by Phil Stern
Back in college Dave and I became curious about this. What kind of questions could one get away with asking? So I called (these were the days before caller ID and all) and told some bored lady who answered I was concerned about the shampoo’s ingredients.
“What is dythicone?” I asked, reading directly from the bottle.
“Thank you for your question, sir,” she replied, obviously reading from a script. She then mumbled through some technical description of the ingredient in question.
“Wow, that’s great,” I said. “Can I ask you something else?”
“What’s that, sir?”
“Does dythicone cause chaffing?”
“Chaffing, sir? Not at all.”
“Because my boyfriend and I like to jerk one another off with your shampoo, but I was concerned this dythicone stuff was hurting our dicks.”
There was dead silence for several moments. “Sir,” the shampoo lady finally said. “Am I to understand…”
“Now don’t be judgmental!” Dave, having listened on the other extension, now chimed in. “We have as much right to our lifestyle as you do to yours!”
“Uh, sir, nobody’s saying…”
“So you can state officially, on behalf of your company,” I interrupted, “that dythicone is good for the long-term health of the entire male body?”
“Including the penis?” Dave added.
Another long silence. We could hear the shampoo lady shuffling papers, desperately searching through her cue cards for the proper response.
“Maybe we should call the newspapers and just tell them your company is bigoted,” I prompted.
“No, sir, that won’t be necessary.” Sighing, the shampoo lady made a decision. “I can assure you that dythicone won’t chaff your skin, be it on your penis or otherwise.”
“What about the really sensitive part, right behind the head?” Dave demanded.
“Sir, our product is safe for all conceivable hygiene and bathroom uses.”
“Bathroom!” Dave yelled. “What if we want to fuck…” And here he began dissolving into giggles. “…to fuck in the tool…the tool…shed…” Now incoherent, he dropped the phone, laughing uncontrollably.
“Anything else, sir,” the shampoo lady mumbled with all the enthusiasm of someone asked to sweep out an abandoned nuclear reactor.
“No, that’s fine,” I replied, now laughing myself.
As she began reciting some long wrap-up spiel about the company and thanking us for our interest in the products, I simply hung up the phone. Dave and I laughed for a week about that one.
But here’s the point. You must know, on some deep, existential level, that if your job is to man a phone line about shampoo, your life has just gone horribly, and perhaps irreversibly, off-track.
Actually, I’d like to apologize to the shampoo lady. She had a miserable job, and we probably made it a little worse. I’m sorry, shampoo lady. Now that I’m older myself, I feel your pain.
And who knows? One day soon I may be working the phone next to yours, answering questions from jerks like me.
SOPHIA DANTON
After my sister Liz turned 16 years old, she began dating a man twice her age. This was with my parent’s full permission. In fact, it was my mother who had set them up.
It was the summer after Mom threw her fit in the Boston restaurant. By that point it had been awhile since I’d spent any real time with my family, so I suggested a week’s vacation at home. Relations with Mom and Dad were still strained, but certainly better than they’d been after Virgin-Gate and my return from Europe.
Actually, there had been another six months, right after college, where we’d barely spoken. That was because I’d run off to Las Vegas to be a dancer. I’ll tell that story a little later.
But back to the summer I was 25. Perhaps my parents were finally ready to accept me as an independent adult? Or so I hoped. In any event it was time to find out.
So I drove home and everyone was happy to see me. We had a wonderful dinner. My older brother Michael sat next to me, with Liz and Brian, younger than myself by three years, on the other side of the table. The conversation was light, everyone excited about the future. Even Brian was in good spirits, though he was having trouble finding his way after college.
Right after digging into dessert, though, Mom touched my sister’s shoulder. “And now, Liz, maybe you should tell Sophia your big news!”
“Big news?” I encouraged, smiling. Maybe a good test score or something? Liz hadn’t always done well in school. “What’s up, Liz? Tell me.”
“Well,” she began in that sly, teenage way. “I’ll have you know that I have a boyfriend!”
For a moment I was stunned into silence. “Oh. Wow.” Anxiously, I glanced at my father.
