“I am looking for a woman to marry.

If you introduce me to the woman I marry,

I will pay you one hundred thousand dollars.”

As it turns out, part of my self-help ritual has become reading about other people’s desperate pleas for love in the “Strictly Singles” section of the New York magazine. I was going to give it up and start embracing O magazine more, but this week’s cover story, illustrated with a Roy Lichtenstein-styled comic strip with a man and woman arguing, is titled, “What New York Couples Fight About.” Naturally, it caught my eye.

But, even more entertaining than reading about people’s desperation is listening to it, which I can do by calling their voice mailboxes to hear their bids for love. Many of the men, I’ve come to find out, sound a lot like Woody Allen. After a few dials, I yawn. It’s closing in on midnight and I’m exhausted. I’m so tired that I almost went ahead and responded to this man’s half page ad but am one inch short of his 5’7” height requirement. I count the lines he’s written. There are thirty five lines. At $34.50 a line, he spent $1207.50 to advertise for his future wife. And he’ll pay $100,000 more for the person who finds her. Such desperate people. In any case, I wish I could think of someone for him and collect the money.

I reach to turn my bedside light off when the words, “Very handsome, self-made millionaire…” catch my eye. I flip the light back on.

“Very handsome self-made millionaire,

28, 6’2”, 185 lbs., intelligent,

slightly offbeat sense of humor,

seeks a beautiful, free-spirited intelligent

woman with a passion for life that equals mine.”

OMG! That’s me!

I’ll just call and listen to his voice. I dial. He sounds attractive. Less Woody Allen, more Adam Sandler. Before I know it, I have left a message and my home number. Unfortunately, the carrot I’ve dangled feels like the same old pea under my mattress – if I had a mattress. I don’t sleep well. Why do I get the feeling I can’t leave well enough alone?

Tim, the “Very handsome self-made millionaire” has called. He apologizes for returning my call so late, at 10:30 p.m. one week and one day after I left his mailbox #1109 a message, but as I can imagine, he’s had so many calls. “There are a lot of desperate women out there,” he says, laughing, “present company excluded of course”. Of course.

We decide to meet thirty minutes later at the corner of my apartment, 44th and 2nd at the Nigerian Embassy, like two models on a Go-See. He arrives in khaki shorts and a white t-shirt that has a “Staples” company logo and sneakers. He looks harmless. We decide we’re both happily surprised that neither is aesthetically offensive and he confides that he got wise to booking first dates involving more than just a quick hello. He’s got stuck with too many dinners with women who were nice, professional, but not his type, and then he’s blown $80 a pop and two hours of his life. He likes that I was so agreeable to meeting him impulsively like this without it costing him anything.

“Well, I did pick a public corner, just in case…”

“…I’m a mass murderer?” he nods then looks around. “Ahh. Nigerian Embassy. Good thinking,” he says smiling, noting the dark and empty offices of the Embassy behind us.

“I almost had you meet me at the opposite corner. There’s a cop posted there 24/7.”

“Next time,” he says, smiling.

Encouraged by the mention of a “next time,” I ask him how many dates he’s been on. He’s lost count. “So how do you let them down?” I ask, wondering if he’s the type to just suddenly never call again like someone else I know, the answer to which I’d like to find out beforehand.

“I just tell them that I got back together with my ex-girlfriend,” he says.

“So you lie?” I ask, with a look that implies lying is a bad thing.

“Yeah, I mean, it could happen that way,” says Tim. “And, I think it’s a much kinder and gentler rejection, that way women don’t go psycho – .”

“Psycho?”

“Present company excluded of course,” he says, smiling and then ribbing me, then putting his arm around me jovially.

“Next time” turns out to be Halloween. Tim has invited me to black tie event. He’s warned me that we’re likely to be the youngest and only non-Jewish couple there, but it’s a networking opportunity for him. He’ll be marketing. It’s our second date.

Tim arrives at my door bearing a wild bunch of posies, looking decidedly more handsome in his tuxedo than the Staples logo’d shirt from before. I let him in.

“So, just out of curiosity, why is there a cop by your elevator?” he asks as I try to create a makeshift vase out of the Choc Full O Nuts coffee canister.

“What do you mean there’s a cop by my elevator?” I ask.

“I mean, there’s a cop by your elevator. In full uniform.”

“Oh, that’s not a cop!” I start to laugh – at him. “I can’t believe you thought that’s a cop. That’s my doorman.”

“No. It’s a cop. Trust me. Unless of course your doormen wear NYPD uniforms.”

“Hmmph. Oh, maybe for Halloween?”

“No. This isn’t a uniform cut from a plastic bag. It’s an official NYPD jacket.”

“Maybe someone borrowed it for authenticity,” I offer.

“No, it’s a real cop. Real NYPD. Trust me. They don’t let others wear their jackets. They can be thrown of the force for doing that,”says Tim, checking out the view from my seventh story window just like Lars Thornwald did in Rear Window when he went looking to see who was onto his murderous deed: killing his wife.

“Hmmm. That’s strange. I have no idea.”

