by Tracy Ellen
“What instructions? I’d only seen a tiny picture in a magazine and a one-liner of a description mentioning the straw. I was totally winging it here, Crookie. What would you expect me to do?”
He practically pulled his hair out. “Anabel, there are instructions on the bags of QuikCrete for correctly preparing the cement.”
“Gee, I never thought of that. Huh.” I fluffed my hair with both hands. “Oh well, let’s see. Next, I filled the largest box on the bottom with globs and globs of the cement mixture. Oh yes, I stuck in a few plastic straws I also borrowed from the Fare to use as drainage holes.” Crookie had a hand under his glasses, rubbing his eyes. “I placed a smaller box on top of the globs of cement. I weighed this down with a couple of big rocks I borrowed from the border of Aunt Lily’s flower garden.” I leaned in confidingly and lowered my voice. “Please don’t mention those rocks to anyone, okay? I guess they had insect fossils imprinted on them and it’s kind of a sore subject that they went missing. Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, then it was a matter of eyeballing and filling up the four sides until they were kinda even.” I was having a hard time not losing it. His eyebrows were raised so high in disbelief at my decidedly unscientific approach to building the troughs, I felt like we were back in high school biology class. “I waited for a little bit until it looked, you know, kinda-sorta dry, then I removed the boxes. Voila! I made about ten of the troughs in one day, gave a couple to my sisters, and was spent.”
He was still frowning. “You know, Anabel, you cannot ‘borrow’ something you cannot return.”
I protested, laughter finally bubbling out of me. “Hey, no fair! I returned the drill. Reggie said it didn’t take too long to chisel the dried cement off.”
Revulsion dripping from every word, he asked, “You did not even wait the right amount of time for the cement to set properly, did you? Do these troughs leak?”
“Only when they get wet.”
Hearing my dry tone, I saw it finally seep in I had been having a go at him. He looked completely blank for a minute, and then his whole expression brightened when he flashed his incredibly darling smile.
Undismayed, he pointed an accusing finger at me. “You are such a ….how can I still fall for your tricks after all these years?”
“Obviously you aren’t getting enough teasing, that’s for sure.”
“Trust me, Anabel. I have never been teased by anyone like you in my life. I will have you know at work I am highly respected and revered.” Crookie then sighed like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. “I have been doing nothing but work for about eight weeks straight.”
“Poor baby. It’s probably a good thing the brainiac women at your lab don’t tear you away from your microscope and tease you. They get one load of that super-hot little smile thing you’ve got going on and no more cats would get dissected that day.”
“Cats dissected? Microscopes?” He shouted with laughter. “Bel, you have no clue what I do for a living, do you?”
I hooked my arm through his and led him back through the dim store. “It has to do with science, enough said. Come on, Big Brain, this is one blonde that needs her morning coffee something fierce.”
Crookie patted my arm anxiously. “Does this mean you did follow instructions on the troughs?”
I only chuckled in reply.
I motioned him into a chair at a table for two in front of Laissez Fare’s counter. I plunked my purse down and went behind the service bar to begin making a Latte for myself. Looking up to see Crookie sitting slumped at the table, once again the picture of abject depression; I added fresh beans enough to make three shots of espresso. I had a feeling I was going to need the triple whammy.
“Can I make you a coffee, too, Crooks? Or something else?”
He shrugged and muttered, “I do not care, Anabel.”
I didn’t care, either, but I made him one. For the next couple of minutes the loud, gurgling noises of the commercial espresso machine were the only sounds. Carrying over two large cups of frothing coffee, I sat down across from him.
Taking a slow sip of the nectar of the gods, I opened my eyes to see him cautiously doing the same.
“Is your mother enjoying living in Florida?” I asked politely, delaying the inevitable to better savor my hot drink.
Crookie smiled a little. “As you know, my mother does not enjoy anything, but she has her sister to nurse so she is at least occupied.”
I grinned. “So, I guess the better question would be; are you enjoying your mother living in Florida?”
