Curing the Uncommon Man-Cold

by J. L. Salter

Amanda turned the crude drawing upside down. Then back again. “Blistered butt-rash! You know, this project could get out of hand.”

  Christine’s hand waved slowly and apparently erased all of her own concern, though it didn’t delete much of Amanda’s worry.

  “Jason also said he heard a big cat meowing.”

  “Excellent!” Christine clapped briefly. “So the cat food I put out is keeping Diabla nearby?”

  “Apparently. But I still don’t understand the next step.”

  “We’ve got to get that cat into his room. I’ll explain on the way out. Don’t want to tip off anyone here who might be listening.” Christine looked around suspiciously.

  There were only three other diners in the sandwich shop and none within hearing distance.

  As they continued eating, Amanda whined a bit about her job — a daily ritual. Then she shifted slightly. “I’m completely flagged out by the time I get off work, and I don’t even have a weekend to look forward to. During my Hell Weeks, which is looking like nearly three this year, I’ll be working all the Saturdays and Sundays on grant reviews.” She sighed heavily. “Why all these evening activities scheduled for my apartment?”

  “I already covered this. Two very distinct reasons to have evening girl events at your place while Jason’s camping in. One.” Christine held up a finger. “Men hate having their turf invaded by a hen party.”

  “It’s not even his turf, it’s mine!”

  “Exactly. And this is another way to subliminally convey our core message to him: go home.”

  “What’s the other reason?”

  “To keep him from seducing you.”

  “Ha! Like I’d jump in the sack with a guy in his getup! No appreciable grooming or hygiene, and all that additional mucous. No way!”

  “But you already admitted you’ve fallen for it before. And you know most men have some little trick to melt a woman.” Christine looked around the restaurant and lowered her voice. “There’s a special school where men go to learn how to counter any objections about sex. They learn how to keep at it until the woman just says, Whatever… figuring ten minutes of sex will be less exhausting than thirty minutes of argument.”

  Amanda rolled her eyes and then looked at the time on her cell phone. “Time flies when you’re talking about sex.”

  “Sex flies when you’re talking about time.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Christine shrugged. “Saw it on a billboard or somewhere.” She paused to let that sink in. “This sure beats whatever Jason is having for lunch.” Christine smiled as she chewed. “Speaking of… what is he having?”

  “Not certain. He threatened to steal some dog food from the back porch of the duplex next door, but I think that was for exaggeration.” Amanda adjusted the grip on her BLT. “He’s still limping along with consommé and those horrid rice-based wafer thingies. Have you actually tried those?”

  “Indigestible. He’d be better off with the dog food.” Christine poked at her chicken salad. “I’ll have to tell you, I’m a bit surprised your Jason has stuck it out this far. In my original premise, the shock of not getting his munchies, booze, porn — and none of the TLC from you, of course — would get him out the door pretty durn quick. This is Day Five and he shows no signs of giving up.”

  “Yeah, kind of surprises me, too. Of course, I didn’t truly comprehend all the horrors you’d planned for him. But he’s pretty much just rolled with the punches. I’d halfway expected him to show a little initiative — like stealing a box of cookies from a passing student salesman or something. But he just mopes around my apartment, sucking on a toothpaste tube.” Amanda took another small bite of her sandwich and chewed thoughtfully. “Once we took away all Jason’s creature comforts, it’s been a bit like Gulliver’s Travels: he’s out of the male-centered universe as he knows it. He’s not able to grapple with the enormity of this upheaval, so the smaller manifestations simply waft by him and he just watches like a stoned hippie.”

  “Can you write that last part down? I’d like to put that on the blog.” Christine handed her the notepad. “I think you’ve hit on the key to this case. Normally a man would bristle at any one of the setbacks Jason has experienced. But facing all of them at one time, with our unified front, he’s just as disoriented as a dazed bird, trapped inside a greenhouse, that keeps bumping into windows.”

  “Put that on your blog also.” Amanda slid the pad back over.

  Christine made a note. “Oh, does Jason speak any Spanish?”

  “You must be kidding. He can barely order his own meal at the Mexican restaurant.”

