by J. L. Salter
Later, Amanda served up another lukewarm mug of consommé and three generic rye crisps. She decided to save the new rice cake crackers for the next day.
With television out and no catalogs to leaf through, Jason decided to return to bed. He slowly trudged down the hall… limping.
Amanda was very curious about Christine’s blog but hadn’t had a chance to check it yet. Her instructions were to keep her laptop hidden while Jason was awake.
It was a little after 9:00 p.m. when the window-rattling snores assured Amanda that Jason was asleep. At that hour, she didn’t feel like piddling in the parking lot to retrieve her laptop from the trunk of her car, so Amanda called Christine at home. “I’ve been thinking. Doing all this stuff sounds awfully complicated and expensive. I don’t have any money to speak of.”
“Not a problem, really. I’ve got some mad money. Plus, like I said, I’ve started a blog and expect lots of donations.”
“Donations? To us? Because Jason has a virus?”
“Sure. In return, the donors can access the results of our efforts.” Christine acted like everybody knew this. “I think you’ll find the sisterhood is very generous.”
“You make it sound like a coven.”
“Not those kind of sisters. I mean the poor schlubs like you and me who’ve had to endure a husband or boyfriend with a man-cold. Those sisters.”
“Well, you’d mentioned a blog at least twice but still haven’t explained.” Amanda sat on the couch and put her feet up. She switched the phone to her other ear. “What’s on this new blog?”
“I’m posting daily updates, so our grateful readers can see what works best.”
“You don’t mean with our names and everything. Uh, I don’t thi…”
“Relax. I’m just using pseudonyms.” Christine began whispering. “You’re Missy and he’s Marty.” She returned to normal phone volume. “Besides, there’s no pix and nobody even knows where we are.”
“Slow down. Nobody knows… Who nobody?”
“The World Wide Web, doofus. Our blog is going continental. Might even be global, except I’m not doing any translations.”
“You mean you’re writing stuff about Jason’s sickness and what we’re doing to blast him out of my apartment… and posting it on the Internet?”
“Amanda, what the heck did you think I meant by blog?”
“I wasn’t thinking. My brain’s fried from grant applications out the wah-zoo and my boss breathing down my neck for assessments, even though he won’t leave me alone enough so I can prepare them.” Amanda made a noise that was a combination sigh and groan. “I guess I figured you meant blog in a figurative sense — e-mailing some buddies or something. Maybe have them forward it, like a chain. I don’t know.”
“No, girl, this is major. Like I said, we’re giving back to the community. In this case, the Internet community. Look, every woman reading our blog can identify with your situation — they’ve all had to baby a sick man at one time or another. Some are worse than others, of course. Judging from your January experience, it seems Jason has his own category of extreme disability. By sharing his pitiful story, we cover all the bases of everybody else in the country, or world. Whichever.”
“You’re missing my main concern.” Amanda sputtered slightly. “These are our personal lives you’re broadcasting. And what we’re doing — while totally necessary for my sanity — is borderline persecution. This might even be a hate crime.”
“You don’t hate Jason. You just hate his man-cold… and everything it puts you through. Besides, no female jury would convict you. We’re not actually harming him, anyway. We’re just giving him turbo-charged incentives to get on his feet and out of your apartment.”
“But some of what you’ve already told me sounds inhumane, and I don’t think you’ve even explained the worst stuff.”
Christine chuckled. Knowing her, it would taste sweeter to keep the worst components as surprises. “Not to worry. If he ever feels endangered, all he’s got to do is get up off your couch and walk out that door. He’s not a tied-up prisoner, you know.”
“I know. But you’ve got to remember, I do actually love this idiot.” She thought for a moment. “At least I love him when he doesn’t have a cold. At this specific period of our relationship, I guess I’m just tolerating him. But that’s because I love him.”
“Well, you keep working on that cover story. I understand, you don’t want to harm him. Fine.” Christine sounded bored. “Like I said, he’s free to man-up and walk out at any point. But in my theory, men will endure a lot of discomfort just to be given a little extra attention. Must be some gender-trauma-recovery syndrome.”
