The Makedown (16 page)

Ben peruses the rugalach while I internally debate buying some for my neighbor, Mrs. Bester. An expression of gratitude from the old deaf woman would warm me. Moreover, I can tell Ben about it and let him praise my generous nature. While I am busy debating whether the sketchy motivations behind my act of charity would be too obvious to pull it off, Bakery Bitch attempts to
hand-feed
Ben a piece of rugalach. I snap to attention, grab the morsel out of her hand, and feed
my boyfriend
the tiny pastry myself. Yes, Ben’s hands are full, but that is no excuse for the Bakery Bitch to feed him as if he were a trained monkey. More important, why does he lean in with his lips slightly parted as if being fed by strangers is a common occurrence?

“May I try a piece as well?” I ask Bakery Bitch with the nastiest stare seen outside of female incarceration.

I bend forward to see if she will hand-feed me. Her hand hangs in the air. I didn’t think so. I grab the pastry, stuff it in my mouth, and savor the buttery contents. Ben is completely oblivious to the girl-to-girl subtext. I touch his arm sweetly as I chew. Bakery Bitch’s open mouth conveys her disbelief that he is
my
boyfriend. I stare a message to her: “I am the only one who hand-feeds him.” It is a complicated stare, but I manage to get the meaning across. Outsiders may misinterpret the look as one of intense food poisoning or nearsightedness, but believe me, Bakery Bitch understands.

“Babe, what do you think? Apricot or chocolate?”

“Apricot,” I respond robotically.

“Okay, we’ll take a pound. What’s your name again?”

“Gwendolyn, but my friends call me Gwen. Ben, right?”

“Good memory, Gwen.”

Why is he calling her Gwen? She said her friends call her Gwen. Is this a pathetic attempt to be her friend? Plus, you can’t be friends with people with rhyming names! Gwen and Ben . . . disgusting!

“I had no idea you were such a regular here, Ben,” I interject in my best pseudo-casual tone.

“I love pastries.”

As if channeling Mother, I want to scream, “You better not want any pussy pastry!”

“I’ll get a pound for Mrs. Bester downstairs.”

“Babe, that’s so thoughtful of you.”

As I predicted, he is touched by my charitable act. I am deeply disturbed by my dubious attitude toward charity, but pleased that I can give Bakery Bitch a look of benevolent superiority. Ben tips Bakery Bitch two dollars and leaves with a sexy smirk.

“See you next week, Gwen.”

Is this a standing date? What is she like when I am not here? Does she hand-feed him naked?

Two days pass before I finally stop thinking about Bakery Bitch. I hardly have time today to fret over Ben as Janice and I work a party for two PR girls, Jo Allen and Fiona Worthington. In a small boutique on Little West Twelfth Street in the Meatpacking district, we celebrate Jo and Fiona’s book on how to throw the perfect party, which apparently requires that everything be violet, including the food. Jo is a beautiful, tall woman with the kind of cascading blonde locks that inspire normally rational women to get hair extensions. Fiona, on the other hand, is a short redhead with glasses and a nose as overbearing as her personality. I savor the idea that Fiona secretly envies Jo’s beauty as much as I do. It comforts me to know that I am not alone in my insecurities.

PR girls are a strange breed of insecure bitches that exude the type of cruelty most often seen in high school cheerleaders. They are fake in every sense of the word. They are judgmental. They are mean. They are elitist. They are also our clients, so I nod and smile when they make snarky remarks about “the help.” I know that every finger in the room will be tickling their tonsils creating a wall of violet vomit in the sewer and frankly, I find that disrespectful. They are literally flushing our work down the toilet. Still I forge on stacking violet meringues and macaroons in the corner of the bustling party. With my back to the guests, I unprofessionally sneak a coconut macaroon. Bitchy women set off the defensive eating mechanism of my youth.

“You can’t get fat if you want to be Mrs. Ben Reyn olds,” Janice announces a little too loudly.

My mouth is too full to retort, so I roll my eyes.

“Did you just say Ben Reynolds?” Jo asks from behind us.

“Yes, I did. Why?” Janice asks. Every muscle in my body tenses as I wait for the response.

“Ben Reynolds, the lawyer at Benson and Silverberg?”

I don’t feel so well. My throat burns as I swallow the violet mass.

“He’s a lawyer. Anna, is that where he works?”

“Yes. That’s him. Ben Reynolds, son of Milly and Arthur,” I exclaim gaily, trying to sound unconcerned.

