Peg resumed her work on the current arrays, making them beautiful even though they’d be trashed just as the buds started to flower. Peg couldn’t help drawing the comparison to the boyfriends who’d thrown her away just as she was hitting her prime, and then replacing her with bubble blonde hourglass-shaped topiaries.
Back in her apartment after work, Peg’s eyes and thoughts were drawn to the dossier on the night table. The pink pages screamed “Read me and weep.” It’d been two days since Stacy Temple handed the hot sheets to Peg. She would read them tonight, by gum. Nothing would stop her. She’d face her fears, and her past.
But first, Peg stripped, re-dressed in running clothes. While lacing her New Balances tight, she asked herself, “After two days of putting it off, what’s one more hour?” She left her apartment, and hit the ground running.
Or jogging, if one wanted to get technical about it. Peg’s pace was in the eleven-to twelve-minute mile range. She could do ten when she was desperate for a distraction, like right now (more pain, less brain). Her legs churned relentlessly as she tooled across Canal Street toward the Hudson River Park.
A man ran up behind her. She could hear him breathing before she saw him. He whizzed past her in the New York version of “eat my dust” (or “suck my soot”). Usually, Peg didn’t care about show-offism. For her, running wasn’t a race. It was a raison. But today, she felt the blood-rush of disdain, and sent knives with her eyes into Speedy’s ass.
Face red, knees aching, muscles crying, Peg pounded along the tulip path, toward Chelsea Piers and the two-mile mark, looking across the Hudson River at New Jersey. She started to loosen up, emotionally, too, as if logging miles justified her consumption of oxygen, as if physical exertion were the way to pay rent for being alive.
A female jogger ran toward her. She was huffing and puffing, way out of shape. They acknowledged each other as they ran by, not smiling exactly, just a half second of eye contact. Peg wondered if Huff Puff was freshly out of a relationship. Peg had a tendency to slack off on the thrice-weekly run when in the early stages of a new love. When the relationship ended, she’d be right back out here, burning off her sexual frustration, one step at a time. Peg appreciated the irony of it: She was in excellent shape when she had no one to admire her freakishly overdeveloped calf muscles. Peg admired them herself, standing with her back to a full-length mirror, on her tiptoes to make the muscles pop. She would think, I don’t have love, but at least I have these.
A tiny dog now, on a leash, running alongside an older man on Rollerblades. As he rolled by, his eyes locked on the movement under Peg’s sports bra. Fact is, no amount of Lycra in the world would keep her size 36Bs in place. She had bounce. And, often, nipple burn. Peg fixed Band-Aids over her nipples for long runs. Peg flashed back to her longest run, two summers ago, on vacation with Bart in the tiny town of Manshire, Vermont (population 2,367). She’d gone thirteen miles, a half marathon. It took two-and-a-half hours. All that chaffing caused the band of her sports bra to cut horizontal, long gashes on the underside of her breasts. When she’d limped back to the B&B, she found Bart on a hammock under a pine tree, a beer resting on his belly.
He’d asked, “Was it the thrill of victory, or the agony of defeat?”
Peg said, “The agony of victory.” Along with the sports bra injury, her legs were shot. She was sunburned and dehydrated.
Bart, who avoided exercise like employment, said, “You need to figure out what you’re running from, Peg.”
“I’m not running from anything,” Peg said. “I think of it as, ‘What am I running toward?’ ”
Bart took a slug of beer and replied, “Toward the hospital for emergency knee surgery.”
How he loved his own jokes, Peg remembered, as she trudged up to the field house at the Chelsea Piers and turned around for the return portion of the run. The way back was always easier. She made that her mantra as she ran. Back home. Back to the dossier. Back to the men of her past, so that she might have a future.
Daniel O’Leery
Married: March 1998
Wife: Millie Walsh, vice president of development at Viacom
Children: Walter (aka Wally), eighteen months
Address/phone: 322 East 19th Street; 212-555-7896
Profession: Voice of Larry the Lemming, Stumpy the Weasel and Cyril the Sloth for animated series SandStan PottyPants on Nickelodeon Network
Peg said to herself, “A lemming, a weasel and a sloth. Perfect for Daniel.” She sat at her kitchen table, freshly showered, a towel twisted in her hair, the dossier of exes open before her. She read on.
