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.
He awakens to a new dawn, having been blessed with a good night’s sleep for the first time in as long as Overman can remember. Uncharacteristically pumped and looking forward to the workday, he considers trying to access his would-be telepathy to clear the freeway on the drive to Calabasas. Then the Ghost of Overman Past warns him not to attempt too much too soon. He enters the dealership with guarded optimism, throwing off a casual “hi” to Maricela, anxious to see the reaction on Day Two of his Pennysaver-induced Life Change. The open, inviting smile the receptionist flashes his way leaves no doubt in his mind that the streak is continuing.
People around here had better start getting used it, Overman thinks to himself. I am no longer the invisible irritant who demands to be ignored. I have Lasiked my way into something greater, the potential of which has yet to be fully realized. He turns to see Hal Steinbaum coming his way, wielding a can of Diet Coke. What does this idiot want now? Overman wonders. If he bugs me, maybe I can will some sort of illness on him. Nothing serious like say, tuberculosis, but maybe a cold. Flu, if he really gets on my case.
“Nice job moving that 450 SL,” Steinbaum exclaims, slapping Overman on the back.
“Thanks, Hal,” Overman says, thinking it’s about time this putz acknowledged his accomplishments.
“There’s hope for you, yet!” Steinbaum barks, laughing as he works his way toward Maricela’s desk. “How’s my girl this morning?” he salivates.
Steinbaum is so damned obvious that Overman imagines buckets of drool dripping out of his mouth as he addresses the receptionist. What Overman can’t imagine, however, is where his fantasy will lead. In the middle of Steinbaum’s weak attempt at flirting with Maricela, his mouth literally starts to foam. He takes out a handkerchief to dab it, but there is too much saliva for the Mercedes dealer to soak it all up. The car dealer is gushing as his junior salesmen step over one another wielding boxes of tissues, each wanting to be the first to express his concern for the boss. Maricela stifles a giggle as Steinbaum excuses himself and scampers off to his office. Overman is in shock. Could he possibly have willed such a thing to happen? Was the ability to embarrass assholes like Steinbaum an additional perk of his discount metamorphosis? Or had he simply anticipated that which was about to happen? The thought of it being his doing leaves him ecstatic, but winded.
He thinks about asking Maricela to lunch. Hell, why not dinner? You can only do so much quality bonding over a Chinese Chicken Salad in half an hour. But she has a boyfriend. A buff, tattooed boyfriend, Overman reminds himself. What if she resented the forwardness of his even suggesting they get together? Perhaps the key to the connection they made yesterday was his lack of aggressiveness; the fact that he carried himself like the anti-Steinbaum. On the other hand, maybe the new perks gave him license to behave any way he wanted. It was possible that he could tell the boyfriend to go fuck himself and then, as just witnessed in the Steinbaum incident, watch that very thing happen before his eyes. It was wild, uncharted territory.
Overman decides to hold off on lunch or dinner invitations and take some time to consider the implications of what is unfolding. He also recognizes that whenever these inexplicably good things happen to him, they take a substantial physical toll. Padding back to his cubicle, Overman feels like he has just done fifty push-ups. He then realizes that he has never done fifty push-ups in his life.
As he plops down in the cheap rolling office chair Steinbaum bought from some overstocked lot dot com, the phone rings, perhaps the SL buyer calling to take delivery.