by J. L. Salter
Jason probably wished he had a mirror so he could see what “haggard” looked like, in case he needed to employ such an expression later.
“We got sidetracked. I doubt Missus Yodel has her cable working. I’ll bet that was a radio you heard.”
“Radio? Do they have game shows on radio?”
“Sure. Satellite radio. They’ve got everything. I’ll bet they’ve even got porn on the radio now.”
“Porn on radio? How… what… ? Hmm. Wonder what station?”
Amanda shrugged. “Or maybe not. I don’t know. Who has time to listen to radio porn?”
Possibly Jason could work it into his schedule.
“So you still believe you can get a TV station, without an antenna, even though the system is down for their analog thingy? How do you figure?”
“Yeah. Those cable guys don’t know everything. When I was a kid, I could get the Playboy Channel by pressing two particular buttons halfway down, at exactly the same time.” He obviously meant the old remotes with wires and about forty numbered buttons. “Pretty fuzzy, but I got it!”
“I can see why you’d keep trying.”
Either he ignored the dig or didn’t catch it. “So are you off for today? Come home to make some real lunch? Want to zip down to the rib place and bring home a rack?”
“Slow down, Mister Sicko. You can’t eat anything but that healthy stuff on Christine’s NASA diet.”
“I don’t think astronauts eat that junk. They eat tubes of goo. Not undersea lab people, either. In fact, I don’t think there are any undersea labs. Christine made up all that stuff just so she could punish me.”
“Punish you for what?”
“Not sure she needs a reason… she might just like inflicting misery. Besides, she’s a witch.”
“She’s not a witch. Christine is my best friend and she’s helping both of us. Helping you recover from debilitating illness and helping me survive your recovery.”
“I told you yesterday I thought she’d put a spell on me.” Jason moaned. “Well, witch or not, I think Christine wants to kill me.”
Amanda laughed. “Why would she want to?”
“I was hoping you could tell me. But she does. Witches don’t need motives to kill anybody. Sometimes it’s just for practice.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“No, I mean it.” He nodded several times. “Just observe her closely — Christine is a practicing, broom-riding witch. And she enjoys tormenting sick people.” He looked at her earnestly. “I’ve been explaining this since the second day I’ve been here. Don’t you remember?”
“I don’t recall hearing any details of your theories. But Christine’s not a witch. Your imagination is more vivid because of your illness.”
“She was here, you know — today, about noon. I thought she’d brought me something to eat, but she just came to put a hex on me.”
“Christine was here? While I was gone?”
“Yeah. She said you knew all about it. She called it poultice therapy.” He lifted up the front of his stained tee-shirt.
Amanda peered closely. “Yikes. When I told you to shave, I meant your face! What happened?”
“She maimed me!”
“Christine shaved you?”
“Not a shave. That witch ripped away my chest skin and nearly plucked my nipple clean off!”
“Wonder why she picked that spot?” Amanda touched the area gently. It was still red and inflamed.
“I think she needed some of my chest hair for her witch’s brew. Or to cast a spell. Probably trading my soul to the devil right now.”
“Oh, I doubt that. Wouldn’t get much in trade… you being sick and all.”
“True—” cough, cough “—the devil mainly wants healthy bodies.”
Amanda sniffed several times. “What’s that on your breath? Smells much better than your regular halitosis.”
“Toothpaste. It’s the only thing around here I can stand the taste of.”
“You’re eating toothpaste?” She shook her head as though it would loosen some logic onto the situation. “That’s not food! It’s just abrasive cleaner stuff.”
“Well, I’ve been eating an inch every hour, just to keep myself alive.”
“You’re serious?”
“In survival situations, a man’s gotta do…”
“Yeah. Whatever.” She stared at him intently. “I just hope you don’t get a notion to sample my dad’s hemorrhoid cream.”
Jason looked toward the bathroom. “Does it come in flavors?”
Amanda rolled her eyes.
