The story so far: Johnny Downs—part-time bartender by day, part-time actor by night—shares a bachelor apartment in downtown Manhattan with his moody and demanding cat, Slinky. After being betrayed and punted downfield by his latest girlfriend, a junior ad exec named Nicole, Downs enlists the support of his no-nonsense friend, dating adviser, crisis counselor, and interpreter of the female psyche, Darlene Ryder of Decatur, Georgia. Nicole’s rejection has hit him hard, harder than he expected, and he needs Darlene’s help. They spend hours on the phone, Darlene’s voice crackling in his ear like a co-pilot’s. She gives Johnny two weeks to mourn the loss of Nicole before putting him on a program to get his life in gear. During this period, he suffers an emotional meltdown; upon emerging, he forces himself to go on audition rounds, landing a supporting role in An Oasis for Fools, a play set in the humid, lurid South. The lead actress is Claudia Prentiss, whose legs scissor the ground when she walks and whose mane of shiny black hair carries its own whip action. If he entertains any notions about making a move on her, he can forget it—Darlene has bigger plans in store.

Darlene called from her mother’s house in Athens. Georgia, where she was minding things while her mother was on a Caribbean cruise with a gentleman friend. “When's this so-called play open?” she asked. “If you hear something weird, it's just me shucking corn.”

I told her the date.

“Will there be a cast party?”

“There may be one on the set after the show. We already have a bar built on the stage, so it's just a matter of stocking real booze and snacks.”

“I was thinking, wouldn’t it be nice to have the party at your place?”

“I haven't thrown a party since my humiliating 13th birthday, when my mother insisted we all play—”

“It’s time you did. Host skills are essential in creating the image of a man at ease with himself and his home. Who usually

gets invited to these things?”

“The cast and crew, their current sweeties, other actors.”

“But if you're holding it in your apartment, you could invite outsiders too, right?”

“You mean Nicole?”

“Better than that. Does Nicole have a girlfriend that you got along with?”

“I met her friend Pavia a couple of times.”

“Here’s what you do. Pop an invite to Pavia.

She’ll be sure to mention it to Nicole. It’ll annoy Nicole no end that you’re throwing a party she hasn’t been invited to so soon after your breakup. Then, a couple of days after you’ve sent Pavia the invitation, send Nicole one. By the time she gets her invitation, she’ll want to come to the party.”

“You think so?”

“I know so. Never discount female pride. The moment she gets the card she’ll be on the phone with Pavia, BS-ing, ‘Mine just arrived today—it must have gotten stuck in the mail.’ This doesn’t guarantee she’ll show, but if she does, she’ll see you being the center of attention and realize she could have been at your side on opening night rather than just another face.”

“But, Darlene, if she walks through the door with a date, I’ll cave.”

“If she walks through that door, it’ll be with Pavia. They’ll team up to compare notes later. God, Johnny, you know nothing about women.”

“That’s why I rely on you. My only concern is that Gleason thinks Nicole and I are still a couple, so if she—”

“Do you have to invite him?”

“He’s my best friend.”

“Friendship’s overrated. You have your notebook handy? Here’s what you’re going to need. I may fax you some follow-up suggestions. I also want to fax some photos of myself I just took. Don’t get excited, they’re not nudies. I need your male input about the current state of my hair. Clete likes it long, but the humidity’s wreaking havoc with it. I look like a blown mattress.”

“Well, it should give the guys at the fax place a laugh.”

“You be nice. Do you have a store nearby where you can get inflatable palm trees and animals for decorations? Goofy props always get a party going. Remember that one I took you to where everyone had to wear grass skirts? That was fun.”

“I’m not having everyone wear hula outfits, Darlene. Besides, I’m not sure I can do all this—tend bar, rehearse a play, and throw a party at the same time. Why can't you come north and be my official party organizer? That way you could see the play, too.”

“Wish I could, butter-butt, but it's important that you do this on your own. Just be sure to get lots of photos taken. Take some of the apartment before the guests arrive so I can see how the decorations look and then have someone shoot the guests once the party's in full swing. I want to study them and see if there’re any future fiancees for you to pursue.”

“By ‘fiancées' I assume you mean girlfriends.”

“No, I mean ‘fiancées.’ Frankly, I think it's time you thought about getting married. No offense, Johnny, but as a single man, you're getting stale, like an old potato chip. When you were younger, even up to just a few years ago, you could get away with being a likable fun guy. That won’t cut it anymore. At your age, women suspect that if you haven’t gotten married or at least engaged, there may be something wrong with you, some hidden defect or deep resistance. You have to start packaging yourself as marriage material. This party is the first step.”

