Can’t Buy Me Love

-

“Wendy, I have a problem.”

I sighed, moving into the kitchen, my phone pressed against my ear. “Come on over.”

“Thank you!” The line was disconnected and I tossed my phone onto the couch, knowing full well that there would be a frantic search the next time it rang. Whenever Jaime spoke the words “Wendy, I have a problem” it meant I had to go into Dr. Phil mode. This called for coffee. Extra strong.

My apartment was just beginning to fill with the savory scent of hazelnut when the doorbell rang. I cast a cursory glance towards the clock in the main room as I walked towards the door. It took her five minutes to get here; something was definitely up. Usually it would take her at least fifteen minutes to make it to my apartment (only two doors down) because she had to take a phone call, or she ran into that handsome bellboy, or she had to catch the end of the latest soap opera episode.

I flipped the locks and cracked the door open an inch. “Will I be paid for this counseling session?”

“Wendy, you’re a saint.”

“That’s not going to cut it.”

“I’ll buy you pocky…” she said tantalizingly.

I wavered for a moment. “Nope, not good enough.”

“I will love you for eternity?”

“Do you even know what love is?”

She sobered. “That’s a good question.”

I raised an eyebrow and pulled the door open all the way. Jaime was never serious. Never. Except when she she’d had a lot of alcohol. When she was drunk, people thought she was sober. But I didn’t smell any alcohol on her, so that meant something was wrong. Very wrong.

She moved into my apartment languidly, strolling towards the couch. “I have a problem. I big problem.”

“That’s obvious,” I called over my shoulder as I wandered into the kitchen. I rummaged through my dishwasher for two mugs. “What’s bothering you?”

“Men.”

“Yes, Jaime, that goes without saying. I mean, what is your specific problem?” I poured the steaming coffee into the mugs and carefully walked into the living room, where Jaime was sprawled across my couch like a Southern Belle in the middle of a fainting spell.

“I want to get married.”

I set the cups down on the table and dropped myself into a chair. “Well, that is a problem. You, ready to commit? The world is coming to an end.”

“You needn’t be so sarcastic, Wen.”

“Sorry.”

“You’re just mad because I broke your cousin’s heart.”

“Perhaps.” More like toyed with his emotions for months and then dropped him like a rock when a cuter guy came along. If she hadn’t been my best friend, she would have been demoted to the “once-a-year-Christmas-card” category long ago. “But, please, continue.”

She sighed and began to fiddle with a strand of hair, winding it around her finger. It was a rather annoying habit. “I’m in looooove,” she said.

I waited. When she didn’t continue, I prompted, “And…?”

“Argent asked me to marry him.”

“Jaime, I’m not seeing the problem—”

“But I love Beau.”

The light bulb suddenly clicked. “Ohhh… That is a problem, then. Well, you’ll just have to break it to Agent—Argant—whatever his name was—and gently and explain that you’re sorry, but you don’t love him—”

“That’s not the problem, Wendy!”

Miffed, I crossed my arms. “Well then what is it?”

She leaned back into the cushions of the couch and leaned her head back against the wall. “The problem is, Argent is rich. Obscenely rich. I could die at 100 and still have a fortune to pass on to my grandkids.”

“Okay.”

“But…I just don’t feel the same way around him as I do Beau. Beau makes these little butterflies start fluttering around in my stomach, and whenever he’s not beside me I feel so empty…”

“Sounds more like a case of separation anxiety.”

She scowled at me. “Wendy, can’t you be serious for once? Just because you’re married to your paint brushes doesn’t mean the rest of us don’t want human companionship.”

“Hey, I resent that.” Although I would sell my soul for this really, really nice brush I’d seen in the art supply store the other day… “But I’ll be serious.”

“Thank you.”

“I honestly do not see the point of conflict.”

“Can’t you? It’s just that… Beau won’t ever amount to anything great. He’s a teacher for, god’s sake. Can you imagine living off of a teacher’s salary your entire life?”

I gave her a look. “I’m a starving artist. Wrong person to ask that question.”

“Fine. But you’re one person. You don’t have to support a wife and kids.”

“So wait on kids for a few years until you’ve saved up enough. You’ll want to have some time to yourselves before you have little terrors scrambling around the house.”

“I want a lot. At least five.”

I snorted with laughter. “Five kids? You?” My sides began to ache. “That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard all day.”

“Wen, this is serious.”

“Mmhm.” I couldn’t keep a straight face.

“I mean it! I love Beau, but what if he can’t support me? What if I can’t pay my children’s medical bills? What if I can’t buy them birthday presents? What if we can’t pay our mortgage?”

“I think you’ll be fine. I know plenty of teachers who live perfectly comfortable lives.”

“Comfortable, maybe. But how many times does the mother have to take a job? I don’t want to be a working mother. I want my kids to grow up in a good home.”

“Then you just may have to go without. Do you really need cable TV?”

She sullenly stared out the window, the light reflecting off her curly auburn hair. “But Wendy…I want to be happy.”

“From the sound of things, Beau is able to make you very happy.”

“Yeah, but… will I still be happy in twenty-five years?”

“Possibly. Probably, if you really love him.”