“So what’s on Christine’s diet for my lunch?” Jason looked hopeful. “I was afraid to go read it on the fridge.”
Amanda rose from her chair and checked in the kitchen. “Sandwich today. Well, kind of a cousin to the typical sandwich. But healthy.”
Jason was thinking. “Something like whole wheat and turkey?”
“Nope.” Not even that good. “No bread. Can’t have gluten, remember?”
“Then I’m afraid to ask.”
Amanda pulled out the same rice cake crackers and loudly opened a tin of oily sardines. “The sardines have some omega stuff that Christine says will sharpen your antibodies.”
“They’re already sharp enough. The problem is, I’m starving!”
She’d once seen crackers and sardines served in a Tom Hanks movie. It sounded edible but looked thoroughly revolting.
It was.
Smelled awful, too.
* * * *
Late in the afternoon back at her office, Amanda phoned Christine. “I read your blog entries today from what you’re calling Day Two. Lively stuff. Some embellishment, but definitely entertaining.”
Christine nearly squealed. “Our blog. I’m glad you like it.”
“Also read the first entry for Day Three. Why did you yank out all his chest hair?”
“Your Jason squealed like a little girl.” Christine chuckled. “It was just the right nipple area, however. I was originally going to put the poultice on his back.”
“You missed.”
“Changed my mind when I saw his nipples. They were decidedly erect. My Daniel always had flat nipples… just lay there like flabby quarter dollars. But Jason’s nipples looked like they had something interesting to say, and I found myself wanting to listen.” Christine sighed into the phone. “Whatever. The funniest part was that he actually thought white glue would suck impurities from his mammary gland.”
“Do men even have mammary glands?” Amanda had not paid much attention during high school biology. “I thought their nipples were just stuck on the pectoral wall, a bit like Mister Potato Head.”
Christine likely rolled her eyes. “Potato toys don’t have nipples. Do they?”
Amanda ignored the question. “Remember, I told you up front I didn’t want Jason being harmed. You agreed. But this glue thing is over the line.” Long pause to emphasize the seriousness. “No more physical duress. Okay?”
“Got carried away. Sorry.” Christine probably shrugged.
“No more mutilations, whatsoever. Promise?”
“Define mutilation.” Christine paused. “Just kidding. Okay. Promise. I guess I was caught up in the science. But we are gonna scare him into thinking mutilation. Wait’ll you see what I found at an obscure market on the east edge of town.”
“Don’t even tell me. I’ll probably have nightmares.” Amanda wasn’t certain how to say this next part, so she used a serious tone and just blurted it out. “By the way, I don’t want you visiting Jason when I’m not there.”
Christine paused before responding. “Uh, I’m not sure if I should be offended…”
“Men act funny around you, ’specially when their girlfriends aren’t present. I just don’t want anything to get complicated. So, no private sessions.”
“I figured you’d be thanking me, Amanda.”
“Maybe I’d thank you if I had been there. But you’re tugging on his nipple when I’m not arou
nd… and I worry.”
“Okay, no more day visits.” Christine sighed. “I wasn’t thinking of that other stuff.”
Amanda was a bit rattled that Christine would visit Jason, alone, even if her professed purpose was to energize this bizarre cure. But Amanda wanted it clear that Jason was off limits. She’d made her point, and she was glad it had been by phone. In person, Christine intimidated her slightly more.
“And I promise I won’t apply any more overt punishment.” Christine sighed and then continued her main point. “If we can understand how the male mind suspends rational reasoning during the progression of his debilitating disease, maybe we can replicate it in laboratories. This new program of ours has the potential to eradicate the uncommon man-cold as we know it.”
“That’s something else I wanted to talk about.” Amanda frowned at the phone. “Don’t you think this is going overboard a bit? I mean, these bizarre experiments, and posting all that stuff on the Internet?”
