Chapter 5
Jill: Branch Brew after school.
Marvin: I’m exhausted. Toast. I have TOY stuff to work on.
Jill: TOY can wait. No is not an option.
“Tell me everything. Do not leave out a single detail. I want a breath-by-breath account,” Jill commands in a pointed fashion I’ve become accustomed to from her.
My gut wonders if she may be slightly jealous she doesn’t get the opportunity to flirt with Olan herself, but she’s attempting to be a good sport.
We sit in Branch Brew, a local kombucha brewery and our favorite spot because I can sip a relatively non-alcoholic kombucha while Jill gets the hard variety. I never became a steady drinker. Watching my mom struggle with her own healing and all those Al-Anon meetings as a teen quickly put a bad taste in my mouth for alcohol. When I tried a few sips in college, likening the taste to drinking warm piss, I decided right there to be sober. I’ve learned which local places sell kombucha, and in a pinch, at a bar, I’ll grab a seltzer with lime or a local soda and be quite content. Branch Brew crafts its own kombucha and carries flavors with and without alcohol.
A cozy spot with old leather sofas and soft patchwork chairs meant to foster conversation and games, we love coming here to decompress and scrutinize men. Jill might be married to an incredibly handsome man, but, as my personal Korean Yenta, one of her favorite hobbies comprises scouting guys and playing matchmaker for me. Branch Brew, a magnet for earthy Portland types we both love, proves a wonderful locale for eye candy. Today, alternative rock scorches through the speakers, and though not typically what’s playing in my headphones, it attracts the right crowd and sets the mood. The whole place smells like a strange mix of vinegar and lavender, and small droplights provide an industrial atmosphere. It feels more like hanging out in a large den than a typical bar, and most importantly, it’s spitting distance from the school.
“Um. Okay. And how was your day?” I say.
“Awful. Amazing. Everything in between. Molly asked when the next vacation was and made me feel like the world’s most boring teacher, but then Stuart asked if he could sit in my lap during story time after lunch, so I guess it all evened out.”
“You are not boring. And you do have a cuddly lap.”
“Um, sure. Now tell me about Illona’s dad. Now.”
“He picked his daughter up, thanked me for her good first day with us, and left. Story over.”
Jill’s eyes squint, giving me an annoyed expression she’s mastered so well. Not remotely satisfied with my CliffsNotes version of events, she pines for gory details. She slams her glass down on the low walnut table in front of us, causing a loud crack and slight spillage.
“Marvin, what did he say? How did he look? The man is a snack. Can I give a toast at your wedding? Spill it!”
“He confessed that he left his supermodel wife, moved his daughter across the country, and requested me, Marvin Block, candidate for Teacher of the Year, be her teacher because the moment he laid eyes on me, he realized he’s gay and uprooting his family and moving across the country was all for me. We’re engaged and the wedding’s next summer. Lady Gaga is officiating. There, happy?” I give a little shrug, smile, and from my seat, take a bow.
Jill may be used to my dripping sarcasm, but she’s not having any of it today.
“Marvin. I’m not fucking around here. It’s not every day a man that delicious has a child in our school. Please. Tell. Me. What. Happened.” Her teeth are smashed together and showing.
“He was fine. Nice. Illona had a wonderful first day, and he thanked me. He shook my hand and…” This next part, I blurt out quickly, like a confession, “I think he might have winked at me. Might have. It could have been a piece of dust in his eye, honestly. You know how filthy the school gets.”
Jill doesn’t speak. This is unusual. Inconceivable. For a moment, I worry she may be choking on her Beach Break hard booch. I raise my eyebrows at her in a way that means “so there” and take a sip of my pineapple kombucha.
“Okay, stop, rewind. He winked at you? What kind of wink?”
“What kind of wink? What kind of winks are there? He winked.” I give her a little wink.
