Fight Song

by Joshua Mohr

  She laughs. Is she flirting with him?

  “She was talking to me,” says Coffen.

  “My bad,” he says.

  “Let’s go for it,” she says. “Just a few sips.”

  “That a girl,” says Schumann.

  There are certain things that the blue-ribbon douche might have mastered. And romantic drinks in the park are one, because honestly, this is an idea that never would have occurred to Coffen. Yet look at Jane now, reclining on a blanket in the grassy area as Schumann stands pouring both of them glasses of champagne.

  It’s dusk. No other people in the small park, which is located inside the subdivision’s electric fence. The park is built between the two streets that fork to form the top half of the capital Y. Both Bob and Jane look around, though there’s not much to see. Playground far away. Grass and more grass. A couple barbecue pits. A concrete path wending through in great slaloms. There’s nothing in the way of distraction—no kids or bills or household maintenance or any other miscellaneous topics that keep Bob’s and Jane’s minds away from the distance between them. In a sick way, Coffen is happy Schumann is here, drawing so much attention to himself that Bob can bleed into the background a bit, not fixate on the fact he feels uncomfortable.

  “Will you be requiring anything else, Monsieur and Madame?” Schumann asks, still showing off with his French accent. He has an oversized backpack slung over one shoulder from which he had produced the champagne and requisite glasses.

  “This is splendid,” Jane says and smiles. “Thanks for orchestrating all this.”

  “For a woman of your beauty, this is nothing,” he says.

  Leave it to Schumann to show Bob up even when he’s supposedly his chauffeur. Apparently, even chauffeuring has fine print that Coffen knows nothing about, a mysterious clause in which the driver gets to make the lord of the manor look like a neutered stooge. In the long run, though, Coffen knows that if the smile on Jane’s face is any indication, this evening is going really well. Looking like a neutered stooge never felt better.

  “And for the cherry on top,” says Schumann, futzing with his backpack and ripping out his bagpipes. “Ta-da!”

  “Wow,” says Jane.

  Coffen can’t tell whether his wife is being sincere. Bagpipes in the park seems like the kind of thing she would normally mock, but all evidence points to the contrary.

  “I’d like to play one of my favorite songs to set the mood,” he says.

  The last thing on earth Bob wants to hear is Schumann bagpiping a romantic song to set the mood—he’s already stealing the spotlight from Bob—yet Coffen knows not to show his true feelings because it’s obvious how much Jane wants to hear Schumann perform.

  “This song is an oldie but a goody,” Schumann says. “I think it accurately captures the sensuous essence of the occasion.” He winks at Jane, then looks at Coffen with this face that’s saying, Ahoy, amigo, not sure if you’re totally noticing what’s going down right now but I’m still 100 percent cooler and better than you, so suck it!

  He shuts his eyes and puffs into the bagpipes’ mouthpiece, getting the big squawks going.

  Recapture the magic

  Imagine a fantastically drab ballroom. Seven square tables have been set up in front of a large stage, each table seating two couples, including Bob and Jane Coffen. Imagine everybody has finished gumming their salmon and parsnip purée and now the overhead lights go out.

  Darkness.

  Intrigue.

  The sound of a recorded heartbeat thumps from the speakers. Loudly at first. It fades until only faintly playing in the background.

  The lights go back up, and there are two people standing on the stage, a man and a woman. The man wears a sign on his chest that says SPUTTERING HUSBAND. The woman’s sign says ZOMBIE WIFE. They both stagger around the carpeted stage, weaving wildly, like blind people doped on booze without canes or dogs or good Samaritans.

  “Who are you?” says Zombie Wife.

  “Don’t you remember me?” Sputtering Husband asks.

  “Oh, yeah, you’re that man I’ve been married to for all these years. You think I’m only a dishwasher and a Laundromat and a baby-making factory.”

  “And you’re the woman who thinks all I do is fart and play fantasy football and you never appreciate the little things I do to help out around the house when I’m not slaving at the office … ”

  “I’m tired of going through the motions,” she says.

  “I wish there was a way to recapture the magic we once possessed,” says Sputtering Husband.

