The only downside is the executives I support are out of town and I’m bored. Unfortunately, it’s not the kind of place where I can just blatantly work on personal stuff. Today to kill a half hour, I looked up all the doctors the old assistant had written on the calendar she left behind. She went to a number of different gynecologists. Apparently she had a problem with her girly bits.
Tomorrow I plan to swap out my chair.
Jen
* * *
* * *
To: angie_at_home, carol_at_home, wendy_at_home, jen_at_work
From: [email protected]
Subject: except for all the sailing, it’s a really hard job
Poor Fletch—he’s under a lot of pressure right now because he started a job at a new company. However, before you feel too sorry for him, I should mention (a) this is his dream job, (b) much of the pressure is self-imposed, and (c) he has to go sailing with clients and a full cooler of beverages every Friday. His tan is better than mine right now and don’t think I’m not a tad resentful.
Regardless, my point is whenever he gets stressed, he talks in his sleep. After a whole week of waking up to hearing him say some whacky shit, I’ve started to write it down.
From last night:
“Who’s the douchebag that threw the grenade?”
and
“So everyone gets a new fucking watch?”
I am more than a little awed at how coherent and profane these thoughts are, but I’m also conflicted. On the one hand, I want his stress level to decrease because I love him and don’t want him feeling undue pressure. But on the other, I hate to mess with the funny.
What to do?
Jen
* * *
If the Werewolves Are in London…
Live in an urban area long enough and eventually you’re going to find yourself desensitized to the unexpected.1 On a stroll down Michigan Ave, I’m likely to see a man dressed in nothing but burlap sacks whizzing on Ralph Lauren’s display window while a fishnet-and-cashmere-clad fashionista2 languidly finishes her Perrier in the outdoor RL Café a mere six feet away. Across the street a person covered in head-to-toe silver paint strikes a perfectly motionless Tin-Man pose while another holding an old-fashioned sandwich board shouts into a megaphone about the Microsoft/General Mills–sponsored end of the world.3
While this scene isn’t exactly Main Street USA, it’s business as usual to those of us who live here. Every day I see the atypical—a woman with a stroller who’s just as likely to be pushing aluminum cans as she is a baby. Pierced and tattooed runaways stand on the El platform right next to the guy in the $1,500 suit, smiling at each other while discussing the Cubs’ chances this year. Garbage pirates steer their trucks full of scrap metal past the sex shops down the rainbow-flag-adorned Pride Parade route. Immigrants who just finished swimming in their underpants sun themselves on a blanket just feet away from the PR girl with the brand-new boob job at the Fullerton Ave beach. In a world where I share a dry cleaner with drag queens and a Target with crackheads and heiresses, I often think I’ve seen it all and tend to assume nothing can surprise me anymore.
And that’s where I’d be wrong.
We’re about to pull into our parking lot when I learn exactly how wrong I can be.
Fresh from a Target run, Fletch and I drive into our gated parking lot, in the middle of our ten thousandth daily debate about nothing. “How can you say that? He was brilliant! Groundbreaking, even! I mean, he made the whole Andy Griffith Show. I’m telling you no one gave a shit about Mayberry after he left.”
Fletch shrugs. “I just never found him that funny.”
“Even on Three’s Company?” I am incredulous. “The man wore a neckerchief! With a leisure suit! And was homophobic about someone who wasn’t even homosexual! Plus he, like, practically invented physical comedy.”
“Nope, don’t see it. Not even on Three’s Company,” he argues.
“Okay, if you say you fell for the hackneyed, hayseed antics of Jim Nabors, or worse, Howard Morris, the guy who played Ernest T. Bass, you are so sleeping on the couch tonight. Plus, ten bucks says if Ernest T. Bass were around today, Sheriff Andy would pull him in for being a pedophile. Seriously, with his greasy hair, cutoff coveralls, and shifty eyes, doesn’t he look like every child molester you see on the news these days?”
Fletch backs up the car and angles the steering wheel so our cargo is closer to the sidewalk before cutting the lights. “I didn’t hate Ernest. He was always throwing bricks through windows, and on many levels I appreciate that. He was unapologetically bad. However, I was mostly a Floyd Lawson fan.”
