Love In The Time Of Apps

by Jay Begler

  Fit and very healthy, he actually liked reaching this plateau in life. His daily struggles to achieve financial success were behind him and his ultimate struggle, playing golf with the Grim Reaper, his particular euphemism for facing and attempting to delay death, was a very long way off, at least according to his gene pool.

  He asked himself, “If Pragat rated my life, I wonder what kind of a number I would have?” Above all, Goodwin was a realist and brutally honest with himself. Twelve out of 30 seemed about right, perhaps lower. True, he and Sheila were attractive, well educated, had tons of money, so many friends that Goodwin had joked that he had a new friends waiting list, and a measure of prestige at least within the confines of his country club. All of this, coupled with his now public high PPR, created an illusion of a rosy life. The converse, however, was the case. Goodwin suffered from the absence of a happy marriage. At this point in his life, he had actually given up any hope of regaining a happy marriage and would have settled for a decent marriage or even a mediocre marriage, but given his abysmal relationship with Sheila these options seemed out of reach.

  Traffic on the Long Island Expressway, his route to Manhattan, had come to complete halt. In the distance off to the side of the road, there was the crumpled remains of what was once a luxurious car, one that was probably pointed to with pride by its owner. As he edged towards the car, it occurred to him that what he saw might have been a metaphor for what his marriage had become. By outward appearances, they were a perfect couple, polite to each other, respectful and harmonious. This was the public persona of their marriage, however. Like the car, however, their marriage had “crumpled.” In fact, they were seeing a marriage counselor. They dined with friends as often as possible because when they ate at home alone they hardly spoke. They no longer made love and stopped making excuses.

  Goodwin was parallel to the car wreck. EMS workers carried a limp body from the smashed and smoldering car. “Was the man dead? Was our marriage dead?” Goodwin wondered.

  Goodwin could not really recall just how long ago it had been, but he did remember, and vividly, the very last time they made love, although the term “making love” was a misnomer. “Imitating people making love,” or as he confessed to his closest friend years later, “robot fucking,” was more accurate. They were going through the motions of intercourse simply because they felt they should; sex as a way of validating their marriage. As he thrust inside of Sheila, he suddenly thought of the word that he couldn’t get on the Times Crossword puzzle, four letters for “45 Player,” answer “HIFI.” Diverted from his memory for an instant he thought, “Say ‘HIFI” to kids today and they probably would think it was WIFI on a plane.” He remembered that at the time he thought it was incredible that he could maintain an erection and simultaneously consider entries in a crossword puzzle. It was, he thought, the ultimate example of multi-tasking.

  It probably would not have come as a surprise to Goodwin that during that particular sexual episode, not only was Sheila faking an orgasm, she was also working to solve a puzzle of her own, namely why she was pushing her golf shots to the right. When she gave off a deep and throaty “ah,” it was not as Goodwin had thought that she had reached her climax. Sheila simply realized that her grip was wrong. “Ah” was the precursor to a silent “ha.”

  Over the last few years, their arguments had increased in intensity and hurtfulness. Goodwin was living with the real possibility that their marriage would implode and that he would leave Sheila or she would leave him or in their final act of marital unanimity, they would say to each other simultaneously, “We should divorce.” There was, he thought, justification on both sides. Goodwin held on, however, and coped as best he could with their unpleasant, behind-closed-doors partnership, because he liked his suburban lifestyle whose central locus was, Harborside, his country club, and did not want to change it. Though Sheila never told him so, he suspected that she stayed in the marriage for the same reason. “Inertia,” he thought, “is what’s saving our marriage.”

  Goodwin had actually left Sheila once, but it was only for a nanosecond. His very brief departure was an outgrowth of an argument that occurred on a busy street corner near Lincoln Center. Generally very buttoned up in public, adhering to his privacy protocol of keeping a low profile, Goodwin took pains not to do anything that would call unwanted public attention to himself. This time, however, the taunting by Sheila caused him to raise his voice to the point where passersby took notice. In response to his elevated decibel level, Sheila rebuked him with, “You think you can speak any louder?” Without regard for his environment, Goodwin began screaming as loudly as he could.

