The Matchmaker

“He’s dating the wrong people,” Meredith says.

We’re sitting in the living room, sharing a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Half-Baked. It’s already beginning to melt around the area where her hand is in contact with the container.

“It’s 2011. You’d think they’d figure out a way to keep ice cream from melting so quickly.” I lap a spoonful into my mouth. “Can you maybe just put it down on the table?”

Meredith looks at me and rolls her eyes.

“I thought we were talking about Max.” She places the pint down and leans back on the couch. “He’s your friend; I’m just trying to help.”

“I know. And I appreciate it,” I say as I scoop up some more ice cream. There’s some reality show that’s playing on the TV, but the sound is muted. I glance up for a second and catch a very tan woman in a very short skirt yelling at someone. After a moment she throws her drink in some guy’s face and storms out of what looks like a club. I’m suddenly reminded of college. “It’s just that…he’s drawn to very specific types of people.”

I’ve known Max for almost three years now. We met at a shitty acting class I found while flipping through the Village Voice when I found myself bored on a Sunday afternoon. The ad featured this guy in black pants and a black turtleneck. He was standing there with his arms crossed in front of his chest, taking up half a page, looking all serious, like he really meant business.

“You owe it to yourself to say things the way you want to say them,” it read in bold letters right underneath him. I had to process the catch-phrase before I understood what it meant to me. The rest of the ad went on to talk about how acting classes were not just for actors anymore, and how people from all walks of life should take an acting class because it helped to make you more presentable and taught you to better balance your emotions while speaking.

I tend to wear my heart on my sleeve, which is not the best way to be when you do what I do, so I admit that I was intrigued.

In class, the man from the ad was wearing the same black pants and turtleneck, except he now sported a little bit of a belly paunch that rounded out smoothly against the tight material of the turtleneck. I noticed Max immediately because he was wearing a Newsies-style cap, the old school one made of brownish tweed, or whatever, like from the 1920s, and I thought to myself, “who is this douchebag?” Hats like that make me very judgmental. I see them and I can’t help but think the person wearing the hat is just trying to draw attention to themselves because they’re insecure and are trying to show a slight alternative edge.

The man in the turtleneck claimed to be an actor that had studied with the Royal Theater Academy of London, but he was more like a wanna-be therapist, and tried to psychologically dissect each of us in order to assign a specific exercise. Max was identified as someone always looking for affirmation, often from the wrong sources; his assigned exercise was to stand on a chair in front of the rest of us, and alternate between saying “I love you” and “thank you” to the crowd for five minutes.

I yawned and looked at my watch.

The turtleneck guy determined that I was very conservative and set in my ways, and so the obvious remedy was to make me narrate a stream-of-conscious storyline without pause.

“No, no, no!” he yelled when I started speaking. “Don’t think, just feel. Let it flow out of you.”

I kind of liked my story, thought I made some pretty daring decisions, but the acting guy kept saying it was “boring” and “too logical,” and as soon as I felt like I was getting going, he’d stymie my momentum.

“What an ass,” said Max as we took the elevator down together. There were other people in the elevator who were also from the class but they just looked at their feet.

“Seriously,” I answered. “So I’m ‘conservative’ and ‘set in my ways’ because I came from work in a button-down shirt and slacks? Who does he think he is? Freud?”

The elevator moved slower than an elevator should move, and lurched as it got to the lobby. Everyone filtered out and we found ourselves surrounded by scaffolding and homeless people. The class had been held in one of those seedy “rent a studio” building on the West Side in the 30s.

“Max,” said Max as he extended a hand. Except he didn’t just say “Max;” he said his full name – Fritz Maximillian Grossman – before adding that he went by Max because it was easier.

“That’s quite a name,” I understated.

“My dad loves everything German.”

“Interesting…”

“You don’t know the half of it. Needless to say, it’s sort of a complicated relationship, being Jewish and all.”

“Right…”

“Thus the ‘Grossman’ part.”

“I see…”

Back in the living room, with the ice cream still melting, Meredith turns the volume back up on the TV, and continues to talk over the commercials. “All I’m saying is that maybe he has to change his approach a little bit. If it’s not working for him then he’ll never meet anyone.”

“You can teach a man to fish, but you can’t just go around changing his approach.”

“What does that even mean?”

“It means that the way he views women, and the type of women he’s attracted to, is a testament to the type of person he is. He’s not going to suddenly be into a different type of woman because someone else said so.”

“So then maybe he has to realize that for himself and grow up a little.”