  “Good. I’ve got a surprise for him tomorrow. Want to hear about it?”

  “Probably better if I don’t know.” Amanda sighed. “I’ll just read about it on the blog like everybody else.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “Remember, no physical harm.”

  “Not a hair on his body.” Christine smiled.

  Amanda checked the time again. “Only have a few more minutes. I wanted to ask you more about that handbook, or whatever you talked about publishing. Were you serious about that?”

  “Sure. Think about it. Our core group is 15 million American males who have about one man-cold a year. Right?”

  “Yeah, but that just came out of your own head, Christine… it’s not a real number.”

  “No matter. My brain is plugged into this.”

  “Your brain’s plugged with something.”

  Christine seemed to dismiss the comment. “So we figure these sickies have 15 million females tending to them, and they’re all desperate, frazzled, overwrought. Like you were.”

  Amanda nodded. “Still am.”

  “Well, cut off a third who probably can’t read. That leaves 10 million. Then knock off another third who never buy a book — they just borrow somebody else’s copy and never bother to return it.”

  “That leaves the final five million desperate women who can read and are willing to buy a book.” Amanda helped move the arithmetic forward.

  “Exactly. We’ve practically already sold five million copies. Bestseller — top of the Amazon rankings. There’ll be interviews, maybe a makeover… for at least one of us. They’ll probably fly us to New York for a nighttime talk show.”

  Amanda shook her head. “Don’t buy your interview dress just yet. You haven’t even written the dang book.”

  “It’s writing itself on our blog. We’re getting feedback from all over the globe.”

  “Now that’s a scary thought.” Amanda had already seen some of the posted comments. “Absolutely terrifying.”

  “Don’t chicken out about our book. Like I said, it’s already a guaranteed bestseller. We’ve got practically automatic sales to five million women who are slaves to these once-a-year man-cold perpetrators.”

  “Perpetrators? You make it sound like a crime.”

  “It ought to be criminalized. But I project that to be addressed in the fourth or fifth tier. You can’t get new legislation just because the grassroots demand it. You need lobbyists and celebrities on your side, pumping up your message.”

  “Hold on. Grassroots? Lobbyists? Celebrities?” Amanda’s eyes grew large. “What celebrity is going to be a spokesperson for the women combating man-cold perpetrators?”

  “Hey, those are some of the words we might use, but it’s got to be a flashy acronym.” Christine thought for a minute. “What about D.A.M.P.? Defense Against Man-cold Perpetrators. D.A.M.P. I love it!”

  Amanda pinched her friend’s forearm. “Forget D.A.M.P. Just name me one celebrity who’ll help us with this. And it’s got to be a female celebrity who’s married to, or living with, some schmuck who acts like a baby when he gets the sniffles.”

  Christine closed her eyes briefly. “Well, I’m drawing a blank at the moment, but I’ll come up with somebody. Like I said, the political action committee aspects of this would be way down the line.”

  “Wait. Maybe we’re looking at the wrong gend
er. How about a male celebrity? You know, some washed-up actor who can’t get any decent roles.” Amanda might already have a short list of names. “We’ll get him to say he used to be a man-cold perpetrator, but now he’s reformed. Saw the error of his ways, et cetera.”

  “Great idea, Amanda! But we still need a name. Know any male actors with a troubled past of man-cold perpetration?”

  “Irrelevant. Actors are paid to say the lines provided in the script and make it look convincing. Take an out-of-work actor and pay him the S.A.G. scale, and we’ve got our celebrity endorsement. Our mouthpiece, our poster male for the legislation.”

  Christine squinted. “A few days ago you told me that you don’t know when I’m kidding and when I’m serious. I think I’ve just reached that point with you. Are you serious about all this stuff you just blurted out? Or are you just humoring me?”

  Amanda took another quick look at her cell phone clock and jumped up. “Oops. Gotta run. Later.”

  * * * *

  Shortly after lunch, one of the other workers entered Amanda’s office with two additional grant applications.

