The Makedown (23 page)
“No you don’t.”
“How can you say that after all the postcards we’ve written?”
“What postcards?”
“Those cheap sons of—”
“Barney?” I interrupt.
“I thought if I mailed them without a stamp, they would have to send them to you to get the postage, since there’s no return address.”
“What the fuck happened to my hair?” Ben screams from the bathroom.
Shit.
“Barney, I have to go,” I say, slamming the phone on the receiver.
Ben stands teary-eyed in front of the bathroom mirror. There are five clearly visible hairless patches on his head. It’s undeniable, yet I try to deny it.
“What?” I ask stupidly.
“Do you not see this huge bald patch on my head?” Ben asks with intense frustration. Evidently, he hasn’t noticed the other four.
Hello Fatty,
You are definitely going to hell.
—Anna
“Oh that,” I say nonchalantly.
“Yes, ‘
oh that
.’ What is it?” Ben screams hysterically.
I never thought Ben could remind me of Mother, but he does now. Ben’s dramatic expression in the mirror along with an exaggerated sense of disaster reeks of Mother.
“Looks like run-of-the-mill male-pattern baldness,” I explain in a soothing tone.
“It appeared overnight. Baldness doesn’t appear overnight, Anna!”
“Calm down. Maybe it’s an allergic reaction. Now that I look a little closer, you seem to have some other spots around your head.”
“
What?
Oh God, no!”
“Don’t worry, no one will notice.”
“Anna, my head is half bald! My life is over. Do you hear me? Over! I’m not going to work.”
“Babe, I’m sure whatever it is will go away, and your hair will grow back.”
“Or it will continue and I will be completely bald by the weekend! I’m losing it. God, why me? How can you do this to me?” Ben wails while looking at the ceiling.
“Ben, you need to calm down. It’s hair. It will grow back.”
“What if it doesn’t? I’ll be . . . ugly! Women hate bald men. They make fun of them, they call them bowling balls.” Ben theatrically stutters as if he’s lost his penis or some other close relative.
“Trust me, it will take a lot more than a few bald patches to make you ugly.”
“That’s what I used to think, but obviously I was wrong.”
“Ben, you’re still gorgeous. Look at that face.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“I’m making a doctor’s appointment immediately. Maybe he can give me Rogaine or something.”
“If that’s what you need to do.”
“Are you sure I’m not ugly?”
“I promise.”
“Cancel dinner with Janice and Gary.”
“What? Over a little hair? You can wear a hat.”
“Anna, look at me. I am in no condition to be in public. I’m ordering a pizza and watching the
Law & Order
marathon.”
“Whatever you say,” I say sweetly as a pang of guilt stabs at my stomach. “You know, Ben, I’m sure it will grow back.”
“I hope so. Thank God I’m growing the beard. It will be a good distraction.”
While Ben is at Dr. Hardin’s office on Amsterdam and Broadway, I decide to implement the flannel. Ben has gained twenty pounds, started growing a beard, and developed bald patches, and soon he will be dressed in flannel. I think that is more than enough to keep the überelite women away from him. The beard will take a couple weeks to hit its stride, but if I get him to wear flannel by that time, mission accomplished.
Façonnable is appropriately located on Fifth Avenue. At $125 per flannel shirt, I can’t help but think that Kurt Cobain is rolling over in his grave. Post-Prada, I am markedly more comfortable in upper-class stores. Not that it matters, since this is the last step. As soon as I find a way to convince Ben to wear flannel, I am free to enjoy Ben in his less-than-perfect form.
As I turn the doorknob to the apartment, I hear the television blasting, signaling Ben’s presence.
“Hey babe, how was the doctor?” I call out, dropping my bags on the floor. Ben stands naked in front of me with a glass of wine in his left hand.
“What happened? Why are you naked?”
“I’m trying to relax. Being naked relaxes me.”
“What did the doctor say?”
“He thinks it could be an allergic reaction or stress-induced hair loss.”
“Really?”
“He gave me this special shampoo to use and told me to take it easy and stay as calm as possible.”
“I knew you were fine,” I beam reassuringly at him.
“I would hardly call me fine, Anna. I have mange,” Ben says like a bitchy transvestite.
“I’m sorry; I got you something to cheer you up.”
“A toupee?”
