Valentine’s Day, 1991

You are not listening to me.  If a guy so much as talks to me, I’ll bite his head off.  Or worse.

The day after my college boyfriend dumped me, back in New York and depleted from non-stop tears, I had called my friend to pour out my woes.

Rather than indulging my heartbreak, however, my friend urged me to come to a Valentine’s Day party the following night.

Nothing sounded worse than a Valentine’s Day party, drowning in happy couples who liked each other.

Minutes later, my phone rang again. 

Now you have to come to the party, my friend chortled.  I got you a date.

You need your ears checked, I said, speaking slowly for emphasis.  I do not like men right now.

You’ll like this one, he maintained, nonplussed.

No, I won’t.

Oh, I think you’ll like him.

Finally:  Who is it?

John.  Kennedy.

(Long pause.)

Okay.  Maybe I can pull myself together.

There I sat, on my extra-long twin bed in my one-bedroom fifth floor walk-up apartment, my back against the exposed brick wall, jet-lagged brain and tear-swollen eyes, wondering just what one wears to a Valentine’s Day pajama party on a blind date with John F. Kennedy, Jr.  

Although when I moved to New York my mom had flippantly suggested that I should date John, who, she helpfully pointed out, was age-appropriate and lived in the same city, I had never been all that fascinated by the Kennedys.  So, when John walked into the Mexican dive with the fake-thatched margarita bar in front and vinyl mismatched floral tablecloths in the back where my friends and I sat waiting for him, it was, in fact, a real blind date.  Yet somehow John was recognizable even to someone like me who thought she didn’t know what he looked like:  wavy dark hair, well-defined lips and jawline, long eyelashes, warm brown eyes, and standing just a fraction taller than I did, if he stood up very straight. 

John said, hello, I’m John, in a throaty voice, a voice I can still hear in my ears today.

Luckily it was a double-date, as I felt shy and nervous, in my black leotard and startlingly fuchsia silk kimono, the brilliant ensemble I had concocted for the pajama party.

I wasn’t the only nervous person in the room.  Upon recognizing her patron, the waitress became dumbstruck, forgetting salsa, dropping forks, and spilling water.  One by one the entire staff stopped by our table to make sure everything was okay, including the owner of the restaurant and her husband, for whom, as we left, John unenthusiastically but politely scribbled a requested autograph.

We stopped at John’s apartment to pick up his puppy dog slippers, as he’d forgotten about the pajama part of the party, and then he drove his Thunderbird terrifyingly fast, zigzagging through the unpredictable Manhattan traffic, to the party.  He drove as if he weren’t subject to the same laws of mortality as the rest of us.

The party, at a bar on the Upper West Side, was crowded and loud, and John was immediately engulfed by dozens of women, like bees swarming a hive but glossier, prettier, and with much larger breasts.  When I came out of the restroom, he was encircled by yet more rings of lingerie-clad women buzzing for his attention.  Looking at him from across the room, I had a stark vision of what it would be like to date someone like him.

It must have been after midnight when we walked out of the bar and headed west.  Somehow, we found ourselves at the Riverside yacht harbor, on the west side of Manhattan at about 81st street.  Maybe it was the margaritas or maybe it was that John was a surprisingly normal person, but I was finding it easier to talk by now.  I wasn’t all that attracted to him—he was shorter and less muscular than my ex and he seemed a little spoiled, but it turned out that he was very easy to talk to. 

John was bemused to find out that I’d crashed his thirtieth birthday party the previous November.  I’d been among the posse of women brought by a mutual friend who showed up everywhere with an entourage.  The party had been at a large, dark, open loft in midtown, with hardwood floors, tall windows, a bar at one end and a stage for the band at the other. I hadn’t seen John at his party so much as realize he had arrived when all of the energy in the room swooshed toward the newest arrivals just as I headed for the stairs, hurrying home to finish an essay due the following morning at Columbia. 

That February the breeze was cold and the air brisk.  We jogged and swung our arms to stay warm, condensation on our breath, and at one point we chased each other, laughing, through the park by the river, seeing who was faster. 

When we paused at the marina to catch our breath, John’s attention was caught by an elegant wooden yacht with brass fittings, the “John F. Kennedy,” moored to the dock. 

John’s eyes shone as we leaned over the railing and peered inside the vessel, all polished wood, brass, and glass, which for him must have been like looking through a mirror into his past.

That was the presidential yacht, he told me, awe in his voice.  I remember being on it with my father.

It was almost four in the morning when John pulled up his Thunderbird to my apartment, which was in one of many five-story buildings lining both sides of 103^rd Street in Manhattan Valley, by day a lively neighborhood of crack peddlers and Dominicans; quiet in the early morning hours.

You live here? he asked.

It’s where I can afford my own place, I explained.

I was certain I wasn’t going to hear from him again.  I knew you could tell if a guy liked you if he asked for your phone number, and John had neither asked for mine nor made any suggestion about getting together again. 

And yet, I liked him.  Even assuming I would probably never see him again, I wanted to show him how I felt.  So, after he stopped his car outside my building—not getting out to walk me to the door, despite the neighborhood—I asked, shyly, can I give you a hug?

He gave his very cute smirk and said, sure. 

I hugged him awkwardly across the console, and he hugged me back.  He felt, and smelled, good. 

Then I extricated myself from the car, unlocked the heavy door to the building, and through the perennial odor of old dust, cooked onions, flat beer, soaking beans, and mouse, climbed the five flights of stairs to my apartment, where I leaned against the wall and screamed silently to myself, “oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!” 

I was depleted.  For the first part of the evening, I’d been reserved and tongue-tied, observing more than engaging with John and our mutual friends.  I’d been too busy trying to act normal to think about or miss my ex-boyfriend. 

And then I had started to relax and enjoy John’s company, and that was complicated, too.

Whatever the confusion in my head, it was only by wedging my back against pillows pushed to the wall, imagining my old boyfriend was holding me, that I could sleep.  In the stillness of the night, I could feel my heart, raw and broken.