“That’s right,” Liz blithely continued, taking a piece of chocolate pie. “We’ve been going out for six weeks now.”
“I see.” Confused, I looked first at Mom, who was beaming like Liz had just cured cancer, then back at my father, who appeared utterly detached from the conversation. Keep in mind these same two parents hadn’t even allowed me to date at Liz’s age, much less unveil a boyfriend.
“His name is Edgar,” Liz announced.
“Did you meet Edgar in school?” I carefully asked.
“Nope. In church.”
“Edgar goes to St. Mary’s,” Mom proudly interjected, again touching Liz’s shoulder.
This is what it must feel like, I decided, to suddenly find yourself in an episode of The Twilight Zone. And why should Liz have it so much easier than I did? Firmly sweeping aside a wave of jealousy, I focused again on my teenage sister. Something was wrong here, and I needed to find out what it was.
“So tell me about him.” Feigning enthusiasm, I dug into my own pie.
“Well, he has dark hair,” Liz began. “He’s a photographer. Actually, he just opened his own shop in White Plains.”
“Edgar’s new to the area, but his first priority was finding a good church,” Mom added. “Doesn’t that say a lot?”
Wait a minute. “Opened his own shop?” I repeated, focusing on Liz. “That’s a little unusual for someone your age, isn’t it?”
“Oh, he’s a little older than I am,” Liz glibly supplied.
“I see.” Pausing a moment, I made a point of smiling at everyone again, the happy big sister just catching up on the family news. “So how old is he?”
“Twenty-nine,” Liz giggled. “Actually, he’ll be thirty in two months.”
“Twenty-nine?” Shocked, I now stared hard at our mother. “Were you aware of this?”
“Like I said, dear, Edgar goes to St. Mary’s.” Standing, Mom began clearing plates. “We see him there every Sunday.”
“Uh…yeah. But…” Trailing off, I once more looked to Dad for support. But my father abruptly stood and left the room, pointedly avoiding my gaze.
Forty-five minutes later, after the kitchen had been cleaned up, I invited Mom to take a walk out back. Our property adjoined a town park, and soon we were strolling down a pleasant, wooded path.
“Mom, what gives with Liz and this guy?” I asked. “Twenty-nine? Are they really dating?”
“I suppose so.” Thoughtfully, my mother stared about. “Liz and Edgar go out every Wednesday and Saturday night. On Wednesday she has to be in by nine. On Saturday they can stay out until midnight. On Sunday after church they sometimes go into the city or the beach. Edgar is a careful driver, so it’s all right.”
The driving thing touched a nerve. When I lived at home concerns about my prospective dates’ driving ability were often used as an excuse to keep me under lock and key.
But staying out until nine, or even midnight? It was unbelievable. “Uh, Mom? When I was in school, you wouldn’t let me even leave the house after five in the afternoon. What on earth has changed so much?”
“Well, listen dear.” Smiling idiotically, Mom gently stroked a maple leaf. As a self-styled nature expert, she would often fuss over t
rees and shrubs. “Edgar goes to our church. And after your own, uh, experiences in college, we decided to take matters into our own hands with Liz.”
“I’m not sure I’m following you.”
“Well, in retrospect, your father and I decided we may have been a little too restrictive with you in high school.”
Stunned, I turned away. In a million years I’d never expected to hear such an admission.
“So we wanted to give Liz a little more guidance,” she continued. “Edgar comes from a good family, and he goes to St. Mary’s every Sunday. So I invited him to ask Liz out.”
“Why? I still don’t get it.”
“Well, Sophia, think about it.” Carefully, Mom stepped over a thick root in the path. “Edgar is an older, mature, church going man. He’s not going to get her into drinking or drugs. He won’t get in a car accident. He’s respectful of our family. Edgar is the kind of man we can feel good about our daughter spending time with.” Now a sidelong glance at me. “Unlike all those ruffians you wanted to see when you were her age.”
