Ms. Congeniality by Jan Allen

A sassy and sexually charged senior citizen takes a singles trip to New York City, with the hope of catching Husband #6.

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The glossy paper pinned to the bulletin board at our public library advertised: "Weeklong Bus Tour to New York City for Single Senior Citizens." This sounded like the perfect way to find a new boyfriend, maybe even another husband. Husband #5 died in 2021 and I haven't had a gentleman friend for four months - my longest dry spell ever. They keep dying on me.

Besides, it's past time for this trip.

I was one of the first passengers to arrive this morning. I dumped off my luggage by the bus's underbelly and signed the legal papers. These documents are in case I croak on the bus. Once you make it past 65 in this life, they make you sign waivers as if you're skydiving with a moth-eaten parachute.

So I take the aisle seat in the second row and watch the old-looking old people file past me. I'll jump over to the window seat when I see a man, but I count twenty-four passengers before the first one boards. Number twenty-six is a man, too; he is obviously "with" number twenty-five. Don't give me any crap - how can she tell they're partners from walking by her in a bus? - or I'll turn this into a story about Husband #1 and how it took me five years to figure it out.

Seven men end up boarding the bus, out of a total of fifty passengers. None sit next to me. I'd say it was a horrid trick for the bus company to play on us gullible old ladies, except... I studied all the women who plodded by me, my fellow contestants in this Love-Bus Game. My only competitors are Ms. AquaNet Hairdo, Ms. Poligrip Grin and Miss L'Oreal Bronzer in a sleeveless button-down blouse. There should be an international law that every woman over fifty wears sleeves to the elbow.

Here's a little tidbit about me: I have a nose like Kate Middleton (rhinoplasty, which I needed for asthma), green eyes like Emma Stone (contact lenses, which I needed for distance), and lips like Angelina Jolie (Botox, which I needed, period). I limit the foods which journey past my lips, so my body mass index is pretty darn good for 71. My bosom is my crown jewel; it is bolstered in a bra bunker, which sets forth the optical illusion that gravity has not yet taken its toll.

Ladies, let me tell you a secret: Every heterosexual man is a boob man. If they claim to be a "leg man" or a "butt man," they are a "boob man" additionally.

The last woman to board the bus stumbles up the steps and flails past the driver like a six-foot tall air-powered tube puppet. You think she's going to deflate and topple over, but she suddenly gains her balance and puffs up, until she's standing beside me. I scoot over to the window, as the seat next to me is probably the only one still available.

People around me shriek when they spy this loose-jointed wonder. "Carrie!"

She acknowledges five women and one of the men by their first names, as if she'll win a million dollars on a TV game show by getting them correct.

She finally sits, presents me with a many-crooked-teeth smile. "I'm Carrie."

"I heard." I usually don't waste niceties on women, but I suppose I can share my name. This flat-chested woman who doesn't even bother with lipstick might win Ms. Congeniality, but honey, this is a Ms. America competition.

"I'm Marilyn." I started going by Marilyn instead of Mary after my last boyfriend died four months ago. We moved to this town to be closer to his kids and grandkids. Then I guess he decided he didn't want to be closer to them after all, because he up and died before he bought my diamond ring. Nobody knows me in this town, (except his kids, who made a point of never remembering my name), so I decided Marilyn - as in Monroe - had a nice ring to it.

"Are you Marilyn Babst?"

How does Carrie know this? "Yes."

"We're roommates on this trip."

Hold on here. I assumed I'd have my own room. I certainly paid enough.

I study Carrie. I wonder if she's one of those people who hoards the remote control, turns the TV to an endless loop of Christiane Amanpour, volume 60, then starts snoring like a sailor. But once in a while, I try to look for a bright side. At least her cosmetics aren't going to take up any space on the sink counter.

When we stop for lunch, people wave Carrie over to their tables, but she sits down with me. I keep an eye out for one - possibly two - of the five heterosexual men on our bus to join us at our table for four. Lo and behold, the one I've picked out as most desirable from our earlier stop at the gas station parks himself in the chair next to Carrie.

"I'm Ken."

I let Carrie introduce the both of us to him, as I sit up straighter and smile demurely. Ken is wearing a tucked polo shirt and khakis. He is thin. He is clean-shaven. He is not bald. He doesn't smell bad. He walked over here without an assistive device.

Ken tells Carrie he recognizes her from our community's senior center. "You go to the acrylic painting class on Thursdays, right?"

