Me and My Manny

by M. A. MacAfee

  “Have you seen Miss Kitty? I’ve searched for her everywhere,” she said in a worried voice.

  I recalled finding what looked like a cat’s paw after seeing Spike in the hall up to no good. Yet I declined mentioning the incident because of the trouble it might cause Ruthie, another happy manny user and possibly part of my marketing strategy. Hoping against hope that the cat hadn’t been divested of all her nine lives at once, I said that I had seen neither hide nor hair of her, but I’d be on the lookout.

  Lisa glanced beyond me and at the tabloid on the table. “Oh, the horoscopes. Are you finished with it?”

  “Not yet. I need to make sure it’s in the stars for me to advance my manny as a simulator. You know, for the purpose of interpersonal education, relationships, and such.”

  “A simulator?” Lisa appeared interested. “You mean like those high-fidelity manikins now used to train med students?”

  “Similar, but without the removable intestines and canned medical complaints. I mean, who needs a date that wheezes, coughs, and bellyaches?”

  “That’s for sure,” Lisa said with a look that encouraged me to go on.

  “Since a simulated experience is somewhat an imitation of the real thing, I figure the manny could be used as a tool to practice on before making a long-term commitment.”

  “Good idea. If you’re going to screw up, it’s best to do it on the make-believe.”

  “My sentiments exactly.” Fancy that. In the brave new world of virtual reality, I was something of a trendsetter.

  “Amazing how many relationships start off on the wrong foot,” Lisa said, plopping down on the sofa. “You take the plunge, only to find out later that you and your partner are totally mismatched. Before you know it, you’re smashing windshields, slashing tires, and gouging paint.”

  “Breaking up is hard to do.” I now comprehended why Ernie was forever attending to his vehicle.

  “It’s wrong to expect too much from your spouse,” Lisa said. “No one can fill all of another’s emotional needs.”

  “That’s the area a manny’s most effective. Just a small amount of contact with it and bingo—” I broke off and shrugged.

  “The manny does nothing,” Lisa supplied.

  “Now you got it. Doesn’t she Wolf?” I leaned toward the alcove where I’d left Wolf on a stool wedged in a corner. “That’s my manny.” I pretended to listen as if expecting a response. “In one ear and out the other.”

  Lisa nodded in agreement. “Because a manny disregards you from the start, contact with it is good training.”

  “From day one,” I said, echoing her point, “a manny compels you to become your own person and to practice self-reliance. The lower your expectations, the fewer your disappointments.”

  “I never thought about it that way.”

  “I’m not saying that a manny can guarantee marital bliss. But, by using it to make a few dry runs, you end up better prepared to avoid actual problems… broken windshields, slashed tires, you name it.”

  “Don’t forget impotency.” And name it she did. “Amazing how tying the knot lynches sex.”

  Swallowing hard, I again glanced at the manny propped on the stool without a care in the world. No adrenaline, no testosterone, no glandular fluids of any kind.

  Lisa sank back against a plump cushion. “Wolfs mysterious appeal could have something to do with the times—you know, with the information age. The libido might be in the brain, but messing around with a tangible manny has got to be better than the spacey nothingness of cybersex.”

  “Asexuality is a manny’s trade mark. No way will one ever get mixed up in some messy love triangle where the players have to go on a reality show for a genetic test to determine paternity.” I made a mental note to include another chapter in my pending manny manual; its heading could be tips for the sophisticated woman’s unfettered relationship.

  “You’re right about one thing,” Lisa began, “simple companionship can be more gratifying than intimacy, which is hardly as gratifying as people pretend.”

  “Rather than filling up your senses, a manny helps you empty them. A manny’s like an antidote for toxic love,” I said. “It provides a sort of cleansing process.”

  I valued Lisa’s opinion. She had sampled the product and approved of it. Since nothing sells the merchandise faster than a good word from the mouth of a satisfied customer, I intended to ask her to do a testimonial in my campaign to advertise mannys. But of first importance, she must realize that a manny was more than a plaything.

