The Man Who Hates Advice Columns

Gleaming Reader!

The Sportive Gods Are About to Call Upon You to Solve a Problem...

Do. Not. Refuse.

It was presented to me not long ago by a posh young man who sits down beside me at a dinner party, and says:

“E. Jean Carroll!! Your biography of Hunter Thompson changed my life!”

“Uh-oh,” I say.

“So, listen,” he says, pushing away my dessert plate and putting his glass down. “Did Hunter really start the day with all those drugs you open the book with?”

The chap is so tall, so shiny, and so white it’s like talking to a tiled bathroom. I move a chocolate crumble ball out of the way, and say:

“No.”

“I knew it!” He bangs the table. “It had to be an exaggeration! Nobody could do that many drugs!”

“Oh, Hunter did all the drugs,” I say, “but he started his day with Chivas Regal and a Dunhill. Then he did the cocaine, the grass, and the acid.”

The young man is so happy to hear about the cocaine, the grass, and the acid, that, like all sons of Wall Street who can’t help themselves, he gives me his detailed assessment of every woman in the room.

I give him my assessment of the desserts.

“What are you writing now?” says the young man.

“Ask E. Jean.”

“Ask who?”

“E. Jean.”

“Ask—wait. You ask yourself questions?” he says.

“It’s an advice column.”

“Ohh, right! Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, I remember,” he says, lowering his voice. “You write an advice column.”

He pronounces “advice column” like he’s saying “anal bloodclot.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah,” he says, “like who—I bet hot guys never write to you.”

“Are you kidding?” I say.

“Hot guys, come on?”

“Just because you’re good-looking,” I say, “doesn’t mean you don’t suffer.”

I raise an eyebrow at him.

He looks down. He has lashes.

He smiles, starts to say something, pauses . . .

And pauses . . .

“Ahem,” I say and raise both eyebrows, the right one with the hair and the left one without the hair.

“Like whatta they write to you about?” he says.

“Wellll,” I say, “like a chap might write to me and say that after meticulously appraising the women at a dinner party, he’s apprehensive and distressed over which woman will turn him down when he suggests he take her home.”

[Laughing.] “Come on!” he says.

[Laughing.] “Welll….

[Laughing.] “None of these women would turn me down.”

“And that’s the problem,” I say.

“OK,” he says. “You’re good.”

He has brought a half a case of port to the party, and a young man in a dark emerald green dinner jacket comes over and says it’s almost the best port he’s ever drunk and my posh young man says he’ll send him a couple of bottles, and then he turns back to me.

“So what’s your advice?” he says.

“Write me a letter,” I say.

“No. Tell me!”

“Well, let’s start with how old you are,” I say. “And what you do.”

“Thirty-one. I’ve just launched a private fund…..my dad—it’s complicated. . .”

“He just left you a shitload of money,” I say. I’m not sure how I know this, but apparently I’m correct.

“Yeah, but I’m not one of those fucking ass bags who complains about not knowing whether a woman loves him for himself or his money. I’ve never suspected women love me for my money. I know women love me for my money. Or at least partly because of it. My problem is I can’t fall in love with any woman who’s kind to me.”

“You like the chase,” I say.

“Show me a woman who can’t stand me—who, no matter how much time I dedicate to helping her career, or getting her thug brother out of Russia, or arranging for a gig for her friend’s band, she still throws her drink at me in restaurants, won’t return my texts, and leaves without me when I charter a plane for us. E. Jean show me that woman, and I’ll go through fire to win her admiration. And the moment I win her, the moment she tries to make me happy, I drop her.”

He seems surprised at himself for saying so much and grimaces at me across the sparkle of a candle.

“That,” he says, “and if she has small breasts. Ok! Ok! That was a joke. But I’m serious about the other thing. Why can’t I fall for someone who’s kind to me?”

“Because you’re just trying to prove over and over that you’re lovable,” I say.

“Yeah.”

“Worthy,” I say.

“Yeah.”

“Do you usually win them over in the end?” I say.

“Yeah.”

“And then . . .”

“That’s the problem,” he says. “I move on to the next woman who can’t stand me.”

“I’d love to hear about your childhood.”

“Let’s not get started on my childhood. My mother’s a slut. I’ve dealt with it. Just tell me how to stop wasting my time on women I can’t have. Because when I get them, I don’t want them. It’s becoming unpleasant. The last one—Oh, look who’s coming over, hello, Beatrice!”

And here, Reader, we’re interrupted by a young giantess, all pale cream and rose, with about sixteen yards of dark blonde hair, and a look of such mischief about her sparkling blue eyes, I’m not certain our chap