  Goodwin was so upset that Sheila could provoke such a total loss of control that he considered that their marriage was over. He left her standing on the corner, hailed a cab with the intent of going home, packing his bags and moving out until he realized halfway across Manhattan that his knee-jerk reaction and his thoughts of leaving Sheila were out of hand. When the cab returned to the place of the argument, Sheila was waiting for him as if she knew he would return. She shook her head in disappointed resignation. Though he wasn’t sure, he thought she whispered to the air, “You are such a prick.”

  The incident that led them to see a marriage counselor began at Harborside’s New Year’s Eve fete and ended in their kitchen. Sheila, Goodwin, and a coterie of their friends sat at a large round table in the club’s dining room. Everyone was dressed in elegant attire, except for his or her cheesy paper New Year’s Eve hat. The sole exception to this manner of dress was a woman named Eugenia Downy, known at the club as a “fashion auteur.” Eugenia wore a silk New Year’s Eve hat that she had purchased from Les Canotiers du Marais, located in the hip Marais section of Paris. The following New Year’s Eve, all women at the club wore hats made in Paris. The sole exception again was Eugenia who had proclaimed, as was her prerogative as an auteur, that cheesy paper hats were now fashionable for New Year’s Eve.

  The mood at the table and throughout the Club’s dining room was upbeat and celebratory. Good natured joking and banter with Goodwin as the fulcrum for the group’s exchanges was in high gear at their table. The only one who did not participate in these festivities was Sheila. She sat silent and stone faced. At one point, one of his friends said, “Tell them about playing golf with Death.”

  This was Goodwin’s spin on an old Ingmar Bergman movie, “The Seventh Seal,” in which one of the principal characters attempts to fend off the inevitable by beating Death in a game of chess. Golf was substituted for chess in his version because he could conjure up a great little comedic routine for his friends. Over the years, he had developed an inventory of amusing and original comedic presentations that became well known at Harborside. When the PPRs were published a few months later, Goodwin suspected that his playing golf with Death routine and the many other little comedy shticks he did for his friends were probably contributing factors for him receiving a 29 in the Humor section of the Pragat survey.

  Goodwin, more than happy to accommodate the request, stood and recited a story involving Maurice Sullivan’s encounter and golf match with Death. With the exception of perhaps one little joke, his routine was mildly clever, though to his alcohol plied country club audience he seemed spectacularly funny. The one joke in his routine that might have passed muster at a comedy club involved Death asking Sullivan how long he wants to live. Sullivan says, “30 years,” and Death replies, “The best I can offer you is until December 21, 2021. According to the Mayan calendar the world ends on that day, just before the evening news.” Maurice is surprised. He says, “But the Mayan calendar said the world would end on December 21, 2012 and in fact nothing happened.”

  “Yes, I know. But, the fact is the Mayan who developed the calendar was one of the most brilliant men in history and his prediction about the end of the world is true, except he was dyslectic. He actually meant to chisel in 2021 on the stone calendar that predicted the end, but because he was dyslectic, it came out as 2012.”

/>   Goodwin was finishing his routine. “Maurice is ready to depart. ‘So, how do I go to heaven? Chariots of Fire? A burning boat? On the Wings of Angels?’ Death replies, ‘Car service. Here’s a voucher.’”

  Goodwin’s narrative provoked an array of laughs and, at its end, applause. In jest and with an exaggerated mock bow he said, “Thank you, my public.”

  The only one who was not laughing or applauding was Sheila. Expressionless, she stood up and said in a flat voice just above a whisper, “Excuse me.” After about 40 minutes, as midnight approached, Goodwin began to look for her and was told by the parking lot attendant that she had taken their car and gone home. Several phone calls, made as he trudged through a light coating of snow to their house less than a quarter of a mile away went unanswered despite a variety of messages left by Goodwin, ranging from worry, (“Are you okay?”) to anger on the final message (“What the hell is going on?”).