“Gah! The barber? Your favorite character was Floyd the barber? How can that be, you philistine? That’s like saying your favorite flavor of yogurt is plain. Floyd was Wonder Bread with a side of fat-free mayo. He was diet Sprite and Freedent gum, all rolled into one. No flavor, so very boring! Seriously, when my boy Barney bugged his eyes, pursed his lips, and pulled out his single bullet, the heavens opened up and God himself laughed his ass off. Years from now, scholars and holy men are going to study The Tao of Fife.”
“So your thesis statement is the Lord God Almighty had a direct hand in guiding Don Knotts’s career?”
“Um, yeah.”
“Care to defend that statement?”
“Yes. I have four words for you. The. Incredible. Mr. Limpet.”
Fletch locks the front of the car and opens the hatch, pausing first to rub a bit of dirt off the taillight. Fletch is beyond meticulous when it comes to keeping his car clean and sort of hates when I drive it out of town to visit my parents for the weekend. Something about me losing French fries like the dogs shed fur?
“Come again?” he asks.
“The Incredible Mr. Limpet is only the best movie ever to exist in the entire world and I am not exaggerating. You know, it’s the one where Don Knotts turns into a cartoon fish and he helps the navy bomb Japanese ships in the Pacific and thus allows us to win World War Two.”
He rolls his eyes. “Sounds like a classic.”
“It is. Although I never got the part why he had to wear glasses once he turned into a fish. I thought fish oil was supposed to improve your vision? Plus, he had no problem leaving his wife for Lady Fish. He was all, ‘Later,’ and then just swam away after the Widow Limpet gave him his spare set of glasses. That was kind of cold, but in no way do these troublesome plot points detract from his genius. I’ll put it in our Netflix queue so you can see for yourself.”
Fletch dryly agrees, “Yeah, still not convinced he wasn’t a hack. Name me one film he was actually good in.”
“No Deposit, No Return? Herbie Goes to Monte Carlo? The Apple Dumpling Gang?”
“Never saw it, never saw it, never saw it.”
“What the hell? Did you not touch down on this planet until the eighties or something? How did you have a childhood without having seen these film classics?”
“My family never went to the movies. Oh, wait, that’s not true. My psychotic sister took me to see The Bad News Bears once. Instead of helping me practice pitching, catching, or hitting, she thought this movie would improve my Pee Wee baseball skills. And before you ask—no, it didn’t.”
I gawp at him in the blue glow cast by the parking lot’s sodium lights and I shake my head. “Worst. Childhood. Ever.” Although I could debate the brilliance of Don Knotts all night, I decide to let this topic slide. I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself to a man who rises and sleeps under the blanket of the very freedom that the Incredible Mr. Limpet provided and then questions the manner in which he provided it.4 Instead, I start lifting bags in the hatch to see which weigh the least, gravitating toward those containing paper towels. “Anyway, sweetie, I’ve got these here, so maybe you can haul in the kitty litter?”
“Yeah, I’ve got it,” he replies, gingerly hoisting a giant bag of sweetly scented clay onto his shoulder. “Do you need me to—oh my God!!”
Fletch immediately drops his b
ag of cat litter, runs to the front of the complex, punches the electronic gate’s code, and hurls the door open, at which point I see the orange of his polar fleece jacket dissolve into the darkness as he dashes down the street.
How very odd, I think. Fletch doesn’t normally shriek like a scalded ape and run away in the middle of conversations about Don Knotts. Indeed, that is strange. I wonder why he did that? Yes, he’s mentioned improving our commitment to physical fitness, but this very moment seems like an odd time to take up jogging.
I finish grabbing the light bags out of the back of the car and head down the sidewalk to our unit. Everyone’s got their drapes closed so I can’t do any spying, which is a darn shame.5 I unlock the door and am greeted far too enthusiastically by our dogs. Loki begins to howl and Maisy launches herself from the floor to up around my shoulders so she can lick my face. Yes, I understand they miss us when we leave, but we’ve only been gone forty-five minutes; there’s no reason to throw us the canine version of a ticker-tape parade.
