The Makedown (11 page)
“Yes, I know.”
“How do you know? Oh, you looked at my hand,” I offer coyly.
“Ah, no, you just mentioned it.”
“Let’s get down to business,” Janice interrupts fero-
ciously.
Yeah, the business of Ben and Anna smooching. Did I say that aloud? Oh thank heavens, for once it seems I didn’t.
“My parents and I are strict vegetarians,” Ben says. It’s the last thing I hear as I start planning for my conversion to vegetarianism. I have a lot to do: join PETA, the Humane Society, and maybe invest in a cat pin. Wait, I think a cat pin says “loser” more than “vegetarian.” It’s incredible; I already feel healthier. I know it’s only been a few seconds, but being a vegetarian works for me. If asked, I will cite both moral and health reasons for the sudden decision. I can’t very well tell people the truth; I converted for an intense sexual attraction.
Having committed to vegetarianism, I’m able to focus long enough to hear that Ben is a corporate lawyer at Benson and Silverberg, a large firm in Midtown, but regrets not going into environmental law. Mental note: rent
An Inconvenient Truth
and start recycling.
I try not to stare at Ben, but I can’t help it. It hurts to look away from him. His every pore, freckle, and follicle hypnotizes me as Janice discusses the importance of a good gherkin.
“Anna, you love gherkins,” Janice says, leaning in closely to whisper, “You look retarded again. Stop staring.”
“I love . . . gherkins . . . love them.”
My heart beats irregularly, creating a shortness of breath as I avoid looking at Ben. The longer I divert my eyes, the more my chest constricts, creating an audible wheeze. I inhale slowly. I must marry him. He is definitely the one.
“Anna, do you need some water?” Janice asks irritably, clearly annoyed by my asthmatic dog imitation.
“ J-j-j-just taking a few deep breaths.”
“Well, now it’s time to stop,” Janice says with her eyebrows raised above her hairline.
“ I-I-I ammm trying,” I stutter.
Without any warning or provocation, Janice delivers a
Dynasty
-worthy slap across my face. I imagine there is now a red handprint on my right cheek, but at least I can breathe normally again.
“You were having a panic attack; I needed to snap you out of it.” This from my boss, apparently a newly minted MD.
“I got carried away taking in the . . . lovely . . . air freshener,” I lamely declare.
“I don’t use air freshener,” Ben interjects.
“Oh, maybe it’s you, then.” Clearly my brain is not getting enough oxygen because I again said that aloud. I wish the seven-second rule for food applied to stupid comments; you have seven seconds to pull them back and pretend they never happened.
The phone rings. Ben stands. Oh, how he stands. I am mesmerized.
“You need to . . . how should I say this? Shut the fuck up,” Janice whispers while clutching my arm. She has a unique brand of sympathy, which generally includes the
f
word.
“I’m sorry . . . it won’t happen again . . . really . . .”
I absolutely cannot wheeze again. This is serious. A faint rasp still lingers in my chest, causing me great anxiety. Maybe I should hold my breath, suppress whatever is dying to exit my body through my throat. Sweat beads slide down my breasts, igniting an intolerable itching sensation from the areola to the armpit. Why, God? Haven’t you punished me enough? Haven’t you met my family? Surely they are adequate retribution for my mistakes. This is worse than the time I peed on the couch while watching
The Exorcist.
Mother believed me when I told her I fell asleep and dreamed I was sitting on the toilet. The truth is, I got so scared that I peed myself. Obviously, I suffer from strange reactions to stress.
My breasts are on fire. They throb as if doused in a mixture of poison ivy and chicken pox. I can’t take it anymore; I must alleviate the itch. Maybe I can subtly rub my arms across my breasts. Oh, the relief. This is pure heaven.
Well, not exactly, since Ben is watching me engage in this peculiar behavior. So much for first impressions.
Somehow, Janice wraps up the meeting and holds my arm firmly as she says good-bye and heads to the front door. Ben, perfect gentleman that he is, extends his hand for me to shake. I want to smother it with kisses as deranged Italian men do in movies. I yearn to press my face against his slightly hairy chest and scream, “After all I’ve done to be with you— vegetarianism, environmental activism— the least you could do is marry me.” However, I don’t do any of those things because one, I am inches away from the sanitarium as it is, and two, he’s out of my league. For the first time since my overhaul, I hate being average. Forgettable, boring, average Anna isn’t capable of getting Ben. Instantly, my transformation is silly and pointless, a cruel joke to verify my inability to achieve my desires. Downstairs, on the verge of a mental breakdown, I wait for Janice to rattle me with barbs and impersonations of my atrocious behavior, but she doesn’t.
