Type-cast
April 6, 2007
This is part one of a two-part serialized story. Part two will be published in the April 13 issue of the magazine.
“Honey, don’t you think you’re being just a liiiiittle bit overdramatic?” There was a defiant sigh, a crash and the line went dead. He scanned the coffee shop, eyeing his audience. “… sweetie …” he paused for dramatic effect, laboriously transformed his look of distress so that it melted into one of adoration. “I love you too,” he reassured the empty tone. “I’ll call you later,” he finished, for the benefit of any eavesdroppers, partly to protect his reputation as a caring boyfriend, but more to entertain. Sometimes, when he was feeling particularly generous, he threw in a series of nauseatingly sweet crescendos, “No, I love you more … impossible … infinity plus one!” After all, everyone applauds a happy ending. Perhaps even an encore? Any takers?
He watched as people previously perched on the edge of their couches, holding their steaming lattes in suspense, lowered their darting eye balls and eased back into their rhythm of newspaper-crinkling. Content with the hallmark card finale, they smiled to themselves. All is right in the world, they mused, while relishing the childish pleasure that they had just gotten away with listening in on someone else’s life.
…Just a liiittle bit overdramatic? The line echoed in his head. Paul and Liz did this every Valentine’s Day. And every major commercialized holiday. And usually every Saturday night as they struggled to pick a restaurant. Hell, it was a tradition. Some people played board games; they argued.
Their conversations always began fairly innocuously, with the casual yet obligatory, “How was your day? Anything ground-breaking?” Not that it really mattered. These questions rarely led to heart-stopping, or even remotely stimulating, verbal exchanges.
Liz worked as a partner in an up-and-coming, environmental rights law firm with walls painted green, minimal decorating and recyclable furniture; the employees littered the office with blue, midget, recycle bins and bad puns regarding the dearth of H2O. Every day, she discussed how she had saved a tree, a swamp, or a square inch of the Costa Rican rainforest, if she was lucky. Every nine to five day ended in a full-throttle rant regarding pollution, the depletion of the ozone layer, the ignorant public and the flagrant lack of corporate accountability. “The Amazon,” she exclaimed, “produces one third of the world’s oxygen … arguably the lung of the planet, and we’re still destroying a Massachusetts-sized chunk of it every day!”
Throughout her tirade, he never failed to nod emphatically, shake his head with disgust and emit low growls at appropriate intervals. He knew better than to interrupt her with supportive comments. He knew not to reach out and caress her knee over the silk fabric of her short, grey skirt until her wild gesticulations had subsided.
Once her passion had calmed to an easy ebb and flow, Paul recounted his ideas for a sensational screenplay and described his newest tragic hero.
Playing her part, she listened attentively, oohing and ahhing, and putting in her 25 cents worth of ‘constructive’ criticism. Propping herself up on her elbow, she questioned, “Yes, but do you really think that the audience will be able to identify with a psychotic, Jack Kerouac wannabe who assassinates the new-age Mother Theresa in the first act?”
Paul would then flail, attempting to salvage his newest work of creative genius.
Inevitably, these petty pleasantries would fade into the more serious conundrum of whose apartment at which to rendezvous that evening. This discussion sparked friction, brewing with excuses of, “But I came over last time” and “my apartment is a zoo;” this see-sawing featured cajoling, petulance, and indignation, followed by a brief period of feigned surrender and indifference from both parties. One would suggest that they just “take the night off,” but this was the one plan with which they could never follow through. After a long pause, one would accuse the other of not wanting to see him or her—they took turns—which typically escalated into the heated conclusion that “maybe time off was the answer!”
In response, Liz would add brusquely that they could take off “all the time in the world” for all she cared! But she did care, and that was the bottom line.
Her exclamation set the stage for Paul’s line, “Honey, don’t you think you’re being just a liiittle bit overdramatic?” The irony of it all was that he had been the drama major.
Like clockwork, tonight Liz had slammed down the receiver, leaving Paul alone center-stage to restore the coffee-shop-goers’ faith in relationships. Little did these caffeine-addicts know that the last few lines composed not an improvised conversation, but a perfected soliloquy.
