Erich Segal - Oliver's Story

Rightfully, Steve Simpson claimed a moral option on our first night out. Gwen was hot to cook, but sharp dyspeptic apprehensions made me vote for Giamatti's in the Village. Okay, cool — we'll see you both at eight.

Now, Marcie has this little social problem. She's a conversation-stopper. Which isn't something teen-age girls should dream of. First, we can't ignore the matter of her looks (indeed, that is the essence of the problem). Take Steve — a normal, happy husband. He examines Marcie's physiognomy, albeit from afar, in manner somewhat: less than nonchalant. He doesn't stare exactly, but he does indulge in rather heavy gazing. Thus, a priori, Marcie has already put off someone else's wife. And even though she dresses with consistent understatement, other females seem to ferret out the fashion. And are not too pleased.

We move across the sawdust floor of Giamatti's. Stephen is already standing (good manners, or for better viewing?). Gwen is smiling on the outside. Doubtless hoping that for all her poise and obvious panache, at least my girl will be. a five-watt bulb.

Introductions are another hurdle. You say 'Binnendale' and even a sophisticate is not unmoved.

With most celebrities there is a built-in, solid-state reaction ('Loved your piece on boxing, Mr Mailer'; 'How's the national security, Professor Kissinger?' and so on). Always there's a point of reference you can gloss upon. But what to say to Marcie: 'Liked your new displays'?

Marcie copes, of course. Her policy is always to initiate the conversation. Though she ends up doing lots of talking at. Which obviously makes it tough to get to know her. And which explains why people often find her cold.

Anyway, we start with badinage like Giamatti's is so tough to find. ('Did you get lost as well?') John Lennon eats here when he's in New York. The common party lines.

Then Marcie literally grabs the ball. She's very anxious to display her friendliness to friends of mine. She buckshots Steve with questions on neurology. And doing so, evinces more than layman's knowledge of the field.

On learning that Gwen teaches history at Dalton, she dilates on the state of New York City's private education. Back in her day at Brearley, things were pretty rigid, structured, all the rest. She speaks enthusiastically about the innovations. Especially the mathematics programs, training kids to use computers when they're very young.

Gwen has vaguely heard about this stuff. Of course with all the hours of history she teaches, there's no time to get the feedback from the other disciplines. Yet she observes how Marcie's so well tuned in to the current New York academic scene. Marcie answers that she reads lots of magazines on planes.

Anyway, I cringe at much of this. And hurt for Marcie. No one ever gets to glimpse the ugly duckling underneath the outer swan. They can't conceive she's so unconfident she comes on extra strong to compensate. I understand. But I'm no good at chairing conversations.

Anyway, I try. And turn to topics in the world of sport. Steve is warmed and Gwen relieved.

Very soon we're ranging far and wide on jocky issues of the day — the Stanley Cup, the Davis Cup, Phil Esposito, Derek Sanderson, Bill Russell, will the Yankees move to Jersey — and I'm having too much fun to notice anything except the ice is broken. Everybody's loose. We're even using locker-room locutions. Only when the waiter takes the order do I notice that the song has only been a trio. When I hear Gwen Simpson join the conversation, saying, 'I'll have the scaloppine alia minorese.'

'What the hell is wrong with Marcie?'

Thus Steve to me a few days later as we finished jogging. (This was Marcie's week to walk the Eastern corridor.) I'd asked him casually, to get some notion of what he and Gwen had thought. As we left the park and crossed Fifth Avenue, he asked again, 'What's wrong with her?'

'What do you mean — "What's wrong with her?" There's nothing wrong, goddammit.'

Stephen looked at me and shook his head. I had not understood.

'That's just the point,' he said. 'She's goddamn perfect.'

What the hell is wrong with me?

I've just been readmitted to the human race. The petals of my soul are opening. I should be overjoyed. And yet for some strange reason, I feel only mezzo-mezzo. Maybe it's just leaves-are-falling blues.

Not that I'm depressed.

How could I be? I'm cooking on all burners. Working well. So much so I can now devote more hours to the Raiders up in Harlem and to civil liberties.

As for Marcie, in the words of Stephen Simpson, it is goddamn perfect. Our interests coincide in almost everything.

And we are literally a team. Mixed doubles, to be quite specific. Competing in a tourney for the tristate area. We conquered Gotham Club with ease and have been facing combos from the provinces. With moderate success (which is to say we're undefeated).

She deserves the credit. I'm outclassed by more than half the guys, but Marcie simply runs the legs off all her female competition. I never thought I'd see myself admit athletic mediocrity. But I just hang in there, and thanks to Marcie, we've won ribbons and certificates, and are en route to our first gold-leaf trophy.

And she's been really Marcie-like as we advance in competition. Being victims of the schedule, we have to play on certain nights — or forfeit. Once the Gotham quarter final was a Wednesday 9 p.m. She'd spent the day in Cleveland, took a dinner flight, put on her tennis clothes before they landed, and while I was bullshitting the referee, appeared by nine-fifteen. We edged a victory, went home and crashed. Next morning she was off again at seven to Chicago. Happily, there was no game the week she spent out on the Coast.

To sum it up: a man and woman synchronized in mood and pace of life. It works.

Then why the hell am I not quite as happy as the score-board says I should be?

Clearly this was topic number one with Dr London.

'It's not depression, Doctor. I feel great. I'm full of optimism. Marce and I … the two of us … '

I paused. I had intended to say, 'We communicate incessantly.' But it is difficult to pull a fast one on yourself.

' … we don't talk to one another.'

Yes, I said it. And I meant it, though it: sounded paradoxical. For did we not — as well our bills attested — gab for hours nightly on the phone?

Yes. But we don't really say that much.

'I'm happy, Oliver' is not communication. It is just a testimonial.

I could be wrong, of course.

What the hell do I know of relationships? All I've ever been is married. And it doesn't seem appropriate to make comparisons with Jenny. I mean, I only know the two of us were very much in love. At the time, of course, I wasn't analytical. I didn't scrutinize my feelings through a psychiatric microscope. And I can't articulate precisely why with Jenny I was so supremely happy.

Yet the funny thing is Jen and I had so much less in common. She was passionately unimpressed by sports. When I watched football she would read a book across the room.

I taught her how to swim.

I never did succeed in teaching her to drive.

But what the hell — is being man and wife some kind of educational experience?

You bet your ass it is.

But not in swimming, driving or in reading maps. Or even — as I recently had tried to recreate the situation — in teaching someone how to light a stove.

It means you learn about yourself from constant dialogue with one another. Establishing new circuits in the satellite transmitting your emotions.