The Makedown

by Gitty Daneshvari

  “He loves you?”

  “Don’t act so surprised!”

  “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just that I have Chia Pets older than this relationship.”

  “It’s been four months. That is a very, very long time for some insects . . . and me.”

  “I’m happy for you. How did he tell you?”

  “Um, well, actually, I told him first.”

  “Jesus Christ, you told him first?”

  “So? He said it back,” I respond defensively.

  “Did he have a choice?”

  “Of course, he could have said . . . ” What could he have said? Sorry, Anna, I like you a lot but . . . .

  “I’m sure he loves you, but for future reference, wait for the guy.”

  “Thanks for ruining my moment yet again,” I whine.

  “With a guy like Ben— you know, someone with a lot of . . . options— it’s important not to crowd him. Let him make those first big steps.”

  “I didn’t realize love was so political.”

  Love is not only political but extremely physically taxing. And I’m not talking about sex.

  I am referring to the elliptical machine, weight training, and Pilates. Ben is the impetus for the maddening physical punishment I endure daily.

  Maybe love has this effect on everyone, pushing them to be the best they possibly can be. Or more likely, exercise obsession merely affects women whose boyfriends are exponentially better looking than them. Whatever the reason, ever since Ben and I exchanged the love word, a profound need for fitness has taken hold. When I stay at my place in Brooklyn, I usually do a combination run/walk/Jazzercise around the neighborhood with my iPod playing at a deafening level. Remarkably, I am not embarrassed to exercise in my Brooklyn ’hood. The way I see it, everyone there already thinks I’m a weirdo. Janice’s restaurant ban put me at the top of the local wack-job list.

  This morning, buzzing with energy, I run through my neighborhood to the soundtrack from Fame. I turn the corner, excited to finish, when I see smoke.

  My building is on fire.

  I stop and stare, mouth open, watching the building burn before my eyes. Then I realize I should do something. Should I scream? Does the fire department have a direct line, or should I call 911? I am appallingly bad under pressure. I dial 911 with Fame still blaring in my ear. Someone else must have called because I hear sirens in the distance. Elderly residents hobble out of the building. My mind immediately goes to Mrs. Bester. Did someone knock on her door? Could she hear them? Should I go in and rescue the old broad? I can’t move. I’m scared. Running into a burning building, having seen Backdraft on cable, feels like a bad idea. Oh, thank heavens the firefighters are here. Mrs. Bester is their responsibility. Almost on cue, I spot Mrs. Bester stumbling out of the building. I dial Ben’s number, desperate to share my harrowing tale with someone.

  “Ben, my building is on fire,” I cry into the phone as the firefighters begin to douse the flames.

  “Are you still in it?” he shrieks. “Get out!”

  “No,” I laugh at his emotional response. “No, I’m on the street, but it’s still really scary.”

  “Jesus, Anna, you almost gave me a heart attack!”

  “Babe, I promise to always leave a burning building before calling you, but will you come out here? I’m not sure what’s going to happen.”

  “I’ll leave now. And don’t go near the building.”

  “Okay,” I say, thrilled with the knowledge that if I perished today, a sexy man would cry at my funeral.

  Seven hours later, Ben holds my hand as we climb the stairs of my building. Nearing the fifth floor, I notice smoke damage on the walls. Mrs. Bester’s door is charred beyond recognition, which makes sense, since she started the fire. Turns out the grumpy woman was smoking cigarettes in bed. I thought everyone knew that mattresses were highly flammable. I’m not even a smoker, and I know that. A floor above the old woman, extensive smoke damage continues down the hallway, my front door black with soot. Ben unlocks the door, holding me at arm’s length while he makes sure it’s safe.

  “It’s not good,” Ben mumbles from inside.

  I inch closer, afraid of what I will find.

  “Oh my God . . . it’s ruined,” I say tearfully.

  Black swaths of soot cover the walls. My formerly white futon is gray and dirty. My personal effects— my one framed photo, computer, and clothing— are all intact, albeit covered with a very thick residue of smoke. Thank goodness all my clothes are black.