With the posies all situated in the coffee tin in front of the French windows, Tim and I are ready to leave.

We walk down the hall towards the elevator, and there, just as Tim said, is a policeman in a real, non-plastic NYPD jacket seated on a folding metal chair next to a can of Lysol. “Oh, you weren’t kidding,” I whisper to Tim.

“Good evening sir,” says Tim, pressing the “down” button.

“Good evening,” says the policeman.

I exchange a curious look with Tim as we hover nonchalantly, taking in our reflections in the mirror in between the elevators as if it’s the most normal thing to have a cop seated in front of my elevator. After a fairly long wait for one of three elevators, the freight elevator arrives, with the custodian on it, announcing the other elevators aren’t working. We step onto the elevator, joining a full load including Dr. Evil. As we descend the elevator, careful not to get caught up in Dr. Evil’s lair, I break out of the elevator pack and head straight for my doorman.

“Ayman? Why is there a policeman sitting by the elevator on my floor?”

“Um… someone died,” he says quietly with a squeamish grimace, while nodding to incoming and outgoing tenants.

“Someone died? I ask alarmed.

“Yes,” he says, gesturing for me to keep it quiet.

“Who?” I whisper.

“The tenant in 714.”

“Someone died on my floor?” I exclaim, my proximity to death revitalizing my fear that the black cloud over me has taken over the building.

He nods.

“Who?” I ask reluctantly, wanting a name, fearing it might be someone I know, like my seventy-year-old next door neighbor who, come to think of it, hasn’t picked up his daily New York Post in a week, or the eighty-three year-old man, Frank, who always wears checkered shirts with suspenders and, when not in Paris on business, always greets me on the elevator by announcing to everyone else in it, how his heart has just revived from my joining the ride. God, I hope Frank’s just in Paris.

“You know the young short, blond woman who was always walking her dog late at night in high heels? Doreen Kowinsky?” asks Ayman.

“No…”

“Well she died,” says Ayman, clearly sorry to break the news. He then excuses himself to retrieve dry-cleaning for the Penthouse tenant, Mrs. Cohen who is waiting by the closet.

I follow him. “Ayman, you said she was young. How old was she?” I ask him.

“Oh not that young. Mid-thirties.”

“Mid-thirties?” I exclaim, having expected her to be at least forty. “How’d she die?”

“Murder. Maybe suicide. Here you go Mrs. Cohen,” he says, handing off her Five Star dry-cleaning.

“Murder?” I ask shocked, having expected natural causes like a heart attack or something hereditary.

“Or suicide. Cops don’t know. They’re doing an autopsy. Apparently she’s been dead for two weeks.”

“Two weeks?! So how’d they finally discover her?” I ask.

“The smell,” says Ayman.

“Trick or treat,” says a five-year old Mini-Me standing beside his dad Dr. Evil, holding a pumpkin pail.

“Sorry we don’t have treats but you can take a Poinsettia,” he says pointing to one of the potted holiday arrangements dotting the lobby floor. The kid is not interested.

“The smell?” I ask, doing the math about what a dead person must smell like after two weeks, compared to what I might smell like after a day without a shower.

“Yeah. Tenants were complaining of the stench on the floor. In fact, everyone on your floor complained of the smell but you.”

“Everyone but me?”

“Didn’t you smell it?” asks Tim.

“No, I didn’t smell anything. The only thing I’ve ever smelled in the hall is fried food.”

Ayman and Tim exchange looks.

“You’re saying I was smelling a body?”

Tim and Ayman exchange knowing glances.

“No. I know I wasn’t smelling a dead body because I saw my neighbors cooking it, their food I mean, on the stove. They had their door ajar to let out the steam.”

“So why do the cops think it could be suicide?” asks Tim.

“Well they don’t know,” says Ayman. “All they know is that she ordered takeout from eleven different places in one night two weeks ago and wasn’t heard from until they found her today in her apartment.”

“Where was the food from?” asks Tim.

“Oh yeah, maybe it was food poisoning,” I say.

“Local places,” says Ayman.

“Local?” I ask, alarmed, recalling the staple I found in the Chinese food I recently ordered from just down the street.

“She ordered a few times from the Szechwan place, Al’s Deli and, um… Chinese from down the street. Cops are testing the food, but they think it’s fine. They think the food was for the dog.”

“Dog?” Tim and I ask at the same time.

Ayman nods squeamishly. “Her dog was in there.”

“Alive?” I ask.

“Yes,” says Ayman.

“So… where exactly is 714 on my floor?” I ask.

“It’s the apartment next to the elevator on your side of the hall.”

“Oh,” I nod knowingly, “so that’s why the cop is sitting next to a can of Lysol.”

“Yeah. The smell is pretty bad and they have to guard the door to make sure no one goes in or out of the apartment. They’re still treating it like a crime scene. And they’ve been interviewing the tenants.”

