Disquiet, Please!

by David Remnick

  It was clear that I would have to explain the system to my wife in detail if I was ever to get the bugs out of it. I decided, in fact, that I had better reveal in each case what the capper was to be, so that she would realize the importance of delivering her line exactly as prearranged. I did this while we were driving to our next party, several evenings later. I had ducked her questions about the failures at the Anthems’, preferring to wait till I had some new material worked up to hammer my point home with before I laid the whole thing on the line.

  “At the Spiggetts’ tonight,” I said, “there’s certain to be the usual talk about art. Here’s a chance for you to get in those licks of yours about abstract painting—isn’t it high time painters got back to nature, and so on. The sort of thing you said at the Fentons’. You might cite a few of the more traditional paintings, like the portraits of Mrs. Jack Gardner and Henry Marquand. Then turn to me and ask—now, get this, it’s important—ask, ‘Why can’t we have portraits like that any more?’ ”

  “Then what will you say?” she asked.

  I slowed to make a left turn, after glancing in the rear-view mirror to make sure nobody was behind me. “ ‘It’s no time for Sargents, my dear.’ ”

  My wife reached over and pushed in the dash lighter, then sat waiting for it to pop, a cigarette in her hand.

  “Of course I’ll throw it away,” I said. “Just sort of murmur it.”

  She lit the cigarette and put the lighter back in its socket. “Isn’t this a little shabby?” she asked.

  “Why? What’s shabby about it? Isn’t it better than the conversation you have to put up with normally—doesn’t it make for something at least a cut above that?” I said. “What’s wrong with trying to brighten life up? We can turn it around if you like. You can take the cappers while I feed you the straight lines—”

  “Lord, no, leave it as it is.”

  “Can I count on you, then?”

  “I suppose,” she said, heaving a sigh. “But step on it. We’re supposed to eat early and then go to that Shakespearean little theatre in Norwalk.”

  MY wife and I parted on entering the Spiggetts’ house. I made off to where a new television comedienne, named Mary Cobble, was holding court with a dozen or so males. She was a small blonde, cute as a chipmunk and bright as a dollar. The men around her laughed heartily at everything she said. It was well known in Westport that her writers, of whom she kept a sizable stable, formed a loyal claque who followed her to every party, but it didn’t seem to me that all the men around her could be writers. I knocked back a few quick Martinis and soon felt myself a gay part of the group. Once, I glanced around and saw my wife looking stonily my way over the shoulder of a man whose fame as a bore was so great that he was known around town as the Sandman. Matters weren’t helped, I suppose, when, presently returning from the buffet with two plates of food, I carried one to Mary Cobble and sat down on the floor in front of her to eat the other. At the same time, I saw the Sandman fetching my wife a bite.

  Midway through this lap dinner, there was one of those moments when all conversation suddenly stops at once. Lester Spiggett threw in a comment about a current show at a local art gallery. I saw my wife put down her fork and clear her throat. “Well, if there are any portraits in it, I hope the things on the canvases are faces,” she said. She looked squarely at me. “Why is it we no longer have portraits that portray—that give you pictures of people? Like, oh, the Mona Lisa, or The Man with the Hoe, or even that American Gothic thing? Why is that?”

  Everybody turned to regard me, as the one to whom the query had obviously been put. “That’s a hard question for me to answer,” I said, frowning into my plate. I nibbled thoughtfully on a fragment of cold salmon. “Your basic point is, of course, well taken—that the portraits we get are not deserving of the name. Look like somebody threw an egg at the canvas.”

  Fuming, I became lost in the ensuing free-for-all. Not so my wife, whom annoyance renders articulate. She more than held her own in the argument, which was cut short when Mary Cobble upset a glass of iced tea. She made some cheery remark to smooth over the incident. The remark wasn’t funny, nor was it intended to be funny, but to a man her retinue threw back their heads and laughed.

  Meaning to be nice, I laughed, too, and said, “Well, it goes to show you. A good comedienne has her wits about her.”