“Christine, you just made that up.”
“Well, maybe the name. But the syndrome is real enough. Men truly crave the babying they get when they’re sick. Reminds them of those good ole times at momma’s breast. That’s precisely why man-colds are so exhausting for us. When children get sick, they basically want to get better as soon as possible so they can go outside and play. But men don’t care if they get better or not. They don’t want to go back to work. Why would they? Especially if they get paid sick leave. So if they can squeeze two weeks out of a cold, and get pampered in the meantime, they’re completely with that program.” Christine tapped her phone with a long fingernail while she paused. “That’s why we’re replacing the standard protocol with our Scare-Cure. When we get through with Jason, he’s going to be glad to return to his own residence and go back to work. And you’ll finally get back the serenity of your own place.”
“That sounds real nice, but I’ve never had any serenity here. The neighbors in the next duplex have nineteen screaming kids. The lady in my own duplex spends most of her waking hours yodeling. So, what serenity are you talking about?”
“Work with me, Amanda. I’m sugar-coating it just a little bit, for the blog. Our readers don’t need to know that you don’t have any bliss.”
“Let’s get away from my bliss — however imaginary — and back to the extreme loss of privacy that we’re exposed to by you posting all these details on your blog.”
“Our blog. You’re the subjects. I’m just the facilitator.”
“Well, you’re going to facilitate us right onto one of those confrontational reality shows.”
“I hadn’t thought of television.” Christine apparently mulled that possibility. “Nah. Too physical. They all slap and claw each other. Our stuff is more dignified.”
“Dignified? Your list indicated you’re planning to have his colon cleaned!”
“Jason doesn’t know about that yet… it’s just in reserve. I don’t think we’ll even use it. But if we do need to keep him under control, dangling that colon threat could be very useful.”
“Well, don’t mention that unless you absolutely have to. I think Jason’s kind of skittish about his back door.” Amanda caught her breath. “Look, I appreciate everything you’re doing… trying to help. I really do. But I’m nervous about having all this detail posted on the Internet where our lives are suddenly the sport, or whatever, for hundreds of voyeuristic blog-readers.”
“Hundreds? Ha! Girl, this is gonna take off! We’ll have thousands of hits by the end of the first day. Stuff like this is viral. We’ll be on every significant blog directory within 48 hours. Or 72 hours, tops.”
“Precisely. You keep making my point for me but you seem to keep missing it yourself.” Amanda was getting too tense, so she tried to calm down. “Security, confidentiality. Safety. Privacy, for cryin’ out loud.”
“Got all that covered. I’ve been trying to tell you. No town listed, no state. Not even a region of the country. A studly FBI agent couldn’t track you down. This is accessed by subject: man-cold. We’re going to be listed in bo-coodles of blog indexes. But it’s topical. Nobody sees your name, address… nothing. We’re not posting any pix. You’re just a woman with a sick boyfriend you refuse to dump temporarily because you love him too much… or think you do. And your boyfri
end is the biggest wuss in the world when it comes to sickness.”
“He’s not really that much of a wuss, is he?”
“Your male significant other is off work, in his way-too-saggy PJs, in your guestroom, hasn’t shaved — and probably won’t — and likely hasn’t bathed.” Christine sounded like she was telling a slow-witted niece to run tap water while grinding the garbage disposal. “And all this is because he has a sniffle and slightly over 99 degrees of temperature. He probably got his alleged fever that high by holding the thermometer near a light bulb. He’s a wuss and a faker. Not even a good faker. I noticed how he slumped over that first evening, right before he saw you. He put on the oh-poor-sick-me thing like it’s a worn-out bathrobe. He’s a wuss, all right.”
“Okay, okay. Enough. Yeah, he’s a baby about the sniffles. But I do love him. You know, beyond the mucous and that awful breath from post-nasal drip.”
“Beyond the mucous and the drip — now that’s a sentimental image.” Christine paused “And you’d like to see him get past this. Right?”
