The Makedown

by Gitty Daneshvari

  Somehow, Janice wraps up the meeting and holds my arm firmly as she says good-bye and heads to the front door. Ben, perfect gentleman that he is, extends his hand for me to shake. I want to smother it with kisses as deranged Italian men do in movies. I yearn to press my face against his slightly hairy chest and scream, “After all I’ve done to be with you— vegetarianism, environmental activism— the least you could do is marry me.” However, I don’t do any of those things because one, I am inches away from the sanitarium as it is, and two, he’s out of my league. For the first time since my overhaul, I hate being average. Forgettable, boring, average Anna isn’t capable of getting Ben. Instantly, my transformation is silly and pointless, a cruel joke to verify my inability to achieve my desires. Downstairs, on the verge of a mental breakdown, I wait for Janice to rattle me with barbs and impersonations of my atrocious behavior, but she doesn’t.

  “Okay,” Janice says, jotting something on a piece of paper, “here’s your list for today . . . okay?”

  “Yup,” I say overenthusiastically, trying to quiet her worrisome glare. She clearly noticed that I have an ill-advised crush on Ben, but thankfully she isn’t mentioning anything.

  Walking down Mulberry Street with a single piece of paper in my left hand, I miss Ben. I want him. I need him. It’s insanity. I miss everything about him, from his smell, to his eyes, to his voice. An incredibly childish and petty idea crosses my mind. I reject my own idea, embarrassed by its juvenile nature. But it returns, and this time I imagine what it would feel like to hear Ben’s gravelly voice again. Logically, I know that I have surpassed my humiliation threshold for the day, yet I can’t stop myself.

  I plow aggressively down the street, eyes darting around in search of a pay phone. On the corner of Broome and Mulberry, I discover a dirty, gum-covered antique of a pay phone, drop in fifty cents, and dial the number I memorized off Janice’s pad while sitting at the dining room table. Crank calling used to be a favorite pastime of mine until caller ID and *69 went and ruined it. I have chosen to use a pay phone instead of using *82 on my cell to block my number because I can’t take the chance of a technical glitch. What if *82 doesn’t work and he sees my number? Then what? There would be no plausible explanation to give him or Janice, whose crazy psychic abilities would no doubt ferret out this indiscretion.

  It’s ringing.

  I’m nervous, slightly worried that a case of Tourette’s will come over me, prompting me to spill my guts to him, confess my undying lust for his body.

  “Hello? Hello?” Ben’s gorgeous voice comes through the receiver, clear as a bell.

  I silently mouth hello back to Ben, as any good stalker would do. My emotional regression has occurred at an alarmingly fast rate. I went from seminormal adult to utter adolescent loser in less than two hours.

  If only the world was a magical and whimsical place, a world in which Ben does not realize he is out of my league. We date, fall in love, and eventually marry. We live together in his one-bedroom apartment until we have kids and move to Westchester. Our kids are so cute. I know all parents think their kids are perfect, but Madeleine and Jacob truly are flawless. I originally chose the names for my children with Lance Bass of ’N Sync, but I think he’ll understand.

  Loser, my mind screams. Unless women can get pregnant over the phone, there isn’t going to be a Madeleine or a Jacob. Loser!

  Walking back to work, the proverbial black cloud hangs over my head, reminding me what a horrendous loser I am. I miss my pretend husband and children. This is proof of my dysfunctionality: only losers or people with severe mental disorders experience such emotions. There is obviously something wrong with me. I have allowed a total stranger to alter my perception of life.

  Average is a place I have worked tirelessly to arrive at, and now I’ve deemed it worthless since I can’t have Ben Reynolds. This is a man I just met who does not have any feelings for me. I am embarrassed and revolted by my thoughts. I refuse to engage in this any further and make the conscious decision not to mention my thoughts to Janice. I unlock and push open the front door, bags in hand.

  Janice is in the middle of the kitchen, chopping at a frenetic speed. Ideally, I would run to her, confess my outrageous feelings, and demand she make it happen. However, even Janice, my relentless champion, knows this one is pointless. Ben is in a galaxy far, far away . . . from me.

  “There’s fresh fruit in the fridge,” Janice calls out to me.

