Midday Decadence

Few things in life are as sublime in their decadence as an afternoon movie in the middle of the week. It doesn't even have to be a good movie, it just has to be playing, with you watching it, while the rest of the productive world toils away at work.

Last week, Maya and I blew off work and headed for the Court Street multiplex to see a movie that my husband, in his refusal to see it, had dubbed "the Adam Sandler chick flick."

"He went on Oprah to promote it," Andy had said when I asked if he would go with me. "I don't think so."

I'd chalked the film up to one I'd have to sneak in on NetFlix. But when Maya called and suggested we play hooky, I seized the moment and suggested we see it together instead.

"Should we get popcorn?" Maya asked as we rode the escalator up to the theater.

"Sure," I said. "If we're gonna do this, we may as well go all the way."

Once we'd settled into our seats - the theater was practically empty, so we had great ones, in the first row of stadium sweet spot where you can put your feet up on the bar - we munched and chatted.

It had been a while since Maya and I had really caught up. There were two reasons for this gap in our usually flowing stream of updates. The first was that the last time we'd gotten together, I had told her I was pregnant. Once that news was on the table, neither one of us could think of much else to say.

But, like the foam on champagne, flowing all over the place at first, but then, after a bit, settling, the pregnancy was less of a distraction now. It was still bubbling under the surface - or perhaps on the surface, now that I'd started putting on weight - but, since the initial shock of it had worn off, it seemed we could go back to normal conversation.

The second reason was a bit dicier. For months, I had been treading lightly around the subject of Maya's love life. This was because she'd begun sort of dating the Youngster, a college student who'd had his Youngster friend approach her, Cyrano-style, while the two of us lunched on Smith Street.

A few dates later, she learned that his life goal was to become a househusband, or as he put it, a "hife" (short for "him-wife"), and to then create a sitcom about a group of househusbands. The show's title would be "Hives."

At first, I had no real objection to Maya dating the Youngster. Was he the best choice of suitor? Probably not. But he was a perfectly nice guy. But then, through a random coincidence - a blind post on craigslist, to be exact - the Youngster became a roommate in my cousin Jake's Bushwick loft, and things began seeming too close for comfort.

Since the early fall, I'd been avoiding the subject of the Youngster, silently hoping that Maya, never one to stay long in relationships, would ease her way out of this one before she broke the poor Youngster's heart.

But you can only go so long without discussing your single friend's love life, and that day at the movies I worried I'd gone too long.

"So, what's new in the world of dating?" I asked, knowing I may have stepped into Youngster quicksand. All of our previous conversations about him had found me fishing for ways to change the subject while fighting hard to hold my tongue. At least now if we headed into sketchy terrain I'd likely be saved by previews.

"Oh, not much," she said, sighing and reaching for a handful of popcorn. "I met a guy at a holiday party and I've seen him a few times since. He directs commercials. Only wants to talk about being torn up about being a sellout." She rolled her eyes.

"Plus, he's exactly the kind of person everyone says has ruined the neighborhood," by "the neighborhood" she meant Dumbo, where she lived in an illegal sublet. "All of my artist friends are giving me crap about it."

"Mmmm," I said, nodding. I couldn't see Maya with a guy who worked in advertising, but, then again, she was sort of a magnet for the inappropriate. Case in point: the Youngster who, at that very moment, I wondered if I dared to ask about.

Finally, I decided to bite the bullet.

"Oh, yeah," she said, sighing. "I guess I'm still sort of seeing him. I mean, he calls a lot, but it's been a while since I actually saw him."

It was exactly the kind of answer I had dreaded. Was Maya leading the poor Youngster on?

"Oh," I said, in a way I hoped said, "You can elaborate if you want."

"The thing is," Maya said, taking my response the way I'd meant it, "he's just so....young. Which is sort of fun, because, you know, he's, like, on a whole different wavelength. I mean, he'll just call up and be like, 'Want to hang out?', and he means, like, right then. Like there's no need to schedule things, nobody's working, everyone's just always available to do things like - I don't know -"

"Go to the movies on a weekday?" I asked, smiling.

"Exactly," she said. "For us, this is a treat. For him, this is a normal activity."

"So," I dared to continue, "are you actually dating him?"

"You know," she said. "I don't know."

"Well, does he think he's dating you?"

"Maybe," she said, pondering the question as she took a sip of soda." He is always saying things like, 'You don't take me seriously.'"

It was exactly what I'd hoped wasn't happening. Maya was going to break the poor Youngster's heart. That would be bad enough on it's own, but, with him living with Jake, the fallout could get ugly. This would only be more likely the longer this went on.

"Maybe you should give him a clearer idea of where he stands with you," I said, hoping she might now nip whatever it was she'd already let bud.

"You know, you're right, Eve," she said, after a moments pause. "I haven't given him enough of a chance yet."

"What?" I said.

"He's a nice guy. So what if he's young?"

I wanted to say, "Wait, that's not what I meant!" but before I could, the previews came on.

"I don't know what's been holding me back," Maya said as the screen flashed scenes from Clint Eastwood's latest. "You know, Eve, I'm really glad we had this talk."

The Brooklyn Chronicles appears each Friday. Previous installments are available at www.nysun.com/archive_chronicles.php. The author can be reached at kschwartz@nysun.com.