Things I've Learned From Women Who've Dumped Me

by Ben Karlin

  “Hi . . .”

  “Michelle?”

  “. . . this is Michelle. Leave your name and number at the beep.” Beep.

  Fuck. She must be down the hall in the bathroom or something. I hung up and tried again. Again, answering machine. I hung up and waited for five minutes. Again, answering machine. Shit, was she okay? Should I call her parents? Maybe she was in a car accident or a library mugging. Was this a valid 911 situation? Wait, maybe I should commandeer the ski team van and haul ass back down to Los Angeles? Soon, the rational minority of my brain took over the irrational majority and I realized there was probably a very good reason she didn’t answer the phone. The next morning, I found out this reason.

  “Oh, I went to dinner with friends.”

  “Thank God. I thought you were hurt or something.”

  “Sorry, no. It was just a late dinner,” she explained. “And then I went out for drinks after that with Steve . . .”

  The name Steve hung in the air for what seemed an eternity.

  “. . . so I didn’t get your message until this morning.”

  Hm. Steve? I’d never heard of “Steve.” And they went out for drinks? Alone? I mean, couldn’t they have talked some others into joining them? I had so many questions to ask Michelle about Steve, but didn’t know how to ask without sounding like an asshole. After a long pause, I finally found the perfect way to word my concerns:

  “So . . . uh . . . Steve?”

  Michelle sighed, as if she knew I was going to say that. “Relax, Will. We’re just friends.”

  “Hm . . . Okay, that’s good enough for me.”

  It wasn’t. As we got off the phone, I wondered about Steve. Was he some tattooed clubber guy? Was he on a collegiate sports team? Would a representative for a modeling agency approach him on the street and give him their card?

  I walked back to the van and, in a jealous mini-rage, slammed the door hard enough to provoke a “Trouble in paradise?” comment from one of the ski teamers. Could be, ski teamer, I thought to myself. Could be.

  That night, I slyly asked Michelle all about Steve. I didn’t like what I heard. Apparently, Steve was a blond-haired, blue-eyed surfer. He was nice, smart, and funny. But nothing scared me more than the information I found out next: Steve played bass for a popular campus band called the Brewmasters. Oh, great, a fucking musician. When pressed, Michelle admitted that she found Steve attractive, but claimed she didn’t think of him in “that way.” As I went on with my questions, Michelle became annoyed. Didn’t I believe her? They were just friends. Steve was helping her with her studies. If anything, he should be thanked—I mean, the more solid grasp she had on her math theorems, the quicker she would do future math theorem homework, and the quicker she could meet me for romantic date nights at local taco establishments.

  “Sure. You’re right. I’m sorry.” But I wasn’t sorry. Deep down, I knew the truth: Steve was not a man to be thanked. Steve was the enemy. Their friendship had to be terminated, and it had to be terminated quickly.

  I immediately began trying to fill Michelle’s calendar with events. I figured any open time could potentially be “Steve Time.” I’m pretty sure Michelle knew something was up. I had never been a big planner and here I was suddenly planning 6:45 coffee dates and 9:15 campus strolls. But even during this barrage of scheduling, Michelle carved out a little study time with Steve—all the while insisting they were just friends.

  The next week, Michelle and Steve increased the frequency of their study dates. I was not happy, but with finals approaching, I had to admit there was some validity to this “studying” alibi. So I hunkered down—soon finals would be over and Steve and Michelle would have nothing more to study. Michelle would be all mine once more.

  During finals week, Michelle and I saw very little of each other. I was busy learning an entire quarter’s worth of history in a four-day period. She was preparing in her own way, via late-night cramming sessions with Steve. Michelle called me after her last final on a Thursday night. She was going out to celebrate with friends. Would Steve be among those friends? The answer was yes. I cringed. But there was nothing I could do. I had a history final the next day for which I was hideously unprepared. I tried to block it all out as I dove into my textbooks. And for a while, it worked. But then there was a knock at my door.

  “Dude, I think I just saw Michelle on the back of some guy’s motorcycle.”

  I rushed to the window to see Michelle standing next to a motorcycle across the street from my fraternity. I hurried out of the house and ran across the street to her.

  “Hey, Michelle, what are you doing here?”

  “Steve forgot something at his apartment.”

  Just then, Steve bounded down the stairs.

  “Will, this is Steve.”

  Steve was incredibly nice:

  “Oh hey, man! Great to finally meet you! Michelle told me all about you.”

  But nice in the way people might be nice when they’re having sex with your girlfriend.

  “Hi, Steve,” was all I could offer. Then we smiled at each other for a long time. Was this as weird for them as it was for me? I had to say something to break the silence.

  “So you live up here?”

  “Yep.”

  Steve pointed to his apartment—across the street from my fraternity house. I thought of all the spying I could have been doing the past several weeks. More awkward silence.

  “Well, we should get going.”

  I reluctantly agreed. “Yeah, I should get back to studying.”

  With that, Steve kick-started his motorcycle and Michelle hopped up behind him. As she reached her hands around his waist, I died inside a little. I walked back to my fraternity, bolstered by the support I got from my brothers.

