Monster Romance
Charlie had flaming eczema that showed up, angry and red, all across his neck and face. He never bothered trying to look good, because in his mind it was impossible—he was too hideous. He’d always been chubby, but in his teen years he ballooned, growing immensely fat, gaining stretch-marks on his stomach and sides. As a college student, he turned to alcohol and drugs, and the sight of this bloated boy sitting on a couch, moaning “Take a shot with me”, was a not-uncommon one.
This boy had a friend who was similarly nondescript. Her name was Amanda. They’d met at a party during his freshman year, when he was drunk in her dorm’s common room. He’d been so disoriented that she’d gotten worried about him. Thought maybe he would die! So she had stayed up with him for a while until he was semi-conscious, and then had given him a blanket. In the morning, she helped him to find his phone.
They encountered each other often, because she maneuvered her study group into meeting in his dorm. Sometimes he’d wander by, and she, suddenly shameless, would get up—just leave behind her books and notes—and tag along with him, taking a drink just to be polite. She would spend hours in his room. She couldn’t remember what they talked about. She’d never felt this way before. She didn’t have words for the emotion. She was just drawn to him. He was so large! So voluble. He read many books for pleasure, but never studied for school.
Her friends all said that of course he must like her. Everyone ‘shipped’ the two of them. But she didn’t know. Nobody had ever thought of Amanda that way before. Or at least nobody she’d liked. This girl was also pretty fat, and always wore very baggy sweatshirts and sweatpants. Her hair and face were so greasy, so shiny—it filled her with disgust. She tried to think of herself a disembodied mind, with no body attached. She hadn’t ever allowed herself to think of getting married or having a boyfriend, much less having sex.
Sometimes she read fanfictions about girls who were ugly and unloved, just like her, and some monster came along and said they were worthwhile, they were special, that they had worth. She liked stories about demons with giant horns and immense girth, who were the soul of evil and who hated everything on Earth. But then they were redeemed by their love for a single girl.
She knew that could never happen in real life—not for her. She didn’t have the theory of mind to really model Charlie’s behavior. She didn’t feel, “Oh, guys like Charlie only like pretty, thin, blonde girls.” She hadn’t yet turned her loneliness and sense of unworthiness into some kind of self-reinforcing philosophy about why she was destined to be forever alone. All she knew was the basic fact that nothing good could possibly happen for her. Her loneliness was like a demon, screaming evilly inside her soul. Like ghosts whipping at her and lacerating, punishing her some sin she had forgotten. She felt that heaviness, that curse, pressing on her late at night, squeezing out her breath, and she prayed to be anyone but herself.
This relationship dragged on for years—silent, unspoken. It was such a milestone when she asked for Charlie’s number and got up the courage to text him, “Want to hang out?”. He said, “Sure!” He came over, with his alcohol, and he got drunk in her room. He’d gotten angrier—complained about his roommates icing him out. They didn’t want to live with him next year, so he’d enter the housing lottery alone, live with some random folks.
She thought about saying they could live together somehow, but she couldn’t say the words. Still, she angled hard for a single, with no roommates, and the bet paid off. The next year found him frequently on her couch—he hadn’t gotten along with people in his new dorm.
One day he was complaining that some girl had strung him along. Amanda heard so much about this girl, Emily, and how she’s gotten friendly with Charlie in study group, and they’d hung out. And when Emily was depressed, complaining nobody liked her, Charlie had offered to take her out. Like on a real romantic date, with flowers, just to make her feel good. And she’d said, “no”. She didn’t think of him that way, that—and at this point in the rant, Charlie’s face got even redder and he spit out some very bad words that didn’t offend Amanda at all.
Because, honestly, Amanda hated this girl too.
So Amanda screwed up her courage and sent a long string of text messages, telling him that he deserved someone who’d love him—who’d jump at the chance to be with him. That he was so much better than all these other guys, who were so shallow, had no personality.
Many of her friends had soured on Charlie at this point. “What do you see in him?” they asked. They didn’t say He’s a fat, lazy drunk. But they implied it heavily. And she just said, “He’s fun.” She didn’t know what to say precisely. He had time for her. He wasn’t busy. If she texted him, he came over. She liked his warm presence in the room, radiating heat. She liked him sleeping on her couch. She thought a hundred times about squeezing in there with him, just for the warmth. She’d never touched another person’s skin—not except for her parents, the occasional hug. She was lonely! He was there. He seemed to appreciate her.