  “And pays them well,” my wife remarked, in her corner. (Luckily, Mary Cobble didn’t hear it, but two or three others did, and they repeated it until it achieved wide circulation, with a resulting increase in our dinner invitations. That, however, was later. The present problem was to get through the rest of the evening.)

  We had to bolt our dessert and rush to the theatre, where they were doing King Lear in Bermuda shorts, or something, and my wife and I took another couple in our car, so I didn’t get a chance to speak to her alone until after the show. Then I let her have it.

  “That was a waspish remark,” I said. “And do you know why you made it? Resentment. A feeling of being out of the swim. It’s because you’re not good at repartee that you say things like that, and are bitter.”

  “Things like what?” my wife asked.

  I explained what, and repeated my charge.

  In the wrangle, quite heated, that followed her denial of it, she gave me nothing but proof of its truth. I submitted that the idea of mine that had given rise to this hassle, and of which the hassle could safely be taken to be the corpse, had been a cozy and even a tender one: the idea that a man and wife could operate as a team in public. “What could be more domestic?” I said.

  “Domesticity begins at home,” she rather dryly returned.

  I met this with a withering silence.

  1956

  NOAH BAUMBACH

  THE ZAGAT HISTORY OF MY LAST RELATIONSHIP

  AASE’S

  Bring a “first date” to this “postage stamp”–size bistro. Tables are so close you’re practically “sitting in the laps” of the couple next to you, but the lush décor is “the color of love.” Discuss your respective “dysfunctional families” and tell her one of your “fail-safe” stories about your father’s “cheapness” and you’re certain to “get a laugh.” After the “to die for” soufflés, expect a good-night kiss, but don’t push for more, because if you play your cards right there’s a second date “right around the corner.”

  BRASSERIE PENELOPE

  “Ambience and then some” at this Jamaican-Norwegian hybrid. Service might be a “tad cool,” but the warmth you feel when you gaze into her baby blues will more than compensate for it. Conversation is “spicier than the jerk chicken,” and before you know it you’ll be back at her one-bedroom in the East Village, quite possibly “getting lucky.”

  THE CHICK & HEN

  Perfect for breakfast “after sleeping together,” with “killer coffee” that will “help cure your seven-beer/three-aquavit hangover.” Not that you need it—your “amplified high spirits” after having had sex for the first time in “eight months” should do the trick.

  DESARCINA’S

  So what if she thought the movie was “pretentious and contrived” and you felt it was a “masterpiece” and are dying to inform her that “she doesn’t know what she’s talking about”? Remember, you were looking for a woman who wouldn’t “yes” you all the time. And after one bite of chef Leonard Desarcina’s “duck manqué” and a sip of the “generous” gin Margaritas you’ll start to see that she might have a point.

  GORDY’S

  Don’t be ashamed if you don’t know what wine to order with your seared minnow; the “incredibly knowledgeable” waiters will be more than pleased to assist. But if she makes fun of “the way you never make eye contact with people,” you might turn “snappish” and end up having your first “serious fight,” one where feelings are “hurt.”

  PANCHO MAO

  “Bring your wallet,” say admirers of Louis Grenouille’s pan-Asian-Mexican-style fare, because it’s “so expensive you’ll s
tart to wonder why she hasn’t yet picked up a tab.” The “celeb meter is high,” and “Peter Jennings” at the table next to yours might spark an “inane political argument” where you find yourself “irrationally defending Enron” and finally saying aloud, “You don’t know what you’re talking about!” Don’t let her “stuff herself,” as she might use that as an excuse to go to sleep “without doing it.”

  RIGMAROLE

  At this Wall Street old boys’ club, don’t be surprised if you run into one of her “ex-boyfriends” who works in “finance.” Be prepared for his “power play,” when he sends over a pitcher of “the freshest-tasting sangria this side of Barcelona,” prompting her to visit his table for “ten minutes” and to come back “laughing” and suddenly critical of your “cravat.” The room is “snug,” to say the least, and it’s not the best place to say, full voice, “What the fuck were you thinking dating him?” But don’t overlook the “best paella in town” and a din “so loud” you won’t notice that neither of you is saying anything.

