by Deanna Kizis
He settled back and gently pulled me back down onto the bed with him. He didn’t, however, try to put his arm around me again.
I just noticed it. That’s all I’m saying.
I sat back up.
“It just seems like something might be wrong …” I took the remote from his nightstand to pause the film, but it had a million buttons since he now had his TV, VCR, DVD, and stereo all working off one superremote. I pressed a button and the movie turned off, the cable turned on, and Howard Stern appeared, interviewing some porn star who was perched on a stool, topless.
“Oh, leave it, this is Butt Billionaire!” Max said, craning his neck around me and staring at the almost-naked girl. “If the guy gets all the questions right, he gets to go into a room alone with her and do her up the …”
At this moment a guy in a T-shirt that said CHUCK THE LOSER—GET WITH THE BRUISER! failed to answer the question, “Name the president who was impeached for Watergate?”
“This is disgusting,” I said. “That guy’s so stupid he could never get laid in real life so he has to go on this show.”
“That’s the whole point.” Max was cracking up. He yelled at the TV, “Nixon, you moron!”
“Max, I want to talk to you …”
I looked at the remote and at least the power button, which was red, was obvious, so I turned off the television.
Something flashed behind his eyes. Annoyance?
He said, “We have to talk?”
“I don’t want to talk talk,” I said. “I just want to know what’s going on.”
“We’re having a perfectly nice evening, watching the movie.”
“But we never actually watch the movie …”
He ignored this.
I tried switching tacks. “Don’t you want me to take my clothes off and dance around naked or something?” I said.
“Yes.”
So he got the joke. But he wasn’t smiling.
“Well, tell me what’s up. Then I’ll start dancing. What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking …” He paused, then muttered under his voice, “That things were going so well.” And he lay back on the bed.
I assured him that things were going well. I just …
“You just what?” He stared at the ceiling. He wasn’t even looking at me.
“I just want to talk to you about …” Suddenly I wasn’t sure what I really wanted to talk to him about.
He was looking back at me now. And his face resembled the face of a patient person, a real honest to God decent human being. But his eyes—the eyes that usually had smiles in them—they seemed closed off. Guarded. His mouth was set in a purposely expressionless way. His expression was impossible to read.
“Look, if you don’t want to talk …”
“What, exactly, are we talking about?”
Now he seemed really pissed. Which somehow seemed a little unfair.
“Maybe I should just go,” I said.
Flustered, I got up and started looking for my shoes. I don’t have to take this, I told myself. I can walk out the door right now and we’ll see how he feels then.
“You’re going,” Max said.
It wasn’t a question. It was a statement.
“Looks that way.” I tried to match his measured tone, but my words had a slap to them. I put on one shoe, then the other. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see he was staring at the ceiling again. I started looking for my keys, and for a moment I panicked because I couldn’t find them. The whole fucking room had been rearranged, which meant I hadn’t put them on the dresser like usual. He said nothing, and ignored the comedy as I tripped over the end of the rug and banged my elbow—loudly—on one of the cymbals on his drum set. Finally I found my keys on his desk, which used to be by the window, but was now by the door, where the dresser used to be. For some unknown reason, I was compelled to voice this out loud.
“The dresser is no longer in the same place,” I said.
No reply.
“Just in case you were wondering,” I said.
Now I was ready to leave. I was standing in the middle of the room rubbing my elbow and I felt like an idiot. Max didn’t even sit up.
“Ben,” he said to the ceiling, “if you walk out that door, I am not going to follow.”
I didn’t know what that meant. That following me was beneath him? Or maybe that I was acting like such a maniac there was no point, because who wants to go out into the night chasing some crazy woman, running down the street elbows akimbo and babbling about the placement of furniture?
I said, “So you want me to stay?”
“I never told you to leave.” He rubbed his eyes. “Look. I’m tired. I’ve had a long day. I want to watch the movie. With you. And then I want to go to sleep.” He finally added, “With you. But if you walk out that door, I. Am. Not. Going. To. Follow.”
