Viewmaster

by Ferdinand Stowell

I consider myself a good host, the bonding activity of parasitic organisms has never bothered me. I really do look forward to my periodic outbreak of Herpes Simplex. I like pressing my little finger on the spot where it rises up from the closely cropped hair around my lips. It hurts in a very pleasurable way. I’m happy to have all those microscopic horror movie dropouts, each adapted to my many microclimates, running around like they owned the place. They help me with my grooming in ways far more important than combs, razors, shampoo, skin creams, etc. I would die without them, the dead cells of skin would quickly clog my pores, killing me faster than Goldfinger did that curvaceous blonde in his eponymous movie. Would that my relatives were so helpful!

  And crabs – I’m delighted that they actually look like real crabs. I love popping their juicy little eggs, you can almost here the shells crack, just like chickens. While I can’t say I look forward to their periodic visitations, I am grateful that they force me to stop and take the time to carefully examine myself. Otherwise, who has the time for that level of self-love?

  Scabies, however, need not apply. No room at the inn. I really don’t know what they look like, I don’t even know what they are really. All I know is they once nearly drove me crazy. I didn’t realize that after applying that over-the-counter DDT shampoo, you continue to feel the itching even though the scabies are gone. I kept applying the stuff because I thought the itching meant that the scabies were putting up a stiff resistance. I could have killed myself with all the toxins I kept air dropping onto my skin. I nearly pulled all my hair out, that is what little hair I had left after wave upon wave of ointment burned its way through my epidermis.

  At first I thought that the itching I felt after Suzanne’s, I mean Charlene’s, departure was just dry skin. But as a couple of days rolled by and the itching increased in intensity, I realized that my old nemesis Scabies had returned. Talk about an innkeeper’s worst nightmare. After some initial self-loathing, I got myself and all the bedding in the house together and went to the pharmacy to pick up the required products. I was going to have to spend the rest of the day aggressively but discretely sprinkling powder all over the living room and laundering everything that wasn’t upholstery-nailed down.

  I worried that if the arrival of my latest guests became known, I would earn the disapproval of Maxine and possibly even bring down the wrath of God unto my house. I wondered where scabies falls on the biblical plague scale: worse than frogs but better than locusts?

  I dreaded having to confront the French with the knowledge that I had, through my sexual irresponsibility, burdened them with Scabies, which I don’t even know the word for in French. Would they understand?

  I vowed to keep a close eye on Maxine and her apostle Janey for any signs of twitchy-itchy behavior on their part. Since twitchy-itchy behavior is already a national characteristic of the French, I planned on waiting to see if they brought it up, and then going on the offensive if they did. That always cows them.

  Scabies and my inability to smile weren’t my only physical complaints at that time – I felt like a wreck. The list of my maladies was sobering: I had limp wrist, lock-jaw, tennis elbow, diva finger, both cauliflower (left) and diva (right) ear, red neck, wet back, Hapsburg nose, athlete’s foot and service industry voice. To make it all the more unbearable I couldn’t manage to take it to the next level of seriousness, into something that required lots of bed rest and emoting. What hypochondriac wouldn’t want a Grand Mal Seizure, which reeks so of old world decadence?

  The flesh is mortified, the skin just embarrassed

  For those of you who are still young and pretty, know that at some point that ends; the bloom is off the rose, the petals fall, the sweet smells sour and you’re left with thorns and a hard, dry, tasteless fruit. Aging – it’s really happening – we knew in our heads it would but not in our bones. It unravels like a B-grade horror film with not one moment of pure terror, just unintended humor and a slow creeping sadness which strains to lift itself up. I don’t want to go out like Joan Crawford, sucking the last spool of film out of the camera.

  I knew it was over for me as soon as I turned thirty-eight, which placed me outside of the most desirable market demographic of 14 – 37 year olds. When you cease to be of interest to advertisers, you can be sure women will follow their lead.