  “Thanks,” I say quietly.

  “What is it? You look blotchy and stressed,” Janice says, stopping to peruse my physical status.

  “I don’t know; maybe I was in the sun too long.”

  “You need to wear sunscreen; the sun ages you.”

  Great, I am already spiraling downwards. After two minutes of looking average, I’m descending into unattractiveness again. And it’s not going to stop. Time is a brutal and worthy foe, cruelly punishing women as they age. Maybe I should try to find Harry on MySpace; he was the only man I’ve ever met who didn’t care if I was revolting. In fact, I think it turned him on.

  Sitting at the counter shoving fruit into my mouth, I check my cell messages, only to discover Mother has been diversifying her portfolio.

  “Anna, I made a large investment and I need to discuss it with you. Best, Mother.” Mother’s idea of a large investment translates to wasted money on the home shopping channel, QVC. Upon her death, I am to inherit a wealth of costume jewelry, food processors, fruit dehydrators, and unused celebrity-endorsed gym equipment. Her shopping prowess is the least of her peculiarities; most notably she has taken to ending all conversations as she would a letter: Best, Mother. Like with the phony glasses, Mother believes that the “Best” salutation makes her appear more intelligent. Mother’s quest to seem knowledgeable is boundless; she will stop at nothing— except, of course, reading. Picking up a book is where Mother draws the line.

  Calling her back would be the mature and kindhearted thing to do, but I’m not in the mood to listen to asinine investment strategies and theories on my father’s relationship with Ming. I would much prefer to muse about Ben and the alternate universe that allows us to be together. I accept that in this reality, a man of his looks and social stature cannot deign to be with someone such as myself.

  But that can’t stop me from imagining a world where it’s possible.

  Part III

  The Downside of Dating Up

  Chapter Twelve

  Lights. Camera. Loser.

  Standing in front of a frustrated Janice, I devolve into hysterics at the mention of Ben. I can’t face him after days of intricate fantasies about the two of us in wedded harmony. Seeing him and realizing the impossibility of my dreams is too heavy a burden to bear. Humiliation is all the night can bring, so why go?

  “I’m not going . . . I can’t. Hire someone else,” I beg Janice with streams of mascara-colored tears running down my cheeks.

  “You are going. I am not asking you, I am telling you. The party is tonight, and you will be there along with the crew, helping me as you always do. Do you understand?”

  “No . . . no . . . I can’t. I can’t do it,” I whimper. “You don’t understand.”

  “What? What don’t I understand?” she explodes back at me. “All this because you told him he has a nice ass? Big deal. A guy like that gets hit on every day. I wouldn’t be surprised if his own mother hit on him. He won’t even remember it.”

  “I can’t bear to be around him. I’m some pathetic loser with a crush on him.”

  “Sweetie, yes he knows you think he’s hot. So what? He thinks he’s hot. He probably thinks everyone thinks he’s hot. Men like Ben fuck too many models to remember one normal girl who said he had a cute ass. It’s not a big deal. No one cared but you, okay?”

  “Okay,” I mutter, wiping tears from my face. “Sorry, I—”

  “I know,” Janice cuts me off.

  A deep level of shame washes over me as I realize that the man I have spent countless hours m
entally obsessing over probably doesn’t even remember my name. I can’t believe I have made this guy out to be such a big deal. Let’s not forget he has that barely visible bump in his nose. Total freak show, not to mention egomaniac. He hung a picture of himself without a shirt in his own apartment. Who does that? A show horse.

  He’s probably bedded every size-four woman in the five boroughs and has the STDs to prove it. An ease returns to my face as I mentally annihilate Ben.

  By 5:00 p.m., I am stationed in the kitchen adjacent to the Waldorf-Astoria’s fourth-floor banquet room. With Juan and the rest of the waitstaff buzzing around me, preparing plates, I tell myself that Ben has a small penis. No one is perfect. Ben has everything else, so he must have a small penis, or maybe no penis at all. Perhaps he’s really a woman, or a hermaphrodite. This is what I have been driven to by the unfairness of genetics. Why are some born with so much while others have to fight for the dregs? If only the principles of communism could be applied to genetics, giving everyone exactly the same advantages.

