"Here's what happens," said Norman, a photographer. "Take Jack. You know Jack—everybody knows Jack. I've been married for three years. I've known Jack for ten. The other day I'm thinking, In all the time I've known Jack, he's never had a girlfriend for more than six weeks. So we all go to a Thanksgiving dinner at some friends'. Everyone at the dinner has known each other for years. Okay, not everyone's married, but they're at least in serious relationships. Then Jack shows up, once again, with a bimbo. Twenty-something. Blond. Turns out, sure enough, she's a waitress he met the week before. So, one, she's a stranger, doesn't fit in, and changes the whole tenor of the dinner. And he's useless, too, because all he's tliinking about is how he's going to get laid. Any time anyone sees Jack, it's this same scenario. Why spend time with him? After Thanksgiving, the women in our group all decided that Jack was out. He was banned."
Samantha Jones was having dinner at Kiosk with Magda, the novelist. They were discussing bachelors—Jack and Harry in particular.
"Someone said that Jack is still talking about who he scored with," said Magda. "It's the same conversation he was having fifteen years ago. Men think that a bad reputation is some
thing that only women can get. They're wrong. Don't these guys understand that when you see who they want to be with—a bimbo—that you don't want to be with a man who wants to be with that?"
"Take a guy hke Harry," Samantha said. "I can sort of understand Jack—he's totally into his career and making big money. But Harry doesn't want that. He says he doesn't care about power and money. On the other hand, he doesn't care about love and relationships, either. So exactly what is he about? What is the point of his existence?"
"Besides," said Magda, "who knows where these guys' dirty dicks have been."
"I couldn't find it less interesting," said Samantha.
"I ran into Roger the other day, outside Mortimers, of course," Magda said.
"He must be fifty now," Samantha said.
"Close to it. You know, I dated him when I was twenty-five. He'd just been named one of New York 's most eligible bachelors by Town & Country. I remember thinking, It's all such a crock! First of all, he hved with his mother—okay, he did have the top floor of their town house, but still. Then there was the perfect house in Southampton and the perfect house in Palm Beach and the membership at the Bath & Tennis. And you know what? That was it. That was his life. Playing this role of eligible bachelor. And there wasn't anything below the surface."
"What's he doing now?" Samantha asked.
"The usual," Magda said. "He went through all the girls in New York, and when they finally got his number, he moved to L.A. From there, to London, now Paris. He said he was back in New York for two months, spending time with his mother."
The two women screamed with laughter.
"Get this," Magda said. "He tells me a story. T really hke French
girls, he says. He goes to dinner at the home of this big shot Frenchman with three daughters. T'd take any of
them, he says. He's at dinner, he thinks he's doing pretty well, he tells them about his friend, some Arab prince, who has three wives, all of them sisters. The French girls start glaring at him, and the dinner ends almost immediately."
"Do you think these guys get it? Do you think they realize how pathetic they are?" Samantha asked.
"Nope," Magda said.