  I’m not unattractive and I still get female attention, even pretty young females, but the day is fast approaching when sexiness will be beyond the reach of my comb and my sagging ass. How, I wonder, will it happen – slowly, imperceptibly? Or will there be a last day that I can mark on the calendar? Five years from now on February 20th, a young woman with an early bout of spring fever finds me sexy and then no one else does – never more. Plenty of men want to believe that there really are young women out there who find graying, slackening older men sexually exciting but I doubt my low self-esteem will carry me through that delusion.

  I have a rather complicated relationship with my body, especially as regards displacing it, which according to the Health Industry, is something we’re supposed to do frequently. I see right through the Fitness Movement and its cultish gurus; obviously the word ‘exercise’ is just a clever euphemism for ‘distress’ – some people will say and do anything for a quick buck.

  But, I had to admit, they did have some good points, which I discovered to my horror one winter when the constipation I endured was harrowing. It’s the closest I’ll ever come to giving birth and after it I had a deepened respect for the pain women endure while their reproductive system is jerked around by the growth in their womb. I wasn’t eating enough fruits and vegetables; I wasn’t getting enough exercise. ‘You’re not moving enough,’ the doctor said and I interpreted this as an expression of my inability to attract sympathy. With my cholesterol up and my bowels clogged, I was willing to try anything – except jogging.

  I hate running and normally would only submit to it if I were being chased by someone intending to do me more bodily harm than the act of running itself. I’ve always considered jogging to be a rather grim spectacle of pained expressions and damp clothing set to the relentless clip-clop beat of pounding feet on pavement. I hear the joggers pass by at unspeakably early hours. They converse with one another. I hear their voices getting louder, reaching crescendo and then fading away like the honking of Canada geese as they fly south.

  I wasn’t too keen on yoga either. I had attended a yoga session once because a girlfriend told me it might help me with my cravings for alcohol. I think she also had a hidden agenda to firm up my legs, thighs and abs. There had been an Asian man lying next to me on the mats. We were two men in a room of women.

  “We’ll begin with breathing,” the instructor announced. I laughed inwardly, a cinch, I thought, everybody knows how to breathe. As we all lay silent on the floor breathing, the most amazing noise, this strong, luxurious purring that put me in mind of a hospital respirator powered by kitty-cats could be heard coming from the man laying next to me. I also heard the swishy, rubbery skidding sounds of a roomful of females craning and shifting to get a look at the amazing breathing apparatus lying next to me. Their audible sighs registered and caused my self-esteem to go flaccid. They were turned on and I couldn’t even breathe right.

  Bloody Hell

  Yet I am aware that no matter how many health complaints I have, I’m still in better shape than millions of other people. Now that I’m at that age where I’m declining more rapidly, I’ve paradoxically become more willing to share with them what little good health I have. Toward that end, I gave blood at a local church. I’d like to say I did it for altruistic reasons and honestly, I’d been meaning to give blood for eons, for all the right reasons, but what finally got me to go was the carrot stick of free movie passes. I went and waited in line, nobody mentioned free tickets, but just before I lay down to get stuck, I asked and someone offered to get mine for me.

  Giving blood doesn’t bother me but after the fourth vial I do start t
o get a little queasy; I’ve even been known to plead in an unattractive manner with the health care professionals withdrawing my blood. This one seemed to think I had an endless supply. The more blood she took, the more she began to resemble Bela Lugosi. I could see her sucking away until all that’s left of me is a brittle exoskeleton sloughed on the floor. When she’d finished with me, at which point my body was basically running off the fumes of all the blood she’d extracted, I asked for my movie tickets. She referred me to a table underneath a plaster statue of Jesus with blood spurting out of his exposed sacred heart – such a waste, I thought. I went there to retrieve the tickets.

  “Hi, I came to pick up my movie tickets. I just gave blood,” I said, as I showed the young nurse-like woman at the table the bandage wrapped over a thick wad of gauze on my bicep.

  “Unfortunately we ran out. We had more people than we thought we’d have.”

  “But I was promised the tickets.”

