Him Her Him AgainThe End of Him

  Praise for Him Her Him Again The End of Him

  “Marx’s deadpan humor, wacky descriptions, and unique characters keep the pages turning. [Marx] creates a hilarious world where anything can happen—and often does. It’s a wacky and weird love story, a comic tour de force.”

  —Rocky Mountain News

  “If you’re like me, you read a blurb and think, Oh, I didn’t know they were friends. But I hardly know Patty—we had dinner once (with other people, and all she had was a Diet Coke). So you can believe me when I say: This may be the funniest book I’ve ever read. The funniest. Ever. And keep in mind I didn’t write this blurb as a favor to Patty. I did it for you. So you’d be able to pick out the funniest book in the store and take it home and laugh your head off.”

  —Melissa Bank, author of The Girls’ Guide to Hunting and Fishing

  “Deeply funny and charming, an impeccable screwball comedy with just enough melancholy beneath the surface to seem anchored in real life.”

  —Very Short List

  “A sprawling but very funny tale; if insecurity is the source of great humor, Marx has hit the mother lode. Her jokes hit the target.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “For those who have spent hours listening to a girlfriend relate the latest about her ongoing obsession, or who have been trapped on a flight next to someone pouring out her life story, this first novel will be familiar. A hilarious tale.”

  —Booklist

  “Filled with wacky and slightly off-kilter characters.”

  —Library Journal

  “Patricia Marx is a wonderfully funny writer.”

  —Ian Frazier, author of Gone to New York

  “As funny as Kingsley Amis and Nora Ephron, yet wholly original, that Patricia Marx is a crackerjack (lady) writer. Way more talented than Gummo!”

  —David Rakoff, author of Don’t Get Too Comfortable

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  For Richard Avedon, Richard Marx, and Gordon Lish

  Part 1

  HIM

  ONE

  I was in high school when I read The Bell Jar and thought it was about a lucky girl who wins a contest and gets to go to Europe. But what about Sylvia Plath’s trying to drown herself? After she strings herself up and before she swallows pills? To tell you the truth, I don’t think I looked at that part.

  To tell you the truth, I must have skipped a lot of parts in that book, maybe even the whole thing, because, let’s see, for starters, it takes place in New York.

  Nevertheless: Sylvia Plath finally did get to go to Europe. She studied at Cambridge University in England, and years after I read her book—or rather, some of her book—so did I. While I was there, a collection of Plath’s letters to her mother was published, which my mother read and wrote to me about. “Why can’t you write letters to me like that?” she asked. “They’re so warm and loving.”

  When I finally read the letters, long after I’d left Cambridge, I discovered that my mother was right. Sylvia Plath’s letters were warm and loving. “Your mother is always right,” my grandmother once told me, “although I have never liked the yellow table in her center hall.” My grandmother also told me that she—my grandmother—believes everyone has a determined number of footsteps to use up in a lifetime, and, therefore, it is foolhardy to exercise since you will only exhaust your quota sooner and die.

  Let me give you the gist of a typical Plath letter: “My dearest of Mothers, I met the most marvelous man at the Trinity May Ball, where I wore an ice blue gown that was simply divine. Tomorrow, tea with the Queen! I love you!”

  I, too, had met a pretty marvelous man in England, though none of my letters home mentioned him. Let me give you the gist of one of those letters: “It’s so cold here. And if you like the weather, you’ll LOVE the food. Do you remember what I’m supposed to be writing my thesis about? I have to hand a chapter in, but I can’t remember what my topic is. I think I wrote the title in a postcard I wrote to you a couple of months ago. The bursar’s office says they never received your check.”

  Sylvia Plath and I had one thing in common besides our outfits for socializing with the Queen—mine being a never-worn, never-to-be-worn drab long skirt; and hers, well, to be honest, I can’t actually say if she had an ice blue gown or ever met the Queen. As I told you, I was giving you the gist. In any case, Sylvia and I were alike in that both of us had a habit of shielding our mothers, and in my case, my father, too, from what was really going on in our respective lives. You know, of course, about Sylvia’s despair and the conclusive oven thing. Even her mother knows now. But I don’t think you know very much about me.

