1 Debra Dosch 130 East 57th Street New York, NY 10022 Tel: (212) 758-1195

About 3,500 words First Serial Rights @ Debra Dosch

LOVE, NEW YORK AND THE SINGLE GIRL or HOW MANY FROGS DO YOU HAVE TO KISS BEFORE YOU FIND A PRINCE?

April 24th Ten years ago when I first landed in New York, from parts better left where they are, I had hopes and dreams that I would find "The Man." I also had $450, a Liberal Arts Major and a cat called "Alley" who thought she was an opera singer. (She may have been Maria Callas but she wasn't anymore). I soon discovered that without an MBA from Harvard or a heavy inheritance, you might as well teach the Mambo. I couldn't dance. My feet were too big. I could type. (Thank you Mother). This was not only handy, this was ESSENTIAL. Now I am an administrative assistant, thirty long years old, single and house-broken. I am also BURNT-OUT..down to the ground, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.."How," you may ask (and then again you may not but I am telling you anyway),"did this happen to one so relatively young?" (Anyone is relatively young..GOD is relatively young). It happened looking for "The Man." Laugh if you will but I have found that nothing - but nothing - is more stressful, more demanding, or harder on the heels than looking for Mr. Right in Gotham City. Your job maybe commercial pilot for Alitalia, team-member of the Bomb Squad, Wallstreet broker, or body-guard for the incumbent New York Mayor, you have it easy! Allow me to introduce myself. I am Jenny Baines. I have ash-blond

hair, hazel eyes and size eight feet that I inherited from my father, an undying optimism that I inherited from my mother. Tough the only thing Bo Derek and I have in common is our height (5'3), I don't fade into the decor, unless of course she shows up, and I am willing to risk anything, if there is someone to gain. My background is rather boring. I am the end-result of a semi-religious family with a set of values that of course, since they were too good for this world, died and went to heaven. Besides how could a girl ignore the best invention since the wheel..the pill? (Give that man the Nobel Peace Prize). My parents loved their only daughter and child and were sad to see her go. (Mother.."Jenny...New York is so dangerous but if you MUST go.." (I must..I must), "please promise me you will ride the buses and not the subway"). She obviously thought it only happened underground. Once I had adapted to my new environment and landed a job, I set out on my quest. At 8:30 a.m., everyday, you can catch a glimpse of me in my 2-tonesky-blue-Addidas and suit/dress dashing out into the morning crunch of Manhattan, with a silent prayer on my lips.."Dear St. Ann (patron saint of widows and otherwise abandoned women)..Get me a man as fast as you can." She is obviously backlogged. For all those wonderful women judges, airline pilots, senators you see on TV everyday (I'am talking TV series), there are still thousands of us, secretaries, who do not belong to the firsts, (sacrifices were much too much), aiding and abetting executives. Married executives who do not believe their television sets (with the possible exception of re-runs "Charlies Angels") and who have no intention of believing anything they had absolutely nothing to do with. Now you're wondering..what about that mass of men you work for? What about all those crisp navy blue Brook Brothers suits marching to work every morning, attache case in hand? Let me try to defuse these dangerously loaded questions, as best as I can. 1) New York is populated with four subspecies of HOMO: a) The HOMO-sexual is estimated at 40%. b) The HOMO-bisexual, who can't even make up his mind is estimated at 15%. c) The HOMO-matrimonal, with two kids and one on the way, is estimated at 40;%. d) The HOMO-very-rare-single-heterosexual is estimated at 10%. New York is also populated with unscrupulous FEMALES who fall into three categories. a) The married FEMALE is estimated at 40%. b) The gay FEMALE is estimated at 10%. c) The single FEMALE is estimated at 50%, half of whom are 1015 years younger than you are.

2)

