Adriana wanted to talk but I was tired and the night had inexplicably turned cool. I buttoned my sweater and made my way home. As I crawled into my cold and uninviting bed, it dawned on me that Adriana is right about my not treading the path I have so carefully defined. While I have always endeavoured to ensure my partner’s happiness, I have not always left the door open so that she might ensure mine. It seems that there are two doors and one is as important as the other.
Flying Avocados
I HAVE SAVED THE BEST FOR LAST, although the tale is never ending. A number of years have sped by since I began this story on my eightieth birthday. I must tell you that on a more recent birthday Adriana invited me to have breakfast with her. She then suggested that if we were to eat together in the morning that I may as well spend the night. She also said that if past performance gave any indication of future accomplishment, I would probably be ready for breakfast soon after going to bed. She smiled and a strange look came across her face. “Perhaps you would prefer to stay for lunch and dinner as well,” she said.
This sudden turn of events startled me and I came near to being at a loss for words. Fortunately that fate has not yet befallen me. Previously, when I invited Adriana to meander on my mattress, she had scowled and asked, “Have you considered your predicament if I say yes?”
“I’d love to stay,” I said. “But what brings this change of heart?”
“There’s no change. I believe that one is never too old to make a dim-witted decision. Besides, I’ve always maintained a tender spot for you and I thought it was time to raise the stakes on our relationship. Maybe we are like salmon swimming upstream. If we throw ourselves at a waterfall enough times we may get lucky and gain the next level. Otherwise we risk spending the rest of our days swimming alone in a pool we should have jumped over years ago. More to the point, it concerns me that I have a drawer full of sexy underwear that no one has seen.”
As a man ages he frequently finds that he needs more care than that provided by his own resources. Whether it be nurse or live-in companion, he will inevitably be told when, what and how much to eat; when he should go to bed and to the bathroom; when to bathe and at what time he may visit friends; what shows he can watch and where he may travel; how much money he should spend and on what he should spend it. In other words, by simply assuming the cost of a caregiver’s salary, he gets all the benefits of marriage … and wonder of wonders, here was Adriana offering me a similar situation without the out-of-pocket expense. How could I refuse?
“I have waited for this day,” I said. “However, I’m grateful that neither of us is capable of spawning. I understand that the result of that endeavour is a quick demise.”
That conversation was months ago. Since then I have only returned home for brief periods. Adriana’s place is not large and yesterday we bumped heads in her kitchen when we both bent at the same time to retrieve a fallen spoon. “Damn,” I said. “This is ridiculous. Your house is too small. Why don’t you dispose of it and we can move into mine.”
She didn’t hesitate to reject my invitation. “No,” she said. “There will be times when we will each need our own space.”
“Why is that important? Surely it’s better to be together.”
“Not always,” she said. “It’s important because separation implies movement which is the antithesis of the status quo — it negates inertia. There are times when we will need to be away from each other if only to come together again. Movement generates touching and that produces intimacy. I know it sounds strange but being apart promotes closeness.”
“I gather that’s what you meant when you referred to the next level.”
“Yes, it is. That’s why we need to stay in my house. Smallness promotes intimacy. We need small: small rooms, couches for two, undersized beds, tiny tables, everything. To live here together forces us to touch. In a sense never intended, size really does matter.” She chuckled. “It just occurred to me, my minute maestro, that given your size, we should be the most intimate couple on the planet.”
I have to admit that Adriana is correct about one thing. Houses should never exhibit ridiculous size and conformity. I know that many men and women adore monstrous homes and they are promoted in every magazine on the newsstand. But the dead space in these gigantic mausoleums encourages us to lead stupefying lives and to have even more stupefying relationships. A house’s main function is to create dreams, not a sense of loneliness. Of course, the bedroom should always be reserved for fantasy, and never for wishful thinking.
Adriana and I already exhibit the defining feature of all long-term couples — we finish each other’s sentences — although anticipating what she is going to say is not always pleasant conjecture. Nonetheless, she maintains that familiarity is never repellent in the same sense that sweet is never sour. She also says that a lack of intimacy forces many lovers to become nothing more than copulating roommates.
“That’s not all bad,” I said. “The only thing worse than being in a loveless marriage is being in a sexless marriage. If it’s true that an intimacy deficit leads to copulation then it might be desirable to fight more often.”
She responded by throwing an avocado which found its mark just above my left cheek. I waited the entire afternoon for the predicted copulative experience while holding a cold cloth to my discoloured eye. I admit that I am not a mathematician but I swear that for the next week, I detected no increase in the frequency of our couplings, sexual or otherwise. Perhaps flying avocados do not qualify as a lack of intimacy.
“I’m sorry about your eye,” she said. “I have no wish to hurt you, although I keep that option open.”
‘But I didn’t do anything,” I protested.
“Yes, you did. You twisted my sentence. The avocado was a warning — a demonstration of what could happen should you twist again.”
As you can see, we are not always almonds and honey. That mixture is sweet but it can also be a sticky mess. We do not keep pets so when it is necessary to growl we must do it at each other. There are even times when I retreat to my house and howl at the chandelier in my dining room. Then, I ponder what life was like when I lived alone.
Howling and pondering usually provide enough incentive to my good sense so that it steps out from its hiding place and steers me back to Adriana’s house. If enough time has passed, then her good sense has also reappeared and we retreat to our fantasy room until all the frost has melted from our attitudes. While I won’t speak for Adriana, I am sure that she feels as I do — that we are both fortunate to no longer rely on walls for company.