  TATI

  Prices so “steep” you might feel you made a serious “career gaffe” by taking the “high road” and being an academic rather than “selling out” like “every other asshole she’s gone out with.” The “plush seats” come in handy if she’s forty-five minutes late and arrives looking a little “preoccupied” and wearing “a sly smile.”

  VANDERWEI’S

  Be careful not to combine “four dry sakes” with your “creeping feeling of insecurity and dread,” or you might find yourself saying, “Wipe that damn grin off your face!” The bathrooms are “big and glamorous,” so you won’t mind spending an hour with your cheek pressed against the “cool tiled floor” after she “walks out.” And the hip East Village location can’t be beat, since her apartment is “within walking distance,” which makes it very convenient if you should choose to “lean on her buzzer for an hour” until she calls “the cops.”

  ZACHARIA AND SONS & CO.

  This “out of the way,” “dirt cheap,” “near impossible to find,” “innocuous” diner is ideal for “eating solo” and insuring that you “won’t run into your ex, who has gone back to the bond trader.” The “mediocre at best” burgers and “soggy fries” will make you wish you “never existed” and wonder why you’re so “frustrated with your life” and unable to sustain a “normal,” “healthy” “relationship.”

  2002

  DAVID OWEN

  8 SIMPLE RULES FOR DATING MY EX-WIFE

  I SHARE the blame for my divorce. I did a lot of things wrong in my marriage: worked too hard, cared too much, made too many sacrifices for my family. Tore my heart out and left it lying on the kitchen floor so that anybody who wasn’t too busy stabbing me in the back could stomp it into the no-wax vinyl tiles that I myself laid down at a savings of more than two thousand dollars. I am guilty of that and more.

  But forget it. Past is past. Let’s move on. You are now dating my ex-wife, and her lawyer, my lawyer, and a state judge have all informed me in writing that you have a legal right to do so. So be it. I’m not a blackmailing pickpocket doubletalking divorce attorney, so I don’t know the technicalities. But the two of us still need to have some kind of ground rules here:

  1. Twenty-two years, pal. That’s how long we were married. You’ve been dating her for a month. Tell you what. In twenty-one years and eleven months, let’s you and me talk again.

  2. Despite what you may have been told, I’ve got some self-respect left, and I don’t need to have your face shoved into my face every time I turn around. From five o’clock on Friday afternoon until two o’clock on Sunday morning, the bar at the Ramada Inn belongs to me.

  3. The oil in the Saturn wagon gets changed every three thousand miles—not five thousand miles, not seven thousand miles, not ten thousand miles—and I don’t care what she or the owner’s manual or the guy in the service department or the Internet says. Three. Thousand. God. Damned. Miles.

  4. The Wiffle ball hanging from the string in the right-hand bay of the garage is where the middle of the front of the hood of the Saturn wagon should be pointed when it’s parked correctly. The Wiffle ball is not supposed to rest on the hood of the car. You aim at the ball. It makes parking easier.

  5. The two of you don’t walk together within a thousand feet of the golf course or the driving range. Not ever.

  6. Before you even ask, allow me to explain why there’s no cable TV. To install cable TV, they have to drill a hole through the house. Hey, fine, so let’s get satellite TV instead. Well, guess what? To install satellite TV, they have to drill about twenty holes through the roof. Somebody ought to get the Nobel Prize for that idea—drilling holes through the roof.