"Yep. Watercolor on Tuesday mornings too."

"I've been on a waiting list to get into the acrylics class for six months."

"I hope there's an opening for you soon. All the art classes are popular."

"I've seen your art on display there. It takes my breath away."

I'm not sure if this conversation has come to an end or not, but it is boring me to death. I have been told by men that I'm an artist in my own way; I can make Ken gasp for breath too.

"What are you interested in doing in New York, Ken?" I ask. Whatever it is, it will be coincidentally what I'm interested in doing.

Ken looks from Carrie to me. "I think most of the time is planned out for us, isn't it?"

I wouldn't know. I intentionally haven't read the brochure. "I meant, what interests you the most?"

"I guess the NBC studio tour. What about you?" He looks directly at Carrie when he asks the question, which is definitely rude.

Carrie waves to a fellow bus passenger standing at the restaurant entrance. Unfortunately, it's Miss AquaNet. "I guess the Neil Diamond musical. I've never seen a Broadway production. Definitely the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Maybe the cruise. It all sounds so amazing." Carrie turns to me, "What about you, Marilyn?"

I want to copy Ken's "NBC studio" answer. But I don't get the chance because Ms. AquaNet joins us, and immediately starts talking incessantly.

Ken is a lost cause. He keeps looking at Carrie adoringly, like a dog she's just rescued from the pound. It's pathetic. What does Ken see in graceless flat-chested Carrie? For heaven's sake, he's four inches shorter than she is.

I search the restaurant for the second most desirable man.

---

Dinner is at a cafeteria-style place. One lamentable issue with embarking on a bus trip is that everywhere you stop, long lines form. Another lamentable issue is you might eat at a cafeteria.

While we were on the road all day, I'd pretended to be asleep so I wouldn't have to make small talk with Carrie, and she'd turned to talk to her adoring fans in the nearby seats. The problem is that while pretending to be asleep, I'd nodded off, and now I'm last in line at the cafeteria. The second most desirable man is already seated at a booth for four, eating his meatloaf and mashed potatoes - by himself. I know that won't last.

I see Carrie at the front of the line, so I weasel my way around forty or so old ladies as I mumble, "I'm with Carrie."

This trick lands me - with my sliced ham and coconut cream pie - in the booth next to Chuck, who has more weight around his middle than Ken, and considerably less hair on his head. He is, after all, the second most desirable man.

Two women are already parked across from him in the booth for four. Their names escape me. As they should. They try to engage Chuck and me in conversation about games played with decks of cards. When that gets no response, they yammer about games with dice and tiles. Next, jigsaw puzzles. I thought the only thing you could say about a jigsaw puzzle was that the pieces were interlocking or they were not. I was wrong. I was fifteen-minutes-of-jibber-jabber wrong.

Meanwhile, perturbing guffaws and hoots of laughter keep erupting from a few tables away, and I don't have to look over there to know Carrie is in the middle of this uproar.

The two women at our table finally leave, taking their bland blather with them. It's still difficult to get more than a word or two out of Chuck. I ask him questions about his hobbies, his children and grandchildren, his life in general. Nothing. I pretend I don't know how to use my smartphone, invest my money, get rid of a wasp nest. Nothing. In the past I've preferred the silent type where men are concerned, but at our age a woman has to worry about dementia if a man doesn't string a few sentences together.

I've started glancing around the room for the third most desirable man when Chuck whispers, "I noticed you at lunch."

I lean in so our shoulders touch. "I noticed you too," I whisper back.

"I was wondering if you could introduce me to that woman you were sitting with."

There were two women at the lunch table besides me, but I don't bother to ask which one he wants an introduction to. "Of course."

I stand, grab my tray, and pitch my perfectly intact coconut cream pie into the bin. At least I saved 600 calories.

---

When we stop for the night, Carrie waits with me until all my luggage is pulled from the bus. Because my suitcases are many, she puts one of them on top of her roller bag. As we walk to our room together, she experiments with a little breezy chit-chat, but I ignore it. Once we're in our room, she retrieves her toothbrush without a further word and departs. By the time I've finished in our bathroom, she's under her covers, including her head. The TV is off. At no time through the night does she snore. When I wake up in the morning, there is no evidence that she was ever in the room, although a folded wet towel in the corner of the bathroom reveals she's already taken a shower.