  “The important thing is you are okay,” Ben says as if he were my mother.

  “Thank God I have such crappy stuff.”

  “Where’s your suitcase? Let’s get you packed up.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You can’t stay here; this place is going to have to be gutted.”

  “Really?” I ask, surprised.

  “What, you thought a little paint and potpourri, and you’d be back in by the end of the week?”

  “I don’t know what I thought, but I hate moving,” I moan.

  “You’ll stay with me until we can find you a new place, preferably one with your own bathroom. Honestly Anna, I can’t believe you lived like this.”

  “What can I say? I love the dorm life.”

  “It’s time for you to get a grown-up place. Something like mine.”

  It’s strange to unpack at Ben’s place, even if it’s only temporary. I feel awkward putting the one framed photo of my family next to the bed. The portrait is in a cheesy butterscotch frame with the word Family carved into it. I loathe the frame more than the picture of Mother, Dad, Barney, and me at my sixth-grade graduation, but I can’t bring myself to change it. Mother gave me the framed photo the day I left for Penn. It was a rite of passage— leaving my family behind, taking only a small reminder with me. It doesn’t make any sense, as my parents were always unhappy, but I’m nostalgic for the time when they were still together. Ben leans over me as I stare at the photo.

  “Who are they?”

  “Um, that . . . these people . . . are related to me. My uncle and his family.”

  I can’t bring myself to admit that the large ball dressed in a ruffled pink dress is me.

  “Speaking of family, I’ve been meaning to tell you, my parents want to do a lunch and officially meet you.”

  “Why?” I ask with a shocked expression.

  “They are curious about you. It’s not every day I take in a boarder.”

  “Very funny. This is temporary. I am going to be out of your hair shortly.”

  “Babe, I love you. There’s no rush.”

  Ideally, I would have liked more than a day’s warning about meeting Ben’s parents. At least I have my own private bathroom in which to prepare myself. A whole new world with no toilet seat covers or slippers in the shower. As I stand in front of the bathroom mirror applying a respectable amount of makeup with the lights dimmed and the door locked, I decide to cultivate a relationship with God. Meeting Ben’s parents is too significant an event to go without checking in with the unverified man or woman upstairs.

  Growing up, I never gave much thought to God. I passed churches, synagogues, and televangelists without batting an eye. I was solely focused on FG. “Dear God, please let today go well. I am still unsure if you exist, but if you do, please don’t be offended that I doubted you. If you don’t, I’m talking to myself in the mirror.”

  Vegetarian Glory is the most expensive vegetarian restaurant in Manhattan, Mecca for tofu lovers. Sitting at the four-top table, Ben and I look at each other with blank expressions. I can’t tell if he’s nervous, too, or if in my panicked state, I am simply projecting.

  “Babe, stop stressing out.”

  “I’m not stressing out at all,” I say, obsessively rubbing my damp palms against the white linen napkin.

  “It’s lunch. No reason to sweat it.”

  “Sweat? I’m not sweating. Do I look like I’m sweating? Is that what you’re trying to tell
me?”

  “You’re cute when you’re nervous. It makes me want to take care of you.”

  “You didn’t answer my question. Do I look sweaty? I don’t want your mom and dad to think I have a glandular problem.”

  “They’re here.”

  Across the room, I spot Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds heading our way. Milly has her hair done in the same puffy monstrosity as at the anniversary party. It adds at least six inches to her diminutive height. I wipe my hands at a feverish speed, but it turns out my hands are entirely composed of water. They are leaky breast implants, and I am on the verge of being felt up by the most important people in the world. I must avoid skin-to-skin contact at any cost. I will leave the napkin in my hand while greeting them. Or is that more peculiar than having damp hands?

  They are fast approaching. I smile maniacally. Ben steps out from the table to hug his parents. I stand behind him, playing the part of the smiling damp troll. Milly offers me a huge grin and starts to put out her hand for a formal handshake. I lunge at her with my arms open, embracing her in a mammoth hug. I wipe my hands on the back of her jacket discreetly during the hug.

