Love In The Time Of Apps

by Jay Begler

  In the days immediately following Sheila’s departure, there were the usual rounds of condolence calls from friends and from a few desperate divorcees whom he did not know and all of whom began the conversation with, “You don’t know me but…” There was also a rash of solicitations via email from a flock of dating services. “How do they know these things?” Goodwin wondered. (The answer to his question was that they were all Pragat’s customers) Goodwin also experienced his first awkward and what he thought strange encounter with Sheila.

  “How’s Sydney?”

  “Not too well thanks to you” she replied icily. “Thanks to you he’s developed an extreme case of agoraphobia. He won’t step out of the house.”

  “Thanks to me? Why thanks to me? I don’t understand.”

  “I didn’t think you would.”

  “So educate me.”

  “Your email wish that he die a horrible death. I’ve sent it to all of our friends and they agree that it was an awful, evil, act.”

  Before Goodwin could reply or ask a cause and effect question, the conversation ended with Sheila turning her back on him and driving off on her golf cart. Dumbfounded, he found himself saying as she pulled away, “As if I care.” As soon as she was gone, however, he checked his PPR via an App that Pragat sold for two dollars. It had dropped a half a point. “That damn email,” he thought.

  In ways Goodwin actually liked living alone. Above all, he enjoyed his newly found freedom to do anything he wanted. First on his emancipation agenda was the purchase of a Super RX Digital Remote Control to assuage his grief over Mr. Remotee’s untimely passing at the hands of Sheila and aptly named it “Mr. Remotee Two.” It wasn’t that Sheila could exercise veto power on this type of purchase. It was just that whenever he made a purchase without her prior approval there followed a critical editorial harangue when he brought the item in question home. He could now purchase, eat, and see (movies and shows, especially comedies) whatever he wanted.

  Exercising his newly found freedom, Goodwin sat on a recently purchased maroon, faux leather, Barker Lounge recliner. It was a piece of furniture he had always wanted, but because Sheila erroneously equated Barker Lounge with déclassé and vehemently objected to any suggestion that this item of furniture enter their house, it remained a purchase he never made. Now he was part of a happy trio: Mr. Goodwin, Mr. Barker, and Mr. Remotee who, in Goodwin’s hands, was changing channels at the speed of light. Given the severe storm that raged outside, Goodwin thought that hunkering down in front of his new fifty inch television set was a perfect course of action.

  At the same time, Sheila was “hunkering up.” Less than a half a mile from her former home, she was driving to Vogue, a local shopping Mecca for the fashion conscious of Grace Harbor, to attend an event booked as the “Sale of the Year,” even though the sale occurred twice a year. Despite weather advisories of extremely severe thunderstorms, confirmed by ominous grey to black skies, significant wind gusts, large hailstones pummeling her car, the loud rumbling of thunder with an occasional distant flash, and warnings by local officials that those living on the North Shore of Long Island should stay in their houses, Sheila braved the elements. The more she drove, however, the greater her apprehension. Fallen branches littered her route causing her to swerve from left to right. At one point she swerved so hard that the passenger side of the car lifted from the ground. A huge bolt of lightning slammed down no more than 20 yards in front of her. It was at that moment that Sheila did a quick risk-benefit evaluation. Does she continue this perilous journey and risk potential injury or even death or does she turn around and miss the sale of the year? The answer was easy. She pushed on.

  When Sheila arrived at Vogue it was filled to capacity with active and aggressive shoppers. Whenever lightning crashed close by with an accompanying boom of thunder, the shoppers, like startled meerkats, huddled together, fell silent for a moment, looked around quickly and then resumed their shopping chatter. Within seconds, Sheila saw the perfect dress she was looking for and simultaneously spied a woman who eyed the same garment. It was no contest, however. With the speed and agility of a cheetah, Sheila arrived at her fashion prey; grabbed it, entered Vogue’s large communal dressing room and moments later had her rendezvous with the Sheila Bolt.

  There was no way that Goodwin could have known that the loud crash of thunder that temporarily jostled him out of his light, television induced, sleep and the subsequent wail of sirens had anything to do with Sheila. His primary interest was to drift off again. Goodwin closed his eyes and was bathing in the semi-conscious moments one has just before falling asleep, where the mind knows that sleep is coming, but is still capable of coherent, pleasant, thought. In this happy and secure state, he was having an erotic remembrance about his one night with Sophie.