“Maybe I don’t want to get married.”

“Life isn’t all about what you want. As a woman, I’m telling you that you need to be taken seriously as a man, and the only way for that to happen is for you to package yourself as a potential husband. All your life you’ve done what you wanted, and where are you? What do you have to look forward to?”

“You make me sound like a bowling ball headed for the gutter.”

“If you have such a blazing future, how come Nicole blew you off so easily? I’ll tell you why. She knew you weren’t in the game for keeps. Since I’ve known you, Johnny, women have dumped you at a faster and faster rate. You’ve gone from being dumped by Katrina after three years to being dumped by Nicole after barely six months. It’s as if the women you meet come equipped with the latest computer chip, enabling them to process the same information about you at faster speeds. After the next upgrade, women will be rejecting you before you say hello. Women don’t need to compare notes on you. You’re in the collective data bank.”

“This may come as news to you, Darlene, but not every woman wants to be a wife. Nicole often said she didn’t know if she ever wanted to get married.”

“And you believed her? Where have you been for the last 2,000 years? She was testing your attitude toward marriage, and whatever you said clearly landed in the loss column. If you really want to know how women regard matrimony, go to a newsstand and take a look at the bridal magazines. They’re the biggest, fattest magazines in the country, packed with nothing but articles on weddings, engagement parties, honeymoon planning, the perfect wedding dress, etc. They’re dream books, Johnny. There’s nothing comparable in the male world.”

“I just don’t feel like settling down. Even the phrase makes me—”

“Makes you what? Jesus, Johnny, if you were any more settled, you’d reach a complete stop.”

“You’ve never acted like you were all that hot to get married.”

“I’m younger than you are, and never you mind. It’s your misguided life we’re talking abOUt for nOW. Forget possible fiancees for a moment—do you want to impress the woman who broke your heart or not? Don’t you at least want to impress this Claudia you’ve been drooling over?”

Excerpted from The Catsitters, by James Wolcott, to be published this month by HarperCollins; © 2001 by the author.

“Well, when you put it that way ...” After I jotted down the rest of Darlene’s to-do list, which included buying six-packs of Evian-water spray so that the guests could freshen themselves (“That’s what all those dumb models do”), Darlene said, “If you know any nice women at work, see if they can help with the party. Women love to be asked for advice. And another thing. If any women at the party smoke, here’s an opportunity for you to casually whip out that spiffy lighter I sent you. When whoever she is takes out a cigarette, don’t immediately flick the flame under it, like most men do. Steady her wrist with one hand as you flick the lighter with the other, and make eye contact as your heads converge. Make it seem conspiratorial. When you click the lighter shut, take in her whole face. Practice this at home so you can do it in one smooth sequence. It’s guaranteed to wow any woman.”

"I thought I was supposed to pursue nice girls.”

“Nice girls smoke, too, you know. You think nice girls don’t pick up nervous habits living in New York?”

“I’m just concerned about other people complaining about the smoke.”

“Fuck ’em, it’s your apartment. One more thing. The host never sits. I don’t care how tired you are after the play, you stand the entire party, even if it means leaning propped up against a wall. The most important people in the room always stand.”

In the days before opening night Land the cast party, I pushed myself on five to six hours’ sleep. Waving the old charge card, I bought ashtrays, glasses, plates, utensils, and strings of twinkly lights, installed a six-foot inflatable palm tree, and made a major haul at the liquor store. I loaded my freezer with bottles of vodka. This was a trick I learned from my grandfather, who had been a bootlegger’s errand boy back in the old days. Take an empty quart carton of milk, cut off the top, and fill with water. Then insert the bottle into the water and stick in the freezer. After the water freezes, cut away the carton, and, voila, a bottle of vodka in a block of ice. Plant two of these babies on the bar, and you have yourself the beginnings of a certified blast.

I priced caterers, arranged to have silver balloons delivered, and, failing to recruit any volunteers, hired a couple of day waiters from the restaurant to serve drinks and pass around finger food. At night I attended rehearsals that had entered the rocky phase (rehearsals always enter a rocky phase, which sometimes becomes permanent). Envious of the attention Claudia commanded, not to mention her ability to make the director wring his hands whenever she voiced her displeasure, Kenny—who was playing Dwayne the soulful drifter—began massaging his stomach muscles as he emoted, slowing things to a crawl.