Reason for breaking up with Peg (verbatim): “When we first started dating, I fell in love with Peg instantly. Her kindness and generosity were irresistible. But she brought out the worst in me. For one thing, she drank too much. I had to keep up with her. Consuming so much alcohol gave me unsettling psychological symptoms. I blamed myself for everything—bad weather, the stock market crash, dishes in the sink, my failure as an actor and a man. I had crying jags about a delayed pizza delivery. It was pathetic.”
Peg said, “He had to keep up with me?” For every sip of wine she had, he’d thrown back two shots of tequila. She’d never spent as much time in bars before or since her relationship with him. And the dishes in the sink were his fault, she thought.
When did you realize the relationship was over? (verbatim): “After six months, Peg started acting strangely. She’d clean the apartment, pay all the bills. She wore lingerie constantly, and developed a candle fetish. She gave me daily blow jobs; all of it, she said, to make me happy. But the more she did for me, the unhappier I felt. I sank into helplessness and depression. I think my mental paralysis made her feel superior. She was a classic enabler. Peg made it easy for me to be a failure. If I hadn’t ended the relationship, she would have ruined me. I didn’t want to break up, I had to. And I was miserable about it. I cried for a week after.”
So he told Stacy about the hummers, Peg thought, vaguely embarrassed. Every morning, before she left for work, Peg brought Daniel a cup of coffee and gave him head. And still he dumped her! Apparently, that was why he dumped her. She hadn’t realized that daily blow jobs were the cause of their undoing. Daniel had clearly had some therapy since she’d known him (to wit, “mental paralysis,” “enabler”), but not nearly enough. Soggy bastard. Good riddance. She flipped to another page in the dossier.
Ed Teller
Married: November 2000
Wife: Stacia Oslowski, a ballerina for the ABT
Children: Petra, three; Anya, one
Address/phone: 85 Mercer Street; 212-555-2453
Mere blocks away, thought Peg. A jolt of nerves up her spine, she imagined running into him on Grand Street, how awful that would be. He’d say, “You haven’t changed a bit,” while he stood there with his neat little family. Maybe that wasn’t such a flattering line after all. Maybe it was just flat.
Profession: Collage artist, on retainer with the Stan-silov Gallery, East 57th Street
Reason for breaking up with Peg: “Peg and I fell in love almost instantly. We had incredible passion. But Peg did not stimulate me intellectually. She didn’t understand my art, nor my obsession with it. As a man, I’m driven to make my mark on the world. My art is the way I can leave a trace of my existence behind when I die. Peg didn’t care about that, didn’t understand me. She tried. Probably harder than most women would have bothered to. But taking her to art shows was like escorting a kindergartner to Henry V. And having to explain everything robbed me of enriching experiences. She just didn’t get art. Very frustrating.”
True, she thought. But who would “get” why a piece of canvas pelted with raw egg and coffee grinds with the word “soap” smeared in lipstick in the corner was worth $10,000? Or why a plastic sculpture of a penis with a big smiley face and false eyelashes was considered “genius” by Art Forum magazine? She and Ed did have volcanic sex. He could go for hours, flipping her around the bed like a pancake. And he was loud. Moan
ing and grunting with each thrust like a sweaty tennis player.
When did you know the relationship was over?: “After about six months, Peg attempted to paint in oils, a still life of a magnolia tree. It was ghastly. She wanted to discuss her progress. Get tips from me on style. I was torn between honesty and compassion. I lied to her. Told her it was brilliant. I hated myself for lying, and realized that a life with Peg would always be about compromise. In turn, I started to find her every word repulsive. I had to end it. I still found her attractive. Breaking up was a sacrifice. But she no longer inspired me. Except, you know, when fucking.”
Attractive yet repulsive. Perhaps Peg should have that engraved on her tombstone. He’d wanted a relationship to inspire him to greatness, and she’d wanted an inspiring, great relationship. She could see why they were doomed. Peg remembered, in the weeks after that breakup, smashing her magnolia tree painting. That had felt good. Why hadn’t Peg picked up on Ed’s conceit? Maybe the warning bells were drowned out by the grunts and moans, screaming his own name when he came. Prick bastard. Good riddance.
