It’s 6:15 p.m. on a Monday and the air conditioner guys who were supposed to show at 5:00 haven’t and so I call Dutch, who is always up for a good time. His plan this evening is for me to join the Mug Club at our local microbrewery, and so I walk into the parking lot next to my house, he pulls his BMW into a space, I look around to make sure no one is watching as I climb in, and we’re off.

 

The cloak-and-dagger routine is part of Dutch’s inordinate fear of what the neighbors might say about him. Dutch, you see, has a girlfriend who visits on the weekends and who is known to our other neighbors. Although I have pointed out to him myriad times that sneaking me into his car this way only makes the situation look worse, he nonetheless cannot shake his concern.

 

A word on Dutch: He is six months older than I am, although until I swiped his wallet and checked his license, I thought he was younger. He’s an Italian who doesn’t like stuffed pasta or pesto, great looking but thinks he compares unfavorably with his friends, and when he throws on his shades he draws a lot of stares from women. He is the most helpful person I’ve met since I’ve moved here: he hooked me up with Jimmy the Tree when it turned out the maple in my side yard was dead (and then supervised its removal when Jimmy showed up on a weekend when I was out of town), gave me the number for ADT and nagged me until I had a security system installed, introduced me to his awesome housekeeper (who is now MY awesome housekeeper), and has given me all the entry codes to his house so I can borrow things as needed. Dutch treats me like the family china. Meanwhile, he cheerfully admits when he is trying to get me drunk, and once tricked me into doing a shot of Jagermeister by myself. In a nutshell, he’s the guy my mother warned me about.

 

At the microbrewery, we find two stools right outside the rest room so enjoy our beer enhanced by the occasional waft of artificial air freshener. I sign up for the mug club – selecting mug #380 as the easiest one of the available numbers to remember – and we settle in for the evening. Dutch is concerned that I am seated on his right, as we’re usually in opposite positions, but I convince him it’s OK and he relaxes. To his left is a tanned man in a baby blue tee shirt, and it becomes obvious after a while that he’s listening to our conversation. Dutch has been telling me what an important day he has coming up, and how he wants to take some of his son’s ADD medication (why, exactly, he wants to do this remains unclear), but he was concerned about how it might affect him otherwise.

 

Tanned Man chimes in with a few cautions about different types of drug interactions, and provides the name and number of a pharmacist for consultation– Ross. Dutch can’t reach Ross on my phone, but is now fascinated with Tanned Man and the fact that he has memorized the number to his pharmacy. Dutch suggests that perhaps the Tanned Man IS Ross, which would explain how he knows so much about drugs AND the pharmacy’s phone number, but Tanned Man denies this. The conversation takes an interesting turn, and though we are all clearly getting along, Tanned Man won’t give us his name so we call him Not Ross.

 

Not Ross is a roofer, has lived in the area all his life, has been divorced for a looooong time, has a girlfriend, and looks kind of like Mel Gibson. (I notice his eyes first, actually, though he is pretty much all-around hot.) Not Ross is quietly mocking Dutch in a subtly sarcastic way that I enjoy, since it’s the kind of cat-with-a-mouse thing I do to entertain myself in dull conversations sometimes, but I sense Not Ross is also Not Bored. Also, Dutch can hold his own in these types of encounters, so there’s no one to feel sorry for and the whole thing is just pure entertainment for me. The best moment comes when Dutch asks Not Ross if he knows the “back way” to Danny’s; Not Ross does an instant eye roll and leads with “Jesus Christ, it’s 600 feet away – you mean ‘back way’ as opposed to, say, driving down the Parkway to Tom’s River and back up the ‘Pike?” and this continued for a good ten minutes until we actually leave for Danny’s.

 

One quick stop for a pack of smokes – Dutch needs his fix, and I don’t enjoy wandering the bar bumming them off strangers for him – and we land in front of Danny’s. Our first view through the door shows Liz tending bar – never a good sign – and Not Ross seated in front of her, on the corner stool. Otherwise, the bar is empty. Liz sets me up with a saki martini and I am off to the races.

 

Not Ross orders spring rolls and shares them with me, and the three of us begin to analyze why Dutch prefers that I sneak into his car instead of picking me up in front of my house like a normal person. Not Ross asserts that Dutch is feeling guilty, not for something he’s done, but for something he’s thought about doing. I concur heartily with this, having reached the same conclusion myself some weeks ago, but quickly reassure Dutch that it’s okay. Not Ross then discusses the sexual tension between us (me and Dutch – not, unfortunately, me and Not Ross), and Dutch starts to look panicked. I crack up, which doesn’t help, and so I pat him on the arm and tell him it’s all right, and I excuse myself and head to the ladies’.

 

When I return, there is a fresh drink on the bar and the guys are heavily engaged in male bonding. This is boring, and I can tell Not Ross wants to say something to Dutch that my presence is preventing, so I ask if he wants me to take a walk, he says yes but only because he has a lot of respect for me (please – even drunk, I mentally roll my eyes) and so I head over to the other side of the bar where two guys in their late forties have arrived and are chatting with Liz (which, as usual, completely occupies her for the rest of the evening and makes it damn hard to get a drink). They’re talking about Atlantic City and immediately ask me if I want to go. I ignore the question and state that I haven’t been there since I was child, back when there were no casinos, and this launches them on a series of comments about how I couldn’t possibly be old enough to remember that and my God, I look great! So I have to love them for this, but it gets old quickly. Liz interrupts to ask what Dutch and Not Ross are talking about, and when I say “male bonding,” she gives me a blank look and asks if they’re gay.  I wander back across the bar to where they’re sitting.

 

Dutch and Not Ross decide that it’s 12:30 and we should all go home. On the way out to the car, Not Ross gives Dutch a meaningful look and tells him to make sure he shares his secret, which turns out to be that Not Ross had a heart transplant a few years ago. Wow.

 

Dutch then announces he is driving us to his house where we will have a nightcap and dance to a couple of songs. My motto has long been “I’ll sleep when I’m dead” – a condition I have come close to simulating on many mornings as a result of following this tenet – and so I agree and soon find myself in a dark house clutching a drink while twirling around an airy living room to the techno version of the Evita soundtrack. Eventually, things slow down as we exhaust ourselves, and Dutch’s musical choices become more varied. I impress him by immediately identifying one singer as Leo Sayer AND singing along with all the lyrics. I lose a bet on Debbie Boone – I now owe Dutch a night out – but both of us end up belting out “You Light Up My Life” with such enthusiasm it’s as if we suddenly ARE Debbie Boone and we’re onstage, live, and the lights are in our faces and the crowd is roaring and it’s, it’s –

 

It’s 2 a.m., is what it is, and even I need to go home. Dutch has a big day tomorrow, and will need to don a suit and tie and head into the city in sweltering heat, and I need to be relatively alert for a 9 am conference call. So I tip-toe down Dutch’s front steps, whisper a good-bye, take one step into the yard, and promptly fall on my ass as Dutch stands on his front porch howling. This is, I point out, not a nice thing to do. And I assert that there is a hole in his front yard that is disguised by the even cut of his grass, and I further assert that it is this hole, and not the drunken state of my being, which has led me to my present position, but it’s no dice and he continues to mock me from above and asks to see the grass stains on my ass, then laughs even louder when I show him.

 

I give in and laugh, then crawl across the street to the comfort of my bed. Tomorrow, I will rise at 5:30 and feign enthusiasm throughout the day, worry about how Dutch is holding up, and eventually pull myself into bed at a reasonable hour, goddamnit. And maybe tomorrow I can work out a time for the air conditioning guys to show up – maybe.

 

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