It had been an hour since he had arrived at the reception area of Schmidt, Goldman, Anderson, & Peters, P.C. at Suite 7720 in the General Motors Building unable to decide whether to address Joel Goldman, Esq., the father of his live-in girlfriend, Laura, as Sir or Mister or a straightforward and snappy Joel. The reception area was bright and ridiculously roomy — about the entire size of the $1,000-a-month, one-bedroom apartment in Hoboken that he had shared with Laura for the past two years now. And the air was cold, too, ridiculously cold; it was November but the chill of Freon filled the space as if it were still summer. Somehow he wished it was still summer, so he wouldn’t be here contemplating about this predicament: Sir or Mister or Joel.

Somehow he wished he had never talked about getting married or having kids or whatever came across his mind that got him here after one of those nights with Laura when he told her exactly what she wanted to hear—whatever it was!—just to get lucky. And this was the reason why he was here: he was exactly the kind of guy who would tell Laura what she wanted to hear or do what she expected him to do because he wanted to make her feel that she was lucky to be with him as much as he wanted to simply get lucky. Of course, this was exactly what she wanted him to do: ask for her hand from her father — man-to-man.

But would he get lucky with her father as much as he had gotten lucky with her?

Jon Cruz, boyish and lanky with lazy eyes, was slouching on the plush leather chair, feeling cold. But he was more than physically uncomfortable to be here. He was simply unsure of himself: a wanna-be Broadway playwright; a wanna-be twenty-four year old Catholic husband to Laura, a thirty-something Jewish girl; a wanna-be rich boy. He was simply a foreign-born Catholic, working at a dead-end city job in Jersey City who was lucky enough to get lucky with someone like Laura.

What was he to show Sir? Mister? Joel?

His balls? Whatever. He simply had nothing to show. Not even his blue-collar family had money to show: his father and mother both worked at the US Post Office.

What was he to tell Sir? Mister? Joel?

His “commitment” to Laura? Should that be enough?

Minutes later, a slender, bookish blonde ushered him into Joel Goldman, Esq.’s office. The room’s tone was minimalist: white-on- white from floor to ceiling-to-wall. An L-shaped ceiling to wall window with a greeting card view of Central Park. A mural-size Chuck Close rendering of Joel Goldman—his bespectacled and bearded avuncular face fused with triangular grids of amoeba-like shapes of vivid color—hung behind the paper-cluttered desk. A plush black living room set. And the man himself, Joel Goldman, was just as intimidating: a tall sinewy man with big hands; a conspicuous mole on the upper left cheek, like Laura’s, that provoked more attention than the view of Central Park and the Chuck Close piece. What more? The office was ridiculously “cavernous.” “Cavernous” — his big-word description to something that seemed to triple the size of the $1,000-a-month apartment in Hoboken. He was even more insecure to be here now: for him this office was a house in itself. He could imagine dividing the space for a bigger bedroom, a bigger living room, a bigger kitchen than what he and Laura had now.

Joel Goldman, Esq. was seated behind his desk, rubbing his chin and gazing at Jon from head to toe. Jon, both arms perched wide on the sofa’s headboard, was seated at the center trying to look cool not cold as he really was. Jon felt he was far enough from the gaze—this made Jon somewhat comfortable.

“So how are you, Jon?” the father said. “We got about five minutes. I have a meeting with the General Counsel from J. Crew.”

It was the first time he heard her father utter his name: “Jon” as straightforward and snappy as “Joel”. This was the first time he faced her father alone, man-to-man. Joel Goldman, Esq. was simply too ridiculously preoccupied with his lawyering life. Out by seven in the morning. Home by ten eleven or twelve at night. A frequent member of The National Law Journal’s profile of the nation's top ten trial attorneys. “Jon” was more than he had gotten from her father since they’d met two years ago. That was, if her father remembered they had met. Still “Jon” was more than her father’s fleeting glance, the hand wave from afar, and the barely audible “Hi” or “Hello.”

“Jon, you nervous?” the father asked.

Jon trembled — at least he felt a sheepish tremor inside his body. He didn’t show this. Instead, he placed his hands on his thighs and simply smiled to shroud his discomfort.

“No sir.” He said, “Sir.” This felt right.

“No. Don’t ‘Sir.’ Call me Joel. That is, if you’re comfortable,” the father said beaming.

Ooops? Jon thought. Fine. Joel would be fine.

Joel grabbed a black retractable pen on the desk and started clicking its button spontaneously and said, “Pardon me, Jon. I do this when I get nervous.”

“Joel—Sir—I-I m-mean Joel,” he stammered, “I’m here about Laura.”

Joel glanced absently at the window pondering something. For Jon that something could be his “worth”: — a dead-end city job in Jersey City; a foreign-born Catholic; son of US Postal workers. That is: NIL! ZILCH! NOTHING!

Jon was clawing his thighs, hanging on to Laura, thinking about Laura—the first date at the Iron Monkey, the summer jaunts in Seaside Heights at the Jersey Shore, the Thursday nights out at the Cadillac bar, the silly Friday morning spats, the weekend pot-smoking experiments from a year ago, when he got lucky – finally, when she slapped him and cried, Sunday nights watching “The Sopranos,” her dull Thanksgiving lasagna. Suddenly all these things that seemed more than events and routines in his life now seemed like a fusion of every little thing that brought them together to that one-bedroom apartment in Hoboken. He couldn’t bear the thought of being alone, being lonely. He couldn’t stand losing her based on a silly technicality: his “worth” assessed in money.

Jon kept salivating and swallowing to keep his mouth from getting dry. He was simply nervous.

Joel turned to Jon, dropped the pen on the desk, and tugged his tie to steady his nerves. Then, rubbing his chin, he said, “Jon, let’s talk about—maybe—hmmmm—let me see. What do you know about us?”

