Hey Harry, Hey Matilda

by Rachel Hulin

  .

  Matilda,

  This could be very interesting indeed. Though make sure not to sound too bitter/defensive. And maybe use a pen name. You don’t want to offend future clients.

  .

  Harry,

  Who cares if I offend them?? I’d much rather be a novelist than a fucking wedding photographer. Do you want me to use a pen name so that you’re the famous Goodman writer?

  .

  Matilda,

  Hardly. How did you get a Webby, anyway?

  .

  Harry,

  So funny you should ask! I just did that part.

  Matilda Goodman/About Me:

  I majored in English in college, which my mother told me was a recipe for unemployment, so I added a minor in Russian literature. I think about that Lolita a lot, hanging about in her socks. Even Lolita eventually got married, but apparently it didn’t suit her.

  One night, not long after grad school, at a Broadway benefit soiree at 86th and Park, I met a man named Mr. Aronson. We were at the Aronsons’ residence, actually. An enormous place with overlapping Persian rugs and lots of authentic-seeming African masks on the wall to show that they understand other cultures. Recessed lighting.

  Anyway, I got to talking with Mr. Aronson, and I like to think I charmed him a little. He told me to call him Marty. I told him his living room was the most beautiful I’d ever seen and the most taupe.

  After a few Sondheims on the piano, Marty hired me.

  Cat Photographer

  Turns out the Aronsons were going out of town, and in exchange for feeding his cats, Marty gave me the keys to his apartment and allowed me to photograph his longhair long-nail kitties whom he adored.

  Sometimes it seems like someone is doing you a favor, but then you play it back in your head and you’re not the winner. I never did get those cats out from under the bed.

  After that I became the photo editor at an online sex magazine. A literary sex magazine. Very well regarded. I even wrote a personal essay about contemporary pubic hair choices that lit up the internet and was subsequently copied by a top writer I shan’t name at the New York Times Magazine Style section.

  People do unbelievable things with their pubic hair, in case you’re interested. In fact, almost no one leaves it be. And there are common euphemisms that everyone knows.

  Like “Full Brazilian.” That means “I have removed all of my pubic hair for extra attractiveness.”

  After a while the literary sex magazine lost funding and they laid most of us off, though I got to keep one of the Webbys we’d been awarded while I was there. I won it by beating the design director at beer pong on the purple pool table in the loft in SoHo with the neon sign in the window at the going-away party fueled by the vodka sponsor we’d long since lost.

  .

  Harry,

  I used to have the most insane hangovers after those parties. I think that vodka sponsor made booze of dubious quality. I had the kind of hangover that not only ruins the following day, but the day after that, too, and destroys your emotional well-being. An “emover.”

  TIMELINE OF A SHITTY HANGOVER

  You wake up. You think, This isn’t so bad after all. I might function today.

  You’re incorrect.

  Then:

  Shame 9 a.m.

  Nausea 11 a.m.

  Dread 1 p.m.

  Ennui 3 p.m.

  Fear of future and of death 4 p.m.

  Complete worthlessness 4:30 p.m.

  Joyless hair of the dog 5 p.m.

  Bed 8 p.m.

  It might be an allegory for the entire human life cycle, now that I think about it.

  .

  Matilda,

  I’ve never had a really bad hangover, except once in college when I accidentally wandered into a frat house instead of my friend’s place, and I impersonated a beer-pong player all night. I have very good aim.

  .

  Harry,

  I love games with aim. Hence photography. And archery.

  .

  Matilda,

  And riflery.

  I’ve been shooting at empty bottles deep in the woods behind Mom’s house lately. There’s something very cathartic about it.

  .

  Harry,

  Weird, why were you at the house?

  .

  Matilda,

  I was just checking on Mom because I don’t hear from her that often. And initially she was very excited about the baby, but then recently I got a card in the mail that was signed

  Hard to believe I’m old enough to be a grandmother! Hope she’s good to you.

  —Mom

  So I was over there to just check in, you know? But she wasn’t really having it.

  “Do you need me to fix anything around the house, Mom? Any lightbulbs, or leaks in that faucet?”

  “Oh, that’s OK,” she said with a wave of her hand. “Why make a fuss?”

  She offered me (uncooked) eggplant and pickles for lunch.

  .

  Harry,

  Why does Mom think garnish is food? Also—bullets have “wounding” capabilities. You ought to be careful.

  .

  Matilda,

  Perhaps she was in a war in a past life and is still quite famished.

  Don’t worry about the bullets, I can handle myself.

  .

  Harry,

  I resent mothers with eating issues. Just leave that to my generation, thanks.

  .

  Matilda,

  I agree, it’s despicable for her to have any personal troubles!

  .

