by Leslie Cohen
“Yeah, but it’s just a play on words. They’re not, like, making a statement about the education of their chicken.”
The song “Rockin’ Robin” came through a speaker in the corner of the ceiling.
He rocks in the treetops all day long . . .
Hoppin’ and a-boppin’ and singing his song . . .
I looked up. “Wouldn’t it be funny if every time they played this song, a guy in a chicken suit came out and ate everyone’s food?”
Ben dunked a fry into a pool of ketchup.
“Why would a chicken eat other chickens?” Ben was often in the position of questioning the logic of my jokes. Before I presented an idea at work, I usually ran it by him, just to make sure I hadn’t gone too far off the deep end.
“I don’t know. Maybe he’s one of those self-loathing chickens?” I thought about it for a few seconds. “Or maybe he comes out and knocks the food off everyone’s tables?”
He nodded. “See, now that makes sense.”
I got a secret thrill from his approval, from coming up with an idea that would satisfy even an engineer.
“I guess it’s appropriate that we came here on our last night in the apartment, since we had that ‘moment’ on Saint Marks, over chicken wings. Chicken seems to be a common theme in our relationship.”
Ben didn’t respond. He took a sip from his soda.
“What? You don’t think so?” I asked.
“Does our relationship need a theme?”
“It does if we don’t want to confuse our future wedding planner!”
The expression on his face was like he sensed a trick. He stopped eating. What I said was that important.
“Oh!” I added. “They can play the ‘Chicken Dance’ at our wedding! ‘The Way You Look Tonight.’ Give me a break. Actually, do you think they could do the ‘Chicken Dance’ but like a Sinatra-esque version? Arthur would love that. He loves Sinatra. He always says, ‘That Sinatra has got star power,’ as if he’s the one who discovered him and Sinatra were still alive. Oh God. Would Arthur be the one to walk me down the aisle? I think I’d be okay with that, actually. As long as he doesn’t wear that hideous pocket watch. Oh! Emma could be the maid of honor. Ugh, she’ll probably sleep with one of the groomsmen. What do you think? Have any friends whose lives you’d like to ruin?”
His eyes went wide. “Are you finally saying yes to marrying me . . . in Pluck U?”
“You know what,” I said, cheerfully. “I am.”
Ben seemed to give it a second thought, and then looked satisfied. He went back to his fries, grinning. “And by the way, the ‘Chicken Dance’ is played at baseball games, not at weddings.”
“Are you sure?”
“I am.”
* * *
As we walked back to our apartment on Macdougal Street for the last time, I asked Ben whether he thought that our next place would feel as much like our real home as this one did. The correct answer was, yes, of course, that our real home was us together, that was all. There was no need for the structure itself. It was about that feeling of safety in the world, that was what people wanted most of all. Everything else in life revolved around getting to that point. I told him if that were the case, we should have gotten together a long time ago, saved ourselves some trouble. But Ben said that he believed in the process.
“The city exists in contrasts,” he said. He explained that it was true here more so than anywhere—people were always throwing themselves into the feverish streets and then seeking shelter from the madness. He said that was what made New York so great, that you couldn’t fully appreciate a sunny day unless you’d come in from a storm. If that were true, then I could only be glad I didn’t yield to him earlier. I didn’t realize the visionary I was when I involved myself with the very wrong people who came before him. That was really my most brilliant move—to find every bright love interest who wasn’t quite as bright as I imagined. I wouldn’t even recognize them now, with how falsely and powerfully they existed in my memory. But, I was thankful for them. They were each a promise of something greater. And if things really do exist only in contrasts, then how wonderful to feel disappointment, to be not quite right, to feel confused and not always adored. How important it was to be able to say I was quite the heartsick girl, once upon a time.