“Grow up? What does it have to do with growing up?” I look down at the ice cream and find that it has gotten to soupy to continue eating. I pick it up and carry it off to the freezer.

“How old is he now? 30? 31?”

“32!” I yell to Meredith from the kitchen.

“32! Exactly. He’s not a kid anymore. And yet he keeps dating these women…sorry…these girls who are not going to be solid, consistent partners.”

“The women he dates are around his age. It’s not like he’s dating teenagers,” I say as I return to the living room, only to find that Meredith’s spoon is still in her hand.

“It’s not about their age, it’s about their outlook.”

“What’s wrong with their outlook?”

“Well, they just seem immature. That’s all.”

Meredith is suddenly distracted by the reality show which has returned from commercials. “What a slut,” she says to the TV.

“Listen,” she continues, this time to me. “I have this great girl for him, a friend of mine from work.”

“Have I ever met her?”

“No, she’s pretty new, but she’s perfect – smart, successful, motivated. It’s about time he dated someone like that.”

---

“Is she hot?” asks Max when I tell him Meredith’s idea.

“She said she was ‘attractive.’ I don’t know what that means.”

“Really that can mean anything. What is it with women and not being able to accurately assess their friends?”

“Let’s find her on Facebook…see for ourselves.”

We hop on the computer and do a little sleuthing. I click through a few of her photos. “I think she looks cute.”

Max tilts his head and takes over the mouse. He clicks back and forth between three photos. “OK, well, see here, there’s like a ton of light, so it washes out her features almost completely. You can’t really tell how old she is. And then in this one – you see – it’s like more natural light and she looks a little old, doesn’t she? I kind of like this angle, but I feel like there might be something false about it, as if she chooses this side of her face for some specific reason.”

He bites his lip and moves ahead to a few more photos.

“See!” he continues. “She has this pose in a few of them. Is the right side of her face like hideously deformed? Does she have a lazy eye? I don’t know…it’s weird dude.”

“Whatever, stop nit-picking. Meredith is just trying to help out.”

Max releases the mouse and walks across to his kitchen table. He pulls out a chair and falls back into it. I swivel around in the desk chair.

“I know,” he says, throwing his hands behind his head and stretching his legs out.

“Look, you’re the one always complaining. You’re always telling me how things never work out with any of these people you go out with.”

“It’s because they’re all psychos! I don’t know what it is! They’re all warped in some fucked up way.”

“So why do you keep dating people like that?”

“I don’t know they’re like that until they’ve roped me in!” He lets out an exasperated sigh. “I’ll meet someone and she’s all cute in her summer dress or she’s got these cool glasses on and she’s all well-read and shit, going on and on about some boring writer but she’s all into it for some reason and, damn, that’s just hot, she’s passionate about it, she’s convinced it’s the best thing in the world, and that just draws me in.”

“OK…”

“And then I go on one date and we’re making dinner and she’s drinking wine and then she’s looking at me all lovingly like I’m her soul mate. Next thing I know, we’re having sex and afterward she’ll either tell me how she is fresh out of a break-up or she had an abusive relationship with some musician or something. Everything will seem fine at first but then she’ll start going on and on about how her parents are getting a divorce or she’ll tell me she’s depressed and on meds, and she’s on them just because, like no one knows why she’s on meds, its just that she is and the world is all complicated and difficult and twisted. And then I’m like ‘fuck dude, I don’t even know you! Take it easy.’” Max exhales like the psychological weight of all of all the hipsters in Brooklyn is resting on his shoulders. “Why does it need to get so fucking heavy right away?”

I think about his question. “Maybe you shouldn’t be making dinner on the first date?”

“Why not?”

“It just seems rushed. No?” I tread lightly here, because I know Max takes his dinner-making talents very seriously and I’m trying not to offend him. “Making dinner, that’s kind of intimate. That’s more a boyfriend-girlfriend sort of activity, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know that it’s such a big deal,” he says defensively. “Girls like it when guys make them dinner.”

“Still, maybe having a cup coffee in a public place might work a little better for a first date, especially if you’re finding yourself helplessly drawn into bed with these women so early on.”

“Maybe.” Max says flippantly. I know a part of him recognizes what I’m saying and agrees with it. But another part of him really wants to disagree with me, because my being right and his realizing it, would mean reworking his entire dinner-at-my-place approach.