In those text messages, she had come pretty close to saying the truth. She had written: I think if they really knew you, any girl would be honored to be with you. That was pretty close! He should’ve gotten that. She had accepted that he just didn’t like her. Because he had lots of girl-friends that he liked, and he wasn’t shy about telling them. So he must not like her. And that was fine. Why would anyone like her? She didn’t know. She would’ve sold herself for a penny, if she thought that anyone would buy.
Junior year, Charlie dropped out—his grades were too low. She went to his farewell party, which turned into a terrifying bender. He stayed up night after night, smashing glass bottles on the pavement outdoors. And she hung on in his room, squeaking like a mouse, saying it would be okay, college wasn’t the whole world.
But then he started ranting about these shallow girls, and how nobody would give him a chance. They just wanted guys who treated them like shit, and they didn’t care that he would give them everything, and Amanda said, “Shut up!”
The words came as a scream. They pierced the night, probably woke up the whole dorm, and she heard an isolated strand of clapping. “You tell him girl.”
“Shut up,” she said. “Don’t tell me that nobody wants you. I wanted you. I’ve been here. And I know you didn’t like me. But that can’t be the story, that nobody ever wanted you. Because that’s not true. I would’ve given you everything. I have given you everything. I’ve lain awake at night, praying you would look at me. And you never have. And you knew. You knew. You knew what I wanted. Don’t tell me you didn’t know.”
“I...”
At that moment, she realized it wouldn’t happen. He was drunk, it’s true. But he just smirked at her and shrugged. But she plunged onward. “Can’t it?” she said. “Couldn’t we?”
He licked his lips. “I just...” And he shrugged again. He couldn’t even form words. They sat there in aching silence for five, ten, fifteen minutes, and he didn’t say a word. Then he picked up his bottle and staggered out the door.
Over the next five years, she dwelled upon one particular fantasy about their future. She imagined that someday, her friend would make a lot of money, and he’d become thin and attractive and well-groomed. He’d wear well-tailored suits and cufflink studs. And she’d see Charlie at a party somewhere, and he’d be with some beautiful blonde girl--a supermodel. And the girl would be hesitant and kittenish, pulling at his shirt, moaning querulously in some baby-soft voice. But he’d chivvy her off somewhere, not respecting her.
And then he’d see Amanda, and she wouldn’t be any different. Still quiet, still overweight, still a nerd. And he’d look at her, with those piercing eyes—somehow sharper, but still inimitably his own—and then at her hand, at the ring she wasn’t wearing.
After the party, she’d hear through the grapevine that he’d dumped his girlfriend and nobody knew why. And then she’d start seeing him everywhere. He’d be in the lobby of her work or standing outside her house. They’d start having lunch together, and she’d sit there, staring into his eyes. And then one day, after work, he’d pull up in a car, and he’d take her home.
And it would happen so easily, automatically, without words. He’d be there, on her couch, talking about his business deals. And he’d tell her what to wear for his parties, and she wouldn’t be nervous around all these fancy people and these thin girls, because she’d have him. And he would say, “She was the only person who believed in me. She was my lodestone. I owe everything to her.”
What’s So Great About The Great Books?
My nonfiction book (out May 19 from Princeton Press) is coming slowly upon us. Over the next four months I will mention it increasingly often. This book is about why you should read the Great Books, and the moment for the book is fairly propitious. People are interested in this topic. Many are wondering; “Should I start reading the classics?” or “Should I start reading the classics in a more intense and systematic way?” My answer, unsurprisingly, is that it’s complicated.
Alexander Sorondo got ahold of an advance copy and summarizes the book well:
Kanakia wants us to think for ourselves about the Great Books debate. It’d be hypocritical, in some sense, to write a book in which she explains to you how to appreciate the ambiguity and moral muddying of the Great Books.
If you’re interested, you can pre-order here (Amazon / Bookshop).
P.S. I am behind on some projects, so I’m going to take a week off from this newsletter. See you again on January 27th!
Loved this.
Really liked this one! Heartbreaking!