by Marc Acito
Natie puts the magazine in front of his face again.
The nurse finally calls my name, but only after asking for Phil McCracken and Mike Hunt. (“Mike Hunt? Has anyone seen Mike Hunt?”)
Nurse Ratched leads me to the little room, checks my vitals indifferently, then tells me to strip down to my underwear and wait. I don't know why doctors make you do this. It's like they want to strip your dignity as well as your clothes. The room is cold and is painted that comforting shade of institutional gray favored by medical offices and prisons. After I read a brochure on osteoporosis and wait about a millennium, Dr. Corcoran finally strides in, all toothpaste-commercial teeth and out-of-season tan, his ashy blond hair graying at the temples like a newscaster's.
“Edward!” he says, shaking my hand with an intensity usually reserved for arm wrestling. “How ya' doin', son?”
I'm not your son, you herpes-infected cheating bastard.
“Fine,” I say.
Wuss.
“Good,” he says without really looking at me. “Now let's see . . .” He gives a quick glance at my chart and then tosses it aside. Pushing open his lab coat, he places a fist on each side of his slender waist, like he's a superhero about to save Gotham from evil: Orthopedic Man to the rescue. “So, what seems to be the problem?” he says.
One of the Best Young Actors in America begins his performance. I explain how I fell last summer and got a contusion on my coccyx (I figure that using the fancy medical term will lend credibility) and how I fell today and hurt it again.
Dr. Corcoran chuckles. “Playing a little too rough, eh?”
I chuckle back and give him a knowing sort of shrug, as if to say, “Yeah, what are we overenthusiastic athletic types to do?” Dr. Corcoran was like some big lacrosse player in college, or maybe it was rugby, I don't know. One of those preppy sports.
“Well, let's just take a few X-rays and see how bad it is, shall we?”
I'm prepared for this. “Sure,” I say, “it's just that . . .” I bite my lip and look down.
Dr. Corcoran cocks his head, radiating doctorly concern. “What is it, son?”
I sigh, giving him the most David Copperfield-y look I dare. “I had to give up my health insurance because I'm declaring financial independence,” I say, my chin quivering ever so slightly. “Do you think . . . well, maybe we could just hold off doing the X-rays . . . for a little while?”
Dr. Corcoran frowns. “I'm not so sure about that, Edward . . .”
“The pain is exactly like it was last time,” I say. “I'm sure if I could just get out of gym for a week or two it'll heal up fine. And if it doesn't, I'll be certain to come back and get them, I promise.”
Dr. Corcoran puts his hand to his dimpled chin and considers the idea. For a moment I worry that he'll offer to do the X-rays for free, but I remind myself that Kathleen has complained time and again what a cheap bastard he is.
“Okeydokey . . .” he says.
Whew.
“. . . let me just give you a little digital exam to make sure nothing's broken.”
Digital exam? Dear God, I hope he's talking about computers.
“Pull down your boxers and lie back, Edward. This'll just take a minute.”
Danger, danger, Will Robinson. There's an unidentified object about to enter Uranus.
Dr. Corcoran yanks out the end of the table and hands me a worthless airline-sized pillow to prop under me. I shimmy my underwear down and lean back. The air is cold on my crotch and I feel my balls retract into me, as if they were saying, “Let's get the hell away from this.”
I hear the sinister snap of a rubber glove. Sweet Jesus, there has got to be an easier way to get out of gym.
Like a surfer catching a wave, Dr. Corcoran hops onto one of those wheeled doctor's stools and rolls over to me. I raise my head and look at him between my legs, my naked self reflected in his glasses. He peers at me with what seem to be Kelly's eyes, or perhaps I should say Kelly's left eye, the one that favors brown. It's easy to see why Kathleen fell in love with him, the snake, which is really not the kind of thing I want to be thinking about during a rectal examination.
Then Dr. Corcoran says the thing that doctors always say right before they do something painful to you.
“Now just relax.”
I feel the cold tip of his gloved finger against my butt.
“This might sting a little.”
Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Broomstick. Butter churn. Red-hot poker.
“Easy, son,” he says, “I haven't done anything yet.”
Oh.
“Just close your eyes,” he says, “and think about . . . the Grand Canyon. Or a beauuutiful flower opening up to the sun.”
I exhale and try to think big, open thoughts, but I wince as I feel his finger enter me.
“Relaaaaax,” he murmurs.
I grip the sides of the table, take another deep breath and exhale while he prods and pokes at me like he's stuffing a turkey. Then he presses his finger downward, sending a shock wave through me. I start to feel light-headed and that's when I realize it.
I'm getting hard.
I can't fucking believe this. The first erection I've had in six weeks and it happens while I'm getting a rectal exam from my girlfriend's father. I try thinking of dead babies or baseball scores, but I don't know anything about baseball except that the players look really sexy in those tight pants and . . . okay, that's it. Captain Standish is at full attention.