“Ha ha. I bought you these shirts. Aren’t they great?” I say, pulling out red, green, and blue flannel shirts. His already dour face contorts painfully, expressing his extreme dislike of my clothing selection.
“Babe, those are awful,” Ben declares with a scowl.
“Honey, you wear them with a black suit. I saw it in . . .
Vogue,
yes, Italian
Vogue
. It’s sexy. Very cutting-edge.”
“Anna, this isn’t my look. Plus, with the bald patches, I don’t want to draw any additional attention to myself.”
“Will you at least try them on?”
He takes the green shirt reluctantly. “Oh, it’s Façonnable.”
Label whore. As Ben buttons the front of his shirt, his face continues to twist miserably as if biting into something horribly acidic.
“No. No way, I would never wear this.”
“Well, not without any pants on, of course not.”
“Babe, no.”
“Ben, I spent a lot of money one these shirts. Will you at least try it on with a black suit? The sales clerk said it’s all the rage in Italy, France . . . and Albania, which are big fashion places. Please try it with a suit— for me.”
“Fine, but this isn’t good for my stress level, Anna,” Ben says, turning toward the bedroom. He returns, tucking the shirt into his now-tight “ 34-inch” black slacks.
He looks like Paul Bunyan at a funeral.
“You look hot,” I say with a straight face.
“Are you serious? This looks like shit!”
“I think you look sexy. You’re kind of turning me on.”
“You’re sick.”
I couldn’t agree more.
“There’s something very masculine and . . . dangerous about you in that top.”
“Are you serious?” The compliment penetrates his wounded ego.
“Uh-huh. You seem strong and virile, like you could knock someone out for looking at me the wrong way.”
“Really?”
“Ohhh,” I shiver orgasmically, “I don’t want you to wear these out of the house. It’s only for me.”
Ben smiles lasciviously. I haven’t seen him this happy since before I destroyed his hair, which technically was only last night. However, this morning was exceptionally stressful. Without another word, I get on my knees and perform what should really be called man’s best friend. There is no better way to convey attraction and sex appeal than by giving your boyfriend an impromptu blow job in the kitchen.
“I think you’re right,” Ben says as I lift myself from the floor. “This suits me.”
Before I can respond, the doorbell rings.
“Babe, that’s the pizza. Can you get it?” Ben asks, running off to clean up. I open the door with a sense of satisfaction; mission accomplished.
“You order two double-cheese pizzas, breadsticks, ranch dressing, and a liter of Pepsi?”
“No, we ordered one pizza.”
“This Ben Reynolds’s place?”
“Yeah, but—”
“Then you ordered this.”
“No, I’m sorry. There must be some mistake. Ben?”
“Yeah?” he calls from the bathroom.
“Did you order two pizzas and breadsticks?”
“What?” he yelps, running into the living room. “Did they forget the ranch dressing and Pepsi?”
“No, no they didn’t. Never mind.”
“Thank goodness. The doctor says I need to relax, and there’s nothing more relaxing than this.”
“Absolutely.”
After one slice of pizza and half a breadstick, I pass out without even brushing my teeth. A few hours later, I roll over and find the bed empty. The clock reads 4:30 a.m. Where is Ben? I hear rustling in the kitchen. I tiptoe down the hall only to discover a naked Ben eating cold pizza from the fridge. I creep back to the bedroom in shock. The bald patches unraveled him more than I thought. Twenty minutes later, he crawls into bed reeking of cheese and ranch dressing.
Even after the 4:30 snack, Ben is up at 7:00 sharp, buttoning the Façonnable red plaid shirt. I am surprised how quickly he has taken to it.
“Thanks for the shirts. I love them.”
“Oh, good. You’re feeling better about your hair today?”
“I think the flannel diverts attention from the patches.”
“Okay,” I say quietly. I am suddenly filled with remorse over making him go to work looking like a crazed lumberjack. Ben doesn’t notice my consternation as he heads into the kitchen, returning seconds later with both a piece of pizza and a Nature’s Way for the road.
“Babe? Can you set the TiVo for
Law & Order
? I didn’t get a chance to last night.”
“Sure.”
“Oh, and some more Nature’s Ways would be great. They give me that kick I need in the morning.”
I smile guiltily, wondering what I have started.