“Look, there’s about 152 million males in the U.S. Let’s say half of them are over twenty-one — approximately 76 million men, give or take. You know some men never get sick… period. Never walk inside a doctor’s office. And the last needle they saw was on a sewing machine.” Christine must have thought this out in advance. “Let’s estimate 10 per cent, but it’s hard to pin down that number because no doctor’s ever seen those guys.”
Amanda was skeptical. “You mean, since their births.”
“Most of them were born at home and maybe even out in their backyards.” Christine sounded very grave. “No doctor’s ever laid eyes on them.”
“Completely off the radar.”
“You should take this more seriously!”
Amanda looked sheepish, even though her expression didn’t transmit through the phone signal.
“That’s nearly 8 million disgustingly healthy males.” Christine likely calculated with her fingers. “Which leaves 68 million men who do get sick some time or other.”
“Okay, to make this a good statistical curve, let’s say the opposite 10 per cent are constantly sick. Always at the doctor, they know first names of the hospital staff, and they can cite chapter and verse on their operations going back fifty years.”
“Chapter and verse. I might use that on the blog.” The audible scratching suggested Christine had paused to write a note. “So, that leaves 60 million in that general core. There’s another 10 per cent who occasionally get sick — like most people — but they pop a few pills, slurp some chicken soup, and get on with their lives.”
“True, but I wish some of those guys would stay home. They bring their nasty germs to work and get everybody else sick. My boss is one of them. Listening to King Louie snort up gallons of snot all day long just drives me bonkers. You know he’s got to be swallowing it all. Never gets rid of it… a really vile form of Yankee recycling.”
“Vivid image and good point. Maybe we’ll strategize on them after we fix Jason’s wagon. But stay focused. We just subtracted another 8 million males who occasionally get sick, but just shake it off.”
Amanda did the math this time. “That leaves 52 million men over age twenty-one.”
“So, in a regular curve, near the bottom — next to the chronic sickies — is another 10 per cent who are sick a lot, but not like the unfortunates who stay sick all the time.”
“I’m not sure you’ve adequately described them, but yeah — more sick than the norm, but not chronically ill like the bottom group. So subtract those and we’re left with 44 million men who are neither extreme.”
Christine’s eyes certainly lit up, even though it was not visible during this phone call. “Exactly. That’s the middle of this curve, the normal 60 per cent of adult American males.”
“Define normal.”
“No men are actually normal.” Christine sighed heavily. “For the purposes of our study, I mean the normal amount of being sick.”
“Had you considered shaving off the men in prison, the ones on heavy drugs, and those not in hetero relationships? I mean, since our new mission is to help the women mired in these tragedies.”
Evidently Christine considered it briefly. “No, we’re going for round numbers here. So stop being snide and work with me. We’ve got 44 million American males in regular health. How many do you figure catch debilitating colds that put them out of commission while their mommas, wives, or girlfriends wait on them hand and foot?”
“We’ll be hard pressed to locate any studies on this. Let’s see. In the interest of simplicity, let’s just say a third hardly ever get a man-cold, a third are afflicted constantly, and the middle third — roughly 15 million — get sick at least once a year.”
“Exactly!” Christine said it like she’d just found the verifying scientific citation. “Those are the 15 million in our target group.”
“Nice small test group.” Amanda didn’t care that her disapproving tone went through the phone. “Okay, let’s inject some reality into this grand scheme. When you start talking about millions of man-colds, that’s a gigantic leap from getting Jason out of his sagging jammies.”
“Our strategies are designed for women with some backbone, females still willing to fight the oppression of this stranglehold.”
“Oppression? Stranglehold? Christine, sometimes I think you’re leading a proletariat revolution instead of helping me get Jason out of my apartment.”
“Think about it. When a man is cowed into pretty complete submissiveness and passivity, we call him whipped. Right?” Christine sounded smug through the phone.
“Yeah, some dolts are supposedly managed by the woman withholding or rationing sex. But what does that have to do with man-colds?”