  An only child, I was born in the suburbs of Philadelphia, a town called Abington. My ancestors were—no, don’t worry. I won’t tell you everything. I’ll start when he knocked on my door.

  The marvelous man was wearing a rugby shirt and jeans and sneakers and he looked boyish, I thought, for someone from another generation.

  “You don’t look twenty-eight,” I said. I was twenty-one.

  “You can count the rings,” he said.

  “You’re married?” I said. He laughed.

  “I meant tree rings,” he said. “It was a joke about dendrochronology.”

  “Oh,” I said. “I never get dendrochronological jokes.”

  He told me that he’d arrived from New York that morning, that he was going to be a teaching fellow in philosophy, that he’d recently been at Princeton, where he studied with someone famous I pretended to have heard of, that he’d taken a year off to join VISTA and eradicate poverty in Scarsdale (did I really hear him say Scarsdale?), and that a friend of mine had suggested he look me up—he’d dated one of her roommates, who’d run off to an ashram in India after he broke up with her. She still wrote to him, though the motif, he said, was mainly gastrointestinal.

  Those were the days when a person with a knapsack might knock on your door, say he was a friend of a friend of a cousin of an ex-girlfriend of a guy he had hiked with in Australia, and you then invited this person to sleep on your sofa and eat your food for as long as he felt like it. It was well within your guest’s rights to take or break one of your cherished possessions, and unacceptable for you to care because that would be materialistic. Hitchhiking through Europe a year or so before, I had pulled that stunt in Amsterdam and ended up living for a week with someone who’d been a medical student for the last twelve years, during which time he’d saved the rind of every tangerine he’d eaten. Thousands of dried rinds, each a perfect half sphere, were stacked throughout the apartment. Toward the end of my stay, the rinds nearly burned to a crisp when I stood too close to the fireplace and my cheap pants burst into flame.

  But Eugene Obello was only wondering if I’d like to go for a walk with him. Right now. Those were also the days before date books and plans and pretending you had something else to do in order to look popular. So I said yes.

  While Eugene was in the bathroom, I took one of my smart-looking social theory books from my bookshelf and positioned it in a conspicuous spot. How far I had come from Abington High. “Remember Abington,” the principal used to announce every morning over the PA. “First in the alphabet, first in achievement, and first in attitude!” We might have been first in the alphabet, but the other two . . . iffy.

  And look at me now: Cambridge University! Abington was a large bland redbrick public high school built in
the 1950s. This place was a dominion of majesty established in the thirteenth century by King Henry III. “I’m living like royalty,” I wrote to my parents when I arrived. “Could you please send me my down quilt?”

  Grungy-looking students hung out all day in the college bar, smoking hand-rolled cigarettes and drinking ale. Another clique modeled itself on the Bloomsbury group—someone dressed and talked like Virginia Woolf, another like Clive Bell, another like Duncan Grant, and so on. There were some actual descendants of the Bloomsbury group at the college, but the look-alikes would have nothing to do with them, regarding them as poseurs. Even the student council was something to write home about: they issued a statement coming out against political, economic, and legal discrimination, which they happened to “deplore.”

  On the other hand, the school was still mostly made up of upper-class males, the first females having been accepted only a few years earlier. Some of the upper-class males belonged to a society whose sole function, so far as I could make out, was to break into the room of a first-year student, interfere with it, and leave a check for damages done. Then they peed in the fountain—the one topped by a statue of Henry VI with the symbolic figures of Learning and Religion seated below.

  So: the splendid architecture, the adorable boys’ choir, the fields of daffodils . . . you get it. “They even have grazing cows on the lawns. How inspirational!” I wrote to my parents. “And I heard that only the students in MY college are allowed to shoot and eat the swans that swim on the Cam.” In a P.S., I added, “I NEED money to go to Wales. Maybe you could sell my charm bracelet—the one you gave me for my Sweet Sixteen? It’s just a worldly object. Also, could you send me some hangers?”