In the morning, the movers arrived. I thought it would be a long process but the boxes disappeared quickly. I took one last glance around, looking for something to take with me, but I couldn’t find it. I knew I would never see the apartment again. If we were to come back, in the years to come, it would be a distorted space. I wanted to remember it the way it was at that moment. That was how it would always be, in my mind. I had the video from last night. And I took some photos, before we’d torn it all apart. I tried to remember a few moments, because I just needed a few moments to come back to me.
The side of Macdougal Street that Ben refused to walk on with me because he walked on it alone during the week and it reminded him of going to work.
Sneaking over to our neighbor’s doorstep when we knew he was away so that I could look through his mail while Ben kept a lookout.
Walks through Washington Square Park when it snowed and watching kids go sledding down a hill that was only three feet high.
The Italian restaurant on Ninth Street where we went once but everyone was over seventy years old so we felt kind of uncool and decided we couldn’t go there again (because of our self-esteem), but we could definitely have it delivered (because it was pretty tasty).
The hallway outside our apartment where we practiced doing the lift from the last scene of Dirty Dancing because I’d just made Ben watch it and said it didn’t seem that difficult to me until we tried it and I kept laughing so hard and running toward him and then chickening out before he could lift me.
The NYU kids moving into their dorms in August and their parents unloading the cars with worried expressions on their faces and eyeing the older NYU kids with piercings and tattoos like What is to become of my child?
My hair clips and earrings on the night table.
His socks under the bed, hidden like snakes so that I couldn’t see them and nag him to put them away.
The kitchen where Ben made hash browns on Saturday mornings and reheated pizza on Sunday nights and invented “spice-cabinet chicken” a.k.a. chicken that he seasoned with every single spice we owned.
The hallway outside the kitchen where I said things like “Stop micromanaging my ice-cream situation!” And Ben said things like “Did you know that the Italians have only been cooking with tomatoes for the last one hundred years? Christopher Columbus brought them from the Americas.”
The couch where I sat while he cooked because I’d been banished from the kitchen for giving too many unnecessary directions.
The Korean restaurant on Carmine Street we went to so often that I said that when we have a child his or her first words will probably be not dada or mama but bulgogi taco.
The TV that stopped working one day and we didn’t do anything to repair it and then a week later it started working again and we looked at it, astonished, and Ben declared, “Fixed itself!”
The closet where Ben’s shirts hung and he wore them in a rotation and he was a slave to this rotation, so I changed the ordering of the shirts once, which caused him to have a short but acute psychological breakdown.
The living room where Ben came home with the final sketch of the Freedom Tower and I told him that it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen and he was all excited and proud and said, “OF COURSE IT IS. BECAUSE YOU CANNOT FUCK WITH THIS CITY, EVE. YOU CANNOT!”
The Laundromat on Thompson Street where we took our clothes and I made fun of Ben for never emptying his pockets before washing his pants and the machine would start to clank because Ben was accidentally washing pennies and his credit cards.
Suddenly I had a genius idea. I went looking in the bedroom closet. Something was written there. I’d seen it months ago. I opened the closet door a
nd looked down. It said 112 Macdougal Street, 5C in black, thick marker on one of the pieces of wood near the floor. I bent down, ran my finger along the words. There had been places I’d lived, but this one was different. We’d built something there that would last. It would last forever and nothing would destroy it. Underneath 112 Macdougal Street, I thought about writing Ben & Eve, but something stopped me. The reality of our names on the wall seemed trivial, and the result was nothing, without context. I thought about the strangers, the future residents, who would see it. I wanted the apartment to pass into its next episode unscathed, the way it was when we found it, like a continuous, vacant sphere, filled and then emptied, filled and then emptied. It wasn’t about that anyway—our names. It was about what had transpired there, and all over the Village. But I couldn’t recall so much of what had taken place. I hadn’t written anything down. I’d made a huge mistake.
“We’re not dying! We’ll go out and make new memories,” Ben said later, when I told him, to make me feel better. “We will always be here, in a sense,” he added reassuringly, as he closed the door. He knew that I needed a lie, a fairy tale, a happy ending.