The cold, hard reality of it is that in order to find "The Man" (anything male), you must be cunning, dedicated, willing to work extensive overtime, make enormous sacrifices and stretch your imagination beyond its city limits. In the pursuit of this universal goal, I have exercised my little tush off on nautical machines (purple leotards, Saks $85), just to catch one roving eye from muscle man who finds only the mirror worthy of his attention. I have run personal ads in three of the major newspapers in New York ("young woman looking for a man", now I ask you is that aiming too high)? I have joined Japanese massage classes, Gourmet cooking, Special Interest Groups, Happy Hours, a seminar on "Roach Control" and finally classes on "How and Where to Meet Men in New York City." ($60 and I want my money back). I've even unabashedly stalked the aisles of the men's section of Bloomies (all for a good cause, me), wearing a black leather mini, net stockings from Fogal's ($40 a pair) and spike heels, only to find the guys were doing the same. I did manage to meet "some men". But the "some" that answered my Distress Call, literally tooke me for all I had. I am now emotionally bankrupt. This slow depletion of the basic staple of life: HOPE, began as I said, ten years ago, in another country, at 74th and First. (Examples: DR. ANDREW CON. I met Andrew at Moy's Laundromat. By the spin-cycle we had exchanged more than softeners, we had exchanged phone numbers. Unlike his friend, Hank, who had to have six nurses a day or he couldn't operate (no pun intended), my Andrew was no playboy. As a matter of fact, he didn't know what play was for. He had, what some had diagnosed as a "Dr. Kildare Complex" that was to prove fatal...fatal to our relationship. He was married to the hospital and had taken his vows "In sickness and in health till death do us part" more seriously than most. (Hey, girls, have you ever been jealous of an institution? A white building that smelled of Lysol and cultured bacteria)? Demoralizing as it is to take a backseat to disease, my main enemy was a beeper. We would be tete-a-tete, in the middle of Chateaubriand-sauce-Bernaise, and the beeper would beep. We would be building up momentum and the beeper would beep. ( I sometimes thought it had eyes instead of batteries). Andrew "Sorry darling, but it must be an emergency," (what did you think THIS was Bozo)? Yes, I had thought of burying the damn thing in the backlot of the Sahara Desert, but then someone would die and I would be RESPONSIBLE! A year and a half later..beep..beep..beep..exit Andrew.

Back in circulation, I decided to follow the crowd but the competition was getting down right brutal: a fresh crop of college grads, aged 21-24 invaded the already glutted market. There were months of "Star Trek" re-runs, of deflated parties, one-night misunder-standings, false-starts, and rendez-vous' that rendezed me nowhere, before I found Phil. Scene: "Mars" (latest disco located on the outer-limits of the planet), the air was thick with music, smoke and high expectations. Stomping secretaries, punk rockers and gays dressed in drag, and looking better than I did, commingled on the dance floor, moving to the gyrating primal beat of the....music. Off to one corner, lost to the searching eyes of the masses, lounging on a fire proof (it had to be..he was hot), scotch garded rococco love seat, a blue-jeaned Richard Gere manque, was staring into the void. PHIL was a lawyer. He specialized in corporate tax shelters. He was too good to be True. And as more than one little Birdie told me, Phil unfortunately had trouble distinguishing fantasy from reality and truth from lies. His lies, like the Mississippi were muddy, meandering, and never-ending. They were also calling my apartment at all hours of the night looking for him. Phil, my Philanderer. I don't recall (must add more...if youre going to use this phrase, try to do something with it..) our parting but then again when something is borrowed, it's easy to lose and lose him I did. Ragged and frayed, I took a vacation to commune with my thoughts, the sun and the sea. But vacations are made for escape and escape I did - into the arms of Max. MAX was mysterious. (Max) "I am in the import-export business" (moi) "What do you import-export?" (Max) "Oh this and that." He was exciting. He was an intuitive and thoughtful lover. Here I thought was a man all my Own, who I didn't have to share along with my flat. Here atlast was my own double feature, for 'my eyes only'. He was a fantasy come true: tall, swarthy, buccaneer, reckless. I was again in the throes of passion. There was only one small, infinitesimal catch..Max had strange habits. He slept only by the triplelocked entrance door (Fichet high-security cylinder-4-sided-key-lock) with a loaded 45 under his pillow. At first I thought he was a little nervous. I tried to allay his fears. (I) "Darling, it's O.K. I'm not married..yet." He would travel extensively on business trips to Bolivia, Peru, Columbia, and all his friends were in Miami, Florida. (I) "Darling, why don't you invite them over? I'll make 'arroz con pollo.'" His lawyer was his best friend. What really worried me however were his six passports made out with different names and different nationalties. Although the message was carved on the wall, this was a catch I couldn't let go. I was IN LOVE (You Know, where you can be as STUPID AS

