Let's Stay Together

by J. J. Murray

  Patrick looked toward the window. “I’ll have to go out there again, and I don’t want to go out there again.”

  Lauren pouted. “Please? I’m hungry.”

  “I’ll do anything for you,” Patrick said.

  “I like your willingness to serve, Patrick,” Lauren said.

  “It’s very sexy.”

  “Right,” Patrick said. “Microwaved there or cooked in the oven here?”

  “Microwaved, of course,” Lauren said. “It’s so much softer and juicier that way.”

  56

  Patrick left the apartment building, plowed through the swarm of photographers without speaking, and walked across the street to Downtown Gourmet Deli.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Are you leaving Lauren all alone?”

  “Did you two have a fight?”

  “You don’t really want to marry her, do you? Think of the consequences!”

  “Is she crying?”

  “Why are you doing this to Lauren?”

  “How does it feel to ruin Lauren’s career?”

  “How does it feel to be less than half the man Chazz Jackson is?”

  Patrick entered the deli, chose two large beef burritos, and put them in the microwave. While he waited for them to cook, he picked up a two-liter of Coke as a dozen reporters entered the deli behind him.

  “Is that your dinner?”

  “Is this the best you can do for her?”

  “What kind of man serves a star microwaved burritos?”

  “Is Coke Lauren’s favorite soda?”

  “Where did you get your boots?”

  “Yeah, what animal was senselessly slaughtered so you could have them?”

  These people are insane, Patrick thought. They’re absolutely senseless. Most of the photographers use leather carrying cases.

  When the burritos were done, Patrick took them to the counter and rolled his eyes at Danny, the late-night cashier. “You ever have one of those days, Danny?”

  Danny nodded. “Oh yeah. Nothing like you got going on, though.”

  “Be glad.” Patrick paid and received his change. “Every day is starting to be one of those days.”

  Danny leaned forward. “I hear you, man. But at least business has picked up around here.”

  Patrick turned and saw reporters snatching sodas and snacks. “I’m glad someone’s benefiting from this.” He looked at the newspaper rack and saw a headline in the Globe:

  LAUREN SHORT DESTITUTE! FORCED OUT OF

  MANSION AND SHOPPING AT GOODWILL!

  The reporter waiting behind him put his pork rinds and Sprite on the counter. “So, buddy, how does it feel to ruin someone’s life?”

  Patrick collected the burritos and the two-liter. “You tell me. You’re the experts.” He stared the man down. “Well, tell me.”

  The man blinked.

  “That’s what I thought,” Patrick said. “Lauren is right. You don’t have a single rational thought in your head.” He pointed to his left. “Bellevue Hospital has a few openings for you guys.” He nodded at Danny. “See you, Danny.”

  “Any time, Patrick,” Danny said.

  As he crossed the street to the apartment building, photographers crisscrossed the sidewalk, taking his picture.

  “Did you buy toilet paper, too?”

  “Where is Lauren’s Kleenex?”

  “Do you always shop there?”

  “What crime family are you part of?”

  “What do you have against Pepsi products?”

  “Is it true you only have your GED?”

  This is madness, Patrick thought. They will now have a complete photo essay of a man buying two burritos and a two-liter of Coke.

  Once inside the apartment, Patrick presented a burrito on a plate to Lauren. “I hope it’s still hot.”

  Lauren held it up. “It is. I saw them follow you into that store. What’d they ask you?”

  “Among other things,” Patrick said, letting his coveralls drop to the floor, “where I bought my boots.”

  “Oh no,” Lauren said. “PETA’s going to get you.” She took a huge bite, cheese sauce dripping onto the plate. “This is pretty good.”

  Patrick slid in beside her with his burrito. “Hey, slow down. This is the first, second, and third course. We have soda for dessert.”

  Lauren rubbed her shoulder on his. “You’re my dessert. I want to eat fast and get busy again.” She wrapped her lips around the burrito and took another large bite. “You like how I eat this burrito?” she asked as she chewed.

  Patrick nodded.

  “Do you like how I eat your burrito?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Patrick said. “Do you like how I . . .” He cleared his throat. “I was going to say something about a taco.”