But I believed him, and so it was.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I have been writing this in my head since I was a little kid, when the prime recipients of my gratitude were a stuffed monkey named Triple-Dip and a penguin named Icing. But because I am older and wiser now and the very essence of maturity, I will refrain from . . . oh what the hell—thanks guys! Couldn’t have done it without you!
Okay. On to the humans. My friends are the inspiration for every warm, honest, funny, crazy, complicated female character I’ve ever written. Monica Sethi, Kristin Soong, Ellen Fedors, Erica Temel, Logan Fedder, Sandra Rose, Marisa Zucker, Shelly Kellner, Emma Zuroski, Priya Ravishankar, Kasey Fechtor, Madeleine Root, Nattha Chutinthranod, Anna Christodoulu, Caroline Fairchild, and Jamie Joseph, thank you for the brilliance.
I am indebted to the Columbia University undergraduate Creative Writing Program, where ridiculously impractical dreams are made; and to Professor Michael Seidel, hawker of literature that has stayed with me always.
I have been lucky enough to work at two of the best literary agencies in town. Thank you to everyone at Levine Greenberg Rostan for being the happiest home for an intern new to the world of publishing, and especially to Kerry Sparks. Thank you to my friends at Writers House, and to Simon Lipskar, for pushing me to write but better. The day you agreed to read my manuscript inspired one of the best victory dances my apartment has ever seen.
Many thanks to the looney tunes of the Writers House Softball Team: Dan Conaway, Ian Kleinert, Amy Appel, Ashley Collom, Mickey Novak, Christina Fodera, and Sean Fodera. Hanging with you Bookies in Central Park on summer afternoons is the greatest. To my council of men, who provided endless and sometimes frightening insight into the male psyche—Henry Ginnay, Colin Farstad, and Daniel Meredith—you guys are so dreamy. Clare Reeth, beautiful genius, unique snowflake (said in the voice of Leslie Knope to Ann Perkins). And to my best frenemy, Kevin Meredith, who makes my jokes funnier and my life better.
Michael Miracle, my first boss who ruined me for all future bosses. Chris Sweetgall, for his knowledge of all things rivets and bolts. Camille Rankin, for my first by-line, which consisted only of my initials in tiny print but it was still glorious. Lila Coleburn, for her much needed guidance. Phillip Rosen, trusty legal advisor and cool uncle. Gitta Rosen, Leslie Mintz, and Wendy Sarasohn, for the perpetual cheerleading. Danny McEneaney, my brother-in-law, for keeping my spirits up. Marc Philippe Eskenazi, for insights into the rock-and-roll lifestyle (p.s. do they still call it rock and roll?). Christine Benedetti, my Colorado stories would be nothing without you.
My friend David Siffert—I’ve never had a brother but I assume it means someone who watches out for you even though they find you mildly annoying and who sits across from you at various diners throughout Manhattan while you experience a wide variety of breakdowns? Sif, I would only eat waffles with wine in front of you. You’re welcome.
My agent, Andrew Blauner, has the soul of a Jew and the charm of a WASP, which means he’s pretty much unstoppable. I remember when he first sold this novel, he told me that it was “an absolute, unconditional high” for him. What kind of person gets an absolute, unconditional high from making someone else’s dream come true? A really, really good one, that’s who. My thanks also to David Duchovny, clutch hitter extraordinaire, for coming in with encouragement at just the right moment. Andrew and David are basically the kindest, classiest, most well-educated guys who do what they want and don’t give an F. When I grow up, I want to be just like them.
Elana Cohen—I could not have asked for a more perfect person to edit this book. Sometimes I felt as though I dreamed you up and I wanted to storm into the S&S offices and make sure that you were real. Nina Cordes, for taking over with such enthusiasm and grace. Jennifer Bergstrom, for giving me the very special gift of Elana and Nina. And to Kate Dresser, Meagan Harris, and Molly Gregory—thank you for joining my team.
