Oops! “I guess either one,” I say quickly. My feet are cold, so I pull them up, under the comforter. I get scheduled for Wednesday.
On World News Tonight, the anchor mentions the blizzard. Sometimes I worry that national news is too Northeast-centric. I’d like to do a study to see if a storm in Connecticut and an equivalent storm in Georgia get equal coverage. There are a great many things I would do a study on if I had the time, materials and funding. It bothers me that I can’t. I wonder if others are irked by this, this incessant drive to plumb a million things and the inability to delve adequately into any one of them.
When the excitement has calmed down some, I decide I’ve put off placing my personal ad long enough. There’s a Weekly Beacon box around the corner. I pull a coat over my sweat clothes and head out.
Outside, it’s frosty. For a few seconds, I stop. I stand in the middle of the street, surrounded by plowed-up white stuff. The city is as quiet as it ever gets. When flakes pass in front of the streetlight, they light up in yellow for a second. I look into different people’s windows, at their soft lighting and blue flashes of TV. These people are my neighbors and I know not one of them. Why?
I try to make out what people are watching on TV. It’s too hard to tell. I notice that the lights are off in the apartment of the couple across the street.
Once I’m back home, I slip under my comforter and open the Beacon to the back. There are all sorts of ads for female escort services, photos of big-busted women who pretend they really enjoy posing in front of a camera. How men can get turned on by something that’s so obviously fake, I’ll never know. And there are a ton of these ads, so there are literally hundreds of men who want to pay for this kind of cheap, meaningless thrill. They could even be men I went to school with or stand in line next to at the supermarket. There’s simply no way to tell. It’s depressing, but I suppose it only proves that men really are from another planet. I never wanted to believe that. But there are some things that just aren’t fair, or as they should be in life, as much as you want them to be. Like that thing about there being one right person in the world for everyone. I believed that when I was little, but it’s not scientific, and even though I have maybe fifteen or twenty more years ahead of me to find out for sure, I did go through four years at college and found no one. It makes more sense, mathematically, that there are negative-four people in the world who are right for someone like me, and about six who are right for a busty twenty-two-year-old girl who’s beautiful and sprightly and outgoing, so it averages to one for each person. But it really isn’t.
The most concrete evidence for men being from another planet is the difference between the personal ads from women and men. As I wander through the “Women Seeking Men,” I notice that the women list the following qualities to describe themselves: smart, sensitive, love animals, love long walks on the beach, love museums, love books. They sound like kind, interesting people. The men don’t list their hobbies; they stick more to specifying what they want, which is someone “sexy” and “vivacious.” What’s funny is, the men don’t care to hide their own visual inadequacies. Two of them say they “look like Anthony Edwards,” which just means they’re bald. They’re lucky that a bald guy got on TV and got famous so they can convey this in some oblique way. I see there is one guy who wants a woman who is “Rubenesque.” Thank God for variety.
I look at the different categories. There’s a category for married men. I don’t know why a newspaper would condone that. But I guess there’s a market for it, and they’re the only one to fill it. Still, that doesn’t make it right.
I scan all the ads more closely. There’s something else that strikes me as strange.
It’s the very high number of people who declare that they “enjoy working out.”
Huh?
I can see enjoying playing a sport, or enjoying movies or enjoying traveling, but there is—and I’m not being funny here—absolutely not one thing that could possibly be enjoyable about working out. I’m not even talking about a difference of opinion or taste or an activity preference. I’m saying that working out is something that you do to tone muscles. It doesn’t feel pleasurable; it doesn’t involve competition. It involves repetition. There is nothing at all interesting about it. The joy may come when you’re all done, because you know that you’ve done something good for yourself. Or, the joy may come weeks later when you flex your abs in the mirror and fantasize about members of the opposite sex scrambling to you at the beach. But there is nothing enjoyable about the actual process of doing exercises. Writing that you enjoy working out is like writing “enjoy taking vitamins” or “enjoy annual physical exam” or “enjoy colonoscopy.”
I’ve also noticed that people talk about working out constantly these days, whether it’s where they work out, how much they work out, or, most important, how guilty they are that they haven’t been working out and how they’re going to work out tomorrow. Maybe when it shows up in someone’s personal ad, it’s a sneaky way for the person to tell you how in shape they are. Or maybe it’s a clue that they’re not.
There’s a whole code to these ads.
I skim more of them. I learn all about guys seeking women who are vivacious, guys seeking women who are sexy, guys who like sports, guys who like music (who doesn’t?) and guys who like “hanging out.” Not all the ads are irritating, but some are just so bland that they seem the same. How am I supposed to differentiate?
Then something catches my eye.
There’s an ad that says, “SWM, 26, engaged—but looking for more. I’ve met my best friend for life; now I want to fool around.”
How terrible!
The poor girl. She is so sure she’s getting this prince of a guy. And what of him? Why is he marrying her if he’s not attracted to her? Is someone holding a gun to his head?
I move on, trying to find anyone in the ads who sounds interesting. I’m not very successful. When I finish up, I want to throw the paper away. But I just can’t get the “engaged” ad out of my mind.
