What Men Want. Deborah Blumenthal
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gene pool from which all players were created? It was similar to the way book reviewers described authors. They were always crosses between two or three others—Hemingwayesque, or Shavian, Faulknerian—who wrote in the same genre, as if no one was original and every work was merely a crazy quilt of what had come before.
“Well, a younger Robin Wright Penn,” I said, “but not as good an actress.”
“Mmm, I thought she was miscast in Hometown Queen,” Ellen said. It was clear why we were friends. “She didn’t have the breadth of character to carry it off.”
“Agreed,” I said. Still, we were getting ahead of ourselves. Two plus two didn’t equal ten.
“Any number of people could have helped her for the role, and it was quite possible that she wasn’t the one at all,” Ellen said. “Maybe some celebrity just went up there looking for property. You know how they always want to buy houses in places like upstate New York, Montana, Wyoming or up-and-coming spots like Marfa, Texas, where no one would run into them.”
But the more I thought about it, the more convinced I became.
“I know it’s her,” I said, and then changed the subject back to Moose. “So what happened with him?”
“He came back here and we sat on the floor talking about everything from television to books to seasons for planting,” Ellen said. “He even went outside to examine the garden in the back of the building and we talked about starting a vegetable garden,” she said. “Then we went through a bottle of wine.”
“And?”
“He left at two,” Ellen said. I couldn’t tell whether she was relieved or disappointed.
“Did he want to?”
“Well, he didn’t jump me, if that’s what you mean.”
He already got four stars for good behavior. “Did he act interested?”
“Well…we talked for two hours,” she said. “But the crazy thing is, I think he was trying to pretend that he wasn’t interested.”
“Well, that’ll make it better when it does happen,” I said.
“Maybe,” Ellen said. “I don’t know.”
“Did he say he’d call before we go to the concert?”
“No. He just smiled and said he’d better push off.” She paused. “But he has my card….”
When Chris walked in from work, I told him about Moose and Ellen.
“If he jumped her bones she would have resented it,” he said, peeling off his jacket and tossing it on the couch. “So he played it cool and that put her off? We can’t win.”
“Well, I just thought he might have said something—‘I’ll call you,’ or whatever—to let her know that he was interested,” I said, jumping to Ellen’s defense. “I think he’s the first guy that she’s had an iota of interest in in the last six months. I know she probably wouldn’t admit it, but I could tell. I saw a sparkle in her eye that I haven’t seen since you know who.”
“So let her make a move on him,” he said, sinking onto the couch. “She’s a big girl.”
“Do you like it when a woman comes on to you?”
Major shoulder shrug. “Depends who,” he said. “Yeah, why not?”
I dropped down on top of him and tried to pin his arms above his head. “This okay?” I said.
He laughed. “Yeah, definitely.”
Men always said they wanted women to come on to them, but that didn’t make it true. While initially it flattered the hell out of them if a woman pursued them, after the first date, most men liked to take charge. If the relationship wasn’t on their terms, it made them uneasy.
“How’s the diet-drink campaign going?” I said, dropping the subject.
He shrugged. “We’ve been brainstorming, but I don’t have anything yet.
“What’s your deadline?”
He massaged his temples. “Forty-eight hours.” He picked up the TV page of the paper, scanned it, and then grabbed the remote and started to channel surf. When I first met Chris it surprised me to see him come home from work and spend most of the night in front of the TV when he had a deadline the next morning. I thought he’d be sitting in front of the computer, or staring at pictures of the product. Only later did I realize that he really wasn’t watching television as much as using it to help him think. It became the backdrop for the movie that he was making in his head. Maybe he needed the visual wallpaper to stimulate his thinking.
I was the opposite. The blare of radio or TV destroyed my concentration, which may explain why we had the different kinds of jobs that we did. Clearly, he was a right-brain kind of guy—holistic, random and intuitive, and I was a left-brain—more logical, analytical and sequential.
I slipped out of the room and went into the kitchen to start making dinner, something that I didn’t do on a regular basis. It wasn’t that I didn’t like to cook, it was just that I didn’t want to fall into a routine that would regularly take a chunk out of my day and that wasn’t, as I saw it, effective in terms of the time spent cooking/time spent eating it ratio.
But tonight at least, I wanted to help Chris in any way that I could. I really sympathized with him. The pressure of having to produce under a deadline could make the most secure person crumble. I took out a steak, made a marinade, and then let it sit for a while before putting it under the broiler. I put baked potatoes into the microwave and cut up a salad. When the steak was ready—rare for him, medium-well for me—I brought a tray over to the coffee table. He turned to me for a minute, intuiting the moral support that I hoped to be offering along with the food.
“Thanks,” he said, turning back to the TV. He cut into the meat and ate like a hungry dog. I sat next to him, amused, and we watched a mindless quiz show followed by an episode of Animal Planet. Were we melding into a Middle American couple? But no, there was no TV Guide on the coffee table, no popcorn or even Bud Light. And I’m proud to say that there were no Barcaloungers in our living room and never would be, despite the fact that the horrendous-looking things were amazingly comfortable. But there we were, not exchanging as much as a word for the entire time we sat in front of the TV. Finally, Chris turned to me.
“Metamorphosis?
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Yeah,” he said, giving me his signature half smile. We sat there for another minute without speaking.
“How about ‘The Change’?” I said.
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Yeah.” We sat some more. How ridiculous was this? Two mature adults trying to come up with the name of a diet drink that would be no more effective than a low-fat malted but at twice the price. Who could give up food for any length of time without going back to it with a vengeance that would ultimately negate all the weight lost while enduring sweet diet drinks instead of real meals. I thought of “Fraud,” but thought better of suggesting it. Maybe “Waste.” Those who couldn’t spell might think that it would give them one.
“Slice of Life,” I said brightly, starting to toss out ideas and brainstorming. “Close Shave. Beanpole, Svelte, Stick, Stick Figure, Slim, Shape—oops, forget that, they already used that—ummm…” More silence. But then, in a flash of inspiration, I knew that I had it.
“Wait,” I said suddenly. “I’ve got your name.”
He looked at me. “Well?”
I nodded my head up and down. “I have it, it’s great, really great.” He held out his hands.
“So?”
I