  That entire first year, gosh, I was happy. I was a foreigner! I’d never been to Europe and now here I was, in a country where everyone sounded like Winston Churchill or Mary Poppins; where all the women had flawless skin and all the men looked as if they’d been wandering around in the Underground since World War II, never having seen the light of day or another change of clothes. Every aspect of life in England seemed a notch from normal. Which made even the mundane exotic and exhilarating. I swear if I had been mugged on a greensward, this, too, would have been utterly delightful because he wouldn’t have been just any mugger; he would have been a mugger with an accent.

  You know what else is nice about being a foreigner? Whatever you do takes place in a capsule that need not be discovered and opened by someone back home. Nothing really counts—it was the life that falls in the forest. That’s how I looked at it. I felt free to . . . oh, I don’t know.

  Eugene returned to my bedroom. He’d been in the bathroom. “If it’s not too rude to ask,” he said, “bearing in mind I met you only a few minutes ago, and I hope I’m not entering some kind of kinky area here, or maybe I do”—Eugene smiled, I didn’t—“but what are all those buckets and funnels doing in your bathtub?” I dropped my lip gloss into a drawer so he wouldn’t catch me trying to look good while he’d been out of the room. Makeup seemed like cheating to me, then; but boy, oh boy, it doesn’t now.

  “I make ginger beer,” I said.

  Eugene took off his jacket and put it on my bed. “I lay a wager you didn’t know that you can simulate ginger ale by combining Sprite with a splash of Coca-Cola,” he said.

  I picked up Eugene’s jacket, looked around, considered what to do with it, put it back on the bed. “Really?” I said. Eugene stared at me while I thought hard what to say. “Sprite seems tough to make,” was what I came up with.

  “I’m not particularly fond of ginger beer,” he said.

  “Oh, I hate it,” I said, wanting him to think we had an opinion in common. Incidentally, it was true. “But it’s easy to make.”

  Why was a PhD-track graduate student who hated ginger beer involved with moonshine? Because my next-door neighbor, Obax Geeddi Abtidoon, a rich and beautiful Somalian who wanted to be a chef but was getting her degree in polar studies when she wasn’t cooking curry and making sliced carrot salad for everyone on the floor, had given me the ginger beer starter and how could I be so rude as to throw it out?

  Eugene sat on the only chair. His way of sitting there was so relaxed it put me on edge. Plus, this left the bed as the only place to sit, which seemed too friendly, but I perched myself on the edge anyway and tried to look nonchalant.

  I know I said that the buildings at Cambridge were magnificent, but my dorm, built in the sixties out of concrete, was the exception. When I was happy, I found the room sterile and claustrophobia-inducing and depressing; when I was unhappy, I found the room sterile and claustrophobia-inducing and consoling. It was decorated, if that is the word, in basic dormitory furniture but with a touch of a color that could only be called veal—veal curtains, veal bedspread, and a veal and gray shag rug. Instead of wallpaper, the walls were covered with grainy veal linoleum—linoleum was definitely a theme in this building. A mechanical alarm clock sitting on a bookshelf was wrapped in a towel because someone had told me that fluorescence caused multiple myeloma. On the floor cartons of books lay, which I had insisted my parents ship to me because I believed I couldn’t live without being surrounded by literature. I shipped them home every summer when I returned to Philadelphia and they came back with me every fall. I don’t think I ever opened one, but this was a phase of my life when I wrote things in letters to my parents such as “I’m reading a lot of epistemology because I never had the chance in college,” and, “Saw The Birthday Party last night in London. I could write like Pinter but when would I get around to it with this damn thesis around my neck?”

