Ginger and Ben
I’m home sick today. I’m worried that my absence from work might reflect poorly on me; I’ve only been promoted for about two months and I’ve already had to take three days bereavement leave and now I’m using a sick day. I’m sure everything will be fine—I’m only human, after all. People die. People get sick.
People also get strange voice mails from strangers drunk-dialing the wrong number. Such was the case with me two weekends ago: a person attempting to call someone named “Ginge” (I’m assuming this is short for “Ginger”), called me instead and left an incredible message, one that provided me with a fun, secret glimpse into another life. Today, as the nastiness that ails me subsides, I will transcribe the message here for your reading enjoyment.
Before you read the transcription, imagine the speaker: Ben. His voice seethes with the posh and calculated inflections of a manicured, east coast educated man-child with no less than two semesters abroad under his preppy Dior Homme belt. He is sipping his third Long Island Iced Tea vivaciously through a bent, plastic straw. His throat is tinged with the rasp of lemon, clove cigarettes, sexual confusion, and the brine of the Pacific Ocean. He stands on the deck of his classmates fathers yacht in the moonlight, escaping the coke-rimmed party raging in the leather bellows of the boat. His midterms at Yale a distant memory and his inhibitions adequately depressed with liquor, he should be having a fine time. Yet his mind craves the company of his best friend and muse, Ginger.
Instead of spending spring break with drugs lining her sinuses and vodka drenching her pores like the rest of the senior class, Ginger is spending her break stuffing envelopes at an externship at the Clinton campaign offices. With ringlets of strawberry blonde hair and a smattering of delicate freckles gracing her upturned nose, her name has always been grossly fitting. Daughter of a Catholic, Boston firefighter and third grade teacher, Ginger relied on her wholesome image as she forged her way into advanced placement classes, cheating when she had to, sleeping with teachers when necessary, but generally advancing in earnest. Scholarship was the only way for her to pay for school, and the more immersed in academics she became, the more pathetic her parents and their lifestyle seemed. In her eyes, Yale became Ginger’s only option.
Ginger got into Yale on an academic scholarship that required her to earn no less than a 3.8 GPA and partake in at least 40 hours of extra curricular activities per semester. She met Ben while fulfilling part of her hours by volunteering at the Student Government elections, although he was volunteering to convince the dean of students that he should be taken off of academic probation next term: too many parties and scant attendance were the culprits of his demise. The pair hit it off right away—Ginger, sensing he was queer by the lilt to his voice and his inquiries as to her brand of hand cream, agreed to dinner with him that night. Queer or not, Ben was thrilled to be in the company of such a gorgeous female—especially one like Ginger who was ambivalent about her beauty, even as devastating as it was. While she knew how to use her leggy stride and long lashes to her advantage, beauty was something Ginger was completely unconcerned about. It was entirely natural to her.
As time wore on, Ben found himself conflicted about his feelings for Ginger. While Ginger does not stir him in the way he knows it should, he is enamored with her and thinking heavily about how unsavory his experiences with queer life have been. Bit by bit, Ben begins to realize that he wants to be Ginger: a female form itches beneath his hairy chest and testicled lower half. Ginger has known this all along—it is the reason why his company is the most flattering and thus most preferred for her. Their friendship is destined to crumple after graduation, but they cling to each other in the uncertainty of their senior year: Ginger needing nothing more than someone to worship her, Ben wanting nothing more than to study the epitome of what he craves to become.
So, Ginger does not want to be Hilary Clinton’s lap dog on this last spring break of her college career, foregoing Ben’s incessant invitations to join him in Miami for a mutual friend’s yacht party, but rather that the stringent requirements of her scholarship require it. Plus, the posters at the school career development office promised “an intimate glimpse into the inter-workings of political process” and “networking opportunities.” So far the only people she has met, aside from gullible students like herself, are a handful of warbling retired volunteers, eager to lambaste her for the apathy of her generation. The night Ben attempts to call her and reaches the voice mail of my cell phone instead, Ginger is taking a break from transcribing interviews, watching a frozen burrito spin methodically on the warming plate in the microwave, lost in the hum and the light.
Message Sent Saturday, March 18
7:48 pm
Ginge—it’s Ben. This could be the biggest mistake of the year not being here. Unbelievable. And, and, Ginge—you would have fit right in and you would have looked phenomenal on the back of this boat. I’m sorry—it wasn’t a boat. It was a yacht. And as only Dave Bradley could say, “it’s a pretty good feeling walking off your yacht and into your pent house.” (Pause) I…we miss you.
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Who do you like making up stories about? Do you ever get any weird calls or messages?
