by Dorsey, Tim
“Why is that unusual?” asked Coleman.
“It’s the second or third time I’ve seen each, and they’re all slowing down in front of Jim’s house like they’re looking for an address or something . . . Now Martha’s coming out of the house. She’s screaming at Jim, who’s standing bewildered in the doorway. Looks like he’s in shit. Now he’s making desperate gestures to explain, which means he’s only making the shit deeper. That’s the key to love: Never explain yourself. If a woman attacks, and your response is explanations, then strap on a helmet. But that’s just my experience. I’m sure Jim knows what he’s doing. And this is the perfect chance!”
“What chance?” asked Coleman.
“Martha just fishtailed out of the driveway and hit our garbage cans speeding away. That means it’s bachelor night for lucky Jim! We’ll get him over here to pick his brain and learn his secrets . . . Be right back.” Serge tossed the binoculars on the sofa and crawled under the Christmas tree.
Across the street: Ding-dong . . . Ding-dong . . . Ding-dong. . .
Jim ran and opened the door. “Jesus, Serge, how many times are you going to ring the doorbell?”
Ding-dong . . . “That’s the last one. So listen, Martha’s seriously fucking pissed at you, so come on over and have laughs.”
“No! In fact . . .” Jim stuck his head outside and looked both ways. “You need to get out of here before Martha sees you. She could be back any minute.”
Serge shook his head. “Not the way she almost clipped that stop sign at the end of the street. You’ve got two solid hours minimum.”
“Serge,” said Jim. “There’s absolutely no way on earth I’m going over there—”
Fleet, quiet footsteps across the lawn. Serge looked back. “Country, what brings you to this pleasant abode? Decided to help me invite Jim into joining us?”
She bounded up the porch steps. “I want to break some of her shit! Calling me a cunt!”
Serge braced himself in the doorway with both arms. “You’re not breaking anything.”
Country tried to force her way past. “I’ll bet she loves that china cabinet.”
“Not the china cabinet!” said Jim.
Serge made a guttural straining sound. “Don’t think I can hold her much longer. But if you give me a hand, we might be able to get her back across the street and calm her down. Otherwise, you might want to check your home owner’s deductible.”
“Darn it, okay, if that’s what it takes. Her grandmother gave her that cabinet.” Jim grabbed his house keys. “But I can’t stay.”
“Now you’re talking,” said Serge. “You won’t regret . . .”
Coleman and City were still at the dining room table when three people crawled under the Christmas tree.
Serge bounced up. “Hey everyone, it’s Jim!”
“Yo, Jimbo,” said Coleman, saluting with a joint. “What’s up?”
Serge helped Jim to his feet. “He’s going to share all his secrets on holding a family together and making the nation secure. And maybe, just maybe shrink our carbon footprint.”
“No, no, no!” said Jim. “I just came to get her home. Like we agreed.”
“Okay, the footprint was just wishful thinking.” Serge clasped his hands together. “Then let’s not waste any of Jim’s time! Coleman, chair!”
Coleman kicked one out for Jim to take a seat at the table.
“I can’t sit, Serge! I have to go.”
“Look out for the train,” said Serge.
“What train?”
A little locomotive whistle blew, and a model train came around the bend from the kitchen, toward Jim’s feet. He hopped back out of the way and fell into the chair.
“That’s better,” said Serge.
The train circled the table and disappeared into one of the bedrooms. City passed the joint to Jim, who waved her off without words. Country took a swig of whiskey from the bottle and grabbed the roach.
Jim started getting up. Country pushed him back down and handed him the bottle—“Ease out. Your stress is a buzz kill”—headed for the kitchen and more ice.
Jim tried passing the bottle toward Serge, who pulled back his hands. “You’re on your own with these women. I’m sure your techniques are rock solid, but these are the chicks I’ll be dealing with, so I need to see if your interaction with them passes the acid test.”
Jim turned and handed the bottle toward Coleman.
“My hands are busy.” Coleman broke down the walls of the gingerbread house.
Country came back with clean glasses and ice. “Jim, here’s yours.”
“But I rarely drink.” He turned toward Serge.
“Don’t look at me. Acid test.”
Jim looked back up at Country and held a thumb and index finger a quarter inch apart. “Okay, but just a little.”
She poured four fingers and splashed a fifth on the table, then jammed the rocks glass in Jim’s stomach and wandered away, upending the bottle.
“Feet,” said Serge.
Jim looked down and swiftly raised them. The Orange Blossom Special rolled under his chair and chugged out of sight into the bathroom.
“So, Jim,” said Serge. “What’s your first tip to someone starting a family? Begin with the biggest thing!”
“Actually the biggest thing is the smallest thing.”
“Jim,” said Serge. “You’re talking Zen warrior shaman shit. Is the Eastern jazz what it’s all about?”