  With the party in full swing, I work diligently to distract myself from the fact that Ben is on the other side of the kitchen door. I yearn to see him one last time, to see the face that makes my stomach churn with anxiety, fright, and a healthy dose of self-loathing. I have never felt so much for someone I knew so little.

  I know I shouldn’t, but I am going to peek; after all, I may never see him again. Although, he may have brought that blonde beast from the bar. Talk about utter misery, watching them suck face. Okay, he doesn’t really seem like the “suck face at the Waldorf” kind of guy, but watching them hold hands will be almost as horrendous. I am staying in the kitchen, where I belong.

  The only downside to this decision is that I don’t get to interact with the old people attending the party. I absolutely love oldies. They don’t intimidate me or make me question the fairness of genetics, since age evens the playing field. A pretty woman and an average woman aren’t that different at seventy or eighty; the only real difference is in their memories. For men on the other hand, age can be a distinguishing force. I have long fancied the idea of dating a seriously older man. I am not talking about the forty-five-year-old divorcé with salt-and-pepper hair. I am referring to the sixty-four-year-old retiree with memberships to both the country club and AARP. A man in his sixties can still be debonair, but with reasonable expectations. Aware that his value is on the decline, an older man will gladly overlook my appearance for my youth.

  “Anna, you are young, nubile, and—,” my dashing older man proclaims.

  “And beautiful?”

  “And still contributing to Social Security.”

  “Oh, Mr. Lincoln, let’s get married.”

  In my older man fantasy, I refer to him by his surname, which always happens to be a president’s name. Don’t ask me why; I have no idea. The first time I had the fantasy I chose Mr. Taft, and it snowballed from there.

  With images of me dancing across ballrooms, I decide to stop acting like the redheaded stepchild relegated to the kitchen. Hiding out here, I am passing up the opportunity to meet an older man, to become a kept woman. It’s not such a bad life— dinner by five and widow by forty.

  Pushing Ben to the furthest, most inaccessible part of my brain, I press open the door to the Waldorf-Astoria ballroom. Dark, perfectly cut suits and chic dresses swarm the servers as they meander through the crowd. It’s a well-kept horde with money and a liberal flair. I hear smatterings of Bill Clinton nostalgia, with more than a few people mentioning how different things would be if McGovern had won in 1972. These people don’t wear fur, watch Bill O’Reilly, or vote for anyone with the last name Bush.

  Slithering through the Democrats, I look for both Janice and my geriatric husband-to-be. Janice will force me back into the kitchen, afraid that I will cry again. I continue to scan the room for my grandfather/boyfriend when I spot Ben talking with a petite older woman. My stomach hurts. Ben. My throat constricts. Ben. My heart stops. Ben. The mere sight of him makes me uncomfortable in my skin. Every cell in my body begs to look away. Ben must emit some incredibly powerful pheromone, because I simply cannot take my eyes off him.

  A tall, slender woman passes in front of him; his eyes follow her well-toned derriere. The small woman grabs his face and scolds him for his naughty behavior. He smiles politely but continues to watch the woman’s ass cut through the crowd. The old woman, maybe an aunt or neighbor, pulls Ben by the arm. I head left, following them as they nod and wave at other guests. The old woman stops in front of a stocky young woman. To be blunt, the young lass is all ass. She is not fat, but she is definitely chubby. I feel bad thinking it, but it’s true. Ben shakes hands with the young woman with blonde hair to her shoulders and bangs that remind me of second grade.

  Craning my neck to decipher the body language, I inch closer to the area of interest. The old woman watches the two chat with an excited, almost crazed expression on her face. Oh my dear lord; that old bat is trying to set them up. I recognize the smug look from the night Janice arranged for the Junior High field trip in my pants.

  I laugh. Oh, I laugh hard, by myself in the middle of a party. This is the most ridiculous scene I have ever witnessed. Ben’s eyes roam the room searching for an out as the old woman attempts to ignite a spark with the plump girl. The old woman must not know about the other blonde in his life, the one with legs that span the length of this girl’s body. It’s almost painful to watch. Even I am better looking than this one. Did I just think that? I’ve never considered myself better looking than another woman, but it’s about time.

