A Woman's Survival Guide to Difficult Men: Got No Game

CHAPTER 16: Got No Game

Photo by Ricardo IV Tamayo on Unsplash

It was February 1997, and I filled two plates from the lunch buffet in the kitchen at the commercial production company where I worked. My job there as an assistant to a director represented a significant downward turn from having had my own assistant as a film executive only a year earlier at the age of twenty-five. But I didn’t want to do that anymore. I wanted to write.

I’d started here as a freelance treatment writer then got hired onto staff, complete with health insurance and 401K. It worked for now. For now turned into two and a half years.

“Pamela, call this girl. She sells cigars.” Allan, my boss, retrieved a bent business card from his pocket and slid it across the desk.

“OK... and tell her what?”

“Tell her to come to the office with her cigars.”

I blinked back, trying to understand what in the world Allan was talking about. He didn’t smoke cigars. This was not production related. His request didn’t make any sense.

“You want me to ask her to come to the office to sell cigars?”

Allan looked like a Dutch George Hamilton. Perpetually tan, full head of silver fox hair, in excellent shape for his forty-nine years. He worked out and ate a lot of filet mignon, which he liked me to cut into tiny bites for him as if he were a five-year-old.

Our professional relationship had evolved since I started working as his assistant two and a half years prior. We were never inappropriate (at least not sexually), but he was a difficult man. There’d been a hazing period. None of his previous assistants had lasted through it. When someone asked how I stayed with this arrogant pain-in-the-ass so long, I answered, “Well, you need to figure out how old a guy is on the inside and adjust your expectations. If you relate to him like he’s a forty-nine-year-old man, you’re going to get really frustrated. Because emotionally, he’s about eight. So I treat him like an eight-year-old and we get along great.” I try to remember this in my romantic relationships, but usually I forget (because: oxytocin).

One time, Allan threw a cup full of pencils across the office, one by one, as I ducked.

“There is not a single sharpened pencil in this cup!!” he yelled.

From the doorway where I’d escaped, I stared back at him until the tantrum ended.

Then he fell silent, waiting for me to, I don’t know, apologize, genuflect, cry?

Deadpan I asked, “Is it too early in the morning to run screaming from the building?”

Allan tried not to smile. I turned on my heel and walked away, pretending not to notice. He’s being ridiculous on purpose. High maintenance commercial director who makes $5,000/day just to show up.

“My Range Rover’s in the shop,” he told me three days before a holiday weekend.

“I need a rental for the weekend. But only a Range Rover.”

As it turned out, they were shooting a sequel to “Jurassic Park” at the time and every single Range Rover in Southern California had been rented for production. When I tried to explain this to Allan, his face contorted.

“But I want a Range Rover,” he whined like Veruca Salt, the spoiled rich kid from “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.” “Daddy, I want it now!” she demanded before getting sucked down the factory’s “bad nut” chute.

“I know,” I cooed to him like a deranged nanny. “I know you do. I’m sorry.”

I brought him possibilities: a Hummer, a Porsche.

“Look at it as a mini-vacation with a new luxury vehicle.”

“No. I want a Range Rover.”

This went on for six hours.

Finally exasperated, I said, “Look. I don’t care if you have a car this weekend or not. Pick one.”

So he did. As I reached into the file drawer to retrieve a copy of his driver’s license, he leaned over the desk.

“Hey Pam?”

“Yes?”

I looked up to see a mischievous smile on his face.

“I just wanted to see how far I could push you before you told me to fuck off.”

He giggled, proud of himself. I resisted the urge to slug him.

From then on, I met all his outrageous requests and high maintenance behavior with a countenance of a mother soothing a small child. I knew it embarrassed him. The jig was up. We developed a mutual respect. An understanding. I’ll do some ridiculous stuff for you, because that’s my job, but don’t push me.

Today’s request didn’t seem outlandish, just confusing. Invite some random girl to sell cigars at the office. But why?

I cocked my head at him trying to understand.

“Allan. Do you want to go out with her?”

“Well, yeah,” he said.

“Then why don’t you just call her up and ask her out? Why are we going through this whole rigmarole with the cigars?”

“Come on, Pam.”

“Allan, I’m not your pimp. You’re a rich, good-looking director. Just call her and ask her out.”

“Darling, please,” he leaned across the desk, his face twisted in desperation. “I’ll help you get laid any day of the week. Please just help me out with this.”

I laughed.

“Um, thanks, Allan, but I don’t need your help with that.”

Except, um, maybe I did.

Allan hardly ever came into the office, so I parlayed his space into my own, unofficial feature film development office, optioning books and hustling my personal projects alongside my daily responsibilities at the company.

They catered our lunch every day, a luxury meant to keep us from wasting several hours going out. A gilded cage of sorts. No complaints here. I piled my plate high with plan-overs (leftovers planned for ahead of time). Half this chicken parm and broccoli would serve as dinner later tonight.

I’d recently split up from my boyfriend of nearly three years and couldn’t figure out how to get back on the horse. It had been so long. I had no game. There’d been a few guys who seemed interested, but then… nothing. Frustrated and confused, I decided to drill down and get some answers, polling everyone in the office for advice. I was thinking about this as I shuffled along the lunch line, whistling to myself. My whole family hums and whistles nearly all the time. We don’t even know we’re doing it, until someone points it out.

“Don’t wee-sil indoors, Pam,” said Tatiana, the lunch lady in her thick Russian accent as I scooped food onto my plate.

“Ees bad luck.” I stopped and looked at her.

