I Loved You Wednesday (23 page)

“I asked you a question.”

“About the service?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, what’s the big deal?”

“I don’t know. What is the big deal?”

“Nothing. I called, and they said you had no messages.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you’d already called?”

“I don’t know.”

“They said you’ve been checking after my messages for a month.”

“Not that long.”

“What’s the difference how long, Chris? The point is you’ve been getting my messages.” “So?”

“What do you mean, ‘So’? You don’t see
me
calling your service for
your
messages, do you?”

“Why would you want to?”

“Well, just what is it about
my
messages that make them so fascinating?”

“I don’t know. I guess I’m just interested in keeping up with your career.”

“There is nothing, Chris, going on in my career, that you don’t know.”

“That’s not true. You get messages you don’t always talk about.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Petty things. An audition. A callback. A friend here and there.”

“All right, I don’t like any of this. Not only do you call in for my messages, but you do it sneakily, not even telling me you’re doing it, which makes it worse.”

“I thought if I told you you’d tell me to stop.”

“Damn right!”

“That’s why I didn’t tell you!”

“Fine. And now I’ve found out. SO STOP!”

“You really are an ingrate. There’ll be no yogurt-carrot salad for you!”

“For which I can only be grateful!”

“It just so happens if I go out of my way, wondering what’s going on in your life and if I happen to call your service to learn who’s leaving you messages and if it makes me somewhat secure being more in touch with you vis-à-vis those trying to reach you ... is that such a goddamned crime?”

Since I can think of no sensible rejoinder to penetrate such reasoning, I say nothing. Chris continues, “I can’t believe you could actually make such a big deal out of an issue as minor and insignificant as this! The trouble with you, Steve, is you spend so much of your time worrying about trivialities you’ve never learned how to celebrate life!”

“Chris, calm down, huh?”

“Now generosity is taken for contempt!” she crows, turning on her heels, stomping out of the kitchen.

While I’m deciding what she could possibly have meant by that and whether or not she wants me to follow her, the phone rings.

“Congratulations!”
beams Rhonda over the wires.
“You got the Pampers job!”
“NO!”

“I knew this one was going to work. They
LOVED
you. Okay. I’ve got a Hold on you to shoot for Friday. They need you tomorrow for a fitting. I’ve got a million things to do. I’ll call later with the rest of the details.”

“Thanks, Rhonda.”

“Don’t thank me, Steve. We’re going to get rich together!” Click.

Hurrying into the bedroom to spread the good word, I hear the shower running in the bathroom. So I stick my head in the door and, deciding to postpone the announcement, yell, “I’m going out for a while... have to pick up a few things!”

“Do what you want,” she yells back, still apparently miffed.

All right. If that’s the way she wants to play the game ... she’s on!

I leave the apartment and do a bit of shopping. Now nouveau-riche, I can almost afford the half pound of fresh caviar and the dozen red long-stemmed roses and the bottle of Dom Perignon ‘66 and the fifty-dollar size bottle of Shalimar, the kid’s favorite fragrance. I’ll show her who knows how to celebrate life!

“I’m overwhelmed!” exclaims Chris, once presented with her gifts. “It’s just like Christmas!”

“Well, we never really did have much of a Christmas this year, so I figured why not go all out, huh?”

“What an exciting occasion! But I feel terrible. I haven’t done anything nice for you in hours!”

“Quite all right, Chris. You give plenty. Don’t worry.”

Chris throws her arms around me, and we kiss and kiss, and I can feel the cloud of tension from our earlier collision drifting out to sea.

“Why are you so good to me, Steve? I’m
so
crazy.”

“That’s half the fun.”

“I bet you’re growing a little impatient, huh?”

“Nope.”

“Come on. Even when I do dumb things?”

“Nope.”

“I wouldn’t blame you. I’d go crazy if someone did to me what I do to you.”

“No, you wouldn’t. Not if you loved them.”

“And you love me?”

“Yes. Chris. Very, very much!”

And so, as we sit down in front of the fireplace, spreading before us the extravagant goodies I’ve brought home, preparing to launch into celebration, it’s clear once again, the SS
Lollipop
is in full sail.

Until the telephone rings!

And it is Rhonda, calling back to say I won’t believe this, talk about surprise endings, but fact is though the Benton & Bowles people loved-me-loved-me-loved-me, and it was all mine as far as they were concerned, the client wasn’t quite as strung out and opted to go instead with someone more Apple-Pie-All-American, so the Pampers spot isn’t mine,after all, sorry ‘bout that, though it sure was a close one and look at it this way: It wasn’t a total loss ‘cause the folks at Benton & Bowles really
LOVE
me now—so hang in there, honey, I’ll make a rich lady of her yet!

Crash!

Soaring to the heights, convinced something’s in the bag one minute, then plummeting to the pits the next, as it’s taken away, is an extraordinary energy sapper, rendering me down and morose.

Chris does her best to cheer me up, which is most considerate, but I’m only up for sulking and explain I just need some time to get over this disappointment. But Chris thinks that’s silly. She feels since we’re having a picnic in front of the fireplace that I should cheer up immediately. She reasons if things are running smoothly with US, what other complaints could I possibly harbor of any consequence?

“Chris, that spot meant a lot to me!”

“You mean your career is more important than me?” she concludes.

“Don’t be ridiculous!”

“It is!”

“It isn’t. They are two separate things!”