  “I know, I’m really sorry but we don’t have any more.” I briefly considered making an issue of it but a warning which I read on her face – Ministering angel trumps pissed-off asshole – dissuaded me from going further with my grievance. I should have asked for my blood back.

  “It was a very successful day,” she said as I shuffled off, still weak from my blood loss. Yes, for some, young miss; yes, for some.

  Tats

  When I got home, I found this message on my answering machine: “Hi, Roy. This is Porky’s daughter Maria. Listen, I’ve talked to my brothers and I’ve calmed them down and we’re wondering if we could meet with you just to talk about the best way of handling this. Not that it’s your responsibility but we’d just like your input since you know this woman and we’re thinking maybe you could talk to her?” It kind of bugs me when people start making a statement and then suddenly, before the end of the sentence, their voice inflects upwards into a question, but I called her anyway to tell her that I would meet with her and her only, not her brothers.

  “I totally understand and that’s fine. When can we get together?”

  “I’m free any time but just be aware that I’m on call and I have to go if I’ve got a guest who needs me.”

  “That’s fine. After work I’m taking my son Adam to the park near you. Why don’t you join us?

  “Sounds good.”

  “Why don’t we just meet at six by the swing sets? I have to be at my brother’s to stay with my mom at seven, but that should give us enough time.”

  “Sure.”

  It was 6:20 by the time Maria came by with Adam and apologies for her tardiness. “Hi, sorry I’m late, Adam had a behavioral problem at kindergarten.” Right, blame it on the kid.

  “I didn’t have a problem, it wasn’t my fault,” Adam protested. Oh, the injustice of it all!

  “Sweetheart, we discussed this already. And don’t use that tone of voice with me.”

  Adam put on a cross face and I was left trying to figure out what to say. The only questions I could think to ask him were the usual tired ones – How old are you Adam? Do you like school? – that children associate with irredeemable adults. Communicating with children seems to be something best done with semaphores from a distance.

  I do like children, at least as much as I like cats and dogs and I have had opportunities to spend time with the progeny of my more stable friends. What I’ve observed of their relationship with their kids hasn’t exactly sold me on the idea that children are absolutely necessary.

  “You need to pay more attention to your teacher, Adam,” his mother said. ‘Wow,’ I remember thinking, she really is a mother, that’s so amazing.

  “I don’t like Ms. Takeri,” Adam spat out.

  “You loved her at the beginning of the year. She’s just trying to help you, honey.”

  Finally, I had something of import to ask the kid,

  “So, what’s your beef with your teacher, Adam?”

  “She keeps calling me cute. It’s stupid.”

  “Honey, when someone calls you cute, that’s a compliment. Your teacher has a lot of affection for you.”

  “I don’t like being called cute.”

  “I don’t blame you Adam,” I said. “How old are you?”

  “Five,” he said and then after he thought about it for a few more seconds as if questioning my motive, he asked, “ Why?”

  “Because – don’t worry, you’re first cute phase will be ending shortly.”

  “What’s a phase?” Adam asked.

  “It’s a period of time in your development, you know, like recess or snack time or like those emergency preparedness drills where you hide under your desk in case of nuclear bombardment.” Maria laughed. ‘Yay, I made her laugh,’ I said to myself.

  Adam looked very confused, “What?” he asked.

  “It’s a period of time with a beginning and an end – like recess.”

  “Oh, I see. So what about being cute?”

  “I’m glad you asked that question, Adam, because actually it’s all quite simple once you understand that cuteness is quantifiable and graph-able. You see, when you’re first born, you aren’t cute at all. You look like a monkey or weird looking rat or something. You know that slimy stuff that comes in a can for Halloween?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, you’re covered in that slimy stuff..”

  “Eeewww!” Adam shouted as he laughed, “that’s gross.”

