Through the Grinder (21 page)

M
ATTEO
and I emerged from the subway at the 7 train’s last stop in Manhattan, Forty-second Street and Broadway.

We ascended the stairs to street level, pushed through the subway station’s doors, and hit the raucous Saturday night wall of Times Square crowds. Hundreds of bodies were jostling for space on the packed sidewalk. Matt guided me to a relatively sane spot near the doorway of an office building, and by the light of a million neon bulbs, he pulled out his PDA. A quick cellular connection got us the SinglesNYC web site and its FAQs got us the address of its main office and some bad news.

“The office is closed already,” said Matt. “And they’ll stay closed until Monday morning. No Sunday hours.”

“Let me see. Maybe if the site lists the proprietors’ names we can look up their home addresses in the phone listings. One of them might be listed publicly.”

I took the PDA and jumped around the site a little. “Bingo!”

“You get some names?”

“No. Even better. Look, a seminar is being held tonight.” I glanced at my watch. “It’s starting now. We have to get downtown. If we grab a cab, we can walk right in.”

“A seminar? What sort of seminar?” Matt called. I was already moving through the crowd and into the street, raising my right arm high.

“Some sort of dating guru seminar thing,” I yelled over my shoulder. “It’s held once a month at the big auditorium at the New School. Taxi!”

We caught a cab and drove down to the corner of the Avenue of the Americas and Twelfth Street, then walked half a block to the New School of Social Research at 66 West Twelfth.

As we talked over our final plans, we walked by a building under renovation. Matteo stopped dead in front of a shocking poster plastered to a plywood construction barricade.

The huge poster displayed an image of a woman’s naked torso, her breasts shaded by the discrete placement of an arm. Bold black lines had been drawn all over her flesh as if she were a cow, the lines delineating various cuts of meat—shoulder, loin, ribs, chops, shank, etc.

“Jesus, I hope this isn’t an advertisement for the dating seminar we’re going to,” said Matteo. “I heard it was a meat market out there, but I never took the term quite so literally.”

“Very funny.”

I glanced at the poster and saw it had nothing to do with the SinglesNYC site seminar. It was advertising a Meat No More charity lingerie show at the Puck Building later tonight. I shuddered, remembering Brooks Newman and his “genius” scheme as the new director of fundraising for that vegan group. It looked like he’d pulled it off.

I wasn’t sharing my recognition with Matt, however, because I wasn’t all that keen on conveying how Newman had turned our innocent little Cappuccino Night playgroup into a play
grope
.

“Let’s go,” I said.

The foyer to the New School’s main building was busy and brightly lit. I approached the information desk, where a bored student tried to study his notes despite constant interruptions.

“Excuse me,” I said. “I’m looking for—”

“SinglesNYC? End of the hall, turn right, and go to the tables for registration. Look for the ‘Pull the Plug’ sign.”

Did I look that desperate? Or was it simply assumed that every single woman in New York City was man-hungry and on the make?

The seminar was already underway, so there were no lines at the registration table. On a stand was a large placard that read
PULL THE PLUG
with a cartoon of a trendy couples kissing over a computer tossed into a garbage can.

“Are you a registered member of SinglesNYC? If you are, there’s a thirty percent discount to hear Trent and Granger,” said a perky young woman wearing muddy brown lipstick and a short matching dress with a neckline even lower than the one I’d worn for Bruce.

“No,” said Matteo. “We’re not registered members.”

“Yes, actually,” I admitted.

Matteo looked at me in stunned surprise. “You
have
been busy while I was away.”

I ignored Matteo and gave the woman my e-mail address and she cross-checked it on a laptop. I felt like grabbing the computer and fleeing into the night, certain that all the information I needed was imprinted inside of that little machine’s drive. But nothing in life is that easy, and I’d probably get caught halfway down the block with the heels I was wearing.

“Clare Cosi? Welcome to ‘Pull the Plug: Freeing Yourself from the Mouse,’” she said, handing me a brochure. “That will be forty dollars.”

I sighed.