  “I told you this one had a lot of emotion,” Milly exclaims proudly to Ben.

  “I feel as if I know you already and, well, I hug people I know,” I stammer lamely. I cling to her small body, rubbing my hands in a circular drying motion on her back.

  “Why don’t you give Arthur a hug now?”

  I guess my hug has gone on a little too long.

  “Oh, right.”

  I give Arthur more of a pat-pat hug in an attempt to appear normal.

  “Anna, we loved the quiches. They were delicious, right?” Milly prods her husband affectionately at the table.

  “Anna, the quiches were delectable,” Arthur says sincerely.

  “Of course, you must hear that a lot. Right?” Milly says with a smile.

  All of Milly’s sentences end in ambiguous rhetorical questions. Unsure what to do, answer or ignore her, I decide to go with the nod and am obliged to do so continuously throughout the meal.

  “Now Anna, let’s get down to business,” Milly says sternly. “Are you a vegetarian? Or do you celebrate the mass slaughter of our friends by ordering them in restaurants?”

  “Jesus, Mom,” Ben offers quietly.

  “I am a vegetarian,” I say with a smile.

  Milly stares at me. Is vegetarian not enough? Should I add more to my résumé?

  “I am also a registered Democrat.”

  Milly continues to stare at me.

  “And I recycle . . . and I give money to PETA. And I . . . usually wear a cat pin.”

  “Arthur, I may cry,” Milly says with a heartfelt look to her husband. “Anna, I knew the second I saw your beautiful display of emotion at our party that you were the right girl for my Benny. Call it mother’s intuition, but I knew.”

  “Oh, how sweet. Thank you.”

  “After Carcass dumped him, I knew I needed to intervene, help him out with the selection process a little,” Milly says with a wink.

  “Her name is Gela, and I think we’ve all heard enough about that . . . whole . . . thing,” Ben says politely but with anger simmering visibly beneath the surface.

  “Don’t get fussy, Benny,” Arthur says politely. “It comes with dating a rancher’s daughter. All those nice outfits were paid for with blood money.”

  “Cow blood,” Milly chimes in emphatically.

  “Enough about Gela. It’s making Anna uncomfortable.”

  “Me? No, I’m fine talking about Carcass or . . . um . . . Gela.”

  “No, he’s right. No more . . . Gela. Thank heavens Ben listened to me. I knew he needed someone with compassion. So when I saw all those tears, I just knew you would be right for him. Not like all the impossibly gorgeous and superficial women he normally chooses. I knew he needed a nice, regular girl. And clearly, I was right, wasn’t I?” Milly says, beaming with pride.

  “Oh,” I say, unsure what to make of her comments. I knew she pushed him to have drinks with me, but hearing her explain it feels downright dreadful.

  “Anna, if you ever have a son, you must make sure he gives all the girls a chance. It’s the only way they find the right ones. Trust me on that,” she says, studying the menu.

  While my mediocrity makes Milly happy, it certainly doesn’t have the same effect on me. My stomach turns painfully as I listen attentively as Milly reveals all the charming habits Ben had as a child. Finally, the afternoon draws to a close.

  Milly stands next to me at the coat check, inspecting my profile. I am uneasy but do my best to hide it.

  “I like you, Anna, you know?”

  “Thanks, Milly. I like you, too,” I say with fake cheerleader enthusiasm.

  “You’re not like the other girls Ben brings home. You’ve got substance.”

  Is substance a euphemism for fat?

  “Oh, thank you,” I say with a strained smile.

  In the back of a yellow cab, Ben holds my hand. I stare out the window, mulling over lunch. For the first time since I met Ben, I wish he wasn’t with me. I wish he were anywhere but here. The confusion would be easier to digest away from him.

  “They really liked you.”

  “Good,” I barely mange to respond.

  I am the crying average girl his mother instructed him to date after the beautiful Gela dumped him.

  “I’m sorry about all the Gela talk.”

  “Don’t be silly. It was fine. I just didn’t realize she dumped you right before we met.”