I look up at Dr. Corcoran. “Sorry,” I say.
He smiles his Pepsodent smile. “It's okay,” he says, “it happens.” Then he glances down and, using his free hand, pulls aside his lab coat.
There's a bulge in his pants. I'm going to be in therapy forever.
I arrive home bowlegged and unsure of what's freaking me out more: the fact that I got a woody during a rectal exam or that my girlfriend's father asked me if I'd like to have coffee sometime.
Ick squared.
Anyway, I have my gym excuse. Now I just want to take a shower and wash away this whole ordeal. I open the front door and immediately notice something's amiss. For starters, the only light in the room comes from the flickering glow of candles. Sinatra's on the stereo, crooning “I've Got You Under My Skin,” the 1956 Capitol session with the amazing elephant-in-heat trombone solo, and sprawled on the couch in a silver lace teddy, giving me a shy, come-hither stare, is Kelly.
“What took you so long?” she coos, tilting her head in that way that pretty girls do. “We've got the place to ourselves.”
Uh-oh.
She stands and turns around to give me a look. The lace teddy stretches tight across the smooth landscape of her ass. She looks just like a model in the Victoria's Secret catalogue. Too bad I've got a secret or two of my own.
She undulates toward me, then wraps her arms around my neck and rubs up against me like a kitten. She tilts her head, the Internationally Recognized Signal for “Kiss me, you fool.”
Luckily I knock a picture off the wall with my head as I back up.
“Sorry,” I say. “You surprised me.” I bend down to pick up the photo. It's a shot of Dr. Corcoran, Kathleen, and the three kids at Nana's house on the Cape. I look up at Kelly and she smiles at me with both rows of teeth. She tousles my hair.
“You're silly,” she says. “You want a drink?”
I can't think of anything I'd like more, unless she's also got a Valium, too.
“Go sit down,” she says. “I'll get you a spritzer.”
I shuffle over to the couch. I must remember this feeling for my acting in case I ever play someone who got fingered by his girlfriend's father.
I flop down on the sofa and take off my shoes. Kelly has cleaned up the usual debris and I can see the coffee table for the first time, which is a different color than I remembered. More important, though, I can see what's on top of the coffee table.
Condoms. I'm in Hell.
Kelly returns, slipping onto my lap as she hands me a Bartles & Jaymes. I take a long s
wig, like I'm a ventriloquist and she's my dummy. God knows, my hand'll be up inside her in a matter of minutes. Just like her dad's was . . . oh, try to think of something else, Edward.
Kelly nuzzles my neck.
“Listen,” I say, shifting my weight, “I'm all funky. I, uh, need a shower.”
“Okay,” Kelly says, “why don't I take one with you?”
“NO,” I say, much louder than I intended.
Kelly pulls away like she's been slapped. “What's wrong?”
I pitch forward, hiding my face in my hands. “I . . . I just can't do this. I'm sorry.”
“Can't do what?”
Can't get an erection, except with your father. Can't handle the pressure of knowing that at any moment your mother could walk in on us and throw me out in the street. Can't handle the fact that I'm still head over heels in lust with Doug.
“Edward, what is it?” she says.
I swallow hard. “I don't think . . . we should be together,” I say.
“What? You want to move out?”
“No, no, no,” I say. Jesus, where would I go? “No, I mean, I don't think we can be together.”
Kelly's mismatched eyes go wide. “You're breaking up with me?”
“It's not you, it's me.”
She crosses her arms to cover up her lingerie-clad body and her eyes turn to watercolors. “But why?” she cries.
“I . . . I can't really say.” I am a raw exposed nerve. I am a gaping open wound. “I am so sorry.” I reach for Kelly's shoulder, but she pulls away.
“Y'know, Edward,” she says, her voice quivering, “for one of the Best Young Actors in America, you sure have shitty timing.” Then she turns and runs up the stairs.
I suck.
Since Kelly can't kick me out of the house without telling Kathleen how we lied to her, she kicks me out of the locker we share at school instead, offering it to Ziba, a definite improvement when you consider that Ziba doesn't keep anything in her locker except a pack of cigarettes and a bottle of Perrier.
I feel like a total heel about the whole thing, but at least I can focus all my attention on finding a way to pay for Juilliard. Natie and I arrange another brainstorming session, this time at his house. He even buys the beer, having created for himself a very credible-looking fake ID on the computer. (“Waddya think I do all day on that thing? Play Pong?”) He still looks like someone's baby brother, but he addresses the issue by getting very indignant with Larry the liquor store guy, yelling, “What's wrong with you? Haven't you ever seen a dwarf before?”