YOU WANT), so I filed my apprehensions and common sense away, hedging my bets that he would change to a desk job at the drop of a hat..if ONLY I asked. One winter night, ten months later, Max went out for a pack of nonfilter Camel cigarettes. He did not return. I did not call New York's Finest. His clothes were still in the closet two weeks later when I did call his best friend-lawyer. ("Max who?") He had caught an acute bout of amnesia and was leaving town, no doubt to find a cure. Now Max's disappearance was both disturbing as well as painful. I moved. I changed my phone number. For three months I was inconsolable. I moped around and read the monthly horoscopes and articles on "Why Women Go Out With Mr. Wrong," only to discover they were talking about married men. Enter BRUCE, the broker. Here was a straight guy. If you asked where the coke was, he would point to the refridgerator. He didn't tote a gun in his briefcase. He didn't have mace. In New York proper this is amazing (not to mention stupid), but Bruce was more dangerous than all of the Mob at a family election. He couldn't take aspirin, planes or elevators. He was allergic to doctors (here we agreed), dentists and rain (you never know, he might melt). He was a victim (?) of psychological disorder called "Borderline Personality" that his Park Avenue psychiatrist described as "adjusted," "functional," but for me he was neither. (Did Dr. DO-LITTLE Lichenstein arrive at this diagnosis by living with him? I rest my case). Dr. Jeckyll may have been at the party when we met but Mr. Hyde was who I was left with. Nearly a year later (so I am slow, but he did have a crazy sense of humor), I made a decision. I knew it was his sanity or mine and since his was already gone. Exit Mr. Hyde. By now, I was beyond frayed..I was unraveling. My girl-friend Janet came to my rescue. She gave me the address of a clairvoyant named Chiara (clear what??), who operated out of a two bedroom flat in the 70's. This time, I wanted a map of the mine-field and she assured me (Tarot cards, palm reading) for $30 that the stars in the heavens would light my way. My gut feeling was that Chiara was not a Roumanian gypsy but a Brooklynese hausfrau who couldn't re-enter the workforce. She couldn't type. She COULD however tell a SUCKER when she saw one. Enter YANNIS. Yannis and I were inseparable. We met on an autumn's day, golden leaves rustling underfoot, new beginnings, crisp snap in the air.. a year after my Snake Pit experience. Yannis renewed my flagging faith in "MAN"kind. He was sane, gentle, considerate, and attentive. Yannis was also a HUNK, blond, tanned, with limpid sapphire eyes...Adonis..Apollo. I met him at Eva's birthday party. I thought it was mine. He looked like a

Greek God and that was what he was. It took only five months before my God fell from the lofty Olympian firmaments where I had placed him and became just another myth. Scene: His duplex, high-rise apartment overlooking Central Park. Below joggers and muggers were competing for a marathon. (The muggers won). I was drinking Napoleon cognac out of a crystal snifter, wondering how my love managed so well on his business in seaweed bath products made in Yugoslavia. Yannis, leaning his lanky 6 feet 2 against the marble fireplace that actually worked said..."Darling, do you remember last weekend you couldn't come to Jamaica with me?" (I had a bridal shower for Mary-Joe). (I:) "yes" (He:) "I don't know quite how to PUT this" (try, darling, try) "but you see I am accustomed to a certain lifestyle..and well, Marcia is rich and you're not." Well PUT. "But don't get upset darling, we can still see each other..we'll just have to be EXTRA careful and REALLY my little angel, she means ABSOLUTELY NOTHING (but Iranian caviar, French Champagne, and rent) to me I Swear!" Mary-Joe..may your hair and your children's hair and their children's hair FALL OUT, I hate you. Chiara, Oscura. I was catatonic for three months. I walked around my apartment on my knees. I mailed business letters at work without the stamps or signatures. My boss asked if there had been a death in the family. I replied affirmative. Who's lying? I died! I wasn't worried about having died intestate (without a will, i.e. Howard Hughes). After all, I had nothing to leave but a broken heart. I was poor. Sylvia, my Best Friend, sympathetic, considerate and understanding as always, said in her most consoling tone, "Jenny, maybe you have a deepseated desire, an unconscious Freudian urge, an overwhelming need to be kicked in the ass daily." I ran to the door. No Red Cross pained on the front. She must be right. I obviously needed professional help IMMEDIATELY. (A therapist was out). So I enrolled in EST (please don't ask me what EST stands for, I don't know). Did it work? Or as they so aptly put it.."Did you Get It?" (Who wants to be the First and Only Idiot to say no?) I for one, however did not "Get It." (There went my dreams, hopes, and four hundred and fifty dollars out of the porthole), or as they also so aptly put it "Life works when you choose what you get." This tasted of the far-far-far east. (Face Mecca..Inshala..Inshala) Sylvia on the other hand, had no such problems. (Note the envy in my voice). She couldn't very well relate to mine. She had a special, custom-made philosophy, Plato move over. She had decided years ago that all the men she ever wanted were already accounted for (Christopher Lambert, Don Johnson, Mel Gibson, Donald Trump, and Superman).