“Then cheer up!”

“I can’t just cheer up on cue. I’d love to be happy. But I feel lousy. I’ve just spent a fortune of money I haven’t even got. Can’t you allow me the privilege of one small brood? I promise to keep it down to a very few hours. I’ve quite a low self-indulgence threshold.”

“Let’s make love. That’ll cheer you up.”

“I’ll cheer up in time. If you’ll just leave me alone.”

“Oh, so now I’m bothering you?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“It’s what you said, though.”

“Chris, I’m warning you, this is no time to start a fight. I’m really in an ill temper. Let’s both be careful, huh?”

“Threatening me, huh?”

“Do you want another glass of champagne?”

“Don’t change the subject.” “What was the subject?”

“Do you want to make love?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not in the mood.”

“Why not?”

“You know why not.”

“I want to hear you say it.”

“All right. I’m in a lousy mood because I didn’t get the Pampers commercial. I’m so mad at those diaper people I may join planned parenthood! And so I do not feel like making love at this time.”

“I take that as a personal rejection!”

“You do and I’ll break your arm!”

Chris rushes to the window, opens it and yells into the empty courtyard, “VIOLENCE! VIOLENCE! WOMAN BEATER IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD!”

“That’s very clever, Chris. Now would you mind closing the window and coming inside?”

“HELP!
A MAN IS THREATENING TO BREAK MY ARM!
THERE’S A MAD WOMAN-BEATER STALKING THE BUILDING?9

“Chris, if someone calls the police, I’m going to let you do all the explaining.”

“STOP HIM BEFORE ITS TOO LATE!”

Walking over, I calmly pull Chris away from the window before closing it. “Chris, you’re going to get us into trouble!”

“Don’t be silly. This is Manhattan. Who gives a shit?”

“I do, and I’m getting a headache!”

“I don’t care. Let’s make love!”

“Let’s not.”

“I tried to cheer you up!”

“It didn’t work!”

“That’s not my fault!”

“Nor mine.”

“Well, what do you want from me?”

“Nothing, Chris. What do you want from me?”

“A kiss!”

“A kiss?”

“A kiss.”

“One kiss?”

“One kiss!”

“One kiss and you’ll leave me alone?”

“Probably forever!”

“You’re on!”

Chris practically jumps at me, crash-landing her lips on mine. We kiss for some time, and I must confess I’m just starting to get interested, thinking maybe she’s right, forget-your-troubles-come-on-get-happy, perhaps a good, solid jog around the mattress is just what the doctor ordered, when there is the most alarming knocking and banging on the door.

“Who’s that?” asks Chris in terror.

“Probably the Gestapo!”

“You think?”

“Or maybe the little white men with the big-big net. They’ve come for you at last!”

Chris goes to the door and opening it, welcomes in Marie, my bouncy downstairs neighbor, who heard all the screaming in the courtyard, figured there was some wild bash going on up here and decided to crash the party.

So the three of us sit down to finish the champagne and caviar, Marie being far more indulgent with the expensive offerings than even bad breeding would allow.

And I must confess that watching Marie bubbling about, scooping up all that black gold and guzzling down all that liquid money, really drives me deeper into despair over not being able to either afford, enjoy or get enough of it.

So, later on, when Marie returns downstairs to her apartment, bloated and blissful, I’m in far worse a mood than earlier and again still not interested in making love.

Which drives Chris up the wall all over again, as she pulls out from the closet all her paranoia and insecurities, accusing me of being disinterested, disenchanted and disgusting.

I’m too upset to fight or talk her out of it though, so I retaliate by taking a sleeping pill and calling it a very bad day.

The following morning I’m in the bathroom, shaving, when Chris calls me into the living room. Drying my face, I walk in and find her curled up in my large corduroy chair, engrossed in the
Times.

“Hey!” she greets me. “They had eight inches of new spring snow last night in Vermont. Maybe we could get up there soon for a long weekend.”

“I’d love it.”

“What time is your audition?”

“I’m almost late now.”

“You’d better hurry. I need the bathroom once you’re finished. I’ve got less than an hour to get to my call.”

“I’ll be done in a minute.”

“Hey!” She whistles, struck with inspiration. “Will you meet me for lunch today? I’m free from twelve to one.”

“I don’t think I can. I’ll be down in the Village all day. Won’t you be uptown?”

“So?”

“Makes it a little difficult. I won’t get out of my first interview until after twelve. By the time I’d get uptown we’d have less than half an hour.”

“Plenty of time.”

“Come on, Chris. I’ve got to be back in the Village again this afternoon. Does it make sense to travel all the way uptown for twenty minutes before turning around and going back?”

“Only if you cared.”

“Don’t give me that. You know I care.”

“How do I know? You won’t take a fast subway ride to meet me.”

“Tell you what; why don’t you come
downtown
and meet me in the Village for lunch?”

“For half an hour?” “Right.”

“Doesn’t pay.”

Well, that ends that discussion.

“By the by,” says Chris, changing the subject. “Astin saw
Another Straw
last night at the Plaza.”

“And?”

“And he hated it. Found it absolutely distasteful and abominable.” And, saying so quite definitely, Chris darts back to her paper before immediately looking up again and, switching on the most enigmatic of expressions, questions, “Or was it that he was completely enchanted and totally adored it? Oh, well, I can’t remember how he felt—does it really matter?—but he was most vehement!”