Boy - The Boy Next Door Part 8

made up. It's nothing to do with him. At least, not directly. It's just that--and I really don't mean this to sound self-pitying or whiny or anything--but the thing is, Mel, I'm just so..... FAT!! I am so fat, and I can't lose any weight, and I'm tired of eating rice cakes, and Tony keeps on bringing home all the leftover bread from the restaurant and making French Toast every morning.... I mean I love Tony, I really do, but the idea of getting up in front of all of his family with my b.u.t.t the size that is just makes me want to heave. I am serious. If only we could elope.....

Nad :-( To: Nadine Wilc.o.c.k From: Mel Fuller Subject: NO!

You can't elope! What am I going to do with that stupid eggplant-colored bridesmaid dress you made me buy if you elope? Okay, this is it, Nadine. You are forcing me to do this. But I want you to remember, it's for your own good.

Mel To: Mel Fuller From: Nadine Wilc.o.c.k Subject: Do what?

Mel, what are you doing? You are making me very nervous. I hate when you get like this.

And I thought you liked the bridesmaid dresses I picked out.

Mel?? MEL????

To: Amy Jenkins From: Mel Fuller Subject: Weight loss programs Dear Ms. Jenkins,

Since you people down in the Staff a.s.sistance Program are so eager to help us beleaguered correspondents up here in the newsroom, I was wondering if you could let us know if the NY Journal offers its employees discounted members.h.i.+p rates at any of the nearby local gyms. Please let me know as soon as possible.

Thank you.

Melissa Fuller Page Ten Correspondent The New York Journal

To: Mel Fuller From: Nadine Wilc.o.c.k Subject: Have you completely lost your mind?

WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING????.

I can't join a gym! I'm depressed, not suicidal! I'm going to kill you....

Nad To: [email protected] From: Mel Fuller Subject: Talk about a disaster Hey, did you check out the Weather Channel this morning? Major tropical depressions down in the Bahamas. I think we're looking at an upgrade to tropical storm any day now.

Keep your fingers crossed.

Mel PS Next time you're going up to see your aunt, let me know, and I'll come with you. I heard people in comas can recognize voices, so maybe I could try talking to her. You know, since I used to see her practically every day, and all.

To: John Trent From: Max Friedlander

Subject: Me

Hi! How's it going? Long time no heard from, huh? Just thought I'd check in. How's my aunt? The old bag croak yet? Just kidding. I know how sensitive you are about all that, so I won't wax humorous on that subject of old ladies meeting their makers.

Besides, I love the old harpy. I really do.

Well, things here in Key West are going swimmingly. And I do mean that literally. Viv and I found a nude beach the other day, and all I can say is, John, if you havent gone skinny dipping with a bow-legged supermodel, then, son, you haven't lived.

While she's in town having her bikini area waxed (for those occasions when we are required to garb ourselves, such as around the hotel pool) I thought I'd see how things were going with you, pal. You know, you really came through for me in a jam, and I don't want you to think I don't appreciate it.

In fact, I appreciate it so much, I am going to offer you some advice. Advice on women, actually, since I know how you are about them. You know, you shouldn't be so stand- offish. You really aren't a bad-looking guy. And now that you are, I trust, dressing with a little more cla.s.s, thanks to my tutelage, I a.s.sume you are getting a little more action. It is time, I think, to move on to Max Friedlander's Panoplic Guide to Women.

There are seven types of women. Got that? Seven. No more. No less. That's it.

They are as follows:

avian

bovine

canine

caprine

equine

feline

porcine

Now, you might get your combinations of certain traits. For instance, you might have a very porcine young lady--hedonistic, gluttonous, etc.--who is also a bit avian--emptyheaded, a bit giddy, maybe. I would say the perfect combination would be a girl like Vivica: feline--s.e.xy and independent, while at the same time equine--haughty, yet poetic.

What you don't want is canine--overly dependent--or bovine--speaks for itself. And I'd stay away from caprines--fond of game-playing, and all that.

Well, that's all for today. I hope you've enjoyed your lesson--and that it made sense. I'm drunk off my a.s.s right now, you know.

Max

To: Max Friedlander

From: John Trent Subject: You Please don't write to me anymore.

I will walk your aunt's dog and feed your aunt's cats. I will pretend to be you.

But don't write to me anymore. Reading your pathetic ramblings on a subject that you will clearly never, ever come to understand is simply more than I can take at this point in my life.

John

To: [email protected] From: Jason Trent Subject: The redhead

Hi, John, it's me, Stacy. Jason refuses to ask, so I will: How's it going? I mean, with that girl, and pretending to be Max Friedlander, and all of that? Let me know!

Love, Stacy

PS We missed you at the dedication. You should have been there. Your grandmother was very hurt, as were the girls. They've really been bugging me about whether or not youre ever coming to visit us again. Are you?