Chez Nudelman is a virtual replica of Casa Zanni, except in reverse, and I've often thought of it as something of a parallel universe. There's even a topsy-turvy quality to the place, what with Fran Nudelman's penchant for carpeting the walls and wallpapering the ceilings. The family is the reverse image of mine, too: Fran is so absorbed by her parental duties that Natie calls her “Smother” behind her back; Stan's medical research job is so arcane that I can't even tell you what it is he does; and Natie's brother Evan got into Yale early decision when he was just sixteen. They are, essentially, a happy family, in their scream-at-each-other-from-the-other-end-of-the-house kind of way and I've always felt at home around them. Jews are a lot like Italians, except smarter.
“Okay, let's take a look at the minutes from our last meeting,” Natie says, pulling a sheet of paper out of his briefcase, such a Nudelman thing to have. It's dated September 22, and says Ways for Edward to Pay for College at the top. “The first item on our list was getting a job. Edward, could you give us an updated financial report?”
I'm not sure who “us” is, but I figure let him have his chairman of the board fantasy. “There's . . . uh . . . $816, no, $916,” I say, adding in the hundred bucks Dr. Corcoran gave me.
Yeah, I know that makes me a whore. So what?
“That's it?” Natie says.
“Yup.”
He sighs. “All right, $10,000 minus $916 leaves . . . let's see . . . $9,084 to go.”
“Oh God, I'll never make it.”
“Get your head off the table, people eat there,” he says. “Let's look at number two: scholarships. Any progress there?”
It's not like I haven't tried, but apparently Al isn't the only one who thinks becoming an actor is a waste of money. It seems to me scholarship committees are way too concerned about who's poor rather than who's talented. “I won't be eligible for financial aid for three whole years,” I say. “By then I'll be ancient.”
“You're right,” Natie says, “but don't panic. We have other options. Number three: theft.”
I've never seriously considered the idea, but that was before I got into Juilliard, before John fucking Gielgud decided to teach for one year only, before I discovered that my life-long aversion to work was well-founded.
I tug on my beard like Mr. Lucas does. “What would I have to do?” I ask.
Natie smiles his lippy, no-tooth smile. “I was hoping you'd ask.” He reaches into his briefcase to pull out another document. “I worked on this in typing when I should have been doing ‘The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.' Take a look. It's simple, but inspired.”
I study the page carefully. “Couldn't we go to jail for this?” I ask.
“Actually, just you. I've made sure there's no way to connect me to the crime.”
“That's a relief,” I say.
The doorbell rings and Natie scurries to get it. “Don't worry so much,” he shouts. “With good behavior you'd be out in three years. At least then you'll be eligible for financial aid.”
Yeah, assuming Juilliard accepts convicted felons.
From the hallway I hear a voice gravel, “Hello, darling,” which means either Tallulah Bankhead has risen from the dead or Ziba's here.
I get up to see her and she greets me by thrusting a brownie wrapped in a napkin at me. “Congratulations,” she monotones, “you've received a Brownie Award.”
“A Brownie Award?”
“You've heard of the Emmys and the Tonys. Well these are the Brownies. We're giving them as rewards for meritorious behavior.”
“Who's we?”
“Oh, Kelly,” she says, failing to sound nonchalant, “and Doug.”
I glance over her shoulder and see the Wagon Ho blowing smoke at the curb.
“Read the napkin,” Ziba says.
The napkin reads, “For saying goddamned fucking asswipe shit-for-brains pussy-whipped toad and still getting into Juilliard.” Natie earns a Brownie Point, too, for having lowered the movable stage last week while the Wallingford Symphony was performing at the high school. Right in the middle of Eine Kleine Nachtmusik the entire front section of the orchestra slowly disappeared, like an ocean liner sinking into the sea. Natie's napkin reads, “For the most moving performance by a stagehand.”
“Listen, darlings, I've got to fly,” Ziba says, giving us both the European two-cheek-kiss thing. “We've still got to deliver the Ralph Waldo Emerson ‘society whips me with its displeasure' award for non-conformity.”
“Who to?” I ask.
“That sophomore girl who shaved her head.”
“You don't mean the one who's got leukemia, do you?”
“Oh, is that why?” Ziba says, frowning. “Well,” she says, flipping her scarf over her shoulder, “it's still a marvelous look for her.” Then she pivots like a runway model and strides back to the car. I can't help but notice that the windows are fogged up.
I have no one to blame but myself, but the thought of Kelly and Doug together really pisses me off.
“So waddya say?” Natie asks, licking chocolate off his fingers.
“About what?”
“Reagan's economic policy. My proposal, stupe!”
I lean my head against the front door. “I don't know, Natie, I'm not sure I want to risk going to prison.”
“Just think what it'll do for your acting if you do,” he says. “Besides, do you really want to work at Chicken Lickin' for the next three years of your life?”
I tear off a piece of brownie and chew on the prospect of working in the Mall That Time Forgot while everyone I know goes off to college.
“I'm in,” I say.
While Natie makes the necessary preparations I convince Ziba to try out for Mixed Choir (or the Mixed-Up Choir, as we like to call it) so she can come with us to Washington, D.C., for the big choral competition in March. I tag along to her audition for moral support.