Here I stood in the hallways of the New School, a haven for academics and literati since World War I, the 1930s East Coast nexus for intellectuals and scientists fleeing the Nazis. Within this school’s sphere, luminaries such as William Styron, Edward Albee, Robert Frost, Arthur Miller, and Joyce Carol Oates had taught or lectured, along with cranky, controversial iconoclasts like psychologist Wilhelm Reich and psychedelic guru Timothy Leary.

And what amazing lecture was I about to hear? “Trent” and “Granger” talking about how to pick up the opposite sex without the crutch of a Web site.

I paid cash.

Low-neckline Girl turned to Matteo and asked if he wanted to register as well. My ex didn’t answer immediately—the woman’s cleavage and full lips had momentarily distracted him.

Luckily, my elbow to his ribs solved this dilemma.

The auditorium was large enough for a thousand people, but less than two hundred were crowded together in the first ten or twelve rows, over two-thirds of them female. Almost all the audience members looked to be over thirty and under fifty.

As we found seats close to the stage, Matteo complained incessantly that he had to pay sixty dollars to gain admission.

“You could feed a Kenyan family for six months on sixty bucks.”

“Hush and you might learn something.”

He shot me a look that said “I doubt it,” but he shut up for the moment.

On stage was a tall man with dark, floppy, Hugh Grant hair and thin lips. He wore a tight black shirt, open at the neck, black slacks, and a charcoal gray Italian silk jacket. He moved with confidence, and as he spoke he drifted back and forth across the stage, addressing audience members as if they were the focus of his lecture.

“So far we’ve covered the rules of engagement and how important they are,” he said into a microphone. “And how those vitally important rules get trashed in most on-line hook-ups. Now we all remember rule number one, right?”

The man next to him—shorter and a little stout, with tiny dark-rimmed glasses and a round face—hit the button on his power pointer and a phrase appeared on a large blank screen behind them. On cue, the audience read along like it was karaoke night.

“Not all of the Creator’s children are beautiful,” the audience chanted.

“And rule number two?” Matteo whispered. “These guys are total grifters.”

“So how do you know if they’re hot or not,” continued the man on stage, “if you don’t meet them in the flesh? Is she a Monica or a Hillary? Is he Prince Andrew or Homer Simpson? The dirty little secret is that you’ll never know if you meet them in a chat room. But you
will
know if you meet them
in the flesh
.”

He emphasized the last words with what he thought was an erotic thrust of his pelvis—but this guy was no Elvis. Beside me, Matteo let out a disgusted sigh.

“That’s why I’m here. My name’s Trent. And this money dude right next to me is Granger. Granger and I have sacrificed our Saturday night to provide you with a guaranteed map through the minefield of real-time, face-to-face hook-ups.”

Trent stepped closer to the edge of the stage and lowered his voice an octave.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we call it dating without the Net—it’s real, it’s risky, but the rewards are well worth the hassles. I’m asking you to try, at least for a little while, pulling the plug on that computer. Douse that mouse. Be the player with all the right cards in your hand and you’ll come up a winner every time—and find a better love life than you ever dreamed possible.”

“I can’t believe this,” Matteo complained in my ear. “They’re teaching supposedly urbane, sophisticated, well-educated New Yorkers how to hook up with the opposite sex? Some of us figured that one out in high school.”

“You figured it out in the sixth grade,” I whispered.

Matteo frowned. “I told you about Maggie?”

A thirty-something woman in the row in front of us turned, and I’m pretty sure she intended to shush us. But when she laid eyes on my ex, her resolve seemed to weaken—as well as her knees. She glanced flirtatiously at Matt, then gave me a nasty look.

“He’s all yours, honey,” I murmured.

Matt glanced at me, and we both laughed.

“In the next hour, we’re going to look at the right places to find a perfect match,” purred Trent. “It’s like The Donald says—location, location, location—and you’d be amazed at how many people get it wrong.

“Are you looking for a disco diva? Don’t try to score at the Natural History Museum. Got a clandestine office romance going? Don’t take her to the boss’s country club for dinner. Looking for hot, delicious, no-commitment sex? Don’t cruise church groups! Remember rule number seven.”

Granger activated the power pointer and the audience chanted along.

“When looking for a love location,
destination is destiny
.”