“Look at it this way – you’re plying them with wine on the first date, in your apartment. You’re creating an environment that’s going to lead to more intensity early on, so you can’t really be surprised when someone starts opening up to you so quickly. Why not hold off on that a little? Keep that bottle corked, if you know what I’m saying.” I chuckle a little and wink at him. “What’s the rush?”

“When did you become so old-school? It’s 2011 my man. People have sex on the first date. It’s not a big deal.”

“I’m just hearing what you’re saying, and I’m telling you – if you want to slow things down a bit, don’t invite them over for dinner and drinks at your place.”

“I’m not saying I want to slow things down, I’m just saying that I don’t want them to be crazy…at least not so quickly. Crazy later on…that’s fine…when I know them a little better…Crazy can be good…The right kind…”

“Just figure out something else to do on the first date. That’s all.”

“I’m not doing some stupid coffee date. So lame.”

“So do something else. Take a walk. Go get ice cream, brunch. Toss a Frisbee. I don’t know. Something a little more traditional.”

As I say it, I look around Max’s apartment, gazing over the walls that are filled with his art, all a mix of styles and mediums and subject matter. There are oil landscapes and water colored shapes and stenciled portraits. Max has the sort of artistic mind that constantly wanders in some dreamscape and can’t seem to wrap itself around one concept or idea. He’s super-talented, and I find myself both impressed and jealous of how vast his abilities seem to be. So I guess that when I hear him voice frustrations about his dating life, I can’t bring myself to believe that he doesn’t actually enjoy the psychoses of the women he dates. There must be something about it that he craves.

“Yeah that sounds really good,” he says sarcastically.

“Don’t be a douchebag.”

“I’m not,” he retreats. “But dinner and drinks is traditional! You can’t get more traditional than that. I just don’t know what the issue is.”

“Well fine, so what happens after the first date?”

“Wow, I don’t even know where to start.” Max exhales and leans forward onto his knees. “Some of them become possessive and so if you don’t return a call or a text within minutes, they’re all angry and out of their minds. Then there are the fiends, and all they want to do is have sex. Which is fine! Don’t get me wrong. But only for like a week, because then that gets old, just having sex all the time, and I think to myself ‘what about all those cool books you told me you read and those hobbies you claimed to have? Can’t we talk about those? When do you even have time for them if we’re always having sex?’ Then there are the ones who start looking at me like I’m some savior, like I came into their lives to help them figure their shit out and help them deal with their issues. So then I find myself in the position of being a therapist, talking them through their problems and helping them process stuff.”

“You’re good at that.”

“Thanks.”

“Like when you helped me realize that I’m not actually a jerk, just opinionated. It really helped my confidence in my relationships.”

“Well that’s great, except why can’t I process my own crap?”

“I think it’s like that for most people.”

“Ugh.” Max stands up and walks over to his fridge. He pulls out a big jug of ice tea and drinks from it. I see the paint marks running along his hand and down his arm, disappearing into his tattered sleeve. “Want some?” He extends the jug to me.

“No thanks.”

He takes another swig and then places it back into the fridge. He sits down and exhales again. “So what’s this girl’s name?”

“Sarah,” I say with enthusiasm. I find that I’m becoming emotionally invested at Meredith’s attempts to be a matchmaker. There’s something about the idea of helping Max out of his cycle of unfulfilling relationships which is suddenly very motivating.

“Sarah,” he repeats, as if handling the name in his hands like one of his art projects, seeing how it feels.

---

“Well, like, a little of everything really. I dabble in a bunch of styles.” Max takes a long sip of his wine that’s more like a border-line gulp, and looks at us.

“Does it every throw you off?” asks Sarah, simultaneously forking a few pieces of penne and swirling them around in her bowl. I also got the penne, and I’m thinking that the sauce is really good.

“What do you mean?” Max is struggling with his burger, trying to keep a grip on the collapsing bun.

“Well, if you’re focused on so many different art forms all at the same time, doesn’t that prevent you from concentrating on any one of them? Really building up your skill in a particular style?”

Max looks at Sarah and then turns to Meredith and me with this thrown-off look, as if no one has ever thought to ask him this question before. He takes a bite of his burger and places it back on the plate.

“I don’t think so,” he says, mid-chew.

I wait for him to finish his thought, and there’s this awkward moment where we’re just watching him ground the food in his mouth so he can swallow it. But the follow-up never comes. Max just shakes his head and smiles.

“He really is a talented artist,” Meredith throws in. The placement of the complement feels all wrong. Meredith, once again, is trying too hard, and it’s uncomfortably obvious.

