A Woman's Survival Guide to Difficult Men: If You Can Make Out Here…

Chapter 7: If You Can Make Out Here…

Photo by Pierre Blaché on Unsplash

“Sorry. They ran out of apartment units.” Katie, our sweet production coordinator, was delivering the bad news that while in New York I would be staying in a different building, all by myself, three blocks away from the rest of the production crew.

It was June of 2001, three weeks since returning from the disastrous Italy trip, and I was the sole American producer shipped to New York to work on a British documentary version of “Sex and the City.” The rest of the crew flew in from London. While they stayed in a nice complex with an elevator and doorman, I’d be housed in a four-floor walk-up. My studio apartment contained a closet full of misshapen wire hangers and a window air conditioner that groaned and clunked all night. At least it drowned out the sounds of sirens and traffic below. This would be my home for the next eleven weeks.

The prospect of working in New York scared the shit out of me. It wasn’t the work – it was the town. It’s not rational. Having pitched my tent in Australia and England on a whim and without hesitation, one would think New York presented the simplest path, yet I found it terrifying. Haunted by nightmares of getting lost, mugged or worse, these fears piggybacked on my already broken and battered heart. New York felt dangerous, dirty, confusing – and lonely.

The job started immediately following my sudden, bitter break-up back home. I cried myself to sleep at night thinking of Alex, alternately blaming myself, and then him. I replayed every moment of our relationship in my head until I finally drifted off, tears soaking my pillow.

It was work that finally saved me. Work took my mind off him by day.

Reality television was in its infancy at the time, and we still thought of ourselves as documentary producers. I had only an inkling of where the genre was heading at that point. I still loved factual entertainment and documentary programming. And the Brits did it best. As a devotee of “Sex and the City,” I was excited to work on a series about relationships, sex and love. I quickly learned, however, where “factual” and “entertainment” part ways.

Our working title, “New York Women,” gave the cast the false assurance that our intentions were more journalistic than voyeuristic. The original title intended for broadcast, “The Real Sex in the City,” seemed unlikely to attract the caliber of (sane) women we hoped to cast. It was a sleight of hand meant to put the women at ease. They still got drunk and cheated on their boyfriends on camera. One of the fourteen women we cast pleaded with me repeatedly to “make sure she didn’t look bad.” As I had no influence over the final edit, my best advice to her was, “Don’t do anything stupid, and you’ll be fine.” Later that night, we filmed her dancing drunk on a tabletop.

There is a saying that in New York living is hard and the water is soft. It’s the exact opposite in Los Angeles. Film production is also much easier. In L.A., I’d just throw my crap in the trunk and pull right up to location. On bigger commercial shoots, we had a motorhome to work from, air conditioned with a view of the ocean. On shoot days in New York, though, I schlepped tripods, gear and production files up three blocks to the subway, down the stairs, onto the train and then several blocks to the downtown office. Then I’d have to haul it up the rickety, unreliable elevator.

New York felt a lot like London to me, partly because I was surrounded by Brits at the office. I called the subway “The Tube” and became disoriented when people on the streets didn’t speak with an English accent.

Back at my new home on the Upper East Side, I learned from fellow neighbors that my apartment building was known as the “Melrose Place of the East Coast.” Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all. The ringleaders were two young bachelors named Mike and Jerry, who always managed to be hanging out on the front steps with their chick magnets – their dogs – no matter what time I came by.

I dubbed them the Cute One (Mike) and the Nice One (Jerry). They were both objectively good looking. Mike had just a touch more bad boy running through his veins.

Jerry was unemployed, taking a break before entering chef school in the fall and training for a triathlon, he said. Tall, well-groomed and usually dressed in athletic gear, Jerry was generally accompanied by his Dalmatian, who spent most of her days cooped up in his tiny apartment. I guess this might be OK if you think of his studio apartment as a giant dog crate. New Yorkers are obsessed with their dogs, which I find interesting because it is the least dog friendly city I’ve ever come across. Small apartments, no backyards. What do they do in winter? At least the smaller ones get outside, stuffed into giant pocketbooks like tiny mascots.

Mike was a medical supply salesman, he said. He made his own hours, which apparently didn’t involve regular working hours. I never saw him go to work. Despite his sandy blond hair and cute, boy-next-door looks, he gave off a sexy bad-boy vibe. What’s more, he never showed any interest in me. I found this an irresistible combination.

