Erich Segal - Oliver's Story

They acted pleased to see me.

'Oliver, you haven't changed a bit!'

'You haven't either, Gwen!'

I noticed that they also hadn't changed their posters. Andy Warhol at his Poppiest. ('I saw so damn much Campbell soup when I was young, I'd never hang it on the wall!' my wife remarked when we had visited them years ago.)

We sat down on the floor. From corner speakers Paul and Art were softly asking if we were goin' to Scarborough Fair. Stephen opened some Mondavi white. I munched innumerable pretzels as we talked of metaphysical profundities. Like what a drag it was to be a resident, how rarely she and Steve could have a quiet evening. And of course, did I esteem that Harvard had a chance to mangle Yale that year? Gwen didn't specify what sport. She could have asked if Yin would mangle Yang.

But let it pass. The point is that they tried to make me feel that I could loosen up. It wasn't half as bad as I'd imagined.

Then suddenly a bell rang and I froze.

'What's that?' I asked.

'Stay loose,' said Steve. 'It's just the other guests.'

I'd accurately sensed conspiracy in that bell's timbre.

'What other guests?' I asked.

'Well, actually,' said Gwen, 'it's just a single guest.'

'You mean a guest who's single, right?' I said, now feeling like a cornered animal.

'By chance,' said Steve, and left to get the door.

Dammit, this is why I never go to other people's houses! I can't endure the friends who try to 'help'. I knew the whole scenario already. This would be a former roommate or an older sister or a classmate who was getting a divorce. Yet another ambush, dammit!

Inwardly enraged, I wanted to say, 'Fuck.' But since I didn't know Gwen well enough, I just said, 'Shit.'

'Oliver, it's someone nice.'

'I'm sorry, Gwen. I know you both meant: well, but — '

At that very moment Steve returned with this night's sacrificial victim.

Wire glasses.

What I noticed first was she was wearing rounded wire glasses. And was taking off her clothes. I mean the jacket she was wearing, which was white.

Simpson introduced Joanna Stein, M.D., a resident in pediatrics, whom he'd gone to med school with. They currently were slaving in the selfsame hospital. I didn't even pay enough attention to decide if she was pretty. Someone said let's all sit down and have a drink and so we did.

Lots of small talk after that.

Gradually I noticed that Joanna Stein, M.D., besides her rounded wire glasses, had a gentle voice. Later still I noticed that the thoughts articulated in that voice were sensitive and kind. I'm glad to say there was no mention of my 'case'. I guess the Simpsons briefed her.

'It's a crappy life,' I heard Steve Simpson say.

'I'll drink to that,' I said. And then I realized he and Gwen were just commiserating with Joanna on how hard it was to be a resident.

'What do you do for recreation, Jo?' said I. And wondered, Christ, I hope she doesn't think I'm hinting that I want to ask her out.

'I go to bed,' she answered.

'Oh?'

'I can't help it,' she continued. "I get home so tired I just crash and sleep for twenty hours.'

'Oh.'

There was a pause. Who now would take the ball of conversation and attempt to pass or run for yardage? We sat in silence for what seemed a century. Until Gwen Simpson bade us come to dinner.

May I say in total candor that although Gwen is a lovely human being, she is not exactly gifted in the culinary arts. Sometimes when she simply boils up water it can taste all burned. Tonight was no exception. One could even claim she'd … overdone herself. But still I ate, in order not to have to talk. At least there were two doctors present should my stomach later need emergency attention.

And as things wore on, as we were savoring — would you believe — a cheesecake that seemed charcoal broiled, Joanna Stein inquired, 'Oliver?'

Thanks to my experience in cross-examination, I responded quickly.

'Yes?'

'Do you like opera?'

Dammit, that's a tricky question, I thought inwardly, while racing to consider what she might intend. Would she want to speak of operas like Bohème or Traviata, works in which, by chance, a lady dies in the finale? Just to offer me catharsis, maybe? No, she couldn't be that gauche. But anyway, the room was hushed awaiting my reply.

'Oh, I don't mind opera,' I replied, then shrewdly covering all bases, added, 'I just don't dig anything Italian, French or German.'

'Good,' she said, unfazed. Could she have meant the Chinese opera?

'Merritt's singing Purcell Tuesday night.'

Dammit, I forgot to rule out English too! Now I'd probably got involved in taking her to some damn Limey opera.

'Sheila Merritt's this year's big soprano,' Stephen Simpson said, now double-teaming me.

'And she's singing Dido and Aeneas,' added Gwen, thus making it a three-on-one encounter.

(Dido — yet another girl who dies because the guy she went with was a selfish bastard!)

'That sounds great,' I said, capitulating. Though inwardly I cursed both Steve and Gwen. And most of all, Chateau Lynch-Bages, for weakening my first intention, which was to say that any music made me sick.

'Oh, I'm pleased,' Joanna said. 'I've got two seats … '

Ah, here it comes.

' … but Steve and I are both on duty. I was hoping you and Gwen could use the tickets.'

'Gwen would really dig it, Oliver,' said Steve, his tone of voice implying that his wife deserved a break.

'Yeah, fine,' I said. Then realizing I should act a little more enthused, I told Joanna, 'Thanks a lot.'

'I'm glad that you can go,' she said. 'Please tell my parents that you saw me and I'm still alive.'

What was this? I now cringed inwardly, while picturing a seat adjoining the aggressive ('Like my daughter?') mother of Joanna Stein.

'They're in the strings,' she said, and hurried out with Steve.

Sitting there with Gwen, I thought of punishing myself for my absurd behavior. So I tried to chew another piece of charcoal cheesecake.

'Where the hell is "Strings"?' I asked her.

'Usually it's eastward of the woodwinds. Joanna's mother's a violist and her father plays the cello with the New York City Opera.'

'Oh,' I said, and took a mouthful more of punishment.

A pause.

'Was it really all that painful meeting Jo?' she asked.

I looked at her.

And answered, 'Yeah.'

When I am laid …

Thus begins the song that was the hit of 1689. The problem with an English opera is that sometimes you can understand the words.

When I am laid —

Am laid in earth

May my wrongs create no trouble —

No trouble in thy breast …

Dido, queen of Carthage, was about to self-destruct and feel the need to tell the world about it in an aria. The music was fantastic and the text antique. Sheila Merritt sang it brilliantly and well deserved all her ovations. Finally she died definitively, dancing Cupids scattered roses, and the cur-tain fell.

'Hey, Gwen, I'm glad I came,' I said, as we arose.

'Let's thank our benefactors,' she replied.

We threaded through the people moving out and reached the orchestra.

'Where's Steve?' said Mr Stein as he was covering his cello. He had flowing grayish hair that didn't seem acquainted with a comb.

'He's on duty with Joanna,' Gwen replied. 'This is Oliver, a friend of hers.' (She didn't have to put it: quite that way!) At this moment, bearing her viola, Mrs Stein approached. Sort of small and stocky, though her effervescent manner made her quite attractive.

'Are you holding court. King Stein?'