  His thoughts, light years from Sheila, were occupied by Sophie’s sensuous breasts, supple and perfect skin, the delectable taste of Sophie’s erogenous zones, the texture of her pubic hair, the aroma of her heady perfume, and the sound of a duet of heavy panting. His one night of making love to Sophie was so extraordinary and different than anything he had experienced with Sheila that midst heaves and sighs Goodwin had gasped: “So this is what sex is!” He didn’t intend it as a joke.

  At the crescendo of his reverie, the imagery was so real and indelible that it didn’t feel like a recollection at all, but more like the reliving or witnessing of an actual event. They had just finished making love and he was positioned slightly above her. Both were breathless, as if they had just dashed up several flights of stairs. Sophie’s skin glistened. She had the look of someone intoxicated by a sensation of pure ecstasy. Goodwin’s total focus was on her. The universe outside of their bed did not exist for him. She reached up and placed her hand behind Goodwin’s neck, pulled down, kissed him open-mouthed and moaned in a throaty whisper, “Again.” Goodwin said to her, and meant it, “I love you.” Later, when he reflected on the moment, Goodwin noted that it was the only time in his life that he experienced complete and unequivocal rapture.

  He wanted to hold on to his moment with Sophie, but it kept getting punctuated by the persistent ringing of his doorbell, programmed to chime the theme from the Bridge on the River Kwai. Though he attempted to shut out the unrelenting “dada, da da da da da da” and to press back into his remembrance, he was unsuccessful. Sophie’s faced morphed into that of Alec Guinness, the star of the movie, beads of sweat on his face, a slightly deranged look in his eyes, exhorting his fellow imprisoned soldiers with “Be happy in your work.” Goodwin blinked back to reality.

  The man at his door looked like an advertisement for GQ Magazine. He was dressed elegantly in a Zegna sport jacket and slacks, Yves St. Laurent shirt and tie, and very expensive Ferragamo suede loafers. His lapel sported a small gold pin comprised of intertwining “GHP,” letters that stood for “Grace Harbor Police.”

  While the manner of dress of the police officer might seem a bit unconventional, sartorial splendor was the norm for law enforcement personnel in Grace Harbor. Once thousands of acres of potato fields, the town was first settled by a small group of Manhattan fashionistas whose children could not get into any private schools in Manhattan. Looking to live near their own kind, other fashion types, that is, designers, clothiers, and those in the textile business, soon took up residence in Grace Harbor. Given the make-up of the citizens of the town, fashion was taken very seriously.

  Pound for pound, Grace Harbor has more people involved in the fashion industry than any other place in the country. Its public park, one that is graced by statues of Coco Channel, Donna Karen and Calvin Klein, evidences the town’s unique and total commitment to fashion. Fashionpedia points out that Grace Harbor is the place where the trend of using designer headstones began. It was not long before headstones with LV, Gucci and Polo logos, as well as other designers’ logos, began to populate local cemeteries. Unfortunately, because of the great recession of 2007 many citizens of Grace Harbor had to cut back, which accounts for the appear
ance of Wal-Mart and Target logo headstones.

  Had the lightning event occurred 10 years earlier, Goodwin would have been greeted by a gruff, “Are you Mr. Philip Goodwin, the husband of the woman just struck by lightning and in a coma at Mercy Hospital?” By the time of the Sheila Bolt, however, the town’s police force had taken extensive training at the Dale Carnegie Institute For Interpersonal Skills. Due to criticism levied at members of the force for aloofness and bad curbside manner, the single most important goal of the course was to have all members of the force “convey warmth.” The officer addressing Goodwin might have been the star student of the course, possibly an instructor.

  “Philip, hi!” he said across the threshold of Goodwin’s half opened door. “I’m police officer Ronald Durksen, but please call me Ronnie.” With that Durksen held up his police credentials that included his name, the police logo, his badge number, rank, and “PPR 24.”

  “Can I call you Phil, Philip? Great! I see you are looking at my creds. You probably see that I am a 24.”

  Goodwin didn’t know why he answered the way he did, but it just seemed at the time to be the right thing to say, “I’m a 28.”