“Marvin, people don’t wink at other people they’ve just met for nothing. Have you ever winked at anyone you just met if you didn’t think they were at least minimally attractive? And even then, who does that? Who winks at people if you’re not, I don’t know, an eighty-five-year-old Jewish man making a joke? And what is he doing in Portland? And alone? What do you know about him?”
She’s asking me questions in rapid-fire succession but, in her typical fashion, doesn’t allow me to answer until she’s truly done. The nuttiness of our first day back prevented us from eating lunch together today, and she is clearly not happy about having to wait the entire day to interrogate me. I keep nursing my drink, which is already three-quarters gone, and try to ignore her mounting energy. Sometimes Jill getting revved up triggers my anxiety, and right now, I’m about to tip.
I wait for her to pause long enough and speak. “I don’t know. He’s gorgeous. Stunning, for fuck’s sake. You saw him. Maybe he winks at everyone. It’s probably his thing. Why do we care? I’m not interested. In him. Or anyone. He’s eye candy and that’s it. And I’m not sure why they moved here. He mentioned vacationing here and hearing about the supportive community. I don’t know. I didn’t Google him.” I push my hair out of my eyes and continue the motion to give a little shrug, punctuating my point.
“Wait, we’re Googling him. Now.”
Lord, help me.
“Jill, no, please stop.”
Googling parents isn’t unprecedented, but it always feels like a supreme invasion of privacy. To be fair, I know for a fact parents Google us. One year, a mom told me my entire life story, where I grew up and went to college. She knew my most-listened-to-artist on Spotify was Jennifer Lopez. It was creepy. Her knowledge of my life, that is. Not my affinity for the flawless Ms. Lopez.
“Listen, why don’t we search for a guy for me on one of the apps.”
Her fingers freeze on her phone, and her eyes turn up to me. My foolproof distraction works, like waving a steak in front of a hungry lion.
“Wait, really?”
“It’s more, I don’t know, realistic to focus on… let’s say guys we know are gay and, just spitballing here, maybe don’t have a child in my class.”
“Marvin, you know there’s no rule against dating a parent. Is it celebrated? No. Frowned upon? Perhaps.”
“Dr. Knorse would… I don’t even want to think about what she’d say. And with Teacher of the Year and the money the school needs… Oh, my lord. No. Just stop. Forget about it. Now find me a man,” I say, dangling my phone, eager to move past this fakakta foolishness.
“Yes, sir,” she says, clasping her hands together.
Jill smirks. She knows I detest dating apps. We simply don’t see eye to eye on them. Of course, I’m the single one. I’ve heard enough stories, and Dateline ’s hunky Stone Phillips should not be ignored – for his superior investigative reporting, not his chiseled jaw. If the straight-dating app-arena is a minefield, the gay-dating app-arena resembles a nuclear explosion. It simply isn’t how I fancy meeting people. You can only know so much about someone from a photo and bio. No, thank you. Does this make me a unicorn in the gay community? Absolutely. But I’m happy to be branded as such. Unicorns are fabulous anyway.
Adam and I met volunteering for the local community center. He ran a queer book group. I like books and cute men who like to read. Why are nerds so damn sexy? Their glasses and big vocabulary have me babbling like a fool. At the time, I was single and more than content to live my best life alone. Being twenty-six and adorable can do that. I did, however, want the company of other queer folks. After a couple of years of rotten first dates and even worse second dates, I decided I wasn’t looking for a boyfriend. In the back of my mind, I figured I’d find one when I stopped searching. And that’s precisely what happened. Adam’s confident energy drew me in like a moth to a flame. Or a flamer, in his case. He discussed and debated books with such ferocity, I was doomed from the start. After that first book club together, he asked for my phone number, and the rest became my personal gay soap opera.
“Give me your phone,” Jill commands.
I’d rather eat an entire bunch of bananas than give her my phone.
“Give it.” She puts her hand out and begins a stare down.
“Wait. Now, we’re only looking. Guys on those apps only want to hook up. You know that doesn’t work for me.”
