The Makedown

by Gitty Daneshvari

  Janice and I both nod, unsure what to do in this awkward scenario. I avoid eye contact with Ben, still reeling from his breast-rubbing gesture.

  “And ask Anna if she would join me in the last dance.”

  It’s the “No one puts Baby in the corner” moment I have wanted my whole life.

  Chapter Thirteen

  In the middle of a room packed with elderly couples dancing, Ben Reynolds holds me in his arms.

  Well, sort of. Technically, his hands are on my hips, but this induces a feeling of faintness in me so strong that I lean into his arms. No matter the cause, the result is fantastic.

  I notice both Milly and Janice watching us from separate corners of the room, each smiling in genuine appreciation of her own creation. I squeeze Ben tightly to reinforce his presence in my arms. It’s clichéd, but I never want this moment to end. It simply isn’t fair that the song was already playing when we got on the dance floor. I deserve more time. Like Cinderella, I sense the clock approach midnight. I embrace Ben a little tighter, storing all sensory details in my memory.

  Ben laughs.

  This can’t be good. Oh, no. Was this all some elaborate ruse to humiliate me on the dance floor? I pull back as the music ends.

  “What? Am I a bad dancer?” I ask defensively, prepared to scream at him if he says something nasty. I may have the mind of a junior high student, but I will not allow someone to debase me like one.

  “No, not at all. It’s just . . . I’m not used to being around such an emotional woman.”

  “Emotional?” Is that code for repulsive?

  “Not in a bad way, in a charming way. The tears at the speech and the way you held on tightly as you danced.”

  I don’t entirely trust my ears, but I believe he said that without any sarcasm. It sounded like a legitimate compliment.

  “Thank you.”

  “So, the party is pretty much over.”

  “Oh yeah, I have a lot of cleaning up to do.”

  I knew this time would come, but it is devastating to feel my beautiful carriage turn back into a pumpkin. Ben looks to his left, raises an imaginary glass to his mother, then turns back to me. I am not an idiot; I know that his mother is prodding him to give me a chance. I suppose most mothers are suggestive and interfering when it comes to their son’s dates. Still, it’s a shock and an enormous compliment that she likes me. Well, maybe not that enormous a compliment, seeing as she pushed that blonde tub earlier.

  “Do you think Janice would let you slip out for a drink if I promised her my parents’ anniversaries until death?”

  “Yes,” I blurt out quickly. “I think so . . . it seems like a possibility,” I add, trying to play it cool.

  Whatever the reason we are thrust together, I deserve to enjoy it. After a lifetime of jeering insults, I rejoice in the feeling of butterflies in my stomach and palpitations in my heart, regardless of the circumstances. Admittedly, being prodded onto a date by his mother is not ideal, but it’s not as if I am paying her. Or him. Though I would. And he did accept the nudge from his mother, which he didn’t do with poor Leslie. That counts for something in my book.

  We chat awkwardly as we walk a few blocks down Lexington, stopping at an unmarked door next to a Duane Reade. Downstairs is a jazz bar reminiscent of a bygone era; a place where Humphrey Bogart would have drank. The black and white checkered floor complements the red patent leather booths, which are private enough for a man to get to second base. I can only dream of testing this observation.

  The floor-level stage is barely able to accommodate the three men playing the saxophone, bass, and piano. As I watch the men play, annoyance nibbles away at me. Why did I waste my youth listening to Celine Dion and ’N Sync? If I had only known this moment was coming, I would have educated myself on jazz, wowing him with an intelligent and thought-provoking review. Oh no, the music is winding down. Why didn’t Janice drill me on normal human interaction? I’m not going to survive ten minutes, let alone an entire date.

  “Can I get you another drink?” Ben asks, miraculously bypassing the music-review segment of the evening.

  “I’m all right. Thanks.”

  Ben smiles and begins to drain his bourbon. Damn, he is sexy. Everything from his hands to the velvet locks of hair on his head make my libido stand and salute.

  “So did your parents enjoy the party?” I ask shyly, desperate to ignite a rapport.