  They’re still staggering around, clomping on the carpeted stage, though now they’re both quiet, and in one far corner there’s suddenly a puff of smoke that grows in diameter and from it emerges Björn the Bereft. He’s wearing a black cape, a black top hat. He is mustachioed.

  “Did somebody say ‘recapture the magic’?” Björn says.

  “We did! We did!” say Sputtering Husband and Zombie Wife.

  “And what about you fine people?” Björn asks the audience. “Are you also here to recapture the magic?”

  “We’re here to recapture the magic!” everyone regurgitates in unison.

  “I didn’t hear that. Why are you here?”

  “We’re here to recapture the magic!”

  Coffen looks at Jane while everybody shouts the baited answer back at Björn. She seems to be sincerely participating. Much like the bagpipes back in the park, Bob never would have imagined his wife liking this, and he wonders what it means. If she’s changing and he’s not, isn’t that going to lead to divorce, her fleeing to Gotthorm and his bulge?

  “Stand up, please,” Björn says, walking toward center stage.

  The whole audience does as it’s told.

  Sputtering Husband and Zombie Wife come close to him, a few feet away. Björn says, “Would any of you like to guess what this stage is made out of?”

  Coffen and his tenuously married comrades peek around with puzzled faces, shrugging shoulders. Most people seem to be eating up the proceedings, but Bob’s leaning toward his primordial impulses—to deride this magic show as a cult-in-training: married adults congregating in a ballroom in the hopes a magician will make their marriages better; however, he tries to shrug off this instinct to disparage. He tries to assimilate, to take part, to be open-minded. Boy, does he try, but so far it’s not working.

  “You,” says Björn to a woman near the front.

  “Me?” she says.

  “Yes, will you please come up and inspect the stage? Please walk around it and let everyone know what it’s made out of.”

  The woman gets busy walking around the stage, stomping on it in places, doing a fine, thorough job. Then she says into Björn’s mic, “The whole stage is carpeted and it feels like thin wood underneath it.”

  “And you are confident that the entire stage is carpeted with thin wood underneath it?”

  She nods enthusiastically. “Absolutely, I’m confident of that.”

  “Thanks. You can go back to your seat. Let’s give her a hand.”

  They give her a hand.

  Then Björn pulls a wand out of thin air. He leans down at the feet of Sputtering Husband and Zombie Wife and taps several times on the carpeted stage. Now there’s smoke wafting around their ankles, climbing up, encasing them in fog. Björn moves away and says, “Ladies and gentlemen, once the smoke clears, I think you’ll find that my associates here are actually standing on thin ice.”

  The smoke clears and everyone struggles to see, jockeys for a better view. Björn’s associates are indeed standing on a small circle of thin ice. They shift from side to side, steadying their sneakers on the slick surface.

  “Ooooh,” everyone says in surprise.

  “What the hell?” says somebody with a Scottish accent from the back.

  “The rumors are true: Björn is a true sorcerer!” another guy shouts.

  “Wow, it’s sure hard to keep our lives stable standing on this thin ice,” Zombie Wife
says.

  “The simplest task, such as just standing here, is a daunting endeavor,” Sputtering Husband says. “I wonder what we can do to better our situation.”

  “Have any of you ever felt like this?” Björn asks the audience. There are thoughtful nods, murmurs in the affirmative, knowing and furtive glances between spouses. He continues his speech: “Remember, this couple up here is only one permutation of marital dynamics. Maybe you’ve never officially tied the knot but have lived together for many years. Maybe you’re a same-sex couple. Maybe a long-distance relationship. Maybe your signs don’t correspond to these up here in the slightest, but instead say things like PILL-POPPING FLOOZY, GAMBLES LIKE CRAZY, CLOSET CASE!, ADDICTED TO PORN, SHOPS FOR FULFILLMENT, VIOLENT STREAK, HUNG LIKE A TODDLER, DRUNK & INDIFFERENT, I’M SETTLING WITH YOU, BLOWS PAYCHECK AT TITTY BARS, YOU’RE THE WRONG ETHNICITY, COCAINE FOR BREAKFAST, DESIRES S&M BUT ASHAMED TO ADMIT IT, INFIDELITY EMPOWERS ME, I HATE OUR CHILDREN, TOO DAMAGED TO GIVE EMOTIONALLY, YOU EXACERBATE MY DADDY ISSUES, LOST IN SELF-PITY, HAVEN’T HEALED MY PAST TRAUMAS, etc., etc. In the long run, it makes no difference what your particular sign says. Point is that you are here to recapture the magic! Now, let me ask all of you a very serious question: How long can two people stand on thin ice?”

