When they finish the demo, Truly’s look says I’m in trouble, and she challenges, “Back-scratching?”
“I meant it in a friendly way.”
“Then please note I mean this in a friendly way: you make a terrible cheerleader. Your peanut gallery comments are the worst,” Truly says.
“It’s because I don’t have pom-poms,” I say.
Truly tries to rein in a laugh, and so does Presley. There. See. All is well.
When it’s my turn to demo with Truly, we work on grappling on the floor and I’m all business. A total pro all through class and as we finish.
And I valiantly resist catching a whiff of the delicious fresh air when we leave class, say goodbye to Presley, and visit another pub that night.
I am the master of this zone.
When Truly spins efficiently on her heel, regarding the surroundings and rattling off all the elements of the pub that work (dark wood, types of beers, tankards) and those that don’t (the TV is too close to the pool table, and when a match is on, you can’t hear your friends—plus, pubs are supposed to be warm, homey environments that enable conversations), I tell her I’m giving her an A-plus.
“You have mastered all things pub.”
“I’ll take my pub master badge, thank you very much. And I’m ready. I’m going to nail this presentation like a sixteen-year-old gymnast going for Olympic gold.”
“Or as Eddie the erstwhile best man would say, you’re going to nail it like a showgirl being banged behind a pinball machine.”
Truly arches a brow. “Hmm. That does sound like a promising way to bang, but I’ll stick with the gymnast analogy. Or how about this? Like a hammer on the head?”
“That’s a good one too.” I congratulate myself for resisting hammering innuendos, abstaining from nailing, and sidestepping all banging double entendres. Not even tempted, because they’d make me break out in hives due to my sudden onset fresh-air sensitivity. “And let me know how it goes tomorrow. I want a full report.”
“You’ll get one.” She takes a breath, seems to study my face. Her voice lowers to that tender volume that tries to hook into a part of me I don’t want hooked. “Jason?”
“Yes?”
“Thanks for everything. I feel ready . . . because of you. I appreciate everything you’ve done. And we have your final wedding this weekend. I hope this exchange has been helpful for you too.”
“It’s been great. And we’ll nail the wedding. Speaking of nailing it, how good are we at nailing this friend-zone thing?”
She smiles softly. “We’re the best. We’re definitely nailing the friend zone.”
“Like you wanted,” I say, a slight question in my voice that I immediately wish I could strip out. But maybe she won’t notice.
“And like you wanted as well.” She noticed, but so it goes.
I stuff my hands into my pockets, holding tightly to resistance. “Yeah. We both did. We both agreed it made sense.” I swallow my desire to kiss her, to thread a hand through her hair, to tell her I want to be so much more than friends. I shove all those nagging feelings aside, along with the wish to spend more time with her, to help each other on other projects, on every project, to be her support in business and life and vice versa.
After I put Truly in a Lyft home, I walk across town to my place, needing the city air, the fumes, the scent of garbage to erase all my unwise wants.
33
Once upon a time, I wrote a column on how a man can reinvent himself. Make changes to his mindset, his style, his attitude.
It remains one of my most popular for one reason. It’s a column about Kara’s Flowers. But it’s the name I gave to my philosophy of reinvention that really shines: Adam Levine-ing.
For the record, I do not listen to his music. I don’t even think I could live with the shame if anyone found Maroon 5 piping into my earbuds. And yet, Kara’s Flowers is the model for reinvention, and I say as much when Ryder has me back on his show that week.
“And what do we need to know about Kara’s Flowers?”
“Everything. It’s literally the model to follow if you feel like you want to make changes in your life. If you want a new career, a new approach to dating, whether you like men, women, or some combination thereof, look no further than a little pop band named Kara’s Flowers. They totally bombed in the mid-90s and were dropped by their label about a month after their first record. But you know what they did?”
“Tell us. Don’t hold back.”
“They took one of their guys and made him their front man. Changed their type of music and became a band that has sold more than twenty-seven million albums. Adam Levine is their lead singer.”
Ryder brings his fingers to his forehead, mimes an explosion, adding in the requisite sound effects. “I’d say they did just fine indeed with this reinvention trick.”
“Not too shabby, right? It’s a reminder, and frankly, an inspiration, even if you don’t like their music. Sometimes you need to shake things up. Rejigger who you are, how you present, and what type of music you make.”
“All right, let’s apply this to our audience. Let’s say one of our listeners wants a whole new career. How does he do it? How does he Adam Levine himself?”
“He does it step by step,” I say, detailing my tips for prioritizing, changing, and communicating. “And don’t forget one of the most important aspects of Adam Levine-ing.”
“Serve it up. Give us your best hot tip.”
“Dress better. That’s what I always tell the men of the world. I don’t know what’s happened to society and this whole wear basketball shorts for everything trend or the athletic wear is now street wear thing. Even jeans, for that matter, should be worn judiciously.”
Ryder stands in his chair, leaning over the soundboard, checking out my garb. “Guys, this man walks the walk. He’s wearing slacks.”
“Of course I am. Even if the listeners can’t see it, you need to dress well. No one was ever sent home early from work or school for dressing well. Do that, and it’ll help your cause.”
When the show is over, Ryder shakes my hand. “You’re killing it, man. Making me look too damn good.”