On the way to the buffet breakfast in the lobby, the strap on my bra comes undone, so I stop in the public ladies' restroom. I'm in the end stall when I hear the door open.

"What nerve!"

I peek through the slot between the wall and the door. Ms. Poligrip and two other women from the bus are standing by the mirrors combing their hair. Poligrip applies an orange lipstick that's unpardonable.

"I feel sorry for Carrie," Poligrip says. "She always volunteers to room with the stranger on these trips, but they've never been as horrible as her."

One of the other two says, "I have a bruise on my arm where she elbowed me out of the way. So she could eat with that weird guy who works at Home Depot and doesn't know what aisle the paint's in."

They all giggle in a way that makes me know for certain I need to be on the lookout for the third most desirable man.

"At least she doesn't hang out at the senior center. We'll never have to see her again after this trip."

"She's one of those women who always has to have a man at her side."

"A gold digger."

"I can think of a better word. We used it back in high school."

They giggle some more, like numbskulls.

"She thinks she's god's gift."

They walk out, but the door takes its time shutting, and I hear one of them say, "You have to admit, she is attractive though."

I can't remember the last time I've felt this alive.

---

I sit at a table in the corner of the lobby and look for the third most desirable man. There are three heterosexual men remaining. The first man I locate is in the buffet line as he pours himself a waffle, holding everybody up while he waits for the batter to possibly crisp or more likely (from the smell permeating the room) burn. There are five or six syrup stains on his tee-shirt. As he waits, he pulls a handkerchief - or possibly a flag - out of his sweatpants, and when he blows his nose, it sounds like the tuba in a marching band.

My second candidate for third most desirable man sits at a table with the two homosexual men. They are jointly presenting to him the most mesmerizing TED talk of all time. One leans forward, the other uses hand gestures. He laughs out loud every fifteen to twenty seconds, and let me tell you, nothing is that funny. His laugh ends in a cough every time, and I can see the outline of a cigarette pack in his shirt pocket. This is probably the last trip he'll take without an oxygen tank. Or maybe the last trip he'll take, period.

The third remaining candidate sits at a table for four. He is surrounded by three women, one of whom wipes his mouth with a napkin every time he swallows. The woman on the other side of him pets his arm, as if he is wearing a kitten.

I am not going to bother further describing these men except to mention the words "feeble" and "pitiful." All three give off a vibe that before capitulating to their feebleness, they would murder you with an ax.

I think I'll have a go at the smoker.

---

The bus arrives in Manhattan in late afternoon. Some old people start singing "New York, New York," but they're too out of sync to make it past the first line. For guidance, Carrie pulls up a YouTube of Frank Sinatra, but they still fizzle out. Even Ol' Blue Eyes can't help these obviously tone deaf and likely stone deaf old women.

The bus driver drops us at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I lived in Brooklyn Heights with Husband #2 for seventeen years; I can't believe it was over twenty years ago. I visited the Met at least twice a year. But as I discreetly follow The Smoker from room to room, I pretend to be overjoyed by the permanent collection, as if I'm seeing it all for the first time - just in case he glances my way. I can't have him thinking I don't appreciate Self-Portrait with a Straw Hat.

Then we walk through Central Park with a local guide. The Smoker lags behind. I don't know if this is by choice or physical necessity. I stay even farther back, to spy on him. I happen to notice Carrie is off by herself for a change, bringing up the rear of our group.

I don't hear a thing the guide has to say. I can't imagine she knows half as much as I do.

We board the bus, which takes us through the Lincoln Tunnel to eat and stay overnight in New Jersey. I walk with Carrie to our room, plop on my bed, and finally force myself to read our itinerary. After that, I skip dinner, remain in bed.

When Carrie gets back, I pretend to be asleep, but I can feel her standing over me. After I hear her walk away, I open my eyes and watch her put a plate wrapped with cellophane in our refrigerator. Then she tiptoes to the corner of our room, turns her back to me, and quietly takes her shirt off. I see her nightgown peeking out from under her pillow. She turns her head and sees it too. I haven't moved a muscle so she assumes I'm sleeping. When she pivots to retrieve it, I see two vertical scars where her breasts should be. It's all I can do not to gasp. I know what a double mastectomy is. But I've never seen the result of this procedure firsthand.

Half an hour later Carrie starts to snore a little. Just enough to let me know for certain she's asleep. I'm starving, so I retrieve the sandwich from the refrigerator. Why in the world would she purchase this for me, when I have been nothing but rude to her?