I pet them both, toss them a couple of big chewies, disperse cat treats, and begin to unpack. Our front hall closet spans almost the entire length of our first floor. Since we don’t have twenty-five feet worth of coats to hang, Fletch got some lumber and turned half of the space into a walk-in pantry, allowing us to buy and store bulk items. His handiwork is nothing short of California Closets worthy. I’m perpetually amazed at the kind of home-improvement stuff he can do, considering I come from a long line of people who consider butter knives and shoes to be tools. I admire the shelves once more and begin to stow tins of pet food and cleaning products in between all the boxes of cookies and bags of snack food.
Minutes later, Fletch has still not returned. How very, very peculiar, I think. Perhaps he’s having an acid flashback from when he was a roadie for Jefferson Airplane at Woodstock?6 Or maybe the genetic insanity in his family has finally caught up with him? I knew he’d eventually go bat-shit crazy, but I’d hoped for at least one more lucid decade.7
I wait another minute before going out to retrieve the cat litter and dog food cans myself. As I load up, I notice my husband8 running up and down the street, flailing his arms and gesturing wildly but silently, trying to get me to join him. I shake my head and sigh. Oh, honey. You’re really not physically fit enough for this kind of crazy.
Once upon a time Fletch would have been fit enough to run up and down the street all night. When we met in college ten-plus years ago, he was a perfect V shape. His broad shoulders tapered down to an almost Scarlett O’Hara–like twenty-nine-inch waist and his healthy eating habits and overall dietary discipline were beyond reproach; he certainly wasn’t going to gorge himself at the Twelve Oaks barbecue. He was lean and lithe and used to brag about how his Army Reserve uniform looked as though it had been custom-tailored just for him.
And that was great.
Until I saw that he had a waterbed in his apartment.
Afraid that the first time I stayed there’d be a mortifying seesaw effect and I’d displace more water than he would because I was heavier, I started him on a clandestine weight-gaining program. I introduced him to a world of butter-drenched crab legs and prime rib with thick horseradish sauce and white chocolate raspberry mousse cake. I schooled him in the world of all things fried and con queso and taught him donuts aren’t just for breakfast anymore. Shortly thereafter he began to fill out, and in the span of two years he went from a whippet-waisted 145 pounds to a much more huggable 215.9 (Unfortunately, I was so devoted to this program that I gained right along with him.)
I catch another flash of orange dashing past me. Yep. He’s certifiable. But now that Fletch has lost his mind, who am I going to banter with about classic TV moments? Although we’ve been together ten years, we haven’t even gotten to eighties programming yet. Magnum, PI, Miami Vice, Perfect Strangers, Joanie Loves Chachi—so many conversations left unsaid. I’m devastated we’ll never have the chance to discuss Blair, Tootie, or Sheriff Lobo. With which Duke boy did he most identify? What was his favorite catchphrase from The A-Team? I guess I’ll never know.
I return to the house, set down the cat litter, and contemplate what my life is going to be like now that I’m single. Chances are good I’m not going to find another “I love you just the way you are” kind of guy. I survey myself in the mirror by the front door. After a quick and brutally honest assessment, I determine I’m not nice enough to attract a man based on my personality. Sure I’m still relatively cute now with my decent tan and good haircut, but I’m going to have to lose weight if I ever want to find someone who’ll carry the heavy bags again. I mean, look at all the famous bitches in history—Leona Helmsley, Joan Crawford, Joan Rivers, Alexis Carrington, Cruella DeVille—not a porker in the bunch and they all managed to land a man, despite their acid wits.10
I gaze longingly at the brand-new box of Hostess CupCakes on the counter. Tears well in my eyes as I place their chocolate-coated, cream-filled goodness in the garbage can. Au revoir, my sweet. The Hershey’s Symphony bar meets a similar fate. I’ll miss you and your bonus toffee-flavored chips. A quick scan of the fridge reveals a whole wedge of Brie en croute, heavy cream, and leftover kung pao chicken, all which must go. Good-bye, old friends. My life will be less rich without you in it. But I simply can’t carry the groceries by myself.