“What is love, anyhow?”

“What you just described to me a few minutes ago. Could you stand to live without him?”

“No…” She looked down. “I don’t think I could stand it.”

“Then there’s your answer.”

“But…”

“But what?”

“I’m worried about the money.”

“Ah, now we’ve gotten to the bottom of things.” I looked down at my cup of cold coffee woefully. “Well, if worse comes to worse you can always marry Argant and become Beau’s lover.”

“Wendy!” she screeched. “That’s not funny!”

“I was joking, Jaime.”

“And it’s Ar-jhahn not Ar-gant. It’s French.”

“Snooty.”

“Ancienne noblesse.”

“Quite.”

“He’s really nice. And handsome. And polite.”

“And loaded.”

“Wendyyyy! What should I do?” she wailed.

“Seems to me like you’re making a bigger deal out of this than it already it. I think the choice is obvious.”

“Let me guess: you’d choose Beau.”

“Of course.”

“You would. You’re dirt-poor already—and you’re an artist, in touch with your inner feelings and all that.”

“No, that’s not it.”

“Yes it is. You right-brained person, you.”

“Jaime, I’ve never been in love, but I’ve observed enough to be able to paint it accurately. If you love Beau, marry him! Money can’t satisfy you the way love can.”

“Why not? It can by me everything I need. Things bring me pleasure.”

“Temporary pleasure. You’ll make Agent Argant go broke with your insane shopping sprees to fill the hole that Beau left.”

“What can Beau offer me that Argent can’t? Either way I’ll get sex.”

“This isn’t about sex, idiot. Sex isn’t love; money isn’t love! If you marry for money, I guarantee you’ll be miserable the rest of your life.”

“I don’t see how. Sex and money, what more can you ask for?”

“Try love?”

“Oh, what is love anyhow?” Jaime was beginning to sound desperate.

“Jaime, you said yourself that you loved Beau just a few minutes ago.”

“Yes, but… I’m not so sure now. Maybe it’s just some odd metaphysical attraction.”

“I doubt that. If you so much uttered the words ‘I love you’ I think that means something. You, who has only told a total of three men that you like them. Like. For you to admit to love, that’s really something.”

“Maybe. So what if it is love? Love won’t put food on the table. Love can’t by me jewelry. I admit it—I’m a material girl. I need things like jewelry and fanciful knickknacks and such.”

“Jaime, think about it this way. This is the person you’re choosing to spend the rest of your life with. Now: would you rather have a wonderful man that you absolutely adore? Or…knickknacks?”

“Argent is not a knickknack.”

“No, but that’s what you’re marrying him for. You might as well just marry the owner of Hallmark if that’s what you want.”

She leaned forward and buried her face in her hands. “Wendy, I don’t know what to do. My parents both favor Argent because he’s hardworking, intelligent, and…and rich. They think Beau is below me. I don’t want to displease them, and they do have valid points. I don’t want to live in a bad, dangerous area of town, I don’t want to raise my kids lacking, and I don’t want to—”

“Your parents aren’t marrying Beau; you are. If he loves you as much as you love him, he’ll probably do anything to protect you: I don’t think he’ll let you live in the ghetto. You’ll always have enough to eat, and you may be reduced to reading instead of watching TV, but books aren’t lethal. No, honestly. And if you shower your children with your love, time, and attention—and food, of course—I don’t think they’ll be raised lacking anything.”

She didn’t raise her head. “I don’t know…”

I got to my feet, taking my now room temperature coffee into the kitchen. “Just think on it, okay?” I called, dumping the tepid black liquid into the sink. “And remember that old Beatles song—‘Money Can’t Buy Me Love.’”

----

I emerged from the kitchen with fresh new coffee just as the door to my apartment quietly closed. I looked down at the two mugs in my hands, shrugged, and set one on the table, placing an oven mitt over it. I wandered over to my fourth-floor window, sipping my drink, and watching the pedestrians scurry along the sidewalk like busy little ants. I thought I saw a head of curly auburn hair hurry towards the south end of the city, but I wasn’t sure.

My mind was still full from my conversation with Jaime. I took another sip of coffee and turned on my heel, resolutely marching towards my bedroom/studio. This called for a painting.

----

I didn’t see Jaime again for a while, but a few months later, I read in the newspaper about the elopement of a Mr. Beau Lamour and Jaime D’Or. I figured since I hadn’t received a filigreed wedding invitation, her parents were hopping mad at her. Good for you, Jaime. I wish you long life and happiness.

Smiling, I pulled that new brush I’d bought the other day out from behind my ear and headed toward the canvas propped up in the living room. The picture featured a distressed redhead wedged in-between a mountain of gold coins and a shadowy man with an adoring look on his face. I carefully dipped my brush into the color I’d mixed yesterday and painted in Jaime’s eyes looking towards my depiction of Beau.

-

-

Author’s Notes: this was written as extra-credit for my AP Language & Composition class—I asked if I could write a piece of fiction instead of an essay, received an affirmative answer, wrote this around 11 pm one night (thinking it was below my usual standard), and ended up getting 25 extra credit points and a star. Yayy…