My Mom, The Amazingly Good Matchmaker

by Rachel Sklar

But travel we did, hailing a cab downtown, trying to drum up a destination. We finally settled on Fez (my suggestion), a flickery, middle-eastern lounge with low couches and swingy, beaded curtains. We sat down, ordered drinks, and, finally, started hitting it off—especially since he’d arranged to have food put in front of me and I’d pointed out that the girl at the bar was totally showing her thong.

More drinks were ordered. My smile became a tad goofy. Hi Morty! You’re fun! He was smiling too. I got a little chatty. Did he know that I’d written a book during law school? That I’d recorded a pop song while I was in Sweden? That my sister was visiting because it was my birthday? It was my birthday! It’s true, I had turned twenty-eight somewhere between the thong and the third drink, and I proudly informed Morty that the real party was tomorrow at some bar in Soho. Our names were on a list. Morty, that denizen of the Hudson, seemed suitably impressed. Then he whipped out his phone and found my book on Amazon, showing off his pre-Blackberry technology. It was the year 2000, and now I was impressed. Morty was cool! And cute. Hi Morty!

Suddenly, the waitress appeared—with cake, and a candle. I looked at Morty. “Happy twenty-eighth, birthday girl,” he said, grinning, as my heart did a little flip.

We ended up at a diner at 4 A.M., convulsed in laughter and not even because we were drunk. It was 5 A.M. when we caught a cab back uptown, and between the cake and the company I was ready for the kiss. Open body language, the artful tilt of the head, city block after city block—nothing. That Morty may not have been choosy about his blind dates, but he knew what he was doing.

The next day I got an e-mail wishing me a happy birthday, and a phone call later to say it in person. On Monday he e-mailed to make a plan:

TO: Morty
FROM: Rachel
My mom’s been busy on my behalf—I’m seeing Shlomo Feingold tonight and Seymour Hirschenbaum tomorrow.

TO: Rachel
FROM: Morty
A hundred bucks says Shlomo and Seymour don’t get in a combined twenty-five words of conversation.

I was no longer drunk, and Morty was still funny. A good sign! My heart did that little flip again. Or maybe it was my stomach—Morty had fed me well.