“Okay,” Janice says, jotting something on a piece of paper, “here’s your list for today . . . okay?”
“Yup,” I say overenthusiastically, trying to quiet her worrisome glare. She clearly noticed that I have an ill-advised crush on Ben, but thankfully she isn’t mentioning anything.
Walking down Mulberry Street with a single piece of paper in my left hand, I miss Ben. I want him. I need him. It’s insanity. I miss everything about him, from his smell, to his eyes, to his voice. An incredibly childish and petty idea crosses my mind. I reject my own idea, embarrassed by its juvenile nature. But it returns, and this time I imagine what it would feel like to hear Ben’s gravelly voice again. Logically, I know that I have surpassed my humiliation threshold for the day, yet I can’t stop myself.
I plow aggressively down the street, eyes darting around in search of a pay phone. On the corner of Broome and Mulberry, I discover a dirty, gum-covered antique of a pay phone, drop in fifty cents, and dial the number I memorized off Janice’s pad while sitting at the dining room table. Crank calling used to be a favorite pastime of mine until caller ID and *69 went and ruined it. I have chosen to use a pay phone instead of using *82 on my cell to block my number because I can’t take the chance of a technical glitch. What if *82 doesn’t work and he sees my number? Then what? There would be no plausible explanation to give him or Janice, whose crazy psychic abilities would no doubt ferret out this indiscretion.
It’s ringing.
I’m nervous, slightly worried that a case of Tourette’s will come over me, prompting me to spill my guts to him, confess my undying lust for his body.
“Hello? Hello?” Ben’s gorgeous voice comes through the receiver, clear as a bell.
I silently mouth hello back to Ben, as any good stalker would do. My emotional regression has occurred at an alarmingly fast rate. I went from seminormal adult to utter adolescent loser in less than two hours.
If only the world was a magical and whimsical place, a world in which Ben does not realize he is out of my league. We date, fall in love, and eventually marry. We live together in his one-bedroom apartment until we have kids and move to Westchester. Our kids are so cute. I know all parents think their kids are perfect, but Madeleine and Jacob truly are flawless. I originally chose the names for my children with Lance Bass of ’N Sync, but I think he’ll understand.
Loser,
my mind screams. Unless women can get pregnant over the phone, there isn’t going to be a Madeleine or a Jacob.
Loser!
Walking back to work, the proverbial black cloud hangs over my head, reminding me what a horrendous loser I am. I miss my pretend husband and children. This is proof of my dysfunctionality: only losers or people with severe mental disorders experience such emotions. There is obviously something wrong with me. I have allowed a total stranger to alter my perception of life.
Average is a place I have worked tirelessly to arrive at, and now I’ve deemed it worthless since I can’t have Ben Reynolds. This is a man I just met who does not have any feelings for me. I am embarrassed and revolted by my thoughts. I refuse to engage in this any further and make the conscious decision not to mention my thoughts to Janice. I unlock and push open the front door, bags in hand.
Janice is in the middle of the kitchen, chopping at a frenetic speed. Ideally, I would run to her, confess my outrageous feelings, and demand she make it happen. However, even Janice, my relentless champion, knows this one is pointless. Ben is in a galaxy far, far away . . . from me.
“There’s fresh fruit in the fridge,” Janice calls out to me.
“Thanks,” I say quietly.
“What is it? You look blotchy and stressed,” Janice says, stopping to peruse my physical status.
“I don’t know; maybe I was in the sun too long.”
“You need to wear sunscreen; the sun ages you.”
Great, I am already spiraling downwards. After two minutes of looking average, I’m descending into unattractiveness again. And it’s not going to stop. Time is a brutal and worthy foe, cruelly punishing women as they age. Maybe I should try to find Harry on MySpace; he was the only man I’ve ever met who didn’t care if I was revolting. In fact, I think it turned him on.
Sitting at the counter shoving fruit into my mouth, I check my cell messages, only to discover Mother has been diversifying her portfolio.