My Russian parents-in-law, Yuly and Roza Verbitsky, for their support and for never allowing me to go too long without pickled cabbage.
My father and Diane for always believing that my choices are the best choices.
My sister, Ali, who is my public relations director, social media expert, stuffed animal consultant, and constant compadre. What I would be without her is alone in old family photos, and while one person dressed in a hideous floral ensemble (complete with matching hat!) is a bit pathetic, two is most definitely a crowd.
My husband, Dave, who ten years ago requested the role of leading man in my life and has been crushing it ever since.
And finally, to my mother, for reading so many drafts, for seeing me through so many catastrophes, and most of all, for teaching me how to write and love.
GALLERY READERS GROUP GUIDE
THIS LOVE STORY WILL SELF-DESTRUCT
LESLIE COHEN
INTRODUCTION
* * *
Columbia University, 2005. Ben meets Eve. Eve meets Ben. And not much of anything happens between them, until one day, they meet again, and it changes the course of their lives forever. Follow Eve and Ben as they navigate their twenties in the midst of New York City’s twisty-turny streets, through first jobs, first dates, and first breakups; through first reunions, first betrayals and, finally, possibly, first real love. A timeless tale reimagined for the millennial era from two unapologetically original points of view, this is the story of what it means to find love in today’s modern world.
TOPICS AND QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION
* * *
1. Cohen introduces us to the impassioned, quirky Eve in the opening chapters of the novel, before revealing her tragic past. How did your impression of Eve evolve as you learned her backstory?
2. One could argue that New York City is the third protagonist in this novel, one whose characteristics shift dramatically at various points in the story. Eve’s description of living in the city ranges from feeling “like an ant trapped amid a towering maze of buildings, waiting for a giant shoe to crush you to death” to the “damn city fit like a glove.” How does the setting both impact and reflect the characters’ emotional states throughout the novel?
3. On Ben says to Eve, “We’ve come into each other’s lives over and over again, and that’s fine. No big deal. But because we have, we begin to feel a destiny with each other . . .” Discuss the moments of serendipity that connect Ben and Eve. Do you think these coincidences are random, or are they, as Ben believes, a matter of “synchronicity”?
4. What do you make of Ben’s decision not to immediately tell Eve about the connection between his father and her mother? How would you have handled the situation?
5. Discuss the significance of Eve’s mother dying on 9/11. Do you think Eve’s experience of this significant loss would be different if it were not linked to such a public, large-scale tragedy?
6. On Jesse tells Eve
that she’s in love with Ben because she’s “desperate to feel that way.” Do you agree with this statement? If so, does it minimize Eve’s relationship with Ben?
7. While discussing his job, Ben says “there is a certain satisfaction in bringing order to the ideas.” How does this sentiment hold true in his relationship with Eve? Ultimately, do you think Ben helps Eve bring order to her life, or does she accomplish this on her own?
8. Both the novel’s opening and closing scenes take place in Eve’s apartment. How does her definition of “home” change over the years? What major turning points shape her perceptions about where she lives, and where she wants to live?
9. Eve recounts, “Let us not judge hastily the actions of the young for fear of neglecting the importance of the journey.” Ben echoes her, claiming that “you couldn’t fully appreciate a sunny day unless you’d come in from a storm.” Do you agree with them? Has this statement held true at any point in your life?
10. Reread the prologue and discuss how your interpretation has changed now that you’ve finished the book. Would you consider either Ben or Eve reliable narrators in these opening passages?
11. What future do you envision for Ben and Eve beyond the last page of the book?
ENHANCE YOUR BOOK CLUB
* * *
1. In the prologue, Eve describes “the streets, apartment buildings, bars and restaurants . . . A part of the story will always remain in those places, as if stranded in time.” Ask each member of your book club to bring a photo or memento from a physical place that triggers a memory for them, and share the stories that stay “stranded in time” for each of you.
2. Cast the film version of This Love Story Will Self-Destruct. Which actors, living or dead, would you chose to play the novel’s characters?
