The Last Girlfriend on Earth: And Other Love Stories

by Simon Rich

  “Darfur is a contemporary holocaust!” Otto screeched. “And if we don’t stop it, no one will!”

  He continued his diatribe, specks of spittle flying everywhere. Suddenly, though, in the middle of the word “industrial-military,” his voice trailed off.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  He didn’t respond, but I could figure it out by following his forlorn gaze. Jen was strolling across the park, holding hands with a broad-shouldered man in a cardigan. Otto squinted at the pair with rage, his hands trembling slightly at his sides. He’d been screaming for the past four hours, but this was the angriest he’d looked all day.

  “If that’s not an injustice,” he seethed, “I don’t know what is.”

  Otto could be extremely convincing. During our sophomore year, he’d persuaded me to boycott McDonald’s, even though they’d recently brought back the McRib. But no matter how hard he tried, he hadn’t been able to get Jen to date him.

  “It’s morally and ethically reprehensible,” he said, staring bitterly at Jen’s Facebook profile. “I’ve put in months of labor. How could she enter into a relationship with someone else?”

  I nodded sympathetically. It was unfair. Otto had been obsessively courting Jen since freshman orientation. He tried to sit with her at every meal. And if her table had no space, he would sit as close to her as possible and look in her direction whenever he made a loud point. He invited her personally to all of his protests. But so far, she hadn’t attended a single one. Once, on a Saturday night, I walked in on Otto weeping in the common room. He said it had to do with a situation in Kabul. But I had a feeling it had to do with Jen.

  Otto didn’t seem sad tonight, though. Just angry.

  “It’s outrageous,” he muttered through gritted teeth. “She refuses to go on a single date with me. Meanwhile, the fat cats on Wall Street just sit there, getting richer and richer.”

  I was confused.

  “What do the fat cats have to do with Jen?”

  “It’s all connected,” he said vaguely.

  He grabbed a fresh placard from a stack on his desk and started writing on it with a Sharpie.

  “What are you doing?” I asked nervously.

  “What does it look like?” he said. “I’m taking a fucking stand.”

  I passed Otto the next day on my way to Anthro 1. He was sitting on the steps of Jen’s dormitory, holding his new sign. DATE OTTO NOW, it read, in neatly printed block letters.

  “How long have you been out here?” I asked.

  “Since last night,” he said. “And I’m staying for as long as it takes.”

  I noticed an open backpack by his side, stuffed with PowerBars and what looked like a first aid kit.

  “I don’t know if this is such a good idea,” I said. “I mean, what are you going to do if it rains?”

  “I’ve got a poncho.”

  “What about if you have to go to the bathroom?”

  “I haven’t figured that out yet,” he admitted.

  “Well… don’t you think that’s a concern?”

  He paused.

  “It’s a concern,” he said.

  I looked up at Jen’s dormitory. She lived in a twenty-story high-rise at Twelfth and Broadway. I didn’t know which apartment was hers, so I couldn’t tell if she was even home.

  “I should probably go to class,” I said apologetically.

  “Go ahead,” he said. “I’ll be right here.”

  I called Otto from Bobst Library a few hours later. He only had so many PowerBars in his backpack, and I was worried about him. It took a few tries to reach him.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I was in the Porta Potti.”

  “Porta Potti? How did you get one of those?”

  “One of my volunteers called the city.”

  “Volunteers?”

  He tried to explain, but his voice was drowned out by a thundering sound.

  “Gotta go!” he cried out over the din. “Drum circle!”

  By the following morning, there were dozens of students on Jen’s steps, chanting and banging bongos.

  Whose Jen? Otto’s Jen!

  The crowd was predominantly male, but I was surprised to notice some women there as well. Otto’s cause had struck a chord with everyone.

  I tried to make my way toward him, but it was difficult to fight through the crowd and eventually I gave up. As I was leaving, a squirrelly-looking guy in a Phish T-shirt handed me a flyer.

  OCCUPY JEN’S STREET DEMANDS:

  1) Jen must sever ties with her current boyfriend and enter immediately into a long-term sexual relationship with Otto Jankaloff.

  2) She must, effective at once, begin to feel love toward him.

  3) She must become attracted to him physically.

  4) A general reduction in student loans.

  I suspected that Otto only threw in the last demand to get more people to his protest. Still, it was an impressive list. Simple, but firm.

  The first media reports were dismissive, but as the days went by, they grew increasingly sympathetic. A few celebrities had turned up on the picket line—Alec Baldwin, Yoko Ono—and it had raised the movement’s profile.

  One night, New York One devoted an entire segment to the Occupy Jen’s Street movement. I was surprised to see that the spokesman they interviewed wasn’t Otto but an earnest young editor from the Nation.

  “It’s not just about Jen,” he said. “It’s about the entire romantic system. Ninety-nine percent of men are in love with the top one percent of women. And yet they often refuse to date us. It’s a complete injustice.”

  I started to get worried; Otto’s protest was clearly gaining strength, but it seemed to be getting off message.

