The Makedown (17 page)
“Who’s Benny kissing?”
The voice is shrill, the East Coast equivalent of a Los Angeles Valley girl. She didn’t actually say, “Like, who is Benny, like, kissing?” but she may as well have. I immediately give up hope of her having an IQ above her bra size. I haven’t met John’s girlfriend, Lisette, before, but I am able to assess a great deal from her appearance. She was born into money, attitude, and apparently a lot of makeup. I would not be surprised if her mother applied a little gloss on Lisette before cutting the umbilical cord.
Lisette’s natural expression is one of beautiful disgust, as in “I’m beautiful, and you’re disgusting.” Or perhaps that expression is unique to me.
“This is Anna, Ben’s girlfriend. Remember I told you about her, she’s a caterer,” John says delicately as if speaking to a child.
“Hi, nice to meet you,” I offer with a warm, albeit phony smile.
“Hey,” Lisette says coldly before turning to Ben. “Benny,” she squeals throwing her thin alabaster arms around my boyfriend.
I hate Lisette. And this is not just because she was mean to me. I have far loftier and nobler reasons; she’s a lady loather. The type who claims all women are jealous of her, making it impossible for her to be friends with anyone except men who want to bang her. In a testament to his stupidity, John enjoys thinking that everyone wants to sleep with his girlfriend. John is one of Ben’s colleagues at Benson and Silverberg as well as a true sycophant. He expresses his love for Ben through strange side-by-side man hugs where he throws an arm around his shoulders and whispers in his ear. He tends to say cheesy things like, “You and me man. We’re in it for life.” Ben loves the attention too much to correct John’s assumption that they are best friends and most likely will not be “in it for life.”
As irritating as I find John, Lisette far surpasses him. Seated between her date and me at a small table, Lisette insists John order a bottle of Cristal. He agrees as a means of impressing both Lisette and Ben with his generosity. I, on the other hand, am not even on his radar. Ben talks to John while Lisette and I ignore each other. We may as well be at different tables since we both refuse to make eye contact with each other. Clearly, our rocky introduction extinguished any possibility of friendship. Ben watches me while listening to John. Every couple of seconds he steals a quick glance in my direction. At first, I think this is because he is enamored of me, but soon I realize he is trying to communicate a message. I already know what he’s going to say so I avoid locking eyes. Ben pauses his conversation with John and whispers in my ear, “Talk to her.”
I assume he means Barbie’s less intelligent twin. I nod, knowing that short of running out of Misery I have no choice. I swallow what’s left of my happiness and turn toward Lisette, who is actually twirling her hair like bimbos do on television.
“So, what do you do, Lisette?” I ask in a forced tone.
“PR,” she responds flatly.
“Public relations fascinates me,” I say with an impressively straight face. This is a total and utter fabrication for the sake of conversation.
“PR also stands for personal retail,” Lisette responds snarkily.
“Good to know. What exactly is personal retail?”
“I am hired to sort through clothes for my clients so that they don’t have to waste their time with all the crap.”
“Oh! A personal shopper. I’ve always wanted one.”
“I don’t think they have them at the Gap. And, so you know,
shopper
isn’t really a cool term. That’s why we call it PR, personal retail.”
“Wow, learn something new every day. Shopper is derogatory. I had no idea that you guys were so politically motivated. Impressive.”
I take a second and jot down a quick mental entry in Hello Fatty:
Dear Lisette,
I was so sorry to hear of you contracting the first case of flesh-eating herpes.
Warm regards,
Anna
“Now is personal retail, as you call it, a new major at universities? Something you studied?”
“What?”
“Did you study,” I say bitchily, “you know go to classes for personal retail?”
“No . . .”
“What did you study at college?”
“I didn’t finish . . .”
“
You
didn’t get a degree?” I say with thick sarcasm.
Lisette shakes her head while rolling her eyes.
“Well that is surprising,” I say insincerely. “I went to Penn, that’s the University of Pennsylvania,” I continue without any modesty. “It’s part of the Ivy League.”
“You major in home ec?”
“I majored in molecular biology. My abilities in the kitchen are an added bonus,” I screech inches from Lisette’s face.
I cannot believe I said that. I sound like a pompous idiot.