We have accomplished all this behind a curtain of rudeness, sarcasm and ridicule. However when the curtain is raised, there on stage for all to see, is the first act of a drama which may be either tragedy or farce but which we both believe is also a love story. Please don’t misunderstand. Adriana has not stopped her insults and I have not abandoned mine. They are like magnets that occasionally repel but more often they make us laugh, which causes our different polarities to come together. Laughter is extraordinary medicine and may well function as the best aphrodisiac for old people. It serves to blunt the sharp edges on all the foibles, ills, and nasty moods that we have accumulated during our long lives and which we tuck away in secret nooks so that they are handy when we feel our self-image is in danger of being neglected.
I believe that Adriana is the silver lining that surrounds my cloud. In her mellower moments she says the same of me, which, of course, serves to contrast our current state with previous imbroglios. The comparison helps to alter our behaviours as we both strive to separate from the past so that we may gain all possible enjoyment from our present situation.
Speaking of separating from the past: I began this treatise with an account of my imperfections, particularly my fondness for my favourite relative — Uncle Brandy. I would be remiss were I not to inform you, the reader, of the prevailing status of that association. As I have aged, the relationship has matured from that of a controlling uncle and
incorrigible nephew to one that resembles bemused encounters with an eccentric cousin. Age and decreasing energy have served to mitigate volume and behaviour, and while I have no desire to sever ties completely, I have found a suitable compromise. Many afflictions that attack in old age are ignored. For example, some cancers progress so slowly that they are allowed to remain unmolested. Medical experts reason that the victim will die of old age before the cancer claims him. I have decided that my affinity for alcohol is the same. Hopefully, I will be attending that great cocktail lounge in the sky long before my predilection asserts itself to the degree that it hastens my departure from the bar down the street.
Recently, in a moment of candour, Adriana expanded on her decision to share her life and home. “It was only after I was certain that you were no longer under the control of your uncle that I made my invitation,” she said. “My house is too small for the three of us.”
The reader no doubt understands that more than a few gallons of water have flowed to the sea since I last attended an educational institution. However, I feel as though I am again a student. Daily, I pursue studies that I hope will allow me to matriculate in the School of Sporadic Bliss with a major in Adriana and a minor in Female Moods. Adriana claims she is attending the same institution although, being Adriana, she insists that her research is at a post-doctoral level. She also says that I am a near-perfect subject of inquiry, second only to a laboratory rat.
By this method we hope to prevent the wonder from transforming itself into the mundane. Nevertheless, our lives have taken on predictability. I am now an indentured apprentice studying Adriana’s needs. She, occasionally exhibiting a dollop of sympathy, tilts those needs toward the reality of my capabilities, which she has come to understand because she also is serving an apprenticeship, although she hastens to explain that a woman is interested in only one of a man’s needs — that is, his need for her.
As this wheel turns, the hot flashes generated by our relationship cast kaleidoscopic patterns of shifting expectations on both of our lives. Once, we searched in different pastures but what we both looked for could not be found, it had to be made. We each tend to an appreciation of the person the other is becoming and that brings me to my own secret — the reason that I am arguably the world’s greatest lover is that Adriana is also a great lover.
Let me explain. A lover can be no more impressive than his or her beloved. It is only when the desires of the person you love converge with your abilities to meet those desires that the possibility of grand love exists, and when that situation occurs it is impossible for you not to become as great as your beloved thinks you are. Then, as the poet says:
In the love you ideate,
It’s impossible to overrate,
Any lover you create;
Only you will be as great.
Acknowledgements
Producing a novel is such an extended journey that a writer incurs many debts along the way, debts that are impossible to repay but which must be acknowledged.
To the people who were instrumental at the start of my writing journey, especially Graham Chandler and Patrick Carmichael. Thank you.
I would also like to acknowledge the contribution of Dolores, Greg, David, Barbara, Joei, Laura, Linda and Duncan of Pen and Inklings, and also of the Ajijic Writers Group which is too large to name individuals. Members of both groups are great friends and offered valuable criticism.
I’m grateful to everyone at Thistledown Press who have been so generous and supportive, and who smoothed away every wrinkle in the publishing process. I’d especially like to thank Kimmy Beach for her insight and guidance. No one ever had a better or more congenial editor.
Loads of gratitude to my family, especially Judy, my wife of fifty years, who willingly read every word, who has a quirky sense of humour and who, because she thinks nothing I write is funny, sets the bar very high. Every writer should be blessed with such a friend, critic, and love.
I have gained inspiration, ideas, and knowledge from a large number of sources, and although there is not room to mention them all, I’d like to list those that were most important. Gabriel Garcia Márquez’s novella Memories of My Melancholy Whores and Jeremy Leven’s movie Don Juan DeMarco provided the spark. J.P. Donleavy’s The Ginger Man taught me that humour must have an edge. Dorothy Parker’s short stories and L. Rust Hills’ essays showed me how that edge could be applied. Dave Barry’s Guide to Marriage and/or Sex and Steve Martin’s Pure Drivel prove that silliness is always in vogue. All have had influence on this book.
Portions of the novel have been published previously. Excerpts, in slightly different form, first appeared in El Ojo del Lago (Mexico).
Neil McKinnon was raised in Saskatchewan and served in the Royal Canadian Navy before working as a businessman, archaeologist, university lecturer, and freelance writer in China, Japan, Mexico, Canada, and the United States. His articles have appeared in Canadian, Japanese, Mexican, and US publications, and his book Tuckahoe Slidebottle (Thistledown Press, 2006) was shortlisted for the Stephen Leacock Award for humour and the Alberta Literary Award for short fiction. He has served on literary juries and has edited and published academically. When not visiting family in Vancouver, McKinnon lives in Mexico.
The Greatest Lover of Last Tuesday Page 21