Carbon Dating : Part 2

Ditched by Dr. Right: And Other Distress Signals from the Edge of Polite Society
by Elizabeth Warner

(Page 2 of 6)

I was genuinely enjoying a kind of secular rot in New York City. But in a good way. The kind of spiritual decay that's actually quite comforting, particularly when it's complained about in smart, buzzy bistros brought to you by the colors taupe and veldt. I had a one-bedroom apartment slightly larger than a votive candle in an antiseptic but deceptively cheery part of midtown Manhattan. And most essentially, I was enrolled in a rigorous program of healthy, expensive psychotherapy.

It was a lovely, mindless time of income and ascent. I couldn't help but bask in the burl walnut finish of familial approval. My family - especially my mother - was delighted. The little one's on her way. She's a three-bedroom co-op away from the rest of her life. The best part? I was living with, sleeping with, scheduled to build a future with (and quite satisfied by) a good-natured anesthesiologist heretofore known as Dr. Right. Who really was my soul mate, my future, and the love of my lifestyle. Together we frequented parties where the women all wore black suits and that shell-shaped jewelry that's supposed to look modest but was purchased with proceeds from IPOs of little start-ups like GM and Exxon. And the impossibly appealing men with that ruddy, Northeastern skin that wants to shout "sun" and "tropics" but really whispers "gin."

Which may be why, on that lovely spring morning as I watched Dr. Right leave me, I began to spiral and suddenly found myself formally introduced to the concept of introspection. He'd skulked out the door on Gucci-clad cloven hooves, into the stunning, dappled daylight of disgrace and taxis. And he'd dropped his bags dramatically at his feet, and he'd looked up at me and wiped his brow in that noonday-sun kind of way that men do in deodorant ads and Steinbeck novels. Leaning out our third-floor window, I had said, "Don't forget this" - and catapulted his prize brass cigarette lighter out, watching as it bounced expensively on the hood of his beloved convertible. And he had looked back up at me, a meaty Teutonic fist clenched in defiance, and said four parting words.

Four words.

"Don't scratch the enamel!"

To anybody observing him glancing helplessly up at me with his Poppin' Fresh Dough eyes, his would appear a desperate and soulful plea for one last try, for some kind of reconciliation. It actually wasn't. And I knew better. I'd seen that fawn thing before. And no way was I going to jump right back into Lake Him. Still, I was the one physically, palpably, and incomprehensibly racked with guilt. Absolutely riddled by it. And that would be why? Why? Why had I spent two years with a man who was so blatantly unable to see the earth's passage of time as anything other than one long autumn afternoon in Connecticut? And we lived in New York.

Don't get me wrong: this was a terribly attractive guy. Clark R. M. Wheeler, M.D., wasn't a brain trust, but he was one of those people with an uncanny sense for what was relevant. He had sort of a cultural suntan. The kind of guy who'd invoke an arcane but incredibly hip name reference - and invoke it disparagingly - at parties. But enough so that people would figure, if he could disparage, then at least he could comprehend far better than they. He'd say things like "That woman there thinks she's Susan Sontag." Or he'd deliberately mix up Jean-Paul Belmondo and Jean Paul Gaultier so people would think film and fashion. How multimedia. Or he'd remind us all at brunch what a profound impact, ya know, the Velvet Underground had had. Dear Nico. And how the mood on Prince Street just hadn't been the same since Andy died. Of course, privately to me he'd inquire about things like whether Lanford Wilson and August Wilson were actually brothers. Or just cousins. And I remember one evening at a big dinner party hearing him refer to Tony Blair as a technocrat.

I'd pulled him aside and said, "Don't you Yvette Mimieux me, Clark. Do you even know what a technocrat is?"

"Not at all," he'd answered, "but nobody here does either, so I'm fine."

I had genuinely loved him. It was that good, comfortable, this-is-how-it's-going-to-be love. Born of time, afternoons, and I'm here, you're here, let's-make-dinner ease.

And I could say not one word when he left. Not a single one.

Given the world of Marketing & Promotion, which claimed me as an early, willing, postgraduate casualty, I'm not without the blemish of veneer myself. After all, I do write promotional materials for a living. And have always been a little stunned that people paid me (and financed my health and dental repair) just to sit around and dream up ideas to coerce unwitting or distracted people to make purchases, buy magazines, contribute to political causes, and join any number of clubs. I am amply rewarded for creating a huge and growing expanse of wilderness between Americans and their income.

Copywriting is not rocket science, but it does have its own experiential learning curve. I created contests. I dared Americans not to believe that they might have already won. I kept dreams alive because I authored million-dollar sweepstakes. And renewals. And bills. And you-like-this-magazine-why-not-try-this-one? pieces of direct mail. And everything comes Risk-Free, and it all has a Free Gift of marginal value attached somewhere. And the fact is, I had a certain knack for it. It was as if God had said, That fellow? I'll make him lead a country out of war. Or, That child? He'll bring hope to Zimbabwe. And then He'd said, That one? The little redhead? She'll be aces in the junk-mail arena.

Copyright © 2005 by Elizabeth Warner.

About the Author

Elizabeth Warner is a writer and actress whose one-woman show, The Wandering Eye, premiered at HBO's Aspen Comedy Festival. She has read her work on NPR and written for several network game shows, and particularly keen viewers can spot her in a few films. Elizabeth lives in Los Angeles but, no fool, maintains a home in New York as well.