  Harry,

  Quite right, it makes me sick! And why do you have worries to shoot away? Your life is lining up like a row of shiny dominoes. You even made a big old mistake that turned in your favor and will beget you a teen bride and a career. I mean, you’re on a roll!

  .

  Matilda,

  What do I have to worry about? How could you ask that?

  What do these dominoes mean! How do I push them over! What if it’s a sad domino train that stops halfway down the row?

  .

  Harry,

  Well, at least you have some dominoes in your life.

  .

  Matilda,

  Mom and I did have a short chat over pickles about parenthood, and she mentioned that “you’re only as happy as your unhappiest child.”

  .

  Harry,

  Oh good, more guilt for us. What about your child? I’m thinking it’s a boy, you know.

  .

  Matilda,

  I told you, we’re not finding out the gender yet, we haven’t had any ultrasounds—Vera wants a home birth, so no need for doctors yet, she says. I guess it is a natural process, after all.

  .

  Harry,

  Your parenting choices are already skewing entitled yuppie, you ought to watch that. You’ll be raising your toddler on organic grains and eschewing vaccinations before we know it. You’re going to be fifty years old in a minute. You’ll be the old dad with the horn-rimmed glasses and the orthotics who never had a proper hangover.

  It’s a boy, though. Sure as a black, well-loved Cabbage Patch doll named Maria, with a pacifier permanently stuck into her mouth, which was shaped like an O, always ready to suck.

  .

  Matilda,

  Enough gazing at my life—tell me about yours. Any new romances?

  .

  Harry,

  Well, Gary wanted me to go to the beach with him. Every fiber of me wanted to decline, but I did it. I set the date for the week of ovulation so I would be extra enthusiastic, and I met him in the bowels of Penn Station (aka hell, complete with Cinnabon), and we took an LIRR situation out to a beach that was too crowded with the wrong people, and we ate cherries that were hot from the plastic bag they’d suffocated in all the way out there. Those poor cherries couldn’t breathe at all.

  “What are you thinking about, Matilda?” he kept asking me.

/>   He crept his hand over to my thigh as we were coming into the station. We have the body language and conversations of awkward tweens, which should be interesting and titillating but instead makes me feel gawky and a little nauseated.“I don’t know, what are you thinking about?”

  “I’m thinking about you, of course.” He yawned, leaning back and putting his arm around me.

  “Well, thank you, that’s nice. To be honest, I’m a little worried about these cherries, they look like they’ve been in a shvitz.”

  “What’s a shvitz?”

  “Oh, never mind.”

  “Are you OK?”

  He’s very concerned for my well-being.

  “Yes, I’m just tired.”

  “Ah, me too. I was up all night in my new rotation. We’re working a burn unit now, doing grafts…”

  I sort of tuned out after that.

  We were covered in sand by 11 a.m. In the rashy way, not the romantic way. I could barely make eye contact with him on the way home. He smelled like Bullfrog sunblock. Shouldn’t he use organic sunscreen? He’s a skin doctor after all.

  There’s absolutely nothing wrong with this man (aside from the braces) so there must be something wrong with me.

  He adores me. I really like him a lot, though.

  He doesn’t shine, but he’s good. You know?

  .

  Matilda,

  Who the hell, may I ask politely, is Gary?

  .

  Harry,

  The dermatologist! He’s a real fucking person, dude. I didn’t just conjure him for your amusement. Are you going to become the self-involved writer now? Too busy to remember my doctor boyfriend?

  .

  Matilda,

  Ohhh, I see, sorry. I’ll be curious to meet him sometime.

  .

  Harry,

  Ugh.

  .

  Matilda,

  Last night I stayed up late and wrote a humor piece.

  It’s Not Easy Being Green (with Envy)

  Hi-Ho, Gary the Frog Here!

  You may recognize my brother’s famous greeting. I was actually the one who thought that up. He was resistant at first and then never thanked me when it was a hit. Typical.

  Kermit and I are twins, but he came out first and was duly named Kermit Finlay Frog IV (tradition).

  They let my older brother Helmut name me. I’m Gary Frog. Helmut is on a farm somewhere raising artisanal chickens in the motherland.

  I’m a dead ringer for Kermie—he hates that cutesy moniker and Miss Piggy, too, garish and overeager—but am I a household name? Are we the Mary-Kate and Ashley of felt animals? No, we are not.

  I’m just going to come out with it: there’s a huge hush campaign among the Muppets about this.

  Why the secrets? The usual reasons. Money, fear, and shame.

  .

  Harry,

  I’m not sure about this one, Harry. What does it even mean? Are you making fun of me? I don’t think you should write humor. But send it along to Harper’s, I’m sure they’ll love it. Better yet, make it a “Shouts & Murmurs.” God knows they have no taste.

  .