Of course, by ruffians Mom meant my high school classmates, many of whom were now young doctors or lawyers. One ruffian who’d wanted to take me out is now the local congressman’s chief of staff. I recently read an article listing him as one of Washington’s most eligible bachelors.
“We trust Edgar. He respects Liz.”
“Yeah, well, listen Mom. It’s completely inappropriate for her to see a man so much older.”
“Why?”
“Why?” I repeated, now stopping and staring at her. “Because he’s twenty-nine years old!”
“Isn’t that a good thing? I mean, he’s mature and settled.”
“Mom!” All I could do was shake my head. “Aren’t you concerned a man this much older is having sex with your teenage daughter?”
“You’re being silly.”
“Silly! Jesus, Mom, why else would he want to date a teenager?”
“Look.” Trying to reassure me, Mom bestowed a serene smile. “Sophia, I personally discussed this with Edgar and Liz. They both agreed to be respectful of one another. Both are committed to God’s law and their future spouses, be they one another, or someone else. I assure you, Edgar and Liz want to remain virgins until marriage, so there’s nothing to worry about.”
For a moment I just stood there, listening to the evening sounds descend on the light forest. I didn’t know what was more unbelievable, that my mother was really this naive, or that Liz had beaten a system I was utterly unable to crack.
“Are you telling me that this man is a 29-year-old virgin?”
“That’s right,” Mom replied.
“And he has no sexual interest in Liz?”
“No dear. Edgar told me so himself.”
“And it never occurred to you that Liz and this Edgar are simply telling you what you want to hear?”
“You’re saying they might be lying to me?”
“Yes! Of course! You mean, you didn’t think of that?”
“Honey, how many times do I have to tell you?” Now Mom took my hand, giving a reassuring squeeze. “Edgar goes to St. Mary’s. We see him every Sunday.”
Around ten o’clock, after everyone else had gone to bed, I went into my sister’s room, closing the door behind me.
“Hey, Soph.” Daintily painting her toenails, Liz looked up at me. “How’s it going?”
“It’s going fine.” Sitting on the edge of the bed, I studied my younger sister. She was a very pretty girl, with long, blonde hair the same shade as my own. The mischievous glint in Liz’s eye reminded me far more of the typical teenager, however, than myself at a similar age. “So I would assume you and Edgar are taking precautions?”
“What you do mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean.”
Pursing her lips, Liz studied her big toenail, now a light shade of blue. “I’m on the pill.”
“Where’d you get the prescription?”
Liz shrugged. “Edgar took me to a clinic in New Jersey. We went one Sunday after church.”
“Have you both been tested?”
“You mean like for AIDS and stuff?”
“Yeah. AIDS and stuff.”
“I think so. Maybe.”
“Where do you have sex?”
“Hotel rooms, mostly.” Now Liz began on her other big nail. “A few times in his shop. In the woods. Once on the beach. You know.”
“Why not his house?”
“He lives with his mother.” Frowning, she carefully dabbed some polish off the toe itself. “It would be kind of hard to sneak me in.”
Glancing around the room, I was annoyed by the computer sitting in the corner. Back in my day a computer had been deemed too expensive. “I think you two should be using condoms. Do you know how to use them?”
“I guess. Maybe.”
So there in my little sister’s bedroom I pulled a pack of rubbers from my purse, demonstrating proper condom technique on a slender bottle of hair spray. Commendably, Liz paid close attention.
“I know you’re on the pill,” I concluded, carefully putting the stretched out rubber back in my purse. “But you might forget to take one. And it helps with diseases.”
“Okay,” Liz nodded. “Can I have the rest of the pack?”
“Uh…sure. Yeah.” Passing over the remaining two condoms, I watched Liz carefully tuck them in her trendy pink handbag. “Are you two monogamous?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you having sex with each other exclusively? Or are one of you, or both of you, having sex with other people?”
“No. Just us.” Now Liz smiled. “He says that Little Edgar is just for me.”
“Little Edgar?”
“Yeah, that’s what he calls it. Big Edgar,” Liz explained, pointing to her own head. “And then Little Edgar…”
“Yeah. I get it.”