“Of course.”
“We’re going to cure him and the whole world wants to know how. We owe them the explanation, the plan, the details. The results! It’s our obligation to the sisterhood of caregivers all over the universe…”
“It grew from globe to universe in the last ten minutes.” Amanda felt like she was chasing a runaway train.
“Like I said, it’s viral. Our blog is taking off. While I’ve been yammering with you, we’ve had 78 more hits. Some of them are even donating.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m looking right at it, as we speak. We’re hot, girl. This is virgin stuff. Nobody else has attempted to cure the uncommon man-cold and we’re already making progress. We’re creating history. We might have a grassroots movement here that could eradicate the man-cold as we know it.” Christine took a breath. “Could make a little profit, too. Might be a book in this. Movie deal… who knows?”
“Uh, maybe this has already gotten out of hand. We started out trying to get Jason out of my apartment. Can’t we keep the focus on him, for now, and skip the rest of the world?”
“Too late. We’ve had sixteen more hits while you’ve been trying to talk me out of this.”
Amanda sighed heavily. “Oh, heck, Christine. Blog it if you want. But keep our names out. Promise me nobody will ever know the Missy and Marty in your blog are me and Jason. That includes your sister and her cable-guy-impersonating husband.”
“Not to worry. The only blogs my brother-in-law reads are the Penthouse online forums. My sister knows about our blog, because she helped me set it up. That’s it… nobody else. Trust me. No way anyone else could find out. It’s foolproof.”
That final word sent chills down Amanda’s back. The last time she’d heard foolproof, a chicken with a beer can up its butt exploded inside her back porch grill. Nobody told me to open the can first. “Remember, this is about getting Jason out of my apartment.”
“Right. We’re starting with him, but this could change everything.” Christine’s voice sounded like she was smiling. “I think I know how Madame Curie felt.”
“Or at least Kathy Bates in that movie.”
“We won’t likely resort to maiming, but it’s still on the table, as far as I’m concerned.”
Amanda peered into the phone as though she could see how much of Christine’s reply was in jest. Can’t tell.
“Oh, two more things.” Christine probably held that many fingers near the phone. “Keep his car keys and britches hidden at all times.”
“Why hide his pants?”
“When you’ve got a man’s britches, he’s basically paralyzed.” Christine paused. “It’s like rubbing the stomach of an alligator.”
“I think you’re making this up as you go.”
Christine likely shrugged. “We can’t have him roaming the neighborhood looking for unsanctioned food.” Short pause. “So where do you figure to conceal his things?”
Amanda didn’t need to think. “A place he’ll never look.”
“Now you’re catching on.”
“Uh, what about his wallet? Should I hide that with his pants and keys?”
Christine thought for a moment. “No. Better not. Most men have ultra high anxiety when they’re separated from their wallets. We’re just trying to run him off; we don’t want him committed to the hospital’s fifth floor. Uh, leave his wallet out on one of those boxes near the guestroom door where he can easily find it. He’ll think he put it there.” She snapped her fingers into the phone. “Oh… but you’d also better hide his credit cards and any cash over about ten bucks.”
“Okay, I know this one — to keep him from ordering delivery food.”
“Correct.” No doubt Christine smiled proudly with the realization her protégé was slowly learning.
Amanda was not smiling, however. “Won’t Jason notice his wallet is nearly empty?”
“Only if he tries to use it.” Christine snapped her fingers. “And if he asks you about it, just tell him he probably left his cards and big bills on the dresser at his own apartment.”
A frown clouded Amanda’s face. “You sure about all this?”
“Positive.” One of Christine’s most alarming characteristics: she was always certain.
Later that night, Amanda read the instructions on the Super Glue package and tip-toed into the hall bathroom like a novice jewel thief. She closed the door quietly and went to work.
Chapter 4
August 12 (Wednesday)
Amanda watched as Jason exited the hallway bathroom with a puzzled expression, and scratched his rump inside the sprung-out waistband of his saggy pajama bottoms.