J
unk food is addictive. It is a drug, like cocaine, heroin, or crack; the junk food junkie requires an ever higher caloric intake to reach satisfaction. It’s been a mere eight weeks, and Ben has devolved into an addict, ordering such fattening specialties as eggplant parmigiana, fettuccine Alfredo, vegetable tempura, french fries, and onion rings. He is on a first-name basis with most of the deliverymen in a ten-block radius, and our trash compacter looks like the Dumpster behind the food court, littered with wrappers and oily napkins.
While I was pleased with the initial weight gain, I am now concerned that Ben is on the fast track to obesity. It’s time to put on the brakes.
“Babe, did you get more Nature’s Way bars?”
“Yeah, I did. Here you go,” I say as I toss him one from the shopping bag.
“What the hell is this?” Ben screams, staring at the real Nature’s Way bar, a mass of oats stuck together with some honey.
“I heard they were changing their recipe. This must be the new bar,” I say, thinking Ben must be getting wise to my dreadful lies.
“They always discontinue my favorite stuff,” Ben whines as if he’s a moody teenager. “I guess I’ll have Doritos for dessert then.”
Doritos for dessert?
“I can cut you up an apple or nectarine for dessert.”
“No, I don’t want that,” he insists, pouting unattractively.
There has been a strange and unexpected shift within Ben the last few weeks. I would best describe it as an emotional regression. He’s become withdrawn and temperamental, like a hormonally challenged eighth-grader, and a few pimples have even broken through under his messy beard. As he shoves Doritos into his mouth by the handful, I gasp in sudden realization: Ben is me, circa junior high.
I have gone too far. I must figure out how to undo the damage I have done.
After barely sleeping, I awake at 6:30 on Saturday morning, prepared to meet Janice at the kitchen to prep for a Greek party. I run from the subway station to the kitchen, busting through the door like a woman possessed.
“I can’t stop him . . . he’s descended into this fat, hairy blob watching TV and wiping food on his shirt.”
“Wasn’t that the plan?”
“No!” I scream. “The plan was to make him a little less attractive, not to turn him into this.”
“So he’s a bit chunkier than you wanted. Big deal.”
“It’s not just how he looks; he acts like a different person, like some—”
“Fat person? Some unhappy fat person? You should know about that.”
“It’s different; he behaves like a child. He needs help. It’s invasion of the body snatchers.”
“I warned you not do this.”
“Thanks, telling me ‘I told you so’ is really helpful.”
“You guys should come over for dinner. Get him out of the house, be around some grown-ups. He’ll snap back.”
Maybe Janice is right. He has spent most of his life as an Adonis and only weeks as a sloth; surely this is tem-
porary.
After making filo dough all morning with Janice, I return home to find the television blaring from the bedroom. Not a good sign. Please, tell me he left it on by accident when he went out to do something. It’s Saturday; he should be out and about. I enter the bedroom and discover Ben not only still in bed but still in his pajamas.
“You know what’s amazing about
Law & Order
? It’s the only show where the cast changes every season and it doesn’t matter. You still watch.”
Ben doesn’t bother to take his eyes off the TV as I enter the room.
“Have you been watching
Law & Order
all day?” I ask, not even bothering to hide my disappointment.
“They’re having a ‘remembering Lennie’ marathon.”
“Who’s Lennie?”
“He was the master of the zingers. I miss him.”
“Ben, I can’t help but notice you watch more TV than usual.”
“TiVo has changed my life.”
“It’s a beautiful, sunny day, and you’re cooped up inside watching TV. The beauty of TiVo is that you can watch it at any time. Why don’t we make TV a nighttime-only activity?”
“Anna, this is doctor’s orders. He said to relax. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but the more time I spend chilling at home, the faster my hair grows back.”
Ha! That’s because I threw out the contaminated shampoo.
“The doctor said to relax, not to be on bed rest.”
Ben ignores me as I walk around the bedroom, picking up his fast food trash.
“Do you have to be so loud? I can’t hear the show!”
“Ben, I’m picking up
your
trash. This room is disgusting.”
“Get out of my room!”
“This is
our
room!”
“Why can’t you leave me alone?”
“Fine!”
Scientists believe the chemicals in processed foods cause the premature onset of puberty. I have learned that they also cause a regression of the mature
back
to puberty.
