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Chapter 2

Psycho

My Grandma always said . . .
Crazy is as crazy does

Resolve creates results, so my first date came to me thanks to Bea, who had dutifully told our whole entire family each and every nasty detail of Mr. Greenjeans's departure. As soon as Uncle Phil heard, he called from Los Angeles.

"Girl, you're young, bright, and beautiful. You need to get over that trifling Negro and get on with it. What did you do when you were seven and you busted your ass roller-skating down the hill?"

Here we go with the pep talk. "I got up."

"Well, hell-get on up now! Oh, wait-I got something for you. Hold on . . ."

Uncle Phil had someone to introduce me to, via conference call.

"Bill's a good brother: ivy degrees, 180 IQ, worth a few million, under thirty, and he's in the city on business." After twenty years on the West Coast, Uncle Phil still called New York "the city" like there was only one in the world. "You should meet him for a drink at least. We're talking future husband material. Now hold on a second-"

Click-click.

"Hey, I got my niece who lives in the city on the line. You're in the city-you guys should hang out."

And when did I become the welcome wagon for stray brothers visiting the city?

After I hung up, Uncle Phil and Bill arranged for us to meet the following week at The Shark Bar Restaurant (the spot for the profiling crowd-known for the occasional star sighting, but the collard greens are almost as good as my grandmother's). Uncle Phil knew that if nothing else, I'd enjoy the food. When Bill called the next day to confirm our date, he seemed nice enough, but . . .

On first sight I stiffened-he was a mud-duck. Now a mud-duck is a guy you don't find attractive right away, but if you stick around, and don't look too hard, you'll find something endearing enough to convince you to be seen in public with him. I decided it was his lips. Still, Uncle Phil was gonna have to produce some Knicks tickets to make up for this one.

His conversational skills weren't bad, and he was smart enough to know I was there as a favor to my uncle. One glass of wine turned into three, and then an invitation to dinner.

Before the main course arrived, I heard about the courtship, the wedding, the marriage, her two miscarriages, the divorce, the settlement, and the current custody arrangement for their Scottish terrier. By the time the plates hit the table I was already working out my exit strategy. I'd go to the ladies' room and set my pager to go off in fifteen minutes, feign a work emergency, and disappear in a puff of smoke. As the details emerged about his failed attempt to kill his father, wiretapping his ex-wife's phone, and hiring a private investigator to track her down after she fled across the country with the terrier, fifteen minutes was feeling like fifteen years. Forget Knicks tickets, Uncle Phil-we're talking weekend package to Rio!

His lips curled and contorted as he told his story. Then it got worse. He started trembling, wringing his napkin, rolling his eyes, and taking deep breaths just this side of hyperventilation. If this man turns into the Hulk, Uncle Phil will have to die.

Excerpted from Every Friday Night by Ritta McLaughlin Copyright © 2003 by Ritta McLaughlin. Excerpted by permission of Doubleday, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

Tags: Dating For Women

About the Author

Ritta McLaughlin is the vice president of an investment banking firm in New York City, where she lives.