Wife 22
Page 10
William: Did I mention that a few weeks ago the dog urinated on my pillow?
Kate: I know a dog psychic you can call.
Nedra: I had a client once who peed in his wife’s lingerie drawer.
Bobby: The wife had a lingerie drawer? How long had they been married?
Me: Jampo knows you don’t like him. He senses that. He’s a truth-teller.
William: He’s mean. He eats his own shit.
Me: Exactly my point. How much more truthful can you be? Willing to eat your own poop?
Nedra: Why does this lamb taste like face cream?
William: It’s the lavender.
Nedra (putting down her fork): Alice, is this your idea of a twist? The recipe said rosemary.
Me: In my defense, a rosemary bush looks almost exactly like a lavender bush.
Nedra: Yes, except for the purple lavender-smelling flowers.
9:01: Through the bathroom door
Peter: Can I talk to you in private?
Me: I’m going to the bathroom. Can it wait?
Peter (sounding teary): I have something to confess. I did something really bad.
Me: Please don’t confess. You don’t have to tell me everything. It’s good to keep some things private. You know that, right? Everybody has a right to a private life.
Peter: I have to. It’s weighing so heavy on me.
Me: How will I react?
Peter: You will be very disappointed and perhaps a little disgusted.
Me: How should I punish you?
Peter: I won’t need to be punished. What I saw was punishment enough.
Me (opening the door): Jesus, what did you do?
Peter (crying): I Googled P-O-R-N.
9:10: In the living room
Linda: I don’t understand why “roommate” is such a dirty word. Anybody who’s been married for more than ten years are roommates a lot of the time and if they don’t cop to that, they’re lying.
Nedra: Kate and I are not roommates.
Me: Yes, and you’re also not married.
Linda: Lesbians don’t count anyway.
Nedra: Gold-star lesbians. There’s a difference.
Me: What’s a gold-star lesbian?
Kate: A lesbian who’s never been with a man.
William: I’m a gold-star heterosexual.
Nedra: Alice, do you ever feel like you and William are roommates?
Me: What? No! Never!
William: Sometimes.
Me: When?
10:10: In Nedra’s office
William: I can’t believe we’re doing this. Why are we doing this?
Me: Because Peter was so traumatized. I have to know what he saw.
William (sighing): What’s Nedra’s password?
Me: Nedra. Should you type PORN in caps?
William: I don’t think it matters.
Me (gasping): Is that a butternut squash?
William: Is that an icicle?
Me: Oh, my poor baby!
William: Clear history.
Me: What?
William: Clear history, Alice. Quick, before Nedra’s spam folder is flooded with penis enlargement ads.
Me: I always forget to do that. Stop looking over my shoulder. Go on ahead. I just want to check Facebook.
William: You’re being very rude. There’s a roomful of people out there.
Me (waving him away): I’ll be there in a sec.
(five minutes later) I have a friend request? John Yossarian wants to be friends? John Yossarian? That name sounds familiar.
GOOGLE SEARCH “John Yossarian”
About 626,000 results (.13 seconds)
Catch-22, 1961 by Joseph Heller, All Time 100 Novels, TIME
Captain John Yossarian is a bomber pilot who is just trying to make it through WWII alive.
John Yossarian… Gravatar Profile
I’m John Yossarian. I rowed to Sweden to escape the insanity of war.
Captain John Yossarian: Catch-22
John Yossarian spends all his time in the infirmary pretending to be sick so he won’t have to fly… preservation of life.
Me (a smile breaking across my face): Touché, Researcher 101.
(clicking confirm friend)
(sending him a post) So-Yossarian lives.
38
38. “That is not a La-Z-Boy.”
“Alice, what do you think?”
“That depends. Are we speaking about the chair or the man?” I asked.
William had won a Clio for his La-Z-Boy spot and Peavey Patterson was throwing a party at Michela’s in his honor. We’d taken over the entire restaurant. I was stuck sitting at a table full of copywriters.
The chair-of course it was hideous but it did make the firm an awful lot of money, and now I was at this fancy party, so who was I to complain? The man-he was the opposite of lazy: in fact he was the very essence of drive and potential, standing there in his navy Hugo Boss suit.
I watched him surreptitiously. I watched Helen watching me watch him surreptitiously but I didn’t care; everybody was staring. People approached William nervously, like he was a god. And he was a god, the god of ugly recliners, Peavey Patterson’s very own Young Turk. People flitted around him, touching his forearm and shaking his hand. It was exhilarating to be that close to success, because there was always the possibility a bit of that success would rub off on you. William was polite. He listened and nodded but said little. His eyes drifted over to me, and if I didn’t know better I’d think he was angry-such was his glowering. But over the course of the evening, his gaze boldly and compulsively sought me out. It was as if I was a glass of wine and every time he glanced at me from across the room, he took a sip.
