Things I've Learned From Women Who've Dumped Me

by Ben Karlin

Hey! Can’t wait for tonight. I might have to stay just a few minutes late at work—the boss wants to have a New Year’s toast at the end of the day—but I’ll be there within an hour, okay?

  ME

  Good!

  DECEMBER 31 — 6:45 p.m.

  DEBRA

  Hi! Don’t kill me! I’m literally leaving the office right now. I hope you have the champagne on ice! Happy almost New Year!

  ME

  No problem! See you in a bit.

  I put on the TV. Times Square heating up.

  DECEMBER 31 — 7:30 p.m.

  Staring at TV. Blood beginning to boil.

  ME

  Hey? Where are you? I’m at home waiting.

  DECEMBER 31 — 7:40 p.m.

  ME

  It’s David. Where are you? Call me.

  DECEMBER 31 — 7:58 p.m.

  ME

  Okay, I don’t know where you are. I’m gonna go to my friend Marisa’s party. But I have my cell, so call me. Please.

  DECEMBER 31 — 9:00 p.m.

  At Marisa’s sitting on the coats, on the bed.

  ME

  Hey, I hope you’re okay. I’m at Marisa’s. You have the address but I also texted it to you . . . along with the number for the land line. Call me!

  DECEMBER 31 — 9:45 p.m.

  ME

  Where the fuck are you?

  DECEMBER 31 — 11:00 p.m.

  ME

  Fuck you, Debra.

  DECEMBER 31 — 11:59 p.m.

  ME

  Well I don’t know where you are but it’s about ten seconds until the New Year, and I hope you’re having fun. 5-4-3-2-1 and hey! Suck my cock, bitch! Good-bye.

  JANUARY 1 — 2:38 a.m.

  Outside on the street. No cabs. So cold I take a piss and it freezes upon hitting the street sign.

  DEBRA

  Hello???

  ME

  Hey.

  DEBRA

  David Wain! Hey! David Wain! Where have you been all night? I’ve been meaning to call you!

  She sounds drunk, at least.

  ME

  Have you?

  DEBRA

  I had the most insane night. I think I’m on ’shrooms.

  ME

  Where are you now?

  DEBRA

  Walking my dog. Gotta go to sleep.

  ME

  You blew me off!

  DEBRA

  No, no . . . I was with these amazing people. You should have been there. We were dancing at this surreal party. Call me tomorrow?

  JANUARY 9 — 3:00 p.m.

  At home. Surfing the net (not porn). Phone rings.

  ME

  Hello?

  DEBRA

  Hey, it’s Debra, I just knocked on your door. but you’re not home.

  ME

  Actually I am home, and I heard you knocking. And I saw you through the peephole.

  DEBRA

  I came over to apologize for New Year’s. Will you let me in?

  ME

  Sure. Leave me a message and let me know when you want to come in.

  DEBRA

  I’m still in your hallway, just let me in.

  ME

  Cool. Keep me posted, let me know.

  DEBRA

  Open the door!

  ME

  Text me!

  THE END

  Lesson#5

  The Heart Is a Choking Hazard

  by Stephen Colbert

  Author’s note: In the service of this anthology, I was happy to write the following story. However, before I turned it in, I thought it best to hand it over to my wife to make sure I didn’t reveal anything too personal, say anything defamatory, or in any way appear to be holding a candle for my former flame. As a result, the story has been mildly redacted, but the heart of it is, I believe, untouched.

  When I was living in XXXXXXXX I had a girlfriend named XXXXX. I forget if it had an e at the end. I don’t think so. I like the name XXXXX with an e. And I XXXXXX her. But when I try to think of how her name was spelled, there is a little disappointed ghost sitting in the place where that e would be.

  XXXXX and I met just after college waiting tables at XXXXXXXX in XXXXXXXX XXXXXXXX. She was small and blonde and very XXXXX and laughed at my Elvis Costello jokes.

  In a lot of ways she was good to me. She got me to stop playing that game where you XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX and stab a XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX as fast as you can, changing the order of XXXXXXXX so you don’t get too competent at any one pattern. I guess I owe her one for that. Then again, she may have given me XXXXXXXXXX. The tests were inconclusive.

