A Little Change of Face. Lauren Baratz-Logsted
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I went to the bar or the beach or even Super Stop & Shop, but almost never in the bookstore. When it did happen, it made me feel like I was the lone gas station attendant at the only stop within a hundred-mile radius in Nebraska on a hot July day when there comes Brendan Fraser pulling up in a Jag, looking for a full tank of octane, a Vanilla Coke and a tube of Rolos. Really, it felt exactly like that.
Now, then: If you ask me why you never see good-looking guys in these places, what do you think I’ll say—that hunks don’t read? That they’re too stupid? That they’d rather watch it on the video? That they’re too busy getting fucked?
Nah.
I think the real reason is that they all have good-looking girlfriends, that they have these good-looking girlfriends fully trained in what their own tastes in reading material are (as well as exactly how they like their blow jobs, standing or sitting or on the hood of a Jag in the middle of the Nebraska desert while drinking a Vanilla Coke), and they send their girlfriend minions out to do their book-shopping for them, so that they don’t have to undergo the bug-under-the-microscope discomfort of having the desperate women working in the libraries/bookstores across the land ogle them.
Just so you know: You do see an awful lot of good-looking women in libraries/bookstores.
Too bad I’d never been interested in women in that way.
Over the years, when people asked me why I was a librarian, they always said I should be a writer instead—not because I had any talent that anyone knew of, but because I loved books so much. And I’d tried. In secret. Oh, how I’d tried. But I was just no good at it. Like a music lover with no ear, I was doomed to listen and never play.
8
Now for the eternal question, the one that has been tormenting humans down through the ages:
How is a woman like a green M&M?
(I’ll bet you can tell I was starting to feel better.)
I’d always claimed that the green M&M’s were the best in the bag—the precise order, before they started adding new colors, going green, yellow, orange, brown, blue, red—a claim for which I’d encountered many detractors.
My mother: “It’s just different-colored dye, you can’t taste dye.”
Best Girlfriend: “Okay, I can see where there might be a discernible difference between green and red, since they really are so far apart. But green, yellow and orange? Uh-uh. Too close to call. In a blind taste test you’d never do more than equal the statistical probability of naming them by chance.” (She was right, but it was fun, since we were very drunk.)
Pam: “They all taste exactly alike, for chrissakes—just eat the damn things!”
Despite the reluctance on the part of the world to adopt my candy-theorizing, I’d felt heartened when, in a getting-to-know-you campaign by Mars, Inc., little pieces of informative cardboard began accompanying officially licensed products, in this case a giant plush toy (don’t ask). My favorite, of course, was the one that read, “Read About Green: Green is quick-witted and intelligent; she says it like it is. She knows she’s attractive, so she’s flirty, but not in a tacky way. While feminine, she keeps up with the boys; finds the rest of the gang a bit childish. She knows how to handle trouble. She will get what she wants.”
That, in a candy-coated shell, was me.
I was all of those things and—except on days when I was PMS-ing and was therefore less—more. Okay, except for maybe the very last sentence, but I was hoping that, in the fullness of time, that might prove true, too.
Just like Cathy once proclaimed, “I am Heathcliff, and he is me,” I am a green M&M. Further, as far as I’m concerned, the fact that I’m a green M&M has pretty much well explained for me the reason why getting dates has never been a problem.
Pam, on the other hand, has always viewed the matter quite differently.
9
Okay. Okay okay OKAY! I know you’re not going to let me go any further without first explaining how Pam came to be my best friend and just what exactly a “default best friend” is.
Straight out of college, my best friend—my real best friend—known as Best Girlfriend, the woman who thinks men find me scary, embarked on a series of geographical moves purposely designed to keep her out of Connecticut. The distance has only grown farther as the years have gone on. Having started out in New York, six moves later has seen her temporarily settled on the Oregon coast. It’s my private belief, one of the few beliefs I have never shared with her for fear of giving her an idea that she hasn’t had yet, that she’s just one last move away from Alaska. After that, I’m sure I’ll lose her to Russia—she’ll probably walk across to it one day when the ocean is frozen really good—and then the world.
I know we’re supposed to be a mobile society, but mobility is just not something that people in my family do. And it’s not that I mind Best Girlfriend’s independence, her freedom, her sense of adventure. On the contrary, it’s one of the many things I admire about her. I just wish the distance between us didn’t make it so hard for us to sit on Irwin Lerner’s face together.
Perhaps I need to explain that last remark.
While we were at UCONN together—me in Liberal Arts, she in Fine Arts—we fell into a set of fairly regular habits, the kind of habits that helped normalize a life lived during an uncertain time when the drinking age was just beginning its incremental progress from eighteen to twenty-one (hence, we were all doing the constant-slow-IV-drip kind of drinking as opposed to the binge drinking that occurs in the much safer college atmospheres we have now) and AIDS was just thinking of poking its head over the American horizon (meaning that most of us were getting laid, fairly regularly, sometimes by people we barely knew, and none of us were using rubbers). Some of our life-raft habits included practical things, like always letting the other know approximately where we’d be when we went out (“A party, I think over in South Campus”) and approximately when we’d return (“Tomorrow morning? Tomorrow afternoon? Definitely sometime in there”). All right, so maybe we never were so exact with the information that any efficient sort of police report could ever be filed, should such a thing prove necessary, but it was just barely enough to technically pass the telling-the-truth test whenever I told my mother, “Not to worry: Best Girlfriend is keeping tabs on me.” Did it really matter how close those tabs on me were?
Other life-raft habits included: eating breakfast together (8:15 to 9:45 a.m.), but only if we were still up from the night before, because otherwise we’d never be up by then; lunch together (10:15 a.m. to 12:45 p.m.); and dinner together (4:15 to 6:45 p.m.); oh, and milk shakes at the snack bar set up in the cafeteria after dinner (8:00 p.m. to whenever). So maybe we didn’t make it to a lot of our classes, and maybe that does sound like a lot of time devoted to eating (which might also finally explain the notorious weight problem known as the Freshman 15), but I swear to God we did not spend all of that time eating. It was just that we always seemed to have a lot of stuff that we needed to talk about, and food was always in the immediate vicinity whenever we did so.
And then there were those vast forty-eight-hour waste-lands of time at that suitcase college that were more commonly referred to as the weekend; weekends where the dorm cafeteria was closed and we often resorted to the Student Union for our hungover-Saturday and Sunday eating-lunch-for-breakfast meals: tuna melts and milk shakes, grilled cheese sandwiches and Funny Bones, lots of diet soda and lots of cigarettes. Eateateat, talktalktalk.
But the most important Student Union meals of all were the rare ones that occurred late on Sunday afternoons at the tail end of rare weekends when one of us had stayed on campus alone while—gasp!—the other had gone home alone. This meant that, not only did we have a pressing need to discuss the usual pressing-need stuff—guys we were interested in, parties, other girls who annoyed us, diets, whether we’d pass any of the classes we never seemed to be going to, the inherent impossibility (slurp!) of sticking to any milk-shake-free diet while going to a school with its own agricultural college, the fact