  From the speakers comes the sound of cracking ice.

  A few gasps from the audience …

  “I’m feeling vulnerable to catastrophe,” Zombie Wife says.

  “I’ve come to expect the worst due to our pattern of toxic communication,” Sputtering Husband muses.

  The sounds of cracking, splintering ice grow louder.

  And that’s when Sputtering Husband and Zombie Wife fall through the ice and into water. They fall right into the stage and splash around. Holy smokes, Coffen can’t believe his eyes. He didn’t see a trapdoor on the stage earlier, let alone a patch of ice, let alone a patch of ice concealing a water tank. Wow! It’s a magnificent trick—a feat of hearty magnitude.

  “It’s sure cold in here,” Sputtering Husband says.

  “If only we’d learned to recapture the magic prior to this disastrous yet inevitable conclusion,” Zombie Wife says.

  “Don’t let this happen to you and yours,” Björn says to the audience. “Trust me: We can fix whatever’s ailing your relationships. I promise. Think of me as the Lifeguard of Love on Duty. If you fall into the frigid waters of marital discord, I can help you climb out before you freeze to death.”

  Coffen’s internal clash to participate in this show hits a pothole as soon as the magician says “Lifeguard of Love.” Bob almost laughs—it sounds too much like a porn: Excuse me, scantily clad coed on the beach. Do you need CPR? My penis is really great at administering it.

  He stares at Jane, who still looks to be taking this all very seriously.

  “Speaking of freezing to death,” Sputtering Husband says through chattering teeth.

  “In a minute,” says Björn.

  “My feet are numb,” Zombie Wife says.

  “Divas,” Björn mutters, then helps both of them get out of the water. They stand onstage shivering and everyone gives a walloping round of applause before the two walk off and huddle in the corner in blankets.

  “Do you know why they call me Björn the Bereft?” the magician asks. “Because of these.” He points at his cheeks, which are slick with tears. “I’ve been crying nonstop for nine years. Nine! Ever since my own marriage failed. My wife and I weren’t clearly reading each other’s signs. Even if we don’t wear real signs around our real necks in everyday life, they are invisibly dangling there. For instance, did I know that Vivian’s invisible dangling sign said BORED IN THE BEDROOM? I had no idea of her boredom in the bedroom. How is anyone supposed to fix something if they aren’t given ample opportunity to make adjustments? It’s common sense, right? So tonight, you are going to articulate what your sign says to your spouse. Hopefully, this exercise can close some of the distance that exists between you. Will everyone please look under their placemats? What’s there? Is there a blank dental bib that you can write on and then fasten around your neck? There sure is. And before you go giving me too much credit, no, that wasn’t a magic trick. I had my interns stash those there before the show. I’m a magician of principles and won’t take credit for feats I myself did not mastermind. You’ll also notice a Sharpie next to your bread plate. Please take a couple minutes and collect your thoughts regarding what should be written on your dental bib. Remember: The sign is already invisibly dangling from your neck. Now, it’s time to be honest with yourself, your partner, and do your best to make the marriage work. Trust me: You don’t want to end up like me, crying for nine years. Could I have stopped crying by now? Yes and no. But I cast a spell on myself to cry every day for the rest of my life so I could help other people avoid the vipers’ nest my wife and I stumbled into. Does that make me a martyr? Am I some kind of emotional hero? We’ll see how history remembers my contribution to the dark arts. I can only hope to be immortalized in the pantheon of legendary illusionists.”

  Björn pauses, twirls the ends of his moustache. He’s pacing back and forth in exaggerated, labored strides and making eye contact with all the people near the front, flashing them smiles. Probably the magician thinks he’s being friendly, but all Bob sees is a snake oil salesman trying to dupe people into buying his miracle tonic.

  Björn says, “Don’t show your sign to your partner until I tell you to. For now, only worry about writing on it, then stand up next to your chair. Once everyone is standing, I’ll know we’re ready for the next phase. Good luck.” He wipes more tears from his face.