It makes me angrier and angrier.
And I can do something about it.
What?
I envision a scene in which I bring the ad to the couple’s wedding. When the minister asks for objections, I wave the paper in the air and say, “He’s advertising to cheat!” Of course, I don’t think they really ask that anymore. Probably because today, there’s so much cheating and lying going on that everyone would have an objection.
What they should do is advertise weddings in advance in the newspaper, like those legal ads that note that the state will seize this or that property if someone doesn’t come forward.
I’m going to get on the Internet and find that ad. I’m going to pretend I’m engaged, and I’m going to meet this guy. I can’t change all men—or women, for that matter (I wonder if there actually are other women who will answer this ad, and why)—but I can change this guy, who is the biggest jerk I’ve encountered, and I haven’t even encountered him yet!
There was a phone icon next to the ad, which means you can actually call to hear the person’s voice. Good idea.
I pick up the phone and dial the 900 number for the personals.
“Welcome to the Weekly Beacon personals. You must be eighteen or over to use this service. If you are under eighteen, please hang up now.”
Whew—just made it. I haven’t felt this great since I got into the Westinghouse Science Project semifinals.
“At the sound of the beep, you will begin being charged for this call. Beep. Please listen carefully to these instructions before making a selection.”
Oh no. This is costing me $2.50 a minute and they want me to sit through instructions. What a rip.
“To answer a specific ad, press 1.”
I do.
“I’m sorry. That character is not recognized.”
I press 1 again.
“Welcome to the Weekly Beacon personals.”
Look how they extort money. I don’t know what to do about this. B
ut it seems like if I tried to set right everything I saw that was wrong in the world, I would never have time to do anything else. I assume someone else will complain about this rip-off, but I guess that’s what everyone assumes and why nothing ever gets done.
I wonder what it is that makes someone the kind of person who does try to change things. Maybe I should be that rare person. That would be a positive step. Petrov hasn’t put it on my list, but I know that looking for ways to make the world a better place could help me become more a part of it.
Perhaps setting this engaged guy straight is a start.
I stay on the phone, wade through two minutes of instructions, and press 1. It asks for a box number, and I tap it in.
“Hi,” says a friendly sounding voice. “My name’s Matt. I’m twenty-six, and as I wrote in the ad, I’m about to marry a great girl.”
He actually sounds normal. I have to prevent myself from being lulled. I have to remind myself that he’s a pig.
“I guess I’m happy, but I’m also too young to stop having a good time. Maybe you’re in a similar situation. Obviously we’d have to be discreet. If you want to talk more, leave a message on my phone, or send me an e-mail via the Web site.”
Beep.
I think for a second. I made the call. I might as well do this. Maybe I can even sound seductive.
“Hi, Matt,” I say. “You sound really cute. I sympathize fully with your situation. I’m dating a great guy, but there’s just no chemistry. I want to see if it’s right. When I saw your ad, I thought this might be a…well, a discreet way to do it, like you said. Give me a call sometime and we can talk.”
I leave my phone number so he can call and we can get this over with. I say my name is Heather. That’s a good all-around name. I’ll bet no one named Heather has ever not had her call returned.
I don’t mind that Matt will have my real number because if he creates a problem later on, I’ll say that Heather was my roommate and she moved to Namibia.
I have one more call to make this evening—to Petrov. I’m supposed to have an appointment tomorrow. But it’s certainly still going to be far too blizzardous for therapy. I call his answering machine and say, “Hi, it’s Carrie Pilby, I’m just calling to make sure tomorrow’s appointment is canceled because of the storm, and I’ll assume I don’t have to go unless you call me by nine tonight. Bye.”
Hey, I’m giving him a whole hour. Otherwise I have to make other plans. Maybe Matt from the personals, who in high school was probably the president of Future Adulterers of America, will call and arrange to meet for breakfast, since his fiancée, future president of Wives Who Look the Other Way, will think he’s at work.
Before I go to bed, I review my own written personal ad.
PRODIGY SEEKS GENIUS—I’m 19, very smart, seeking nonsmoking nondrugdoing very very smart SM 18-25 to talk about philosophy and life. No hypocrites, religious freaks, macho men.
I decide to take out “or psychos” because that will only give the psychos a warning to disguise themselves. I put this in an envelope, which I will drop in the mail in the morning. I bet I’ll get some promising responses. And then I’ll meet some really great people. I feel good about this as I drift off to sleep.
The trucks have been out all night, and the streets are clear by morning. Petrov calls me and apologizes for not having gotten back to me the night before. He says that our appointment is definitely on. Curses.
The subways are running regularly. I wonder what Petrov did last night during the storm. He’s divorced. He has two adult daughters. I’ve seen their pictures on his desk. I wonder if he was alone, or if he has a girlfriend or something. Hey, maybe he has no girlfriend and secretly, he’s attracted to me. Maybe that’s why he’s always so interested in my love life. Imagine if it turned out that he became my date, and he was the one I ended up spending New Year’s with. Wouldn’t that be a scorcher of an ending?