“Well, I’d like to see it sometime,” adds Sarah, and gives Max this look, like she’s really curious about him, like she wants to know what’s going on with this guy.

How does it happen, I wonder, that Max always gets this sort of attention from women? It must be the art thing, some underlying edginess mixed with his outward niceness, his charm, his floppy head of hair that falls onto his forehead and is always disheveled but in just the right, stylish, sort of way. I don’t know, maybe it’s none of those things at all. Whatever it is, women fall for Max. Always. It’s a rule.

I know, I know, why should I care? I’m here with Meredith, she’s my girlfriend, we’re in a relationship. But I still crave at least some sort of positive attention from women; that doesn’t go away just because you’re dating someone. And, besides, a part of me is just curious about why I fail to draw these sorts of looks. Maybe it’s because I lack the mystique, the confidence. Maybe I don’t have the right attitude. Maybe what I do is just not as cool as being this artist guy who always smells like a mixture of iced tea, Old Spice deodorant, and paint thinner.

Except, of course, Max doesn’t notice the way Sarah looks at him, or he acts like he doesn’t notice. He just swirls his tongue around in his mouth and then he sticks a finger in to unhinge something stuck at the back of his teeth. He takes another, more controlled sip from his glass of wine to try to wash it down.

“Yeah, for sure,” he says eventually. “That would be cool.”

Sarah smiles, but you can tell that it’s totally code for “yeah right.” She gets it. She’s not as oblivious as some of the other women I’ve seen interacting with Max.

There’s a pause in conversation during which I look down into my finished bowl of penne and wish that I hadn’t run through my meal so quickly.

“I’m going to run to the bathroom,” says Meredith, and begins to get up from the table.

“Oh, I’ll come with you,” adds Sarah, and stands up to join her.

The two head through the dining room and disappear behind a corner.

“I think she’s into you,” I say when I’m certain they’re out of earshot.

Max is silent and picks at his fries.

“And she’s hot,” I add, figuring I’ll appeal to Max’s visual sensibilities.

“Eh, she’s OK.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“She’s OK. Maybe a 7.”

“You’re crazy. She’s totally a 9.”

“No way is she a 9. In whose twisted world is she a 9?”

Max makes me second-guess my assessment.

“And what’s up with this double-date crap,” he continues.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning why is the whole family along for the ride?”

“Well, I think she told Meredith that she felt more comfortable meeting you in a setting with other people.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

Max sighs. “We’re grown-ups dude. Why couldn’t I just hang out with her one-on-one? I’m not a freaking serial killer.”

“Do you like her at least?”

“I don’t know, she’s sort of boring.”

“No she isn’t!”

“She’s an accountant.”

“So? Who cares? She’s into art and she’s smart. She’s pretty witty too. Seems like she’s comfortable with herself, has her shit together, which is way more than I can say about some of the other people you date.”

Max laughs. “If you like her so much maybe you should date her.”

I feel the blood rush to my face and I involuntarily reach for my cup of water.

“I’m just not feeling it,” continues Max as he picks at his fries. “I appreciate it, of course,” he adds, looking up at me and nodding, perhaps realizing that he is being a bit of a dick.

“Whatever,” I say, all frustrated, like I have some personal investment in his decision to be or not be into this Sarah girl. Even though Sarah isn’t even my friend and I only met her for the first time at dinner, it does feel like Max’s rejection of her is also a rejection of me. It’s a round-about conclusion to draw, I know that, but it’s there, and it’s bothering me more than anything else about this evening.

Just then I hear Meredith’s rather loud voice rising over the general mumble of in the restaurant, and I see her returning with Sarah. The two of them have a few more exchanges I don’t catch as they sit back down at the table. Sarah’s face is red, as if she has been laughing about something. She looks at Max as she settles down into her seat and, with a big smile still on her face, chuckles.

“What?” asks Max as he shoves a few fries into his mouth.

She looks down at her lap to try to quiet herself a little, then she looks back at him. “Oh, nothing.”

“OK,” he says with a smile of his own, and lets the moment pass.

---

I see Max a few days later. We meet up for coffee near his apartment and then head into Prospect Park. The weather is getting better, and we walk through the meadow, past sunbathers and Frisbee tossers. A group of people is having some sort of color war tournament that involves potato sack races, water balloon fighting, and tug-of-war feats of strength.

We’re silent for most of our walk, except when Max notices the occasional cute sunbather, which elicits a “wow” followed by a little elbow jab to my side and a head nod in the sunbather’s general direction. I offer up some “yeah”s in confirmation.

