Authors: Zack Love
“I don’t know what it is. Call me crazy.”
“No. I think I’ll call you Heeb.”
“Heeb?”
“Look, if you’re gonna call me Chucky, which is a gross Americanization of my name – ”
“Lucky Chucky sounds much better than Lucky Carlos.”
“But Chucky sounds nothing like Carlos.”
“It’s an approximate derivation. Charles is the American version of Carlos. And Chucky is a familiar version of Charles. Therefore Chucky is a familiar American version of Carlos.”
“Well, you’re Heeb. You’re a dweeby Heeby who explains nicknames with syllogisms.”
“How is Heeb anything like Sammy Laffowitz?”
“Because it’s completely laughable that a Hebrew who wants to marry another Hebrew can’t date any Hebrews, because he’ll sleep around with only non-Hebrews.”
“That’s not funny. I haven’t slept around with anyone in two years.”
“Well maybe if you stopped discriminating against your own kind you’d have better luck.”
“Can’t do that, Lucky Chucky.”
“Whatever you say, Heeb.”
Fortunately for Heeb, Lucky Chucky was impossibly selective, and the women he rejected left Heeb with a far greater number of opportunities to strike out than he would otherwise enjoy. In fact, if Heeb wanted to go out and look for women, he would just follow Lucky Chucky around – even if Carlos was just headed for the library or the grocery store, rather than some bar in Boston. Women just seemed to gravitate towards the Latin stud, sometimes with far-fetched pretexts (“Didn’t I see you in some Spanish movie?”) and sometimes with more brazen approaches (“Where are you going, and do you mind if I tag along?”). But no matter how perfect the girl looked to the rest of the world, Carlos always had some very particular reason for graciously rejecting her, and his reputation for extraordinary selectivity only made him that much more desirable to the women who knew of him. These women saw him as possessing a certain mythical, celebrity-like status and were intrigued by the challenge of trying to seduce a man whom no woman – no matter how stunning and brilliant – had succeeded in snaring. There were even occasional speculations that Carlos was gay, but those who knew him could see that he was clearly interested in women and unequivocally indifferent to men – including the many handsome homosexuals who regularly approached him.
A peculiar constellation of Puritanical beliefs, severe standards, paranoia about germs, and a hesitation about developing intense emotional intimacy prevented Carlos from indulging in the only gender that caught his attention. For Carlos even to consider straying from his strictly celibate norms on behalf of a particular woman, she first had to meet the Carlos requirements that Heeb and others could at least understand if not endorse. The woman had to be:
Carlos was an eco-Nazi who excoriated anyone he caught throwing away recyclable goods, thanks to a crush he had had on his English teacher, back when he was a fifteen-year-old fawning after the brunette by the blackboard whose wardrobe always managed to show some leg. The busty Buddhist pedagogue was eight years his senior, but she shared her ideology with the pimply and precocious Carlos as if he were her peer. In time, Carlos became increasingly health-obsessed, eating only organic foods, exercising regularly, and avoiding all unnecessary environmental hazards (from excessive sun exposure, to X-rays and microwave ovens, to cell phones, when they became more popular during his late twenties). By the time Lucky Chucky got to college, his body was a temple to be zealously guarded from all elements or forces that might degrade its quality or shorten its life, and that included women with unhealthy lifestyles, germs, or worldviews.
But it wasn’t enough for Carlos to find a gorgeous, intellectually brilliant, fluently Spanish-speaking, ex-Catholic-turned Buddhist, who is a non-smoking, strict vegetarian and a staunch environmentalist. The woman had to meet an additional set of bizarre requirements (or “crazy Carlos criteria,” as Heeb called them) that disqualified even the rare women on the planet who made it past the first set of “coherent Carlos criteria”:
It was no wonder that, at the age of twenty-two, despite the hundreds of otherwise attractive and high-quality women who had made passes at him over the previous six years, Lucky Chucky was still a virgin who didn’t feel nearly as lucky as Heeb made him out to be.