“Anna, I made a large investment and I need to discuss it with you. Best, Mother.” Mother’s idea of a large investment translates to wasted money on the home shopping channel, QVC. Upon her death, I am to inherit a wealth of costume jewelry, food processors, fruit dehydrators, and unused celebrity-endorsed gym equipment. Her shopping prowess is the least of her peculiarities; most notably she has taken to ending all conversations as she would a letter: Best, Mother. Like with the phony glasses, Mother believes that the “Best” salutation makes her appear more intelligent. Mother’s quest to seem knowledgeable is boundless; she will stop at nothing— except, of course, reading. Picking up a book is where Mother draws the line.
Calling her back would be the mature and kindhearted thing to do, but I’m not in the mood to listen to asinine investment strategies and theories on my father’s relationship with Ming. I would much prefer to muse about Ben and the alternate universe that allows us to be together. I accept that in this reality, a man of his looks and social stature cannot deign to be with someone such as myself.
But that can’t stop me from imagining a world where it’s possible.
The Downside of Dating Up
L
ights. Camera. Loser.
Standing in front of a frustrated Janice, I devolve into hysterics at the mention of Ben. I can’t face him after days of intricate fantasies about the two of us in wedded harmony. Seeing him and realizing the impossibility of my dreams is too heavy a burden to bear. Humiliation is all the night can bring, so why go?
“I’m not going . . . I can’t. Hire someone else,” I beg Janice with streams of mascara-colored tears running down my cheeks.
“You are going. I am not asking you, I am telling you. The party is tonight, and you will be there along with the crew, helping me as you always do. Do you understand?”
“No . . . no . . . I can’t. I can’t do it,” I whimper. “You don’t understand.”
“What? What don’t I understand?” she explodes back at me. “All this because you told him he has a nice ass? Big deal. A guy like that gets hit on every day. I wouldn’t be surprised if his own mother hit on him. He won’t even remember it.”
“I can’t bear to be around him. I’m some pathetic loser with a crush on him.”
“Sweetie, yes he knows you think he’s hot. So what? He thinks he’s hot. He probably thinks everyone thinks he’s hot. Men like Ben fuck too many models to remember one normal girl who said he had a cute ass. It’s not a big deal. No one cared but you, okay?”
“Okay,” I mutter, wiping tears from my face. “Sorry, I—”
“I know,” Janice cuts me off.
A deep level of shame washes over me as I realize that the man I have spent countless hours mentally obsessing over probably doesn’t even remember my name. I can’t believe I have made this guy out to be such a big deal. Let’s not forget he has that barely visible bump in his nose. Total freak show, not to mention egomaniac. He hung a picture of himself without a shirt in his own apartment. Who does that? A show horse.
He’s probably bedded every size-four woman in the five boroughs and has the STDs to prove it. An ease returns to my face as I mentally annihilate Ben.
By 5:00 p.m., I am stationed in the kitchen adjacent to the Waldorf-Astoria’s fourth-floor banquet room. With Juan and the rest of the waitstaff buzzing around me, preparing plates, I tell myself that Ben has a small penis. No one is perfect. Ben has everything else, so he must have a small penis, or maybe no penis at all. Perhaps he’s really a woman, or a hermaphrodite. This is what I have been driven to by the unfairness of genetics. Why are some born with so much while others have to fight for the dregs? If only the principles of communism could be applied to genetics, giving everyone exactly the same advantages.
With the party in full swing, I work diligently to distract myself from the fact that Ben is on the other side of the kitchen door. I yearn to see him one last time, to see the face that makes my stomach churn with anxiety, fright, and a healthy dose of self-loathing. I have never felt so much for someone I knew so little.
I know I shouldn’t, but I am going to peek; after all, I may never see him again. Although, he may have brought that blonde beast from the bar. Talk about utter misery, watching them suck face. Okay, he doesn’t really seem like the “suck face at the Waldorf” kind of guy, but watching them hold hands will be almost as horrendous. I am staying in the kitchen, where I belong.
The only downside to this decision is that I don’t get to interact with the old people attending the party. I absolutely love oldies. They don’t intimidate me or make me question the fairness of genetics, since age evens the playing field. A pretty woman and an average woman aren’t that different at seventy or eighty; the only real difference is in their memories. For men on the other hand, age can be a distinguishing force. I have long fancied the idea of dating a seriously older man. I am not talking about the forty-five-year-old divorcé with salt-and-pepper hair. I am referring to the sixty-four-year-old retiree with memberships to both the country club and AARP. A man in his sixties can still be debonair, but with reasonable expectations. Aware that his value is on the decline, an older man will gladly overlook my appearance for my youth.