The Makedown (22 page)
“I know, it’s really messed up. I don’t even want to go to the gym; everyone thinks I’ve been wanking off in the locker room,” Ben responds morosely, igniting a pang of guilt within me.
“Maybe this is a sign from the universe that you should start shopping from home. Let’s see what they have to offer,” I suggest enthusiastically.
“Anna, I’m not shopping from some cheap catalog. I’m an attorney at Benson and Silverberg, for God’s sake,” Ben says with frustration.
“Wow, I never knew you were such a snob.”
“I am not a snob. I’m a vegetarian,” Ben adds defen-
sively.
“Wait, because you don’t eat animals you can’t be a snob?”
“Yeah, well.”
“I take it back. You’re a self-righteous snob.”
“I resent that. If my income dictated that I shop through catalogs, then I would, but it doesn’t, so I don’t. That doesn’t make me a snob.”
I actually agree with him, but I want him to buy something from the catalog, so I continue. “Whatever you say . . . snob.”
“Big words from a girl who cuts the Gap labels out of her clothes. What? Are you ashamed to shop there?”
“How do you know about that?” I demand, trying to hide my embarrassment.
“I got suspicious when none of your clothes had labels and the trash was filled with Gap bags.”
“I am not ashamed of the Gap. I cut out the label because I believe all labels are ridiculous. I don’t care where my clothes come from. I’m not as shallow as you are.”
“Good, let’s order you a new wardrobe from the catalog. How do you feel about polyester?”
“Shut up!”
“Here is a lovely orange pantsuit made from a polyester blend. Oh, and look at those buttons— gold leaf.”
“Fine! You’re right. I won’t shop from a catalog,” I relent. “However, shopping at the Gap exclusively is different from shopping at Hermès, Prada, and Gucci exclusively.”
“Don’t try to make me feel guilty, Anna. I recycle, don’t eat animals, vote Democrat, and donate ten percent to charity. I deserve to shop wherever I want!” Ben yells at me as he opens the front door.
“Fine, so do I,” I scream back.
“And stop getting plastic bags at the Gap! They take a thousand years to biodegrade!” Ben shouts.
“I suppose you bring your own canvas sack when shopping at Gucci!” I retort, flopping onto the couch. Ben slams the bedroom door.
Facedown in the couch, something wells up in me. It’s not tears or anger, it’s laughter. I laugh uncontrollably. What a ridiculous fight! Who is the bigger snob? Who will shop from a catalog? Who recycles? Who the hell fights about such idiotic stuff? I gasp for air as my eyes water. Ben opens the bedroom door with a similar expression. He collapses next to me as we shake with hilarity. Ben chokes out the words “orange pantsuit” before descending into paroxysms of laughter. We playfully hit one another, wheezing for air, astonished by the stupidity of our fight.
Cheap clothing, whether from a catalog or not, is out. Clearly, Ben takes pleasure in labels. I find a solution in a more obscure brand of luxury clothing, Façonnable. While flipping through
Home and Garden,
I saw an ad for their line of high-end flannel shirts. Wasps predominantly wear these shirts while shooting birds or other defenseless animals outside their country estates. Of course, getting Ben to wear these plaid specialties will require a well-thought-out presentation. That or a stun gun.
H
ow do you watch this shit? Every episode is exactly the same,” I complain to Ben.
“You just don’t understand the show, babe. And for the record, there are three
Law & Order
s, so obviously I’m not the only one who thinks there’s something to it.”
“But you’re a lawyer. Why do you want to waste your leisure time watching a show about your work? It seems kind of boring.”
“Anna, I practice corporate law. I don’t get to cross-examine child molesters and murderers,” Ben says seriously. “Hey, can you get me a Nature’s Way? I’d get up, but it’s about to start.”
“Fine,” I mumble, secretly satisfied that the Nature’s Ways have become such a hit. I knew Skors were the way to go. So damn addictive. I hand him the bar, then lay my face against his chest. Onscreen, some hairy-faced perp lies to two hardened detectives with hearts of gold.
“That guy’s kind of hot.”
“Who, Stabler?” Ben asks excitedly.
“No, the bad guy.”
“That guy? He’s disgusting.”
“It’s the facial hair. It’s so rugged and sexy.”
“You told me you hate beards.”