Needless to say, this bacon was back in the frying pan. Compulsively, irremediably addicted to LOVE as some are to chocolate covered ants, "The 24 hour" bra, Long-lash mascara, Gucci bags, or credit cards, I couldn't say no. This time, beyond a shadow of a doubt, I had found "The Man." No playboy, no arrivist, no nutcase, no motherless character. The only catch was, I found him too late. ALAN. (PROBLEM WITH THIS ONE REWRITE!) I really wasn't that interested in digging up Sumerian garbage that some called the art treasure find of the century in Lower Egypt, on a two week Sabbatical from typing. But It paid off in more than artifacts of forgotten past. Alan was supervising the dig. I fell for him the minute our eyes met over the broken ashtray that after 5 days of arduous work, Alan had managed to assemble into almost one whole piece. The problem was that he died 4 months after our mirculous encounter, while jogging, two days away from his 39th surprise birthday, (surprise!) a 1/2 mile away from home. When people die so unexpectedly, you tend ot take it personally. I know I did. I couldn't forgive Alan for leaving me like this, so close to my goal without even a goodbye. By now, I knew I was not God's favorite child, not even his second favorite. WHAT was I to do? Take a sabbatical? Take a trip to "Club Med" and learn to float? Go to Alaska? (My phone bills would kill me if the cold didn't). Go to Australia? (No Paris Collection). Join the Army (that had already been done by Private Benjamin). Join the convent? (I hate black and I am not the silent type). so I did the only thing left for a girl to do. I went to an Indian Reservation to meditate. ("No Beer Allowed" and the braves were more depressed than I was). For three weeks I meditated in the desert. At Two Guns, a stone's throw from Wuptaki Ruins, I placed a call to Sylvia. - S.O.S. - SMOKE SIGNALS - SOMEONE SEE THEM PLEASE. (Sylvia) "Hey, Jenny, did you hear the good news? The Daily News, Times, Post, Ivestia, La Vanguardia, etc. says that Donald is tired of Marla." (I:) "Great, Listen Sylvia, maybe I should give up my job and move out here. It's so peaceful." (Sylvia the Practical) "What would you do? Type?" (I:) "I could open a liquor store." Two days later, I was back in New York, I went back to my work. I forgot about men. Yes, I forgot about men for seventeen months. Contrary to popular opinion I was not alone. I had my memories. Even Sylvia thought I was cured until.. Scene: Lunchtime, while minding my own business (Mother stop laughing), I bumped into Howard at a deli, midtown. Over rye and proscuitto

sandwiches and three Heineken beers (he had coffee), we got acquainted. (Howard:) "This is your first time here?" (I:) "No, it's close to work but I usually come between 1:30 and 2:30 when the population explosion is back in their offices. I am allergic to lines." (He:) "My office is on 54th and Madison, just around the corner. I am a publicist." I was not exactly head over heels in love, but Howard was Normal. He was so normal that when he wasn't in his office, setting up a rock party in the subway or writing press-releases for the Sex Pistols for the Daily News nationally syndicated gossip columnist, he was home with MOM. Mom did not like me. MOM told Howard as much, but Howard rebelled. He was strong. How did he rebel? By ignoring everything she said about me, letting the rest filter through. MOM did not spare any energy in communicating her feelings. She called twice a day, three times a night. "What did he eat?" "How long did he sleep?" "Did he remember his doctor's appointment?" (next year), and the ever present question, "Are you still seeing that unworthy Shiksa?" Howard the brave. Howard the strong...held out for 6 1/2 months before the inevitable happened. Yes, Howard crumbled. The Pressure was UN-bearable. By this time however, I was already ALL GONE. There's a fine line between abuse and overdose, as any junkie can tell you. I had crossed it. Broken and burnt-out, even my undying optimism called it a day. I buried it one weekend in spring, shortly thereafter. No flowers. No eulogy. No fanfare. No ceremonious pomp. There were no other mourners but me. I was not sad. I shed not a tear. I was numb. That night, I received a phone call from a girlfriend whose preference was for her very own. Thinking this might be a way out, I asked her what the competition was like..but Guinilla discouraged me subito.."Forget it Jenny. It's a JUNGLE out there!" July 30 (Three months after the funeral, give and take a few days, hours and minutes). I wasn't looking. HONEST! I was riding my 10 speed Schwinn bike to Central Park, when a man driving a silver Nissan (Pulsar NX - 5 speed engine, with sunroof and black bucket seats), nearly sent me into that "Big Hunting Ground in the Sky" (Where despite all probabilities, the numbers are in our favor). (I:) "Watch where you're going BOZO!" (He:) "Jenny" Is that really you?" Two minutes later he was standing outside his silver Nissan (Pulsar NX - OHC - 5 speed engine, with sunroof and black bucket seats). It was a vision of a ghost, ghost I had dated a few lifetimes ago, back home in my little town, left where it should stay..."Jeffrey? Is that really you?" "What are you doing here?" (He:) "I've been selling real estate." (To Japanese investors and Albanian arms dealers. Who else can afford it?) Over a couple of drinks, we

reminisced. It's still a hung jury, but I think I have found "The Man." He's single and male. What else could a girl ask for? THE END?