As I was acclimating to my New York job and still licking my relationship wounds, I wasn’t interested in relationships or men. But after a few weeks, I started to think maybe I needed a little diversion from my pain. Did people date in this town? As far as I could tell so far, they “hung out” or “hooked up.” The backdoor approach, which was fine with me and not too dissimilar to Los Angeles. Still crisp from my flameout with Alex, a light appetizer might be just what I needed.

I set my sights on landing one of the two cruise directors from my building. Jerry the Nice One, Mike the Cute One – whichever. No sooner had the thought crossed my mind, I ran smack into the boys on the front steps.

“Hey, we’re going for breakfast,” said Jerry. “Wanna come?”

I had just finished an early morning shoot. “Sure,” I said.

We crossed the street to a greasy spoon diner called Hank’s. A couple of neighbors from the building joined us. I told them I was working on “The Real Sex in the City” documentary series.

“Oh cool.”

“Actually,” I said, “we’re looking for a couple more British girls to feature since it’s airing in the U.K. Know anyone?”

“Not offhand,” said Mike, “but I’ll keep my eyes open.”

The rest of breakfast was filled with chit chat until everyone except for Mike had someplace to be – like work. “Want to hang out?” he asked.

I had to be back at the office by 11, but I agreed. We went to his place on the first floor, and he told me he was a new father. His ex-girlfriend believed she was infertile. She was wrong.

“It’s really changed my perspective on life, being a dad,” he said. I told him about my break-up with Alex and about life at home in L.A.

“Well, it’s 10:30,” I said. “Got to head downtown. We still need to cast a couple more girls for the show. British. Let me know if you think of anyone.” I grabbed my backpack and headed for the door.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked.

I stared at him. Then I looked at my watch.

The kiss was more delicious than I’d anticipated, and I let my lips linger as long as possible before reluctantly pulling myself away. He was smooth. Spelled trouble for sure. I liked it. Forty minutes later, I arrived at my office.

“You are not going to believe what just happened,” I said.

“At 10 in the morning?” Katie exclaimed.

“Yup. I snogged a total stranger this morning. Sober. In the light of day.”

Everyone nodded, impressed. I detected, for the first time, a twinge of jealousy by my office mates at the perks of my shitty apartment.

Heading out for an afternoon shoot, we followed our one British character, Sienna, to a hair salon where she received her weekly blowout. Sienna was a twenty-five-year-old banker for Barclays, tanned and quaffed as befit her posh London background, but also down-to-earth and approachable. Her hairstylist smoothed her thick, highlighted golden brown locks, as Sienna talked about her day job and how she found dating in NYC. Her fellow British friend, Piper, arrived to keep her company before they would head out on the town together. We captured their banter on camera.

“The strangest thing happened on the way here,” Piper told Sienna. “I got on the bus and realized I’d lost my MetroCard. So, the man behind me kindly swiped his card for me. We got chatting, and he told me that his friend was producing a show and looking for British women to include on the program. I told him I was on my way here right now!”

She looked into camera and we all laughed.

She pulled a business card from her purse, “Then he gave me his card and said, ‘I like your accent. I’d like to take you out some time.’”

I looked closer at the card and froze. Freaking Mike.

I’d been terrified of the big bad city and turns out it was a tiny, incestuous village.

The next night I was home alone, rearranging Kiehl’s samples in my bathroom and singing along to India Arie. My phone rang. It was Mike.

“I have a funny story to tell you!” he said.

“Me too. You go first.”

Mike told me the story of a British girl who boarded the bus without a MetroCard, so he swiped his card for her and then pitched our show only to find out she was heading to our shoot that very moment!

“And then,” I finished his story, “you gave her your business card and said you liked her accent and that you’d like to take her out sometime.”

Silence.

“Is that against the law?” he asked finally.

“I guess not. Just felt a little strange after we’d kissed only four hours earlier. Anyway, it’s a free country and this is New York,” I said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked.

I didn’t really know what I meant, but I was quickly getting the sense that this town was all about keeping your options open. I found it ironic that Los Angeles is known as the more shallow, fickle coastal city.

“Want to come over?” he asked.

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