  “Dude, he’s totally gonna plow her.”

  “For your information, he’s very good at math and he’s helping her with that.” I wanted so badly for it to be true I almost had myself convinced.

  That night, as I should have been studying, all I could think about was those arms reaching around his waist. I thought of the same thing happening in a bar—her arms reaching around his waist as he was ordering her a fifth Corona. All night, I kept waiting for Steve’s motorcycle to pull up across the street. I’d feel so much better when I saw him get back and walk up those stairs to his apartment, alone. But the motorcycle never came. Maybe he parked it somewhere down the street or maybe it broke down somewhere and he walked home that night. Maybe it was totaled when he foolishly tried to jump a hundred parked school buses in the middle of the desert.

  The next morning, I went to class, shat out my test, and ran back home to call Michelle. Finally, she answered.

  “Will, we need to talk.”

  And with that, I knew it was over. I went to her apartment and we started the proceedings. The first part of the breakup featured some pre-breakup small talk. (It’s bad form to launch directly into the meat of the breakup.) Next came the “airing of grievances” phase in which she listed the problems with our relationship. I have to admit, she made several strong points. Next came the rebuttal phase in which I went through a long list of things I’d be happy to change to make it work. She took this into consideration. Next came the actual breakup. This part was oddly short. And then suddenly we were no longer boyfriend and girlfriend. But there was still one last phase that was very specific to our breakup. I’ll call it the “Are you with this Steve guy now?” phase. And this must have lasted like, a half-hour. But she insisted she was not. She and Steve were just friends. And you know what? Maybe she was telling the truth. I had no proof to the contrary. All I had was a mountain of circumstantial evidence and a very strong hunch. We parted ways.

  That night, while everyone was celebrating the end of the quarter, I just sat in my room, alone. After several hours of wallowing in self-pity, I was interrupted by a knock at the door.

  “Dude, Michelle just showed up across the street on the back of some guy’s motorcycle.”


  I ran to the window and sure enough, there were Michelle and Steve, back from God knows where. Why did this guy have to live across the street from me? Hadn’t they tortured me enough? I watched Michelle follow Steve upstairs and disappear out of view. I wondered what the hell was going on up there. Were they really just friends? I’d never know.

  Or would I?

  I grabbed my binoculars and ran from room to room, looking for the perfect vantage point. Finally, on the third floor, I found one—a direct view into Steve’s apartment. Sure, the curtains were drawn nearly all the way shut, but there was a two-foot opening that I was able to peer into. That was all I needed. I stared into that window for four solid hours looking for anything—a kiss, a hug, a caress—anything that would prove they were more than what they claimed to be. But I got nothing. Well, okay, not nothing. I saw Michelle walk by the curtain once, fully clothed, and about an hour later I saw Steve walk by, also fully clothed. Eventually I gave up and went down to a bar and got drunk with friends.

  The next morning, I saw Michelle walk down the apartment stairs in the same outfit she’d been wearing the night before. She hopped on the back of Steve’s motorcycle, reached around his waist, and drove off down the street. Later that day, I called her and told her what I had seen.

  “How many times do I have to tell you, we’re just friends!”

  After that, I would see Michelle leaving Steve’s apartment in the morning on a pretty regular basis. And occasionally I would run into her at parties. I would always ask her what was going on with her and Steve. Her story never changed: she and Steve were just friends.

  Eventually, I moved on to other failed relationships and forgot all about Michelle and Steve. I did, however, run into Michelle a year ago at a store in New York. She’s doing great: mother of three and happily married to . . . Steve.

  There’s an old bit of kitchen wisdom that says you should always marry your best friend. Well, to this day, I can’t think of anyone who was a better friend to Michelle than good ol’ Steve.

  Lesson#4

  Persistence Is for Suckers

  by David Wain

  DECEMBER 3 — 11:45 a.m.

  In my apartment, on my couch. I take a deep breath, dial Debra’s number, and press SEND. RING . . . RING . . . She answers.

  DEBRA

  Hello?

  ME

  Hey! It’s David Wain. I met you the other night at that party?

  DEBRA

  Uh-huh?

  ME

  You gave me your number, we talked about hanging out this week?

  DEBRA

  Okay . . .

  ME

  Remember I sat on the plate of cupcakes and had to take off my jeans? And we laughed, and then we made out?

  DEBRA

  Oh! Yes! Cupcake Guy! How are

  you?

  ME

  Good, good. Jeans are washed now, so that’s over.

  I start flipping channels on my TV while talking, hoping it will make my voice sound casual, like I don’t care too much.

  ME (CONT’D)

  So do you want to grab a drink sometime?

  DEBRA

  Sure, that’d be fun!

  ME

  How about tonight?

  DEBRA

  Perfect! Let me know.

  ME

  I’m letting you know now! Let’s go to Bar Six tonight for a drink, say at eight?

  DEBRA

  Cool! Leave me a message and we can figure it out.

  ME

  No need. Just meet me there at eight.

  DEBRA

  Great. Keep me posted.