  Lauren laughed. “That’s nasty! But go ahead and say it.”

  “Are you happy about how I eat your taco?” Patrick asked.

  “Yes,” Lauren said. “Your tongue is very saucy.”

  “Because you’re spicy down there,” Patrick said.

  Lauren finished her burrito two bites later. “I want another burrito.” She felt under the covers for Patrick’s penis. “Oh, here’s one. It feels so hot and juicy.” Her head disappeared under the covers.

  “Mmm,” Patrick said. “I feel the need to eat a taco.” He pulled Lauren’s booty to his face. “I am still so hungry. . . .”

  Several hours later Patrick’s phone buzzed them awake. He listened to the messages.

  “Everything okay?” Lauren whispered.

  Patrick closed his phone. “No emergencies so far.”

  Lauren laid her head on Patrick’s chest. “To work first or to the courthouse?”

  “It won’t be open yet,” Patrick said.

  “So we’ll rest a bit more. . . .”

  Blaring car and truck horns woke Patrick three hours later. He checked the clock on his phone. I have slept in after sunrise for the first time in . . . I can’t remember a first time. He smiled at Lauren. And you’re the reason. I know I’m going to get used to this. He rubbed Lauren’s bare shoulder.

  “It’s time to go get married,” he whispered.

  “That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me at any time of any day,” Lauren whispered. “What should I wear?”

  “We may be working afterward,” Patrick said. “So . . .”

  She smiled. “I’ll be the first bride ever to wear coveralls.”

  After they both showered and dressed for work in long johns, coveralls, boots, black knit hats, and gloves, Patrick picked up his tool bag, Lauren grabbed two brown sugar–cinnamon Pop-Tarts from the toaster, and they walked outside into a thick crowd of rowdy reporters.

  “Lauren, Lauren!”

  “Why did you sleep in?”

  “Are you really getting married to this guy today?”

  “She’s not getting married today. Look what she’s wearing!”

  “Are you working today? I thought you said you were getting married today!”

  “I am getting married today,” Lauren said. “And this guy has a name. It’s—”

  “What about your career?” a reporter interrupted.

  Patrick growled. I will not tolerate this rudeness any longer. “Stop interrupting her.”

  The reporter ignored him. “What about your legacy, Lauren? Aren’t you worried about what your die-hard fans will think?”

  “I’m not worried about anything like that,” Lauren said.

  “In fact, I’m too happy to—”

  “Then why are you wasting your talents with someone like this?” the reporter interrupted.

  Patrick stepped in front of the reporter. “I told you not to interrupt her. You’ve interrupted her twice. Apologize.”

  “It’s my job to ask questions, buddy,” the reporter said.

  “And to listen to the answers,” Patrick said.

  “I listen,” the reporter said.

  “No, you don’t,” Patrick said. “You’r
e too busy thinking up your next question.”

  “It’s my job,” the reporter said.

  “So it’s your job to be rude,” Patrick said. “Do they pay you more the ruder you are?”

  “Now you’re interrupting her,” the reporter said.

  “You must be paid more than anyone else here,” Patrick said. “Apologize.”

  “I don’t have to apologize for doing my job,” the reporter said.

  Patrick stared him down. “Apologize for being rude to the lady, and she is a lady.”

  Camera shutters whirred as the reporter’s face turned red. Some photographers even swung away from Lauren and focused on the reporter.

  Lauren smiled and munched on her Pop-Tart.

  “Now,” Patrick said.

  “Um, I’m sorry, Lauren,” the reporter said.

  Patrick stepped beside Lauren. “Now, listen to her all the way through before you ask your next question. All of you.”

  “Thank you, Patrick,” Lauren said. “My future husband’s name is Patrick Alan Esposito, not Paulie. Get it right this time. Do I need to spell it for you? Go ahead. Write it down.” She waited until they had. “You asked about my legacy. Look, I made a few movies. That’s all. I’m not going to be in any history books, and I’m definitely not going to win any lifetime achievement awards.”

  The rude reporter looked at Patrick. “May I ask another question now?”

