Erich Segal - Oliver's Story

This scintillating repartee was taking place in Maxwell's Prune, a very fancy singles bar at Sixty-fourth and First. Well, actually, its name is Maxwell's Plum, but my pervasive cynicism shrivels up the fruit of everybody else's optimism. Simply put, I hate the joint. I can't abide those self-styled beautiful young swingers chattering euphorically. And coming on like they were millionaires or literary critics. Or even really single.

'This is Oliver,' said Philip Cavilleri, suit by Robert Hall, coiffure by Dom of Cranston, cashmere sweater by Cardin (through Filene's basement).

'Hi, Ol,' said Jan. 'You're very cute. Are you a cookie-lover too?'

She maybe was a model. What the magazines call statuesque. To me she looked like a giraffe.

And of course she had a roly-poly friend. Marjory, who giggled when presented.

'Do you come here often?' queried Jan, the statuesque giraffe.

'Never,' I replied.

'Yeah, that's what everybody says. I only come on weekends. I'm from out of town.'

'What a coincidence,' said Phil, 'I also hail from out of town.'

'And you?' said Jan to me.

'I'm out to lunch,' I said.

'No shit,' said Jan.

'He means,' my colleague Philip interposed, 'we'd like to ask you both to dinner.'

'Cool,' said Jan.

We dined in some place down the block called Flora's Rib Cage.

'Very in,' said Jan.

But I might add not very inexpensive. Phil outwrestled me 1:0 get the check (although he couldn't hide his shock upon perusing it). He grandiosely paid it with his Master Charge. I imagined he would have to sell enormous quantities of cookies for this gesture …

'Are you very rich?' said giggly Marge to Phil.

'Well, let us say I am a man of means,' the Duke of Cranston answered, adding, 'though I'm not as cultured as my son-in-law.'

There was a little pause. Ah, quite a sticky wicket, this.

'Son-in-law?' said Jan. 'You two are, you know …?' And she waved her bony, long-nailed hand in interrogatory-circles.

Phil did not know how to answer, so I helped him, nodding yes.

'Hey, wow,' said Jan, 'that's far-out wild. But where's your wives?'

'Well … uh,' said Phil, 'they're … '

Now another pause as Philip groped for equilibrium.

'Not in town,' I said, to spare him more embarrassment.

There was another pause as Jan absorbed the scene.

'That's cool,' she said.

Phil was looking at the murals on the walls and I was at the limit of my patience.

'Girls,' I said, 'I gotta leave.'

'Why?' asked Jan.

'I have a porno film to go to.' And I edged away.

'Hey, that is weird,' I heard the lissome Jan exclaim. That creep goes out to porno films alone?'

'Oh, I don't go to them,' I called across the crowded room. 'I act in them.'

Seconds later, Phil had reached me on the street.

'Hey, look,' he said. 'You gotta start.'

'Okay, we started.'

'So then why'd you leave?'

'The utter joy was killing me,' I said.

We walked in silence.

'Look,' said Philip finally. 'It was a way of getting back to things.'

'There's gotta be a better way.'

'Like what?'

'Oh, I don't know,' I said facetiously. 'I'll take an ad.'

That shut him up for several seconds. Then he said, 'You did already.'

'What?' I stopped and looked at him, incredulous. 'I what?'

'You know that fancy book review that Jenny used to read? I took an ad for you. Don't worry.

Real discreet. With class. Sophisticated.'

'Oh,' I said. 'Like what exactly was the essence?'

'Well, sort of "New York lawyer heavy into sports and anthropology —" '

'Where the hell'd you get the anthropology?'

He shrugged. 'I thought it sounded intellectual.'

'Oh, great. I'm all aglow to read the answers.'

'Here,' he said. And from his pocket drew three different envelopes.

'What did they say?'

'I don't read other people's mail,' said Philip Cavilleri, staunch defender of the right to privacy.

So there, beneath an orange tungsten street lamp, my bemusement tinged with trepidation — not to mention Philip at my shoulder — I laid bare a sample message.

Holy shit! I thought but didn't say. Phil, pretending that he wasn't reading, simply gasped, 'My God!'

The correspondent was indeed a person into anthropology. But this epistle was proposing pagan rites so wild and strange that Philip nearly fainted.

'It's a joke,' he mumbled feebly.

'Yes. On you,' I answered.

'But who could like such weirdness, Oliver?'

'Philip, it's a brave new world,' I said, and smiled to camouflage my own astonishment. I tossed the other letters in a bin.

'Hey, I'm sorry,' Philip said, after a block or two of very chastened speechlessness. 'I really didn't know.'

I put my arm around his shoulder and began to laugh. Relieved, he chuckled too.

We wended homeward in the balmy New York evening. Just the two of us. Because our wives were … not in town.

It helps to run.

It clears the mind. Releases tension. And it's socially-acceptable to do alone. So even when I'm working on some crucial case, or if I've spent all day in court, and even if it's Washington or anywhere, I put my sweat suit on and run.

Once upon a time I did play squash. But that requires certain other skills. Like eloquence enough to say, 'Nice shot' or 'Do you think we'll mangle Yale this year?' That far transcends my current capabilities. And so I run. Working out in Central Park, I never have to speak to anyone.

'Hey, Oliver, you s.o.b.!'

One afternoon I seemed to hear my name. Just imagination. No one ever paged me in the park.

And so I jogged along.

'You goddamn Harvard snob!'

Although the world abounds with guys of that description, still I somehow sensed that I indeed was being called. I looked back and saw my former college roommate, Stephen Simpson, '64, about to overtake me on his bike.

'Hey, what the hell is wrong with you?' he said by way of salutation.

'Simpson, what gives you the right to say that anything is wrong with me?'

'Well, first, I'm now a graduated doctor; second, I'm supposed to be your friend; and third, I leave you messages you never answer.'

'I figured med school students never have the time … '

'Hey, Barrett, I was busy, but I found the time to marry Gwen. I called — I even telegrammed an invitation to your office — and you didn't show.'

'Gee, I'm sorry, Steve, I never got the message,' I prevaricated.

'Yeah? How come you sent a wedding present two weeks later?'

Jesus Christ, this Simpson shoulda been a lawyer! But how could I explain that all I really wanted was a leave of absence from the human race?

'I'm sorry, Steve,' I answered, hoping he would ride on by.

'You're not sorry, you're pathetic'

'Thanks. Regards to Gwen.' He didn't leave my side.

'Hey, look — don't ask me why, but Gwen would love to see you,' Simpson said.

'That's awfully masochistic. Has she seen a doctor?'

'Me. I told her she was off her rocker. But since we can't afford the theater, you're the cheapest way to get some laughs. How's Friday night?'

'I'm busy, Simpson.'

'Sure, I know. There's always night court. Anyway, show up at eight.'

He then accelerated by me, turning back but once. To say, as if addressing one of limited intelligence, 'That's eight p.m. this Friday night. We're in the goddamn book, so no excuses.'

'Forget it, Steve. I won't be there!'

He pretended not to hear my firm rebuttal. Goddamn arrogance to think I could be pushed around.

Anyway, the guy in Sherry-Lehmann claimed that Chateau Lynch-Bages, though a mere fifth growth, was very underrated and among the best Bordeaux ('Charming, round and witty'). So I got two bottles ('64). Even if the Simpsons would be bored to tears, they'd have a clever wine for consolation.