The argument was practically scripted—the opening scene, the witty banter, the suspense, the climax, the finale—and they were type-cast.
Paul eased back into the comfy armchair, wiggling his shoulders and allowing his spine to meld into the coffee-stained, maroon cushions. For years, the Frothy Cup coffee shop had provided a haven for his creative process. Old newspaper clippings, scribblings from obscure artists filled the tattered walls; quotes from Allen Ginsberg, the Indigo Girls, and Simon and Garfinkle, a poor man’s spin-off of Simon and Garfunkle, garnished the plaster-chipped ceiling; bad poems about love, sex and addiction crowded the tabletops.
Paul’s gnawed-on pens, crumpled up legal pad paper, and fragments of his imagination were wedged in between cushions. He crossed his Birkenstocked feet on the coffee table in between his tattooed nalgene and the lukewarm mocha. Around him, an eclectic cast of characters lounged, all trying to absorb something different—inspiration, artsy-ness, the smell of Guatemalan coffee beans, relaxation, angst, peace and quiet; the only thing they had in common was their hopeless, unrequited love affairs with caramel frapuchinos. The Frothy Cup supplied their daily and, in some cases hourly, fix.
Sometimes Liz stopped by, but she never purchased coffee, complaining that it was most likely the product of exploited migrant workers; she had few qualms, however, about finishing Paul’s mocha. She alleged that she stopped by to “offer inspiration and moral support,” but he had a sneaking suspicion that she had ulterior motives—the aroma of coffee beans and the fact that she loved him. Paul challenged his cell phone to a staring contest; he would give Liz seven minutes max.
Though their verbal back-and-forth occurred every Valentine’s Day, he didn’t want this particular Valentine’s Day to be scripted…even if the spontaneity, affection and terms of endearment were written in. This would be their third Valentine’s Day together, fourth if you counted that freak snowstorm fiasco that forced them to celebrate two days late (all the chocolate went bad), fifth if you counted the break (that neither speaks of), and sixth if you counted when they were “just friends” (albeit with a few benefits).
Last year, he had given her the traditional Valentine’s Day staples—Chanel No. 5 perfume, heart earrings, and risqué lingerie that was utilized once that night in a bacchanalian frenzy, then laughed about, and then shamefully tucked away in the back of her sweater drawer for fear that the cleaning lady might discover it. In turn, she had given him edible body paint—also an alcohol-induced-one-time-use-only—and a copy of John Gray’s guide to the perfect relationship: Men are from Mars and Women are from Venus. After humoring her with a few “communication exercises,” he had placed it on his shelf; it perched, awkwardly sandwiched in between his college chemistry textbook and a book on medicine from when his mother had still held hopes of his becoming a surgeon, or at least a dermatologist, and making something of his Harvard education. Unlike the lingerie and the edible chocolate body paint, however, the book had been thumbed through more times that he cared to admit. The truth was that he liked the book; he found it useful and enlightening in the ways of love. That’s right, the L word; it was right up there with the C-word, commitment, in the category of “Top Ten Words Most Likely to Make Mid-Twenty Year Old Males Run for the Door.” He wasn’t kidding; there were psychological surveys about this kind of stuff. This year though, he had overcome his fear of another word, the M-word; in fact, he wanted to use it.
“Will you marry me?” he murmured, louder than he had planned.
His question caused Katie, the barista girl, to lose her balance, topple and drop her tray of steaming mugs. She shot him a look of simultaneous bewilderment, aversion, and flattery, as if to say—”I beg your pardon, sir?,” “Oh, the shameless effrontery!” and “My, going to the gym is paying off!” Her cheeks turned scarlet and her eyes widened to buttons.
“Sorry, I was errhmm, practicing,” he explained guiltily. “I really didn’t mean to…” he trailed off, wondering how that sentence would have ended? I really didn’t mean to…inadvertently ask you to marry me…? Or to make you spill about $10 worth of coffee and at least $20 worth of mugs from pottery barn…? Or to make fools out of both of us in front of this harsh panel of coffee gulpers…? Because, after all, they were in it together now…them and the minimum wage busboy who despised his apron, but who resented his acne even more.