“I’m going to puke,” Matteo groaned in my ear.

“Just don’t do it on me,” I warned him.

“We’re going to take a twenty-minute break before part two of this seminar begins,” Trent announced. “Don’t forget to take a brochure, and I suggest all you latecomers chat up a few of the early birds to catch up on what you missed—and you might even make a connection…”

The stage went dark and the audience rose and stretched, murmuring among themselves.

“Let’s go,” said Matt, grabbing my hand. He practically dragged me down the aisle, rudely pushing his way through the crowd as we moved against the flow of traffic. I apologized to the folks my ex shoved aside, until the way to the stage was finally clear.

“Matt, what’s gotten into you?”

Matteo’s face was set in harsh lines as he surged forward.

“Quiet,” he said. “Just getting into character.”

One of the stage hands moved to block our path, but he was just a slender college kid with a backward baseball cap. Matteo pushed right past him and charged onto the stage. Trent and Granger were sitting there, fiddling with the power pointer. Matt walked right up to them and roared in a suitably angry and combative voice.

“My underage daughter registered with your site and has dated a number of middle-aged men. Some of her friends did the same thing. She’s just a teenager! She’s in junior high for God’s sake! I want to know the names of the men she and her friends have gone out with or I’m going to the police.”

Granger shrank back fearfully as Matteo’s tanned and muscular form stood over him, fists clenched, a vein throbbing in his temple.

Trent, on the other hand, remained cool. I watched him glance out at the auditorium, where heads turned and necks craned to hear more.

Frankly, I had to hand it to Trent. Matteo was always a pretty intimidating presence, but when he was angry, he was a force of nature—a lot of men would have become sniveling idiots in the face of Matt’s fury, calling for security or running. But Trent didn’t.

He faced Matteo and, with a forced smile, gamely tried to handle him, and the situation, professionally. “Listen, calm down, Mr.—?”

“Allegro.”

“Mr. Allegro, this isn’t the time or place. Come to my office Monday and—”

“My daughter and her friends are out on dates right now. By Monday I’ll have you arrested for facilitating the corruption of a minor!” yelled Matteo.

More heads turned. People who had started wandering toward the auditorium’s exit doors for a smoke or restroom break suddenly decided to loiter in the aisle, eavesdropping.

“Come with me,” said Trent, leading Matteo and me to a small waiting room behind the stage. On his way out, Trent ordered Granger to fetch one of the laptops from the registration desk.

Pay dirt!

We sat down in steel folding chairs while Trent apologized repeatedly.

“We’ve never had this happen before,” he said. “We’re proud of our screening process and will cooperate with you and your wife in any way we can.”

Granger arrived with Low-neckline Girl in tow. She carried the black laptop like a serving tray. I tried not to remember Torquemada’s offerings.

“Our entire database can be accessed by this wireless remote system,” Trent began. He keyed in a password and looked up at Matteo.

“So what do you need to know?”

Matt gestured to me. “My wife will tell you.”

“Let’s start with my daughter’s best friend, Valerie Lathem,” I lied. “She was sharing names with my daughter, we understand.”

Trent typed in Valerie’s name.

“This account isn’t very active. Valerie hasn’t visited our site since October. She made a total of six dates through our registry.”

“Who?” I’d already pulled out a small notepad and had my pencil poised.

“Jack Wormser, Parnell Jefferson, Raymond Silverman, Dr. Anthony Fazio, Julio Jones, and Brooks Newman.”

Brooks Newman?
I thought. That was interesting.

“Nobody named Bowman?” Matteo asked.

Trent shook his head.

Of course, Bruce wasn’t going to be there—I knew that. Valerie had met Bruce through her job, not through this site.

“Our daughter’s other friend is Inga Berg,” I quickly continued.

Trent’s fingers flew across the keyboard.

“Ms. Berg has been busy…very busy. There are dozens of dates here since August.” He looked up at Matt. “Here’s the name you mentioned, though: Bowman. Bruce Bowman of Leroy Street in the Village. He definitely dated Inga.”

“We’re looking for the names of the men she last—uh, most recently dated,” I said. “The last two weeks you have on file for her should do.”