She turned the page.
Harry Slolem
Married: August 2002
Wife: Suzie Levitt, stay-home mom
Children: Moe, two, twins Larry and Curly, one
He’d named his kids Moe, Larry and Curly. This Suzie must be either the most acquiescent woman on the planet, or she was severely impaired, thought Peg.
Address/phone: 543 Court Street, Brooklyn; 718-555-8512
Profession: Owner of Little Peanuts Clothing Store, 543 Court Street, Brooklyn
He worked and lived in the same building, the wife at home with three babies. Peg smiled to herself. When Harry had ended it, he said he wanted to see the world, not be tied down.
Reason for breaking up with Peg: “I loved Peg, even when I ended it. But I had to do it. She turned me into a freak. I developed a one-track mind. I used to be a contractor, and I’d pound nails and think of Peg. I’d use the power drill, and think of Peg. I’d polish wood and think of Peg. I guess it’s fair to say that our relationship was sexually based.”
Peg scoffed at that. It might have been for Harry. Peg considered him the worst lover of the bunch. He fucked with the imagination of a hammer—a ball-peen hammer. He continued:
“Peg was my first long-term girlfriend, and she taught me some stuff. It was so exciting, I started thinking about sex 24/7. She turned me into a walking hard-on. I had an erection twenty hours a day.”
So this was her error? Granted, she could see how a perpetual erection might be painful. Embarrassing. Especially on a job site, with the other guys, pounding nails, power drilling, etc.
When did you know the relationship was over?: “After about six months, I started fantasizing about every woman I saw. Making comments to women who walked by on the street. ‘Nice ass.’ ‘Shake your tits.’ ‘Suck my cock.’ I’d grab myself. I got really turned on when a woman would look at me with contempt. I started stalking girls on the subway. I’d follow them around the platform, stand too close to them on the train. I knew it was bad. I disgusted myself. And I blamed Peg. She brought out the worst in me. I had to get away from her. I started thinking about moving to Prague. But then I realized I could just break up with her instead. Three months of celibacy got my head on straight. And then I was fixed-up with my wife, who only fucks me once a week, on Saturday night. It’s much better this way.”
Peg closed the dossier. She’d had no idea that Harry was a stalker pervert. Twisted bastard. Riddance, better than good.
Okay, she analyzed. Some common themes: (1) they all fell quickly, (2) six months had been the turning point, (3) the act of kindness, generosity and interest brought out the worst in them—or they blamed her for it, regardless if she was really to blame, and (4) each was better off without her. Peg thought of Stacy’s explanation, that after they’d broken up with her, the guilt set in (blaming her for their own problems, she assumed), and the rebuilding of each man’s romantic aspirations upon the foundation of Peg’s own model of kindness, generosity and interest.
How did that work? She had to know. Having read their words, Peg did not want to speak to Ed again, and definitely not Harry. She might unleash his public masturbator tendencies. How had she missed that he was a freak? And then Peg came to common theme (5): She hadn’t realized that Ed was a prick, that Harry was a fornicating sicko, that Daniel was a loser. She hadn’t been paying much attention at all, had she? And yet, she’d given these men years of her life.
It was all so very depressing. Peg remembered one of Nina’s little pick-me-ups: When feeling blue, call someone bluer. The idea was that his or her depression will make one feel superior. Exactly what Daniel had accused her of doing. She never thought she’d felt that way before. But she might as well see if it worked. Peg flipped thought the dossier, found his number.
She dialed. One ring, two. And then, “Hello?”
Peg said, “Daniel? It’s Peg Silver.”
Upon hearing her name, Daniel said, “My God, Peg. Peg! I’m so glad you called. I hoped you would. I’m so touched to hear from you. I can’t tell you…the emotions…”
And then the big pussy started blubbering. Peg held the phone away from her ear. She couldn’t stand to listen. He might have gotten himself a wife and a job, but he still didn’t have a grip.
Peg said, “I can make a man cry in four words.”
