The Makedown (12 page)
“Anna, you are young, nubile, and—,” my dashing older man proclaims.
“And beautiful?”
“And still contributing to Social Security.”
“Oh, Mr. Lincoln, let’s get married.”
In my older man fantasy, I refer to him by his surname, which always happens to be a president’s name. Don’t ask me why; I have no idea. The first time I had the fantasy I chose Mr. Taft, and it snowballed from there.
With images of me dancing across ballrooms, I decide to stop acting like the redheaded stepchild relegated to the kitchen. Hiding out here, I am passing up the opportunity to meet an older man, to become a kept woman. It’s not such a bad life— dinner by five and widow by forty.
Pushing Ben to the furthest, most inaccessible part of my brain, I press open the door to the Waldorf-Astoria ballroom. Dark, perfectly cut suits and chic dresses swarm the servers as they meander through the crowd. It’s a well-kept horde with money and a liberal flair. I hear smatterings of Bill Clinton nostalgia, with more than a few people mentioning how different things would be if McGovern had won in 1972. These people don’t wear fur, watch Bill O’Reilly, or vote for anyone with the last name Bush.
Slithering through the Democrats, I look for both Janice and my geriatric husband-to-be. Janice will force me back into the kitchen, afraid that I will cry again. I continue to scan the room for my grandfather/boyfriend when I spot Ben talking with a petite older woman. My stomach hurts. Ben. My throat constricts. Ben. My heart stops. Ben. The mere sight of him makes me uncomfortable in my skin. Every cell in my body begs to look away. Ben must emit some incredibly powerful pheromone, because I simply cannot take my eyes off him.
A tall, slender woman passes in front of him; his eyes follow her well-toned derriere. The small woman grabs his face and scolds him for his naughty behavior. He smiles politely but continues to watch the woman’s ass cut through the crowd. The old woman, maybe an aunt or neighbor, pulls Ben by the arm. I head left, following them as they nod and wave at other guests. The old woman stops in front of a stocky young woman. To be blunt, the young lass is all ass. She is not fat, but she is definitely chubby. I feel bad thinking it, but it’s true. Ben shakes hands with the young woman with blonde hair to her shoulders and bangs that remind me of second grade.
Craning my neck to decipher the body language, I inch closer to the area of interest. The old woman watches the two chat with an excited, almost crazed expression on her face. Oh my dear lord; that old bat is trying to set them up. I recognize the smug look from the night Janice arranged for the Junior High field trip in my pants.
I laugh. Oh, I laugh hard, by myself in the middle of a party. This is the most ridiculous scene I have ever witnessed. Ben’s eyes roam the room searching for an out as the old woman attempts to ignite a spark with the plump girl. The old woman must not know about the other blonde in his life, the one with legs that span the length of this girl’s body. It’s almost painful to watch. Even I am better looking than this one. Did I just think that? I’ve never considered myself better looking than another woman, but it’s about time.
After many a strained expression, Ben breaks free from the triangle of matchmaking. Headed straight for the bar, I duck through conversations, bump into people, and do what’s necessary not to lose sight of him.
With Ben firmly planted at the bar with a beer in his hand, I slink behind a nearby potted plant. My behavior is alarmingly reminiscent of a character’s in a bad sitcom, yet I continue. Seated at a crappy table, hidden by a decorative tree, I notice the puffy top of the old woman’s hair making its way through the crowd, headed straight for Ben.
“Benny, that was very rude of you,” the woman scolds.
“Leslie Haggens? She’s a lovely girl, but there is no way I’m dating her,” Ben responds.
“She is a fabulous girl. A wonderful personality and a successful lawyer. This is what you need— someone with real emotions, someone who actually has feelings. A nice girl, not like that—”
“Please stop. I am never going to date Leslie— never— and as for . . . I don’t want to talk about her.”
And with that, Ben walks away. The old woman orders a martini, and I excavate myself from the tree, avoiding the stares of my tablemates.
“Hello!” A tall older man with glasses and a thick gray mane yells from the stage, tapping the microphone with his fingers. “Is this thing on?” The old woman who was harassing Ben joins the tall man onstage. Suddenly, it all makes sense. These are Ben’s parents. To my great surprise, they are not Zeus and Aphrodite, but a normal-looking couple. How did they create him? Ben looks like the love child of Elvis and Brigitte Bardot, not this pair.
