It's Only Temporary: The Good News and the Bad News of Being Alive (18 page)

“Evan’s making the Big Gesture!” they shouted to each other. “Evan’s going to make the Big Gesture!” Somehow, with the endorsement of a past plotline of a hit show, as well as the enthusiasm of its female stars, flying myself unannounced to Sydney, Australia, to see the woman I’d fallen in love with two years earlier while engaged to someone else, but whom I didn’t sleep with or have a real relationship with until a year after that, and whom I hadn’t seen for a year and a half since, didn’t seem like such a lame brained idea. I’m embarrassed to admit it now, but I didn’t exactly light up at Elisa’s call.

“I don’t expect to be in New York again for the next six months,” I told her. And it was the truth. But when Elisa tells the story, this is the part where she says she told her friend Jennifer she’d never call me again.

Human beings will often take turns doing to others whatever might have most recently been done to them. I got my comeuppance from Abbey Leigh as if she were getting back at me not only for rejecting her, but for everything I’d ever done to all the other women I’ve been involved with. I flew myself to Sydney and surprised her, and got a warm welcome. She was touched by the gesture, and we spent six romantic days together. We said goodbye, and said we’d be in touch to talk and discuss. Then she didn’t respond to any of my Emails or phone messages for two months.

Back on native soil, I got an unexpected invitation to spend a weekend in New York visiting a
Sex and the City
colleague. She and I barely knew each other, but had spent one night together after the previous season’s wrap party. Since she also happened to live in a one-room apartment the understanding was I’d stay in a hotel and we’d play the visit out by ear. As a single man in my forties, these were the possibilities I’d become accustomed to pursuing.

I can’t really say I had high hopes that my work colleague and I would form a lasting connection, but I didn’t know her well enough to be sure. I flew back across the continent just to keep open the avenues of investigation. Of course, I was still the kind of guy who preferred having more than one avenue to investigate at a time, so I also called Elisa Atti to let her know I was coming back to town.

Elisa and I made plans to get together for a walk in Central Park. From the instant she walked into the lobby of the Royalton Hotel where I was staying, I was smitten in a way I hadn’t previously been. Elisa’s smile, spirit, and enthusiasm sizzled in the cooler-than-cool hotel lobby, and I felt just as much heat blasting off her once we’d stepped out into the warmth of the day. We talked about her work and our lives, we laughed at ourselves and each other and everyone we saw on the street. Since I’d spoken the word “Frappucccino,” we went hunting for a Starbucks before heading into the park. Elisa felt she needed to experience whatever kind of bastardized
Ito-American concoction that might prove to be.

We sat enraptured with each other on a park bench for two hours. We talked about families, jobs, and Elisa’s uncertainty over what English words were appropriate to speak during sex. What I most recall is that, in spite of no overlapping experiences or shared background, we seemed in nearly complete agreement on every issue, similarly inclined toward lifestyle choices, and like-minded in terms of taste. I also found her to be a more fully mature, self-sufficient person than any of the American women I’d known. Elisa was deeply engrossed in her scientific research, yet her interests outside of work ran toward the artistic, especially dance, cinema, and cuisine.  In opposition to most of the entertainment industry friends I had, Elisa seemed happy with her position in her field. I kept thinking to myself, My God, this is exactly the kind of woman I’ve wished I could find my whole life.

Elisa and I had arranged our get together in the most low-key, low-expectation, two-people-just-getting-to-know-each-other way. Since our afternoon together hadn’t been defined as a “date,” we also asked each other whether we were currently involved in relationships. I told Elisa I’d come to town to spend some time with someone I didn’t really yet know, and my heart sank when she told me she was dating a photographer.

“But I don’t think I’m going to marry him,” she said.

I wasn’t listening anymore. I was only wondering how to win over the woman I’d just met, whom I was already crazy about, but who’d just told me she was involved with someone else. When it was time for Elisa to meet Jennifer for a movie, I wandered off with no idea what, if anything, our meeting had meant to her. I’d made a ham-fisted bid for another get-together when she told me she was traveling to New Jersey the next day to have her hair cut.

“Well, then I’ll have to see you on Sunday before I fly back to Los Angeles. So I can tell you how it looks.”

Elisa just laughed, and walked away.