  I tried to talk to Otto the next morning, but it was difficult to find him. An entire tent city had been erected on Jen’s street, along with a kitchen and a makeshift stage. I recognized a few members of the Roots setting up equipment. I’d read on the Internet they were going to perform, but I was still surprised to see them.

  I found Otto in line for one of the Porta Potties.

  “How’d you get the Roots to play?” I asked.

  “They just showed up,” he said.

  Behind us, a cheer rose up from the crowd. Questlove had taken the stage.

  “This one’s for Oliver!” he said as people cheered.

  Otto didn’t seem to notice the gaffe. He was jittery from coffee and his beady eyes looked wild. I hoped, for his sake, that things would end soon. One way or another.

  By its fifth week, the movement had gone national, with sympathy protests springing up on campuses across the country. Some of the demonstrations had turned violent. At the University of Mississippi, six students were teargassed. (The incident was blamed on “poor officer training.”) At NYU, kids were skipping lectures in protest of Jen. Few professors complained; some even joined their students on the streets.

  The most dramatic moment came six weeks into the movement. Jen had been avoiding the front entrance to her dormitory for some time. But one day, the back entrance was closed for construction and she had no choice but to cross the picket line. She was with her boyfriend (who turned out to be a mild-mannered rower for the Columbia varsity crew team). The NYPD had given them six full-time security guards, and they all had their hands on their nightsticks. It was a tense moment. The officers cleared a path through the crowd as the couple made their way to the door. They were almost inside when Jen brazenly reached for her boyfriend’s hand. No one knows who started the chant, but it lasted for over an hour.

  “Shame on you! Shame on you!”

  Later that day, NPR broadcast an audio recording of the outburst. It was hard to listen to—visceral and raw.

  The protest quickly entered the mainstream. Brian Williams devoted an hour to the movement, and the other anchors followed suit. It was an election year, and before long politicians had no choice but to pay lip service to the cause.

  “There’s obviously a lot of rage right no
w,” the president said at a press conference. “A lot of rage toward Jen.”

  Ten weeks into the protest, Jen held a press conference of her own. On the advice of counsel, she’d agreed to go out with Otto, once, for coffee. It was a major victory for the movement, obviously, but Otto wasn’t satisfied. She still hadn’t budged on any of the major issues. She refused to end her relationship with her current boyfriend. And while she’d agreed to “meet up for coffee,” she had pointedly stopped short of calling it a date.

  “I think you should take it,” I told Otto the next time I saw him. His clothes were stiff with sweat and dirt and his beard looked filthier than ever. But his confidence had only intensified. At some point, he’d begun to wear a beret.

  “I’m not backing down,” he said. “Not when I’m this close.”

  A few weeks later, a blizzard hit New York, burying it in over a foot of snow. Within a couple of days, almost everyone had left the encampment on Jen’s street. The only people who remained were Otto and a few elderly Native American people, who looked like they might be homeless. One day, a few haggard men from the Industrial Workers of the World showed up. Otto was thankful for their presence at first. He was running out of followers and needed all the support he could get. But he soon found out they had started holding meetings without him. One morning, on my way to class, I saw them dismantling what remained of his encampment.

  “Stop!” Otto shrieked at them, his voice thick and phlegmy. “What are you doing?”

  “Didn’t you hear?” a grizzled organizer told him. “It’s over. We won.”

  Otto’s eyes widened.

  “Seriously? She’s going to date me?”

  The organizer shook his head.

  “We couldn’t get her to budge on that,” he said. “But she agreed to let us use her bathroom.”

  He gestured at the other union guys, who were forming a single-file line in front of Jen’s steps.

  “You want to get in line?” the organizer asked him. “We each get two minutes.”

  Otto shook his head. His eyes, I noticed, were glossy with tears. He’d lost weight during the protest and was now only slightly overweight. I put an arm around his shoulder and walked him back to his dorm. It was hard to believe it was all over.

  I finished college, went to business school, and got a job as a consultant. At some point I lost touch with Otto. I never went to a protest again.

  I still believe that change is possible. With enough hard work and organization, there’s no reason activists can’t stop genocide, achieve nuclear disarmament, eradicate poverty, or end all human wars. But when it comes to the stuff that really matters, the stuff that really counts? There’s nothing you can do.

  Dog Missed Connections

  m4w—East River Dog Run

  Saw you at the dog run yesterday morning. You were wearing a leather collar and running around in circles. I was wearing a gold collar and trying to have sex with you. At one point I managed to mount you and we sort of had sex for a couple of seconds. You shook me off, though, and ran away. I’m interested in getting to know you a little better. We obviously have chemistry and even though we just met once I really sensed a connection. I’ll be back at the dog run tomorrow morning. Hope to see you there.

  m4w… FDR Drive

  I saw you out the window of my master’s car during a traffic jam. We barked at each other for a while. I thought you made some interesting points. Would love to meet up sometime for a casual, low-key date. Maybe we could go to Central Park together and eat garbage off the ground. Open to anything.

  m4w—75th Street and Park Avenue

  Spotted you yesterday afternoon, helping a blind human cross the street. I can tell you’ve got a gentle soul and a caring heart. Would love to mount you violently from behind and have aggressive sex with your body.