Ben’s father is attractive in a dentist or accountant kind of way, while his mother resembles a Madame Alexander doll, at five feet tall with mounds of puffed-up hair. Standing on stage, both dressed in navy blue, they enthusiastically beam at the crowd. My catering experience has taught me that for regular folk, having a party thrown in your honor is akin to winning an Academy Award; it demands a moving speech.
“As some of you know, I met Milly at camp. She was thirteen and small for her age. It wasn’t love at first sight for me, thankfully, since I was a counselor. To be honest, I thought Milly was annoying. She was a vegetarian in the fifties, and back then, no one was a vegetarian. No one liked her, from the janitor to the head counselor, but she didn’t care. She had integrity. When the boys went deer hunting, she held a one-woman protest. Ten years later, I was a law clerk to Judge Marvin Smithson, and in walked his irrepressible daughter Milly. It was love at second sight. She made me question everything. I gained compassion for other life forms. She changed me for the better. Even in the depth of our most miserable fight— some of you may remember the Gore versus Nader debacle of 2000— I couldn’t imagine life without her. What else can I say about a woman who gave me not only a soul but a son? She’s magnificent.”
Damn Mr. Reynolds! The poster child for marriage made me cry. Tears roll down my cheeks, washing away so-called waterproof mascara. My father would never have spoken about Mother in such a way. I wonder if he toasts Ming with such passion. My nose drips, and I wipe it on my hand like a derelict child. I look up and notice not only Ben but also his mother watching me. My face, awash in emotion, cannot hide what I am feeling. I offer an honest smile, one that few people have seen. There is no hiding who I am in this moment. I am a woman in black slacks, a white dress shirt, and an apron crying over the love of a couple I have never met. While his mother pulls at his sleeve, Ben lifts his arms slowly.
Dear God, no! Ben pays homage to my prior breast-rubbing incident by reenacting it. Mortified, I turn around and storm into the kitchen.
In the kitchen, Janice waits for me with a paper towel and a wry expression.
“What is with all this crying? It’s madness. You must wipe your face.”
“I was touched by their love,” I explain a tad defensively.
“Anna, it was a toast. No one tells the truth in toasts. He’s probably porking his paralegal.”
“Jesus, Janice, how do you hear that and respond with porking?”
From behind us comes, “Personally, I prefer screwing. It’s to the point without being crass.”
“Fuck me,” Janice mutters.
I turn around slowly to see who has joined our debate.
Oh my God,
it’s Ben. I wipe my face at warp speed. Janice, momentarily paralyzed, has lost the power of speech.
“I wanted to thank you ladies for a wonderful evening.”
Janice and I both nod, unsure what to do in this awkward scenario. I avoid eye contact with Ben, still reeling from his breast-rubbing gesture.
“And ask Anna if she would join me in the last dance.”
It’s the “No one puts Baby in the corner” moment I have wanted my whole life.
I
n the middle of a room packed with elderly couples dancing, Ben Reynolds holds me in his arms.
Well, sort of. Technically, his hands are on my hips, but this induces a feeling of faintness in me so strong that I lean into his arms. No matter the cause, the result is fantastic.
I notice both Milly and Janice watching us from separate corners of the room, each smiling in genuine appreciation of her own creation. I squeeze Ben tightly to reinforce his presence in my arms. It’s clichéd, but I never want this moment to end. It simply isn’t fair that the song was already playing when we got on the dance floor. I deserve more time. Like Cinderella, I sense the clock approach midnight. I embrace Ben a little tighter, storing all sensory details in my memory.
Ben laughs.
This can’t be good. Oh, no. Was this all some elaborate ruse to humiliate me on the dance floor? I pull back as the music ends.
“What? Am I a bad dancer?” I ask defensively, prepared to scream at him if he says something nasty. I may have the mind of a junior high student, but I will not allow someone to debase me like one.
“No, not at all. It’s just . . . I’m not used to being around such an emotional woman.”
“Emotional?” Is that code for repulsive?
“Not in a bad way, in a charming way. The tears at the speech and the way you held on tightly as you danced.”
I don’t entirely trust my ears, but I believe he said that without any sarcasm. It sounded like a legitimate compliment.
“Thank you.”
“So, the party is pretty much over.”
“Oh yeah, I have a lot of cleaning up to do.”
I knew this time would come, but it is devastating to feel my beautiful carriage turn back into a pumpkin. Ben looks to his left, raises an imaginary glass to his mother, then turns back to me. I am not an idiot; I know that his mother is prodding him to give me a chance. I suppose most mothers are suggestive and interfering when it comes to their son’s dates. Still, it’s a shock and an enormous compliment that she likes me. Well, maybe not that enormous a compliment, seeing as she pushed that blonde tub earlier.