  “Yeah, exactly, you’re totally disgusting, but after about oh, six months or so, you enter Cute Phase Number One. This is when you’re at your maximum cuteness, the cutest you’ll ever be in your life, but it only lasts till you’re about five years old. It depends on the kid, but when you turn six, you’re definitely not cute any more. That’s why they make you go to school.” I stole a glance at Maria as she smiled in amusement and continued, “And then you remain not cute for years until you reach eighteen, when you enter your Cute Phase Number Two, which is shorter than your first cute phase. It lasts till, like, maybe until you’re twenty-one, or so.”

  “That’s old,” said Adam solemnly.

  “It’s really old,” I said. “And for years and years, like maybe sixty years, you keep getting less and less cute, almost as not cute as you were when you were just born, until you turn eighty-two, when suddenly you’re cute again and you enter Cute Phase Number Three, your last and final cute phase, even though you’re not as cute as you were during Cute Phase Number One. And you stay pretty cute until you get Alzheimer’s and die.”

  “Ok, I get it,” Adam said, “so, I won’t be cute anymore soon because I’ll be six next year.”

  “Exactly. So don’t sweat it; let your teacher have her goofy fun; you’ll have the last laugh.” Maria was giggling herself right into my heart and loins. Adam, on the other hand, followed with a non-sequitur that betrayed his single-mindedness and imperviousness to my charms, “Mom, can I get the Galactic Space Ranger’s Death Star Mobility Station?” He kind of whined unattractively as he said it.

  “Sweetheart, we’re not going to talk about this now.”

  “Please, please,” he begged in full-on whine. Is there no low to which children will stoop in order to get what they want? I was embarrassed for him.

  “Stop, Adam, we are not discussing this now. Why don’t you go play on the swings, that punk-rocker dad with the bad tattoos and the fat kid just left.”

  Adam ran over to the swing set and began swinging in his seat while he twisted the chains round and round.

  “Did you see that guy’s tattoos?” Maria asked me.

  “I didn’t really notice, no,” I answered.

  “They were so bad, like the kind you’d expect to find on old sailors, you know, really smudgy and badly drawn. Who does tattoos like that still? He got so ripped off; I hate bad tattoos. And his kid was fat – isn’t that, like, weird?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, “why would it be?”

  “I don’t know, it just seems
weird that a punk rocker would have a fat kid. I don’t know why. Do you have any? Tattoos, I mean.”

  I felt a pang of anxiety. This was another Real Man right-of-passage I had foregone. Would she think I was too femmy and un-hip because I didn’t have any?”

  “No,” I said. “Do you?”

  “I’ve got three.” She grabbed the neck of her shirt and pushed it all the way down her right shoulder to reveal an angel. Then she did the same to her left and revealed a devil.

  “They’re beautiful,” I said. “Who did them?”

  “A guy I was dating.” I felt inadequate. Maria had dated cool guys that etched and inked depictions of devils into a woman’s flesh. He probably used heroin too. How could I compete with that?

  “He was kind of a jerk but really sexy. And he was a real artist; he did such a beautiful job.”

  “So, that’s two; show me the other one.”

  “I can’t right now, it’s on my vagina.”

  Did I hear her right? Did the ‘right now’ really mean what it suggested, that I might be privy to some vagina viewing later on? I started having some very tender feelings and buckets of emissions, both diurnal and nocturnal, for her from that moment on.

  We both went silent in a bit of romantic swoon but then she had to spoil it by bringing up the subject of her dad.

  “I think someone should go get my dad. Just force him to come back. I’m going to tell my brothers they have to deal with this. This is really a guy issue.”

  “Your brothers!? No Way! I can’t have them invading Celestine’s home like they did mine. They’d probably beat her up.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right. I’ll have to go.”

  “What are you going to do with Adam?”

  “I’ll leave him with my mom.”

  “Your mom is in a state of shock; she can’t even look after herself. Maybe I can go down there.”

  “Would you? Are you sure? I mean that would be awesome.” I saw now from whence Adam got his conniving whine.

  “Let me see what I can do,” I said, knowing that already, the things I could do for this woman were sure to bring me ecstasy and humiliation.

  Chapter XIII: Culture Crash