The truth is out. I’ve been avoiding all of your questions about The Angry Man and the result of my trip to Martha's Vineyard. It’s also come to my attention that he’s discovered “google blog search” . When he used the phrase “coveted family retreat” to me in a snort one afternoon, I knew he had been snooping around. To be brief, I know he's read, and he knows I know. And, well, he’s still in the picture. On the periphery. Our relationship is like a photograph that you angrily tear up but then regret that you did because you may never see that person again, so you dig around your desk for scotch tape and put it back together, only to rue the sentiment and tear up again. Right now, that photo is in an envelope waiting to be tossed or restored.
But I digress. Back to August 19th.
Angry, we’ll call him for short, met me at the docks of the Edgartown ferry with a bouquet of pink roses. Roses! (I use an exclamation point because never once in the history of our lame excuse for a relationship has he ever sent me flowers, let alone stop and smell a flower). Although I tried not to show it, I was surprised and the gesture left me nervous. Angry had made such huge ruckus about meeting his father, who, he told me, was waiting at the house to greet me. However, it was the entire family whom were gathered in the kitchen, and introductions were hurriedly made before we were whisked off to a beach only accessible by kayaking across a small bay. This was not the nude beach, there were children present; but you may remember that Angry and his father frequent the other beach. “It’s not really a nude beach”, Angry explained, “it’s clothing optional”. This is a tradition that dates back to the 30s.
As the story goes, it is all attributed to those ”crazy artists and writers from New York City” remnants of the jazz age, frolicking in the surf. Lucy Vincent, whom the beach is named for, was not a nudist, but the town librarian circa 1890s who was so obsessed with the English language, she had a penchant for physically cutting words she didn’t like out of the very books she was charge to. It’s ironic that someone so iron clad on usage of language would be named for a nude beach, but as racy as it sounds, the Lucy Vincent really isn’t an orgy of naked bodies I supposed it would be; most people are in suits, and the shore is populated by the seasonal locals of Chilmark.
After his brother and the kids left, we hiked out to the same location for the rest of the week. There’s no diverting this plan. This is where father and son set up shop and proceed to hold court every day. It’s amazing. We would cart out about 50 pounds of beach chairs, umbrellas, water, books, various newspapers and then they sit in shade, clad with huge sun hats and SPF 50, greeting neighbors taking in exercise as they walk up and down the shore. It’s the little Lucy Vincent Beach social club.
The Vineyard is a nice life. You make your way to the kitchen/dining room in your own time, where coffee is brewing and the New York Times has already been rifled through, everyone having taken their favorite section, then you throw on your suit, haul your crap to Lucy Vincent for a couple of hours before heading off to the “Porch” for lunch where everyone you've just met at the beach has gathered now for 1/2 a meatball sub, come home, swim in the pool, take a hot tub, a shower, a nap, head over to Menemsha, (you’d recognize it from “Jaws”), for fresh lobster at “Larsen’s” (where Angry has an account) or clams at “The Bite”, sitting out on the beach watching the sun disappear in what was always a spectacular setting. Later, at home, everyone piles into the state of the art screening room to watch movies. And then you do it all again the next day. I’d like to add “summer” as a verb to my vocabulary.
At the beach, it was established that I was not Jewish. I was looked over and questioned by the older women who had been keeping an eye on Angry for years. He can be quite charming when he wants to be and I wasn’t surprised that he had a personal fan club. Blushingly, I answered their questions with “I think it could be very serious”. And his family loved me. His dad even called me a “tomato”, a sort of '50s slang for “hottie”. Why wouldn’t I think that things might be moving in a more permanent direction? I mean, I’m here, right?
Some of you stated in your comments, with a frankness that deserves heeding, that I should be forewarned of a person I call “The Angry Man”; a moniker which has stuck. I leave the Vineyard; spend the next week with my friend Robin on the Cape. Angry actually leaves the island to meet my family and friends in Dennis; my sister and brother-in-law coming up for the weekend especially at my request. And he was delightful throughout the BBQ steak and lobster meal, realizing that this was his “try-out”. And he boarded the first Hy-Line Ferry the next morning to Martha’s Vineyard. And for the rest of the time I was in Massachusetts, I didn’t hear from him, that is, unless I phoned him.