One time, just before spring break, Heeb and Lucky Chucky crashed a Harvard alumni party in Boston, where Carlos was accosted by a woman who satisfied 4.75 of the five “coherent Carlos criteria” (she was a smoker, and so failed a quarter of the fifth criterion). She even met one of the three crazy Carlos criteria (she had a European passport). Carlos was devastated at having met someone who came so close but would not get his cigar. And Heeb was appalled at Chucky’s intransigent commitment to the irrational.
As they rode the subway (“the T” as Bostonians call it) back to their dorm, Heeb began to mourn the loss of what was undoubtedly the last great hope for Chucky: “But how could you?” he began, in offended astonishment. “How could you? I mean, she was…She was perfect…Absolutely perfect, Lucky Chucky – ”
“Would you stop calling me Lucky Chucky? Call me late bloomer; or lame bloomer. Call me destined to virginity. Call me choosy Chucky. But don’t call me Lucky Chucky…I don’t feel very lucky right now.”
“I can’t believe the crap you’re trying to feed both of us. I mean, you’re a freak of nature – a statistical anomaly. No matter what you do or say, you’ve got hot women throwing themselves at you every other minute. The fact that you’re too insanely picky to take any of them suggests that your name ought to be ‘Dummy Chucky’ but there’s no way that you’re not going down in history as the luckiest man alive.”
“I told you that I don’t look at women like you do. I can’t just bone someone who’s not good enough to marry.”
“How about just boning someone who’s good enough to divorce?”
“Huh?”
“This is where you’ve still got major Catholic issues, Chucky.”
“It’s not about that. I know plenty of Catholics who enjoy premarital sex…Don’t you realize that each time you sleep with someone, you’re potentially making your body more impure? More exposed to bacteria, diseases, viruses? The common cold? The dust and dirt off the street? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I do have my fantasies.”
“Yeah, they all take place in an incubator.”
“I just don’t think it’s worth it. The thought of getting down and dirty with all of those fluids – that sweat and odor…”
“Wait a second. How did you spend your junior year in Brazil, studying how to protect the Amazon if you’re so worried about dirt?”
“That’s different. That’s natural dirt.”
“So is sex.”
“No. Sex is different. Sex is a sinfully dirty act…And it’s probably very crude and imperfect in reality.”
“What do you mean?”
The T stopped and some passengers filed out while some new people boarded. Sammy and Carlos made some room for them.
“I just doubt that the reality of sex can compete with my fantasy of it,” Carlos continued.
“At the rate you’re going, it never will.”
“I’m just not ready to give myself up, Sammy. I mean, there’s something perfect about virginity, and I haven’t found someone who deserves to take that perfection away from me…”
“You’re loco, Carlos. Insane. Totally crazy…Most guys think they’re imperfect for still being virgins past the age of seventeen.”
“Well, they may have a point…But the way I see it, you get only one body in this life, and I’m not going to risk exposing it to impurities for just anyone. She has to be worth it, and I’m just not ready to settle.”
“You mean you’re just not ready to come up with a set of requirements that anyone can actually satisfy?”
“I didn’t say that. Now you’re putting words in my mouth.”
“Are you suggesting that your standards aren’t too high?”
“I’m suggesting that you think they’re too high only because your standards are so low. It’s all relative, you know.”
“I’ve got very high standards.”
“Yeah, she’s gotta chew her cud and lactate.”
“You’ve gotta stop with that cow joke. I told you I was too drunk to notice her mass.”
“Even when she was riding the Hebrew National?”
“I was on top.”
Lucky Chucky was still playfully rejoicing for Heeb who, a week earlier, finally broke his two-year celibacy spell after successfully Kojaking a bovine chemistry student at an MIT frat party.
“Look, my point is that your standards don’t deserve to be called standards because any non-Jew with the requisite anatomy qualifies,” Carlos pointed out.
“If I’m excluding the only ethnic group that will talk to me, that makes me a very picky guy. I don’t see how you can argue with that.”