---

Per the brochure, today we tour Lower Manhattan. It's what I've been dreading. Yet, it's partly the reason I signed up. I knew a visit to the 9/11 Museum would be part of our itinerary, and I've needed to see it since it opened eleven years ago.

I sit on a bench outside our New Jersey hotel while everyone else is partaking in the buffet. Swallowing a morsel of food is impossible for me.

The Smoker comes out - of course he's going to come outside to smoke. I couldn't have planned this any better if I'd planned it.

"Hello," he says. He pats his cigarette pack through his shirt pocket three or four times, but he doesn't pull one out. "Mind if I sit?"

As my answer, I scoot over, and he sits.

"I'm Rich," he says. I perk up reflexively. But then I realize he's telling me his name.

"I'm Mary-Marilyn." It's the first time since I gave myself my new name that I've made this mistake.

"Nice to meet you, Marilyn." He squeezes his cigarette pack, then says, "Are you interested in me?"

"What?" I feign indignation. Since I don't feel like myself this morning, it really feels like indignation.

"I think you were following me yesterday."

I don't know why I was so desperate to find a man on this trip. Sure, I want to feel protected by a man. Sure, I want to feel that certain safety that being in a relationship has always made me feel. But why bother? He's just going to die on me anyway. Just like all my other men. "Maybe I was following you around. Maybe you did seem interesting. So what. This is a singles trip. Isn't the point of it to meet other singles?"

"Well," he raises one eyebrow and grins. "I'm not sure we're supposed to stalk the other singles."

"Stalk? Get over yourself!" I stand and walk toward the bus.

When Rich walks past me in the aisle, he clears his throat so loudly that I - and everybody else nearby, including Carrie - have to look at him. His wink is definitely aimed at me.

As the bus proceeds through the Lincoln tunnel, I become aware that I am breathing. As we drive through Greenwich Village and Chinatown, I become aware that I am breathing too many times. When we reach the Financial District, I'm pretty sure I'm having a panic attack. I've never had one before, but even when you're in your seventies, there still might be a first time for everything.

The bus driver pulls over to the curb on Barclay Street. This is the stop for the 9/11 Museum and Memorial. People start to stand up. I squeeze Carrie's arm. I can't catch my breath. I am panting, sweating. I try to say something but I can't fit in any words between my gasps for air.

Carrie stands, yells, "Hey, does anybody have a paper bag?" Total silence. "Listen up. Did anybody buy anything yesterday in a small paper bag?"

I can hear some overhead compartments clicking open. "Here," a female voice says.

Carrie is handed a tiny white paper bag with an ashtray inside. Carrie dumps the ashtray on her seat. She leans over and says to me, "Put this over your nose and mouth, then breathe ten times at a normal rate."

A different female voice says, "I don't think you're supposed to do the breathe-in-the-bag thing anymore, Carrie."

"Just go, everyone. I'll call 9-1-1 if I have to, but just give her some space."

"Carrie, if you don't go to the museum with the group, you won't be able to get in." I think this comes from the so-called leader of our group, the one with all our paperwork, although everybody knows Carrie is the real leader.

"I don't care. All of you, get out!" Carrie sits back down, looks at me closely. "That's enough. Breathe without the bag now."

Nobody's moving. Carrie jumps up. "Get out, I said!" She sits back down.

A meek voice says, "Carrie, you're sitting on my ashtray."

Carrie reaches under her butt, hands the woman her souvenir. "Marilyn, try the bag again, okay? Bend over so your head is down by your knees."

At least ten people say something encouraging to me as they pass by.

"I'm praying for you, Marilyn."

"Feel better soon, Marilyn."

"You're in my thoughts, Marilyn."

A male voice: "Hang in there, Marilyn."

After a few minutes, after everybody's gone, after I know it's no longer an option for me to attend the 9/11 Museum and Memorial, I start breathing normally. I stay bent over anyway. Carrie's hand lays gently on my back.

When I raise my head, Carrie says, "We can just sit here and relax."

"You're missing the memorial because of me." "No worries, Marilyn. We talked about what we were looking forward to, remember? This was definitely not a highlight for me. Are you better?"

I nod. "I've never had a panic attack before."

"My daughter used to get them. I'm glad yours wasn't too bad."

It's just the two of us on the bus. I don't know where the driver went. There's overwhelming traffic noise outside but it sounds like I'm hearing it through a long tunnel.