  My room overlooked a courtyard in which there was a small man-made pond stocked with goldfish. After a potted gardenia I had placed on my windowsill fell into the pond, it seemed by volition, I went around saying that flowers committed suicide when they were near me. From my window, I could see my friend Libby’s room, on the same floor. She and I constantly wrote notes, slipping them underneath one another’s door. Libby was an undergraduate studying Anglo-Saxon, Norse, and Celtic, so her notes were, as she said, “strewn with rune.” In a letter home, I compared Libby’s wit with that of P. G. Wodehouse, though I had never read a single book of his.

  “Let N represent the set of natural numbers,” Eugene said.

  “If it’s up to me,” I said, “N can be anything it wants.”

  “Very good,” Eugene said. “Now let’s put forth the proposition that there cannot be a set of all sets. And yet it seems also true that any group of items can be collected into a set, right?”

  I nodded. It couldn’t be possible—could it?—that upper-echelon philosophers were doing the same math that Miss Kilroy taught us in third grade?

  I’d asked Eugene to explain what he was working on, a little bit because I wanted to know but mostly because I wanted to divert him long enough for me to walk over to the window and discreetly arrange the curtains so they obscured the sealed bottle of milk that had been sitting on my sill for about three months. I didn’t know much about much, but something told me that putrefying milk was not the way to put one over on a suitor. I must have intuitively known even then, though, that if you ask a certain type of guy about himself, it’s as good as winding a wind-up toy. For a given amount of time, said guy is in motion and requires only minimal attention from you. In this way, men are easier than plants.

  “You really want to hear this?” he said.

  “Yes!” I said.

  The bottle, by the way, was an experiment, albeit one without a hypothesis. My research partner, Libby, and I were simply curious to see what would happen to very, very, very old milk. So far, blue and green had happened.

  Let’s now ignore Eugene while he describes what he’s working on, throwing around some Greek symbols in the process. Meanwhile, I’ll tell you what I was working on. Eugene had not asked, so it hadn’t come up in our conversation.

  Nothing.

  In April, the month I met Eugene, my thesis topic, an ever-changing thing, had something
to do with comparing the Jewish struggle against Fascism in the 1930s in Britain with the West Indian struggle against racism and the National Front today. The problem with that, it turned out, was they had almost nothing in common. My original topic had been “The Effects of the Changing Role of Women in a Yorkshire Fishing Village Upon Family and Social Structure.” However, after I’d spent several weeks in an actual Yorkshire fishing village, interviewing dozens of people, it became clear that because of their accent I had no idea what anyone was saying. Transcripts of the hundred or so hours of tapes reveal that I frequently asked my subjects questions they’d just answered. And they were so polite. They answered again.

  Whatever the topic, I was not working on it. Instead, I spent my time . . . come to think of it, I had turned into one of those people of whom I think, What do they do all day?

  Let’s see. Leafing through brochures of Mediterranean islands to which I would never travel took time, as did my daily swim in the public pool across town. Then there were the excursions to the nearest department store to try on cashmere sweaters; to the open-air market to buy a mere satsuma orange. I taught myself to ride a bicycle without using hands and tried to teach myself German from a book, mastering only the phrase for “You are a fried egg” before I quit. I went to the Black Kettle across the street, where my work-shy friends and I lingered over cups of coffee for the sole purpose of eavesdropping on the inane conversations of tourists. (Man, pointing to the steps to the second floor of the restaurant; to waiter: “Do these stairs go up?”) I made frequent visits to the stationery store to buy everything in sight. “Can you believe it?!” I wrote my parents. “This country has no double yellow adhesive labels! Please send some.”

  That’s what I did all day, and curiously, nobody in a position of authority much cared. Two months had passed since I’d seen my adviser, Geoffrey Guppy, a genial man in his sixties, known for his work in the tribal politics of Guinea-Bissau and also in the sociology of what transpires during the first minute of conversation in different cultures. We’d met to discuss a chapter I’d written entitled “How Successful is T. S. Kuhn in Avoiding Problems of Relativism in His Discussion of Paradigms in Natural Sciences,” for a thesis whose topic I can’t conjure up today or perhaps even then. But I do remember his critique: “I looked up the word ‘redeive,’ ” he had said, “and couldn’t find it in the dictionary.”