I went back to my hotel, phoned the woman I’d flown to New York to see, and told her I needed to call off whatever it was we had going on. I made a series of additional calls to friends, asking them how to most respectfully (and most successfully) pursue a woman who’s already got a boyfriend. My ex Liz, the
Sex and the City
writer, said, “That’s a tough one.” My
Sex and the City
co-star Dave broadcast his advice like a ringside announcer.

“Fight for her!” he said. Which I had no idea how to do.

Elisa and I spoke the next night. She called in frustration after trying to watch a defective tape of
Sex and the City
, a show she’d never seen. She again mentioned her plans for Sunday, which now included a Circle Line Sightseeing Cruise around Manhattan Island. Her parents, who’d never been to the United States, were coming for a visit in less than a week and Elisa wanted to see whether it would be something she thought they’d enjoy.

“I’ve never ridden the Circle Line, either,” I said. Then, before she could fend off my imposition, I repeated my desire to see her new haircut. Elisa laughed and agreed to meet me on Sunday to ride the boat around Manhattan together.

Our afternoon on the rivers felt as special as our afternoon in Central Park. We didn’t do anything other than what people falling in love in New York usually do. We ogled the city’s skyline, and mocked the annoying banter of the overly amplified tour guide. We speculated on the personalities of the tourists around us, and we traveled closer to the Statue of Liberty than we’d ever been. The most surprising aspect of the afternoon was that alongside my fascination I felt
familiarity
.

That’s an odd juxtaposition for a second meeting with a woman from another world. But all I wanted to do was pair up with Elisa. Because I
loved
her. Not in a crazy way. I was aware I didn’t know her, and that there was no deep attachment, earned over time. I “loved” her because “like” wasn’t a strong enough word to convey the level of my pleasure in her presence. I “loved” her as in a superlative adequate to communicate the level of enjoyment I got from proximity to her spirit. I loved the two afternoons I’d spent with her. I loved the conversations I’d had with her. I loved everything I’d discovered about her. I loved her simply for
being
her. That’s what my ex-fiancée Patricia had complained was missing in our relationship. Now that I’d tasted it, I couldn’t blame her for insisting upon it.

When it was time for us to part on Sixth Avenue near Houston Street I felt I couldn’t let the opportunity slip away. I was scheduled to fly back to Los Angeles early the next morning. I decided to go with my friend Dave’s advice and take a swing.

“Look,” I said. “I’m not in the habit of pursuing women who already have boyfriends. But I like you more than I’ve ever liked anyone before. If there was ever a time when you weren’t seeing someone, if you wanted me to, I’d come back to New York so I could spend some more time with you.”

Elisa took the first sentence well. She brightened as I assured her I didn’t chase other men’s girlfriends. But when I spoke the words “I like you more than I’ve ever liked anyone before,” her face blanched. It wasn’t a subtle occurrence. And she didn’t reciprocate. I believe the one word she spoke was, “Okay.”

I walked away not sure which of two things had gone wrong. Either I’d miscalculated her feelings, and I’d been the only one swimming in delirium over the past two days; or, I’d miscommunicated what I meant to say to someone who didn’t speak English as a first language. As soon as I was back in my hotel room I ripped open my laptop and put together an Email.

“Elisa,” I wrote. “I want to make a clarification. When I said I like you better than anyone I’ve ever met, I meant I’ve felt a stronger sense of attraction, and a stronger sense of being around someone who possesses the qualities I’ve wanted to be around, than I have before. I’m aware we barely know each other. I meant to say something strong, but I didn’t mean to say anything insane. ”

Then, thinking it was witty (and forgetting, again, that we didn’t share firm lingual common ground), I added, “So I’d like to take this opportunity to assure you that there are many women I’ve known for many years, who I’m close to already, who I like much more than you.” And I signed my name.

Elisa’s didn’t catch my tongue-in-cheek intent. I have to admit, my execution wasn’t ideal. My advice to those wooing women whose first languages don’t match their own is that, generally speaking, tongue-in-cheekiness doesn’t translate.

In spite of the misunderstanding, Elisa emailed me two days later to let me know she’d broken off her relationship and was no longer seeing anyone. I made plans to travel back to New York.

Elisa and I had our first “official” date four months after I complimented her stockings. When I dropped her off outside the subway on Fifth Avenue we kissed tentatively. It was the only night of my visit we didn’t spend together. And it was the last day I didn’t call Elisa my girlfriend, or something more.