  “Yes, I think they did, thank you. You pulled off an incredible feat with the food. It’s not easy to make vegetarian gourmet. Mom was very impressed.”

  “Oh, good.”

  Silence. Why won’t the band play another song? More silence. Exchange awkward smiles. Please someone have a heart attack, throw up, or start a fistfight. We need the energy to get a dialogue going.

  “Where did you say you were from?”

  “Ohio. You?”

  “Born and raised in New York. Do you like it here?”

  “Oh, yes . . . I like it a lot . . . ,” I stutter stupidly. I sound as if I am talking about vanilla ice cream. “It’s different than Ohio in all the right ways.”

  “I’m sure,” Ben says with a nod, signaling the waiter for another bourbon. “Are you sure you don’t want another glass?”

  “Oh, no. I’m fine, thanks,” I say meekly. Fear stops me from drinking more. I worry what I would do if intoxicated around Ben. As we start to do the strained smile thing again, the waiter approaches with Ben’s bourbon.

  “Anything else?” the waiter asks politely.

  “Just the check,” Ben says.

  The butterflies and heart palpitations have given way to a sickening sense of doom. I thought basking in his presence, regardless of what got him here, would be delightful, but it’s not. It’s horrendously painful to see total apathy on a man’s face, to watch him drink to numb the misery of the situation. His desperation to get the check and leave is disturbingly apparent. This was a one-off pity drink to get his mother off his back. I am an idiot for believing that it could be more.

  “Your father’s speech was very touching.”

  “I wasn’t sure you enjoyed it, with all the tears,” Ben says with a slight lift of the eyebrows.

  He’s smiling, but it feels like he’s laughing at me. He may not even be consciously aware of it, but he’s definitely mocking my sincerity. Part of me wants to stand up and tell him to fuck off and to save his charity for the homeless. Another part of me wants to sob, showing him the pain he triggered inside me. What can I say? Former nerds are a fragile lot.

  “I was moved by the honesty of their relationship. By your mother’s determination to do what she thought was right, and how it inspired your father to be a better man,” I say with all the dignity I can muster. “She seems like a woman of great character— always looking out for those with less. A mother who probably made you invite everyone to your birthday parties, even the ones you weren’t friends with, the ones you would never be friends with, but you invited them because she told you it was the right thing to do. And maybe it was in fourth grade, but the lesson has stayed with you . . . ,” I peter off, sneaking a peek at my date. I am surprised that Ben’s expression is one of discomfort. His face is contorted in a manner I’ve never seen from someone so beautiful.

  My face, in contrast, is clear, calm, and resigned. I will not cry here. I have frozen all sentiment, with the plan of thawing it safely in the confines of my own apartment, on the pages of Hello Fatty. Ben remains silent, swishing his bourbon around his glass, avoiding eye contact.

  “Well, I have a busy day tomorrow. Thank you for the drink.”

  “I’ll hail you a cab,” Ben says, preparing to stand.

  “That’s not necessary,” I say genuinely, without a trace of malice, before walking away from the table.

  I am not mad at him. I am not mad at his mother. I am mad at me. I believed in something ludicrous and in doing so placed myself in front of a firing squad. Maybe it was intense lust or the onset of schizophrenia, but I thought
I saw something in him, something that was supposed to be mine. Now I realize that I projected onto him a world of feelings I have long wanted to experience. He was merely a vessel, albeit a seriously handsome and utterly shallow one. And I was a tool he used to satisfy his mother’s wish, never worrying how it could affect me.

  I need to get home as fast as possible. I step off the curb and raise my arm. The headlights make me squint. Surprisingly, I am not fighting off tears; instead, I am rather numb, with a twinge of budding pride. I walked off. I didn’t wait for him to holler last call on the pathetic excuse for a date. I saw his intense disinterest and ulterior motives and I walked out. I may not be very attractive. I may not have a powerful job. I may not have the best social skills. But I just discovered a small, miniature, tiny little badass inside of me.

  “Anna!”

  Great, just when I found the silver lining in this godforsaken night, the schmuck returns. A cab pulls up just as Ben reaches me.