And that’s when it occurred to me that this statement was essentially a dare. A game of chicken. Not a particularly nice thing for Max to do. But I have a personal philosophy: Never play a game of chicken unless you know you’re going to win. This wasn’t going the way I wanted tonight to go at all. I remembered what Nina said—that I wanted to know if Max loved me. I looked at the stereo, but the cassette holder was empty. I thought, He probably hasn’t even listened to it.
I sat back down on the bed. The room was silent. His roommates, Fred and Barney, were out at some party as usual. Thank God, since I would have been mortified if they heard us fighting. Not that I’d ever actually met them. Finally, Max said, “Should we watch the rest?”
I said okay.
He turned the TV back on, and I lay down and adjusted my pillow so I wouldn’t be in his way. I looked at him. “Sorry,” I said. “I don’t know. I guess I’m just a little stressed today maybe?”
“It’s all right,” he said. “Just watch.”
He was asleep before they even got to the part where the guy finds out that Gwyneth Paltrow’s a she. I watched the rest by myself even though I’d already seen it, then tossed and turned all night. Max slept with his back turned to me, which he never does. By the time I woke up, he’d already left for work. The first thing I did when I opened my eyes was look next to the alarm clock to see if Max had left me anything. But there was no candy. And no juice.
CHAPTER
7
I didn’t think it was possible to actually die of embarrassment. But there I lay, reading the proof pages for Filly’s next issue and wondering if a girl could actually choke to death on her own tongue. And if I don’t choke to death on my own tongue, I thought, then I’ll kill Kiki with a sharp screwdriver. Or maybe I’d do us both in with a blowtorch—then the Mother, Filly’s new advice columnist, could write all about it in the next issue. A certain someone she knows, my ass. That the Mother should start writing a column for the magazine was all Kiki’s idea. And I think if I hadn’t been so drunk when she thought it up at the bridal shower—and so generally distressed about Max’s and my first fight—I would have put a stop to it right away. But now, with the first “Ask Ben’s Mom” column already written, it was probably too late.
ASK BEN’S MOM
After listening to the endless tribulations of my daughter (not to mention those of her friends), I can’t help but wish my eldest, Benjamina Franklin, would listen to me. Nobody knows better than a mom how to deal with romance, sex, finances … Of course, many gals (like a certain someone I know) are too stubborn to ask their own mothers what to do. Starting now, you can ask me.
Dear Ben’s Mom,
What’s wrong with women today? I’m so sick of reading in magazines about men, men, men. I can’t watch another episode of Sex and the City because all they care about is men, men, men. And I may never go out to dinner with my friends again because all they talk about is friggin’ men, men, MEN! Did women’s lib just not happen?
From,
Seriously Fed Up
P.S. I’ve read your daughter’s articles in Filly. Do you blame you
rself?
Dear Fed Up,
I understand your frustration. A certain someone I know cares more about the boy in her life (and I do mean boy) than she does about eating right, about furthering her career—he even comes before doing the laundry! Set a new example. Make clean underwear your priority. Exact revenge on the men who treat you badly, reward the ones who treat you well. Set your sights on career and self. Beat up muggers. You could start your own women’s movement.
Love,
Mom
P.S. No, she’s accountable for her own actions, however deranged they may be.
HE DOESN’T KNOW MY G-SPOT FROM MY ELBOW …
Dear Ben’s Mom,
How do I get a red wine stain out of my favorite white shirt?
Thanks,
Total Klutz
Dear Klutz,
1. If the stain is fresh, cover the area with baking soda or salt, Brush it off. 2. Blot with mineral water. 3. Rinse the spot with rubbing alcohol. If the stain is as old as I am, just do steps 2 and 3.
Love,
Mom
Dear Ben’s Mom,
How do I tell the guy I’m with he doesn’t know my G-spot from my elbow?
XO,
Itching for Action
Dear Action,
It’s time you learned an important trick that I’ve employed with my last two husbands: Don’t tell him, show him. Literally. He’ll enjoy a peek between the sheets, and you can do something you’re good at.
