Through The Grinder

Six

Almost time.

The air was crisp tonight, polluted with the occasional acrid fumes from the historic district’s wood-burning fireplaces, but there was little wind off the nearby river, and the Genius found tonight’s mission almost tolerable.

For one thing, the sorry parade of single men and women brought the Genius a mild degree of amusement.

Saturday night in the Village was always loud and crowded, but each Single seemed to file down this dark street in a particularly pathetic way. There was something pensive and a little desperate about them as they negotiated the clutching couples and raucous revelers. Hands in pockets, eyes cast down.

Standing in the shadowy recesses of an alley across the busy street, the Genius found the perfect vantage from which to watch them file past the faux gas lamp and trudge into the coffeehouse.

Through the Blend’s tall, brightly lit windows, the Genius studied them as they bumped and squeezed their way around the crowded tables, then adjusted their clothing before climbing up the wrought iron spiral staircase to arrive on the second floor, their false courage now in place — hands out of pockets, eyes lifted up, plastic smiles applied like last-minute lipstick.

There was a bald guy in his fifties with a slight limp.

Two women in their thirties, laughing a little too hard.

An over-dressed fortyish man with enough grease in his hair to qualify as a Mafia don.

A brunette with tight clothing and too much makeup.

A geeky twentysomething.

A geeky thirtysomething.

Three Goth girls.

A forty-plus woman with spike-heeled boots and a trendy leather coat meant for someone twenty years younger.

And they just kept coming…

This Cappuccino Connection thing certainly brought out the losers. Oh, there were a few somewhat attractive women in the mix, but nothing special.

The Genius was actually surprised it had come to this for him.

But SinglesNYC.com really had become a bust.

The last match had taken place at a nearby restaurant. She’d been too old for his taste, which might not have mattered, but there was no chemistry. Nothing about the woman seemed to turn him on. She’d been a bore.

As usual, the SinglesNYC profile didn’t match the reality. Everything from her photo to her occupation had seemed better in the on-line profile than it had been in person. A big yawn for him.

The Genius hadn’t been all that surprised. The only question had been, “What next?”

Cruising more SinglesNYC profiles was an option. Giving up was an option, too. But then, of course, so was this…

The Genius emerged from the shadows and crossed the street, heading into the Blend.

“Ah, well,” murmured the Genius, “at least I’ll get an excellent cappuccino out of the evening.”

“Clare, I have one word for you,” whispered Tucker as he offered me a French café cup of cappuccino from his half-empty cork-bottomed tray.

Cradling the heat in my cold hands, I sipped at the warm froth, then peered over the cup’s rim, apprehensively taking in the crowd of milling bodies filling up the Blend’s second floor.

“One word?” I asked Tucker.

“Tadpoling.”

“Excuse me?”

“That’s what they call it when an older woman dates a younger guy.”

“Tadpoling. Right. I see. Thanks for clearing that up, Tuck. And I thought you were having a bayou flashback.”

“No, seriously, sweetie. I know you probably wouldn’t look twice at a guy who was like ten or twelve years younger than you.”

“Tucker…”

“But tadpoling is the hottest trend around.”

“Older women and younger men?” I asked. “In what universe?”

“Uh, honey, don’t you know? It’s totally all that. Demi Moore and Ashton Kutcher? Hugh Jackman and his wife? Cher, Madonna…the list just goes on and on. Don’t you remember that movie with Diane Keaton and Jack Nicholson — the one where cutie Keanu Reeves has the hots for post-menopausal Diane? You know she even got an Oscar nomination for that role.”

“Hollywood, Tucker. All of your examples are Hollywood. I’m sure if I were a millionaire movie star with houses in the Hamptons and Malibu, tadpoling would be a lovely option to consider, but this is the real world.”

“My point exactly! The real world does nothing but obsess over Hollywood — trends trickle down, Clare, remember that. Trends trickle.”

“Everyone! It’s time to get started!” called Nan Tulley, our Cappuccino Connection hostess.