  I hang up, slightly confused. But psyched.

  DECEMBER 5 — 2:11 p.m.

  Walking down the street, casual gait, dialing phone.

  DEBRA

  Hello?

  ME

  Hey, it’s David Wain.

  DEBRA

  Hey, you! I thought we were gonna have a drink the other night.

  ME

  Yeah, you never showed up!

  DEBRA

  I never heard from you so I figured it wasn’t happening.

  I do the old “hold the phone in front of my face and squint at it” bit.

  ME

  Well, hey . . . tonight I have a reservation at Joe’s Pub for this great jazz show, and we can have dinner there too.

  DEBRA

  Wow, that sounds really great. I’ll get dressed up!

  ME

  But they’ll give up our seats if we’re not there on time, so meet me out front no later than 7:45, okay?

  DEBRA

  I really look forward to this, David. See you at Joe’s Pub at 7:45.

  DECEMBER 5 — 7:50 p.m.

  Outside Joe’s pub. Freezing.

  ME

  Hi, Debra, it’s David. It’s ten to eight and I’m outside Joe’s Pub and you’re not here. I’ll try you at home, but I hope you’re on your way.

  DECEMBER 5 — 7:52 p.m.

  ME

  Hey . . . David Wain. I left a message on your cell, thought I’d try you at home just in case. Call me, I’m at Joe’s Pub. Astor Place and Lafayette Street. Call me.

  DECEMBER 5 — 8:06 p.m.

  ME

  Hey, so I’m going in. Tell the person at the door you’re with me and hopefully they’ll let you in. If you’re not coming, just let me know.

  DECEMBER 6 — 11:19 a.m.

  Groggy, in bed, angry, dialing.

  DEBRA

  Hello?

  ME

  Hey, it’s David Wain.

  DEBRA

  Hey, you! What’s going on?

  ME

  Well . . . you were supposed to meet me at Joe’s Pub last night.

  DEBRA

  I know, I guess we sort of blew each other off, huh?

  ME

  I don’t know if I’d put it that way.

  DEBRA

  Hey, can I call you back in like two minutes? I have to pick up the other line.

  ME

  Sure. But do call me back because—

  And she’s gone. Put sleep mask on, go back to bed. DREAM about horsies.

  DECEMBER 9 — 7:03 p.m.

  DEBRA

  Hello?

  ME

  Hey, it’s David Wain.

  DEBRA

  What’s up?

  ME

  You were supposed to call me back the other morning, and I’ve been leaving you messages for the last two days.

  DEBRA

  Oh shit, I suck, sorry—my mom’s been in town and I’ve been crazed.

  Stand up for yourself, David! Don’t let her walk all over you like that!

  ME

  It’s a little annoying.

  DEBRA

  Can I make it up to you? Can I take you out to dinner tonight?

  ME

  Sure.

  DEBRA

  Meet me at Gusto at eight?

  ME

  Okay.

  Check hair in mirror. Thinning, dirty, but I can make it work for a candlelit dinner at Gusto.

  DECEMBER 10 — 7:03 p.m.

  DEBRA

  Hello?

  ME

  Hi, Debra, it’s David.

  DEBRA

  Hey, you. Did you have fun last night?

  ME

  Definitely, though I feel like we didn’t get a chance to really talk, since there were sixteen of your other friends at the table, and the two of us literally didn’t talk.

  DEBRA

  I know—my friends tend to dominate the conversation. Aren’t they so funny?

  No. They were not funny.

  ME

  Yes. They were hilarious. But . . . I went to the bathroom and then you were all gone.

  DEBRA

  Yeah, we didn’t know where you went. We went drinking and I tried to call you.

  ME

  You did?

  DEBRA

  Yeah, I guess your phone wasn’t working.

  I stare at ph
one I am currently talking on. It is working.

  DECEMBER 29 — 7:05 p.m.

  Debra’s lobby. The doorman smiling at me, me smiling back.

  DEBRA

  Hello?

  ME

  Hey . . . I’m in your lobby.

  DEBRA

  David?

  ME

  Remember, we’re going to sushi? We talked about this an hour ago?

  DEBRA

  Would you mind terribly if I take a rain check, David? My best friend Jeff just got dumped and I need to be with him right now.

  Enough.

  ME

  Sure. Have a nice life.

  DEBRA

  Don’t be like that! I really like you and really want to see you. I want you to be my date for New Year’s.

  ME

  Really?

  DEBRA

  Yeah! We can get together in the afternoon and get dressed, we’ll have some champagne here, then party hop all night. You and me.

  ME

  Okay.

  DEBRA

  Let’s make a plan now, so neither of us flakes. I’ll come to your apartment right from work. I’ll bring a few options and we’ll have a fashion show.

  ME

  Fun!

  DEBRA

  Okay, sweetie. See you then.

  DECEMBER 31 — 5:00 p.m.

  New Years Eve. Crisp blue shirt is ON. Ready to par-tay. Call up Deb.

  DEBRA

  Hello?

  ME

  It’s me, David.

  DEBRA