This conversation scares me. Is New York the size of Mayberry? How could she know Ben?

“How do
you
know him?” Jo asks me with an astonishing emphasis on the word
you
.

“He’s
her
boyfriend. Now, what can we do for you?” Janice interjects protectively.

“We need more cupcakes,” Jo answers before turning her crystal blue eyes on me.

“Tell Ben hello from me. I dated Ben before Gela. Not an easy gig. Good luck with it.” Jo smirks as she walks off.

“Fuck her. She’s the kind of Waspy bitch who agrees to anal sex so she can be a virgin for her husband. Pay her no mind.”

“What did she mean by ‘good luck’? And are you implying that Ben did her in the ass?” I ask with mounting hysteria.

“Don’t be naïve. All good-looking men have done it. It’s the dorky ones that never manage to get their girlfriends drunk enough to try.”

“Do you think he wants to do that with me?”

“I don’t know. Has he tried?”

“No, is that a bad sign?”

“You have got to be kidding me,” Janice guffaws.

The knowledge that Ben dated Jo shouldn’t come as a surprise. She is tall, gorgeous, and sophisticated with attitude to spare. I loathe him for being so superficial. Jo has the personality of burnt plastic, but she is undeniably seductive. With violet frosting wedged beneath my nails and a thoroughly dented ego, I head home. The subway, filled with regular-looking people, comforts me. It’s important to remember that the Jos and Bens of the world are the freaks of nature. Most people do not look like them and couldn’t even with the help of a sharp scalpel. A suffocating sense of inferiority chokes me as I remember Jo’s hypnotic presence. I want to binge. The rugalach I purchased for Mrs. Bester come to mind. They are probably stale by now, but that’s nothing a little half-and-half couldn’t fix. I should have delivered the rugalach days ago, but I didn’t. Maybe I am destined to relapse. A dull pain twists in my stomach as I ascend the stairs in my building. Dating Ben is a terrible strain on my confidence. I am so far out of my league that I cannot afford to deteriorate in any way. I’ve already had a macaroon today, the rugalach must go! I throw my purse onto the bed and grab the rugalach from the top of my minifridge. Knocking loudly on Mrs. Bester’s door I battle a deep fear. What if the old bat isn’t home? I’m not sure I can control myself.

“Mrs. Bester, it’s Anna from upstairs,” I shout loudly, slapping my open hand against the door. “Hello? Mrs. Bester?” I shriek.

Finally, the door opens. The old woman sports an annoyed look with a half-smoked cigarette hanging from her mouth.

“I brought you some rugalach, Mrs. Bester.”

“What did you say?” she asks with irritation.

“I brought you some rugalach,” I clearly articulate while presenting the box.

“Oh. They must be from my son.”

“No, no. They are from me,” I say while pointing to myself.

“What?” she asks accusingly.

“They are from me.”

“No, he’s married,” she says with an eye roll.

And with that, she shuts the door in my face. Not only did I not get credit from the old bag for the rugalach, but she also managed to reject me on behalf of her son.

Utterly defeated by both Jo and Mrs. Bester, I jump back on the L train to see Ben. I must remember that he has chosen me, as I am. Of course, for good measure I exit the subway early and power walk. As Ben’s girlfriend, I need to be in the best shape possible. Ben opens the front door with his shirt off. Damn, he’s sexy. I raise my eyes from his chest to his gorgeous face. He pulls me into his arms, pressing my face against his torso. I take a deep breath and then I lick his chest. Even if I lose him, I will have done what I always wanted to do.

“Babe, are you licking my chest?” Ben asks curiously.

“Why, do you like it?”

“Yeah, but not in the hallway.”

“Uh, okay. Do you want to put a shirt on and get some food?” I ask trying to make him forget my licking.

“I’d rather order in and play Monopoly with my favorite bastard . . .”

“You are so romantic,” I say jokingly. “And to think I didn’t even know you liked board games.”

We eat Chinese food on top of an old blanket so as not to ruin the high thread count Frettes. Then we fall asleep without ever passing GO.

Chapter Eighteen

B
abe, wake up. Stop pretending,” Ben stirs me from a night of deep sleep. His voice calls me back to consciousness as if I’m a patient waking from anesthesia. I try to focus my eyes, grateful that Ben’s voice is not an amalgamation of years of fantasies, but an actual man calling me to him. He rubs my arm while saying my name. My boring insignificant name takes on a beauty I never knew it had.