About us? Confused, Jon knitted his brow.

“About us,” Joel said, raising a finger, “about Jews.”

“Oh,” he said, grinning in relief, “I saw Schindler’s List.”

“OK. So what do you think about it?”

“Well, it’s definitely not a Woody Allen flick.”

“Interesting,” Joel said leaning on the table, “You like Woody Allen?”

“Like?” he said, slouching. He started to feel warm, finally. “Love him. Funny guy. I can’t remember what film this came from but I remember Woody Allen—I think it was in one of his earlier movies—I remember Woody Allen saying, ‘Relationships are like chickens. You don’t need the chicken. But you need the eggs.’ That’s classic.”

“Interesting—hmmm,” Joel said with a wrinkled groove of disapproval on his face. He was watching Jon hold back the chuckle. “OK. OK. Chickens. Relationships. Interesting. Jon—are you—are you implicitly stating that my daughter is a chicken and you’re just after the eggs?”

What? Jon whispered to himself. Jon suddenly lost the humor in him. He sat straight up. He wiped out the smile off his face. He looked stern, serious. He thought Woody Allen ... what am I saying? Chickens. Eggs. Laura. No. No. No. Then, shaking his head, he said, “No. No. That’s not it. It’s just a line in a movie. That’s all. Love your daughter. She’s—chicken—I mean—you know—she’s definitely not a chicken. Love her. She’s a nice girl.”

Joel glanced at his wristwatch. He turned his sights to the window. Then he turned to Jon. Then he gazed out the window again. Then he turned to Jon; then to the window; then to Jon and said, “How old are you?”

“Twenty-four.”

“Twenty-four. That’s nice to know. That’s about right. That’s good,” he said with a grin.

About right? Marriage at twenty-four? Jon thought he had to say it now. That he wanted to ask for the hand of Laura Goldman. That he wanted to spend the rest of his life with a Goldman. That he was willing to don a yarmulke for Laura. That he was willing to set aside his Catholicism for awhile if needed, on special occasions. He just wanted to settle the deal now. He wanted to be married. He didn’t want to be a sinner anymore, an unmarried man -- living like a married man -- under one roof with a woman. He didn’t want to have the circumstance of having an out-of-wedlock child for the sake of his Catholic parents.

After all, he had been getting lucky—so much lucky—with Laura lately. But somehow—deep inside—he felt that he wouldn’t be lucky at this moment. Not with her father. Not as a prospective son-in-law who extols a Woody Allen flick more than Schindler’s List. He felt the chill of insecurity creeping up his spine…

The slender, bookish blonde knocked on the door, peeked inside and nodded to Joel who nodded back in haste. Joel turned to Jon and said, “I’m sorry to let you go this early. J. Crew is here. We’ll talk some other time. Make an appointment.”

Make an appointment?

Jon stood up, walked to Joel and shook his hand. They peered into each other’s eyes with a glimmer of interest — more interest than there would have been prior to their brief conversation. Then Jon was ushered out by the blonde before he could utter a word—it felt like a shove. Jon walked to the hallway in his drooping gait.

“So how’d you make out?” Laura asked, tugging his arm. It was late in the evening. They were in bed. The lamp projected half moon on his face. He was reading The New York Times, focusing on a story other than his own morning. Although they’d both been home for several hours, He had succeeded not hearing this question since they both came home until now.

“Ah—good,” he said, avoiding her eyes, “good I guess.” He could imagine her gloom: the puckered brows; teeth pinching the lower lip; face half covered by her henna mane.

“You told Pop?” she asked.

He heaved a sigh and said, “Umm—not exactly.”

She let loose of his arm. He wanted to look at her, but he couldn’t. He could see her sulking from the corner of his eye.

“Why? You chicken out?” she asked with a rasp of disappointment.

He began reading through the paper again, searching for another story, another escape. Then he sighed and said, “I-I was c-cut off. Joel said he had a meeting. He said make an appointment for next time. The secretary tugged my arm out of the office. I was cut off. I mean—I was there. I was about to say it. I was—”

“Wait, wait. Hold on—you said Joel? You called Pop, Joel?”

“He wanted me to call him Joel.”

“Interesting,” she said, tugging his arm once more, “That’s a good sign.”

“Apparently, not good enough,” he said, folding the paper. He reached for her hand to feel her.

“Pop’s a workaholic. That’s typical for Pop. I should’ve told you. It’s fine. I forgive you. We’ll get there. You’ll be back, right?”

“Of course,” he said, looking at her, finally. He could see her father in her: the round face; the firm tug of her hands; the conspicuous mole on the upper left cheek.

“Really? When?”

“As soon as I get an appointment. I want to at least tell him that I’m willing to don a yarmulke—”

“You wear a yarmulke?” she quipped. “You’ll look stupid. I don’t want you to wear a yarmulke.”

“Well—” he paused and smiled at her. Her face was beaming with glee. He felt relieved. He reached for the lamp, turned it off and placed the folded newspaper on its side. He pulled the sheets up to his chest. He felt her palm on his chest, on his heart. Then she turned to him and placed her leg on top of his leg.

“Jon,” she whispered, “I think someone’s gonna get lucky.”

“I’m tired,” he said, “not tonight.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

He placed his hand above her hand. He felt her warmth. Then she pressed her lips gently on his cheek. He needed this. This was fine for now. He was content enough not to be alone for now. Then he thought: Relationships. Chickens. Eggs. Whatever. Sir. Mister Joel. Joel—interesting. Woody Allen. Yarmulke. Donning a yarmulke. Mr. Laura Goldman? Yes. Becoming Mr. Laura Goldman. Cool. Man enough to be Mr. Laura Goldman.

He shut his eyes and began to snooze. He was warm enough to get through the night without the luck.