What Is This Thing Called Love?

by Gene Wilder

  Boris was now forty-eight years old and was feeling terribly lonely, although he would never admit such a thing to anyone, because it might be taken as a sign of weakness.

  Most of the wedding guests were friends of the bride and groom. Boris invited the few friends he had, but—truth to tell—he wasn’t a very popular or gregarious man. Of course people patted him on the back and belched out, “Congratulations Boris,” but no one wanted to actually sit down and talk with him; they only spoke as they passed him on their way to the bar or the buffet table, where they drank schnapps or beer and ate chopped liver sandwiches and strudel. The charge for food and drink was three dollars and fifty cents per guest.

  His new son-in-law, Robert Frost, was not, strictly speaking, an Orthodox Jew, but Boris forgave him for that, eventually. Robert had fought in the war against Hitler and was wounded liberating the town of Rennes, France, and Boris respected him for that. Robert Frost converted to Judaism when he knew he wanted to marry Becky.

  As Boris sipped a glass of Blatz beer, lost in memories of his own wedding as he imagined how gracefully he used to glide and twirl his beautiful wife across the floor and how nervous she was at their first kiss that night, an attractive woman walked up silently and sat down beside him.

  The woman was in her early forties. She had a soft face and penetrating light blue eyes that had seen both suffering and joy. Her brown and red hair was shot through with streaks of gray. She didn’t wear makeup except for the faintest glow of rose on her lips. The woman just sat and watched Boris, without moving or making a sound. When he finally became aware of her presence, he turned and looked at her.

  “My name is Olivia Weldon,” she said in a soft voice. “I want to congratulate you on this lovely occasion.”

  Boris stared her, silently questioning the audacity of this intruder who interrupted his dancing. He answered in his usual off handed manner.

  “Thank you,” he said, and quickly turned away.

  Olivia Weldon punched him playfully in the shoulder.

  “You can’t get off that easily, Mr. Bad Enough,” she said with a beatific smile. “I’ve heard about your crude manner and I’m not put off by it. I can see that your heart is filled with love, and also lots of pain tonight.”

  Boris let out an “oy!” and then said, “Are you one of these cockamamie psychics who came here to make money off my guests by telling fortunes? You’re wasting your time if you think—”

  Olivia took Boris’s hand and held it gently. “I really just wanted to meet you, Boris.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I found you very attractive,” she said.

  “What the hell do you mean, ‘found’ me? . . . You mean, you ‘find’ me attractive? If you do, you’re a meshugana. I’m a big hulk who’s twenty-five pounds overweight and balding and who isn’t interested in women anymore, so pick on some other schlemiel.”

  “No. I mean I ‘found’ you attractive, Boris . . . after I read one of your poems.”

  “I only wrote one poem in my life and you couldn’t possibly have read it,” Boris shouted.

  “But I did,” Olivia answered quietly.

  “Oh, yes? What’s the name of my beautiful poem?”

  “ ‘Saying Goodbye,’ ” she answered.

  Boris’ face froze with his mouth half open. He kept staring at Olivia Weldon as if she might be a figment of his imagination.

  “When I said I found you attractive, Boris, I meant your heart. Although I also think you’re still a handsome man, despite your gruff manner and those twenty-five pounds, which is why you always wear an overcoat.”

  “What the hell are you talking about, ‘always wear an overcoat?’ I only go out maybe twice a week,” Boris proclaimed with a vengeance.

  “I think you also wear it inside your house,” Olivia rebutted softly.

  “AND WHY WOULD I WEAR AN OVERCOAT INSIDE MY OWN HOUSE, MADAM FREUD?”

  “To hide your nakedness,” Olivia answered sweetly.

  “What’s your name again?” Boris asked after a frustrated pause.

  “Olivia. But some people call me sweetheart.”

  “Okay, sweetheart—I gave that poem to my almost son-in-law over seven months ago, after he showed me a story he had written. Why in God’s name would he give it to you?”

  “I was his teacher,” Olivia answered.

  “Teacher of what—meshuganism?”

