I’m a little surprised that Sharon’s never offered to cut my hair. She has a line in one of her songs about how she’ll only cut the hair of “the ones she loves and the ones she does” and while I know I’m not one of those, I suspect I might be the other of those, to a degree, and so why did she never offer to cut my hair? Perhaps it’s because she knows I cut my own hair and wouldn’t presume to improve on my work, despite having probably spotted the irregularities of my styling. Maybe it has more to do with maintaining clear boundaries in our relationship.
What was it, anyway, that induced me to think that we might be a couple? Despite sharing several enthusiasms, it wasn’t that we really hit it off, or had great chemistry, or what have you. In addition, based on what I knew of her romantic history, I wasn’t really her type of person; she liked black guys, Jewish guys, Latin guys, foreigners — and tall — while I, from her point of view, was non-exotic and of medium height. I was also kind of a nice guy which, from the stories she’s told, may not have been her regular fare — and, of course, she enjoyed her independence. Her independence was such that a potential consort really had to conform to the unique circumstances of her life, and that wasn’t something just anyone could do.
I suppose what had put couple-dom in mind was something like this. We had been old friends who’d reconnected after many years, with nothing like romantic feeling in our past, and one night I was sitting across from her at a restaurant and I thought “this feels like a date to me.” And then on another occasion, we were hosting a couple to dinner in my home, and I thought “this feels like we’re a couple hosting another couple for dinner in our home.” And then, when we argued about something that I did that I wouldn’t apologize for, I thought “this sounds like the kind of argument that couples will have when they argue.” I will say, it had been a long time since I had had such a feeling — since I had been in such an argument — and pretty soon I was thinking about her all the time. I was thinking about being in a couple.
Now, by the time this Thanksgiving rolled around, it was already clear that nothing of that kind was going to happen, as I had heavily hinted to her multiple times as to the extent and kind of my interest and she had shown no encouragement at all; I knew it was only a “romance in my mind”; however, at the time we arranged to spend Thanksgiving together, that had not been entirely clear to me. And now I was going up there with the idea that I would probably need to pull back somewhat on our friendship going forward, because — how do I put it — with most of my friends I am much more remote. I was thinking, “Ray, you have to restore some balance.”
The plan was, I would drive up on Tuesday and go back on Friday. She took pride in being the perfect hostess, she said, but could only keep it up for three days. I was in charge of the stuffing, desserts and an inspirational Thanksgiving message, in lieu of a prayer, for which I chose the sixth section of Whitman’s Crossing Brooklyn Ferry; but she would handle the rest of the cooking and cleaning. We were both thrilled to be doing something with our Thanksgiving, which had become, for me in particular, a depressing time after my parents had passed. And from the beginning, too, there was, for both of us, no little trepidation about what would happen when our dogs got together in her small space. (This turned out to be justified.)
Sharon, for as long as I’ve known her, has always had a unique fashion sense, which extends to her sense of interior design, enjoying bright colors and stark, cheerful contrasts in form-fitting clothes that can be purchased on a budget. That love of contrasts may explain her taste in partners too, I am moved to reflect, and is rather the opposite of my own tastes, which tend toward neutral colors and earth tones. It may explain differences in our behavior too, now that I think of it, for while she is brazen and direct, I am more politic and inclined to smoothing things over. She shines a light on what I sweep under the rug. We really are opposites in a way.
The first day I was there, when I picked her up on a corner near to her school, she was wearing a bright yellow coat, which I believe she identified as a rain coat — and which looked like a rain coat — but was of a cottony material that didn’t seem water resistant. (It’s actually woolen, she informs me.) The second day, another workday for her, it was the bright orange knit top with shoulder pads — these, though out of fashion, felt empowering, she said — as well as her favorite pair of blue jeans, which were to get ripped later that night, when she broke up the dog attack. Thursday, when she was hustling all day — really hustling from dawn to past dark in a way that impressed me — she wore a t-shirt that read Gobble!; and Friday, the day I returned to Washington, she wore blue stretch pants and a white, loose-fitting athletic top that she would use to walk the dogs in, and whose sleeves had straps that crossed over each palm. Sharon looks good in everything she wears – she tells me her proportions are the same as Barbie’s – but it was this last outfit that made me feel most poignantly.
The visit was a series of disasters. The first day, and first thousand dollars, I spent in NYC was almost entirely at the animal hospital for something unrelated to the dog attack — an abscess that had developed between “my man’s” toes. The second day was the day of the attack, which shocked us both — shocked her, deeply, that her two “sisters” could do that to each other, which they hadn’t ever before; shocked me that I had exposed my “poor man,” the gentlest fellow imaginable, to such a danger; and shocked us both with the raw animal fury of the encounter, which drew blood, — and the third day was Thanksgiving dinner, which, in contradistinction to all the rest, came off exceptionally well, but only after I had self-cured a bout of food poisoning by means of an early slug of Compari and gin. (After I had finished chopping my vegetables for the stuffing I thought “I better sit down for minute,” then after I’d sat down for a minute I thought, ” no, I better lie down for a minute,” then after lying down for a minute I thought — “bathroom immediately.” So when you envision Sharon hustling in the kitchen for her guests that day, you must imagine it with the sound of my loud wretching in the background. You must also imagine it with her wearing a glove on one hand, so that her bandaged and swollen finger – injured during the attack – didn’t get in the food.)
(And yes, though not related to the foregoing incident, there was drinking involved. “Drinking buddies,” was how I characterized this relationship to a friend. At one point on Thanksgiving night we all went down to the courtyard, so that the by-now-sedated dogs could have a pee, and I filled my coat pockets with beers in the event that anyone, like myself for instance, wanted one — or wanted two — only to discover that Sharon had brought down her own big bag of beers. “I think I see why you two like each other,” one of her relatives ribbed.)
The dinner was a great success both as a meal and as a social event (Sharon’s love of contrasts translating well in the kitchen too). And my Whitman recitation was not so shabby either: “I am he who knows what it is to be evil,” I intoned to those seated around the set table…. I was reminded of Thanksgivings of yore.
When the crowd had left, we put on a movie, but Sharon, exhausted by her holiday exertions, retired early, leaving me there to feel sullen and bereft. I laid down on the couch draped in my winter coat, feeling acutely “I’m not in a couple.” I woke up the next day every bit as sullen as I’d fallen to sleep, but I thought, “Ray, you’re not 22 – so get with it.” And so it was that, after a very agreeable long walk with all the dogs around Prospect Park – in the bandshell of which Sharon and I had played music together so very long ago – we had one of those pleasant conversations that hosts and guests will have before parting.
“Do you think I’m a fucked up guy,” I asked her, seriously, as she lounged around in that top with the cotton straps on her palms. “I mean, I know you like me and all, (or I mean, I guess you do) but do you sometimes reflect on the things I do or say, and think, ‘you know, Ray is kind of fucked up’?” (I felt like a stranger, a weirdo so often. Like I was looking up at people from a well.) Her response was measured but fair: “I guess I think of you as stable — dependable — and that’s not usually how I think of people who are fucked up.”
Last I saw of her she was leaning in through the car window, where I was parked on the service road. I don’t think I had seen her that close up till now. She had deep circles under her eyes and wrinkles here and there, a middle-aged woman, and I was thinking of how I loved that face. We fist bumped and I drove off.
.i`` * ^ / . . . . . ` `~ 
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