I looked down at my plate. My Linguine con Cozze al Sugo Rosso was delicious but virtually untouched, because all this clandestine staring was making me light-headed.
“Speech, speech!”
Helen leaned in and whispered in William’s ear, and a few minutes later William allowed Mort Rich, the art director, to ferry him to the center of the restaurant. He took a piece of paper from his jacket pocket, smoothed it out, and began to read.
“Tips for Giving a Speech.
“Make sure you are not in the bathroom when it’s time to make your speech.
“Thank your staff who helped you win this award.
“Pause.
“Never say you are unworthy of winning. This will offend your staff, who did all the work so you could stand up in front of everybody and take the credit for winning this award.
“Don’t thank the people who had nothing to do with you winning this award.
“That would be spouses, girlfriends, boyfriends, bosses, waiters and bartenders.
“On second thought, thank the bartender, who had everything to do with you winning this award.
“Pause.
“If you have time, call out each person’s name individually and compliment them.”
William glanced at his watch. “No pause.
“Smile, look humble and gracious.
“Close your speech with an inspirational comment.”
William folded up the paper and slid it into his pocket.
“Inspirational comment.”
The room exploded with laughter and applause. When William sat back down at his table, Helen took his face in her hands, looked deeply into his eyes, and then kissed him on the mouth. There were a few hoots and claps. The kiss went on for a good ten seconds. She glanced at me, flashing me a startled but triumphant look, and I turned away, stung, my eyes involuntarily filling with tears.
“Sa-woon. Are they engaged yet?” the woman sitting next to me asked.
“I don’t see a ring,” said another colleague.
Had I imagined all this? This flirting? It appeared I had, because for the rest of the evening William acted like I wasn’t even there. I was such a fool. Invisible. Stupid. I had on flesh-colored stockings, which I could see now weren’t flesh-colored at all, but practically orange.
“Alice,” he whispered.
It suddenly occurred to me that I’d never heard him say my name. Until this moment he’d only called me Brown.
“Alice,” he repeated in a low, gravelly voice.
He said “Alice” not like he was about to ask me a question or tell me something. He said my name like a statement of fact. Like after a very long journey (a journey he hadn’t wanted or expected to take) he’d finally arrived at my name, at me.
I stared at the bathroom doors. I read Women, Donne. I read Men, Uomini.
He reached for my fingers, and not accidentally this time. It was the briefest of touches, a private touch not meant for anybody but me to see. I put my other hand on the wall to steady myself, weak-kneed from a combination of too much wine, relief, and desire.
“Yes,” I said, then stumbled into the bathroom.
39. Suck it up.
40. I can’t remember.
41. We appear to be a couple people envy.
42. Ask me again at a later time.
39
Lucy Pevensie
Studied at Oxford College Born on April 24, 1934 Current Employer Aslan Family Edward, Peter, and Susan Work Trying to keep from turning to stone. About You Years pass like minutes.
Yes, I’m afraid the rumor is true, Wife 22. Reports of my death are greatly exaggerated.
Rumor is true here also, Researcher 101. There is another world through the wardrobe. Sightings of fauns and white witches not greatly exaggerated.
Enjoyed reading your profile.
Did not enjoy reading your profile, Researcher 101. Employer: Netherfield Center. That’s it? As far as your photo, I despise that little silhouette. You could have at least used some clip art. A yellow raft, perhaps?
We’ll see.
Now that we’re friends, we should probably adjust our privacy settings so people can’t search for us.
Already locked down. New questions coming soon-via email. I refuse to chat the questions.
Thanks for coming down the rabbit hole to find me.
That’s my job. Did you think I wouldn’t?
I wasn’t sure. I know Facebook is a stretch. But you may surprise yourself; you may grow to like it. It’s immediate in a way email is not. Soon email may be extinct, gone the way of the letter.
I sincerely hope not. Email seems civilized compared to texts and posts and Twitter. What’s next? Communicating in three words or less?
Great idea. We can call it Twi. Three-word sentences can be very powerful.
No they can’t.
Let’s find out.
Let us not.
You’re not very good at this.
How’s your husband holding up? Anything I can do to help?
Get him his old job back.
Anything else?
Can I ask you something?
Sure.
Are you married?
As a rule, I’m not allowed to divulge personal information.
That explains your profile, or lack thereof.
Yes, I’m sorry. But we’ve learned from experience the less you know about your researcher, the more forthcoming you’ll be.
So I should just treat you like the GPS voice?
That’s been done before.
By whom, Researcher 101?
By other subjects, of course.
Family members?
I can neither confirm nor deny this.
Are you a computer program? Tell me. Am I writing to a computer?
Cannot answer now. Battery is low.
Look at you. You’re Twi-ing. I knew you had it in you.
Should I tell you when I have to go or just type got to go? I don’t want to be rude. What’s the protocol?