  “No, I’m a teacher of American literature and poetry. I teach a night class at Marquette University.”

  There was a long pause while Boris pondered his next move.

  “Listen to me—sweetheart—I’m not a poet. I don’t want to be a poet. So why in the world would Robert give you some sentimental, schlocky poem I gave him?”

  “Your poem isn’t sentimental, Boris. Sentimental just means unearned emotion, and your emotion was certainly earned, because your heart was bleeding after your wife died. And it isn’t schlocky, either—if there is such a word—it’s actually quite beautiful.”

  Two tears managed to sneak out of Boris’s eyes without permission, but he quickly slapped them away.

  “One night in class we were talking about free verse,” Olivia said quickly, to cover his embarrassment, “and Robert thought your poem was a perfect example.”

  “What the hell does ‘free verse’ mean—that you don‘t pay for it?” Boris asked.

  “Sort of,” Olivia responded. “It’s a little like playing tennis without a net.”

  “JEWS DON’T PLAY TENNIS!” Boris declared, resorting to his roaring mode again.

  “Well, you did in your poem, Boris. You wrote without worrying about the rules—just spoke from your heart.”

  Boris stared at his adversary. Knight to queen’s pawn, he thought, and then spoke carefully with his idea of a sweet voice.

  “How do you know so much about bleeding hearts—if you don’t mind my asking? Have you ever been married, sweetheart?”

  Now it was Olivia who sat silently. Her eyes stared at the folds in her light blue and lavender dress for half a minute. Then she looked up at Boris.

  “I was about to be married for life, several years ago,” she answered.

  “Who was the lucky guy?” Boris asked with a smirk.

  “Jesus.”

  Now Boris was on shaky ground and he knew it. He decided to play it carefully. “What was the fellow’s last name?”

  “Christ.”

  “Is this a joke?”

  “No, Boris. No joke. I was a nun who changed her mind.”

  “When was this?” Boris asked almost politely.

  “Fifteen years ago.”

  “What, did you get into a fight or something?” Boris asked.

  “Not with Jesus,” she said with a little laugh. “It was with someone else. I was sent to live in Newark, New Jersey, to help the homeless and hungry. I loved what I was doing and I worked my ass off—oh, don’t looked so shocked, Boris—but my mother superior’s way of helping people was archaic. I knew I could do much more good if I had a little freedom to use my brain. But she never asked me to do something—she demanded that I do it. After seven years—shortly before taking my final vows—I rebelled from her insistence on idiotic obedience and I left.”

  Boris’ demeanor softened considerably. “You couldn’t have been very old,” he said.

  “I was twenty-six and still a virgin,” she said with a smile.

  “Oy,” Boris sighed. “Now I’m going to listen to a nun telling me about her sex life.”

  “You don’t have to. But it might do you some good. Most of my experiences were with Jewish men.”

  “Why would a nice Catholic woman like you—who also happened to be a nun for a while—ever want to go out with a Jew?”

  “Because I’m Jewish,” Olivia said.

  “Oy gevalt! Now what the hell is that supposed to mean, if you’ll pardon my language, sweetheart?”

  “My mother was Jewish and my father was Catholic.”

  �
��Are you making a joke?” Boris asked, suspecting a trap.

  “No. If your mother is Jewish, you’re Jewish. You know that.”

  As Boris wiped the perspiration from his forehead, Becky rushed up breathlessly and threw her arms around him.

  “I’m going to our room upstairs to change into my honeymoon outfit, Daddy. And then we’re going to sneak out quietly. I just wanted to say good-bye and to tell you how happy I am . . . and that I love you.”

  Becky ran off. Robert Frost, who was surrounded by his friends, waved from the dance floor, touched his lips, and threw Boris an imaginary kiss.

  Boris got up, waved back, and then sat down again, not quite sure anymore of what to do with his life. Olivia sat beside him and held his hand.

  “What’s happening all of a sudden?” Boris asked as he looked at Olivia. “I don’t even know why you’re here . . . and don’t tell me you’re an angel or something like that. I don’t want to hear that kind of stuff.”