  “I . . . um . . . wanted to say,” Ben babbles, looking less self-assured than I would have guessed he could, “thank you for a lovely night.” He reaches across and lightly pecks me on my lips.

  I am shocked beyond belief, but somewhere within me, I manage to summon words, “You’re welcome.”

  I get in the cab. I tell the driver to take me to Brooklyn, sit back, and laugh. I think that kiss may have fucked with Ben’s head even more than mine.

  Chapter Fourteen

  From beneath my 1970s flower-laden sheets, which Mother “entrusted” to me, I mull over the events of the evening. I conclude that a slight, imperceptible shift in the tectonic plates or the alignment of stars prompted Ben to kiss me. Either that or FG splashed Ben with a heavy dose of magic.

  Oddly, I’m not sure if I’m pleased he kissed me or annoyed. Was that a pity kiss at the end of a pity date? Was that a genuine moment that neither one of us will ever be able to explain? Will I hear from him? Is it asinine to want to hear from him after the night I had?

  I was fine when I left, even proud of the manner in which I handled his behavior, but then he had to go and brush those soft, perfectly symmetrical lips against mine. It’s as if he infected me with a chemical, recharging my attraction to him. I am deeply grateful he didn’t use tongue, or I’d be irrevocably in love with the guy.

  “Ahh,” I yelp, startled by the intercom buzzing.

  No one ever buzzes me, except when I’ve ordered take-out. It’s only happened once before, and that was by accident. They were looking for Mrs. Bester a floor below me.

  “Hello?”

  “Delivery for Anna Norton.”

  “What did you say?” I ask incredulously.

  “Delivery for Anna Norton.”

  “That’s A-n-n-a N-o-r-t-o-n, right?”

  “Yeah, lady. Anna fucking Norton, are you coming down or what?”

  “I’m coming down,” I squeal as if Bob Barker just invited me down to contestant’s row on the Price Is Right.

  I throw open my front door clad in only a robe and slippers. The flannel robe is from the Gap, circa 1990s. The slippers grossly predate the robe. I hurdle down the stairs to the building’s main entrance, curiosity speeding my every step.

  I fling open the door half expecting to find Janice ready for a full debriefing. But it’s not Janice; it’s something far more bizarre: flowers. Yellow roses, to be exact. Who would send me roses? No, I tell myself. It’s not possible. On the other hand, he did kiss me last night. They are definitely not from Janice. She would never deign to send flowers in a plastic vase with a color-coordinated satin ribbon. It’s a little surprising from Ben as well. I thought he was more sophisticated than that.

  “Lady, are you gonna sign this or what?”

  “Oh, of course,” I blurt out, realizing that I have been debating the identity of the flowers’ sender for at least a minute.

  My heart pounds as I start back up the stairs. Could Ben really have sent me flowers? And if so, what do they mean? Yellow roses traditionally mean friendship, and a man as sophisticated as Ben surely knows his way around a flower shop. This was clearly a deliberate act.

  Hello Fatty,

  Don’t get too excited. I kissed you because we’re only friends.

  Warm regards,

  Ben

  Or perhaps he just likes the color yellow? Is it possible that he wrote something romantic? The mere thought of a man writing me a note makes my body tingle. I plunge my nose deep into the bouquet to inhale the fragrance before pulling out the small white card. Pressure mounts, setting off a spasm in my lower back and a dull thud in my left temple.

  Squinting and limping, I manage to get back to my apartment with the roses. Safely back on my futon, I pull out the card and read:

  “Your father and Ming are having a bastard won ton. Hope these flowers buffer the blow. Best, Mother.”

  Ming is pregnant. I choke back the visual image of Dad having sex with anyone but Mother— or really the image of Dad having sex with anyone at all. I realize all children have difficulty accepting their parents’ sexuality, but I have trouble thinking of them with anything other than Barbie-and Ken-type bodies under their clothes. Why would Dad procreate while still living in the same town as Mother? Or more accurately, why would Dad procreate period? The only idea more revolting than Dad having sex is Mother following his lead, but I am quite sure she’s been celibate since the divorce. Barney lives with Mother, so he would know if anything happened. According to Barney, she sleeps with her bedroom door open in case he needs something, which means she’s not even having a good time by herself.

