It’s been a while since I did a purely fiction post, mostly because I harbor a suspicion that most people hate reading fiction when there’s Bravo to be watched, but I felt like doing it. My son is eight months old today and, as the extremely annoying learning toy I got him keeps saying, “the sun is shining.”
“Book Club”
Note: One exercise I like to do is read something highbrow, then use it as a writing prompt for something decidedly less so. Which is to say, this story is inspired by “On the Agenda” by Lora Segal.
2008
They founded Book Club for the same reason a lot of women do, to control the U.S. Government. And they were women, in the technical sense anyway, even though most were barely twenty. They wanted, ostensibly, to hold themselves accountable for the elective consumption of literature, to finally dive into the classics they’d Spark Notes-ed their way though in school, and to dictate the actions of the White House like marionettes on a string.
But mostly, they wanted to see each other, drink red wine after September, and pink wine after April, and talk about boys. College and Manhattan were hard, and a reading-based discussion group offered the kind of familiar pseudo-academic sorority they had lost by having the nerve to grow up.
“Let’s read Lolita next,” suggested Stephanie after their first meeting was officially a success, and all that remained were the four founding members and crimson stains on their lips and wine glasses.
“Oh, yah,” agreed Camille. “I’ve always wanted to know what the heart glasses were about.”
“That’s just the movie, genius,” Jesse explained. A sophomore at Columbia, Jesse was the only Ivy Leaguer among them, and sometimes she just couldn’t help herself.
“You guys, should McCain win?” Asked Emma, fiddling with her iPhone. The Apple smartphone had dropped that summer, and Emma’s rich boyfriend had bought her one to help remind her that it didn’t matter if she didn’t like him all that much.
“Will you stop with that smartphone?” begged Stephanie. “You’re like a barracuda to a Tiffany dog tag. “I hope everyone doesn’t become addicted to those things.”
“I’m quite fine playing snake on my Slivr, thank you very much,” declared Camille.
“OK, sure, but should he?” Emma wasn’t letting this one go. It was, after all, the tertiary reason for their group. They considered the question for a beat.
“No,” decided Jesse, with conviction. “Obama is way cooler.”
“Way cooler,” Camille agreed. “Can we not read a book that romanticizes pedophilia, though?” The others nodded, and so it was decided.
2010
Emma got engaged, then Jesse got a Kindle. It was the beginning of an end of an era.
2012
There were two rules of Book Club: no non-fiction, and no succumbing to lobbyists. Scheduling became harder once they had all graduated, or in Jesse’s case, dropped out to join the Hillsong church band, and they all secretly wondered if Book Club would survive.
The next time they met, Camille came back from Paris with blunt bangs, they all had kindles, and Mitt Romney was favored to take Ohio.
“I did not care for this one,” Emma slapped a paperback copy of Emily Griffin’s Something Borrowed on the glass coffee table. “It’s a cheater apologist tome!”
“You chose it,” she jutted an accusatory finger at Beth, the newest member, whom they had only allowed to join Book Club because she had an ‘in’ at Lilia and the ability to control the House of Representatives. They had moved from Classics to Beach Reads because both life and Classics could be major bummers.
“It was a bestseller!” Beth squeaked, taking a bite of the lemon squares Camille had made. Emma made a face.
“You guys,” Jesse said, looking out the window at the rain. “Romney has, like, really good hair.” Beth silently noted that the lemon squares were day-old cat food compared to even the dishwater at Lilia.
“I wouldn’t call it ‘good,’” corrected Beth. “I’d call it ‘interesting’.” F*cking Beth.
“Um, whatever Obama is Obama,” Camille reminded her. So it was decided. Obama was Obama, and he won the 2012 Presidential Election. But the girls grew apart and what with boys, job stuff, events, babies, and SoulCycle, barely had time to read. One by one, they stopped coming, and by 2016, had unofficially disbanded. Speaking of bands, Jesse is now in an even worse one, so I guess Ivy Leagues only get you so far.
“What Else…What Else?”
Something to read: This vintage New Yorker article on the trouble with rats made me even less pleased that my building is getting a compost bin.
Something to watch: Speaking of animal frenemies, The Birds is on Peacock and features Melanie Griffith’s mom sporting the perfect shade of Hitchcock blonde, and the most compelling reason to get a cat that I’ve seen in years.
Something to think about: In the Bravoverse, Southern Charm is back with tea both sweet and not-so-sweet. Most of the first episode revolved around Madison’s “wedding after-party,” and specifically, Taylor flipping out at all of Shep’s friends for not “having her back” more when he was dragging her little heart through the mud. Now, we’re all growing tired of Shep’s “I’ll never change” bru-ha-hah, but didn’t Craig say it best when he told her “your my friend’s girlfriend, but he’s my friend.”? I never thought I’d say this, but Craig made another wise remark when he stormed out grumbling about “this is why you don’t hang out with your exes.” On the other hand, he wanted to paint his swimming pool purple, so I have no idea if he’s the smartest man in Charleston, or simply repeating no-B.S. lines his New York girlfriend taught him.