Love,
Mom
Let’s go back to a little over a week ago. In the days following Max’s and my argument, I wasn’t feeling particularly good about myself (no surprise there), and he wasn’t much help. It was your basic relationship purgatory. We weren’t talking about what had happened—Max seemed like he wanted the discomfort we suddenly felt with one another to just blow over. I guess I figured things would go back to normal. But they didn’t.
Oh, he called. And I returned those calls. We’d chat for a while and I’d wait for Max to ask me out. He wouldn’t. Finally, sick of waiting, I asked him if we were on for our usual Saturday night. (I cringed when I heard the word usual come out of my mouth.) He said he had to go to Las Vegas on Friday for some streetwear convention, he’d be gone for a week, and he didn’t have a second before then. Those were the words he used: “Sorry, sweetie, but I don’t have a second.” This was the first I’d heard of his trip. Why didn’t he tell me sooner? I wondered. I told myself Max was probably just stressed and that’s why he hadn’t mentioned it before, but anxiety seized my heart like ice. Had I blown it the last time I saw him by acting so needy? If so, couldn’t he give me a get-out-of-jail-free card just this once? I couldn’t ask. As anyone who’s ever dated a guy will tell you, the definition of insanity is trying to talk to a boy about the same thing twice and expecting a different result.
So I obsessed. Would Max and I work out? Was it over? I had to live with the circling doubts—once he went away I had no way to tell if things were about to get better, or worse. I figured I should at least try to distract myself, so I left messages for pretty much everyone I knew, hoping a social life would emerge. Surprisingly enough, it did. Chandra called, asking if I’d be “down with” lounging by her pool the next day. I practically did verbal back flips I was so eager to accept. (“I would LOVE to! Thank you SO much! It will be SO fun!”)
The following morning I set off to find Chandra’s Mediterranean manse high in the hills of Laurel Canyon. I knocked on the door, and Krantz, a man of indeterminable sexual orientation with a hairless, gym-toned chest and wearing a Burberry plaid swimsuit, answered.
“Oh,” he said, blocking entry. “Are you the assistant from Team Todd?”
“No,” I said. “I’m a friend of Chandra’s.”
As though I hadn’t spoken, he said, “You’re delivering a script?”
“No. I’m a friend? Of Chandra’s?”
“Who are you?”
This continued until a person named Kate with a perfect body and a belly chain appeared. “Fuck, Krantz, leave her alone,” she said. “Chandra told me she invited some writer girl.”
Krantz looked me up and down. “So you’re a journalist,” he spat. “I handle all of Ms. McInerney’s publicity”—he stepped aside—“so behave.”
I followed Kate into the backyard, trying to figure out who was who. Kate turned out to be Chandra’s Kato—a noncelebrity who lives rent-free in the house of a famous person, does odd jobs, acts as a confidante but isn’t exactly a friend. Chandra, apparently, was finishing up a consultation with her guru and would be out shortly, so Kate-o played hostess, introducing Laura, a redhead wearing shorts that revealed the practically albino skin on her legs, who volunteered that she was “VP of development at the studio” and sat in the shade all day while applying sunscreen.
Once Chandra was “centered,” she joined us by the black-bottomed pool. Her posse clearly wanted her attention, and didn’t enjoy new competition.
“Love this fucking pita bread,” Laura said from her corner, dipping it in the mushy eggplant caviar Kate was passing around. “And, Chandra, your stomach looks so fabulous I’m … speechless.”
“Artuuuurrrrro,” Chandra purred, patting her abs.
“Who’s Arturo?” I asked. I was paddling about on a raft and being generally ignored.
“Private trainer,” Laura said. “Forget it—you’ll never get an appointment.”
I started to say I didn’t want an appointment, and wondered if now would be a good time to ask Chandra for some Max advice, but Krantz interrupted.
“So, spill,” he said to Chandra. “What’s the latest?”
“I’ve been. So stressed,” she said. “Like, everyone keeps doggin’ me about this new movie and I told James, like, I’m going to pull a fuckin’ Ed Norton on him, commandeer that editing room and fix the fuckin’ thing myself, knowwhatImsayin?”
