The Third Party
by Sylvia Math
There is a particular kind of woman I hate. This kind of Tracy Flick/Gwyneth Paltrow type. You know who I am talking about; I know you do. They are joyless players, constantly calculating how to become president of the asskissers association of whatever social arrangement you have the misfortune to be stuck in with them. They don’t even want to be president of that, but it’s female auxiliary, which is why I said asskissers association…
Let’s call this one Pam. I was at a soho loft party with Pam. We bristled at each other; the Pams of the world never me like me either; natural enemies.
The hostess—one of those people who derive pleasure and power and social capital from ruling certain media sections of nyc by making the right introductions at parties—dropped by and whispered to me that she was trying to set up Pam and a guy we will call Midwest. Midwest had just written an entirely unironic book extolling his love of 80s video games. Pam was the editor of children’s books for the NYT. I got the message—hostess wanted me to move away from the deal she was trying to strike. I was an attractive nuisance. In the way of a bourgeois arranged marriage that would unite unironic Midwest hipsters and children’s books of which the NYT approves, and the power of the hostess to do this…
I made eye contact with Midwest. It was the speediest seduction in my personal history. It’s what I imagine gay men experience when they go to clubs and wear handkerchief squares with colors that indicate this or that, and just give each other a nod before leaving together. Midwest and I were both wearing a square that indicated basically “neither of us can stand Pam.” I reached up both my arms and yawned theatrically, announced I was going home. Midwest said “I will put you in a cab.”
We didn’t even make small talk in the cab either. He put his arm around me; I smoked.
At his apartment in Cobble Hill: the horror. I saw what no one woman wants to see upon entering a man’s apartment. I think it is the equivalent of taking a woman home only to discover she has a pink princess canopy bed covered in stuffed animals…
He had not merely a lumpy futon couch and a beer can pyramid, but also… a poster of John Ritter above the lumpy futon couch.
I lost my breath and almost my nerve. But I was stern with myself. Get it together! You have ONE JOB. You are here to grudgefuck this man out of malice towards a third party, NOT redecorate his apartment.
It was fine. I even saw him again a few times.
Epilogue:
He let the Queer Eye for a Straight Guy crew redecorate his apartment and the NYT covered this. He did it to get publicity for his book, and he was a good sport about it. The Queer Eye guys smoothed out his futon couch and put a snazzy new cover on it. They threw out the beer can pyramid. And they took his John Ritter poster, separated into quarters, and colorized a la Warhol, put it back up over futon couch. In the NYT article, Midwest, upon reentering his redecorated apartment, exclaimed “they Warholed my Ritter!”
Pam made a completely unprecedented and inexplicable career move—promoted from children’s book editor to editor of the adult book review. That had never happened before in NYT history. The Pams are in it to win it, and will not be satisfied until they ruin everything.
I fooled around with Midwest a few more times, as I mentioned. This was endlessly amusing to to my hostess friend. What do you even talk about? I was a fashionable snob; he un-ironically liked cheese curds, Tron, John Ritter etc. Yeah we don’t really talk I reported back. Then, he wanted to play Scrabble. He had a competitive ego about it. Liked to play bar tournaments, etc. I said ok, but you are going to lose. There was a little parry & joust, some trashtalking. I couldn’t tell if he was serious or not. But I had hit my stride as a New Yorker: I was fast and mean, but also honest and direct. Look, you are going to lose. It’s NOT going to be close. Do you want a safe word before we start? Because I am going to kick your ass at scrabble. If you want to beat me at something, let’s arm wrestle. I bet you could win that if I used both arms and you only had one; also more my idea of a good time…no. He was determined to play Scrabble.
After I won, he never spoke to me again. Not only that, he married the next woman he went out with. Worse, she was a virgin. A Christian fundamentalist virgin! She worked at ELLE (where I had worked with the hostess) and wrote a memoir—a whole entire book— about being a Christian fundamentalist virgin who married Midwest and gave up her virginity to him.
The hostess would inquire suspiciously of me from time to time, what did you DO to him?! I didn’t do anything to him! I beat him at scrabble; that’s it, that’s the whole story. She did not believe me.
Sylvia Math fled California for Hell’s Kitchen. She has work in X-Ray and Hobart Pulp, excerpts from memoir in progress: “Looks Bad on Paper.”
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