It’s GTG, not “got to go.” And the good thing about chatting is there’s no need for long, protracted goodbyes.
A pity, as I tend to be a fan of long, protracted goodbyes.
Wife 22?
Wife 22?
Did you go off-line?
I’m protracting our goodbye.
40
Alice Buckle
Studied at U Mass Born on September 4 Current Employer Kentwood Elementary Family William, Peter, Zoe Work Trying to keep from turning to stone About You Minutes pass like years
Henry Archer Alice Buckle
Shut up already, cuz-we get that it hasn’t rained in California in months!
4 minutes ago
Nedra Rao Kate O’Halloran
You have captivated me
13 minutes ago
Julie Staggs
Is it considered child abuse to tie your daughter’s feet and hands to her bedposts with Little Kitty ribbons? Just kidding!!!
23 minutes ago
William Buckle
Free
1 hour ago
Part 2
41
William has been laid off. Not reprimanded, not warned, not demoted, but laid off. In the middle of a recession. In the middle of our lives.
“What did you do?” I shout.
“What do you mean what did I do?”
“To make them lay you off?”
He looks aghast. “Thanks for the sympathy, Alice. I didn’t do anything. It was all about redundancies.”
Yes, the redundancies of you acting out at work. Of you mouthing yourself right out of a job, I think.
“Call Frank Potter. Tell him you’ll work for less. Tell them you’re willing to do anything.”
“I can’t do that, Alice.”
“Pride is a luxury we can’t afford, William.”
“This isn’t about pride. I don’t belong at KKM. It wasn’t a good fit anymore. Maybe this is for the best. Maybe this is the wake-up call I’ve been needing.”
“Are you kidding me? We can’t afford waking up, either.”
“I don’t agree. We can’t afford not to.”
“Have you been reading Eckhart Tolle?” I cry.
“Of course not,” he says. “We specifically made a pact not to live in the moment.”
“We’ve made lots of pacts. Open the window-it’s boiling in here.”
We’re sitting in the car out in the driveway. It’s the only place we can talk privately. He starts the car and rolls down the windows. My Susan Boyle CD comes streaming out of the speakers at a high volume- I dreamed a dream in time gone by.
“Jesus!” says William, shutting it off.
“It’s my car. You’re not allowed to censor my music.”
I turn the CD back on. I dreamed that love would never die. Jesus! I turn it off.
“You’re killing me with that shit,” groans William.
I want to run to my computer and do more budget projections, projections out to 2040, but I know what they’ll reveal-with all of our expenses, including sending both of our fathers checks every month to supplement their paltry Social Security, we have about six months before we are in trouble.
“You’re forty-seven,” I say.
“You’re forty-four,” he says. “What’s your point?”
“My point? My point is-you’re going to have to dye your hair,” I say, looking at his graying temples.
“Why the hell would I dye my hair?”
“Because it’s going to be incredibly hard to find a job. You’re too old. You cost too much. People aren’t going to want to hire you. They’ll hire a twenty-eight-year-old with no kids and no mortgage for half the salary who knows how to use Facebook and Tumblr and Twitter.”
“I have a Facebook page,” he says. “I just don’t live on it.”
&
nbsp; “No, you just announce to the world that you got fired on it.”
“Free can be interpreted in many different ways. Look, Alice, I’m sorry you’re scared. But there are times in life that you have to leap. And when you don’t have the courage to leap, well then, eventually somebody comes along and pushes you the fuck out the window.”
“You are reading Eckhart Tolle! What else are you doing behind my back?”
“Nothing,” he says dully.
“So, you’ve been unhappy at work, is that what you’re telling me? What is it that you want to do now? Leave advertising altogether?”
“No. I just need a change.”
“What sort of a change?”
“I want to work on accounts that mean something to me. I want to sell products that I believe in.”
“Well, that sounds lovely. Who wouldn’t want that, but in this economy I’m afraid that’s a pipe dream.”
“It probably is. But who says we shouldn’t go after pipe dreams anymore?”
I begin to cry.
“Please don’t do that. Please don’t cry.”
“Why are you crying?” asks Peter, suddenly appearing at my window.
“Go in the house, Peter. This is a private conversation,” says William.
“Stay,” I say. “He’ll find out soon enough. Your father’s been laid off.”
“Laid off like fired?”
“No, laid off like laid off. There’s a difference,” says William.
“Does that mean you’ll be home more?” asks Peter.
“Yes.”
“Can we tell people?” asks Peter.
“What people?” I say.
“Zoe.”
“Zoe’s not people. She’s family,” I say.
“No, she’s people. We lost her to the people some time ago,” says William. “Look, everything’s going to be okay. I’m going to find another job. Trust me. Get your sister,” he says to Peter. “We’re going out to dinner.”
“We’re celebrating you getting fired?” asks Peter.
“Laid off. And I’d like us to think of this as a beginning, not an end,” says William.