He nodded rigorously. “Yes, immensely, thank you for asking. How is NanaBel?
“My grandmother, the lucky bum, is probably punching a camel in the head as we speak. She’s on her way to the Luxor region in Egypt. After that, she’s off again to Germany to stay with friends. Can you believe it’s a house party at a castle over the holidays?”
“I love that woman.” Crookie stated. “What are your sisters up to lately? How’s Jasmyn?” Crookie has always had a fascination for my sister, Jazy. I think he’d like to put her under his microscope and study her closely.
“My sisters…” I repeated, smiling a little. “Let’s see; Mac married a man twelve years younger, Kenna divorced her latest, he was twenty years older, and Jazy’s single and working her way through the southwestern suburbs, specifically the Prior Lake area.”
Crookie grinned in spite of his depression; he knew my family well enough he’d get the subtext of all I was really saying.
We both sipped our coffees in silence for a few moments.
Scrunching his face, Crookie carefully set his full cup back on the table.
His eyes anxious but determined, he demanded, “Anabel, is your brother hiding here?”
“Hiding? No, Reggie’s not hiding here. Why are you asking me such a bizarre question?” I probably looked as bewildered by the abrupt question as I sounded because Crookie visibly relaxed his shoulders at my answer.
“He is not ever home. He does not return my calls. I think he is hiding from me, the bastard.” Crookie was beginning to get agitated all over again.
“Yikes, Crookie, wait a minute here. Why would Reggie be hiding from you, of all people? I didn’t even know you guys spoke.”
I was completely confused. Crookie hadn’t lived in Northfield since he was married two years ago. At his new wife Cheryl’s urging, they had moved to Edina. This is a suburb bordering Minneapolis to the immediate west and known for its over-priced real estate and snob appeal.
Crookie really was a scientist with advanced degrees in the biotechnology and chemical engineering fields, and who knew what else. Not me; science still gives me a headache. I knew he had invented and patented a food industry process while still in graduate school that was making him a mint. I was proud of him and his accomplishments, but begged him not to tell me any details. With his brilliant mind, Crookie probably has invented many more things I wouldn’t want to know about by now. He had been courted while in college by many companies but chose Ecolab, a local company in St Paul, and has worked there since. He’s correct; I have not one clue what he does there.
I hoped this didn’t make me a bad friend, but I couldn’t be blamed science hurt my head, right?
That’s what I thought, too.
He gave a bitter laugh. “Oh, it is not me he has been ‘speaking to’, but my wife, Cheryl.”
I took another long sip of my coffee to buy some time, my synopses finally firing from the triple hits of espresso. It was starting to become a disturbingly clearer picture once I remembered Cheryl’s sister had moved to Northfield a few years ago. That was how Crookie had met Cheryl in the first place. “The Day of Infamy” was how I believed Anna and I had termed it at the time.
Cheryl’s a bitch—with a capital C.
My brother has dated a multitude of women over the years. I was under the impression he didn’t mess with married women. Reggie chose to take the simplest, most direct path from point A to point B in life. He followed this princip
le where women were concerned, too. I’d yet to see him get worked up over whether a woman wanted him. If she did, fine. If not, he’d shrug good-naturedly at the rejection and move on. He avoided the complicated. I reasoned you couldn’t get much more complicated than a married woman.
I sighed at this point in my musings. What was I thinking? We are talking about a man and his penis here. Incredibly moronic destinations are often visited when the little head is doing the driving.
I thought seriously about the man I knew my brother to be. When Reggie started his own company he worked long, hard hours in all kinds of extreme weather for five years to build up his business. It’s paid off; he is reputed to be a solid, dependable contractor.
This tickles my grandmother to no end. She had stressed over Reg not having the proper male influences in his life while growing up.
NanaBel has raised all five of us kids--MacKenzie, Kenna, Me, Jasmyn, and Reggie--since I was six years old and our folks died.
I suppose living with a grandmother and four older sisters since the age of three, and being the youngest and the only boy, there could be a small case made for Reggie not having enough male influences.