  Patrick smiled at Lauren. “Are you through with your answer?”

  Lauren finished her Pop-Tart and took half of Patrick’s.

  “Yes.”

  “Go ahead,” Patrick said.

  “But you’re giving up your calling,” the reporter said.

  “What you were born to do.”

  “And what is your question?” Lauren asked.

  The man squinted and looked around. “I did ask a question.”

  Lauren shook her head. “You made a statement. And this is your job?”

  The man turned even redder. “Why are you giving up your calling?”

  “That’s better,” Lauren said. “My calling?” Lauren laughed. “Look, I am happy with this man. I’ve never been happier. I am doing what I really want to do for the first time in a long time. You’d love for me to come out here sniveling and sad and begging for toilet paper. I spent seven years being sad, and that is over. I do not need to be in movies or on TV to have a career or a legacy, and who’s to say that my calling hasn’t changed? Maybe my calling is to be a wife and mother. Maybe I was born not to act anymore.” She turned to Patrick. “We’re working on a family, aren’t we?”

  Geez, Lauren, Patrick thought. Why don’t you simply tell them we’re having sex? That’s what they’re going to write about anyway. Patrick looked down. “Yes, we are.”

  Lauren rolled her eyes. “Don’t be so shy about it.”

  Patrick smiled and looked up. “Yes, we are working on a family.” He laughed. “As often as we can.”

  Lauren laughed. “That’s better.” She turned to the reporters. “A family is a lasting legacy, isn’t it? Now, if you’ll excuse us, we’re on our way—”

  Patrick’s phone rang.

  Lauren sighed. “I think we’re on our way to a service call.”

  “My toilet is overflowing again!” Mr. Hyer screamed into the phone. “It’s a shit waterfall!”

  And on our wedding day, Patrick thought. “Mr. Hyer, we’re on our way.” He closed his phone.

  “We’re obviously on our way to save Mr. Hyer,” Lauren said. “Another pigeon?”

  “He says his toilet is an overflowing waterfall of, um, goo,” Patrick said.

  “He didn’t say ‘goo,’ did he?” Lauren asked.

  Patrick shook his head.

  “Does that mean those lines are backed up again?” Lauren asked.

  Patrick nodded.

  Lauren snatched the rest of Patrick’s Pop-Tart and ate it. “Weren’t we just there yesterday?”

  Patrick nodded. “This is the third time in the last month.”

  “They need to change their diet,” Lauren said.

  Several reporters laughed.

  “Well,” Lauren said, “they do.”

  “They’re not getting married today,” a reporter said, backing away. “No one goes to work on their wedding day.”

  “We do,” Lauren said.

  “They’re just trying to throw us off,” another reporter said, putting his camera away.

  “The stench might,” Lauren said.

  They walked down Hoyt to Baltic followed by no reporters or photographers, descended into the dark basement, and worked several hours in the stink.

  “Oh, that’s seriously bad,” Lauren said, holding her gloves in front of her face. “My eyes and nose are bleeding.”

  “Welcome to my glamorous life,” Patrick said as the snake chewed on.

  “How can you stand it?” Lauren asked.

  “I know this is going to sound gross,” Patrick said.

  “Don’t say it then,” Lauren said.

  “But it works,” Patrick said. “I breathe in as deeply as I can as soon as I get into something like this. I practically huff it.”

  “That’s nasty,” Lauren said.

  “Yes, but eventually my brain gets used to the smell, and I don’t smell it anymore.” He smiled. “I don’t smell it at all now.”

  “I do,” Lauren said. “I’ll breathe through my gloves, thank you. We need to put some Lysol in that bag.”

  When the drain finally cleared, they walked outside, expecting to see paparazzi.

  There were no paparazzi.

  “They must have smelled us coming,” Patrick said.

  “I know I reek,” Lauren said.

  Patrick sniffed her neck. “You still smell like you.”

  She gripped his arm. “Patrick, I don’t have your ring yet. We can’t get married properly until I get you a ring. Let’s go back to that pawnshop. I saw one I liked the other day. I think I’ve earned . . . at ten bucks an hour, times two weeks . . . didn’t work Sundays . . . six times sixteen times ten . . . I made about a thousand bucks. Pay up.”