We spent the rest of my ten-day stay seeing movies at the New York Film Festival, watching Al Pacino play Arturo Ui, eating out, and staying up until 3, 4, and 5 A.M. talking and making love. On the fifth day, immediately after Elisa had left our hotel suite to go to work, I knelt down on the carpet and gave thanks to God for allowing me to find her. I supposed, as I did it, I might have to reevaluate whether or not I believed in the entity I was giving thanks to. For the time being I was too happy to examine anything. I didn’t care what I believed. I just knew I had found what I wanted, and what I’d come to believe wasn’t ever going to be mine.

Elisa and I share a similar way of walking through the world. It’s as simple as that. We have an innate understanding of the other’s point of view. I suppose it comes down to respect. It’s not that I didn’t have it for the other women I’ve been with. Only that I didn’t realize how much deeper and more complete it could be.

That’s our story. I’m not sure it’s radically different from millions of others. Two people meet, feel an unprecedented level of attraction and affection for each other, discover their intuitions are correct, and fall madly in love (oh, and question everything they believe about life, love, relationships, and God along the way). But I’m also aware there are countless other millions who’ve not had the good fortune of finding a mate who gives them the depth of pleasure I’ve described. Not everyone does. I know, because for a couple of decades I was one of them.

But that’s just where the story begins, isn’t it? As comparable as the similarities in all relationships are, the divergences eventually multiply exponentially. But that’s not the question that was posed. It wasn’t “Where did you go from there?” or  “How are you guys doing today?” It was “How did you two meet?”

My wife, Elisa, and I have a good answer. Of course, the terror of every inquisitor, and the bane of every event where the question is asked, are the people who think they’ve got a good story when they really don’t. I think Elisa and I do.

Here’s a confession sure to make me unpopular: I got married not long ago, but I’m already finding it difficult to remain faithful. I haven’t abandoned the idea. It’s just proving a challenge.

I’m not very famous. The vast majority of Americans – hell, the vast majority of television viewers – would not know me by name. “Semi-recognizable” is about as high as my status rises. Nevertheless, as a result of a series of appearances on a few popular television programs, a wide assortment of people are now excited to meet me. Many of these people are women – the same women who would have turned away from me in disgust had I dared to engage them in conversation prior to my image being broadcast into their homes. Now they seek me out. They become shy and deferential in my presence.

One might think, being aware of these facts, I’d be less than enthused by their attention. The truth is the opposite. I find it thoroughly enjoyable.

My popularity emerged out of the ether on the night I went on my first date with Elisa. We walked twenty-five blocks to get to the theater where we were to see the Broadway production of
Frankie and Johnny in the Claire de Lune
starring Stanley Tucci and Edie Falco. The twist was that, since our first tentative meeting in Central Park a month earlier, my character on
Sex and the City
had made several additional appearances. As Elisa and I tried to make our way through Times Square to the theater, fans of the show started to besiege me with requests for photos and autographs. Those not within reach were calling out from all directions.

“Harry!” people were screaming. “Look! Look! It’s Harry! Hi, Harry!” This had never happened to me before.

I wondered whether or not we were going to make it to the theater on time. I wondered whether I was going to be forced to cultivate a reputation for being rude to my fans on my very first day of being famous in
order
to get to the theater on time. I also wondered whether my date thought this was what my life had been like on any day before this one. Finally, in spite of how smitten I was by Elisa, I wondered whether the moment when sexy young women were shouting to me was the best time to meet the person with whom I thought I might be able to really make a go of it. The first three musings answered themselves promptly and without significant incident. Number four required some more intensive introspection, and would come to symbolize the ironic theme of the next phase of my life.

Suddenly, on nights I’d find myself out unaccompanied by my wife, young women would initiate the most intimate conversations. These were women whose fathers could have been my age. That didn’t stop them from telling me about their sexual exploits, as well as those of their girlfriends. It didn’t stop them from telling me about the sexual exploits they’d had
with
their girlfriends.

“But you’re famous,” one twenty-two-year-old told me. “I’m sure you know how to find two girls who’d like to be with you together whenever you want.”

Apparently my life, to this point, has been misspent, because I know no such thing.

I’ve learned how to deal with the situation. I’ve learned how to avoid not only infidelity, but also any feelings of frustration in letting women pass me by. The solution to the problem is the opposite of what I’d thought it was before meeting my wife. Previously, I’d thought the answer was to avoid spending time with anyone I found myself attracted to. I’ve since learned that the answer is actually the opposite. Spend time with them. Talk to them. Almost invariably the results are that the women turn out to be people I wouldn’t want to alter my life for. Often it turns out they’re not people I’d even want to have a very long conversation with.