I tried, as an experiment, you see, if he would perchance, call me. After three days, I got “Hey, where have you been?” I slowly realized that I was doing all of the work. This lack of attention may work for some people, but I’m not one of them. I think you’ll agree that I’m not needy, but I do want a man who will call me, and maybe, just maybe, think about me at the end of the day and let me know. Let me steal a scene from “Beautiful Girls”. Tim Hutton and Uma Thurman are sharing a whiskey in an ice-fishing house when he asks “what does it” for her. She responds: “I need to hear four words before I go to sleep: Good night, sweet girl. I'm easy, I know, but a man who can muster up those four words is a man I wanna stay with”. And wait! Here’s another from “Singles”, that Cameron Crowe classic set in the Seattle scene before there was a Seattle scene. Bridget Fonda has narrowed down her impossible list of relationship requirements to a simple “bless you” after she sneezes. This is what I’m talking about. It’s not much, but these gestures mean the world to me. O.K. Maybe I’ve been working in the delusional, imaginative world of movies for too long, but I believe in that kind of love, and it’s what I want.
This is what I tell him, a month ago, back in Los Angeles, away from the Vineyard summer fantasy. As Kate Hepburn says “clean break up, no hangovers”, and our third was just that, neat. I think on some level, he understood. Agreeing on friendship, we met at the Nine Inch Nails concert for which we had previously gotten tickets (as a sidebar, it was great. Trent… sigh). This past month, we canoodled at Sonny McLean’s to watch the last game of the World Series.
But this no-fault breakup hasn’t prevented the hangovers. Last Friday, I received a phone call from Angry, who was on his way to see the Lakers opening game. Would I meet him at the
Grove?
It’s hard to resist the Grove; this is my guilty pleasure, the crème de la crème of shopping malls. However, I had volunteer work to do, was on my way west and told him so. My sixth sense should have warned me, I could hear the purring in his throat. I tried to change the subject, really I did. I asked about his best friend, who he met for dinner the night before. “She thinks we should be married” to which I sputtered and coughed. Oh really. “What do you think?” I replied, “and if the answer is yes, I have a list which is topped by a two carat flawless Tiffany Lucida ring. He said “Two carats. How much will that cost me?” I said I didn’t know and I didn't care, but it would remind him that I would be the priority in his life, not the bottom of the barrel after every last relative and Kobe Bryant. But when he said: “I think you should blow off your volunteer work and meet me at the Grove”.
Now don’t give me crap, but I did. He made a very convincing argument.
I diverted my course on the 101 to the 405 and headed over Laurel Canyon. When I got there, he was waiting for me at the Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf with a very passionate kiss and coffee. We lollygagged around the shops, ending in Lucky, where he insisted on buying me jeans that would accentuate my curves. I told you before, he loves my ass, and it’s hard to say no to that. He was shameless with the shop girls as I tried on ten or fifteen pairs until I found the perfect ones. I’m unclear as to future of this relationship. I love him. I know he loves me. I love these jeans. I've worn them every day since Friday. And as you know, the diamond has been elusive. Oooo, I’d love to have that diamond, even if the relationship doesn’t work out. You’re thinking I’m shallow, I'm superficial, but this girl loves sparkle. I had tried on this ring at Tiffany’s in the Bellagio Hotel with the speedracer/townie/metrosexual. He turned a greyish color, got nauseous and broke out in a visible flop sweat. My sister was there and she’ll tell you.
He refers to our little mess as the "Puddy Syndrome". David Puddy is a character on Seinfeld that dated Elaine. Apparently they broke up a lot. I didn't catch his reference, never having watched much Seinfeld. "I wouldn't admit that" ...said Puddy... I mean Angry.
