adventures in midtown

A-Team member RuthAnn texted me recently – "Are we suit hunting on Friday?" displaying a powerful demonstration of one of the many A-Team core qualities: adventurousness. I responded with a hearty "You bet! See you at Bryant Park at 7"

Now, there are a variety of preferences among the A-Team members. RuthAnn, Keri and I prefer men in suits. Thea prefers them out of suits. Andrea hasn't yet voiced a preference (and is out of the country for a month, so she'll be like the pregnant version of Sidney Bristow – still on the show, but in an action-reduced role, and oddly carrying a cardigan sweater to hide her pregnant belly until the season is far enough along for her to actually be that pregnant. But I digress…) Keri likes them with a dark sense of humor. RuthAnn has a tendency towards the slightly angry ones. Thea prefers boyish-looking men to manly men. And me? Well, god knows what I like, but confidence and smarts are waaaaay up there.

With that in mind, the key to a successful adventure with the assembled team depends heavily on striking a balanced satisfaction of the needs of the team members. Luckily, RuthAnn could handle the angry suits, I could take the cocky suits and if there were boyish suits, we could give them Thea's number for later. (Sadly, we saw none.)

RuthAnn, knowing her limits, wisely started out the evening with a glass of seltzer. I met my bonne amee, Monsieur Grigio, and we girls started catching up, as we hadn't seen each other in a while. RuthAnn was telling me about a guy she had been seeing:

RuthAnn: oh, and he was such a great kisser!
k8: Really??
RuthAnn: You know, the kind who reaches up and holds the back of your head?
(both girls swoon a little)
k8: Go on!
RuthAnn: And he would do this (RuthAnn reaches her own hand out towards k8's face)
Frank 1: Oh my god, I think I'm going to barf!
RuthAnn & k8: What?
Frank 1: That's just such a syrupy story.
k8: (thinks for a second) Yeah it is. I might kind of barf, too.
(RuthAnn looks sheepish, but reluctantly agrees.)
Frank 1: So I'm here alone. Mind if I talk to you guys, provided we change the subject?

Smooth move, Frank 1. The A-Team could probably use you as a freelance tactician…

So we chatted with Frank 1 for a while, until a guy who could easily have been a 6'7" John Malkovitch-with-hair impersonator came along. And, not even having chatted with us longer than my saying "do you get John Malkovitch a lot?" and him saying "yeah, but I have hair," he offered to buy us drinks. I was still ok with Pinot Grigio 1, so I declined, but I was impressed by the offer. (I'm a sucker. Sue me.)

RuthAnn continued chatting with Frank 1 (and his friend, Frank 2) while I chatted with John Malkovitch With Hair (Frank 3). I knew, as I chatted with him, that Frank 3 was trying to work his mojo on me (and I knew just how much Thea would have hated him). Telling me I was a beautiful woman several times in a short conversation, telling me how bright I was and how smart. Telling me that I would, in fact call him (despite whatever skepticism was obviously displayed on my face at the moment). And I could see how this might work for him. He's an older guy (he said late 30s, I'm wiling to bet it's early 40s), he speaks with confidence and authority, and people probably do what he tells them to do. Especially when he's liberal with the compliments and Pinot Grigio.

By the time I was on PG-13 (I kid, it was just PG-2), Frank 3 was talking about how he had to meet up with George-from-out-of-town, (which explained the several hundred calls and texts he was taking during our conversation – a true social no-no) and how, when I called him and we went out another time, he would tell me all about George.

Smooth move, Frank 3.

He armed me with PG-3 and took his leave, giving me his card and taking my info. (I gave him my service number and strangers-only email address, so he couldn't cyber-stalk me, or, more importantly, actual-stalk me.) Will I call him? No. Will I call him back if he calls me? Maybe. It might be an interesting evening of Dinner That Will Not End With Me Sleeping With Him No Matter How Much He Works His Mojo. We'll see.

Soon after Frank 3 departed, Franks 1 and 2 departed as well, and RuthAnn and I were left to finish up the story about the good kisser. (Sadly, it doesn't end well. He never called her back!)