“Turn the tables and you have a woman whose entire life is dominated by the excessive demands and exponentially increased workload of her significant male, who schedules a cold for every season. She’s man-cold-whipped.”
“Uh, I think the analogy falls apart, though I do get your convoluted point.” Amanda sighed. “But I’m getting confused. Too many numbers.”
Christine summarized like a bored substitute teacher. “We were down to approximately 15 million adult American males who get at least one cold, and occasionally two, each year. Maybe winter and summer. During these debilitating illnesses, they cause total chaos and horrible disruption in the lives of their significant females.”
“Sounds like you want to have them rounded up and imprisoned.”
“You mean like a quarantine camp. Yeah, good idea! But we’ll hold that for the second or third tier.”
Amanda could never tell whether her zealous older friend literally meant what her words described. “I’m not sure I agree with your mathematical breakdown, but let’s say I agree there are about 15 million of these guys hacking, sneezing, moping around in saggy PJs, and leaving used tissues between the cushions. You can’t cure all of them.”
“Precisely. We can’t cure them. But by perfecting the Scare-Cure on Jason and blogging it for the sisterhood, we’ll provide a tiny glimmer of hope for those 15 million females who otherwise have to endure the collateral damage of this dreaded illness.”
“We all light just one little candle…”
“And the whole country will blaze up!” Christine sounded like she was practicing her acceptance speech for the Nobel Prize. Special new category, Curing the Uncommon Man-Cold.
“You seem pretty confident of these numbers. They sound high to me. I’m not even certain 15 million American guys have at least one man-cold each year.”
“The medical journals don’t get the word.” Christine replied with authority. “It’s underreported.”
“Underreported?”
“Sure. Like crotch rashes, bowed legs, and webbed toes.”
“Webbed toes?” Amanda scoffed.
“Of course. That’s just a partial list. Infirmities like those are not reported because people would rather hush them up. Besides the social stigma, think of the lost hours at work.”
&n
bsp; “You’re saying this disease goes underground because people are ashamed?”
Christine evidently reconsidered. “Well, that’s only part right. Men really aren’t ashamed… because they all think they’re truly dying when a virus hits. However, the women are ashamed because they let their guys get away with it!” She grumbled briefly. “But that ends now — the beginning of the end of the uncommon man-cold. We’re making history.”
Amanda wondered how much of this Christine actually believed and how much was generated by her background in college theater. Whichever it was, Christine seemed totally devoted to the interactive strategy she’d deviously concocted.
“Oh, almost forgot to tell you. Somebody’s already provided a link to a new blog, based on ours.”
“What’s on that other blog?” Amanda was not truly interested.
“Its tag is Kick-Marty.” Christine clicked. “I stumbled on it earlier today. Somebody’s started a serial or something. In among the comments about our blog, on this different blog, somebody started a tally on the slogan Kick Marty Out.”
“Don’t I wish. How many people agree so far?”
“They’re numbering as they add their sentiment. Let’s see, the most recent one is Kick Marty Out — 11. Wow. Eleven people already agree with us!”
“Cool.”
Chapter 6
August 13 (Thursday)
As usual, Jason entered the kitchen wearing his stained tee-shirt and droopy pajama bottoms. While yawning, he scratched his front and back at the same time. He smiled as he inhaled the aroma of something brewing. “Oooh. Is that java? I’m dying for a cup of coffee.”
“Well, it’s a coffee cousin.”
“A what?” He moved closer to the brewing appliance. It looked hot and its color was… well, actually, fairly light.
“It’s kind of a cousin to coffee.” Near the stove, Amanda was stirring something in a bowl. “Some people call it ersatz.”
“Well, house brands are pretty close to the good stuff. Coffee is coffee.”
“I said it’s a cousin to coffee. This is made from crushed acorns. Then they’re ground, just like coffee beans. Only it’s not coffee.”