I’m on the Internet researching the dating sites that only show photos from the neck up when Fletch finally huffs into the house. He stands doubled over, hands on his thighs, and attempts to catch his breath. The sweat from his brow drips all over the hardwood.11
He points toward the street and attempts to speak. “Coyote…coyote…coyote out there…puffy tail…black glowing eyes!!”
“I have no idea what you’re trying to tell me,” I reply.
He takes a couple more deep breaths and straightens up, saying, “I just saw a coyote! On the street! I chased after it but it was too fast for me. I couldn’t catch up to it.”
I decide to humor him because I can’t be sure if this brand of crazy comes with or without a side of violence. “Of course you did, sweetie! Chicago is well known for coyotes, especially within walking distance of the Sears Tower. You know, our forefathers had a hell of a time deciding whether to nickname Chicago ‘the Windy City’ or ‘the Coyote City.’ They eventually had to toss a coin.” Hmm, do they still make ephedrine-based diet pills? And what about those meds they pulled off the market? What were they called, Phen-Fen? Redux? Yeah, they gave people holes in their hearts, but wasn’t the weight loss pretty significant, too?
He exclaims, “I’m not kidding! He went to the bathroom right out in the middle of the street.”
“Really, I’m sure he did. But I wonder what brought him to River West? I thought coyotes preferred Bucktown.”12 Maybe I should start power walking the dogs? Except it looks so goofy that I’m not sure I could do it with a straight face. Power walkers all hustle around like they’ve got a load in their shorts. I can’t look at them without cracking up. Although, isn’t laughter supposed to tone your abs?
“Wait, don’t you believe me?” he asks.
“Um, honey? The coyote didn’t mention anything about having you burn things, right? Because that would be wrong,” I tell him gently. Salads don’t count as low-calorie if you drown them in cheese and ranch dressing, do they?
Flabbergasted, Fletch takes a step back. “You think I’m making this up.”
“No, sweetie. I don’t think you’re making this up. I think you’ve lost your fucking mind. Do you understand the difference?” How about doing Tae Bo? I imagine I’d excel at anything where punching and kicking was involved. And we do have that nice lake here in town. (Some might even call it “great.”) What if I were to propel myself around it in some manner, perhaps on a bike or Rollerblades, rather than just eating fried chicken and salt-and-vinegar chips while I sit baking in a lawn chair next to it?
“Come outside and see where he went to the bathroom—then you’ll believe me.”
Grudgingl
y, I follow him to the door, grabbing the only weapon within reach on my way out—the broom I used a couple of hours ago to sweep the patio, back in the good old days when my husband hadn’t yet gone all rubber room and white strappy jacket on me. We wind down the walkway, out the front gate, and into the street.
“See?” he crows. “There! It’s right there.” He points to a pile of what’s obviously dog poop.
I poke at the pile of scat with the tip of my broom. “Yep. No doubt about it. That sure looks like coyote dookie to me.” I nod gravely.
“Holy shit, there he is again!” Fletch bolts down the street, leaving me alone again.
So what do people wear on dates nowadays? I wonder. Last time I was on the market it was little jeans and big hair.13 And do people even say stuff like “nowadays” anymore? Am I going to have to buy thongs?14 Or be all slutty like the Sex and the City women? (Way to set a precedent, you dirty girls.) And learn to dance? The Macarena—that’s still popular with the kids, yes?
I’m trying to figure out where my arms should go when I get to the part about the boy named Nicorino when my new next-door neighbor Holly strolls up with her dog.
“Hey, Jen. What’s up? Why are you standing in the street? And are you—are you doing the Macarena?” Holly asks.
“Um, no. No! Heh, heh. Don’t be silly. Why would I be doing the Macarena? Heh.” I giggle nervously. So busted. “I’m standing out here because Fletch has gone crazy Vegas-style.”
Bright Lights, Big Ass Page 15
