is that each of them has let all the trials and tribulations of being a married housemother crush what I am sure were once very vibrant spirits. You might call that easy pickings, but let’s be fair to me here; nannies far outnumber actual mommies in this town. And the fairly recent demands Bloomberg put on chain joints to display the caloric counts of Big Macs and their brethren, coupled with the desire–even in defeat–to still be the best mom in the world, has driven most self-respecting mothers to take their children to Subway, at the very least. It is nothing like the salad days I enjoyed when I first started this back in the late nineties.
I’m not going to bore you with how this situation came to be. It is too late for that, and it is too late for me. I recognize that my addiction is a huge problem, but my admission on these pages isn’t because I am hoping to stop by coming clean. If anything, I’m either writing all of this down because I’m proud of the small degree of joy I’ve brought into the lives of what I believe to be exactly three-hundred and eighteen women, or because I’m worried that if I don’t record it, in some fashion, no one will ever know what I was up to, other than tirelessly working.
I don’t kiss and tell–I never have–and so, if I were to keel right over on my way to job number three of six tomorrow morning, the few friends I have would only remember me as the buddy of theirs who worked himself to the bone, and for what? A simple studio apartment in Lower Manhattan with nothing more than a mattress, cable, and only a forty-two inch, not even LED, flat screen TV amongst countless empty containers of Chinese take-out? I could live in one of the my other six apartments, each with all the usual creature comforts, but I’ve tried that, and on far too frequent an occasion some mommies have had the nerve to perform an I-was-just-in-the-neighborhood-pop-in to see their Happy Meal Romeo. To put it bluntly, that’s simply not part of the deal, not a part of my deal anyway.
To say I was surprised to see Meghan outside of my primary address yesterday morning as I stumbled home from job five of six would be a lie. In actuality I’d been rather disappointed that in over two decades not one of them had ever bothered to stalk me in the realest sense. I wasn’t hoping it would happen, but had been preparing for it to happen nonetheless. And there she was with her infant son, Gabriel, tucked neatly into a nearly five hundred dollar Britax B-Ready Stroller–you don’t experience the volume of success I’ve had without knowing the baby gear bullshit inside and out. Meghan was peering up at my studio window on the third floor of the crusty pre-war building that housed it. Only now, she just barely resembled the woman I’d fallen so madly and deeply for at the St. Marks McDonald’s just two short days before.
It was a Wednesday, which is a day that over the years I had systematically removed from my hunting schedule. It’s a pitiful day to operate, for far too often a couple’s weekend argument will resolve itself by Tuesday evening. I surmise that the thirtyish hours between Sunday evening and then is enough time to let cooler heads prevail for what I can only assume to be the sake of the children–I couldn’t really say for sure, having never taken that dreadful walk down a hypocritical aisle. Either way, in the early going, I learned through trial and error that on Monday, mommies are still too mad. They hate all men based on the actions of their husbands. With my skills a Tuesday afternoon is doable, but by Wednesdays they have lied themselves back into a momentary illusion of contentment with the state of their sad lives. While I can still work with that, I’ve got a small window of time these days and it’s far easier to catch them on a Thursday of Friday when old pre-monogamy habits can be gently reignited.
It is no hump-day for me, and I was there for a chocolate shake, nothing more, until I saw Meghan. Not so defeated as to have given up physically; she was young and her body had obviously rebounded quickly. But in her eyes there was an infinite black sadness that all the florescent lights there could not fill.
Yesterday morning, the difference, and I spotted it from a half-block’s distance, was the just slightly brighter than dim hope she now possessed in those same peepers that had pulled me in so quickly. A connection between us, as I saw it, no longer existed. Like so many before her, the very quality that had immediately hooked me forty-eight hours before had been robbed from me–by me–in what normally took three or four beddings at a minimum. There is nothing remotely attractive about a confident woman. Plenty of men may disagree and fortunately for those poor bastards we live in what some might refer to as the era of confident motherhood. While I wouldn’t go so far as to label Meghan’s demeanor yesterday morning as self-assured, it was clear to me that if we were ever to be a thing again, it would only be after she had returned to her husband, her material things, her land of pre-nursery-school-school interviews and daytime TV. Only then, might we ever be able to again enjoy one another completely.
These things can take time; she certainly won’t be the first woman to eventually crawl back into a red and yellow booth smelling of smooshed pickles and ketchup, hoping that schmuck of a clown will help her eat her feelings. And when she’s reached that place of desperation again, I’ll be obliged to rescue her once more, and I’ll even have a new toy for Gabriel by then.
Until that time however, I’ll have to stay at my Chelsea dwelling and pray that none of the few mommies I’ve bedded in the last few months in this area are feeling up to steering their strollers my way. There are inconveniences to my hobby, I’m sure that you’ve hypothesized more than a few–but would be more likely to cast aspersions my way than offer me even a shred of sympathy. And I can live with that; if you are married I’ve no doubt that eventually I’ll be helping you too. Together, we can all live happily ever after.