Daniel said, “I’m sorry, Peg. I’ve had these feelings about you for so long, and I’ve never gotten to express them. The release is…too much…”
Christ, not again. New blast of sobbing. Peg hoped she hadn’t seemed as pathetic when she cried to Stacy Temple. Stacy had taken pity on her. She should do the same for Daniel. She really should.
She said, “Daniel. Pull yourself together. We broke up a million years ago. Before sliced bread, and flush toilets. When dinosaurs ruled the Earth.”
“I can’t remember the last time I cried like this,” he said.
“It was probably the last time we saw each other.”
“Hey, you’re right!” he said. “I guess hearing your voice was like pulling a trigger.”
On the gun she wished were pointed at her head. Peg decided suddenly that maybe she didn’t need to have this conversation after all. She would go back to blissful ignorance. Peg said, “Listen, I’m glad we finally reconnected. I’ve got a kettle on. The buzzer just rang. My bathtub is running over.”
“Don’t hang up!” he said. “Give me ten minutes!”
She sighed and said, “I gave you a year.”
“And what did I give you?” he asked.
She paused to think. What had he given her?
Daniel said, “I’ll tell you what I gave you: nothing. I used you up and threw you aside. And the whole time, I was conscious of what a bastard I was being.”
“I was about to say that we had fun together,” said Peg. Many of their bar nights had been howlers.
“Yeah, we did have fun,” said Daniel. “We were young and stupid. In love. We were fun. But we never fit. You must have known. You acted like you did. The morning blow jobs. Doing my dishes. Cleaning up my puke.”
“I did those things out of love,” said Peg. Had she really cleaned up his puke?
Daniel said, “You did them out of desperation. To keep our relationship going, even when we were obviously wrong for each other. It was all wrenching for me.”
“If the blow jobs were painful, your orgasms must have been excruciating,” she said.
He paused. Didn’t laugh. “I’m trying to explain myself, Peg,” he said. “Breaking up with you was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. I want you to know, I need you to know, that I did it for you.”
Echoes of Paul Tester. Peg said, “I don’t get it.” She took care of him for a year, was his personal maid, cheerleader, hand-holder. He ended it without warning, no net, and Peg was supposed to be grateful?
Daniel said, “You never would have ended it, so I had to.
You probably would have catered to me for the rest of your life. I could have let you, but the guilt got to me. I wouldn’t have cleaned up your puke, Peg. I was a jerk. Now, with the baby, I change shitty diapers. I get puked on. And I love it. I can see the appeal of taking care of someone else, the way you took care of me. I didn’t deserve you, Peg. We both knew it. But you wanted to get married so badly that you would have married me. You didn’t really want me. How could you have? After we broke up, I vowed to make myself worthy. And then I met Millie. Her influence turned me into the woman I didn’t want to marry.”
“You mean me?” asked Peg.
“Yes,” said Daniel. “I became selfless.”
“Selfless.”
“Giving,” he added. “Instead of taking.”
“And now your life is perfect.”
“Pretty much.”
“So your advice to me,” said Peg, “is to become a lesbian, because my giving, selfless style plays well with the ladies.”
“You understand!” he said.
“Thanks for the insight,” she said.
“Don’t thank me.”
“I take it back.”
“A burden has been lifted,” he said. “I am at peace.”
Peg said, “Me, too.”
“Truly?” he asked. “Have I really helped you?”
Peg thought about it and said, “More than you know.”
She hung up, genuinely at peace. Resolved. The conversation with Daniel had shown her the light. Peg wouldn’t date or be dumped by another Daniel or Ed or Harry or Paul. She wouldn’t be selfless and giving and more than these men deserved. Daniel said it explicitly: “We didn’t fit.”
New York City men would never fit. And Peg was finished with them.
Chapter 6
May 31, 2005
To: Peg Silver
From: Jack Silver, vice president, Citibank Private Bank
Enclosed: Contract on sale for 102 Grand Street, #4F
Peg, here’s your signed contract. Keep for your records. You owe me for this. I’m not supposed to pick up the phone for clients with less than a million dollars. And I’m waiving my fee, only because Mom said that if I made a penny on you, she’d make me do my own laundry for a month. A couple of details:
The Girlfriend Curse Page 4