It’s true that as a little dude, my sisters and I did doll him up a bit. We applied blue eye shadow and then mascara to his incredibly long lashes, curled his blonde hair, buttoned him up in a frilly dress, and encouraged him to dance like a ballerina. He was so adorable with hands pointed up over his head and tippy, tippy, tippy-toeing all around the room.
It also wasn’t helpful Jasmyn is only a year older than Reggie and way meaner. Jazy could beat him up until they were into their teens. We take sisterly joy in reminding him that by the time he was tough enough to possibly win a fight against any of his sisters, he was too old and knew better.
My brother has actually enjoyed constant, male camaraderie his whole life. My dad’s old cop buddies, particularly Jack Banner, and our Uncle Trevor--who had no sons, along with NanaBel’s platoon of male friends were all constantly trying to outdo each other. They vied to teach him traditional manly pursuits and made sure he did everything boys should do. Reg was spoiled and happily soaked up all the attention.
As a result of these men, and despite his sisters, Reggie has grown up to be a halfway decent man with widely varied interests. Not a woman-hating, homicidal, cross-dresser.
He may never be ready to settle down, but with four older sisters that he loves, respects, and more importantly, fears; I give him credit to steer clear of the wife of any of our good friends. Unless trashed, then all bets were off.
I spoke quietly, “Are you sure about my brother?”
Crookie shrugged. His face twisted and I wanted to tear my eyes away from the sight of his emotional torment. I forced myself to keep a steady gaze. I’ve known this boy since grade school and we’ve been friends since high school. We were tight for several years, even when he went away to school in Indiana. I visited him at Purdue quite a few times, or saw him when he came home and brought his new college friends. I’m still in touch with a couple of them. One of his old roommates’ visits me on his way to a relative’s cabin up north every summer.
Yes, we were tight—until he got hitched.
Cheryl and Crookie dated for only a brief, few weeks before they went to Vegas on a weekend trip and came back married. Surprise! Since the deed was done, I could only wish the best for Crooks. I kept my true opinion of his bridezilla to myself; it would do no good to discuss it.
His new wife hated my guts. She made Crookie’s life miserable until we gave up trying to stay friends in the face of her jealousy. Crookie was such an inexperienced man and no match for Cheryl’s manipulations. He innocently emailed me the truth of how she threw fits if he even mentioned my name after they were married. He was so upset by this behavior in the woman he was convinced was perfect, and had been so happy to be in love, I had sincerely wished him the best. I let go of our day-to-day friendship for his sake. I had no wish to rock their marital boat.
Crookie and I hadn’t seen each other much more than three times in the last two years. We talked briefly on the phone, or shot the occasional, under the radar “I’m still alive / how are you / miss you” text quickies, but that was the extent of our communications.
Cheryl didn’t fool me for a second. She’s a female most kindly described as a selfish user. We’ve all met her type. Cheryl’s sure she deserves everything while doing absolutely nothing to earn it. These truly pitiable, but highly destructive soul-suckers use sex and emotional manipulation to live off some poor schmuck. The schmuck is intelligent enough to make tons of money, but inexperienced enough to fall for the machinations they initially mistake for love. Cheryl’s the kind of human incapable of love for others, but she’s honed her acting skills to temporarily reel in her victims throughout her life.
Crookie is a kind and gentle man who convinced himself his amoral wife was worthy of his love, saw only her positive points she was careful to show him at first, and worshipped her like she deserved it.
I reached across the table and linked my hand with his, squeezing. His eyes were glistening behind his glasses. I ignored this. “Tell me.”
He did. Once the floodgates opened, Crookie couldn’t stop talking. He must have been keeping all this dammed up for the last two years, miserable and alone.
She was caught cheating the first time six months into their marriage. She blamed being lonely because Crookie worked too much as the reason. It never stopped from there, and it was always somehow Crookie’s fault, or somebody’s fault—just never hers. His voice droned on in a monotone reciting how his lovely wife was always the wronged party in some scenario, as she continued wreaking emotional havoc while telling Crooks how much she loved him. I was so bummed listening. Seeing the shell of a man Crooks had allowed himself to turn into by not getting rid of Cheryl immediately after the first infidelity because he got caught in her web and loved her was not my idea of a fun time. It made my stomach hurt.
