Love Story

16

CHANGE OF ADDRESS

From July 1, 1967

Mr. and Mrs. Oliver Barrett IV

263 East 63rd Street

New York, N.Y. 10021

'It's so nouveau riche,' complained Jenny.

'But we are nouveau riche,' I insisted.

What was adding to my overall feeling of euphoric triumph was the fact that the monthly rate for my car was damn near as much as we had paid for our entire apartment in Cambridge! Jonas and Marsh was an easy ten-minute walk (or strut — I preferred the latter gait), and so were the fancy shops like Bonwit's and so forth where I insisted that my wife, the bitch, immediately open accounts and start spending.

'Why, Oliver?'

'Because, goddammit, Jenny, I want to be taken advantage of!'

I joined the Harvard Club of New York, proposed by Raymond Stratton '64, newly returned to civilian life after having actually shot at some Vietcong ('I'm not positive it was VC, actually. I heard noises, so I opened fire at the bushes'). Ray and I played squash at least three times a week, and I made a mental note, giving myself three years to become Club champion. Whether it was merely because I had resurfaced in Harvard territory, or because word of my Law School successes had gotten around (I didn't brag about the salary, honest), my 'friends' discovered me once more. We had moved in at the height of the summer (I had to take a cram course for the New York bar exam), and the first invitations were for weekends.

'Fuck 'em, Oliver. I don't want to waste two days bullshitting with a bunch of vapid preppies.'

'Okay, Jen, but what should I tell them?'

'Just say I'm pregnant, Oliver.'

'Are you? 'I asked.

'No, but if we stay home this weekend I might be.'

We had a name already picked out. I mean, I had, and I think I got Jenny to agree finally.

'Hey — you won't laugh?' I said to her, when first broaching the subject. She was in the kitchen at the time (a yellow color-keyed thing that even included a dishwasher).

'What?' she asked, still slicing tomatoes.

'I've really grown fond of the name Bozo,' I said.

'You mean seriously?' she asked.

'Yeah. I honestly dig it.'

'You would name our child Bozo?' she asked again.

'Yes. Really. Honestly, Jen, it's the name of a super-jock.'

'Bozo Barrett.' She tried it on for size.

'Christ, he'll be an incredible bruiser,' I continued, convincing myself further with each word I spoke. ' 'Bozo Barrett, Harvard's huge All-Ivy tackle.' '

'Yeah — but, Oliver,' she asked, 'suppose — just suppose — the kid's not coordinated?'

'Impossible, Jen, the genes are too good. Truly.' I meant it sincerely. This whole Bozo business had gotten to be a frequent daydream of mine as I strutted to work.

I pursued the matter at dinner. We had bought great Danish china.

'Bozo will be a very well-coordinated bruiser,' I told Jenny. 'In fact, if he has your hands, we can put him in the backfield.'

She was just smirking at me, searching no doubt for some sneaky put-down to disrupt my idyllic vision. But lacking a truly devastating remark, she merely cut the cake and gave me a piece. And she was still hearing me out.

'Think of it, Jenny,' I continued, even with my mouth full, 'two hundred and forty pounds of bruising finesse.'

'Two hundred and forty pounds?' she said. 'There's nothing in our genes that says two hundred and forty pounds, Oliver.'

'We'll feed him up, Jen. Hi-Proteen, Nutrament, the whole diet-supplement bit.'

'Oh, yeah? Suppose he won't eat, Oliver?'

'He'll eat, goddammit,' I said, getting slightly pissed off already at the kid who would soon be sitting at our table not cooperating with my plans for his athletic triumphs. 'He'll eat or I'll break his face.'

At which point Jenny looked me straight in the eye and smiled.

'Not if he weighs two-forty, you won't.'

'Oh,' I replied, momentarily set back, then quickly realized, 'But he won't be two-forty right away!'

'Yeah, yeah,' said Jenny, now shaking an admonitory spoon at me, 'but when he is, Preppie, start running!' And she laughed like hell.

It's really comic, but while she was laughing I had this vision of a two-hundred-and-forty-pound kid in a diaper chasing after me in Central Park, shouting, 'You be nicer to my mother, Preppie!'

Christ, hopefully Jenny would keep Bozo from destroying me.