  “I’m not an angel, Boris. I promise you.”

  “What’s your name again?”

  “Olivia.”

  “That’s right. I remember. Your friends call you sweetheart.”

  “Yes.”

  “By any chance . . . do you play chess?”

  “No, I don’t. I’m sorry.”

  “That’s all right. I’ll teach you.”

  “How about a kiss, Boris?”

  Boris stared into Olivia’s beautiful light blue eyes, then slowly and gently lifted her out of her chair and kissed her. They shared a very long kiss as passion began to stir in Boris’s body once again. When they finally parted, Olivia said, “Would you like to dance?”

  “I don’t remember how, sweetheart.”

  “That’s all right. I’ll teach you.”

  Olivia took Boris’s hand and led him onto the dance floor as the band played “It Had to Be You.”

  The Hollywood Producer

  Sonny and Buddy were having dinner at the newest and most chic singles club in Los Angeles, one of those high-tech places that are so packed every night that you have to make a reservation three to four weeks in advance and then you usually find out that it had to close after one year.

  “What’re you staring at, Buddy?”

  “See that honey over there?” Buddy asked.

  “Where?”

  “Sitting on that bar stool. The cute one with the fake blond hair.”

  “So . . . ?” Sonny asked after spotting her. “You wanna make a play for her?”

  “No, she wouldn’t give me the time of day.”

  “Don’t be so sure. You can’t always be right all the time, Buddy. How about if I invite her over to have a drink with us?”

  “No, she’ll take one look at me and laugh,” Buddy said.

  “And then she’ll say she’s waiting for her boyfriend, who happens to be a little late tonight.”

  “How the hell do you know all this?” Sonny asked.

  “Guess!” Buddy said as he took a sip of his Absolut.

  “I know what’s wrong with you, Buddy.”

  “Oh yeah, Dr. Einstein—what’s wrong with me?”

  “You’ve got a female inferiority complex about girls.”

  “Yeah, that’s right! You should open an office and hang up a shingle.”

  “All right, smart aleck—supposing you’re wrong this time. At least let me ask her—what’ve you got to lose?”

  “My dignity, my self-respect, my night’s sleep, my confidence with business deals . . . and my appetite for the steak I just ordered.”

  Sonny took a long sip of his Brandy Alexander, trying to figure out the best psychological approach for handling Buddy.

  “Okay,” Sonny said. “I think you’re all wet and I’m willing to pay for your dinner tonight if I’m wrong. Is that a deal?”

  “It’s your nickel, start talking,” Buddy answered, using one of his favorite lines from a movie he saw when he was nine years old.

  Sonny walked over to the peroxide blond while Buddy watched. After a few seconds, the blond lady turned to look at Buddy, smiled sweetly, and waved. After she and Sonny talked for a few more seconds, Sonny came back, sat down, and took a slow sip of his drink.

  “So?” Buddy asked. “Got any great news to share with your pal?”

  Sonny hesitated and finally said, “You win.”

  “Oh, really? What a shock! What’d she say?”

  “Well . . . she said she’d love to any other time . . . she really did . . . but she’s waiting for her boyfriend, who happens to be a little late tonight.”

  “Gosh, what a surprise,” Buddy said.

  Sonny put his drink down.

  “You’re my best friend, Buddy. How come I can’t see what’s wrong with you?”

  “ ’Cause you’re not a girl,” Buddy answered.

  “Apart from that—and the fact that you’re nuts—what else is so wrong with you that I can’t see it?” Sonny asked.

  “I’m short, I’m overweight for a little squirt, I still have leftover eczema scars on my otherwise beautiful soft face—and I’m losing my hair in the front.”

  Sonny sat quietly for half a minute.

  “Well, I’ll tell ya something, Buddy. You can’t grow taller and you can’t change your hair genes, BUT—you can get some platform shoes and start losing weight instead of eating steak and French fries. And you can join a health club and exercise with a trainer and get yourself in shape instead of sitting here talking about why girls don’t go for you.”

  “I plan on doing all that stuff, and more,” Buddy said.