This is true; I have said that on more than one occasion.
“Um, I was referring to the women who date gay men— beards. I don’t like those ladies, but men with beards, yeah I’m into it.”
“Okay,” Ben says, distracted by the television.
“I have a recurring fantasy of being taken by a poorly groomed man with a beard. Really wild hair, ’cause that’s how it makes me feel, wild.”
“What are you talking about?” Ben asks, now focusing fully on me.
“Well, just like this show offers excitement that your job doesn’t have, sometimes I want a man with a rough, wild beard.” I’m not sure how much sense I’m making, but I see Ben study the actor with an air of calculating appraisal.
“I think I’d look good with one.”
Yeah, right. I smile, knowing the seed has been successfully planted. The phone rings as Ben shoves the Nature’s Way into his mouth. I head for the living room, not wanting to disturb Ben during his precious
Law & Order
.
“Hello?”
“
Start spreading the news, I’m coming today
.”
Oh my God. I cannot allow this to happen.
“No, you aren’t.”
“
I’m trying to be a part of it. New York. New York!
”
“Mother, I forbid you to enter the state, do you hear me?”
“Your brother has a girlfriend.”
“What? How is that possible? And what does that have to do with anything?”
“She hustles Raisinets down at the cineplex.”
“She works at the concession stand? That’s perfect. But as to the relevance—”
“Anyway, I’m lonely. Thought I’d come stay with you. Meet this boyfriend of yours, see your new body, the Big Apple.”
“No.”
“No? You can’t say no to me. I’m your mother.”
“Yes, I can. You said no to me my entire life.”
“That wasn’t me.”
“Who was it then?”
“God.”
“God said no to me?”
“Unfortunately, yes. I didn’t want to agree, but he strong-armed me.”
“Mother, you can’t stay with me— ever. You are not allowed to enter the state of New York without my permission. Am I clear?”
“Wow, after all these years of defending you to the big guy, you go and prove me wrong.”
“Mother, you’re not even religious.”
“I’ll have you know I bought a limited edition Bible in Ebonics.”
“What?”
“If black kids break into the house and see that I have a Bible in Ebonics, they will walk right out the door on account of me understanding their plight.”
Ignoring Mother’s asinine security theory and her trademark racism, I simply ask, “They sell Bibles written in Ebonics?”
“QVC cares about race relations.”
“Mother, listen to me. Stay in Ohio. No one in New York will accept you. Absolutely no one!”
I can’t handle Mother on a good day, let alone when I am knee deep in securing Ben a place in the less-than-perfect category.
While I wait for the stubble to develop properly into facial hair, I attend to my own hair needs. I can’t let myself go just because Ben drops a few notches. If anything, it’s time to increase my butt clenches, gym visits, and bikini area maintenance. I am a huge fan of Nair’s extra-strength hair removal cream, in large part because it doesn’t require me to lay spread-eagle with an angry Russian between my legs. Not that I am prudish, but Anyas, the waxing communist, goes places my gynecologist has only heard of. A little cream, even with the strange chemical smell, is much easier. I flip through celeb magazines while the cream sets for ten minutes. I never let Ben see me during this pro cess, because it would shatter his image of me as effortlessly average. Nair shrinks your hair, slowly thinning entire patches until there is nothing left. From the look of the hair shrinkage, I have another three minutes until rinse-off. Any sooner and some hair will remain.
Wait. I just had a true eureka moment. I am so impressed with myself that I have half a mind to share my brilliant idea with Ben. A few drops of Nair in Ben’s moderately priced shampoo will subtly thin his full-bodied mane. My goal is to dull the locks while lightly weeding out some follicles. However cruel it may sound, it could do wonders for Ben’s confidence to find a few extra hairs in his hand when shampooing.
My mixing complete, I sniff the bottle. A few drops of Nair smell surprisingly strong. My eyes tear up, and not just from the smell. Oh, the guilt. What have I done? Is Nair over the line? I didn’t put that much in the shampoo. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was no effect at all. After all, Ben doesn’t shampoo his hair for ten minutes, the amount of time needed to see serious results. And if by some chance Ben experiences a little thinning, it will be good for him. He should weather a crisis of confidence about something silly and superficial. It’s part of the human condition, and he has missed it. This is an anthropological mission, right? I decide to text Janice, ask her opinion on the matter.