Problems arise with the exceptions to this rule. In those cases it’s best not only to turn and run, but to do or say something unforgivable before doing so. Something simple. Like letting a woman know I already have a wife, whom I love.

But it’s been a less common issue than I thought it would be. Because another thing I’ve noticed about the fickle creatures now drawn my way is that their interest in me is fleeting. No matter how thrilled they might be to have spotted me, or to get to photograph or to speak with me, it’s only a matter of minutes before the pheromones send everyone back where they belong. Apparently, the place these young women belong is back with the taller guys.

I owe my minor celebrity status to the circuitous casting of the role of Harry Goldenblatt (Charlotte’s divorce lawyer-turned-husband) on the HBO television show
Sex and the City
. After twenty-six consecutive years of living in Manhattan, I moved myself and my belongings to Santa Monica, California. Within days of my furniture arriving I got a call from a close friend who’d been newly hired as a staff writer for the show. She also happened to be an ex-girlfriend, but pretty much everyone who’s lived in Manhattan and worked in the entertainment industry for as long as I have is everyone else’s ex-something or other.

My ex-girlfriend told me she’d overheard a conversation between Sarah Jessica Parker and Cynthia Nixon, both of whom I’d known slightly over the years, in which they’d both agreed I would be a great choice for a new role being written into the show. I hung up the phone from that conversation very excited.

Then I heard about the casting breakdown being prepared for release to the talent agents in New York and Los Angeles. Harry Goldenblatt, the character who would be introduced as a love interest for the extremely particular Charlotte York, played by the ravishing Kristin Davis, was being described as “boorish, overbearing, and unattractive.”

“I never would have thought to recommend you,” my ex-girlfriend the writer assured me. “I didn’t think you were right for it.” Maybe she was trying to be kind. If so, the attempt was undercut when she told me she’d been pushing another actor for the role for weeks already.

Thus was established the egotistical existential dilemma that would define the next two years of my life. My actor ego and my personal vanity started to do battle and I wondered at which indignity (contained within this fantastic opportunity) I should take greater offense: that my ex-girlfriend had doubted my ability to outwit any other actors in playing any role at all, or the fact that Sarah Jessica Parker and Cynthia Nixon both thought me a suitable choice to play the ugly guy.

Once I was hired, the story lines over the first few episodes concerned Charlotte’s repulsion over Harry’s looks, his sweating proclivities, his table manners, his excessively hairy back
and
the subsequent rash that resulted from his agreeing to have it waxed. They were all given prominent screen exposure. That was before my naked ass was given prominent exposure in an episode about Harry’s tendency to sit on white upholstered furniture without any clothes on. My sole comfort at this point (other than the fact that I was working with great people on a truly funny hit show, of course) was that each script mentioned that Harry was the best lover Charlotte had ever had.

If it seems I’d gotten way too caught up in the confusion between a fictional character and me and my own behavior, don’t worry. These thoughts didn’t consume me. Though they were hard to ignore. When I walked down the street people would yell, “Hey, look, it’s the hairy back guy!” When I was introduced to a woman, she’d say, “I can’t believe I’m just meeting you and I’ve already seen your ass.” A companion would often whisper, in mock conspiratorial fashion, “Yeah, and he’s supposed to be really good in bed.”

It was hard to ignore the judgments and comparisons, since they were also being talked about in the press, which was brand-new to me. On
Regis and Kelly
, on
The View
, and on
Late Night with Conan O’Brien
. They all wanted me to comment on an article that had appeared in the
New York Daily News
around the time of my first appearance on the show. The article was about the men of
Sex and the City
, and it featured a small photograph of each of us. The newspaper claimed to have asked a panel of fifteen young women to rate the characters – the characters, mind you, not the men who played them – in terms of which one they’d most like to take to bed.

The good news is I didn’t come in last. I didn’t come in next to last, either. But I did come in sixth out of eight, finishing ahead of only Charlotte’s first husband, Trey, who couldn’t maintain an erection, and Samantha’s ex, Richard, whom she’d walked in on while his head was buried between the legs of another woman. So I did beat out two characters, but they were the characters who, according to the story lines, represented impotence and infidelity.

