know, I’ve always suspected you were from another planet.”
What a supreme dick, Overman thinks, now glad he slaughtered the guy on the tennis court. He wished there were a way to shut this asshole up once and for all. An idea suddenly occurs to him. It would have seemed crazy yesterday, it might be crazy now, but it was worth a shot.
“Do you think I could get a date with our waitress?” Overman asks.
Rosenfarb sees the curvaceous Ersatz Kim Basinger approaching, bearing corned beef and blintzes.
“In what universe do you think that could be an option, Overman?”
Overman doesn’t dignify the remark with a response, choosing instead to focus on Kim as she rests the plates in front of them.
“Will there be anything else?” she asks.
“Spicy mustard for me. Anything for you?” Rosenfarb snickers at Overman.
“Nothing, thanks, it looks great,” Overman says, looking deep into her eyes. “Do we know each other from somewhere?”
“I don’t think so,” Kim smiles back. She starts off then quickly turns back. “You know there is something about you that seems familiar...”
“Let me guess. He looks like your old fart Uncle Larry,” Jake chortles, thrilled to have added his ever-extraneous two cents.
“No, not really,” Kim replies, moving away to take another order.
Rosenfarb gives Overman a knowing, “you stupid shit” nod. “Ira, I think maybe you need to see a new therapist. Rita’s been very happy with hers.”
And a lot of good that’s done her. Was it the therapist who came up with the whole sperm swallowing for diamonds arrangement, Overman wonders?
Kim returns to the table wielding a brand new squeeze bottle of spicy mustard. “Here you go, sir,” she says, placing it in front of Rosenfarb. She then looks at Overman and produces a hand-written note. “My phone number. In case you ever feel like getting together.” Kim smiles seductively at Overman and heads back toward the kitchen.
Rosenfarb is convinced that Overman and Kim pre-arranged this as a practical joke.
“When have I ever been that clever?” Overman asks, a valid point on any given day.
But Rosenfarb cannot deal with what he has witnessed with his own eyes and ears throughout this evening. It is as if everything he has gleaned over a lifetime has been rendered false in one fell swoop. “I don’t know what you think you’re up to Overman, but we’ll settle this on the court next week.” He stands up and motions toward Kim, hoisting the gargantuan corned beef triple-decker in the air. “I’ll take this to go.”
Having left his friend a discombobulated mass of Ashkenaze jelly, Overman had much to contemplate on the ride home. He ruminated on the fact that there had been volumes written on the subject of bad things happening to good people, but were there any texts that addressed when good things happened to someone like him? If an all-loving, merciful God couldn’t prevent pain and suffering but was nonetheless responsible for Good, what had a weak, soulless, unremarkable man like Overman ever done to deserve the gifts he had been given today? Granted, it was only one day and things could turn to shit tomorrow, but at the very least, he had been thrown a major cosmic bone, for which, even in his mystified state, he was thankful.
There are certain individuals for whom high school is a Defining Moment. On some level that could be said of Overman, for it was in the halls of Long Island’s Lakeview South (there was no lake anywhere and the only view was of a shopping center) that young Ira perfected the art of blending into the woodwork, thereby avoiding blame or arousing ire. While his neighborhood friend Jake Rosenfarb was an inferior student with no discernable talent, he made the most of his subpar skill set. Rosenfarb was unafraid of talking to girls, something Overman was never able to master, even into adulthood.
Jake had a simple opening line that seemed to work every time.
“You nervous about the test?” he’d inquire of Sharon Kramer, the pouty brunette from World History class with the best rack in Lakeview North or South. She would confide that although she knew the material, she worried that it wouldn’t translate to the testing environment. Rosenfarb would then admit his own academic insecurities, suggest studying together, and three chapters later would be exploring globes Vasco Da Gama only dreamed of.
In the fall of their senior year, Rosenfarb claimed to have gone around the world quite a few times with Nancy Morrison, a spirited redhead from his economics class, who, according to Lakeview legend, had an insatiable sexual appetite. Many years later, by the time she became Nancy Overman, she had had her fill of fleshly pleasures and considered any sort of physical contact an unnecessary annoyance. The fact that his best friend had deflowered his wife was not a pleasant thought for Overman, yet it seemed right in keeping with the path his entire life had taken. After all, he didn’t have to pursue Nancy. He made his move knowing full well that a bothersome past would inform a troubled future. This was to be cemented when the Overmans and Rosenfarb ended up in Los Angeles together.
Ultimately things evened out, which is not to say that life got better for Overman, but worse for Rosenfarb and Nancy. Jake wound up marrying a gold-digging interior decorator and Nancy became stepmother to the spoiled, druggy kids of her new internist husband. And Overman was free. Alone and miserable, but free.
Back in high school, Rosenfarb was a decent athlete, better than Overman of course, but not varsity material in any sport. Still, the jocks liked his vapid affability and always invited him to parties. Occasionally he would drag Overman along – never a problem because rarely did anyone notice Ira skulking in the corner. There was one particular soirée where the guys on the basketball team had some girl all tanked up in a bedroom. Rosenfarb had taken off early to console Sharon Kramer on her recent B minus, leaving Overman alone to pick through the Fritos and onion dip. Suddenly, someone was elbowing him, directing him upstairs.
He walked into a bedroom and discerned what seemed like a bizarre tribal ritual, but was, in fact, a contemporary adaptation being performed by plastered suburban high school kids. Overman knew Janie Sweeney from English class. Amiable and shy with a solid grasp of English literature and zero self-esteem, she was sprawled on her back in a semi-conscious haze. What Overman witnessed before him was nothing like the anonymous, mass-marketed porn he had come to know and love. These were his frothing classmates, pounding the poor drunken girl who had written that brilliant paper on the Brontë sisters. Overman started to panic. What would happen when the other guys finished and they turned to him? If he didn’t participate he would be branded as weak, gay, or a potential snitch.
He tried to tiptoe out of the room when a huge hand slammed the door shut. The next thing he knew all eyes were on him. Overman was on deck, a late-inning addition to the lineup in a new sport the Lakeview boys had created for their own amusement.
“You know, I’m not feeling that well,” Overman managed to squeak out.
“That’s ‘cause you’ve never seen a pussy before,” countered Marty Merkowitz, the point guard and ringleader of the party. “Unzip your pants and get over here.”
Merkowitz had been in his Bar Mitzvah class. How does a person go from the bima to orchestrating a gang rape? Overman wondered. There was no time to ponder the hows and whys. They were all waiting for him. It was Overman’s move.