  7. The band saw in the basement belongs to me. You are not to use it, you are not to move it, you are not to put anything on it or let anyone else put anything on it, including even just one corner of a laundry basket while the person carrying the laundry basket scratches their nose. I can’t remove the band saw from the basement just yet. For one thing, I don’t have a workshop to put it in anymore, and if you’re interested in knowing why I suggest you study the terms of my divorce. For another thing, I assembled that band saw myself. When I got the box home from Sears, I thought, Hey, great, I’ll just lift out my brand-new band saw and start ripping pressure-treated railroad ties, but guess what? The box didn’t contain a band saw. The box contained a large plastic bag filled with medium-sized plastic bags filled with small plastic bags filled with parts the size of bird shot. Putting that thing together took three solid months of the best years of my life, and to make the blade cut plumb I had to level the legs with a laser transit that I borrowed from a friend of mine who’s a contractor. So hands the hell off.

  8. This should go without saying, but—no funny business. Understood? She’s fifty years old, for crying out loud.

  2004

  PATRICIA MARX

  AUDIO TOUR

  HELLO, and welcome to the rent-stabilized apartment of Todd Niesle. I’m Debby, a specialist in Todd Niesle, and I’m going to be your guide. Before you begin your journey through the World of Todd Niesle and His Stuff, may I ask you to reduce the volume on your Acoustiguide player to a polite level? Todd Niesle does not know that you are here. Moreover, the woman in 12-A has had a bee in her bonnet about me ever since I, Debby, while, okay, yes, a tiny bit drunk, mistook her door for Todd Niesle’s late one night and jimmied it open. But that’s another Acousti-story.

  You are standing in Todd Niesle’s foyer. The faux faux-marble table on your right is attributed to Todd Niesle’s mother, circa last Christmas. It’s a fine example of a piece that I, Debby, do not like. Take a moment to look through the mail on the faux faux-marble table. There should be a lot of it, because Todd Niesle is away, skiing in Vermont with his brother. Is there a letter postmarked Milwaukee? Just curious.

  Proceed through the foyer and into the living room. In this room, we can see the influence of early Michelle. Notice how Michelle seems to like making bold statements with splashes of color, especially in upholstery. You can tell by the excess of passementerie on the throw pillows what an incorrigible bitch Michelle is. If you care to pause to look at some of the art and other knickknacks, simply press the red button on your Acoustiguide. We will continue at the medicine cabinet in the bathroom off the master bedroom.

  To reach the master bedroom, you must traverse the cavernous room on your left. The sole function of that room is to provide a way to the next room. It doesn’t seem fair that Todd Niesle pays only eleven hundred dollars a month for this spacious two-bedroom with a dining room, when I, Debby, happen to know that his income far exceeds the maximum allowed for a tenant in a rent-stabilized apartment. Furthermore, I, Debby, have heard Todd Niesle say on more than one occasion, “There’s tons more closet space here than I know what to do with.” And yet I, Debby, was never offered more than half a drawer, and even that humiliating amount I had to demand. The phone number for the Rent Info Hotline is 718-7
39-6400 (ask for Eligibility Violations).

  Examine the objets in the master bedroom. Here is the famous jar of pennies and the original green shag rug from Todd Niesle’s college days. Pay close attention to the black lace brassiere in the bottom drawer of Todd Niesle’s bureau. The brassiere (36D) is not typical of the underwear of Todd Niesle. Or of mine (32B). You may be wondering what the brassiere is doing in this exhibit of the World of Todd Niesle and His Stuff. As Todd Niesle’s quondam girlfriend, I, Debby, am wondering this, too.

  Now we’re in the bathroom. Actually, don’t bother looking through the medicine cabinet. Todd Niesle must have taken all of the incriminating artifacts with him to Vermont.

  Our next stop is the kitchen. Open the refrigerator. The carton of milk dates from the twelfth century A.D. See the Krups espresso maker? I, Debby, gave him that. It cost $249, not including tax. You know what his gift to me, Debby, for my birthday was? A colander. You will observe that Todd Niesle’s apartment has no gift shop. Correction: You are standing in the gift shop. Take the espresso maker.

  As you help yourself to the professional-grade milk frother that I, Debby, also gave to Todd Niesle, be careful not to step on the creaky floorboard, as it will alert the neighbor downstairs, who also has it in for me. She’s insane. Besides, I, Debby, wouldn’t even know how to poison a dog.