  Matilda,

  Ah—is humor writing your purview now? Well, this piece may be lame, but it’s not making fun of you. Not everything is about you.

  .

  Harry,

  Don’t be ridiculous. You know what? Your knocked-up protégée called me today. We’re having lunch. I suppose she’s seen reason.

  .

  Matilda,

  Oh good! Ira Glass called me today. We’re also having lunch.

  .

  Harry,

  Well, my lunch date has more human growth hormone than your lunch date.

  .

  Matilda,

  You’ve got me there.

  .

  Harry,

  This is all moving too fast. You’d better invest in a good pair of shoes in case Ira makes you the new David Sedaris and you go on a live radio tour of intellectual cities and you need to be onstage. Hmmm. Maybe intonation lessons would be a better investment. I think reading aloud is a skill all its own. You should practice.

  I’m starting to think all this fame is a bad thing. I mean…maybe you were supposed to crash and burn. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to save you.

  .

  Matilda,

  You didn’t really save me.

  .

  Harry,

  I ENTIRELY FUCKING SAVED YOU.

  I’m serious about the new pair of shoes. I mean, now you have to walk this walk. I’ll help you.

  .

  Matilda,

  That’s OK, Vera and her moms are taking me shopping next week when I’m in the city. I set up a little reading at a bookstore downtown while I’m there. Just some stuff from the archives, but they reached out, so I thought I’d oblige.

  .

  Harry,

  Good call, it’s nice to oblige your fans here and there.

  .

  Matilda,

  While I have your ear, can I run something by you?

  I had this idea that I might give Vera a promise ring. I mean, I know it’s a little premature, but I want her to know I’m serious. Anyway, I wrote this in an email to her mothers, to be polite, to state my intentions, and her mother Millicent wrote back that the “family lawyer will certainly draft something for you both to sign, if that is the path you choose.”

  Does that sound a little intense to you? I don’t know, maybe that’s normal…it’s her daughter. I wouldn’t have minded a “congratulations,” to be honest.

  .

  Harry,

  Everything about that is weird and menacing. Is Millicent where the Puritan name came from? And a fucking promise ring? Ha! Just give her a Ring Pop, why don’t you? Cherry flavored.

  To be fair, these women have every reason to distrust you.

  THIS WAS YOUR STUDENT WHOM YOU KNOCKED UP. Get the girl a big diamond, to show your intention. Or at least a sapphire. Grandma Florence may be hoarding some jewels somewhere, if you’re feeling cheap.

  .

  Matilda,

  Grandma Florence doesn’t quite know about the pregnancy yet. I’m going to tell her, but I just haven’t figured out the right way.

  .

  Harry,

  Ahh, how fascinating. I imagine it will be difficult to fall in her esteem. I’m sure she’d expect something like this of me, but you—never!

  .

  Matilda,

  I’m really just waiting for the right moment.

  .

  Harry,

  Speak truth to power, Harry. Speak truth to difficult women! I did—I called Mom a while ago, to prove to you I would.

  Took me a whole bottle of rosé, but it’s done. (I am so accustomed to writing “rosé” in summer emails that my left pinkie naturally just flits over to the ALT key, NBD.)

  I’m glad she didn’t pick up the phone, because the first thing she would have said was something overly intimate, affirmation seeking, and hurt, all at once, and I would have had to hang up immediately—like this, perhaps:

  It’s been so long, Matilda—tell me everything! I see on the internet that you’ve been very busy shooting weddings—have you been following my pictures of the garden? I know you’ve always loved my tulips. Do you have anything you want to say to me? I miss how we used to talk. Do you like Freddy’s headstone? He loved you, you know.

  I left a message.

  Hey Mom,

  I hope you’re doing great, just wanted to check in. I’m really busy with work right now, but didn’t want you to worry…I’m thinking of you and hope you’re enjoying the nice weather. I’m excited for Harry, aren’t you?! I bet you thought I would have a family before him, right? Strange how life meanders…

  Anyway, feel free to text me sometime, hope you’re well.

  Love you!

  Bye.

  .

  Matilda,

  Well, that seems like an improvement for you tw
o, at least?

  I want to run something by you. Vera has this “branding” idea, if you will. That we change our last names—Goodman and Parker-Hall—to both be Goodman-Hall. And the baby, too, would be a Goodman-Hall. That way we’re all aligned from the outset, or something. I sort of like it, makes me feel like I belong to something.

  .

  Harry,

  I’m a little concerned you’re being swallowed by the cult of Vera. Why don’t you, like, sleep on this for about two years? It seems extreme, and emasculating.

  Remember, she may be hopped up on progesterone, but Vera is still the hunter and you are still the fox.

  (Goodman-Hall sounds like a dorm at a second-rate boarding school.)