  After many a strained expression, Ben breaks free from the triangle of matchmaking. Headed straight for the bar, I duck through conversations, bump into people, and do what’s necessary not to lose sight of him.

  With Ben firmly planted at the bar with a beer in his hand, I slink behind a nearby potted plant. My behavior is alarmingly reminiscent of a character’s in a bad sitcom, yet I continue. Seated at a crappy table, hidden by a decorative tree, I notice the puffy top of the old woman’s hair making its way through the crowd, headed straight for Ben.

  “Benny, that was very rude of you,” the woman scolds.

  “Leslie Haggens? She’s a lovely girl, but there is no way I’m dating her,” Ben responds.

  “She is a fabulous girl. A wonderful personality and a successful lawyer. This is what you need— someone with real emotions, someone who actually has feelings. A nice girl, not like that—”

  “Please stop. I am never going to date Leslie— never— and as for . . . I don’t want to talk about her.”

  And with that, Ben walks away. The old woman orders a martini, and I excavate myself from the tree, avoiding the stares of my tablemates.

  “Hello!” A tall older man with glasses and a thick gray mane yells from the stage, tapping the microphone with his fingers. “Is this thing on?” The old woman who was harassing Ben joins the tall man onstage. Suddenly, it all makes sense. These are Ben’s parents. To my great surprise, they are not Zeus and Aphrodite, but a normal-looking couple. How did they create him? Ben looks like the love child of Elvis and Brigitte Bardot, not this pair.

  Ben’s father is attractive in a dentist or accountant kind of way, while his mother resembles a Madame Alexander doll, at five feet tall with mounds of puffed-up hair. Standing on stage, both dressed in navy blue, they enthusiastically beam at the crowd. My catering experience has taught me that for regular folk, having a party thrown in your honor is akin to winning an Academy Award; it demands a moving speech.

  “As some of you know, I met Milly at camp. She was thirteen and small for her age. It wasn’t love at first sight for me, thankfully, since I was a counselor. To be honest, I thought Milly was annoying. She was a vegetarian in the fifties, and back then, no one was a vegetarian. No one liked her, from the janitor to the head counselor, but she didn’t care. She had integrity. When the boys went deer hunting, she held a one-woman protest. Ten years later, I was a law clerk to Judg
e Marvin Smithson, and in walked his irrepressible daughter Milly. It was love at second sight. She made me question everything. I gained compassion for other life forms. She changed me for the better. Even in the depth of our most miserable fight— some of you may remember the Gore versus Nader debacle of 2000— I couldn’t imagine life without her. What else can I say about a woman who gave me not only a soul but a son? She’s magnificent.”

  Damn Mr. Reynolds! The poster child for marriage made me cry. Tears roll down my cheeks, washing away so-called waterproof mascara. My father would never have spoken about Mother in such a way. I wonder if he toasts Ming with such passion. My nose drips, and I wipe it on my hand like a derelict child. I look up and notice not only Ben but also his mother watching me. My face, awash in emotion, cannot hide what I am feeling. I offer an honest smile, one that few people have seen. There is no hiding who I am in this moment. I am a woman in black slacks, a white dress shirt, and an apron crying over the love of a couple I have never met. While his mother pulls at his sleeve, Ben lifts his arms slowly.

  Dear God, no! Ben pays homage to my prior breast-rubbing incident by reenacting it. Mortified, I turn around and storm into the kitchen.

  In the kitchen, Janice waits for me with a paper towel and a wry expression.

  “What is with all this crying? It’s madness. You must wipe your face.”

  “I was touched by their love,” I explain a tad defensively.

  “Anna, it was a toast. No one tells the truth in toasts. He’s probably porking his paralegal.”

  “Jesus, Janice, how do you hear that and respond with porking?”

  From behind us comes, “Personally, I prefer screwing. It’s to the point without being crass.”

  “Fuck me,” Janice mutters.

  I turn around slowly to see who has joined our debate. Oh my God, it’s Ben. I wipe my face at warp speed. Janice, momentarily paralyzed, has lost the power of speech.

  “I wanted to thank you ladies for a wonderful evening.”