A combination of daddy issues, being the child of an alcoholic, and all the bad dates and attempted hookups helped me suss out that sex without a relationship isn’t for me. I attempted to go out, meet guys, and have casual sex, but the quickness, the awkward morning afters, and the what was your name agains don’t particularly float my boat.
Her open palm moves close to my face, and the scent of her almond hand cream reminds me I need to moisturize regularly, especially in winter.
“Phone. Now. Let’s look. Looking is free!”
With the enthusiasm of a sugar addict heading to the dentist, I begrudgingly hand it over.
Quicker than me shoving a bagel and shmear into my face after fasting at Yom Kippur, Jill downloads SWISH and begins setting up my profile.
“Smile,” she instructs, and before I can turn my lips into something resembling a grin, she snaps a photo.
“Wait, I wasn’t ready. Take it again.”
“I’ll add a blurry filter. You’ll look mysterious.”
“I’ll look like a serial killer.”
“Perfect. Dateline can feature you. Maybe Stone will interview you.”
The photo resembles a mug shot which makes me appear, at best, a criminal, if not a serial killer. Super sexy. As usual, things with Jill are moving at a breakneck speed, and I’m simply trying to keep up with her hurricane-force pace. When she sets her sights on something, an army of elephants can’t stop her. I can either attempt to keep my balance and ride the wave or drown miserably.
“All right, I’m calling you Hank in case you don’t want anyone knowing your personal information.”
“But you just took my picture.”
“It’s dimly lit here, blurry, and you could have a doppelg?nger.”
Naturally. I shrug and nod.
“I’m putting down Pro: loves cats. Con: will snuggle his cat instead of you.”
“That’s scarily accurate.”
“Pro: makes a mean omelet. Con: doesn’t know how to make anything other than omelets.”
“Hey, I can make oatmeal.”
“Oatmeal isn’t sexy.”
“Not wrong.”
“And last one… Pro: can carry a tune. Con: will burst into song in public settings.”
“‘Carry a tune’ sounds like I’m mediocre. My voice is better than passable.”
“Marvin, just because your students shower you with frivolous compliments and tell you to audition for The Voice doesn’t mean you’re amazing. They’re five. They pick their noses. And eat it. Their taste is questionable at best.”
“Fair.”
“And we’re done. Now start rating.”
She returns my phone from its short hostage stint, and I start perusing candidates. Tasked with giving each one a quick thumbs-up or thumbs-down, I flick away. If the other person and I both give a thumbs-up, a match is made, and we can message and arrange a date. Supposedly, SWISH appeals to those looking to date more than quick hookups, but I’m skeptical. As I investigate the first candidate, Jill’s husband Nick arrives, spots us, and jogs over.
A bear of a guy well over six feet tall, Nick towers over Jill. She literally has to get on her tippy-toes to kiss him. It’s ridiculously cute. At their wedding, when the officiant finally said, “You may now kiss the bride,” much to the delight of the guests, Jill’s sister pushed a waiting chair over so Jill could hike her dress up and climb on it for the grand kiss. Even though he’s huge, he manages to be gentle with her. Above all else, Nick is a complete mensch.
“Hey babe.” Nick sits and kisses the top of her head. “Marvin.” He holds his fist out for a bump.
“What? No kiss for me?” I ask.
These dude-bro greetings aren’t my cup of tea, but I know Nick’s intentions come from the right place. This man asked me to cut in during the first dance at their wedding because “you dance much better than me.” And he’s not wrong. Of course, a duck with two left feet would dance better than poor, rhythmically challenged Nick. He may be a man of few words, but he’s never been anything but warm and sweet to me.
“We’re trying to find Marvin a boyfriend.”
It never fails to tickle me how Nick jumps right in to join in her shenanigans, even if those shenanigans involve attempting to set up man-on-man action. Unfortunately, in my experience, most straight guys aren’t as comfortable and confident as Nick in their sexuality. With Shania Twain featuring prominently on his Spotify year in review, you know he’s more than okay.
“Are there any single dads you could date?” Nick asks.