  “Just got these apps from King Louie,” Joan said, whispering the boss’s name. “He told me to bring them in.” She handed them to Amanda. “Sorry.”

  Amanda glanced over the top document. “Any idea how long he’s been sitting on these?”

  Joan shrugged. “I didn’t see them come in, but he just now made a point of telling me that they did beat the deadline.”

  “Deadline was Friday a week ago.” Amanda double-checked her calendar.

  “Don’t kill the messenger.” Joan rolled her eyes.

  “Sorry. My frustration quotient is through the roof.” Amanda sighed heavily. “Not aimed at you.”

  Joan nodded and departed.

  * * * *

  During late afternoon, Jason called his buddy Kevin Haywood at the electric co-op. A year older and already divorced twice, Kevin’s sole avocation was to cruise the numerous conventions, conferences, and other events which gravitated to the Nashville area. About half of these had women attendees, and about a quarter of the events were mostly aimed at females. Women visiting Nashville without their usual male partners were juicy targets, and Kevin almost always got a hit.

  At the apartment, Jason finally realized he’d had enough deprivation and was eager for rescue. “Kevin, you got to come get me. I’m at Amanda’s on Melrose. I’m sick and I’m starving! No TV, no Internet, nothing! The most exciting thing around here is watching some kid with no neck who keeps banging a tennis ball against the side of the community laundry house. And after the first hour, even that excitement wears off. I’m a prisoner! When can you get here?”

  “Are you kidding? You’ve got it made. A foxy nurse like Amanda and you’re off work all week. What’s to rescue? Has she given you a full body massage yet?”

  “No, I’m serious, Kevin. Everything’s upside down. Amanda’s hardly here at all and these other women keep coming over.”

  “Other women. Hmm. How many? This sounds interesting. Who are they? Nice looking?” Kevin theatrically faked a cough. “Maybe I’m feeling a little sick, too.”

  “No, no. It’s horrible. They’re killing me over here. Starving me!”

  “Jase! If you’re hungry, just order a pizza delivery.”

  “Yeah, good idea.” It had not even occurred to him. But his friend was missing the big picture of punishment and isolation. Jason tried to explain.

  Kevin just sounded bored.

  “You don’t seem to realize how serious this is.” Jason sputtered. “Here’s just one example. Yesterday, a kid came to the door selling magazine subscriptions. So I say I don’t live here, but ask if he’s got any food on him. He acts like he doesn’t understand the concept. So I say, ‘Anything at all to eat. I’m starving. I’ll pay.’ So he digs down in his pocket and comes up with two gummy bears and an old piece of butterscotch.”

  “Uh, don’t tell me you bought them.”

  “It was a bargain at a dollar apiece, even if I did have to scrape his pocket lint off the bears. Fortunately the butterscotch morsel was still wrapped, but it was dried up and stuck to the wrapper, so it took me nine minutes to peel it.” Jason sighed heavily. “Where are all those kids who sell boxes of candy bars to raise money for schools? I used to see them by the busloads before I was imprisoned.”

  Kevin didn’t respond. Desperation in a buddy probably made him uncomfortable.

  “I’m desperate, Kevin. Plus I seem to be out of cash.”

  “I don’t know, Jase. If you’re off-work-sick, I think you need to stick it out.”

  Jason wailed pitifully. “Save me. Please! You know I’d come for you.”

  “No, you wouldn’t. You’d head for the county line.” No sympathy from Kevin. “You’re on your own, buddy. Besides, I know you’re exaggerating. It’s a cold. How bad could it be?”

  “I don’t even have any pants!”

  “Now, that’s what I’m talking about!” Kevin laughed. “After you finally come back to work, I think I’ll catch a cold for the next week.”

  “Kevin, I’m begging…”

  “Sorry, buddy, you’re on your own with an apartment full of attentive women. Gotta go. Let me know if I can help.”

  “I am letting you know. I do need your help! Come rescue me!” Jason’s call was not going as planned.

  “What a kidder! Bye.”

  Jason stared at his phone in stunned silence. His best buddy wouldn’t even take him seriously! But at least Kevin had offered a useful suggestion and Jason called the pizza place.