Tatiana’s whole job was to manage the kitchen at the production office. She was heavy set, with short, dark blond hair, mid-forties with a world-weary, Russian bossy streak. I watched her sponge marinara sauce off the kitchen counter and thought to myself, she seems like a woman of the world.

“Tatiana, can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“How does one flirt?”

She looked back at me blankly. “How do you mean?”

“I mean, how do you get a guy to know you’re interested in him?”

Tatiana didn’t blink before answering.

“Eye contact. You have to make eye contact with a boy.”

“Huh.”

Once she said it, I started noticing. When I was attracted to someone, I became self-conscious and averted my eyes. I thought it would pass as coy, shy, maybe even cute – until now. Because I didn’t hold eye contact, he thought I wasn’t interested.

OK, I told myself, the next time I’m attracted to a guy, I’m going to make direct eye contact and force myself not to look away no matter how uncomfortable it feels.

I returned to my office at the back of the building. The one I shared with my absentee director. Instead, our location scout, Simon, stationed himself at my boss’s desk next to mine. A sexy, bald renegade, Simon cracked irreverent jokes all day and – I think – flirted. Was he actually interested in me? There was only one way to find out.

Next time we spoke, I held his eyes with mine just a moment longer than necessary.

Ding! I actually heard this sound, like a register going off in his head and in mine. Simultaneously. His tone shifted. We started flirting for real and passing meaningful sidelong glances between us.

Then I found out he had a girlfriend.

Damn it.

It was too late. The energy was rolling faster than we could stop it. Their relationship is tumultuous, I told myself. Who knew if it would even last? After months of stirring the pot until not only could we feel the vibration between us but so could many of my officemates, we agreed to meet for a drink after work.

We sipped social lubricants at the bar of the Four Seasons Hotel down the street from our office. I have no idea what we talked about. It didn’t matter. It’s what we didn’t talk about that took up all the space in the conversation. I still wore my funky work get-up from the day, no idea that this moment would take place. Obviously. Otherwise, I would not be wearing overalls with a white wife-beater tank top at the bar of the Four Seasons Hotel. A scarf artfully tied around my neck, red clog sandals on my feet. Not exactly seduction wear. Who cared? We saw through clothing at this point, like a sort of X-ray vision, to the electric attraction pulsing beneath.

I excused myself to go to the ladies’ room, glancing back with mischievous eyes.

The door to the ladies’ room shut behind me. Then it abruptly opened up again. Simon followed on my heels straight back to the handicap stall, its own little room. The door reached from floor to ceiling, no gaps, sealing us off completely from the rest of the bathroom.

Before we could speak or even breathe, he hoisted me onto the sink, my legs wrapped around his and we kissed passionately, frantically peeling off layers of clothes. My overalls fell to the floor. Fingers, mouths, tangled limbs — everything happening at once, too fast to name, too good to stop. No thinking, just heat and urgency. Afterwards, we exchanged naughty smiles, laughing at the outrageousness of what we’d done. It was then that I realized the power of Tatiana’s seemingly innocuous lesson on the ancient art of flirting. Just be careful who you lock eyes with.

And now, all these years later, writing from my bed while my husband Dean is at work, my phone chirps. A text from Simon.

“Hi.”

We’ve been in touch over the years, even had an interlude the year I separated from my first husband, Jake. Before Dean.

Simon had been in Miami for a job and we met up at his hotel, like old times. Except it didn’t feel like old times. Our styles had changed. I’d expected a tender familiarity, which I desperately needed right then, my nerves frayed by my divorce. Simon was an old friend. It would be the perfect remedy for my stress, I thought. I remembered how steamy it had been between us. Except this time, it wasn’t. For me, anyway. The frantic version of coupling that I guess I found hot in my twenties – it wasn’t hot anymore. It felt… wrong. Nothing about the rendezvous felt kosher. He was now married to the woman he was dating back then. They have kids together.

I met Dean a few months later and cut off contact with Simon for seven years.

“Hi,” I answer his text message.

We’d been in touch recently, about six months ago when I was revisiting old flames for the book. I just discovered he’s been sleeping with a girlfriend of mine. Small world.

“I guess we’re sisters now,” I told her.

We all laughed about it.

My phone chirps again.

“Just came in off the range. Home for 6 days and heading out to scout Utah for a month on Monday.”

I wonder why he’s telling me this. He continues.

“See your IG posts and won’t comment. Think of you often and smile fondly. Deeply.”

Then he says:

“Delete this.”

“Why don’t you comment? Why am I deleting this?” I answer.

“I don’t want to stir anything up for you,” he replies. Considerate, actually.

We’d met up for tea recently. I explained why I hadn’t been in touch for so long. We aren’t just former lovers. At this point we are friends.

“Dean is jealous of my male friends. Doesn’t trust men in general,” I told him. “It’s just easier to avoid it. I’m sorry we fell out of touch.”

We’ve worked through his jealousy to a point. Dean tells me to keep my male friends and not worry about his reaction. His passive aggressive comments and behavior are so annoying, though, that I generally avoid the topic by avoiding my male friends. When I do chat or meet up with a friend who happens to be a man, like now contacting old lovers for the book, I tend to leave it out of my conversations with Dean. If he asked me directly, I would tell him. If not, I guess it’s a lie of omission. I think of it as sparing him unnecessary worry.

Sometimes I wonder if maybe he’s right to question their intentions.

Simon continues: “Know that wherever I am and whatever happens in my life… you have a very special place in my heart with love. I see your photos and smile. The Four Seasons is my favorite memory of all time. I can still feel every part of that moment — and how you tasted.”

“OK, delete,” I type back.

**This is a work of fiction loosely based on true events. Names and details have been changed.