  We dated for three and a half years, the last three of which she didn’t really want me to XXXXXXXXXXX. I never got a real reason for that. Once she said XXXXXXXX to me was like XXXXXXXXX. Another time she said my XXXXXX was too XXXXX. I’d like to think one of those answers was a lie.

  After three years, she gave me The Ultimatum: either we get married or we break up. I said, “ XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX, XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX or do you know some other way to have children?”

  XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXxXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX.

  When I got back from the trip, XXXXX was waiting in her apartment with champagne—a XXXXXing split of champagne, I might add—I guess she didn’t want me getting drunk. She toasted our time together and then broke up with me.

  I XXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX.”

  She disagreed and asked me to move my stuff out that night.

  Unfortunately, XXXXX and I worked at the same restaurant. I was a lunch waiter, and she worked the dinner shift as a XXXXXXXX. (I think she was XXXXXXXX with the head XXXXXX, but that is based completely on hearsay, and I hope XXXXXXXX edits that out. But if it is true, and that humorless XXXXXXXXX, XXXXXXXXX did XXXXXXXX another man or men at the same time I was waiting like a monk for her to feel like XXXXXXXX, it explains a lot. It would certainly explain how she got XXXXXXXX when I was on the road half the goddamn year and could count on one hand the number of times we XXXXXXXX. XXXX, I could XXXXXXXXX!)

  Anyway, as a waiter, my one big meal of the day was after work, and by the time my employee pasta would be ready, she’d waltz in for the night shift, looking XXXXXXXXX and XXXXXXXX, and I just wouldn’t feel like eating anymore.

  I lost fifty pounds in three months.

  In those early days after she broke up with me, I would go for a long run every night before bed to try to kill my brain until dawn. One night before my medicinal jog, a friend called to ask if I wanted to meet up for a beer. He was finishing a late shift at a chophouse and suggested we meet at his apartment and go out from there.

  Even though I knew that he lived right behind XXXXX’s apartment, I agreed. Maybe XXXXXXXX. I’m not sure. But I ran over. (It was a short run. I had moved into her neighborhood after we broke up.)

  When I arrived he wasn’t home yet. And because there were no chairs on his porch, I sat down on the decking and waited with my back against the door. From that low position, I stared out through the bars of his railing at the dark windows of XXXXX’s apartment just ten yards away, XXXXXXXX she would come home soon, and I could XXXXX her from my hidden perch. Maybe I would XXXXXXX XXXXX. Maybe not.

  Her lights came on. I could see straight into her kitchen as she walked in with a man (I think it was XXXXXXXX) and lead him by the hand XXXXXXXX. The lights went off again.

  XXXXXXXX minutes later, the living room lights come on, and she came out of the XXXXXXXX wearing only XXXXXXXX XXXXXXXX. She got a glass of water and returned to the XXXXXXXXXX, taking a small sip along the way, no doubt to XXXXXXXX the XXXXXXX her XXXXXX.

  The light went out again. They stayed out for the entire XXXXXX XXXXX that I sat there XXXXXXXX behind the bars of the balcony, watching the darkened windows.

  I’ve never come close to drowning, but XXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXX.

  XXXXXXXX XXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXX
XXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXmesquite smoker XXXXXXXX XXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

  XXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

  XXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

  XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

  XXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXX on the floor of her grandfather’s cabin XXXXXXXXXXX

  XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

  XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXX?!!!!! XXXXXXXX XXXXXXXX XXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX behind the Roman emperor on a chain.

  Instead, I just sat there.

  My friend never arrived, and I later learned that he XXXXXXX XXXXXXXX. Since then, he’s become a committed Christian.

  I was still in my running shorts, and the night was turning cold, so I finally pulled myself up and walked down XXXXXX Avenue toward my apartment. Halfway home, I passed a storefront with the neon sign PALMS READ in the window. I walked in and a middle-aged XXXXXXXX woman got up from her couch where she was watching XXXXXXXXX-speaking TV. She led me to a small room down a hall and sat down across from me at a card table. She asked for XXXXXXXXXX, and I gave it to her.