  w4m—Astoria, alley behind Taco Bell

  Saw you by the Dumpster, eating a pile of what appeared to be human vomit. You seemed like someone who doesn’t take himself too seriously. Not sure if you’re male or female, but either way I’d love to smell your genitals. Let me know if you’re intrigued.

  m4w—83rd and Broadway

  Saw you a few hours ago, tied to a parking meter outside Zabar’s. You had a large cone on your head and seemed frustrated. Life’s too short for drama. I think you’re cute. Let’s meet up sometime and forget about our worries for a while. :)

  I am neutered, BTW, but no one ever complains….

  m4w—Chelsea Dog Run

  Noticed you at the Chelsea dog run last night. You were wearing a red sweater and nothing else. We sniffed each other’s genitals for a while and I was about to have sex with you when another dog came over and starting having sex with me, even though I am a male. By the time I escaped from him you were gone. It really felt like a lost opportunity. Would love to meet up sometime and continue where we left off.

  m4w—living room

  I saw you recently in my master’s house, dangling over the side of a couch. You were a long, fleshy tube with a knee in the middle and a sneaker at the end. I tried to hump you, but you kicked me away. Listen: I know you’re a leg. And who knows if you’ll even read this. But for what it’s worth, I just wanted to say I think you’re beautiful.

  Sirens of Gowanus

  BRENT WAS WALKING HOME from band practice when he heard a girl singing. He recognized the song immediately; it was that new Arcade Fire song, his favorite track off their new album. He put down his amp and listened as she belted out the chorus. It was a busy night on Smith Street but her crisp, clear voice pierced easily through the clatter.

  He heaved his amp over his shoulder and headed toward the singer. She had moved on to another tune by now—a b-side by Big Star. The streetlamps grew sparser as he neared the Gowanus Canal, but he was able to spot her in the moonlight. She was under the Carroll Street bridge, sitting on a round, smooth rock. Her silky eyelashes fluttered as she sang. And whenever she hit a high note, she playfully splashed the water with her feet. She was naked from the waist up, two large breasts protruding from her slender, birdlike frame.

  Brent was trying to figure out what to say to her when she called out his name.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Do I know you?”

  She bashfully turned away, her pale cheeks crimsoning in the moonlight.

  “Not exactly,” she said. “But I’ve been to a couple of your shows. You’re in the Fuzz, right?”

  Brent’s eyes widened with amazement. His band had only formed a few months ago. No one had ever recognized him before. Even when he headlined at Club Trash, he’d had to show his ID at the door.

  “I can’t believe you’ve heard of me,” he admitted.

  The girl let loose a high-pitched musical laugh.

  “I haven’t just heard of you!” she cried. “I worship you!”

  She took a deep breath and broke into one of his songs—the final track on the Fuzz’s self-released EP.

  Brent moved closer to the water. He knew the Gowanus Canal was filthy. He’d read once online that its water was so putrid it had somehow tested positive for gonorrhea. But it looked so lovely in the moonlight, a solid strip of blue, weaving elegantly through the city.

  Brent talked to her for hours that night—about music and art and “the scene.” When the sun started to rise, he gave her his cell phone number and wobbled off toward the F train. He’d barely walked a block when she texted him: “I hope U come back 2morrow!” Brent shook his head, laughing with giddiness. He could hardly believe his luck.

  “Dude, that girl’s trouble.”

  Brent scoffed.

  “What are you talking about?”

  His roommate Rob turned toward him, muting the TV to emphasize his words’ importance.

  “She’s a fucking siren,” he said. “She lures people out to that rock and, like, eats their flesh.”

  Brent rolled his eyes.

  “I’m serious,” Rob said. “Remember Stanley? The bassist in Dustin’s band? S
he ate his face off.”

  “You can’t judge someone by their past relationships. Like, okay, she killed Stanley. But how do you know what was going on between them? You weren’t there. Maybe if you heard Thelxiepeia’s take on what happened, you’d side with her.”

  Rob sighed.

  “It’s your life,” he said. “I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”

  Brent decided to invite her to Bar Tabac. It was a great first-date restaurant: not too expensive but classy enough to show a girl you were trying. It was also convenient—halfway between his apartment and her rock.

  “I’d love to see you!” she cooed over the phone. “But I’m not super into French food.”

  Brent suggested a few alternatives—Thai, Italian, Mexican—but she balked at all of them.

  “Where do you want to eat?” he asked.

  Her breathing grew strangely thick.

  “At my place,” she said.

  Brent couldn’t believe it; he’d only known the girl for two days and she was already inviting him over! He called his drummer to cancel band practice. He needed to go buy a swimsuit.

  “How’s this one?” Brent asked Rob, holding up a purple Speedo.

  “If you swim to that rock,” he said, “she’s going to kill you.”

  Brent ignored him and turned to his other roommate, Jeff.

  “What do you think?”

  “I think you’re going to die,” Jeff said.

  Brent threw up his hands in frustration.