“So many women,” he says, and I can see that he’s all exasperated, eyes darting around frantically, a morose look spread across his face. He looks like a rat in a maze, anticipating the eerie electrical hum that precedes a shock.

“Maybe we should have gone to see a movie.”

“Nah man, this is good for the soul.” He places his hand on his heart and tries to make the moment much more solemn than it needs to.

“So nothing ever happened with Sarah?” I ask, even though I already know the answer. I helplessly pass my eyes over the people lying on the grass.

Max shrugs. “Not really. I didn’t call her after the dinner, if that’s what you’re asking.”

I nod and look at my feet. I feel bad for having played a role in putting Sarah in front of Max. It doesn’t make any sense to me, because I thought she was cool and way more interesting and attractive and smarter than other people I’ve known Max to have fallen in love with, but I guess this sort of thing isn’t about what makes sense.

“Don’t look so bummed out,” Max continues when he notices my sullenness. “Like I said at the restaurant, she just wasn’t my type. Don’t take it personally.”

“I’m not,” I lie.

“But the good news is that I met this other girl who’s awesome.”

I’ve heard him say this, I don’t know how many times now.

“Yeah? Who?”

“Some girl on my block actually. I’d seen her before – like at the coffee shop, at that bar on the corner I’ve taken you to a few times, even on the subway platform in the morning – but we never spoke. She was walking her dog the other day, and I didn’t even know she had a dog, so I just started talking with her and we hit it off.”

“You started the conversation with her by asking about the dog?”

“Yeah, I was like ‘oh you have a dog.’ That sort of thing. Mentioned that I had seen her around, but not in any creepy sort of way, just from noticing that she looked familiar based on all of those places where we happen to cross paths.”

“And?”

“And she’s really cool. Plus she loves my chicken and mushroom recipe,” he says and starts laughing. “Yes, I made her dinner. I’m sorry! I couldn’t help myself!”

Of course I can’t help but smile. “Whatever man, forget what I said before – it works for you.” Because really, who am I to try to change Max.

“That it does.”

“So what is it about her? Why are you all of a sudden so smitten?”

Max thinks about this for a moment. He takes another sip of his coffee. “It’s just this sense. You know what I mean. You meet someone and they affect you in some way and you realize that there’s something special in your connection. She’s cute and has a great laugh, awesome legs. She’s a fashion designer of some sort, but not for some lame, corporate label. Really cutting-edge stuff, using all of these biodegradable materials, being green whenever possible. A percentage of the proceeds go towards environmental awareness or something.”

“Nice.”

“Yeah dude. I think you’ll really like her when you meet her.”

If I meet her. I wonder if this is a cycle that just isn’t meant to end.

“And how’s Meredith?” he asks, his voice dropping down an octave to underline a heightened level of seriousness.

“Good,” I answer with a nod that surprises me with its vigor. “You know, the usual.”

“Is she still making you watch those awful reality shows?”

“That, my friend, has not changed.”

---

Later that night I’m watching the ice cream melt in the pint Meredith is holding. I tap my spoon against my leg as she laughs at something said by one of the characters in the show we’ve got on; I forget the name, of both the character and the show. Whatever it is, I miss it, I zone out for a moment. She likes it though, this show, the ridiculousness of these situations that they put the people in. This can’t be their real lives, I tell myself. At least I hope not. How can anything be real in a show where cameras are always following you around? Doesn’t behavior automatically change when you know you’re being watched? You’re more polite around your parents, more vulgar around your friends, more grounded and professional at work. So I have to imagine that you’d be something else completely if there was this lens that was always hovering around you.

“This guy is insane,” Meredith says to no one in particular as I stare at the ice cream.

My phone vibrates on the coffee table and I pick it up to check the message.

“I’m in love!” It says.

“Who is it?” Meredith asks when she notices that I’ve stopped pretending to pay attention to the show.

“Max,” I say.

“Max,” repeats Meredith, with a tone she reserves for disapproval. “And what does he have to say?”

“Apparently he’s really into this new girl.”

Meredith rolls her eyes and stares at the guy on the screen, the one with a lot of tattoos who seems to use every conceivable moment to take his shirt off.

“He’s never going to change,” she says.

Maybe she’s right, I tell myself.

The guy from the show, he points his finger menacingly at someone.

I frown and put my spoon down on the coffee table. I decide that I've had enough ice cream for the evening.