Love Me (17 page)

 

 

 

Dear Nice, Yes. Get a new therapist. And stop abusing the obese. It is protected by the First Amendment, but one day some fatty will fall on you in anger and you’ll need back surgery and physical therapy every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon and you’ll fall into deep depression and turn to baked goods for comfort and not just the occasional cheese Danish but whole crates of sugar donuts from Krispy Kreme that you sit in your full-size car and devour greedily until one day you see a porker in the mirror trying to avert her eyes, and you can say, “Hey, for a fat lady, you don’t sweat that much.”

 

 

 

Meanwhile, I was putting on the pounds myself—in days past, when I strolled onto the terrace in my Speedo, binoculars flashed in nearby buildings as women sought a glimpse of me, but no more, alas—I had left my old weight of 195 behind and passed 225 at a dead run and was lumbering within sight of 250. I did not set foot on a scale after 245, I just bought expandable pants. My old skinny clothes hung in the closet, and my Porky Pig outfits were getting tight now and soon I would need to purchase clothing by phone from Hootie’s Pants Warehouse in Tupelo, Mississippi.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dear Confused, Get out of jazz and find a job at one of those AM talk stations aimed at Angry Suburban Males who are pissed off at liberals for causing sunspots. Learn to rant and rave, fulminate and fume, and you will be a big hit on the Right where most people are overweight and have bulbous heads.

 

 

 

I was washed up, no doubt about it. Nothing I ever wrote would be of the slightest interest ten years from now. I was yesterday’s fish wrap. If I died of a massive heart attack my body would lie undiscovered for days. And Iris wouldn’t come to New York to retrieve it. It’d be drained and dried and boxed (XL) and flown in the bowels of a Northwest Airlines flight from LaGuardia, and a few feet above my pale and waxen form, passengers in First Class would sit savoring their bloody Marys and reading the
Times
Op-Ed page and looking forward to a weekend of canoeing the St. Croix with Maureen, and all I’d have to look forward to is a black hole in Lakewood Cemetery, a short hike from the beach at Lake Calhoun where in our salad days Iris and I once skinny-dipped at midnight and embraced, looking at the lights of downtown Minneapolis.

I had a dream in which my prostate was about to be removed by a tall surgeon in black riding boots who took the cheroot out of his mouth and said, “You won’t be needing an anesthetic, will you? A big fellow like yourself?”

I’m okay, I kept telling myself. I am basically okay. Depending on what is meant by “basically.” I still had some dough left and was in reasonably good shape, despite the booze, and fairly alert, and women were attracted to me, at least a couple of them were. I was not what you’d call a tragic figure. No. Not yet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dear Electra, Speak to your family doctor or priest or oracle or maybe appeal to a goddess, like Athena, and tell her exactly what you told me. You may have to make some sacrifices. But there is help available.

Writing Mr. Blue was a comfort to me for sure. As rancid as my own situation was, there were Minnesotans who were suffering right along with me.
Still Hurting
was wanting to sue her uncle for leaving the bathroom door open and exposing himself to her when she was eight, a traumatic memory that she’d been dealing with for thirty years.
Bummed Out
was in love with her gay male friend and got angry and jealous when she spotted him with other guys.
Jaded
was tired of life, period. Ready to move on.
Curious
was in love with her doctor.
Angry
wanted to put sand in the gas tank of her cheating boyfriend.
Shocked
was engaged to a woman who (he found out) did not shave her underarms.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dear George, Writing is not as easy as you might think. You’re required to sit in a little room by yourself for periods of time and the English language can be darned frustrating sometimes. But there’s no harm in trying. I’d recommend that you try writing a book for children. Not so many words and the story line can be pretty basic. How about the story of Pecos Bill? He was a Texan. Or an aviator story that doesn’t involve bloodshed and gore. Perhaps a group of friends who get together and fly jet warplanes for the sheer fun of it. You’re the author! You decide!

 

 

 

 

I told Salinger I was writing an advice column and he gave me what appeared to be a wry smile—Salinger sometimes wore a fake beard and dark glasses in public so it wasn’t easy to read his facial expressions—and said, “That sounds like wisdom talking, Larry. Advice to the lovelorn. I envy you. You must learn a great deal from that.” I do, I said. I do.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dear B.F.L., A gloomy guy can decide not to be and take the stone out of his shoe and walk straight. So do it. But don’t expect to do it tonight and tomorrow. Impatience is the luxury of youth. The rest of us must take things in steps. If you don’t know this, life itself will teach you. Life is a relentless instructor. Gloom and dread are dispelled by making slight progress; progress, even slight, leads to more progress; and gradually the glacier shifts, the ice jam breaks and things move in the direction of your dreams. Keep trying. PS The Mr. Blue cure for the blues is a good night’s sleep. Anytime you feel bad and it isn’t your fault, just curl up and go to sleep. It will be better in the morning, especially if you go to sleep expecting so.

 

 

 

It was the easiest writing I ever did. It just squeezed out like toothpaste out of a tube. It came winging out of the blue like a stork with a baby in a sling. Lorna at the
Star Journal
sent me an e-mail:

O my dear lady, you don’t distract me from my work. Mr. Blue is my work. I looked half my life for this work. The meaning of life is, first, to earn a living. You may be digging your own grave, but if you dig it straight and deep and they pay you, it’s honest work. Work is redemptive. I was wasting time being lonely and drinking and making late night phone calls to friends and writing long weepy letters to my darling Iris and suffering gruesome hangovers and getting crushes on waitresses in coffee shops and enduring writerly paralysis and yet—I am still in the game. I am Mr. Blue. It is humble work, but one day, lo and behold, there was a note from my old friend Katherine seeking my help, and I don’t mind saying: I was gratified.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dear Moonflower, Enjoy the craft of poetry and leave the art of sucking up and schmoozing to others. But if you want to suck up, don’t apply suction to lower middle management, which is who drinks white wine. People with real power to get a book of poems into print are gin or bourbon drinkers. Don’t kiss the wrong butt.

And two hours later, she wrote again:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dear Moonflower, The supply of available heterosexual men who are psychologically sound is small. You’re hunting for mountain goats, basically, so you probably need a guide, someone who knows a goat personally. The truth is that men hate to be single. So they hang on to a mate until another comes along. They hate to be at sea, so they hug the coast, and a woman in search of one is forced to become a pirate, drifting through the knots of married couples, letting the men appreciate her charms, her openness, her lovely skin, her in souciance, her availability, and letting the women loathe and despise her. I don’t recommend that, but it’s been practiced successfully by many women who thereby became somebody’s second or third wife, and there is an advantage to buying a horse that’s already broken and accustomed to the traces. But never mind. You are not that sort of person, thank goodness. But just in case you should change your mind, be sure to pay attention to your physical person. “Attractive” isn’t enough when you’re 45. You need to be a knockout. A woman men look at and think, Wow. Don’t waste your time on the subtleties—you have two powerful assets, located on your chest, and you’d be a fool not to use them. A little décolletage—or a lot, what the heck, Christmas is coming—can work for you. If you want to attract a man, unbutton your blouse. You can discuss books afterward. Boobs come first. I could lie about this, but why?