The Makedown (25 page)
“Babe, Barney’s right. The fort is soundproof, so I will have to talk to you later.”
“Ben, I insist that you leave the fort and speak to me in the kitchen.”
“Jeez, no reason to get mad,” Ben mutters under his breath as he follows me into the kitchen.
“Why are you acting like a child?” I demand.
“What are you talking about?”
“The fort. Ben, you think that is normal adult behavior?”
“Why are you freaking out? I’m relating to your brother, who by the way you didn’t even tell me was coming. Stop being so uptight.”
“I’m not uptight! It’s just a little disconcerting that you came home from work and regressed twenty years.”
“I’m getting to know your family, which by the way explains a lot about you.”
“What does that mean? I barely consider us related. Distant relatives at best.”
“Calm down. You should be thanking me. I got Barney to call your dad about the fire. He’s dropping the charges; they’re going back tomorrow.”
I am stunned, but I can’t figure out how to break through this brittle exchange to thank Ben, so I simply ask, “How in the world did you accomplish that?”
“Your mom has agreed to pay for the cost of rebuilding the garage, and your Dad wants the money transferred as soon as possible. Apparently, he thinks she will welch on it if given too much time. She insists on transferring the money in person at her local branch . . . no idea why. Your parents, they’re both a little peculiar.”
“I know,” I sigh, shaking my head. “Mother’s never trusted ATMs. She insists on going into the bank to deposit a check or withdraw money. Ben, I don’t even know what to say. Thank you, you’re amazing.”
“You’re welcome, now I got to get back to the fort.”
I smile with relief and follow Ben back to the living room. I take a seat on the couch next to Mother. Barney scowls at me from the fort, which sports a “No Girls Allowed” sign.
“Barney, what does Jennifer think about your proclivity for playing in forts in your twenties?”
“Anna, stop talking. We are in the fort,” Ben says humorously.
“Who do you think taught me how to build the fort, Weird Fat Bear?” Barney says to me.
“Barney,
shut up
! I told you never to call me that!”
“Anna, you need a few moments in your room,” Mother says authoritatively.
“What?”
“You need a time-out.”
“Are you freaking kidding me?”
“Okay, you definitely need a time-out. Stand up, young lady.”
Mother pulls me by the arm into the bedroom.
“I will come and get you in thirty minutes.”
“Mother, this is my apartment!”
“I am your mother. I am always in charge.”
I hear Ben’s voice from the living room. “Mrs. Norton,
will you make us sandwiches?”
“Of course. And how about some Ovaltine, boys?”
“Yay, Ovaltine!” Ben and Barney respond.
When did my life become so surreal?
T
he last twenty-four hours have reinforced my decision to live several states away from my family. I wave good-bye to Mother and Barney at Penn Station after wishing them luck paying off Dad and Ming for the garage. I have accepted that there is something wrong with my family genetically— this couldn’t all stem from environment. Maybe we have a rogue gene that hangs between autism and depression. There is no other explanation for our behavior.
While Mother and Barney did briefly manage to take my mind off the quickly deteriorating Ben, in their absence it rushes back to me. I ruined my boyfriend. I destroyed another human being because of my insecurities and his need to flirt. I am definitely going to hell.
Surprisingly, when I return home from the train station it’s not
Law & Order
that greets me but Ben singing very sadly. It may actually be the saddest voice I’ve ever heard.
“
I am a rock. I am an iiiiiiiislannd.
”
“Ben?”
On the bed with his eyes shut and an iPod blaring in his ears is the man formerly known as Ben Reynolds. He doesn’t know I am in the doorway, watching him sing. His voice is off key, which only exacerbates his pathetic aura. If he were singing Celine’s “My Heart Will Go On,” I would be confident that Barney had left us some computer-generated time machine and that Ben had literally morphed into a seventh-grade version of me.
I pat his arm, and he opens his eyes. Unaware how lame his behavior actually is, he doesn’t convey any signs of embarrassment.
“Hey, what’s going on?”
“Nothing,” Ben flatly replies.
