Noble Crusade

Years ago when I was living on New York City's exquisitely blemished Lower East Side, I went to a colorful panoply of parties all year round. There were basement parties and rooftop parties, parties in gardens and on stoops. There were parties held in the back rooms of bars and restaurants because the hosts' apartments were too small to house more than four revelers at a time, and parties that spilled into hallways and staircases because the hosts didn't care that there was no room. The crowd I went with tended to live in cramped and occasionally squalid quarters. They had roommates-- sometimes two and three-- and slept on pull out couches, murphy beds, loft beds and in railroad apartment "middle rooms." Together we balanced plates on our laps and navigated common spaces the size of department store elevators. Not unlike the stateroom scene in "Night at the Opera," life was cozy, comical and we were used to it.

I lived on 9th Street between Avenues B & C, long before anyone ventured east of A. I moved in with a cartoonist whose ad I answered in the Village Voice newspaper. I never laid eyes on him and knew nothing about him before the day I saw the apartment, and even though my room had no closet and was too small to fit a twin bed-- 5' x 5'-- I took it. The kitchen had exactly enough room for a sink, bathtub and fridge, a hot plate, tiny table and two chairs. The toilet was located outside the apartment and half way down the hall. It was shared by other strangers living on my floor whom I never met or ever saw and I wisely chose never to imagine them; out of sight, out of mind.

When every so often I found myself at a party in a spacious apartment, it was a huge thrill. Walking into a giant apartment was like walking into a fairyland and I gasped as I marveled at the ability to walk more than two paces without bumping into furniture.

One chilly winter night towards the end of February, I recall ending up at a party on 14th Street in an enormous loft apartment with 18' ceilings. There was so much space with so many rooms-- 2 living rooms, 4 bedrooms, and a large, eat in kitchen!-- that I immediately suggested a game of Hide and Seek to anyone within earshot. I re-introduced the rules to ten or so eager campers and we scurried about laughing and squealing, giddy like children finally playing outdoors on the first day of Spring as we reveled in our ability to move around freely without hobbling layers of outerwear-- or walls-- to oppress us. Many of us hadn't played Hide and Seek for twenty years and I was thanked at the end for thinking of and organizing the game.

Guests continued to arrive in droves-- unwrapping themselves like presents-- and soon the party was amiably boisterous and bulging. I wandered from room to room thinking about how I would paint the walls and re-arrange the furniture if given the chance, when I spotted a guy holding a gallon sized zip-lock bag of something near the stove. He was of average height and build with one of those barrel chests like a pudgy William Holden except that his hair was shaggy, greasy, covered his ears and was a dull, tinny blonde without sun. His chin was weak and his nose, non-committal, and his skin appeared oily to the touch. I couldn't make out his eyes behind his thick, beige plastic aviator glasses that he wore without irony and with misfortune years before MTV's cabdriver character would plant the look in its viewers' gestalt. Sporting a slightly dingy, white v-neck t-shirt and baggy, olive green army pants, he was a sad sack in every way, and I watched him as he set the bag down and started rifling though the kitchen cabinets.

After a moment I moved closer and after a few more cabinet doors opened and shut, asked him, "Do you live here?" even though I was fairly certain I knew the answer.
"No," he said without looking at me, still focused on the task at hand.
"What are you looking for?" I pressed.
"Baking sheets," he said.
"Why?"
"I'm going to make cookies."

And with that he uncovered two baking sheets, pre-heated the oven, and handed me the zip-lock bag that was heavy with chocolate chip cookie dough.

"You're going to bake cookies?" I asked incredulously. The party was in full, deafening, cacophonic swing; there were beer bottles on every surface and it was after midnight.
"Yes," he said.
He was all business, no smiles.
"Right now at this party?"
"Yes."
I was flummoxed.
"Does the host know of your plan?" I asked.
"Nope." I thought for a moment. There must be something I was missing. Then it occurred to me, "Are there drugs in the cookie dough?" I asked.
"No," he said.
"So, you're just baking cookies for fun?" I asked.
"No. I'm baking cookies to meet women," he said.

Of course you are. Brilliant. I should have known. And I walked right into it. I laughed at myself as he spooned the dough onto the baking sheets, 2" apart as one does.

I said, "Because who doesn't want to talk to the guy baking fresh, homemade cookies at a party?"
"Exactly," he said.
"And does it work?"
"You tell me," he said and finally looked directly at me for the first time. He had either tried to shave or sort of quasi- didn't have to and his glasses lenses were smudged. I wanted so much for there to be something in his face, some visual hook that might make me want to kiss him, this cookie baking party man, but there was nothing there for me. I kept looking.

"Do you do this often?" I asked.
"Yes," he said and I believed him. He had clearly mastered the task at hand and as he single-mindedly went to work on the second sheet of dough, the mesmerizing smell of homemade chocolate chip cookies freshly baking began to waft out of context and out of the kitchen and through the cavernous apartment's labyrinth, reaching every corner and every nose; making everyone undeniably happier. The party's host finally wandered into the kitchen, appraised the situation and asked, "You making cookies?" To which the baker replied, "Yeah. I hope it's okay." "Cool," was the host’s blessing and then each man carried on as before.

People started to pop their heads into the kitchen and I could sense a show of sorts was about to begin. I hoisted myself up onto the deep counter, cozied up against the back splash and watched as girl after girl-- guys, too-- sauntered in to enquire about the incredible smell intoxicating everyone with thoughts of mother, home, and lazy, snowy days from childhood. He answered their questions, as he had mine, with the perfunctory duty of a busy research scientist being visited by a Girl Scout troop. He never touched a beer. And when the cookies were done, he scraped each one off the greased pan and onto a plate with purpose and finesse. Some guys wanted their freshly baked, right-out-of-the-oven cookies placed directly into their palms and ate them with reverence like over sized communion wafers. One girl found a thick wad of napkins and passed them out to the other ladies who made a big show of blowing on the cookies before coyly biting into them. Everyone thanked him and yes, the women talked to him. They reached towards him for more cookies and made alluring yummy sounds as they chewed. I watched him watch them and even saw him smile, but only once.

This guy was crafty; this guy was smart. He was self aware enough to know that he wasn't a looker and that he'd need some pretty good game to compensate if he ever wanted to get laid and that even his top game probably wouldn't cut it, so he came up with a plan worthy of an evil genius in a Saturday morning cartoon. I admired his pluck and I imagined the kind of life we could create together: Cookie Guy and Hide and Seek Girl. Yes, we met at a party and spent the rest of our lives in domestic, whimsical splendor, but I couldn't get past the aviator glasses with the double bar over the nose and the odd, patchy whiskers. Even as I gave him a shampoo, haircut and shave in my mind, then took him to get new frames, a clean T-shirt, and better fitting jeans, I knew it wouldn't work. He probably knew it, too. I wanted so much to be attracted to this guy, this ingenious baker with a heart of gold, and as I sat and ate a parade of warm cookies, I watched the women thank him and then wander away and out of the room, probably coming to the same conclusion I had and I wondered if that was why he didn’t smile more.

At 2am, the party was morphing into a different kind of beast and I was starting to feel sleepy and done. I slid off the counter and headed over to say goodbye. I told him that it was a pleasure to meet him and he told me his name was Wade. I said, “Well then, good luck, Wade,” and smiled but didn’t linger as I was less than noble. But I loved that he was committed to his gimmick and his boundless optimism made me root for him like the noblest of underdogs. I had high hopes that his crusade would yield fruitful results and that at least one of the women at the party would warm up to him. The night was still young to some, and Wade still had what looked like a batch and a half left.