Although these sessions were nondenominational, even advertised in New York magazine’s Personals, these evenings were actually part of the fundraising and outreach committee work for Grace Church over on Tenth and Broadway (one of the most magnificent examples of Gothic Revival architecture in the country, with lacelike stonework and gorgeous stained glass. New Yorkers always gape when they pass it, but few realize it was built in 1845 by the same architect who would later erect the monumental uptown landmark St. Patrick’s Cathedral.).

“Come, everyone! Gather ’round…” Nan called again, clapping her hands.

Nan’s regular job was managing the Wee Ones daycare center on Twelfth, which might have explained why I couldn’t shake the impression I’d just entered an elaborate playgroup.

“Shoo, Tucker,” I whispered. “I’m not really here to meet anyone anyway. You know that.”

“If you say so, sweetie.”

With an annoying roll of his eyes, Tucker was off to serve more caps to the crowd.

I moseyed over toward Nan, trying to keep my distance from my daughter, Joy, as I’d promised.

Right after my date with Brooks Newman two days ago, I’d phoned Joy and made her promise to quit the SinglesNYC on-line dating site. She agreed to try the tamer (a.k.a. “dud”) sites that Brooks had scrawled on the back of his business card for me, but Joy also informed me that she’d decided to sign up for the Blend’s Cappuccino Connection night.

I let it go for about twenty-four hours. Then I signed up, too.

Joy was furious.

“Mom, I can’t believe you’re doing this!” she’d said when I told her.

“It’s got nothing to do with you,” I lied. “They’ve been meeting in my coffeehouse two times a month for how long now — and all I’ve ever done is send my part-timers upstairs with trays of cappuccinos. It’s about time I saw for myself how the whole thing works, don’t you think?”

Joy really didn’t buy it, but I promised her I wouldn’t interfere with her participation — and she finally said that maybe it would be good for me after all.

My daughter was still under the delusion that I needed to discover that no man out there could hold a candle to her dad, an admittedly larger-than-life type, who, despite his inability to remain monogamous, had loved Joy unconditionally and with all his heart — and therefore could do no wrong in Joy’s eyes. As exasperating as it was for me, I saw no reason to rob the girl of her love for the man, even though there were still times Matteo could make me angry enough to fantasize about pouring a few steaming hot Speed Balls down his pants.

Nan clapped a final time in a way that made me feel like I’d have to raise my hand before using the little girls’ room.

“Quiet now, quiet! Okay, good! Now, I want you all to put your Listening Caps on. The first rule of connection night is that everyone must make at least three connections. Even if you think you’ve only met one person with whom you have chemistry, you must make dates with three people. This rule ensures that many of you will have more than one chance to connect! Isn’t that great!”

Nan had the sort of enthusiastic voice I imagined worked very well on a dozen sugared-up four year olds. This crowd, however, seemed less than receptive. They murmured warily.

“Now, now, I know what you’re all thinking!” Nan continued. “Why? Why do I need to ask people out with whom I don’t necessarily feel a strong connection? Well, I’ll tell you why: many happily married couples have had bad first meetings — and many fantastic first meetings have ended in bitter splits. You can never tell what may happen if you just give a person a chance to grow on you!”

“Like fungus?” some joker called.

“Hostility will get you nowhere,” snapped Nan. “Remember, a bad first impression can still lead you to the right person…maybe not the perfect one, but the right one…”

I was dying to look around a little more, check out the people who’d gathered, but I didn’t want Joy to think I was spying on her. The room was packed, too, which made it hard to see the entire field very clearly, anyway. So I just sipped my cappuccino and kept my eyes on Nan.

“Now, let’s get started!”

The second floor of the Blend was quite roomy, with marble-topped tables and chairs as well as an eclectic mix of mismatched furniture. Overstuffed chairs and French flea market sofas, along with floor and table lamps, gave customers the feeling of relaxing in a bohemian living room. (With so many Village apartments being nothing more than tiny cramped studios and one bedrooms, it literally was that for many.) And tonight it was romantically lit with a roaring fire in the brick hearth at the front of the room.