To: Jason Trent From: Subject: How it's going How is it going? You ask how it's going, Stacy? Well, I'll tell you: It's going awful, thanks.

That's right. Awful. Everything is terrible. Everything shouldn't be terrible, of course.

Everything should be wonderful. I've met this completely terrific girl. I mean completely terrific, Stace: She likes tornadoes and the blues, beer, and anything to do with serial killers. She eats up celebrity gossip with as much enthusiasm as she attacks a plate of moo shu pork, wears shoes with heels that are way too high and looks fabulous in them--but manages to look just as fabulous in Keds and a pair of sweatpants. And she's nice. I mean, really, truly,genuinely kind. In a city where no one knows his neighbors, she not only knows hers, but actually cares about them. And she lives in Manhattan. Manhattan, where people routinely step over the homeless in an effort to get into their favorite restaurants. As far as Mel seems to be concerned, she never left Lansing, Illinois, population 13,000. Broadway might as well be Main Street.And get this: We went out the other night, and she wouldn't let me pay for her. Yes, youread that correctly: She wouldn't let me pay for her . You should have seen her face whenshe realized I had already bought the tickets for the movie: You'd have thought I'd killed apuppy, or something. No woman I have ever gone out with (and, contrary to what my brother might have told you, there have not been all that many) has ever paid for her own movie ticket-or anything else, for that matter, when she was out with me. Not that I ever minded paying. It's just that none of them ever even offered. And yeah, okay, they all knew they were out with John Trent, of the Park Avenue Trents. How much am I worth today? Have you been keeping an eye on theNASDAQ?

But they never even offered. Are you getting this so far, Stace? After all the Heathers and Courtneys and Meghans (My G.o.d, remember Meghan? And the disastrous Texas dip?) and all those Ashleys, I've finally met a Mel, who wouldn't know an IPO from an IOU, a woman who might potentially be more interested in me than in my investment portfolio...

And I can't even tell her my real name. No, she thinks I'm Max Friedlander.

Max Friedlander, whose brain I'm beginning to be convinced, atrophied at around the age of sixteen. Max Friedlander, who has developed a panoply of female character traits that I am convinced he derived from Sat.u.r.day morning Hannah Barbera cartoons.

I know what you're going to say. I know exactly what you're going to say, Stace.

And the answer is no, I can't. Maybe if I'd never lied to her about it in the first place.

Maybe if right from the first moment I met her I'd said, Listen, I am not Max. Max couldn't make it. He feels really bad about what happened to his aunt, so he sent me in his place. But I didn't, all right? I blew it. I blew it from the very beginning.

And now it's too late to tell her the truth, because anything else I ever try to tell her, she'll think I'm lying about that, too. Maybe she won't admit it. But in the back of her mind, it will always be there. Maybe he's lying about this, too. Don't try to tell me she won't, either, Stace. And now she wants to go with me to visit Max's aunt. Can you believe that?

The comatose aunt! She says she's read that people in comas can sometimes hear what's going on around them, even recognize voices. Well, Aunt Helen sure as h.e.l.l won't recognize my voice, will she? So there you have it. My h.e.l.lish life, in a nutsh.e.l.l. Got any advice? Any sage words of womanly wisdom to throw my way? No, I didn't think so. I am perfectly aware of the fact that I've dug this grave myself. I guess I have no choice but to lie down in it.

Cadaverously yours, John

To: Mel Fuller From: Dolly Vargas Subject: Max Friedlander Darling, I couldn't help overhearing your little conversation with Nadine near the fax machine--is it true the two of you have joined a gym and are starting spinning cla.s.ses?

Well, bully for you both! I say more power to you. Let me know if they have bleachers or an observation booth or something where I can go and sit and cheer you on (and if they provide refreshments, preferably of the alcoholic variety, which is the only way you'll ever get me in a gym, by G.o.d). Anyway, about that other thing I heard you mention. Do you want to know why he didn't make a pa.s.s at you? Max Friedlander, I mean. If you think about it, it all makes sense...I mean, the stories we've heard about his ruthless womanizing despite his fear of commitment, his obsession with getting just the right shot of whatever particular subject he is photographing, his constant need for approval, his refusal to settle down in one place, and now this freakish name change thing? Really, it all might boil down to one little thing: He's gay. It's perfectly obvious, darling. That's why he didn't make a pa.s.s at you.

Dolly x.x.xOOO

To: Mel Fuller From: Nadine Wilc.o.c.k Subject: Calm down

He is not gay. All right? That is just Dolly. She is messing with your head. She's bored.

Peter Hargrave wont leave his wife for her, Aaron is still mooning around over you, and Dolly has nothing better to do than torture you. You are just playing right into her hands by getting all upset like this. Now, are we going to the noon or the five thirty cla.s.s tomorrow?