  “Strange, isn’t it,” Lisa said in an easy, meditative voice. “We have all these fabulous new ways to communicate—computers, cell phones, the Net. They bring us together in an instant and drive us apart just as fast. Our families are smaller; our friends are fewer; we can stay in touch, but rarely face-to-face.”

  “Out of sight, out of mind,” I said.

  “Speaking of which”—Lisa knitted her brow—“my Miss Kitty is always wondering off. Maybe if I got a dog, she’d get jealous and stick around. One of those teacup-sized poodles would be nice.”

  Humph, Spike would down that teacup in one gulp. But, recalling Lisa’s threat about a rent hike to cover Wolf’s occupancy, I thought it best to say nothing.

  “By the way,” I said, intent on changing the issue, “I was thinking of doing a little business from my home office here in the apartment.” I gestured toward the alcove where from my computer I wrote e-mails and paid bills.

  “No problem. Your lease doesn’t exclude working from home, provided you don’t break the law or disturb other tenants.”

  Unable to find anything taboo about marketing mannys, I said, “Good,” and in the next instant, the phone began to ring. From an end table, I picked it up on the second bell. It was Ernie, calling from the office.

  “He says something in a long tube came for Mrs. Crumble and he wants you to drop it off,” I told her.

  “Tell him to drop—” Lisa broke off, raising her hand as if stopping herself, and the several gaudy bracelets she got from a home shopping channel tinkled over her spangled wristwatch. “Oh, never mind,” she said, standing. “He’s just trying to get out of delivering Sarah’s copy of the Last Supper. The old crone found four of the twelve apostles in the new drapes that the handyman put up for her. Ever since, she’s been pestering us about the poster she sent for.”

  “Sounds like she’s trying to crack her own Da Vinci code,” I said, escorting Lisa out.

  When the door closed, I went to Wolf, patiently waiting in my new home office. “Bless your little wooden heart, Wolfie. You are gonna rock their world— virtually.”

  Planning a Party

  Harry had been in a slump for days. He moped around, saying and doing not much at all. Late in the afternoon on his third day of loafing, I asked, “Why so glum?”

  “No reason.” He shrugged. “I just haven’t been myself lately.”

  I pressed my hand on his cheek. “You’re sure you’re not sick?” Though only the third week in September, flu season had gotten off to an early start, and several tenants at Whitehall had runny noses and phlegmy coughs.

  Harry sighed. “In the doldrums. At least until my next assignment.”

  “With the both of us out of work temporarily,” I said enthusiastically, “we could work on the manny manual for our manny manufacturing business, or better yet, why don’t we take a trip? We could drive up north, take the ferry to Kingston, and spend a day or two in Port Townsend. Wouldn’t it be fun—eating Copper River salmon, walking through the lavender fields, and staying at the Tides Inn? I turned to my manny on the recliner. “What do you say, Wolfie. Care to see the old seafarer’s sights?”

  “No can do.” The saggy-faced Harry spoke in his place. “Gotta be on call.” He paused for a moment. “Let’s throw a party,” he then said.

  “You mean with hors d’oeuvres and champagne?”

  “I was thinking more along the lines of an informal gathering of a few beer-guzzling frie
nds.”

  “I don’t know.” I looked over the cluttered coffee table, the rumpled sofa cushions, and dusty rugs. “It sounds like work.”

  “We’ll keep it simple. Takeout, paper plates, and plastic utensils.”

  Even the simplest spread would require me to clean the apartment and set a buffet table.

  “You know what your problem is, Judy? You just don’t like people.”

  “That’s silly. How could I not like people? I’m a person, and so are you. It would be similar to not liking ourselves.”

  “That’s how misanthropes are. They dislike everyone else, sometimes even themselves. So they become reclusive, withdrawn from the world. Look at the evidence. Why else would your best buddy be a dummy?”

  “My so-called best buddy has a lot to recommend him. He’s safe, loyal, and is reliable.”

  “That’s what I’m talking about,” Harry went on. “You want a sure thing; you can’t stand uncertainty. So you come up with a gimmick and convince yourself it’s a product.”