“I guess. But there are still about three billion women who meet your standards.”
“Yeah: look how much good it’s doing me!” Heeb rejoined.
“At least you’re not a twenty-two-year-old virgin.”
“True, but if I ever become famous, there are going to be a lot of nasty-lookin’ women telling television talk show hosts that they slept with me.”
“That’ll be a problem only if you become famous.”
Heeb was about to protest such wry skepticism when he noticed that a foxy female student wearing a Wellesley sweatshirt had boarded their train car. With tight white spandex and a white headband, the bouncy, energetic redhead looked as if she was returning from a modern dance class. Her head moved to the beats blaring in her headset as she surveyed the train car for the best place to stand. There were plenty of spots but, once her eyes crossed Carlos, she chose the space across from him that offered the best, apparently nonchalant view of the dark, virgin Adonis in the blue navy coat, wearing dark gloves. (To avoid exposure to germs, Carlos always wore gloves while riding public transportation).
Carlos didn’t notice any of these details and was just waiting for Heeb to say whatever it was that he was going to say in defense of his prospects for fame.
“It’s just not fair!” Heeb protested abruptly, after seeing enough of the redhead looking over at Carlos.
“What’s not fair?” Carlos finally looked where Heeb was looking and understood. He smiled in resignation and let Heeb finish his rant.
“I mean, why can’t I just accept that I’m always going to fly in economy? Why do I insist on trying to upgrade into first class when I don’t have enough miles?”
“That’s not Kojaking it, Heeb. Let me see you Kojak this one.”
After several playful glances, and two train stops, the redhead allowed the large crowd that had just alighted the train to serve as her pretext for moving up close to the Latin heartthrob, and the mostly invisible, heavy-set nerd ogling her.
With a slight blush, and a little short of breath, she removed her headset and attempted her opening line with Carlos: “This train’s gotten so crowded.” Carlos just smiled politely and looked at Heeb. That Carlos could be so indifferent to her suddenly made the cute student seem approachably vulnerable. Heeb felt the Kojak coming on strong, and let it loose without any hesitation.
“Look, I know you’re hot. And I know that you know that you’re hot. But you don’t have a chance with this guy,” Heeb said, gesturing towards Carlos.
“What are you talking about?” The redhead looked slightly embarrassed – even insulted – that the man talking to her was Heeb rather than the hunk she had addressed. She looked at Carlos, hoping that he would rescue her from the impudent intrusion by this geek, but – to her disappointed surprise – Carlos was focused intently on Heeb, as if Heeb were the only thing worth observing at that moment. Lucky Chucky was genuinely interested in the evolution of Heeb’s Kojak.
“I’m sorry. That probably wasn’t such a nice way to introduce myself. My name is Sammy Laffowitz and this is my friend Carlos.”
“Hi,” she said, moving to offer Carlos a handshake.
Carlos acknowledged the introduction with a half nod and a slight smile, and then looked back at Heeb. Trying to conceal the fact that her offered hand was just subtly rebuffed, the redhead awkwardly tried to move her hand to a pole, as if she had intended all along to brace herself from the train’s occasionally jerky movements.
“So what I was trying to say is that we’re coming back from an alumni party where I just watched Carlos reject the woman who was Miss Spain three years ago and is now getting a PhD in astrophysics. I mean, I don’t know if I’ll ever meet someone like that again in person unless NASA decides to send a
Playboy
bunny into space and I somehow get hired as a consultant…This girl – she was – she was beyond perfect. And she was practically stalking us – I mean Carlos – until she had him cornered…And Carlos somehow – somehow found it in his heart to turn her down.”
“What are you trying to say?” The redhead looked around awkwardly to see if there was an easy way to slip out of the situation, but – to her dismay – the train had become too crowded for a fast and discreet getaway.
“I guess what I’m trying to say – if you really want me to get the point – I’m saying that you should probably talk to me, because your odds will be significantly better with me.”