  He found Sheila in their kitchen. Still in her New Year’s Eve garb, down to the hat, Sheila sat drinking hot coffee at their kitchen table. She did not look up or acknowledge Goodwin when he entered the room, though she knew he was there. In a surly tone he said, “Sheila, what the hell’s wrong with you?” Sheila did not respond. Raising his voice to a decibel level just below a shout, Goodwin said, “Damn it, Sheila, do not ignore me.”

  Midnight arrived. It was a time when balloons and confetti were falling from the ceiling of the club, when revelers were blowing horns, when fireworks were exploding over the grounds of the club, and when couples, in love or not, were kissing. Their unified singing of Auld Lang Sine was loud enough to filter into the Goodwin’s kitchen. With that muffled lovely melody as background music for the scene that would play out in their kitchen, Sheila rose, walked towards Goodwin, flung the hot coffee into his face, and in the most hateful tone he had in fact heard from anyone said, “Screw you and screw your stupid routines and your sense of humor.” That night he slept in their den. The following morning, subdued, saddened, and even shaken by the coffee episode, for which Sheila apologized, they decided that they had better see a marriage counselor.

  He thought of that moment as he parked his car and made his way to meet his friends, but decided that at least for now, he would put it out of his head. Why spoil his luncheon party? Maybe, he thought with a false sense of optimism, things would work out, though he knew that this would never be the case.

  The venue for Goodwin’s birthday luncheon was the Park Avenue Club, a very private sanctuary for the privileged. For the past decade, he and three of his closest friends, Charlie Graves, an investment banker, Donald Ricques, a man in the business of purchasing companies in trouble, fixing them and selling them at a significant profit, and Peter Kass, a real estate developer, met once a quarter for lunch and to discuss politics, their investment strategies, life and local gossip. While the club’s cuisine, like many private clubs in Manhattan, did not quite measure up to the City’s high-end restaurants, it was a wonderful place to linger over a slow lunch served by respectful, white jacketed, waiters of long standing (“old school” Goodwin would often call them) who knew and addressed all of the members only by their last names and whom the members all knew and addressed only by their first names. It was the kind of place where the only ambient noise was a combination of an occasional shuffling of plates and muted conversation.

  Goodwin had particularly looked forward to lunch this day because he knew it would be a minor celebration for him, one mixed with good natured ribbing about getting older. And he was prepared: “What’s it like to turn 54?” His answer: “You virtually always have pain in some part of your body. When you don’t have pain it merely means that it’s traveling to a new location. What’s it like to be 54? Well, your vocabulary starts to change. When you say “up and in,” more often than not it does not refer to sex, but to a great shot from a sand trap. And you start playing a game with yourself called ‘What’s that spot?’ You know, when you see a spot on your arm that may or may not have been there before.”

  Actually, Goodwin always thought that the best line about getting older came from a senior club member, an eighty five year old energetic man with a sharp and ironic sense of humor, who asked Goodwin, “Do you know why seniors get all sorts of discounts and other minor breaks.” Goodwin replied that he didn’t know the answer.

  The man smiled and said, “Its God’s rebate on our suffering.” Goodwin thought he might borrow that line for his luncheon.

  As he entered the club’s stately and enormous paneled dining room, Goodwin was smiling to himself and thinking with pleasure of how to broach his lofty PPR. From the club’s entry, he saw that his friends were engaged deeply in some animated conversation. He had assumed that this was in preparation for his little birthday roast and he laughed slightly. But, as he approached his friends and as they caught sight of him, their mood changed and became quite somber. The pall over the group was palpable.

  “What’s the matter guys? You look like you just realized that you still have Zentavia Stock.” Zentavia was a drug company whose stock most of the members of Harborside had invested heavily in and which collapsed from 150 to zero overnight when it was learned its cancer cure had a side effect of causing a significantly worse form of cancer. Though he was joking, Goodwin already felt a ripple of uneasiness.

  Charlie Graves, possibly his oldest and best friend said, “Look Philip, we just want to let you know how sorry we are about you and Sheila.”

  The tone of the line reflected that it was not made in jest. Nevertheless, though concerned, Goodwin still attempted to lighten the somewhat heavy atmosphere, but found that his tinge of anxiety was growing into a wave. “Hey, what can I say? I’m a prince.” This did not evoke any response. Peter Kass simply looked away. Donald Ricques stared past him.

