Years later he was standing at a bar with a friend who said “You know, you might not want to hear this. But since you brought her name up before or maybe you do, now, or wouldn’t mind, when it’s so long after the fact, but I never knew what you saw in that California broad — Angel, or Evangel, or Angelina. She wasn’t—” and he said “Evangeline. She never liked it shortened or would tolerate any nickname,” and his friend said “Evangeline, then. But just that, that she wouldn’t, with such a mouthful of an uncommon name. But she wasn’t smart or sharp or good-looking. Her body was like a board. She didn’t like one person you knew, me most especially, I think because I was your closest friend. She in fact looked on everyone we knew as if she wanted to spit great wads on top of their heads. She hated the city, was afraid of everything, and treated you like shit. She wouldn’t even cook part of the dinner when Beverly and I came over — you had to do it all because we were your friends, not hers. What possibly could have possessed you? Usually your taste in women was pretty good,” and he said “You sound like my dad there, may his soul, etcetera, and the rest of him . . ” and his friend said “Then your dad was right. He knew a looker; look at your mom. He also knew — I could tell, even sick as he was the last times I saw him and with not much use for talking because of his paralysis problem — what was up and who was phooey and what in life was hype or gauze or fake.” “There was something between her and me that can’t be explained. But I’ll try, right? That’s what I usually do. If you don’t think she was good-looking or smart or anything like that.
Wait, did you say anything about her not being smart?” and his friend said “She wasn’t, was she? — not too much.” “Anyway, nothing I can do about that. Eyes, taste, your own handicaps or prejudices or just that you never engaged her in a deep conversation, or that she didn’t fill your bill in the bones and flesh categories But we had lots of fun together. I mean, where I really went hysterical with laughing, both of us together, and not from pot. And she had a very good mind. Would read a difficult novel, poetry or as much as she hated the subjects, an article on philosophy or some literary criticism I handed her — unlearned, you see, never got through high school — but would understand it more incisively than I most times and more than lots of scholars could. Why? Intuitive knowledge, instinctive, common sense, saw through things and could read between the lines and so on — incisiveness, as I said, all easy and natural. So we discussed things like that — long discussions, no fancy words or references or quotes from literary big shots or other books — and movies and plays we went deeply into too. And we both adored her son. Another plus. You don’t have a kid or want one so you’re shaking your head it’s nothing, it’s nothing, but you don’t know what you’re missing,” and his friend said “The art bullshit sessions don’t interest me either,” and he said “I know, it’s not what you like or appreciate — movies, you do, even talking about them at length. She also made a nice home for us. Very nice things; she had great taste, picked up treasures in Goodwill and St. Vincent de Paul; I felt very comfortable there. You’re a slob so this doesn’t mean anything to you, stinky jockey briefs in the kitchen sink, greasy pots piled high in the toilet bowl,” and his friend said “Thanks a lot; you really know me.” “I like things neat and attractive and a house in order and uncluttered, with serious paintings or prints on the wall, nice light fixtures, and that’s what she did, with a little help from me. In ways our tastes in many things were almost identical; that doesn’t hurt a relationship. And she was good in bed. Now your eyes light up. ‘Good, bed, fuck, ug,’” and his friend said “Looking at her, I wouldn’t’ve thought it; but knowing how much you like sex, it sort of makes sense.” “She always put out for me when I wanted — not something every woman did — or most of the time. Handed me her body almost, or turned around with her backside to me, as if saying ‘Here, I’m sleepy, not even up to performing, do what you want with it’—but with restrictions of course. Though I think I have her mixed up with someone else. Sorry. She, actually, couldn’t be persuaded to do anything she didn’t want to. And sure, she was a tremendous ballbreaker too and we wouldn’t do it for weeks at a time sometimes because we loathed each other and wanted to live any way but together and even did the separate rooms bit,” and his friend said “So why didn’t you leave? If something like that happened to me with some girl, I’d say ‘Man overboard,’ and jump,” and he said “Good question. I never understood why, several times, I didn’t leave absolutely and indisputably and unreturnably for good. It was during my needy way-down-on-myself period maybe. Maybe I got too comfortable in her house and with her kid and in being to other people a much-admired pretend father. The pleasures of predictably recurrent sex once the enmity ends. That I was a poor lonely putz but at least had a nice house and some family life. Also, I was going nowhere so at least for the time being was somewhere, and so on — you need more reasons? When it was good it was almost okay, blah blah. She needed me lots of times too and when I was out of her life no one missed me more, till the last time when she was giddy at my being gone and stayed that way. ‘Aren’t we better off now?’ she’d say on the phone — I forget who called, probably me with some lame excuse for calling. ‘Isn’t life really better for you now that we’re split?’ If I said ‘Well, I guess so, but still .’ she’d say ‘No, it is for me and if it isn’t for you yet it will be. Wait, my new beau wants to talk to you.’ But sometimes, before that, I thought we broke up just so we could get back together again in a month and for a few days, or a day or two, have the wildest most uninhibited and saddest — cries, tears, whoopees — time a couple could. In other words — well, in other words what? I can’t think; Elephant beer we had to order. But I found her beautiful — I shouldn’t forget that as a reason for staying. I’d look at her nose, eyes, the lips, everything.
Tout le face. The most gorgeous I’d ever seen in a woman I was close to,” and his friend said “That’s nuts,” and reeled off names. “And they had tits, these women, gigantic to big to medium to only a little bit small, but something there you could squeeze or push your face into,” and he said “Tits. Why’s it matter so much? You need them to feed off of? But I’ll never win on that with you. Some guys are like that and some — a few — could care less. None could care nothing, I suppose, but you have to understand there are many other things in a woman, physical and emotional and so on, to supersede if not go way way beyond them. Just as if one guy has an enormous dick and the others don’t, big deal, there are so many other things in those men that should be important to a woman, or one would hope they’d be there. Believe me, after the first few days with Evangeline, they didn’t—” and his friend said “Bullshit.”