“Stop!” I put my hand up, halting Jill from rehashing the preposterous idea of Olan Stone.
“Nick-Nick, we’re looking on SWISH because Marvin isn’t interested in any single, extremely handsome dads. Even if the dad of his new student is a total snack.”
“A snack, eh? More of a snack than me?” He raises his eyebrows and looks both silly and charming.
“Buddy, you’re not a snack. You’re a complete meal,” I say because flirting with Jill’s gorgeous husband scratches my I’m-lonely-but-don’t-want-the-drama-of-dating itch.
Nick’s eyes go sideways. I can almost see a lightbulb pop over his head.
“Marvin, if he’s so hot, you should date him.”
“Yes, because hotness supersedes everything when it comes to dating potential.”
I point to my phone in an attempt to distract them and divert their attention.
“Look, this guy seems nice enough?”
The guy I’m looking at, white with a shaved head and a thick chestnut beard, appears kind enough. There’s no doubt he’s handsome. Jill grabs the phone out of my hands.
“Let me see. Vincent M. Sexy bald head. Green eyes, wait, maybe they’re hazel. Okay, let’s see. Pro: can fall asleep anywhere. Con: will fall asleep anywhere.”
“Sure, having a guy fall asleep on me during a date will do wonders for my self-esteem.”
“Wait. Pro: loves trying new foods. Con: will eat off your plate.”
“Oh no, that’s a deal-breaker for me. I do not share food well. You know that.”
“This is true. You slapped my hand away that one time I tried to take a crab rangoon. Just make sure you order a lot.”
“Um, okay.”
As I was growing up, my mom’s drinking made it hard for her to keep a steady job. We weren’t well off, and food was sometimes scarce. School lunches saved my scrawny ass for much of my youth. In addition to a host of other issues from my childhood, I do not fancy sharing food.
“Hold on, hold on. Last one. Pro: loves caring for fish. Con: allergic to cats and dogs.”
“Gonzo.” I put both hands up in my best no-way-no-how-deal-breaker shrug.
Jill knows any potential Romeo for me has to not only tolerate Gonzo but love and appreciate him for all his fluffy, silly, wonderfulness. When we adopted Gonzo four years ago, Adam was unaware he was allergic. He took allergy medicine to survive, and we kept Gonzo out of the bedroom at all times, which I detested. My baby kitty would sleep outside the bedroom door and just wait for us to emerge. Sometimes, when I got up in the middle of the night to pee, I’d sneak out and sleep the rest of the night on the couch so we could snuggle. Adam’s body’s disdain for Gonzo should have been a hint at our incompatibility. He also loved horror movies. And college football. The signs were everywhere if I’d only noticed them. The night Adam moved out, I opened the bedroom door so my snuggle buddy could cuddle with me and never looked back.
“One word. Claritin. Marvin, he’s cute. Just give him a chance. Or, we can see what happens with Olan Stone.”
“Fine, thumbs up!” I slide my finger across the screen, creating a satisfying bloop sound.
“Oh, this is kind of fun. It feels like a video game.”
I stop once Vincent M. receives my approval. One potential suitor is enough. Maybe if I’m lucky, he’ll give me a thumbs-down, and there will be no match, ending this charade. I know Jill and Nick are trying to help. They want me to have what they have. Do I want that? Sometimes, I think so. But Lord, men can be horrible. Adam was horrible. My dad was horrible. Focusing on work and putting my energy there fulfills me. Plus, it provides a lovely distraction. And the kids need me. Heck, the entire school needs me. Right now, flirting with Nick feels much safer, and there’s no risk of rejection because, well, he’s straight and married to my best friend.
“A video game? Like Mario Kart?” Nick asks.
Jill and I both look at him, look at each other, and crack up. The kind of laughter where we throw our heads back and cackle until tears stream from our eyes. Sitting here laughing with Jill, watching Nick’s confused face through wet eyes, I can’t help but wonder, with friends like them who fill my heart and make me feel completely adored, who needs the drama that accompanies a boyfriend?