“So the film isn’t working,” Krantz said.
“What do you mean?” Chandra lowered her sunglasses to give him the evil eye. Marooned on my raft, I thought, This could get interesting. “Bitch, what are you saying, that I think I’m not good in my own muthafuckin’ movie?” she said. “That’s cool, dawg.” Chandra got up and stormed into the house, returning with a bottle of mineral water, but she kept yelling at Krantz the way there and back. “You’re sitting there?” she hollered, her voice echoing off the red Spanish tiles. “Saying this movie will harm my career? And you’re my fuckin’ publicist. What THE FUCK?” She twisted the cap off the bottle like she was breaking a chicken neck.
“That’s not remotely what I meant, McC,” Krantz wheezed. “The movie is amazing—you’re in it, I mean, hello!”
“Don’t be fronting, Krantz,” said Chandra, arranging herself back on her lounge.
“Seriously, you owe it to Chandra, as her publicist, as her friend, to tell her the truth,” said Kate-o.
Laura jumped in, saying, “Krantz, you are so fucking fired!”
It was like watching a group of sharks start feeding on one another.
“I am telling the truth.” Krantz was starting to sweat.
“Awright, chill. I’m letting it go.” Chandra reached for a bottle of suntan oil. “But Krantz, you gotta learn how to represent, knowwhatImsayin?” She stabbed her oily finger in the air. “You gotta think about my interests every time you open your big fucking fat fag mouth.”
I couldn’t believe she’d said that. But everyone else looked away like they hadn’t heard.
Then, “What do you think, Franklin?”
Here was my chance to get beaten to a pulp. “Well, film is art, right?” I said. “Art is subjective …”
Laura snorted.
Kate said, “Art? She attached herself because the studio offered her eight mil!”
“Yo, and ’cause I got da biz on with my costar,” Chandra said, adding, “Onscreen of course.”
“Yeah, journalist present,” Laura snickered.
“I’m not h
ere to—” I started to say.
“Everything that is said today is off the record,” Krantz interrupted, spraying flecks of eggplant caviar in my direction. He turned to Chandra, nodding. “Now she won’t be able to print anything even if she wants to.”
This shut me up for the afternoon. I realized I’d never get a chance to talk to Chandra about my Max dilemma, but figured it was safer to be ignored anyway. The oddest thing, though, was when I left. Chandra acted like it was the main event. “Thank you so much for coming,” she said, walking me to the door. “I need my friends around me right now, Franklin. You know how hard this is for me.”
“How hard what is?” I said.
“Oh, everything.” She waved her hands around the beautifully appointed room, like, See how much I have; see how difficult it can be. “Look at this.” She held up her arm and scratched at it. “I think I’m breaking out in a rash.”
I told her I didn’t see anything.
“You don’t see anything yet,” she said, and closed the door. As I was walking to my car, I could hear her yelling, “Kate! Page Dr. John!”
I got home, checked my voicemail for a call from Max (no), then checked my e-mail for a message from practically anyone. There was an invitation to a porn site called “Young and Tight.” (Fucking Collin. Lately he’d been forwarding me porno links, which he thinks is the height of comedy.) Also a quick note from my dad with a digital picture of him and his surfboard standing on some Costa Rican beach. (It was signed, “Love, The Big Kahuna.”) And finally a passive aggressive jab from the Mother regarding the bridal shower—she was “just checking” to see if I needed any help since I was “getting such a late start.”
I’d procrastinated enough to antagonize her, so I spent the evening trying to find a Martha recipe for quiche lorraine. (There was one, naturally.) Then I made a shopping list for the shower in my beautiful notebook. I placed an order for flowers from the chichi-est but most cost-effective florist I could find. (The arrangements would be cream and lavender, of course.) The shower was practically taking care of itself, so I decided I’d earned an evening off. I ordered in a sausage, pepperoni, and mushroom pizza and a six-pack of diet Coke, and consumed both while watching The Goodbye Girl on AMC and marveling at how hot Richard Dreyfuss was in that movie, even though he’s so short.
