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Marc
Estrin is a writer, cellist and activist living in
Burlington, Vermont.
His debut novel, Insect
Dreams, The Half Life of Gregor Samsa,
© Berkley Pub Group
has recently been released
in paperback, was named a notable book of 2002 by the Christian
Science Monitor, Publisher's Weekly, and the San Francisco Chronicle, has twice been a Booksense
76 selection, and recently inaugurated the Utne Reader
Online Bookclub. Other work has appeared in Exquisite
Corpse, In Posse, Slow Trains, The
Land-Grant College Review, and the New England Review.
He has been a Fellow in Fiction at Breadloaf, and at the
Wesleyan Writers' Conference.
Answer to a Personal Ad in
The New York Review (ad clipped to copy of response)
Marc Estrin
A VERY
SPECIAL WOMAN, tall, enthusiastic, creative, warm, wise, lively and
active, who is open and psychologically aware, is looking for a man
who needs and appreciates the need for a close connection, who can laugh,
enjoy himself and others, and who is warm, generous, thoughtful and
wise, and is also psychologically aware. My interests are diverse, and
include psychology, literature, music, nature, medicine, history and
politics. My preference is for a non-smoker, age range from upper 30's
to low 50's. NYR Box 7227.
840 Grand Concourse, Apt. 6F
Bronx, New York, 10472
April 20, 1992
Dear Goddess,
I call you that because you surely think of yourself
as such. But what, my dear, are you hiding? (You asked for psychologically
astute.) Let me see. You didn't mention your age. So you must be older
than you would like to advertise. You want someone between 37 and 53,
so you must be past forty, and that was hard for you, wasn't it. Turning
forty without a man in your life? All those little wrinkles around the
eyes? The flesh on the underside of your arms getting a little baggy?
And speaking of flesh, you must be one of those "Rubenesque"
women. I don't notice anything about thin, or trim -- the two most common
words in opening statements of all female ads in the NYR. Isn't print
wonderful? You can hide so much that isn't buoyant behind adjectives
that are. But what happens when you entice a man to come have dinner?
How embarrassing that moment when he knocks on the door, you open it,
and you see the disappointment deep in his eyes! How many more times
can you go through a dinner-that-has-to-happen-in-order-not-to-embarrass?
Well, he'll probably pay the bill. At least you get a free meal out
of it. Save enough to put that ad in for another week.
Do you think I'm being cruel? I'm not. I'm just trying
to get our relationship off to an absolutely honest and realistic start.
How we hide from one another in these verdammte ads! $3.95 a word! Only
Satan could have set such a rate. Let's see. You're in for 85 words
X $3.95/word. That's 335 dollars and 75 cents, if my trusty calculator
fails not. That means you're enormously wealthy or enormously desperate.
Which, my dear, which? Perhaps both?
Well, you can breathe easy, tall, enthusiastic, creative,
warm, wise, lively and active woman, open and psychologically aware.
I can assure you that I am older, fatter and uglier than you are. Wait.
Stop. Not yet the circular file. Some open, psychologically aware thought
will reveal the benefit of such a partner: You can be superior, the
more attractive one. You can be sure I will not be tempted to graze
on greener grass. You can count on the world's judgement: yourself as
magnanimous, spiritual enough to ignore mere physical manifestation.
You can copulate in the dark and imagine whomever you care to -- in
fact, I will help you fantasize partners you might never have imagined.
You can assuage your barrenness (I see no mention of children), by mothering
a social reject who will return your love without reserve, and with
man-sized organs -- every woman's fantasy for her male child.
In this, my offer, you may recognize someone "warm,
generous, thoughtful and wise", ready to submerge himself, without
being threatened, in the multi-leveled superiority of another, not needful
of lording it over some fat, ugly, Jewish girl, grateful for any attention.
I know my place, my dear, and that is more than can be said for our
screen stars or religious and political leaders.
You may prefer an non-smoker, but the first lesson
I bring you is that you can't have everything you want. I am a two-pack
a day Marlboro man myself (sans firm jaw, leathery hands and chaps,
to be sure). Hard pack, if not hard abs. Think of Bogart, George Raft,
all those cigarette-lipped forties types that once made female hearts
go pitty pat under heaving bosoms. Little by little, if you are as open
as you advertise, the 2nd hand smoke will perform its addictive wonders,
and you will find yourself beneficiary to all the benevolence of Nicotiana
tobacum, great gift of the much-vaunted native Americans, helping you
deal with stress, calming down your tension, pepping up your lethargy,
helping you to concentrate, and overcome unpleasant feelings with a
mild state of euphoria. Deep in our smoke-filled rooms, you and I will
create a hazy world of seamless, creative harmony unknown to the abstemious.
Let them divorce one another and abandon their children. Our union will
be the stable oak in the great forest, faithful and content till premature
death do us part.
I'm sure you are not afraid of a little death, my
dear. Your interest in literature, medicine, nature and history (not
to mention politics!), if not superficial, should have taught this lesson:
we must befriend our wily enemy, our redeemer, our relief. Such is the
wisdom of the ages brought to you, free of charge, by your humble servant,
Alan Krieger, who anxiously awaits your reply. I trust by now this letter
has distinguished itself from the many others in your gloating, but
anxious, pile. Do you have the courage to respond?
Sincerely,
Alan Krieger
P.S. Send photo, please. I need an image on which
to fasten my affections.
7/5/92 Not answered. Maybe write her again.
© Marc Estrin
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