“Hi,” I say in a groggy voice that is as sexy as I can manage at this early hour.

“You’re cute in the mornings,” he says with a kiss on my lips.

I turn my head to shield him from my less-than-delectable morning breath.

“You make me happy.”

“You make me happy, too,” I say, jumping out of bed.

“Hey, where are you going?”

“I’m brushing my teeth so I can be nice and fresh to kiss you.”

He smiles. Right answer. Ben likes me nice and fresh.

Ben’s bathroom, like the rest of the apartment, is clean, mostly white, and modern. The faucets are from Waterworks and the towels are fluffier than my pillows. Ben stands behind me in his white boxers brushing his teeth. I’m in a white tank top and cotton underwear. We are commercial-worthy cute, embodying a lifestyle that could easily sell toothpaste. Well, except for the gagging sound Ben makes while brushing his tongue. Following suit, I brush my tongue as Ben kisses my neck. Something rises in my throat, a huge air pocket, better known as a burp.

“Ahhh.”

“Are you okay?”

“Uh, yeah. I got a little carried away with the brushing,” I explain with embarrassment. I have officially spoiled my commercial-worthy morning. Ben heads into the bedroom to change for work as I stare at myself crossly in the mirror.

“Babe, tonight we’re meeting John and his girlfriend at Misery.”

“What’s Misery?” I ask innocently, assuming it’s the latest restaurant to hit Manhattan.

“Some new club.”

I hate clubs. They are the adult equivalent of school dances, establishing who is popular and who is not by where you stand and how you boogie. Not to mention, clubs are stomping grounds for the New York women I strive to block from Ben’s viewpoint.

“Misery? Why would they name it that?”

“It’s irony, babe.”

“Wouldn’t it be better to stay in for another round of Monopoly, Chinese leftovers, and sex with your girlfriend?”

“Burpy Bastard, I will be delighted to have sex with you after Misery.”

“How generous of you.”

I can’t dance in front of Ben and his friend John or worse, John’s girlfriend. She’s probably an outrageously sexy dancer whereas I’m more of a foot tapper. There is no doubt in my mind that I will look ridiculous next to her. My best bet is to utterly blend into the background. Ideally, John and his girlfriend will only remember a blurry girl standing near Ben. “Hey, did you see Ben’s girlfriend?” John will ask his girlfriend.

“I know she was there, but I can’t remember her for the life of me. Although, there was a blurry figure holding Ben’s hand when he left.”

In regards to my deep-seated abhorrence of nightclubs, clothing is a close second to dancing. I am most comfortable in simple and conservatively stylish black ensembles. Dressing with a premium on tits and ass is just not my forte. I try on two different breast-enhancing tops, but neither do much with what I’ve got. Tears of stress form in my eyes. I’m still the fat kid desperate for clothes to miraculously turn me into a new person. I should tell Ben the truth about feeling out of place in clubs. I doubt he would even mind if I skipped the evening altogether. However, if he meets someone, I’ll never forgive myself.

In front of the mirror, I role play an introduction to John and his girlfriend. They smile instantly charmed by my sharp wit. Unfortunately, even in my pretend meet and greet, I can’t think of anything witty to say. The phone rings, rescuing me from this painful practice session.

“Hello?”

“Babe, I’m not going to make it home beforehand, can we meet in front of Misery?”

“Are you sure? Can’t we tell John to make it a little later?” I ask desperately.

“No, I think it’s easier for me to meet you there.”

“I can meet you at the subway stop.”

“That’s too complicated. I’ll probably grab a cab from the office. This isn’t a problem is it?”

“No, of course not.”

Standing alone while throngs of better-looking women pass me is not a problem. It is a deep immersion in the seventh circle of hell. I survey the women surrounding me. While they range from petite gamines to lanky supermodels, they are all sexy. I may finally be thin, but I am totally lacking in sex appeal. The longer I stand here, the more uncomfortable in my own body I become. I cross my arms and tuck my hands into my armpits, creating an invisible straight jacket for myself. This is too disturbing an image, so I unfold my arms and place them behind my back. This is a posture most often taken by museum docents or butlers. Annoyed with myself I drop my arms, in all their awkward glory, by my side. Short of sitting on them or cutting them off, I have no other options. I am ready to take my proportion-challenged arms home when I see a cowboy on the horizon, coming to save me. In a navy suit and pinstriped shirt, Ben is nothing short of perfect. His lips are cold and incredibly satisfying against my face. I want to devour him, here on the street for everyone to see.