My (Bald, Parasitic) Ex Is Everywhere

by Laurie Rosenwald

We are both graphic designers. Well, I was one before Yakov undid me. The disparity in our personal net worth (due, no doubt, to mere differences of age, experience, intelligence and talent) was such that I decided, albeit subconsciously, to devote the twelve hours a day that I had selfishly reserved for my own career entirely to Yakov’s. This included a campaign of public relations that would make Michael Ovitz look like a Vermont housewife, and resulted in several magazine articles, a major book deal, and an impressive client roster that oddly resembled my own.

At one juncture, I was concerned that lending him two thousand dollars to start his art magazine, pay his rent, and things like that might “damage our relationship” if this debt went unpaid. My-then psychiatrist had an interesting idea. Why not just give him the money? After a year and a half of qualified bliss, we broke up.

I had the funny feeling that he was, um, using me.

I spent that summer recuperating, and ostensibly painting, in a charming seaside community we’ll call the mosquito preserve. Of my two remaining friends (those that had not been, by this time, co-opted for commercial purposes by Yakov) both remarked on my surprising and weirdly domestic variation on the artist theme. The car was painted silver, the mailbox blue, the bathroom, kitchen and front porch were likewise festooned with a daub of the original Rosenwald, but the canvases were notably empty. And I was only renting for one summer.

That autumn, back in the city, I made the mistake of attending a design show, opening on an October night. I was unaccompanied by any friend, relative, therapist or bodyguard. The show was entitled “Designers under Thirty” (I mentally added “who have been nurtured, encouraged and supported financially by broken and now-obscure dowagers of forty five”).

Bravely, I approached Yakov to congratulate him on a prizewinning poster (silkscreen class, 350 dollars) depicting a lamp (from my bedroom) announcing a reading series at the coffee bar on my corner.

If you have seen “All about Eve,” remember the lyrics of Human League’s “Don’t You Want Me,”* or endured spinal cord surgery you will know the feeling. A cheerful greeting escaped his lips. Eight words: “This is my new girlfriend. Isn’t she cute?”