“Do you think Janice would let you slip out for a drink if I promised her my parents’ anniversaries until death?”
“Yes,” I blurt out quickly. “I think so . . . it seems like a possibility,” I add, trying to play it cool.
Whatever the reason we are thrust together, I deserve to enjoy it. After a lifetime of jeering insults, I rejoice in the feeling of butterflies in my stomach and palpitations in my heart, regardless of the circumstances. Admittedly, being prodded onto a date by his mother is not ideal, but it’s not as if I am paying her. Or him. Though I would. And he did accept the nudge from his mother, which he didn’t do with poor Leslie. That counts for something in my book.
We chat awkwardly as we walk a few blocks down Lexington, stopping at an unmarked door next to a Duane Reade. Downstairs is a jazz bar reminiscent of a bygone era; a place where Humphrey Bogart would have drank. The black and white checkered floor complements the red patent leather booths, which are private enough for a man to get to second base. I can only dream of testing this observation.
The floor-level stage is barely able to accommodate the three men playing the saxophone, bass, and piano. As I watch the men play, annoyance nibbles away at me. Why did I waste my youth listening to Celine Dion and ’N Sync? If I had only known this moment was coming, I would have educated myself on jazz, wowing him with an intelligent and thought-provoking review. Oh no, the music is winding down. Why didn’t Janice drill me on normal human interaction? I’m not going to survive ten minutes, let alone an entire date.
“Can I get you another drink?” Ben asks, miraculously bypassing the music-review segment of the evening.
“I’m all right. Thanks.”
Ben smiles and begins to drain his bourbon. Damn, he is sexy. Everything from his hands to the velvet locks of hair on his head make my libido stand and salute.
“So did your parents enjoy the party?” I ask shyly, desperate to ignite a rapport.
“Yes, I think they did, thank you. You pulled off an incredible feat with the food. It’s not easy to make vegetarian gourmet. Mom was very impressed.”
“Oh, good.”
Silence. Why won’t the band play another song? More silence. Exchange awkward smiles. Please someone have a heart attack, throw up, or start a fistfight. We need the energy to get a dialogue going.
“Where did you say you were from?”
“Ohio. You?”
“Born and raised in New York. Do you like it here?”
“Oh, yes . . . I like it a lot . . . ,” I stutter stupidly. I sound as if I am talking about vanilla ice cream. “It’s different than Ohio in all the right ways.”
“I’m sure,” Ben says with a nod, signaling the waiter for another bourbon. “Are you sure you don’t want another glass?”
“Oh, no. I’m fine, thanks,” I say meekly. Fear stops me from drinking more. I worry what I would do if intoxicated around Ben. As we start to do the strained smile thing again, the waiter approaches with Ben’s bourbon.
“Anything else?” the waiter asks politely.
“Just the check,” Ben says.
The butterflies and heart palpitations have given way to a sickening sense of doom. I thought basking in his presence, regardless of what got him here, would be delightful, but it’s not. It’s horrendously painful to see total apathy on a man’s face, to watch him drink to numb the misery of the situation. His desperation to get the check and leave is disturbingly apparent. This was a one-off pity drink to get his mother off his back. I am an idiot for believing that it could be more.
“Your father’s speech was very touching.”
“I wasn’t sure you enjoyed it, with all the tears,” Ben says with a slight lift of the eyebrows.
He’s smiling, but it feels like he’s laughing at me. He may not even be consciously aware of it, but he’s definitely mocking my sincerity. Part of me wants to stand up and tell him to fuck off and to save his charity for the homeless. Another part of me wants to sob, showing him the pain he triggered inside me. What can I say? Former nerds are a fragile lot.
“I was moved by the honesty of their relationship. By your mother’s determination to do what she thought was right, and how it inspired your father to be a better man,” I say with all the dignity I can muster. “She seems like a woman of great character— always looking out for those with less. A mother who probably made you invite everyone to your birthday parties, even the ones you weren’t friends with, the ones you would never be friends with, but you invited them because she told you it was the right thing to do. And maybe it was in fourth grade, but the lesson has stayed with you . . . ,” I peter off, sneaking a peek at my date. I am surprised that Ben’s expression is one of discomfort. His face is contorted in a manner I’ve never seen from someone so beautiful.