  “This was going to be my last night to binge until you spoiled it by playing Dr. Freud.”

  “Are you lying to me?” Sonny asked.

  “I don’t lie . . . except to myself sometimes.”

  “Well, tell me—what’re you going to do that’s even more than what I said you should do?” Sonny asked.

  “Hair transplants.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Sonny asked.

  “HAIR! I’m talking about HAIR, Sonny. You go to the doctor’s office, they give you some injections, they take out some hair from the back of your head—where I’ve got bushels—and they plant it in the front of your head. It’s like gardening.”

  “Does it work?”

  “You think I’d do it otherwise?”

  “Does it hurt?”

  “Not much. They make you go bye-bye for a little while, wrap up your head and send you home. Then you wait for three months and, bingo—hair starts popping up like string beans.”

  “You know I love you, Buddy—but may I make a tiny suggestion?” Sonny asked.

  “Be my guest.”

  “Do the hair thing if you want to, but do it last! When a cute girl is sitting at the bar and looks at you, do you think she says, ‘Oh, too bad he doesn’t have enough hair in the front of his head.’ No! She says, ‘Look at that fatty boom boom over there. If he lost twenty or thirty pounds, he’d be kinda cute.’ ”

  “I told you I’m gonna do all that stuff, Sonny. But I want to do the hair thing first.”

  “Why?” Sonny asked.

  “Because when I look in the mirror, I don’t see the fat around my stomach, I don’t see how tall or short I am, I just see my forehead growing higher and higher. Do you get it?”

  “Buddy, I can’t wait till three months from now when Clark Gable suddenly appears.”

  One month later, the swelling in Buddy’s head had disappeared and he looked fine again, except that his weight had gone up instead of down. When he and Sonny were having lunch at Junior’s delicatessen and Buddy ordered pastrami on rye with coleslaw and Russian dressing, Sonny shook his head in disbelief.

  “May I ask why you’re ordering the most fattening thing on the menu except for my corned beef sandwich?”

  “Business is bad, Sonny. I think I’m gonna have to get out of orange groves and go into show business.”

  “Have you gone south of the border? Si
nce when did you learn how to act?”

  “Not acting, schmuck—producing! You don’t have to know that much to be a producer, you just have to find a good script and sell it. And I know movies as good as anyone—even better than most producers.”

  “What about the health club and losing all the weight and transforming your body into Clark Gable’s?”

  “Sonny, can you pat your head and rub your tummy at the same time?”

  “What the hell has rubbing my tummy got to do with being a producer?”

  “Because I can’t work out and lose weight and run around a track a dozen times until I know I’ve got some business where I can make a killing.”

  “Why do you have to make a killing? Why can’t you just make enough money to enjoy yourself and live happily ever after, like Snow White?”

  “Because that’s how you keep score.”

  “WHO’S KEEPING SCORE?” Sonny asked, getting fired up.

  “THEY are! Everyone I know.”

  The waiter came with their sandwiches and cream sodas and Sonny sat there, watching Buddy. He remembered sitting beside Buddy’s bed in the hospital when Buddy had his bypass operation, and the medical smells and the nurses who kept coming in to check Buddy’s temperature and blood pressure. Sonny decided he’d better not get him too excited.

  “So, have you read any good scripts lately?” Sonny asked as he picked up his sandwich and took a bite.

  “One or two possibilities. But I need to work with the authors a little bit . . . get them on the right track,” Buddy answered.

  “Good. Good.” Sonny said.

  Spring had sprung, and so had Buddy’s transplants. His forehead was now full with thick brown, curly hair, but his pants were too tight and had to be let out an inch around the waist.

  One evening, when Sonny was out of town visiting his daughter in Milwaukee, Buddy decided to go to that restaurant where he had seen the peroxide blond, not expecting to find her, of course, but maybe some other cutie to test out his new appearance.

  The restaurant was full but not packed the way it used to be, and the crowd seemed a little different now, more dressed up and slightly older.

  Buddy sat at one of the small tables for two. It faced the bar and he could watch the people and the food pass back and forth in front of him as he sipped his Absolut.