  She smoothed my fingers out on the table soothingly. After a quick glance at my palm, she looked up and said tentatively, “You are a XXXXXXXX?” I wasn’t, but I didn’t want to throw her off her game this early in the prophecy, so I said she was right. She smiled and nodded and soothed my hand again. With more confidence now, she said that she could see that I was XXXXXXXX XXXXXXXX but that I would soon XXXXXXXXXXXX and in the years to come XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX.

  She was right, on all three counts. I’ve never forgotten her words, although I’ve often XXXXXX I could forget XXXXXXXX XXXXXXXX. It’s been seventeen years, and I’ve never XXXXX XXXXXXXX and I don’t think I XXXXXXXX XXXX.

  I’d like to thank my beautiful wife, XXXXX, for editing this remembrance. I’d also like to thank XXXX for XXXXXXXX me while she did. I have often heard that you never XXXXXXXX the people you XXXXXXXX. I don’t know if that’s true. I do know that I’ll never XXXXXXXXXXXX that XXXXXXXXXX, and that’s XXXXX enough.

  Lesson#6

  Don’t Come on Your Cat

  by Neal Pollack

  In the summer of 1995, I learned my roommate was leaving town. I decided to get my own apartment, and I needed a companion, which, in those bachelor days, meant a cat. Soon enough, I found one. Gabby was an ordinary-looking gray tabby, though her mother, attacked by a black tom in an alley rape, had apparently been Siamese. After spending a few minutes with her litter, I determined Gabby was by far the most amusing.

  My first few years with Gabby were a magical textbook of owner-pet symbiosis. There was always another cat around; for a few months, Gabby shared space with my roommate’s cat, Sylvie, a dyspeptic, smelly Siamese who liked no one but her owner and, to everyone’s surprise, Gabby. Then I acquired Zimmy, a sorrowful creature with beautiful fur who liked to suck on her own tail. The two of them became close friends. Gabby was never jealous of the women who, on rare occasions, I brought home. She charmed all she surveyed; she was one of those cats who could be called, in that most backhanded of pet compliments, “like a dog.” I concluded that she was the perfect pet, that she, in fact, had magical powers.

  In 1998, I moved in with Regina, the woman who I eventually married. She had two cats of her own, both extremely needy, enormous alpha males. One of those, Growltigger, was an obese sweetheart with a congenital heart defect. He had the terrible habit of excreting a foul-smelling viscous white liquid from his anal glands whenever he became excited, a process that Regina charmingly called “assing,” as in, “Eww. Growltigger just assed in my hair.”

  Poor Zimmy shrank and metaphorically died in the face of Regina’s monsters, but Gabby somehow struck a truce, even curling up in their fat folds on especially cold Chicago days. At the same time, though, Gabby became increasingly attached to me, probably for protection. She developed a habit of draping herself around my shoulders as I wrote at my desk.

  One day, Regina said, “Why is Gabby licking your ear?”

  “Really?” I said. “I didn’t even notice.”

  “You and that cat,” she said. “She’s in love with you. It’s unnatural.”

  “Don’t be silly,” I said. “She’s just my wittle pet, aren’t you, Gabby wabby?” And we nuzzled, to Regina’s disgust.

  In the fall of 2000, Regina and I moved to Philadelphia, for reasons I still don’t quite understand. The incident I’m about to describe took place in our Philadelphia bedroom, illumined by the full moon shining through our skylight.

  I was having a sexy dream, the content of which I don’t quite recall. But I do remember feeling very warm and full and murmuring “Ohhhh,” if not out loud, then at least in my mind. Then came release, and a gradual satisfied emerging into consciousness.

  Mmmm, I thought to myself.

  Wait.

  What was that between my legs?

  No.

  Please, no.

  I looked under the covers. There, at my crotch, was Gabby. Oh, sweet God, no! I pulled her out. Gabby’s fur was completely slathered with my semen.