  “I have this great idea for my own business, and you veto it out of existence. If up to you, there’d be no Slinky, no Hula Hoop, no Pet Rock, or any number of terrific gizmos that made their promoters a pile of cash. How unreasonable is that?”

  “What’s unreasonable is that your great idea happens to be absurd. Just because you’re out of touch with flesh-and-blood bipeds is no cause to think paying customers will follow suit.”

  “Talk about being out of touch. Here we are the most plugged-in, wired-up generation ever. And you think those bipeds are busting their butts to preserve face-to-face communication.”

  “The point is you can’t strike it rich by peddling gizmos. If you cared anything about real people, you wouldn’t try to rip them off.”

  “I can’t believe that you actually think I’m a people-hating con artist.”

  “Then I take it we’re having a party?”

  I blinked, slowly getting used to the idea. “I’ll have to reserve the game room downstairs.”

  “Not there, here, in the apartment. That way we can avoid inviting the neighbors.”

  “What do you have against the neighbors?”

  “Nothing, except they’re always around. Your manny, too, he’s not invited. You got to be human to get in.”

  I watched Harry push the manny on his platform into the entryway closet and close the door.

  “Let me think,” I said, fetching a pad and pencil. “There’s the Irelands—Jenny and Alfy. And Bill and Babs Fuller, and Hillary what’s-her-name plus a date, if she can get one.”

  I wrote out the list of names and scanned my day-timer, jotting down telephone numbers and e-mail addresses. I then went to the alcove and switched on the computer.

  “Take a gander, Harry. The recluse is about to e-mail some of the friends she’s kept in touch with over the past several years.”

  We planned the party for this coming Saturday. A week’s notice for a small gathering of ten to twelve guests should be sufficient.

  “Sounds good to me,” Harry said, sprawled on the sofa with the back of his hand resting on his forehead. He appeared drawn and tired; he’d also been skipping meals and losing sleep.

  “Are you sure you’re up to entertaining?” “Just dead in the water. I’ll be fine, come next week.” Watching him, I thought that getting together with old friends might be just what he needed. I spent the next few days cleaning the apartment and shopping for groceries. Toward the end of the week, I chopped up an assortment of vegetables, prepared a variety of dips, and purchased a few bottles of domestic wines and a couple cases of Red Hook beer. Afterward, I set out my satiny white blouse to wear with my black hostess pants and made an appointment to have my hair trimmed and frosted.

  Morphing from Harry to Wolf

  Saturday night, shortly after the guests began to arrive, Kadee called saying she’d be late. She had trouble getting little Patrick ready for bed. Jenny and Alfy Ireland came first; next the Fullers, carrying a bottle of champagne. “Doubly-bubbly,” Alfy called it. Finally Hillary Blain turned up with a boyfriend whom she introduced as Samuel Pensky, a wealthy stockbroker who looked to be in his sixties. Ever the gracious hostess, I answered the door while Harry greeted everybody, shook hands, and took wraps.

  “Get comfortable, there’s plenty to eat.” I swept my hand across the well-stocked buffet table that included a variety of dips and chips. Consistent with our nautical theme, made apparent by the tiny anchors on the napkins, an assortment of seafood snacks was also available.

  As the group helped themselves, I took Harry aside. “Your hair looks awful plastered down like that.”

  “The blow dryer’s on the fritz,” Harry said.

  I mentally noted to buy a new one, but when I went into the bathroom to set out some new hand towels, I switched the blow dryer on and it worked fine.

  “Hey, it’s Kadee. Glad you could make it,” somebody yelled as the front door closed.

  I elbowed my way toward the entry and gave her a hug. “You’re looking great,” I said, taken by the colorful beads entwined in her crown of mini-braids.

  “Thanks. Sorry I’m late. My mom’s sitting sugar-bear.” We converged on the buffet table where I poured two red wines. “She just finished moving in with me,” Kadee related, raising the glass to her lips. “I won’t have to list the house now that she’s helping with the mortgage.”

  “Mind if I look around?” Jenny asked Harry, as he closed the glass doors over the fire in the gas-log surround.