“Well they haven’t interviewed me…”

“Well is there something you want to tell us now? Without the presence of an attorney?” asks Tim, striking me as yet another man trying to implicate me in something I didn’t do even if he is joking. Speaking of which, I hope her death is rendered a suicide because if word gets back to my ex-boyfriend Pavlos (the man who left me for dead upon my arrival in Manhattan) that a woman was murdered in my building, he will, after the initial disappointment that it wasn’t me, think my jinx aura was responsible.

“Well, on that note, we should go,” I say. “We’re going to a black tie event,” I tell Ayman.

“Me too,” says Ayman, flipping his black tie, laughing at his own joke. “Have a good time and be careful out there,” he says, and then whispers in my ear, “I hear she was meeting men on the Internet, so be careful, you never know who’s out there.”

“Ready?” asks Tim, holding the door open for me.

“Um, yeah,” I say, walking towards Tim as a delivery man from Al’s carrying four bags of food, passes me by.

“Food delivery coming up,” I overhear Ayman say into the intercom just as we exit the double doors.

“Honestly, I wouldn’t worry, Moreen,” says Tim, flanking my side, perhaps noticing my blanched face. “I’m sure it’s just a murderer who’s systematically killing young women, floor by floor.”

“Thanks Tim. I feel so much better,” I respond facetiously as he opens the car door for me. I am pulling on the seatbelt when my stomach sinks…err, drops to the baseboard.

“What’s wrong?” asks Tim, getting into the car. “You look white as a ghost. I mean you’re pale anyway, but right now you look really pale.”

“I just…. realized… something….The woman who died was named DOREEN and she lived in 7-1-4, and I’m MOREEN and live in 7-0-4!”

“Oh. I see what you mean,” he says, starting the engine. “It’s a clear case of mistaken identity. The murderer meant to get you. To be safe, you’d better sleep at my place tonight. We’ll order takeout.”

“So is this what your ad meant by ‘offbeat sense of humor?’” I ask.

We were, as Tim expected, seated among elderly Jews at a table for twelve. Using the “Dead Doreen” story, we basically became the life of the party. That is, until we all began to consider who might have murdered Doreen, who would have had motive, and somehow, much to the delight of the elderly Jews, Tim began building a case around the idea that the murderer was actually after me.

I would have laughed too, if it wasn’t beginning to sound more and more plausible. For, as they all laughed from the supposed implausibility of the theory, and unanimously concluded the joke with “Who would want to kill Moreen?” I was able to think of two people who would want me dead: Pavlos, and the Chinese delivery man. And, although Pavlos would have seemed the more likely Prime Suspect, the fact is that Ayman had said Doreen had ordered Chinese that night. Maybe the food – the poisoned food – was intended for me.

“Why would the Chinese delivery man want to kill you?” Tim asks as he drives me back to my apartment.

I tell him the story.

A few weeks earlier, I’d had a hankering for some Chinese food and so I ordered some from the restaurant just down the street. I made them deliver me a new order of food because the quality of the shrimp was debatable. Then just a week ago, the delivery man had to make two trips to my apartment because they got the order wrong. I thought he’d apologize. Instead, he yelled at me in the hallway, refusing to take my food because I’d eaten some of it (before realizing I’d ordered something else entirely). I called the restaurant manager and complained of his behavior, requesting never to have him as a delivery man again. So last week, I tried again. I ordered my usual mixed vegetables and shrimp. What I got was mixed vegetables, shrimp and a carpet-sized staple. I called the restaurant manager and implicated my delivery man. I think he wants to kill me.

With that, Tim drops me off at my apartment. I thank him for the evening. He sees me to the door, kisses my cheek and says he’ll call me.

I enter the lobby, happy for the relatively subdued evening in which I remained alive, ready to plug my nose upon arriving at the 7th floor, when Sammy, the late shift doorman hands me a court summons.

“What is this?” I ask him.

He shrugs.

“Did the other tenants get one?”

“No, just you,” he says.

I open the summons, nervously presuming I’m being called to enlighten the court about my whereabouts on the night Doreen was murdered or killed herself with local Szechwan or Chinese, but I am mistaken. This is not the case of the Borough of Manhattan v. killer of Doreen. It’s the case of “City of Los Angeles and the State of California vs. Serena Yack”. I am to appear in Malibu Court November 16th. The state has brought a case against the drunk driver who hit me and Pavlos on Pacific Coast Highway.

Also called to testify: Pavlos Polychronopolis.

A week later I finally hear back from Tim. He’s sorry he hasn’t called me back from the message I left a week ago, but he’s gotten back together with his ex-girlfriend. “Just one of those things. You know how it is.” I remind him that he told me he uses that as an excuse to break off dating. He laughs, then assures me he’s speaking the truth.



SELF-MADE MILLIONAIRE and DEAD DOREEN are chapters in my unpublished novel, LOST IN MANHATTAN which was in previously in development at Oxygen Media and optioned for TV/Film. I have slightly revised them here so that they are readable as standalone. They are true stories from my first 6 months of Manhattan in 1994. I lived in Manhattan from 1994 to 2002, the Guiliani years, wherein I was lost in redhead theatre most of the time.