  Jane looks at Bob, but he can’t read her expression. He wishes his wife were easier to decipher, like Dumper and his slithering tongue. No way to misinterpret that. But how’s Coffen currently supposed to gauge Jane?

  He smiles at her.

  She immediately looks down at her dental bib.

  They both prepare to write. Everyone in the place uses their forearms, hands, even elbows to block anybody from seeing their messages while they write, like kids in school trying to keep their test answers secret from nosy neighbors.

  This is harder than it sounds; it seems to Bob that a task of this scale might take hours. Trying to distill the struggles in their lives down to one phrase. Trying to cook the writhing mess of human experience down to a single line. Coffen can’t imagine how everyone here is supposed to diligently weigh the pros and cons, ponder the strengths and weaknesses and roots of the dissonances in their life as a couple, such a sprawling complex web of …

  Then Jane rockets up.

  She’s the first person to stand, the first person to swiftly identify the problem.

  It does not appear that she’s seeing the strings that comprise the nuanced web of discord and instead easily zeroes in on what she deems their marriage’s nemesis.

  She holds her dental bib at her waist, facing it backward, so nobody can see it.

  “That was fast,” Coffen says to her.

  “I know what I want to say.”

  “I can’t think of anything.”

  “Go with your gut.”

  “One sec.”

  “You know what’s wrong.”

  “I’m still thinking.”

  “Of course you are.”

  It sounds like a dig to Coffen: the way Jane says, Of course you are, like thinking is some kind of crime, like wanting to make an educated decision is a statement about Bob’s inability to make decisions. Which of course isn’t true. Not just anybody would have heaved the patriotic javelin toward the window; they’d have settled on hitting the flowerpot, now wouldn’t they? Bob faced down a bully and was born anew. That night, Bob felt himself reboot, felt himself start over. No longer was he going to be some kind of human punching bag. Hell no. And tonight is the chance for him to do the same thing with his marriage. Tonight is a way for them to refresh themselves, install updates. Tonight is a system wipe.

  Everyone is standing and waiting for him to fi
nish writing.

  Jane looms, bouncing one of her legs in a quick rhythm. Coffen can see her anger. It’s in the eyes. Yikes, it’s even in the nose and eyebrows and wrinkles. It’s in the way she stares and shakes her head back and forth.

  “Almost done,” Bob says.

  “Jesus, just pick something!” Jane says.

  “I’m trying.”

  “This is what’s wrong with our marriage. Do something, Bob. Act. Be here!”

  Coffen can see her frustration cranking to ire. She thinks he’s floundering, though that’s not what he’s doing, at least not intentionally. He’s being thorough, practical, shrewd. Then it dawns on Bob that the night with Schumann is the key for how best to convey his newfound message—people will keep ramming you into the oleanders forever if you let them. You have to be your own defender.

  Coffen hurriedly writes his message.

  Then he joins his standing comrades.

  He smiles at Jane, who averts her eyes to the stage, keeps shaking her head.

  “One last word to the wise,” says Björn. “Seeing your partner’s sign is not going to be easy. It might make you mad or sad or defensive. These are all valid responses. Maybe you can go so far as to say they’re inevitable. But remember that tonight is merely Step 1 of the process. And what’s Step 1? Step 1 is ‘Read the Signs.’ Step 2 is my intermediate show, which I highly recommend. For tonight, you are honestly sharing your vulnerabilities with each other, and maybe it’s been several years since you’ve been honest in the relationship. Otherwise, why would you be here? So no matter how hard it is to read your partner’s sign, try and put your own self aside and see what has caused your partner to feel the way they currently feel.

  “In retrospect, I think Vivian was bored in the bedroom because I have a low testosterone count. That’s not my fault, people, that’s science. However, if Vivian had been willing to turn her invisible dangling sign into a visible dangling sign and communicate her heart’s true feelings, I could have gone to the doctor and gotten a shot and my testosterone could have exploded through the roof. Do you see what I mean? So read the signs, no matter how painful the message might be: I’m offering a chance to save your marriage. Now make sure that you and your spouse position yourselves on the red X taped on the floor behind your seats. Stand less than a foot apart from each other and directly on the X. Here goes … ”