There it is. The word that best represents teenage depression— nothing. Nothing means everything. Nothing connotes that one is sad, confused, emotionally torn, and wallowing in a pool of shame. Nothing means there is simply too much to explain, so any attempt to do so would be futile. Nothing was the word used to answer Mother when she asked why I had such a gloomy face on my second day of high school. This is how I know nothing is definitely something. And this something is my fault. I am the kryptonite that destroyed the Man of Mass Appeal.
I lie down next to Ben and shut my eyes to block out what I have done to him. How could I be so selfish? How could I be so irrationally destructive? I have never had such a tangible reason to hate myself. In my youth, self-loathing abounded, but my moral compass was always intact. I no longer have the luxury of hating myself with the knowledge that if Saint Peter exists, he will allow me through the pearly gates. Today I admit that I am a bad person. Listening to Ben sing Simon and Garfunkel’s ode to isolation poignantly reinforces what I have done. Lifting the magnifying glass to my youth, I see how my mind-set of inadequacy led me to this predicament. I feebly attempted to create an even playing field so love could be managed, patrolled, and kept in line. I should have accepted love for what it is— complicated and unpredictable.
The Makedown was morally and ethically wrong. I am profoundly sorry for it. However, I don’t have time to beat myself up; Ben is sinking fast into the black hole of nerd-dom and the nothing that comes with it. I catch glimpses of the man I fell in love with, but he disappears quickly.
I created this reverse fairy tale, turning my Prince Charming into a toad, and I am responsible for rectifying it. My solution will not be some haphazard scheme containing a few mea culpas. It will be smart, multitiered, and efficient. If I weren’t worried about Ben finding it, I would create a thorough PowerPoint presentation. But alas, that is too dangerous. I do, however, think a name is needed. I want something straightforward and to the point, like Rebuilding My Formerly Attractive Boyfriend. Perhaps I’ll make it into an acronym, RMFAB (pronounced Rim Fab). The premise of RMFAB is simple: Ben plays the part of Cinderella, and I play his health-conscious Fairy Godmother.
As I’m afraid to commit anything to paper, I must keep the plan simple. After all, The Makedown itself wasn’t terribly complicated, with its three focal points: hair, clothes, and weight. I was shocked at how quickly and easily Ben submitted to the new lifestyle. My hope is that the reinstatement of Ben’s previous standard of living will be equally smooth. He will return to his gorgeous stature with nothing more than a little more compassion for the less-than-perfects.
It’s frightening to contemplate returning to the stares of stunning women, but all I can do is hope that now Ben will understand how it affects me. And even if he doesn’t, that’s okay. I am the architect of his destruction and as such, the culpability and responsibility for his resurrection rests solely on my shoulders.
RMFAB starts immediately. If I don’t combat this quickly, I will have to bring in a therapist or a trainer, or sign him up for some reality weight-loss show. RMFAB includes exercise ( three-mile walks three times a week), nutrition (vegetables and tofu only), a short but meaningful conversation with his friends and coworkers about the importance of encouragement, and finally, destroying unflattering clothes. Façonnable’s flannels are headed straight for Goodwill. Homeless people all over the city will be able to dress like Wasps on a weekend getaway.
Like any good plan, an organic introduction is of the utmost importance. If I move too suddenly, he will go into shock. I have personal experience in this area; I vividly remember the pain of being told to change. Whether it was Mother, our family doctor, or the school nurse informing me that my weight had become a concern, I always experienced unfathomable shame. My entire body would turn beet red, burning with dishonor, disgrace, and humiliation. I was obviously aware that I was fat, but hearing someone say it threw me into an emotional sinkhole of binge eating. It was a sad and counterproductive reaction to being told to lose weight. Many years after my last conversation with the school nurse, I still feel shame. The sooner RMFAB starts, the better. I must get Ben’s formerly impenetrable confidence back.
Ben scrambles to get dressed in the bedroom as I mull over my plan in the kitchen. The sound of the phone makes me jump. I was deep in thought, focused on burning flannels and jumping jacks.
“Hello?”
“I thought I should notify you that we are now in the third trimester of Bastard Won Ton’s incubation.”
“Do you have a Bastard Won Ton calendar?”
“Well, recently I did purchase a Chinese calendar to know what sign Bastard Won Ton will be born under.”
“And?”
“Not surprisingly, a rabbit.”