“Yeah, sure.”
“Excuse me?” I ask in amazement.
“Whatever.”
“Was
whatever
one of your vocabulary words on the GED?”
“You know what I heard? Girls who study too much don’t know how to dance. Is that true, Hannah?”
“It’s Anna,” I say harshly, stopping before I fib regarding my dancing abilities.
Lisette smirks at me, stands, rubbing her hands down over her small waist and tight ass before heading onto the dance floor.
Apparently, Lisette’s theme song is Tina Turner’s “Private Dancer.” There really isn’t any other explanation for her behavior in front of the table. If she wasn’t attractive this would be a pitiable display of sexuality, but since she is, every man in a thirty foot radius watches. Ben tracks her gyrating body with his eyes and I quietly detest him for it. Of course, I stare, but as a matter of disgust, not excitement. If that’s what Ben wants in a girlfriend, I should relinquish my title and point him in the direction of the nearest strip club. Lisette strokes every inch of her body while miming ecstatic facial expressions. Oh, please. This woman isn’t turned on by her own touch; it’s the audience that’s getting her off. Ben continues to watch as I seethe with rage. It’s disrespectful and cruel to subject me to such a blatant display of interest in another woman. I am confident that he has an erection, which I assume is part of Lisette’s perverted mandate for the evening. My boyfriend imprudently salivates over this illiterate whore and he has the nerve to hold my hand. Driven by hormones, fear, and anger, I release his hand and seize his crotch. I am prepared to snap his penis in half! Except, it’s limp. He may not have an erection, but I am still displeased with him for allowing the night to descend into a peep show, so I swat at his penis in punishment. Ben laughs. John stares at us.
“John, what is Benny laughing at?” Lisette asks, standing in front of the table like a disappointed schoolchild.
“I don’t know. Ben, why are you laughing?” John inquires quietly as his face contorts with angst. Watching them squirm is pathetically satisfying.
“Anna . . . I am laughing at Anna. She is sharp witted this one.”
How Ben turned my crotch check into a litmus test for wittiness is beyond me, but I am pleased nonetheless. His eyes communicate that he understands me without saying a word. He watches me, conveying something much more important. This is something I never thought would happen. Ben Reynolds is in love with me. Yes! He really is! He smiles bright, amused by me, brimming with a pride I have never seen before.
“I love you, Ben.”
“I love you, too.”
S
tanding in D&D’s kitchen, Janice marinates chicken breasts for a publisher’s lunch while I chop fresh rosemary. My conversion to vegetarianism has made the tasting aspect of cooking poultry, meats, and fish difficult, but luckily Janice has picked up the slack. Holding a pale pink breast in her left hand, Janice pauses before responding to my big news.
“He loves you?”
“Don’t act so surprised!”
“I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just that I have Chia Pets older than this relationship.”
“It’s been four months. That is a very, very long time for some insects . . . and me.”
“I’m happy for you. How did he tell you?”
“Um, well, actually, I told him first.”
“Jesus Christ, you told him first?”
“So? He said it back,” I respond defensively.
“Did he have a choice?”
“Of course, he could have said . . . ” What could he have said? Sorry, Anna, I like you a lot but . . . .
“I’m sure he loves you, but for future reference, wait for the guy.”
“Thanks for ruining my moment yet again,” I whine.
“With a guy like Ben— you know, someone with a lot of . . . options— it’s important not to crowd him. Let him make those first big steps.”
“I didn’t realize love was so political.”
Love is not only political but extremely physically taxing. And I’m not talking about sex.
I am referring to the elliptical machine, weight training, and Pilates. Ben is the impetus for the maddening physical punishment I endure daily.
Maybe love has this effect on everyone, pushing them to be the best they possibly can be. Or more likely, exercise obsession merely affects women whose boyfriends are exponentially better looking than them. Whatever the reason, ever since Ben and I exchanged the
love
word, a profound need for fitness has taken hold. When I stay at my place in Brooklyn, I usually do a combination run/walk/Jazzercise around the neighborhood with my iPod playing at a deafening level. Remarkably, I am not embarrassed to exercise in my Brooklyn ’hood. The way I see it, everyone there already thinks I’m a weirdo. Janice’s restaurant ban put me at the top of the local wack-job list.