  For fairness’ sake, Dad should not be having sex if Mother isn’t even masturbating. Moreover, a man with two grown children does not need another child. The child buffet is closed. He has had enough. Why would he even want another child? He was never particularly interested in his paternal role with Barney and me. He may have remained in the house until we finished school, but he never participated in any child-rearing activities. His only role was that of silent observer.

  Inevitably, Dad will be a better father to Bastard Won Ton than to Barney and me. The absence of Mother alone will improve his parenting skills threefold. A part of me is jealous that Bastard Won Ton will get a better version of Dad than I did. Growing up, my disappointment in Dad was eclipsed by my immense pity for him. He was in a suburban jail with the harshest warden east of the Mississippi River. He could have spared Barney and me years of madness if he had stood up to Mother, but he didn’t. Instead, he remained Mother’s hand puppet until joining Ming and the traveling infidelity circus.

  If I am this out of sorts, I can only imagine Mother’s state. It’s possible the flowers were sent from a hospital bed, where she’s recovering from a mental breakdown.

  Clearly, the flowers are Mother’s way of making me call her; reaching Mother with a lithium drip in her arm would be a stroke of luck. I can feel her telepathically guilting me right now. I force myself to pick up the phone and dial. It rings. Is it too late to hang up? Mother has caller ID. Damn. She believes that calling and failing to leave a message is the equivalent of walking by someone you know on the street and not saying hello. Mother punishes such an act with a series of late-night hang-ups. She blocks her number, then spaces out the calls so that each time the phone rings, the person will have just fallen back to sleep. I cannot endure that type of torture right now.

  “Hello?”

  “Mother, it’s Anna.”

  “You must be proud; your father learned to ride the fortune cookie.”

  Is there an appropriate response for such a remark? I don’t think so.

  “Why didn’t Dad call me himself?”

  “He’s too busy snapping up baby kimonos and learning how to bow to remember his only daughter.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “As hard to believe as your father having a baby with his mistress?”

  “Ming is his girlfriend now. You guys are divorced.”

  “They bo
th have big old As on their chests for life.”

  “No one uses the word adulterer anymore. Jesus, Mother, this isn’t the Scarlet Letter.”

  “Assholes, my dear. Your father is an asshole, and Ming is an asshole with a side of plum sauce.”

  “She’s not Chinese.”

  “She was a part of that Tiananmen Square thing. She drove the tank. You realize that your brother Bastard Won Ton will have a war criminal for a mother. Makes you appreciate me.”

  “How do you know it’s a boy?”

  “The hospital performs amniocentesis on all bastard children to make sure there aren’t any deformities.”

  “I have to go.”

  “Why?”

  “I need to call Amnesty International to look into this war crimes thing.”

  “I am available if they have any questions.”

  “I’m not serious.”

  “I am. Best, Mother.”

  Standing shell-shocked in my apartment, I wonder how Mother found out. I can’t imagine Dad would call her and not me. However, Dad would call Barney. I pick up the phone and hit redial.

  “Hello?”

  “Mother, Amnesty is calling me back later. Can I have Barney, please?”

  “Your brother is taking one of his naps.”

  “Wake him up.”

  “This is not China. I don’t take orders,” Mother snaps dramatically.

  “I’m sorry. Will you please wake up Barney?” I say softly, desperate to appease her madness.

  “His door is locked, and I don’t want him walking out here and grabbing the phone without washing his hands.”

  “Fine. Have him call me back.”

  Certain things ruin sexuality and all the fun that comes with it. One such thing is Mother informing me of my brother’s masturbation habits. Barney’s “naps” single-handedly (no pun intended) support the Internet porn industry. My need for a normal male distraction has never been quite so profound.

  I still can’t believe Ben kissed me. With the groundwork for a childish crush already in place, I decide to take advantage of the new technology for stalking. Google is far superior to driving by someone’s house. I type Ben’s name into the box in eager anticipation of information; the mere notion of reading about Ben makes me want to leap out of my skin.