  “That’s more than I paid for your ring,” Patrick said.

  “So?”

  “You’re not mad?”

  “Why would I be mad?” Lauren asked. “You picked out that ring for me. Chazz had some jeweler design one for me. Chazz didn’t pick it out. Do you think a pawnshop takes credit?”

  “You’re really not mad?” Patrick asked.

  “No.” She hugged him. “It isn’t the ring. It’s what it represents. It’s who it represents. You’re thrifty, old-fashioned, and shiny like the ring.”

  “Well, two out of three,” Patrick said.

  “So, do you think that pawnshop takes credit?” Lauren asked.

  “Let’s find out.”

  They walked unimpeded by anything but snow and snowplows from Baltic to Gem Pawnbrokers, entered the pawnshop, and waved Vicky over to the jewelry case.

  “I saw a ring in here the other day that was huge enough for Patrick’s thick fingers,” Lauren said. “I think it was platinum.”

  Vicky pulled out a ring. “This one?”

  Lauren nodded.

  “What’s that smell?” Vicky asked.

  Lauren slid the ring onto Patrick’s left ring finger. “You smell a septic backup over on Baltic. We snaked that mess until it gave up the fight. We’re working with the occupants of the dwelling to lower their fiber intake.” She laughed as she turned to Patrick. “Is it too tight?”

  “Yeah,” Patrick said. “It’s cutting off the circulation.”

  “I’m keeping you out of circulation,” Lauren said.

  “I can size it for you,” Vicky said.

  Patrick worked the ring off and handed it to Vicky. “Could you do it now?”

  “We’re getting married today,” Lauren said. “Do you take credit?”

  Vicky blinked. “Um, sure.” She took the ring to the back, sized it, and brought it back.


  Patrick slipped it on. “Much better.”

  Lauren handed her a MasterCard, and Vicky completed the transaction.

  “Where are you getting married?” Vicky asked.

  “We haven’t decided,” Patrick said. He looked outside. Where is a good wedding spot that won’t draw too much attention in Brooklyn?

  “I wish I could be there,” Vicky said.

  “Do you have any suggestions for my special day?” Lauren asked.

  “Change your clothes,” Vicky said.

  “Don’t knock coveralls, Vicky,” Lauren said. “They are extremely comfortable. And they come off so easily.”

  Once outside, Patrick took Lauren’s hand. “She’ll tell the world what you said and what you bought.”

  “I hope she does,” Lauren said. “We need more headlines.”

  “No, we don’t,” Patrick said.

  “How about FALLEN STAR BUYS WEDDING RING AT PAWNSHOP?” Lauren suggested.

  “Or BOY TOY LETS STAR BUY WEDDING RING AT PAWNSHOP ,” Patrick said.

  “I like this one,” Lauren said. “DESTITUTE FORMER ACTRESS PAWNS LAST ROLL OF TOILET PAPER FOR RING.”

  “Boy toy grateful,” Patrick said.

  “Boy toy very cute,” Lauren said.

  They walked up Shermerhorn to Court Street and then headed over to the New York City Marriage Bureau housed in the Brooklyn Municipal Building on Joralemon Street, Patrick with his tool bag, Lauren’s hand in his. As they approached the Brooklyn Municipal Building, they saw a swarm of reporters and photographers on the sidewalk out front kicking up snow around massive gray pillars.

  “They found us,” Patrick said.

  “They were waiting for us,” Lauren said. “Ready?”

  “To get married, yes,” Patrick said. “To deal with them, no.”

  “I want to be more dramatic this time,” Lauren said. “Is that okay with you?”

  “Can you be any other way?” Patrick asked.

  “What are you trying to say?” Lauren smiled and squeezed his hand. “This might actually be fun. Follow my lead. Feel free to improvise.”

  A burly reporter stepped into their path. “Are you really getting married, Lauren?”

  “Yes,” Lauren said. “I told you I was. Weren’t you listening? Don’t you people ever listen? What is the point of talking to you at all if you don’t listen to what I say?”