This morning, buzzing with energy, I run through my neighborhood to the soundtrack from
Fame
. I turn the corner, excited to finish, when I see smoke.
My building is on fire.
I stop and stare, mouth open, watching the building burn before my eyes. Then I realize I should do something. Should I scream? Does the fire department have a direct line, or should I call 911? I am appallingly bad under pressure. I dial 911 with
Fame
still blaring in my ear. Someone else must have called because I hear sirens in the distance. Elderly residents hobble out of the building. My mind immediately goes to Mrs. Bester. Did someone knock on her door? Could she hear them? Should I go in and rescue the old broad? I can’t move. I’m scared. Running into a burning building, having seen
Backdraft
on cable, feels like a bad idea. Oh, thank heavens the firefighters are here. Mrs. Bester is their responsibility. Almost on cue, I spot Mrs. Bester stumbling out of the building. I dial Ben’s number, desperate to share my harrowing tale with someone.
“Ben, my building is on fire,” I cry into the phone as the firefighters begin to douse the flames.
“Are you still in it?” he shrieks. “Get out!”
“No,” I laugh at his emotional response. “No, I’m on the street, but it’s still really scary.”
“Jesus, Anna, you almost gave me a heart attack!”
“Babe, I promise to always leave a burning building before calling you, but will you come out here? I’m not sure what’s going to happen.”
“I’ll leave now. And don’t go near the building.”
“Okay,” I say, thrilled with the knowledge that if I perished today, a sexy man would cry at my funeral.
Seven hours later, Ben holds my hand as we climb the stairs of my building. Nearing the fifth floor, I notice smoke damage on the walls. Mrs. Bester’s door is charred beyond recognition, which makes sense, since she started the fire. Turns out the grumpy woman was smoking cigarettes in bed. I thought everyone knew that mattresses were highly flammable. I’m not even a smoker, and I know that. A floor above the old woman, extensive smoke damage continues down the hallway, my front door black with soot. Ben unlocks the door, holding me at arm’s length while he makes sure it’s safe.
“It’s not good,” Ben mumbles from inside.
I inch closer, afraid of what I will find.
“Oh my God . . . it’s ruined,” I say tearfully.
Black swaths of soot cover the walls. My formerly white futon is gray and dirty. My personal effects— my one framed photo, computer, and clothing— are all intact, albeit covered with a very thick residue of smoke. Thank goodness all my clothes are black.
“The important thing is you are okay,” Ben says as if he were my mother.
“Thank God I have such crappy stuff.”
“Where’s your suitcase? Let’s get you packed up.”
“What do you mean?”
“You can’t stay here; this place is going to have to be gutted.”
“Really?” I ask, surprised.
“What, you thought a little paint and potpourri, and you’d be back in by the end of the week?”
“I don’t know what I thought, but I hate moving,” I moan.
“You’ll stay with me until we can find you a new place, preferably one with your own bathroom. Honestly Anna, I can’t believe you lived like this.”
“What can I say? I love the dorm life.”
“It’s time for you to get a grown-up place. Something like mine.”
It’s strange to unpack at Ben’s place, even if it’s only temporary. I feel awkward putting the one framed photo of my family next to the bed. The portrait is in a cheesy butterscotch frame with the word
Family
carved into it. I loathe the frame more than the picture of Mother, Dad, Barney, and me at my sixth-grade graduation, but I can’t bring myself to change it. Mother gave me the framed photo the day I left for Penn. It was a rite of passage— leaving my family behind, taking only a small reminder with me. It doesn’t make any sense, as my parents were always unhappy, but I’m nostalgic for the time when they were still together. Ben leans over me as I stare at the photo.
“Who are they?”
“Um, that . . . these people . . . are related to me. My uncle and his family.”
I can’t bring myself to admit that the large ball dressed in a ruffled pink dress is me.
“Speaking of family, I’ve been meaning to tell you, my parents want to do a lunch and officially meet you.”
“Why?” I ask with a shocked expression.
“They are curious about you. It’s not every day I take in a boarder.”
“Very funny. This is temporary. I am going to be out of your hair shortly.”