  After nearly ten minutes, he flipped his phone shut with total disgust. “Pizza nazi! You just lost my business forever!” Then he sucked down another inch of striped toothpaste.

  Chapter 8

  Amanda checked the blog before leaving work. The comments reflected about the same proportion of supporters and detractors. She clicked on the Kick-Marty link they’d discovered on Day Three. Current tally was Kick Marty Out — 24. More than double the number from two days ago.

  There was a new link to a second adjunct blog. This one was tagged Free-Marty and the first-day tally was Free Marty Now! — 5. It would be interesting to track these two opposite viewpoints: one group understanding that Jason was an intruder and the other group assuming he was a prisoner.

  Amanda clicked back onto the central blog’s main page to see Christine’s newest posting.

  .

  Curing the Uncommon Man-Cold

  Day Five

  Lunch for our patient was right on the very edge of edible. Marty took a couple of those compressed rice cake cracker things and actually spread toothpaste on them. Cheez Whiz is off the list — dairy, of course — so he must have figured anything that’s gooey could be substituted. I’m tempted to try this myself. He insists the striped toothpaste will go with anything.

  Marty had barely finished his meager lunch when the two female insect sprayers I’d arranged came in and doused the apartment. Of course, they were bogus… which is the whole point of these disruptions. In any normal week you wouldn’t have a technician visit every day and a hen party every evening. Remember this, ladies, when you plan your Scare-Cures. Pull out all the stops!

  Oh, back to the pretend sprayers. They did most of their work right around Marty. Both his feet got dosed liberally. Apparently our patient had discovered an old peppermint nearly buried on Missy’s dresser. The sprayers told me he’d just spent five minutes carefully unwrapping this dried-up mint. So, right when he was about to plop it in his mouth, one of them zapped it with the pretend bug spray.

  Sorry, thought I saw a bug, she told him.

  Important hint: don’t use real bug spray for this part of the treatment. You don’t want to go to jail for poisoning. All they were spraying was water with a quart of dime store perfume dumped in.

  Oh, final note about this: The sprayers were friends of my sister. You can use any relatives or friends the patient has never met.
>
  Almira Gulch

  .

  That signature sounded vaguely familiar but Amanda couldn’t place it. Maybe a teacher she’d had in elementary school?

  She reread the part about the insect sprayers. No idea who those women were, but clearly they represented two more individuals who now knew about the Scare-Cure that Amanda and her bossy friend were perpetrating against an unsuspecting Jason. At least six people now knew that Amanda’s life was being played out on a blog.

  * * * *

  Dead tired, Amanda arrived home from work about 5:35. First stop was the air conditioner’s outside compressor, where she followed Christine’s instructions. The unit cycled on and began moving the afternoon’s stale, hot air through the duct system. It would take at least thirty minutes to cool off sufficiently.

  With an overall body expression of total exhaustion, Amanda entered, dropped her purse, and kicked off her heels. She stared at the inside of her own apartment for a moment as though she wasn’t sure it was the correct address. She left the door mostly closed, but it would take too much effort to push it until it latched fully.

  It was jungle hot inside! She pulled her skirt halfway up her thighs and loosened two extra buttons on her blouse. Since she didn’t possess the energy required to reach the couch in the living space, Amanda just sank into the chair nearest the door and closed her eyes.

  About six minutes after she fell asleep, Jason trudged in and pushed the front door until it clicked. Amanda woke immediately with a feeling like she’d just landed in the middle of a 1950s horror movie. She had. Directly in front of her was the Creature from the Guest Lagoon.

  “Hi. Didn’t hear you come in.” Jason obviously noticed how much leg was revealed by her disheveled skirt.

  He approached and apparently attempted to negotiate an embrace, but the positioning was all wrong. Plus she was not remotely in the mood for embraces with a man who apparently hadn’t showered in at least four days. Amanda held him at arm’s length and didn’t even rise from the chair. “Get in the bathroom and take a shower, for cryin’ out loud.” She pointed sternly. “You positively stink! And you still haven’t shaved!”