Of course, he knows my dad, so that’s a real turnoff. Or maybe it’s some sort of kinky turn-on for him. Maybe we’ll make out on December 31 at the top of the Empire State Building, far above the 1,336 red, white and blue lights, and then head to his place to talk Gestaltism till dawn.
“Your childhood memories are interesting,” Petrov tells me during our appointment.
“Thank you. That’s because I’m so interesting.”
“You are,” Petrov says. “But the kinds of memories you’ve been having are interesting. They’re very feeling-oriented and sensory. I think it once again shows that you’re hurting yourself by not doing the things that you enjoy. Things that deep down appeal to your senses, not only to your mind. The things that make you truly happy.”
“Hmm.”
“Look at what was on your list,” he says. “Cherry soda. Taste. Starfish. Orange, bumpy things. Look at what you remember. Blue robin’s eggs. Red fire engines. You need to satisfy your senses just as much as your mind.”
“Maybe.”
“Which brings me to our goals list. Do you have it with you?”
“Yeah.”
ZOLOFT®
Do things from list of 10 things you love
Join an org./club
Go on date
Tell someone you care
Celebrate New Yr’s
“How are you doing with your goals?”
“I’ve made preliminary advances on getting a date,” I say. I think of my personal ad and my message for Matt the Cheater. “I have to work on joining an organization.”
“Okay. So what are you doing about getting a date?”
I don’t think he would like me placing personal ads. Nor would he like me responding to ads from engaged men who want to cheat. My dad would not like this, either. “I don’t have to tell you,” I say. “A date is a date.”
“Okay,” Petrov says. “So, what else have you been up to? What did you do during last night’s storm?”
“You first.”
He sighs. “I had a friend over and we watched a movie.”
“A friend? Female or male?”
“Uh…female.”
“Was this a girlfriend?”
“Let’s talk about you.”
“What movie?”
He doesn’t say.
“Was it porn?”
“Carrie. Look. You have to know that there are limits. I am not asking you anything very personal, but I do need to make progress and find out how to help you to meet people and get out there and find some happiness. This isn’t about me. It’s about you. You would feel better about opening up to people if you could open up to me, but you won’t even talk to me, and you’re paying me.”
“My father. My father is paying you. I don’t need to tell you how I spent last night’s snowstorm, last October’s nor’easter, the Blizzard of ’96, or Hurricane Andrew.”
“I realize it’s personal.”
“It’s not that,” I say. “You’re only asking because you hope I’ll say I spent last night alone, so that you can give me your sophisticated Psych 101 explanation. You actually revel in my problems. If I’m miserable, then it means that the rules and moral codes I stick to aren’t true. And that makes you feel better about your own life, and about all the things you do, like having spent last night with what’s-her-name. So maybe I did spend the storm alone, but if I spent it alone, I chose to. Just like you chose not to.”
“But what’s interesting is, I didn’t even ask you whether you spent it with a person,” he says. “I asked how.”
“But that’s what you were getting at.”
He doesn’t say anything, just sits in his armchair. His hair is damp with snow. He must have gotten into the office right before our appointment.
“Well, here’s the truth,” I say. “You and everyone else in the city spent last night snuggling under the sheets with someone, talking about ski trips and Christmases past and intertwining your cocoa-singed tongues, and I was just alone with my blankets. Is that what you want to hear?”
Petrov sighs. �
�Believe it or not, Carrie, I would like to see you happy,” he says. “I would like you to come in here one day and say, ‘Hi, Dr. Petrov, life is going great. And I’ll tell you all about it.’ If you were happy, I’m sure we’d still have things to talk about—not necessarily to work on, but things you might want to tell me about your life, because despite what you think, it’s only human to want to talk to someone, whether things are going great or they’re going terribly. But with you, I don’t get the sense things are going great. And you could potentially be a great person and have a major impact on the world, but first you deserve to figure out early in life how to pull yourself out of misery. Analyzing everything to the hilt without focusing on your emotional side isn’t going to do it. Do you really want to look back when you’re thirty-five and say, why the hell did I spend all those years miserable?”
“But I’m not miserable.”
“You’d be more convincing if you could even look at me when you say that.” He looks at me when he says that. “You know what? Not only do I not like seeing you upset, but I don’t even think that you think I do. I think you’re putting up your last defenses.”
I look at him. I can’t figure out whether his eyes are gray or blue.
“One of these days, you should decide you are going to let someone get to know you,” he says. “You can start by trusting me. You and I don’t have to be adversaries. Nothing you say goes beyond these walls. I tell your father nothing. I tell your neighbors nothing, I tell my friends nothing, I tell my colleagues nothing. If you like, you can spend a session railing off, even cursing me out, and I will sit here and not pass judgment. I’m here to be used. Take advantage of me. Do it because I ask you to.”
“What if I’d committed a crime? You would have to tell my father then.”
“I would have to tell someone if it was serious,” Petrov says. “Yes. That’s true.”
Carrie Pilby Page 9