Over the course of the next year, perceptions about my character started to change. Most articles and news stories still referred to me as being something other than traditionally attractive. But they also started referring to me, amazingly enough, as a sex symbol. The term was always preceded by the word “unlikely,” though. “Unlikely” sex symbol. Still, compared to that
Daily News
article, I felt progress was being made. Now, when I made my way around New York, I got a constant stream of backhanded compliments.

“Did you lose
weight
?” I’d be asked. “You look so much
fatter
on the show. Look at him, Bill. He looks so much
fatter
on the show.”

Interesting to me was the fact that Bill, or Sam, or Simon, or whoever the husband happened to be, never responded. I don’t know if that was because they sympathized with me, or just didn’t give a damn about me, or the show, at all.

But men do watch the show. I know this because they started to approach me, too. And here’s where – though I’m a little sensitive about applying a cultural stereotype – a Semitic emphasis creeps in. I’d guess a solid 75 percent of the men who’ve stopped me to comment on the show have been Jewish.

“
Thank you
for what you’re doing on that show,” I’ve been told, over and over. “
Thank you
.”

I don’t know whether most of the thanks were offered because they thought it was a positive portrayal of a Jewish character, or if they were thrilled I’d defiled television’s ultimate rendition of another cultural stereotype: the shiksa goddess. I say I’m not sure about
most
of the thanks because many of the men made it perfectly clear which aspect of the program they took the most pleasure in. On more than one occasion I’ve been told, “You give it to her
good
!”

A lot of times I get asked about the similarities between me and the character of Harry Goldenblatt, or of the similarities between the four actresses and the characters they played. I’m sorry if it disappoints, but beyond saying that I’m genuinely fond of each of them, I don’t say anything about those ladies in public or in print. Because it’s treacherous.

I went on
Regis and Kelly
early on to help promote the show. I was asked how my new wife felt about the sex scenes I’d filmed with Kristin Davis. I said she was being a good sport about it. And she was. Then I added that she had a habit of calling me in my dressing room at the studio and saying, jokingly, in her lovely Italian accent, “Are you kissing that slut? Are you kissing her?”

It was all in good fun, and it got a good laugh. But it turned out Kristin Davis wasn’t so happy. I was told that if I go on television and tell a story where my wife refers to her as a slut, even jokingly, it was my responsibility to say, “But Kristin Davis isn’t a slut at all. She’s a lovely woman, and a hard-working actress.”

So, since I’ve told the story again: “Kristin Davis isn’t a slut at all. She’s a lovely woman, and a hard-working actress.”

I hope that takes care of that.

The question I get asked most now is how it
feels
to be famous. The most accurate description is one I rarely give, because it comes across as self-aggrandizing. But it feels like I’ve become a National Landmark, and that I have Superpowers.

I say National Landmark because people now stop and stare, or pull over and photograph, just the way they do when they get a glimpse of the Statue of Liberty or the Empire State Building. They point and call out to one another, as if I’m not human and can’t hear. “Look…look! Quick! Turn around! It’s the guy from
Sex and the City
!” And that happens everywhere I walk, wherever I go. It depends, of course, on the recognition factor that day – variables that range from the city or nation I’m in, the demographics of the crowd, even the temperature and barometric pressure. Sometimes I’m completely invisible, while other times it’s like being a boat skimming across the water, leaving a wake of pointing people behind.

The best aspect is perhaps the strangest. These glimpses make people
happy
. I mean, it makes them really,
really
happy. Just to have seen me. I offer these people nothing (other than politeness should they want to say hello or snap a photo). Yet the mere fact of my appearance excites them and improves their mood. If you can imagine what it would feel like to walk around in a city where you don’t know anyone and have dozens of strangers light up and become happier than they were the moment before just for having glimpsed you, then you should understand why I say it’s like having Superpowers. I can’t leap tall buildings in a single bound, but I’m not sure what other term to use to describe the phenomenon.

My surge in popularity came late, at forty-two. It was also abrupt, like a light switch being flipped. One second it was off, the next it was on. I’m aware of how randomly selected I was for it. I’m aware how unrelated it is to anything about
me
(other than that I happened to portray a character in a popular television show). Had I been younger, I would have thought I’d earned it. I’d have thought I was getting my due (actually, when I was younger I
did
think it was my due, I just felt it was being unjustly withheld). Now, I enjoy it for the novelty it is.

On days when I’m neither invisible nor creating commotion, when my recognition quotient resides at an in-between level, I get the second most commonly asked question.