“Why aren’t you surprised?”
“He was conceived by a couple who clearly screwed like rabbits.”
“I thought you said it only took one time.”
When I was a teenager, Mother lectured her friend’s daughter in front of me about the dangers of sex. She didn’t bother to include me in the conversation, since it was clear to everyone that I wasn’t getting any.
“At your father’s age, it’s quantity over quality. Especially with a China doll.”
“Mother, I am too busy to discuss Bastard Won Ton,” I say, slamming down the phone.
“That sounded intense,” Ben says, wandering in to open the fridge. “Babe? I told you to get more Cokes. They’re the only thing that wakes me up.”
“I got Diet Coke instead. Same caffeine as regular Coke.”
“I’ll pick up a Coke on the way into the office.”
“Or you could buy one of those fruit smoothies or protein shakes.”
“I hate that stuff. Always gives me brain freeze.”
“Then don’t drink it so fast!” I say shrilly.
“I’m going to be late; I better go.”
“Wait, um, I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
“Oh, and I am also . . . getting charitable today. A little spring cleaning. I may donate a few of your old shirts to Goodwill.”
“Why don’t you wait? I’ll pick some stuff out.”
“It’s for the homeless, so every day you wait, they wait in the cold . . . freezing cold weather.” I am going to hell.
“Fine. Only the old stuff. And no Armani.”
“Deal.”
The door slams shut, and I twirl my imaginary moustache as a reward for being so diabolically smart. In a box beneath the sink, under white rags and old
People
magazines, are three kidnapped Prada pants with thirty four-inch waists. They smell like 409 but remain in perfect condition. I hang them delicately on Ben’s wooden hangers after removing the thirty six-inch-waist pants. Although I haven’t yet paid off these impeccably crafted trousers, I drop them in my Goodwill bag. It is my penance, and it feels good.
Next up are the flannels by Façonnable. Ben will be angry with me for tossing them. He may even go out and buy new ones, but I must do it. He is beginning to resemble the Unabomber, with his unruly beard and proclivity toward plaid. The facial hair that has been rubbing my face raw for weeks needs to be annihilated, but I’m not sure how to approach that yet. I will see how he takes the loss of flannel and go from there.
Excited to share this step of the plan with Janice, not to mention pick her brain about Goodwill’s location, I pull out my cell phone.
“Hello?”
“You are going to be so proud of me. The Makedown is over. I am donating all the flannel shirts, putting him back in his thirty four-inch slacks—”
“You went through all that and now you’re putting him back together? What a waste of time!”
“No. I think Ben and I both learned a lot about ourselves in the process.”
“Please, Anna, once he’s back to attracting all the women, you’ll freak out and start this all over again.”
“No, I won’t. I am now okay with his hotness. Honest.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I don’t have time for this. I need to get rid of this stuff before he gets home. Where’s there a Goodwill?”
“Third Avenue . . . at Twenty-third Street.”
“Thanks.”
After dropping the bag off at Goodwill, relief floods my system. Having started RMFAB, I am on my way to living a guilt-free life once again. I won’t cringe when looking at my boyfriend’s stomach drooping over his boxers, his bald spots, his hairy face, or his crappy clothes. He will once again be uncomfortably better looking than me. I unlock the door, my heart soaring with hope that we will soon be our mismatched selves again. Maybe a little smarter, maybe not.
“Ben?” I call out, throwing my keys on the counter.
“In here.”
Ben lies on the bed watching yet another episode of
Law & Order
and drinking a Frappuccino from Starbucks. I may have to call the cable company regarding the 24/7 airing of
Law & Order
. How are addicts supposed to get anything done?
“Hey, how was work?” I say before kissing Ben on the mouth. His facial hair feels particularly prickly and rough. I pull away and notice beads of Frappuccino trickling through his beard. “Ewww,” I say, revolted by the appearance of the sugary liquid in his coarse hair.
“What?”
“It’s all over your beard. It looks like . . . semen.”
“What?” Ben says in horror.
Why did I say semen? I could have said anything, but I chose semen because it was my first thought.
“The Frappuccino in all your facial hair. It’s kind of gross.”
“Don’t forget you’re the one that wanted me to have a beard in the first place,” Ben shouts.