We hawkishly spotted an empty table, and pounced on it like cats on a cat dancer. (Yes, we picked the table up in our teeth and tried to walk away with it.) After we sat, Frank 4 came to the table and informed us we were at his table, as his bag was still underneath it – but I can't just call him Frank 4, as he was really Bergen County Mike, a distant relative of Staten Island Mike. He was not our type. Not in a suit, not tall, not cocky, not angry, not particularly funny. He was waiting for his friend (who also gets a real name, since his was Conrad), who, when he turned up, was Mr. Rasta, but engaging and passionate and no more our type than Bergen County Mike, but an excellent conversationalist. Monsieur Grigio didn't mind him one bit.

Sadly, Conrad Rupert Anthony (his full name (minus last name), I'm not kidding) departed rather quickly, and left us alone with Bergen County Mike again. And an interesting thing happened. Frank 5 walked by, noted two hot A-Team members sitting in discussion with Bergen County Mike, and made this what-the-fuck-is-going-on-there face. Which, while I found it totally rude, very much spoke to the situation. RuthAnn laughed. Bergen County Mike declared his unhappiness with Frank 5. And RuthAnn, with the improv skills of a ninja or five-star chef, explained to Bergen County Mike how Frank 5 (whose name actually is Frank!) had just executed a genius maneuver, by making himself distinctive to us so we would remember him later. (Where she came up with this idea is beyond me -- which is clearly why I have a team and do not operate as a solo-preneur.)

Anyway, the more RuthAnn explained how smart Actual Frank's tactics were (which, I would argue they weren't, but we were trapped and looking for any excuse for someone else to join our party), the more Bergen County Mike warmed up to the idea of Actual Frank. That was some fascinating shit to watch. The scorned man embracing his scorner. Suit Night Stockholm Syndrome.

Eventually, Actual Frank joined our party and turned out to be Cokey McSnortsalot, but he livened up a potentially dismal situation with Bergen County Mike, who, as it turned out, was about to make an expensive (and retarded) error.

Actual transcript of the conversation (as recorded by my photogenic memory*):
Bergen County Mike: So I park my car up by the last stop on the A train.
k8: All the way up at 207th Street?
Bergen County Mike: No, at Dyckman. That's the last stop on the A train.
k8: No, the last stop is 207th.
Bergen County Mike: No, it's Dyckman.
k8: I have a friend who used to live up there and I'd go all the time. I promise you, it's 207th Street.
Bergen County Mike. Do you want to bet?
(N.B. k8 is NOT a betting woman)
k8: Ok, sure.
Bergen County Mike: How much?(N.B. if k8 were a betting woman, she would bet a dollar or two, as she does not have major funds to fling around)
k8: Fifty bucks. This is retarded. I know I'm right.
Bergen County Mike: Ok. Fifty bucks. Let me just go get a subway map.
(Bergen County Mike exits to subway)
k8: (to RuthAnn) Would it be wrong of us to leave right now?
RuthAnn: Unfortunately, yes. And you're about to win fifty bucks.
k8: True…

(Bergen County Mike returns, places the subway map and fifty bucks on the table.)
Bergen County Mike: You were right. Here's fifty bucks.
k8: I'm not going to take your money. That was retarded. (k8's vocabulary is inversely proportional to the number of PG's she's had) I knew I was right.
(k8 pushes the money back to Bergen County Mike)
Bergen County Mike: I lost. You have to take it.
k8: I'm not taking your money.
Actual Frank: If you don't take it, I will.

So I took fifty bucks from Bergen County Mike. I'd say Poor Bergen County Mike, but I'd really mean Stupid Bergen County Mike if I did, so I'll refrain.

The bar closes early (11pm) so they called last call and herded us out the "door" by 11:30 – it's an outdoor bar on a patio. After too many free PGs, a fifty dollar bonus, and being a mere two stops from kitty-sitting-home, we called it a night.

The verdict? An excellent adventure night. High drama, high stakes, nice weather, some actually interesting conversation about what it means to be an artist (thank you Conrad) and a chance to hang with my girl.

I'm a lucky little A-Teamer!




*back in the day, my sister's boyfriend's grandma once said my sister's boyfriend had a "photogenic memory." And my sister, in her willingness to please an old lady, said that I had one, too.