  “Where’d you get those bell-bottoms? They look ancient.” I turned in time to see Babs Fuller, looking at Harry’s flat stomach and the buttoned flap across his crotch.

  “Navy surplus. They’re back in style,” he said, dusting his hands. Then Babs asked, “Have you lost weight?” And Harry said, “A little.”

  “Eight to ten pounds in a week or two is more than a little. Are you on a crash diet or something?” I asked in a quiet voice.

  Before he could answer, Hillary interrupted with a gushy exclamation. “Oh how darling! I thought it was a person, but it’s not,” she cooed with respect to my manny by the fireplace, perched on a padded chair brought up from the game room. The pointed red-white-and-blue-striped party hat on his head added to his air of joviality.

  “Harry, did you…” It was foolish to ask if he’d reneged on his word to keep Wolf out of sight since he obviously had.

  Hillary along with a few other guests gathered around Wolf, openly admiring him. “He looks kind of familiar. But I just can’t place him,” Hillary said.

  “It’s my duplicate,” said Harry. “Judy had it made from of snapshot of me.”

  “Now I see it.” Hillary glanced back and forth. “I love those wacky ears. But those cocked eyes…”

  “He looks like a comic-book version of Errol Flynn,” her date remarked.

  Kadee snapped her fingers. “The swashbuckler. That’s exactly what I thought. My late granny, who was kind of psychic, went to a party on his yacht. She was just a teenager then. I even got a picture of the two of them.”

  Finally it registered: my husband was emulating the manny. By example, Harry was determined to prove that he was being taken over. And he was doing it in front of witnesses who could testify to the change.

  “Crash diets are dangerous.” Babs frowned.

  “I’m okay, except my joints are a little stiff and achy.”

  “It’s a bad case of manny-itis,” I mumbled, and Harry, turning to me, batted his long wispy eyelashes. I squinted, suspecting the lashes had been darkened with mascara.

  “Harry, you really should eat something,” Kadee said, herself chewing. “These pizza slices are terrific.”

  “They do look good,” said Harry, who actually hated anything with tomato sauce on it. “Only I’m not hungry.” He then flopped into the recliner, droopy as a puppet dropped on its strings.

  Bill Fuller twisted the top off a bottle of Red Hook beer and took a swig. “Have one
of these; it’ll stimulate your appetite.”

  “No, thanks; I’ll just sip a little water.” The limp-wristed Harry lifted a plastic bottle on the end table.

  “Hey, Alfy. Harry’s on the wagon.”

  “Him a teetotaler? He’s got to be sick,” Alfy said.

  “Harry hasn’t been feeling too well lately,” I offered.

  “Sorry to hear that,” Bill said, and Babs, still looking concerned, reiterated, “Crash diets are hard on your health.”

  “It’s the most curious thing.” Hillary shifted her eyes from Harry to the manny and back again. “It’s as if you look more like your caricature than it looks like you.”

  Like hell curious, I thought. Harry’s slicked-back hairdo, his ancient mariner’s outfit, his physique in general—all calculated to appear as if he were in fact being shape-shifted.

  “It’s like The Picture of Dorian Gray,” Jenny said, now on the hassock next to Harry, who exchanged a knowing glance with me as we’d seen the film together years ago.

  In short, the character in Oscar Wilde’s novel is a beautiful young man who gets his portrait painted that when finished turns out to be his exact likeness. Dorian examines it and makes a mad wish for eternal youth. A Faustian bargain where the guy forfeits his soul. He remains forever young while his picture shows the ravages of old age. Then one night, the portrait painter visits Dorian and pleads with him to reform. In response, Dorian takes the painter to the attic and shows him the hideous portrait. Suddenly Dorian is overcome by hatred for the painter. He stabs the painter to death and, afterward, blackmails an acquaintance into disposing of the body for him. By this time Dorian’s no longer redeemable, but he still performs a good deed and rechecks the portrait, only it doesn’t affect the ugly image. He then destroys the portrait with a knife by stabbing the canvas. A cry sounds, the servants rush to the door of this room and force their way in. They see a perfect portrait of their master on the wall. But, dead on the floor is the body of a grotesque old man with a knife in his heart.