“Is the loss of hair important to a man’s character?”
She wisely texts back, “Fuck off, it’s 2:00 a.m.”
By the time I leave the bathroom, Ben has fallen asleep with the television on and a half-eaten Nature’s Way on his chest. I switch off the television and climb into bed next to Ben. After removing the Nature’s Way bar from his chest hair as best I can, I rest my head on the pillow. I’m exhausted, yet I can’t sleep. I am perplexed by what I have done, yet simultaneously scared I haven’t done enough. I could still easily lose him. More than anything, I want The Makedown complete so I can erase it from my memory. A slightly downgraded Ben will be a more appropriate boyfriend for me— attractive but not gorgeous. I can handle attractive; it’s gorgeous that kills me.
I still can’t sleep. Should I throw away the shampoo? Is it too much? No, this is the best thing for us as a couple. I am bringing us closer together. We will be more in harmony, right?
I yank the sheet off me, feeling claustrophobic from its touch. I need to do this to stay with Ben, but it’s undoubtedly wrong to deceive the man I love. Frustrated, I head for my old stomping grounds, the kitchen. I wrench open the stainless steel refrigerator, allowing the cold air to calm my nerves. If I were still the old me, I would devour the vanilla fudge ice cream until suitably numb. For a few seconds, I flirt with a relapse before remembering that I must remain strong. I am a soldier on a mission, and as such, I must remain focused on the task at hand— Ben.
By the soft light of the fridge, I undress. Standing naked in my kitchen, I check my gear: spoon (check), ice cream (check), naked body (check). It is now or never. I cross the threshold of the bedroom with the concentration of a front-line commando. I lay the spoon and perspiring ice cream on the nightstand before lifting the sheet slowly off Ben’s naked body. The humility-challenged Ben insists on sleeping in the nude. I stand above him, mindlessly debating the statistical likelihood of a fire hitting the building while both of us are naked. His face distracts me. It’s slightly rounder than usual, but still devastatingly handsome. I am ready to seduce him, then stuff him full of ice cream. Like a frightened private on the eve of my first mission, I shut my eyes and will myself to jump. I land on top of Ben’s naked body.
“Ahhh!!!!!!” Ben wails in pain.
I didn’t mean to land with such force, but the whole military theme riled me up.
“What in the hell are you doing?” Ben screams.
Man down, abort operation.
“What’s happening?” I scream back, good soldier that I am.
The lights flick on. A livid Ben stares at me. The clock ticks. The pressure mounts. He wants an answer. Is there an appropriate answer? I dig deep into my
People
magazine vault. Since moving in with Ben, I have embraced the celeb rags in the bathroom, often rereading issues while handling location-appropriate business.
“Why are you yelling at me?”
“You jumped on my dick at 2:30 in the morning! Is this some kind of joke? Does this amuse you?” Ben asks angrily.
It’s a fair assumption, based on his pained expression, that I did serious damage to his equipment.
“I don’t know; the last thing I remember is taking an Ambien.”
Is he going to buy this?
“You don’t remember anything else?”
“Nothing. Although I do remember reading somewhere that women were waking up in the middle of the night and eating without any recollection after taking Ambien.”
“But you’re not eating anything.”
“Well, I’m assuming that ice cream isn’t yours,” I say, pointing to the pint on the nightstand.
To my great relief, he laughs.
“You’re naked with a pint of ice cream.”
“It appears that way. I’m sorry if I hurt you. I didn’t mean to.”
“I’ll survive.”
“Do you want some ice cream?”
“Sure.”
The next morning, I wake to the sound of both the shower running and the phone ringing. Annoyed, I pull the pillow over my head and wait for voicemail to pick up. After five seconds of silence, the ringing begins again. It continues until the voicemail picks up. Two seconds of silence follows before the phone starts ringing again. Gritting my teeth in frustration, I emerge from beneath my pillow and pick up the phone.
Before I can even say hello, I hear it. It’s an irritating but familiar sound. It is my overweight brother smothering the receiver, as he has done since he was a child.
“Barney?”
“I’ve been made aware of some mighty disturbing information.”
“What?”
“You banned Mother and me from the state of New York.”
“I didn’t ban you, just Mother, although please don’t come. This isn’t a good time.”
“Anna, we miss you.”
