Erich Segal - Oliver's Story

'Phil, I'm busy.'

'Sure, I know. And I'll hang up. But don't tell me you're gonna write no letters when I do.'

Philip, never one to talk in whispers, had been responding at a pitch so loud it broadcast through the whole apartment. Marcie was amused.

'Hey,' I inquired, so coolly I impressed myself, 'when will we get together?'

'At the weddin',' Philip said.

'Whaat?'

'Hey, is she tall or small? Or fat or thin? Or light or dark?'

'She's pumpernickel.'

'Ah,' said Phil, and pounced upon my jocular detail, 'you do admit that she's a she. Now, does she like you?'

'I don't know.'

'Ignore the question. Sure she likes you. You're terrific. If she needs some selling, I'll just pep her on the phone. Hey — put her on.'

'Don't bother.'

'Then she's sold? She digs you?'

'I don't know.'

'Then what's she doin' in your house at ten p.m.?'

Tears of laughter poured down Marcie's face. At me. Because I was so bad at playing Puritan.

'Oliver, I know I'm interruptin', so I'll ask you one quick question and the ball is yours to do with as your heart contents.'

'About our meeting, Phil — '

'Oliver, that's not my question.'

'What's your question, Philip?'

'When's the weddin', Oliver?'

He hung up loudly. I could sense his laughter all the way from Cranston.

'Who was that?' asked Marcie, though I'm sure she guessed. 'He seems to love you very much.'

I looked at her with gratitude for understanding.

'Yeah. The feeling's mutual.'

Marcie came and sat upon the bed. And took my hand.

'I know you feel uncomfortable,' she said.

'It's sort of crowded here,' I answered.

'In your head as well. And mine.' We sat in silence. How much had she intuited?

'I never slept with Michael in the big apartment,' Marcie offered.

'I never slept with Jenny … here.'

'I understand,' she said. 'But if I met his parents it would just evoke a headache or a touch of nausea. Anything that brings up Jenny is still agony for you.'

I could not refute a single thing she said.

'Should I go home?' she asked. 'I'd really understand if you said yes.'

Without the slightest introspection — for it was the only way — I answered no.

'Let's take a walk. And have a drink outside.'

Marcie had this strange take-over manner. I mean I liked her strength. And her ability to … cope with situations.

Wine for me and orange juice for her. She sensed I wanted to hang in there, so she kept: the conversation superficial. We discussed her occupation.

Not many of us know exactly what the presidents of chain stores do. It's not that glamorous.

They have to visit every store and walk down every single aisle.

'How often?'

'All the time. When I'm not doing that, I check the shows in Europe and the Orient. To get a feel of what the next big sexy thing might be.'

'What is "sexy" in the business connotation, Marce?'

'When you wear that stupid cashmere thing I gave you, you promote our "fantasy" or "sexy" line.

Look, twenty different stores can sell a simple sweater. But we're always en the prowl for image-makers, items people never knew they needed. If we're right, they see it in our ad and kill each cither to be first in line. You dig?'

'In economic terms,' I said with Ivy League pomposity, 'you build a false demand for a supply of what inherently is worthless.'

'Dull but accurate.' She nodded.

'Put in brighter terms, if you say, "Shit is in," then everybody buys manure.'

'Correct. Our only problem is if someone gets that brilliant notion first!'

Marcie's car was parked (illegally) in front of my apartment. It was late when we got back. But I felt better. Or the wine had made me think I did.

'Well,' she said, 'I've walked you home.'

Exquisite tact. I had both options now. I also knew which one I … needed.

'Marcie, if you go, you'll sleep alone and I'll sleep alone. In economic terms, that's inefficient use of bedroom space. Would you agree?'

'I would,' she said.

'Besides, I'd really like to put my arms round you.'

She acknowledged a coincidental inclination.

Marce woke me with a cup of coffee.

In a Styrofoam container?

'I couldn't start the stove,' she said. 'I went out to the corner shop.'

'Please understand. We aren't 'living together'.

Although it's been a summer of excitement.

It's true we eat together, talk together, laugh (and disagree) together, sleep together under the same roof (i.e., my basement). But neither party has acknowledged an arrangement. And certainly no obligations. Everything is day-today. Although we try as much as possible to be with one another. We do have something rather rare, I think. A kind of … friendship. And it's all the more unusual because it's not platonic.

Marcie keeps her wardrobe at the castle and picks up mail and messages when she's exchanging garments. Happily, at times she also picks up food prepared by her now underactive staff. We eat it off the coffee table with disparate spoons and rap about whatever's in the air. Will L.B.J. stand up in history? ('Damn tall.') What horror show will Nixon stage to 'Vietnamize'? Moon shots while the cities fester. Dr Spock. James Earl Ray. Chappaquiddick. Green Bay Packers. Spiro T. Jackie O.

Would the world be better if Cosell and Kissinger changed jobs?

Sometimes Marcie has to work till nearly twelve. I pick her up, we have a midnight sandwich and walk slowly home — that is, to my place.

Sometimes I'm in Washington, which means that she's alone — although there's always stuff to keep her busy. Then she meets my shuttle at La Guardia and drives me in. But mostly, I'm the one providing airport transportation.

Look, the nature of her work involves a lot of travel. The obligatory visits to each branch. Which means at least a week away while covering the Eastern corridor, part of another week for Cleveland, Cincinnati and Chicago. And of course the Western circuit: Denver, L.A., San Francisco. Naturally, the absences are not consecutive. For one, New York's the base of operations, where she has to 'charge her batteries'. And lately, for another, it's the place she charges mine. We have a lot of days together. Now and then we even have a week.

Naturally, I'd like to see her more, but understand what her commitments mean. The papers nowadays decry what they call sexist-male suppression of his partner's individuality. But I won't be hung with that rap twice. And I see other couples far less fortunate than we. Luci Danziger has tenure in the Princeton Psych Department and her husband, Peter, teaches math in Boston. Even double academic salaries don't allow them luxuries that Marce and I enjoy: the myriad of phone calls, stolen weekends in exotic midway places (I could write a song about our recent Cincinnati idyll).

I do confess I'm lonely when she's out of town. Especially in summer, with the lovers in the park.

The telephone's a pretty meager substitute. Because the minute you hang up, your hand is empty.

We are, from what I gather in the media, a modern couple. He works. She works. They share responsibilities — or lack of them. They show respect for one another. Probably they don't want children.

Actually, I would like children someday. And I don't think marriage is so obsolete. But anyway, the whole discussion's moot. Marcie's never advocated motherhood or matrimony. She seems pleased with what we have. Which is, I guess, affection bound by neither time nor definition.

None of this is stuff we talk about when we're together. We're too busy doing things. Part of our incessant motion is the fact it keeps us out of my adobe (though Marcie's never once complained of claustrophobia). We jog. We play a lot of tennis (not at 6 a.m.; I put my sneaker down). We see a lot of movies and whatever Walter Kerr suggests is worthwhile in the theater. We share a common phobia for parties; we're jealous of each other's company and like to be alone. Still, now and then we do see friends upon a casual evening.