  My brain filled with equal parts disgust, sadness, and panic. Gabby protested grandly as I ripped her out of the bed by her underside to keep her from touching the covers. I held her in front of me at a careful distance, went into the bathroom, put her on the sink, and locked the door.

  Out came a washcloth and soap. I turned on the faucet and started scrubbing. Usually, I’m proud of the fact that I’m able to come buckets. But it was making this job much more difficult.

  After a few minutes, Regina knocked on the door.

  “What are you doing in there?” she said.

  Gabby mewed in protest.

  “Is Gabby in there with you?”

  I was a twelve-year-old caught masturbating.

  “Go away!” I said.

  “Neal,” she said. “Open this door right now.”

  I could no longer live in my private hell, so I let her in.

  “What’s going on in here?” she said.

  My sobbing began quickly and intensely.

  “I . . . I . . . I came on Gabby!”

  “You what?”

  “She was between my legs, and I had a wet dream!”

  Then Regina laughed, not just giggling, either, and not kindly. But it wasn’t funny to me. Not at all.

  That was the night I became a dog person.

  The years drifted by, as years do. We got a Boston terrier, who we named Hercules. He freaked Zimmy out and she started peeing on the couch. Then Regina got pregnant, and we realized poor Zimmy wouldn’t be able to handle a baby. We moved to Austin, Texas, and gave her up for adoption to a little girl who, we hope, let her sit on a pillow in the window for the rest of her years.

  Gabby got along great with the dog and with the baby. She was still up in my face all the time, wanting to snuggle, to get on my shoulders, to lick my ears. I was more likely to fling her off than not, saying terribly abusive stuff like “Leave me alone, you little bitch.” She loved me anyway, and I felt guilty, and also somehow blamed her for instigating the whole mess.

  We moved the animals across a thousand miles again, this time to Los Angeles, and Gabby kept on trucking. In fact, she seemed happier than ever. This may have been because we finally, after years of begging on her part, let Gabby go outside. Did it occur to us that we were now living in the second-largest city in the country, and that it might be dangerous to the cat? Apparently not.

  One Monday in November, around 6:30 p.m., I went outside to move the car from the street into the driveway. When I was done, I saw a cat lying on her side, on the lawn. I walked closer.

  It was Gabby. She wasn’t moving.

  “Gabby?” I said. Then, I said, louder, “GABBY?”

  As I knelt beside the cat, Regina flung open the door.
<
br />   “What’s wrong with Gabby?” she said.

  “She’s dead,” I said.

  Regina ran outside and felt for a heartbeat.

  “Oh my God, Neal! She is dead!”

  Our son Elijah, four years old now, ran outside, screaming, “Gabby’s dead! Gabby’s dead! Oh, no! Gabby’s dead!”

  We looked at the body. There didn’t appear to be any major injuries. A thin trickle of blood had leaked from her mouth, and she’d urinated on the spot where she’d passed.

  “No,” I said.

  At that moment, an extremely tattooed man came walking up our driveway, heading toward the house behind us. I noticed that his earlobes had been elongated. Black discs hung down from both of them. With him was a woman carrying a long-haired little boy. They were going to visit our neighbors.

  “How’s it going?” he said.

  “Not so good,” I said. “Our cat just died.”

  “WHAT?” he said.

  He rushed to Gabby’s side and felt her.

  “Oh, yeah,” he said.

  He placed a hand on my chest and gazed at me with deep sincerity. It wasn’t creepy at all, but because I’m not used to deep sincerity, I thought it was at the time.

  “She’s a blessing to you,” he said, “and she’s in a better place now.”

  “We lost a cat a year ago,” said the woman. “We’d just moved to Florida and she was our guiding spirit.”

  They were weird, but also very kind.

  “I had her since 1995,” I said. “I’ve known her, or knew her, longer than my wife.”

  “Cats are sent here to protect us from evil,” he said.

  I wanted to reply, “I don’t know about that,” but I wasn’t in the mood to get into a theological argument with a helpful hippie. Instead, Regina said, “I think she was hit by a car.”