Carrie smiles. "If you want to talk, I've been told I'm a good listener."

I take a deep breath, to make sure I can. "My husband and I lived here for seventeen years. He was a consultant for a financial services company, Cantor Fitzgerald."

Carrie whispers, "Oh, no," because if you're old enough to remember September 11, 2001, then you also remember the name Cantor Fitzgerald, whose corporate headquarters were on the 101st to 105th floors of 1 World Trade Center.

Most of my neighbors in Brooklyn Heights saw the second plane strike, but by a gruesome twist of fate, I saw the first one too, the one that hit the North Tower, where I knew my husband was hard at work on the 102nd floor.

"His name was Martin." He had a chipped front tooth that was almost always on display. His ears stuck out like Clark Gable's. He jogged twenty miles every weekend. He was forty-eight when he died.

"I'm sorry." We sit in silence until Carrie says, "Do you want to get some fresh air?"

I nod.

After we walk a block, I see an empty bench, and we sit. I'm afraid to walk too far because I don't know where the reflecting pools are, and I don't want to see them by mistake.

"Marilyn, how long have you lived in our town?" Carrie asks me.

"Four months."

"I've moved around quite a bit myself. It can be lonely. Our senior center is a great place to meet people."

"I've never really enjoyed those kinds of things." I've attended a senior center in other towns but only until I've picked out a man there and whisked him away from it. "Besides, people don't really like me very much." I'm sure Carrie knows that by "people," I mean "women."

"I like you, Marilyn. I'm not sure why. You've put a lot of effort into alienating almost everybody you've come into contact with on this trip."

"You like me because you like everybody."

"You should give it a try. It makes life a lot easier. But maybe 'everybody' is a lofty goal. Maybe you should start smaller."

"Maybe I should, but every woman I meet gets on my nerves."

"Do I get on your nerves?"

"Well, right this minute you aren't." I smile. "I guess I'll start with you then."

Carrie pats my knee. "That would be nice, Marilyn, but I think you should start with a woman who will be around in two or three months."

It's my turn to whisper, "Oh, no."

---

When we stop for lunch, Carrie is besieged by her many friends. I tell the hostess I'm alone, and she sits me at a table for four by myself. I pick up the menu.

"Mind if I sit with you?"

It's Rich.

"Free country," I say. I have to stop myself from sticking my chest out.

He sits down next to me instead of across the table. I realize I've never seen him smoking. "How come you don't smell like cigarettes?"

"My seven-year-old granddaughters begged me to quit when they visited last month. I keep the cigarettes in my pocket in case of emergency, but so far nothing's come close. They're identical twins, so cute. Jaden and Cammie. They live in Philly but my son had to work last-minute so I didn't get to meet up with them this trip. You want to see their picture?"

The most bizarre thing happens: I say yes and I realize I'm not lying.

Conversation is effortless. I wonder why I ever thought he looked feeble or, worse, like an ax murderer. By the time we've finished lunch, I know we've made a special connection.

The bus drops us off after lunch at Macy's. When I start walking toward Bryant Park, Rich falls into step beside me. Our steps match for the rest of the trip.

At night, Carrie and I talk. I tell her about Martin, about my life after 9/11. She tells me about her cancer fight. Fourteen months ago, her oncologist estimated a year. Her girlfriends know she fought breast cancer seven years ago, but they don't know it's recurred. I wonder how many of them will stick around when the going gets tough.

---

Back home, after everyone else is gone and the bus has pulled away, Rich and I are still leaning against my car in the parking lot. When we left Manhattan for the last time at the end of the week, I missed it even more than I thought I would. I already knew before the trip started that I missed New York a lot.

"I want to live there," Rich says, and I wonder if I've willed him to say it. "Do you think you could? Live there again?"

"Oh my gosh! Yes!"

"Then let's do it. Let's leave tomorrow."

I'll be honest, I almost change my mind. I almost say OK. But instead I say, "I really like you, Rich. But I can't move right now. I'm going to be busy for the next three months." (Hopefully longer.)

He doesn't pry. "Okay," he says, "but I can't promise I'll wait for you. Our lives are getting shorter every second, and Jaden and Cammie are growing like weeds."

Nobody knows better than me that there are women out there with hawk eyes, waiting to scoop Rich up like an unsuspecting chihuahua. But losing Rich is a chance I'll have to take. I've made a promise to myself to be there for Carrie no matter what. I am going to be a woman's friend.