Couplehood by Paul Reiser Read Free Book Online Page B

I’m eating it.”
    That should pretty much cover it. With, of course, the universally accepted
sub-clause:
“And don’t call my food ‘Mister.’ ”

How
Are
You?
    I just cleaned out my address book.
    My wife pointed out I had names in there I haven’t called since third grade. People who’ve moved off the continent, couples who have divorced, some remarried, and a few names that, frankly, I don’t even know who they are. There was one entry that just said, “Rusty.” And next to it, “Call after five.” For the life of me, I have no idea what this means.
    Certain letters in every address book fill up right away. “M” and “S,” for example. Very popular letters. There’s no room. You can’t get anyone new in there—there’s a waiting list of three, four years. If I meet someonewhose name begins with “M” or an “S,” I tell them right up front that we can’t be friends. I just don’t have the room.
    Whereas “X,” “Q,” and “Z”—I can move you in today. I’ve got nothing but space. And I’m dying to use those pages. My dream is to meet the Xylophone family and fill that section right up.
    T here’s something very satisfying about starting a new address book. It’s like a new calendar: all fresh, clean, and full of boundless potential.
    I’ve noticed that as I get older, I buy
next
year’s calendar earlier and earlier. There seem to be more Things to Do, and we need more time to plan them.
    When you’re a kid, you don’t have this problem—you’ve got nothing to do. You can buy a calendar in March, April—there’s no real rush. You remember your first calendar? One appointment: “See that? That’s my birthday. Otherwise, I’m free. I’m absolutely open till the fifteenth.”
    But the older you get, the harder it seems to be to make the simplest of plans. I bumped into a friend of mine running out of an elevator the other day.
    “Hey, how ya doin’? Everything good? You’re good? Family is good? Kids are good? Good. I’m good, everything is good.”
    We just bombarded each other with “goods.” “Everything’s good? Good. I’m good, you’re good. It’s good we’re all good.” There’s no time for details, just headlines. “Anybody we know of die? No? Good. So everybody’s good? Good.”
    Some people actually
tell
you how they are, and you might not want to know.
    “How are you, good?”
    “Actually, I’m just getting over an intestinal virus.…”
    “Oh my, look at the time! I thought I could squeeze in a flu story, but it turns out, I can not.”
    I t’s not that we don’t care about our friends. We care, we just don’t always know what we’re supposed to say.
    “How’s everything, good?”
    “I just lost my job.”
    “Ohhh …” You stand there a little while. Silence. Then try and pick things up.
    “But everything
else
is good? Family? How’s the family? Everybody good?”
    “They’re all sick.”
    “Really.…” Check your watch, try again.
    “But
you
seem healthy. Physically, how’re you doing? You doing good?”
    ‘Three weeks to live.”
    “Alrighty.…” Then you put down your bags, ’cause you’re in for a while.
    W ith some people, you can tell by the way they
ask
that they don’t really care. Listen to how they say, “How are you?” They don’t really say, “How are you?” They say, “How
are
ya?” Not the same. They hit the “are” and shortchange the “ya.” “How
are
ya … how
are
ya?”
    Do you understand the difference?
    “How are
you?
” is good.
    It’s all about
you. “How are YOU?
I’m interested in specifically
you.
Out of all the people in the world, how is it to be
you?
That’s what concerns me primarily—how
you
are.”
    “How
are
ya?” is not the same thing.
    “How
are
ya?” means “Just say ‘good,’ and walk away. I don’t really want to know. Register that I asked, then proceed not to tell me.”
    And sometimes people assign you to be greetings messenger. I don’t pass on