  “Yes, I know. Actually you’re a 27.5. We checked you out in advance, very impressive. We’re so happy you live in Grace Harbor.”

  “You always check out PPRs when you go to someone’s house?”

  “Absolutely. I mean, suppose you were rated, say, a 9. We’d have to come with our tasers set to stun. You never know.”

  “And if I were say a 4?”

  “Set to kill, I guess.” Goodwin apparently looked like he was hit while the taser was in stun mode. “I know it’s kind of strange, but the PPRs have changed everything. We actually had to let a bunch of the people go because their ratings fell below 17. The chief told us that next year everyone on the force must have a PPR of 20 or over and an ideal body mass index. The national law enforcement PPR study is coming out at the end of the year and he insists we rank in the top 10 percent.”

  “Anyway, Phil, I’m not here to talk about PPRs. I’d like to explain our job just to give you some context here. Context is so important nowadays. Don’t you agree? Okay, Phil? Love your place.” Noticing Goodwin’s Super RX Digital Remote Control, Durksen observed without waiting for Goodwin’s response, “I see you have the Super RX Digital Remote. Great product I just got the RX2.”

  “What? I just bought this last week. It was supposed to be state of the art.”

  “Well, last week it was state of the art.”

  Goodwin wanted to ask Durksen what he wanted, but Durksen was clearly an Olympic gold medalist in speed talking. “Well, Phil, people don’t realize just how multi-faceted our job is and how we deal with everything from crime prevention to crowd control. As you probably know Phil, we also are trained to handle medical emergencies of all types. Well, this morning, I was in Vogue arresting a woman for shoplifting last year’s clothing. Can you imagine? Stealing last year’s clothing! I told the woman to plead insanity and explained that she might be released from prison early if she agreed to stay at a halfway house of fashion or at least do volunteer work at Saks Fifth Avenue. Then I asked her for her PPR and she responded that she was a 10. ‘Well,’ I said to myself, ‘that explains everything.’ At that point I put on my Burberry latex gloves; didn’t want to actually touch a 10. A bunch of us on the force are pushing for legislation which says anyone with a PPR of 10 or under is presumed guilty until proved innocent, but that damn ACLU is kicking up such a fuss. Well, Phil,” Durksen continued, “just as I was reading the shoplifter her fashion rights”

  “Fashion rights?” Goodwin managed to interject edgewise, not having the foggiest idea of why Durksen was babbling on in his living room.

  “Yes, you know. You have the right to remain sleeveless. You have the right to a fashion adviser and if you don’t have one on an annual retainer and therefore should be ashamed of yourself, one will be appointed for you. And, every fashion faux pas, for example wearing pantyhose with sandals, wearing a dress that is two sizes to small, wearing a fur hat, wearing Birkenstocks under all circumstances unless you are wearing them in Birkenstock, Germany, as is required by their local law, will be held against you. If you don’t know all fashion faux pas for this area, lists are posted at our public library, post office and the Grace Harbor Fashion Museum.”

  “By the way, Phil, you should really get over to the museum. Anyone with a PPR of 25 or over is admitted free. They are having a retrospective on Project Runway and very cleverly are using two talking heads of Heidi Klum. At the entrance one head says “One day you’re in,” and at the exit one head says “And one day you’re out.” Finally, under Fashion Ordinance number 725, serious fashion faux pas are subject to appropriate fines and unfashionable recidivists are subject to house arrest and mandatory fashion reprogramming.”

  Goodwin wanted to ask about fashion reprogramming, but didn’t have the chance.

  “Anyway Phil, just as I was about to put the Paloma Picasso bracelets on her, something really exciting happened. An enormous bolt of lightning struck a woman in the store. It could have been one of the biggest bolts of the century, maybe of the millennium. Not surprisingly, everyone goes crazy and the shoppers start running for their lives. But, let’s get back to the woman in question. Well Phil, you’ll be happy to know that we saved her life. Isn’t that great, Phil?”

  “Yes,” Goodwin responded thinking that perhaps Durksen might be insane. “Do you want me to make a donation?”

  “That would be fabulous, Phil. Could you see your way towards giving the department $100?”

  “I guess.”