Paul quickly placed him notebook on a side table and squatted to Kate’s aid, attempting to shovel up broken shards in his bare hands. He bent his knees, kneeled, and cupped his hands as though waiting for communion.
“Don’t use your hands,” Katie cautioned, as the busboy handed her a dustpan and brush.
“I’m really sorry,” he muttered. He wrestled the dust pan away from her and began madly sweeping the sparkly glass remnants. Katie transported the piles to the busboy, who in turn placed the remnants into a garbage bag. By the third mug, they were practically operating an assembly line.
Katie adjusted her apron as if that would remedy the spill and continued to stare at him, utterly speechless; her peach apron featured a hand holding a steaming cup of coffee.
Once the accident was taken care of, he retreated to his chair hoping that it would just absorb him as the rug had accommodated the spilled coffee; like the stains, vestiges of his humiliation remained with his vein jutting out of his neck and his brow glinting with perspiration.
Katie returned with a new tray of coffee and approached him, lingering slightly.
“It was for a play,” he squeaked in, indicating his pile of notebook paper and hoping to get off the hook.
She eyed him silently.
“Ummm, I would love some coffee.” He changed the subject, mentally patting himself on the back. “…to go.” He held out his nearly-finished beverage.
She took it, allowing her index finger to trace the growing tributaries of sweat in his palm—all the while penetrating his eyes a little bit longer than she should have.
Suddenly, Paul’s cell phone began to ring, first patiently and deliberately, and then urgently, demanding attention. He retracted his hand quickly as Kate shuffled away. She looked back at him, but his pupils were concentrated on his cell phone. He chuckled, looking at his watch, losing himself, and receiving the call. “6 minutes and 37 seconds—not even 7 minutes of sulking? Lizzie, I’m impressed.”
Once again newspapers crinkled, slurping ceased, shoulders became erect and necks craned.
“You’re a jerk,” Liz retorted, attempting to feign annoyance, but all Paul could hear was the corner of her mouth turn up and her lips part for a smile.
As cliché as it sounded, Liz was the kind of person who just made you want to be better. She was a unique blend of sugar and spice and everything nice—maybe toss in a pinch of nutmeg and a teaspoon of cinnamon. And a little bit of Tabasco sauce for her zest. She made Paul think of all the cheesy lines that he would never have the guts to insert into a script. Hell, this was the kind of sap that could get a guy crucified, or at least castrated. Until recently, he could barely even utter that stuff out loud.
At Harvard, where Liz and he had met, these sorts of intimate whispers were only acceptable in the refuge of alcohol, drugs, or the dark. He had needed alibis to protect his masculinity, “Oh, I was so fucked up last night; I don’t remember anything. No, seriously guys, I was wasted.” On occasion, there had been witnesses and he had been pressed further; in these cases, he would insist that he had said “all that shit just to get some.” That explanation usually sufficed so that he could, however narrowly, dodge accountability in the morning. Having gotten himself off the hook, he would wipe the metaphorical sweat from his brow and rock back into his comfortable rut of immaturity and apathy.
When he met Liz, all of that changed. They had “hooked up”—or at least that’s what he had reported to his friends back at the home base. What he didn’t tell them was that by “hooked up,” he meant that they had made out for about twenty minutes and then had fallen asleep on top of his unmade bed. During the night, she had curled up next to the wall and transformed her grey sweatshirt into a makeshift pillow.
The next morning, they both woke up around 6 a.m. because he had forgotten to pull down the shade. He rolled over and delicately dislodged his comforter from beneath him, and lifted her feet so that he could pull the comforter up over her. Next, he gently cradled her head to slide the pillow underneath it; he arced his arm around her, pulled her closer to make her feel special, and administered the obligatory, tried and true kiss on the forehead. According to the non-existent, yet most commonly referred to and most highly circulated, piece of literature in the male population—The Game Plan—it was critical to execute these moves just right. The odds were, after all, that the girl was faking sleep—how could two people sleep comfortably in a twin, narrow bed anyways? She was probably taking mental note…’Okay, cute forehead kiss, check!’ A guy could never be too careful because girls talked, and the Girl Network was brutal; many a good male specimen and considerable amounts of potential ass had been lost to that covert, underground operation.
Louise Place is a junior majoring in International Relations.