Chump Change by David Eddie Read Free Book Online Page B

of scotch and holds it over my glass.
    “Say when.”
    “Thanks. The next day I open the paper and there’s a story under the headline, THREE TREES STOLEN FROM HOTEL LOBBY. With the exact description of my new tree.”
    “Where’s the tree now?” Les asks.
    “It’s still in our apartment. I mean, Ruth’s apartment.”
    This clumsy reference to my current romantic difficulties has the effect of casting a pall over our little party. I catch Max and Sam exchanging a “significant” glance. Max slaps his thighs, and stands up.
    “Can you imagine staying up this late?” he asks. “I have to go to bed.”
    “Me, too,” Sam says, getting up. Everyone looks over at Les.
    “I’m going to stay up for a while, listen to a few more of Dave’s stories,” she says.
    We sat up drinking and talking, watching the fire slowly dying. Inspired by Les, fuelled by the drinks, and warmed and soothed by the fire, I feel I’ve never been wittier, more charming and engaging. But there’s nothing in the air, no chemistry between us. Her body language says it all, really: she’s way down at the other end of the couch, wrapped in a quilt, cocooned, mummified, self-contained. We chat for a while, eventually she gets up, yawns, stretches — her breasts jutting (forgive me, ladies) like the proud prow of an intercontinental cruise-liner — and, with a chaste peck on the cheek for yours truly, trots off to bed, alone.
    Well, what did you expect? I ask myself, after she’s gone, crossing to the bar to pour myself another hefty drink. That Les would jump your bones your first night back? Oh, Dave, I’m so happy to see you, and now I give you the gift of my body.
    True, there was Max’s testimonial about the lost weekend with a fridge full of food, but — as Max had also taken great pleasure in pointing out — I was not all that attractive a package, physically, at the moment. Perhaps Les expected something more along the lines of my former self, a little more collegiate, more Ivy League-ish, than the fat, pale monster who climbed out of Max’s parents’ station wagon.
    However, I’ve found over the years, boys, that with women physical appearance isn’t as big a deal as it is with us. Fat, short, thin, handsome, ugly: for the most part, women don’t seem to give a damn. Patrick Stewart is a case in point. Patrick Stewartis the fiftysomething Brit who plays Jean-Luc Picard on
Star Trek: The Next Generation
. He was declared “Sexiest Man on Television” in a
TV Guide
readers’ poll. Now, Stewart isn’t exactly ugly, but with his pugilist’s nose, Mongolian features, gleaming chrome-dome, he isn’t exactly what you’d call “classically handsome,” either. For the sake of argument, let’s call him “old, bald, and homely.” I’ve asked around about this, and women all agree with the poll. He “exudes an aura of authority,” they’ll say; “he has inner strength.” They also like the fact he’s the captain of his own starship.
    Note, gentlemen, all the qualities attracting women to Picard are intangibles. Except, perhaps, the starship. Let’s say, they’re all
non-physical
features of the man. Any physical features women are attracted to are usually emblematic of some inner quality: “strong” hands, “sensitive” eyes, that kind of thing. Only one woman I asked talked about a physical quality when it came to Picard, she said (and I quote): “His zygotal system sends shivers up and down my spine.” What’s that? I asked her. His cheekbone/temple area, apparently. But, again, that symbolizes self-discipline, passion held in check.
    By the way, in the same poll, the guys overwhelmingly voted Cindy Crawford “Sexiest Woman on Television.” And if that isn’t as succinct a summary of the difference between male and female sexuality as you’re going to get, I don’t know what is.
    But let’s face it, Dave: you’re no Jean-Luc Picard, or even a Telly Savalas or Karl Malden, at the moment. You’re