  “Thanks, Phil, we really appreciate it. Your donation will help us augment our rather meager clothing budget. You just don’t know how tough things are for the force since our budget cuts. We were supposed to get Armani police blazers and now there are these horrible rumors that the force will be issuing generic blazers imported from North Korea. You know, the ones with fabric that shines and with one shoulder is generally higher than the other. If that happens, many of us will go on strike. Next, they’ll probably cut our subscriptions to GQ. Oh, one more thing lest I forget. The woman in question was your wife, Sheila. But, I’ve got great news for you, really great news. Your wife is still alive. Just call Dr. Kildare at 516-705-2525.”

  Goodwin, incredulous, started to laugh. “The hospital actually has a Doctor Kildare, like from the old television series?”

  “Absolutely; actually there are three Doctor Kildares, two Adison Greys, from Grey’s Anatomy, four Doctor Phils and three Doctor Oz.’ Goodwin’s irrepressible humor kicked in and without thinking he asked, “Are they wizards?”

  Durksen apparently didn’t get it and answered as if it were a serious question. “Only one and he’s in alternative medicine. The Host-Pital even has a Dr. Zhivago primarily for its Russian clientele. Apparently patients respond better to doctors with famous names. So give Dr. Kildare, his full name is Richard Chamberlain Kildare, a call. He’s the head of electrostatic medicine at the Marriott Host…Pital. Amazing how everything is a specialty nowadays.”

  Goodwin was pretty sure he heard the words correctly, the word “host” then a mini pause and then the word “pital.” Nevertheless, his mind merged the words. “You mean Marriott Hospital, right?

  “No, no. Its host, like the movie, The Host. You know that Korean thriller about a monster that emerges from the sea. Surely you’ve seen it.” Without bothering to wait for a response, he continued, “and Pital, like Manohar Pitale, but with a silent e, from the 1981 movie Gandhi. I assume you remember him. I thought his small but incisive role as Shukla was brilliant. Didn’t you? No, in fact Marriott’s Host-Pital is the largest Meditainment facility on Long Island. We also call it a “Meditainment Center,” because it combines medicine, hence “medi,” with entertainment, hence “tainment.”

  “Is this a joke?”

  “Afraid not, Phil. We’re not up to joking yet. That training comes next
year along with our touchy-feely seminar. In any event Phil, we checked your wife’s driver’s license and it says Sheila Goodwin, 1512 Harbor View Road, Grace Harbor. So, I suppose the woman is your wife. Call the good doctor. Got to run, but best of luck to you and remember that check. By the way, if you wait until tomorrow the RX3 is coming out.” With that last comment, Durksen made his exit.

  When Goodwin fully realized what had happened to Sheila, that she was actually struck by lightning, a chill came over him. He raised his hand to cover his mouth, but not before whispering, “My email to Sheila; the “I hope you get struck by lightning” email. If that ever gets out, my name won’t be mud, it will be shit.”

  Goodwin knew that he was going to have to act defensively, to thwart an avalanche of criticism that would flow from the publication of his email, assuming it was published. He was now trapped into playing the role of the concerned husband, even though Sheila had jilted him, and forced to stay by her bedside at a place called a “Host-Pital.” At least in that role, Goodwin reasoned, he had a chance of explaining away his electronic message to Sheila. As he began to phone the doctor, Goodwin had one final thought, “Of all of the wishes I’ve ever made, why the Hell did that one have to come true?”

  Sheila’s Avatar

  Were it not for the surging and impossible to manage health care costs prevailing in the country, Meditainment Centers would never have existed. So fearful were the politicians that these ever surging expenses would bankrupt the country or even worse, cost them their jobs, that they put their political differences aside and worked together at cost containment. As a first step, a widespread and highly effective campaign was launched to have citizens become proactive when it came to their health. There was so much political unanimity on this endeavor that even the Tea Party backed it. In fact, the Tea Party took it one step further and developed a program of encouraging the drinking of tea instead of sugar ladened soft drinks. “Have a Tea Party,” was considered by all to be a brilliant piece of political marketing. This program was followed by a national preventative medicine program sponsored by federal and state governments. The results of this program were astounding. For every dollar invested in preventive medicine, there was a $20 savings in medical costs. The only question John and Jane Q Public had was, “Why didn’t they think of this before?”