Once I've slept with a woman eight times, I start thinking about marriage. A lethal combination of erectile dysfunction, halitosis, and an alarming series of facial tics usually keeps me mired at seven, so, for me, eight's a charm.
One conquest was Amanda. We got serious, she made me dinner, and we eventually got so serious I started to cook her dinner. What do they say? First comes love, then comes marriage? I guess that's because "purchasing a quality diamond" doesn't rhyme with "baby carriage."
Anyway, I was shopping for an engagement ring while living in New Hampshire. I know that may sound challenging, but the state does boast Manchester, a city with a population of more than 100,000 and some awfully fine jewellers. An "Esquire" I'd thumbed through at the barber shop (did not like seeing Salma Hayek after deciding to marry Amanda) said a ring should cost two months' salary. I was working at the rec. center part-time so I convinced myself to spend four months' salary. Which left me with $1,900 for a ring, but no money to live on for a third of a year. I would be like Will Smith in that movie "The Pursuit of Happyness" (yes, I do know how to spell it), when he worked as an unpaid intern for Dean Witter to become a broker. I would work for four months and just be broke. Or broker. But not a broker.
Everyone talks about the four C's of diamond buying: cut, clarity, color, and carat weight. But what about that fifth, all-important C: cost? Let's face it: there's no sense fussing over a stone's clarity if you can't afford it anyway.
Now you can get a gem for $1,900, but every time the jeweler showed me a ring, I felt my hand tighten around my wallet. I started thinking about all the things I'd done in my life because society told me to: wearing shoes, trimming my nails, attending school through eighth grade, not running in the pool area, showering Thursdays and before christenings, paying taxes, and not staring at people with obvious problems. Did I really want to start following "Esquire"'s rules when I wasn't even a subscriber?
As I stood in the jeweller's, I pictured the way Amanda shovelled in food like a refugee when I cooked for her, but at her house said, "I'm not hungry" or "I'll just watch." Here was a woman 23 years old, in the prime of life, whose idea of fun was to watch someone eat a not particularly good meal. How sick is that? I hate being watched when I drive, sleep, read, or, especially, eat. I didn't like the way Amanda came at me in the bedroom either, her face all flushed and devilish. I once shoved her away and said, "Christ, at least take off your shoes."
I turned to the jeweller: "What do you have for $100?" He stared at me in an unfriendly manner, then said with an edge, "I have absolutely no ring on the face of God's earth for $100." "That wasn't my question. What do you have in the shop for $100?" He handed me an empty velvet box: "This costs six dollars." I glanced at a shelf behind him. "How about for a newborn?" He cocked an eyebrow, "You're marrying a newborn?"
"How much is this?" "That is $90." "What is it?" I asked. "A bell." "Oh," I said, "why does it have a handle?" "It's a hand bell." "For the front desk at a hotel or something?" "Perhaps," said the jeweller, "but it is not an engagement bell."
Now here's where the New Hampshire mentality can be annoying. Who says you can't give a woman a sterling silver bell for an engagement present? Had he read that in a rule book? The truth is, almost anything in life can be justified short of assault with a power tool: adultery, war, famine, misuse of sick days.
"I'll take it," I said. He paused: "Sir, may I offer some unsolicited advice?" I looked hard at him: "No."
Amanda was very pleased with the bell. "It's beautiful," she said, "absolutely lovely." "You know, Amanda," I announced, "I saw an awful lot of engagement rings in Manchester Tuesday." She gasped. "The one I wanted for you cost $65,000." She eyed me closely: "In Manchester?" I continued: "I could imagine nothing less for you. If you can't have the best, you're better off without a ring."
"Maybe an emerald...." she said hopefully. "Your eyes are green: they'd clash." "My eyes are hazel," Amanda said. "Right," I agreed, "greenish." She crossed to the bell. "Is that why you got me this?" "With this bell I thee wed," I intoned solemnly and shook it by its handle. We stared at each other for the longest time. I felt on the brink of saving $1,800. Actually, I was on more of a precipice. Amanda rang the bell, then she rang it a second time, and a third, and a fourth. "It does have a nice sound," she finally smiled, ringing it again. "Right," I agreed, "but ring it less often."