To start what was termed the “Power Meet” session, our chipper hostess told us she was going to position all the women around the room at different tables and seating areas. She would then select men at random and pair them with the various women.

But before Nan began seating us, I noticed her having a little side discussion with Tucker. It looked rather tense. I motioned him over.

“Everything all right?” I asked while Nan got busy seating the women around the room.

“Nan’s upset,” he whispered. “You’re not going to believe this, but your group is actually short a woman — someone cancelled without calling.”

“She just figured this out?”

“Yes, and she asked me to find someone downstairs who’d be interested in trying the Power Meet for free tonight.”

The usual fee was forty dollars per participant, which included your three cappuccinos. It worked well for the Blend — since the cappuccinos were pre-purchased by the church group, we were guaranteed to move one hundred and twenty drinks right off the bat, and often couples would descend the stairs and hang out for another hour on the first floor, talking and purchasing even more coffees. All in all, the singles sessions were a boon for the Blend.

“Got any ideas?” I asked him.

Tucker shook his head. “I’ll make the rounds. Latitia’s down there, but she’s already on a date with a guy from the symphony. Kira Kirk’s doing a crossword, but that woman acts like she hates all men. Martha Buck is at a table editing a manuscript, but I think she’s meeting someone. And Winnie Winslet stopped in, but she’s already said this isn’t her style.”

I thought a minute. “What about Inga?”

Tucker paled a little. “You mean Inga Berg?”

“I do indeed. Maybe shop and drop Inga will actually meet someone here worth holding onto.”

“Clare, Inga’s dead.”

“Dead!”

I’d said it a little too loudly. A few heads turned.

“Dead?” I whispered. “How? When?”

“Suicide. She jumped from the top of her building last Thursday night. I just heard about it from a Voice journalist doing a piece on it. The police kept the lid pretty tight on what happened at first, and she was so new to her building that the tenants weren’t even sure of her name — ”

“Which is why we didn’t hear any rumors until now,” I guessed.

“It’s a terrible shame,” said Tucker. “But I better get going. Nan’s coming our way.”

My head was still spinning after Tucker left and Nan guided me to an armchair by the brick fireplace.

Inga Berg and Valerie Lathem. Both Blend customers. Both attractive young women. Both seemingly had everything to live for — yet both had committed suicide within weeks of each other.

Coincidence?

I’d once heard Mike Quinn say, “In my business, there are no coincidences.” And thinking of Quinn made me remember he’d been called to a crime scene the night of our dinner — and the night of our dinner was the night Inga had killed herself.

As Nan passed out small Hello Kitty notepads and pencils to everyone, I wondered if that was the reason I hadn’t seen Mike. Had he been assigned to investigate Inga’s suicide?

By the time Nan was done, Tucker had reappeared with the twentieth woman, Kira Kirk. She seemed a bit apprehensive, still clutching her crossword puzzle book. As usual, her hair was in its long gray braid, but she’d probably stopped in after a consulting appointment because she was dressed much nicer than usual — in a tailored black pantsuit rather than her usual oversized sweaters and jeans. And she was wearing makeup, too. She looked quite pretty, actually, and I was glad to see her up here.

My eyebrows rose at Tucker and he just shrugged. As Nan took Kira to a seat across the room, I motioned him over again.

“How did you manage to persuade her?” I whispered.

“Free, unlimited cappuccinos for two weeks, that’s how.”

“You’ll have five minutes to get to know each other,” announced Nan. With the women already seated, she quickly paired the men and women randomly. “When you hear the timer, shake hands and the gentlemen must then move one seat to the right. You then have a new five minutes to get to know the next person. There are twenty men and twenty women in this room, which means this session will last two hours. You’ll have fresh cappuccinos delivered to you during the course of the night; and don’t worry, we’ll take a few breaks so you can visit the little girls’ and little boys’ rooms!”

I just knew I wouldn’t get through this night without hearing Nan’s rules for the little girls’ and boys’ rooms.

“Okay, remember, five minutes!” cried Nan excitedly, setting the dial on an old-fashioned kitchen timer. “On your marks, get set, go!”