Love, for lack of a better word, is the strangest, most inexplicable emotion to me. I am honestly afraid of the concept of even “normal” love, much less getting tangled up with a person suffering an extreme psychological disorder. What sane person wouldn’t be?
Being a normal couple “in love” can be fantastic, but I’ve observed eventually most people settle in, become bored, and take it for granted. Then the strangest thing happens. A lot of them assume they are supposed to become bored and take it for granted, and live out the rest of their lives this way.
How could the excitement of two or three fantastic years together at the beginning ever be worth the resulting lifetime of ongoing monotony called “being in a committed relationship”? I’m not stupid or cynical, or against love or marriage. Love is exhilarating and wonderful and delicious. I would love to believe in love. It’s just after years of observation, my conclusions are that being committed until death do us part would kill me. Love and commitment--they appear to be two, extremely different concepts, and not the couple we are taught to believe go hand-in-hand so naturally.
Crookie would be the first to tell me scientific research suggests falling in love is a biochemical process in the body responding to cues from your glands. In your brain, the hypothalamus signals your pituitary gland to open the free bar and pour shots of dopamine, nor epinephrine, phenyl ethylamine, estrogen and testosterone into the bloodstream. You don’t stand a chance against wanting to mate over the euphoria of that chemical cocktail running amok through the body. Phenyl ethylamine’s a natural amphetamine. Our bodies are getting us high, encouraging us not to eat, and telling us we don’t need sleep. We can live on love.
Then, anywhere from months up to a couple of years later of this incredible euphoria, after you are good and hooked, the body begins to produce the hormones oxytocin and vasopressin to calm us down, to normalize us, and get us back in the swing of daily life. We should be content to bond in “roommate love” for the next thirty-forty-fifty years. Hey, grow up and
be mature—the honeymoon can’t last forever, right?
My friends say there are many benefits to being in love and part of a couple, and life can be just as monotonous or lonely when single. This is true. They say you learn to accept the boring and mundane as a way of life in exchange for the benefits. This I don’t get.
These words had me envisioning lifers at a factory job. You’re working your whole, adult life at a job you admit you don’t particularly like because the health insurance plan is hard to beat and you’ve put some hard years into the company. You’re scared silly to be self-employed and go on a Cobra plan. Although, most people have never researched or compared the costs of a Cobra plan, they’re content to assume it is way too expensive. They’ll carry on being miserably bored, unhealthy victims in their jobs and gripe to anybody who will listen, but they’ll be safe and insured.
My friends assure me, as they take their separate vacations and pursue their separate friends and hobbies, they are as happy with their marriages at five, ten, or fifteen years as they were at one year; they’ve just grown and it’s a different kind of happiness. According to our body’s chemical engineering, they aren’t wrong.
My friends tell me as a couple you are not alone; you have someone to share your life with—for money, sex, affection, moral support, household chores, to cook for and eat with, the bills, the kids, the vacations, and old age.
I don’t tell these friends what I think of their marriages or committed relationships—what do I know what makes them happy? I get the general idea is to grow old together having shared all these small and large moments of a lifetime. I get in your forties-fifties-sixties these couples will sit outdoors in individual claw foot tubs. They’ll hold hands across the grass. They’ll relax overlooking a pond on the edge of a forest; after popping a blue pill and waiting for life to kick back in.
After what I have seen with my own eyes, this old idiom seems to regularly spout off in my head like a nervous refrain, “There but for the grace of God, go I.”
Unfortunately, all I have to do is hang around ninety-nine percent of people around me that are happily committed, roommate love couples to be reminded there are stereotypes out there for a reason. These are the solid marriages I’m talking about. These aren’t the truly miserable ones with the extra problems of addictions, sexual or emotional infidelities, or mental and physical health issues.
