Is That a Bao Bun in Jeremy Allen White's Calvins?

Or is he just glad to see me?

I am, as the faithful reader knows, a woman of delicacy and refinement, but I could not stop gawping the last few days at those photos of Jeremy Allen White in his Calvins. There is no getting away from him; he’s on the bus stop posters on Sixth Avenue in the Village; he’s in that ubiquitous television ad, running up the stairs to a New York City rooftop, as one does, to do a pull-up before plopping down on a red couch.

One wishes, when faced with an actor who just won two Golden Globes for his work as a chef on the Hulu show, The Bear, to let one’s mind rest on weightier things: “Waiting for Godot”, staged outside a padlocked sandwich shop, where Vladimir and Estragon are waiting for an Italian Beef sandwich which never comes. Or imagining Mr. White having his turn at Hamlet.

“Is this a dagger which I see before me? You call this an edge? I couldn’t slice a banana with this piece of tin.”

But just as photos of Garbo force you to gaze into her eyes, the focus in White’s Calvin Klein shots is on the one thing that Garbo, fine as she was, did not possess. And given that emphasis, there is only one thought that goes through your head.

Holy cow!! Can that possibly be real? What’s he got in there, a bao bun? Or is it stuffed with something with fewer carbs? I don’t see this as an occasion in which you augment the goods with whatever sock you’ve got lying around, although Calvin Klein does have a good line.  And it would be an excellent way to sell socks. Jeremy runs up that staircase to a New York City roof, tears off his running shorts, and at the final moment – voila! – whips a Calvin Klein sock out of his drawers. Men across the country heave a sigh of relief and then run to Amazon Prime to place their orders.

It is at just this moment that there is a pounding at my apartment door and I hear a voice I recognize as Jeremy Allen White, with women, men, and what sounds like a lascivious goat howling on his heels.

“Joyce, for the love of $12.7 million in media exposure generated in 48 hours, let me in!!!,” a male voice wails. “They’re going to tear me apart!”

“Jeremy Allen White?” I ask. “Is it really you?  Can you give me five minutes to shave my legs?”

“Please!” the poor fellow gasps.

I open the door and Jeremy collapses inside, dressed only in sneakers, a white t-shirt, running shorts, and a red corduroy sofa he is hauling on his back.

“For God’s sake, Jeremy, put that thing down!” I say.

“I can’t,” Jeremy says. “It keeps me in shape. If my chiseled thighs go down more than a quarter of an inch my Bear salary, which just skyrocketed to $750,000 an episode, will return to its measly $350,000. Plus, there are five columnists in America who have yet to write a piece about me.”

“I’m sure nothing will happen if you put the couch down for twenty minutes,” I say. “And it will keep the hordes from breaking the door down.”

At that, Jeremy puts down the red sofa, collapses onto it, and – to my amazement – bursts into tears.

“Oh, Joycie,” he says, “This sexualization of my body is so demeaning.  You have no idea of the things people are saying about me online. ‘Makes my ovaries twitch’. ‘Bro, please bend me over the kitchen counter, I’m begging you'”.

I admit I’m shocked.

“Someone has that kind of counter space?” I say. “In New York, we barely have room for the olive oil.”

 “ ‘This is a dude who will eat you out in a porta-potty at Warped Tour”, Jeremy continues. “They quoted that in The New Yorker, yes, The New Yorker.  That’s disgusting.”

“I agree with you,” I say, “I hate punk and heavy metal. But Jeremy, this is the price of great charisma, sexual and otherwise. Albert Einstein, trudging to his offices at Princeton to work on his unified field theory, a mathematical model that could explain all the laws of physics, was assaulted by co-eds screaming, ‘Albert, take off your hat and show us your big, throbbing brain!’ Just tipping his hat gave several adjuncts multiple orgasms.”

“I know that’s not true, but I appreciate you trying to make me feel better,” Jeremy says. “But listen – big favor. I’m sweating like an animal from being chased all over lower Manhattan. Would you mind if I strip down and jump into your shower?”

“Well, it’s coming up on the time when I watch Wolf Blitzer, but if you must, you must,” I say.

So saying, Jeremy stands, reaches into his Calvins, and pulls out a pair of socks; a crumpled T-shirt, and a wad of hundred dollar bills.  

“Aha!,” I say. “My augmentation theory was correct!”

“No!” Jeremy says. “I’m just messing with you.”

Then he peels off his Calvins and trots, stark naked, into the shower.

This column will be dark for the next few days.

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