  “Okay, guys, what’s going on?” he stammered. Kass, slightly surprised by the question, replied: “Your split with Sheila; your separation from Sheila and your ultimate divorce.”

  It was now abundantly clear to Goodwin that this was not a joke. His wave of anxiety had just become a tsunami. The setting was ripe for Goodwin to lose control. He knew the symptoms: muscles tensing, heart pounding, acid refluxing like a Mount Vesuvius eruption, and palms sweating. Like an epileptic sensing a seizure coming on he knew self control was leaving him and there was nothing he could do about it. Goodwin was entering the land of irrationality. In a voice loud enough to turn heads even at the most distant of tables he yelled, “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  The somewhat public and loud use of this word by Goodwin underscored his level of distress. “Fuck” was rarely part of his lexicon and only used publicly when he lost control or when he intended to use it effectively to make a point. In this case, it was the former.

  Very upset at the premature exposure of news of which Goodwin was obviously unaware, Ricques said, “You mean you don’t know? That’s terrible. I’m so sorry.”

  Kass interjected, “We thought you knew and was just putting up a pretty brave front and didn’t want to talk about it.” Then, Ricques, Graves, and Kass, sounding like a Greek Chorus in Agamemnon wailed in unison, “You don’t know. Oh, God! Everyone knows. She’s leaving you for her secret lover, Sydney Maxine, your marriage counselor.”

  For an instant, Goodwin thought he had hallucinated because it seemed to him that everyone in the dining room, members, guests, waiters, and even the old codgers who were theretofore curled semi-comatose (except one who turned out to actually be comatose) into massive leather chairs while drooling in their sleep said, “Yes, it’s true. You’re a living failed marriage cliché, the last to know.”

  Goodwin, without thinking, responded by using the F word so rapidly and so many times in succession that he sounded like a cursing machine gun.

  Graves: “We just thought you knew. We’re really sorry, Philip.”

  Goodwin’s testosterone/macho-man/high school senior persona, which he was positive had been long exorcized by maturity, (though i
n men this persona is never eliminated, just dormant like herpes waiting to be summoned) surfaced and took hold. ‘Sydney Maxine,” he thought, “I am being ‘beaten out,’ (a typical expression conjured up from his high school memory bank) by a little faggot.” Many years later he confessed to a friend, “I don’t know where the hell ‘little faggot’ came from. I hadn’t used or even thought of that word in over 40 years.”

  Before Goodwin could vocalize his consternation, Kass, sensing his distress and in an effort to comfort him, said, “He’s just a little girlie man!” His friends who had also now slipped into their empathetic testosterone/macho-man/high school senior personas shook their heads in agreement and muttered “girlie man.”

  Ironically, Goodwin had always found the term “girlie man” to be offensive. The term went into slight disuse, but then resurfaced when a post-gubernatorial Arnold appeared in the final Terminator motion picture, Terminator IV, Rise of the Hermaphrodites, which took place solely within the confines of an assisted living facility and featured a new evil Hermaphrodite robot, who was virtually invincible because she self- propagated new robots (“Baby Terminators,” later a spin-off sit- com as well as a toy line from Mattel) whenever close to destruction, but who was ultimately destroyed through a large injection of estrogen and testosterone. And as she was melting, a la the Wicked Witch of The West in the Wizard of Oz, Arnold intoned, “You are such a girlie-man.” Caught up in the moment, Goodwin thought “Girlie Man” was an accurate way to describe Maxine.

  The term evoked a memory of the first session he and Sheila had with Maxine. Goodwin’s initial impression of Maxine was that he was effeminate, a conclusion that was confirmed when Maxine had proudly showed them his extensive collection of glass unicorns, a collection inspired, he said, by the Glass Menagerie, and more particularly the character in the play, Laura Wingfield, someone with whom he “completely identified.” Maxine then turned to Sheila and said, “Love your Manolo Blahniks. He’s my favorite shoe designer. I especially like his platforms.”