  “She didn’t dump me,” Ben says defensively. “It was mutual.”

  “That’s not what your mom said,” I offer warily.

  “Fine. She dumped me. Happy?”

  “Yes, I am very happy that your gorgeous girlfriend dumped you so cruelly that your mom intervened and made you give us regulars a try.”

  “Anna, it wasn’t like that.”

  “Oh really? I have two words for you: Leslie Haggens.”

  “How in the hell do you know Leslie?”

  “I overheard you at the bar, telling your Mom you would never date someone like her. Then two hours later, you asked me out . . . to make your mom happy.”

  “But Anna, if you already knew all this, why are you so mad?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I just don’t like thinking that you had to be pushed into going out with me.”

  “Mom didn’t push, she merely suggested. And maybe I wouldn’t have asked if she hadn’t, but thank God she did. I love you.”

  “Am I just a consolation prize? A rebound helping you get over Gela so you can move on to your next model?”

  “I don’t want a model, I want you.”

  “Gee, thanks, Ben.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that. Mom pointed you out to me because she wanted me to be with someone a bit more grounded and compassionate. But I fell in love with you on my own. All of you— your big brown eyes with long black eyelashes, the way you light up when you laugh, the way you spoke about being inspired by my parents made me see something completely different in them. And isn’t that what my father was talking about? Being with someone who opens up the way you see life, who you never want to be separated from. I’ve never had this with anyone. You’ve got to see that. You are the first woman I’ve ever lived with.”

  “It’s temporary; that doesn’t count.”

  “Not anymore. I want you with me . . . always.”

  The reality of our differences weighs heavily on me now that my heart is invested. But I can’t let him stop loving me over a stupid fight.

  “I’m sorry. I love you.” I smile bravely and stroke his back the way I know he loves.

  There is no man on earth I could love the way I love Ben. I want to believe that there is no other woman he could love the way he loves me, but I’m not sure.

  Chapter Twenty

  The world is a scary place when you’re dating a handsome man. Women constantly take in his physical appeal. Sexual ex
citement sparks in their eyes, then travels down to their lips, which crack into seductive smiles. Then they glance at me and stifle a laugh. The suppressed laugh conveys their disbelief that I am Ben’s girlfriend. I am not a troll or a repulsive-looking woman, but I am far from the model or pageant winner one expects to find on Ben’s arm. He doesn’t help the situation with his need to smile at every person who smiles at him. He laps up attention like a neglected dog. He is not secretly insecure and seeking validation wherever possible; he merely takes pleasure in being the man in the spotlight.

  Ben joins me in bed to watch the E! True Hollywood Story on Full House. His interest in the trashy program exponentially increases with the Olsen twins’ screen time.

  “I’m not sure why the whole twin thing is so enticing, since sisters don’t do threesomes . . . but it is,” he confides.

  “Yeah, sisters usually aren’t so into each other sexually,” I respond, wondering if all handsome men are this loathsome when it comes to women. Swallowing protests— and my integrity— I remain silent, not wanting to rock the boat. I think of my parents and their dysfunctional marriage. While there is nothing I logically want to emulate, I can’t help but remember that Father’s silence bought them decades of marriage. So if I can keep my mouth shut, maybe I will get decades of Ben.

  As the Tanner family drama unfolds, Ben begins to rub my arm. His hand creeps closer and closer to my breasts with each brush. Houston, we have contact. Ben massages my left breast, keeping his eyes trained on the Full House spectacle of underage sirens. If he thinks he can use my body to fantasize about tabloid twins, he is sadly mistaken. Animal Planet, here we come.

  “Babe, why’d you change it?” Ben moans.

  “What? I thought you loved animals?”

  “I do, but we were watching twins . . .”

  “Listen, McPervy, now we’re watching San Francisco’s K-9 unit!”

  So much for not rocking the boat.

  “McPervy? Where is all this hostility coming from?”

  “Hostility? I am not hostile! I am simply exercising my right to change the channel.”

  “Well, you better be careful, or I will exercise my right to a new girlfriend.”