As Kenny’s jeans became tighter, he dispensed with a belt, and his top button occasionally popped open, revealing a few zipper teeth. After we had gathered onstage one evening, the director said:

“People, I apologize for not addressing this earlier, but I didn’t know quite how things were going to evolve.

I ask that you put your egos aside for the moment. It’s the issue of accents. We simply have no uniformity whatsoever with our southern accents. You sound like the same species in different stages of development. Downs, your accent is fine.”

“I’ve spent a lot of time in the South.”

“Excellent. Whatever. But the rest of you—Foster, you’re fine too—the rest of you either have to bring your accents up to snuff or we’ll have to do the play without accents, which would make no sense. I’m not asking for deep immersion in dialect here, just enough twang so that we recognize we’re in the South, for God’s sake.” Moving from the general to the particular, he began to address Claudia, who cut him off at the pass.

“According to the text, Cerrisse left town as a teenager and traveled the world, so it makes more sense for her not to have an accent, given the company she’s been keeping all these years. She only lets traces of it surface when she’s with Dwayne, as the person she was peeks out from the person she is.”

“That clarifies some things for me, though I do wonder if the audience will understand why it suddenly surfaces. They may not trace its connection to Dwayne. And speaking of Dwayne ...”

Before the director could finish, Kenny explained: “I’m letting the accent find its own level. I don’t want it to be fully formed too early and take on a life of its own. I’m still massaging it.”

“Among other things,” Claudia said.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m just wondering if you can rub your stomach and pat your head at the same time, because you sure have mastered the first one.”

“That’s off-topic,” the director said. “We’re discussing accents.”

“I’ll have it nailed by performance,” Kenny said.

“When are you planning to have your lines ‘nailed’?” Claudia said.

“I know my lines.”

“Oh, please.”

“I know them internally, as words. It’s just ...”

“Then why am I stranded up here listening to your pregnant pauses? Maybe the dead spots mean nothing to you, but I might as well be waiting for a bus in the time it takes you to rummage around for what you’re supposed to say. It makes me, if I may quote our director, a tad uncomfortable. ”

A nervous laugh shot out of me like a sneeze.

“What’s so funny, Downs?” Claudia said.

“I, uh, just couldn’t picture you waiting for a bus.”

“For your information, I’ve ridden the bus many a time. Don’t patronize me. You took a legitimate point and trivialized it with your laughter. I’ve taken the subway too, for your information.”

“Hey, it’s Kenny you’re mad at, remember?”

“Well,” the director said, clapping his hands together a mite merrily, “I think it’s

V healthy we’re getting all this out of our systems rather than letting it sit and fester. Shall we resume? Let’s pick up from the line ‘The leaves have turned to rust.’ And, Kenny, before we begin, I do think Claudia has a point, though she expressed it somewhat savagely. You do tend to hoard your lines. Let the horse out of the barn.”

Being compared to a steed seemed to placate Kenny, who nodded as the rest of us shuffled to our proper places.

DARLENE RYDER'S DOS AND DON'TS

(Mostly Don'ts) for Men Seeking Matrimony, or Something Reasonably Close

• Strike the words "bachelor" and "single guy" from your vocabulary. From now on your official title is "unmarried man."

• Don't even think about dialing for that first date until you've got a plan. Each date should be conceived as a chapter with a beginning, middle, and end—not one big glob of time that dribbles on indefinitely.

• Never leave a woman sitting or standing alone in public longer than five minutes. She'll wonder what happened to you, and when she stops wondering she'll want to brain you.

• Never eat anything that can spatter or spill. Once you've got mayonnaise on your shirt, the party's pretty much over for you.

• Never generalize about women when talking to a woman. She'll resent it, even if she agrees with you.

• Never bad-mouth a former girlfriend (or moon over her as The One That Got Away). Treat the past as a trip you once took-a trip that led to this moment, to the person across from you.

• There's no such thing as a "three-date rule." A lot of men think they're entitled to sleep with a woman on the third date, and too many women cave in to this expectation. Wait, and the wait will be worth it.

• You can never say a woman's name too often. Also, nothing's more romantic than whispering in bed.

• Don't switch positions too much during sex.

It's annoying, and no woman enjoys having her legs wagging in the air.

• Never smirk at men pushing strollers on the sidewalk or loading kiddie seats into cars. You

want her to think that could be you someday, picking up those dropped toys and damned mittens.

• And to any woman who finds herself dating a man who's following my advice:

Don't be a big mouth and blow his cover.

Let him think he's the one in control.

Once you're married, you can set him straight.