“Isn’t that funny, though?” Raising an eyebrow, Liz again inspected her toenails, now adorned in alternating green and blue. “I thought guys wanted to be big down there. Why call it Little Edgar?”
Probably, I thought, because Big Edgar is fucking a teenager and he’s trying to be cute with her. “Got me.”
“You know, Mom’s so stupid.” Liz pulled up her legs, grinning at me over her knees. “She thinks we’re both virgins. Isn’t that funny?”
“Hysterical.” Sighing, I pushed a blonde hair from my sister’s face. “So, when do I get to meet Big Edgar?”
“He’s coming over for dinner tomorrow.”
“Can’t wait.”
“Look, Soph, you won’t tell Mom, will you?”
“No.” I’d already tried that. “But I would like to speak to Edgar alone tomorrow. Is that all right with you?”
Liz considered. “I guess so.”
“Good.” I kissed her cheek, standing. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Great.” With a great flurry of sheets, Liz darted underneath the covers.
Crossing over to the door, I put my hand on the light switch.
“Hey, Soph. One more thing.”
Pausing, I turned back. “Yes?”
“Have you ever had a threesome?”
“A threesome?” I took a long moment to gather my thoughts. “Uh, why do you ask?”
“Because Edgar knows this other girl, and he thinks it might be fun for the three of us to do it together,” Liz explained. “What do you think of that?”
“I…I don’t know. Let’s talk about it tomorrow.”
“Okay. Nighty-night.”
“Good night, Liz.” I quickly slipped out of her room, carefully closing the door.
The next morning, a Saturday, I spent time with my father down in the Ship Room. Ever since I could remember, Daddy had painstakingly constructed models of famous naval vessels from scratch. When finished, he’d then proudly put each ship on a small shelf, its name carved into a plaque underneath.
So I sat there watching him sand the mizzen mast of his latest
project, the frigate Chesapeake. Already mounted on the wall was the U.S.S. Brooklyn, Farragut’s flagship at Mobile Bay, the Union cruiser Kearsarge, which had finally sunk the C.S.S. Alabama in 1864, and the U.S.S. Enterprise, the only American carrier to make it through the entire Pacific campaign. There was a flawless recreation of the Constitution, H.M.S. Victory, the battleship Missouri, and even a mock battle between the Monitor and the Merrimac.
Mom might lambast father’s ship collection as a colossal waste of time, but I knew this was his private realm. Here, Daddy could just be himself, existing in the moment. More importantly, while sitting among the ships, I was always Daddy’s little girl, pressing issues of sexuality, virginity, and propriety somehow forgotten. No matter how bad things had been between myself and my parents when sweeping by for a Christmas or Easter celebration the last several years, I was always welcome here.
“You know, Sophia, they said the Chesapeake was an unlucky ship,” he commented, carefully studying his miniature mast.
“How’s that, Daddy?” Believe it or not I was actually interested, and over the years had become somewhat knowledgeable about naval history. In fact, a guy had once proposed marriage on the spot after I’d successfully named all six original Humphrey’s frigates from the early 19th century.
“Well, it stuck on the quays when it was launched, which is considered bad luck. Then it was surprised by the H.M.S. Leopard in 1807 and shot up pretty badly. Finally, the Chesapeake was captured by the British in the War of 1812.” Lovingly, Dad began painting the mizzen mast. “But I think the Chesapeake did all right. It worked long and hard, doing it’s job every day. It wasn’t flashy, but that’s all right. I just don’t think people appreciated all she did.”
Just that morning, over coffee, Mom had called Dad a cabdriver. She said it with a smile, as if simply their private joke, but Dad’s profession was clearly a sore point. All of our neighbors worked white collar jobs in the city, or owned software companies, or were esteemed professors and the like. They went to symphonies and sat on boards, spending money ostentatiously, while Dad had methodically saved and scrimped, miraculously turning a small outfit into the largest taxi company in Westchester. Actually, he still worked a couple of shifts a month behind the wheel, just to keep a feel for the street.