He trudged into the kitchen, wearing the same stained tee-shirt as the day before. Jason looked awful, but it was nothing that a shower, shave, and clean clothes wouldn’t fix. He seemed healthy enough, but his clothing and grooming made him appear terribly ill.
Amanda suspected Jason was using this as a costume. If you want to look sick, just wear sick clothes and eliminate all signs of normal grooming.
Jason lifted his hand slightly and spoke a single word. “Morning.”
He’d also foregone normal dental hygiene. Yikes. “You know, I’m willing to wash those rags you’re wearing before they get a mind to run away. You said you’d brought one extra set in that little grocery bag. Right?”
“Naw. These feel comfortable. And my skin’s real tender. You know, fever and all.”
“True.” Amanda nodded. “Once you break that barrier of 99 degrees, the flesh can practically fall off your bones.”
In his weakened condition, Jason evidently still could not differentiate medical science from sarcasm. No response. But he obviously remembered something unrelated. “Did you know somebody yodels in your neighborhood? Hours at a time.”
“Lady next door. Other side of the wall in this duplex. I think she’s practicing for some international competition.”
“Somebody actually competes in that?”
“People compete in lots of things. I once watched a hog-calling contest at the state fair.” She hadn’t remained very long, however.
“Yeah, but that usually ends at some point. Presumably, the hog eventually shows up. But whoever this lady’s calling… he ain’t coming. Not ever.”
“You get used to it after a while. I hardly notice any more unless I’m outside, or if my windows are open.”
He looked back toward the bathroom door. “Uh, Amanda, I think your hall toilet is busted or something.”
“What do you mean, busted?”
“Jammed somehow. Couldn’t get the seat up.”
“Just sit down to pee.”
“Sit? Aw, no. The perspective is all wrong. Besides, I wouldn’t have anything to do with my hands.” He wiggled his fingers.
“Take up knitting.”
“Very funny. It’s like shooting a gun. You’ve got elevation and windage to consider.”
Amanda didn’t even look up. “Encounter a lot of cross-breeze, do you?”
“Har har. You know what I mean.”
“So you’re not one of those guys who unzips and stands there with both hands on his hips and just lets it fly?”
“Huh? Oh. I’ve seen a couple of guys do that. But it’s pretty rare. Besides, I think they’re just showing off. Most of us need some directional guidance.” Jason paused. “So, where did you see a guy whiz like that? You didn’t grow up with brothers.”
Amanda chuckled. “Can’t remember. Maybe it was a joke I heard. Or, no, it might have been a scene in a movie.”
“Hmm. It’s a little weird for females to be that familiar with a man’s whiz positioning.”
“I’m a student of human nature. Sue me.”
“Well, anyhow, your hall toilet. Seriously. Seat’s jammed.” He pointed toward the bathroom again.
“Okay, out of service — seat’s down in a fixed, locked position.” She folded her arms.
“Never seen a toilet seat hinge freeze up like that. You got any WD-40?”
“It’s not frozen.” Amanda sighed heavily and paused before explaining. “It’s glued down.”
“How come? The hinge broke off?”
Although tempted to go with that serendipitous explanation, Amanda was supposed to stick with the scripted cover story. “Interestingly, Christine did some research and found that male disorientation increases dramatically — up to 65 per cent higher in your age group — when congestion flirts with the inner ear and the patient has half a degree of fever. If you got zoinked suddenly with vertigo, you’d keel over like a scared possum. Some guys spend several hours curled up on the grungy bathroom floor before anybody even discovers them.” She had embellished the script. “Plus, it affects things like balance, focus, and aim.”
“Where does Christine get all these studies? I’ve never heard of this crud.”
“You should read more.” She waggled her forefinger. “Anyway, I don’t want to put down a drop cloth just to protect my floor and walls from all that collateral splatter. Plus, it’s a health issue: your urine currently has acidic virus molecules which contaminate the bathroom’s oxygen. You breathe in that toxic mixture in such a small space and you’ll drop like a fly.”