“No, I mean that the little things are what make your wife happy and your marriage solid, because after a while it isn’t fairy-tale royals’ weddings; it’s commitment to each other’s small considerations during the marathon of raising children.”
“Example?” said Serge.
“Not tracking stuff into the house.”
Serge’s head jerked back. “You’re blowin’ smoke up my ass. That’s number one?”
“Not the least speck of dirt. They spend so much time vacuuming and mopping.” Jim raised the glass to his mouth for a sip. More like sticking in the tip of his tongue for a taste. He made a face. “It shows you appreciate her efforts.”
City took a big hit—“He’s on the money”—then blew Country a sensuous shotgun that gave all the guys boners.
Country exhaled. “Don’t wipe your shoes, no pussy.”
“Jim,” said Serge. “You’re in the zone! Dr. Phil can’t carry your jockstrap. What else?”
Jim raised the glass for another tongue test. Verdict: not bad. He took a moderate sip. Then another. Then he finished the drink. A look on his face. He began coughing and slapping his chest.
“You all right?” asked Serge. “Go down the wrong way?”
“No, just burns.” His eyes bugged and watered.
“Whiskey does that,” said Serge.
Jim looked at his watch. “What time is it? I need to be getting back.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea right now,” said Serge. “Just sit still a moment and gather yourself.” He offered a tissue. “You got a little spit coming off . . .”
Quiet around the table except for an unending series of watery bubbling episodes. Finally: “I’m better now.” Jim whistled. “But I’m really feeling that drink. Where was I?”
“Wiping feet.”
“Uh, yeah. When I mentioned not tracking stuff in, that really isn’t number one.”
“You must tell,” said Serge. “The knowledge that is the source of all truth . . .” He got up and bent into a Karate Kid pose.
“Number one is actually peeing.”
“Hold that thought.” Serge stuck a finger in his ear and wiggled it around. “Must have wax buildup. I thought I heard you say peeing.”
“I did,” said Jim. “There are all kinds of guidebooks to educate the genders about each other’s sexual physiology. But the real ignorance zone is how we urinate.”
“Jim,” asked Serge, “are you on some kind of medication where you’re not allowed to drink alcohol?”
“Hear me out. You ever wander into the ladies’ room by mistake, like at a restaurant?”
“Who hasn’t?”
“What did you notice?”
“It was clean,” said Serge. “Like an operating room.”
“And men’s restrooms?”
“A disgrace,” said Serge. “Especially when it’s a busy place like a sports arena, and all the urinals are taken and they have to use the toilets to pee. Might as well set a pack of chimpanzees loose in there.”
“Exactly,” said Jim. “Men were built for urinals, not toilets. But homes only have toilets. Even the most careful guy can’t prevent a certain amount of sprinkle and ambient mist, not to mention a little splashing from the bowl if your stream’s strong enough.”
“I follow,” said Serge. “Women don’t realize we really are trying as hard as we can, but it’s a curse. They think we’re not aiming at all.” Serge looked across the table. “Country?”
She raised her mouth from the chimney. “You aren’t aiming. You just go in hosing wherever you like.”
“Yeah,” said City. “We’re tired of cleaning that nastiness up.”
Serge looked back at Jim. “Pray tell, what can we possibly do? We’re only men.”
“If you really love a woman,” said Jim, “then right at the beginning of the relationship, you have to get your arms around the urine issue. After every use, wipe the place down like you’re leaving a crime scene because, in a way, you are.”
“Brilliant!” said Serge. “Any other gems? Like earlier when I saw Martha outside yelling like a banshee, and you were trying to explain yourself. Explaining goes against everything I’ve ever heard, centuries of men comparing notes. Have you made some kind of breakthrough that hasn’t hit the news yet?”
“No.” Jim looked down at the table. “Trying to explain was a mistake. It’s the toilet thing again.”
Serge sat back in surprise. “But after all you just said. I thought you were the master.”
“I did, too,” said Jim. “But that’s another thing: You’re always learning. Like tonight I was in the living room watching a football game, and we have this bathroom off to the side. Actually, a half bath because it doesn’t have a tub, which some claim might cost you on the resale, but others believe new kitchen countertops—”
“Jim!” begged Serge. “We’re grasping for knowledge! In God’s name, focus!”
“. . . But anyway, I leave the bathroom door open so I can still hear the play-by-play, and right in the middle of doing my business, I hear the announcer go nuts, the halfback is in the open, racing down the right side for the tying score. So naturally I look over my shoulder to see the touchdown. And wouldn’t you know it? Martha picks that exact moment to walk by, and she yells, ‘Jim!’ And I say, ‘What?’ And she detonates, but I still don’t know what I’ve done.”
“What did you do?”
“What did he do?” said City. “He wasn’t paying attention!”
“But it was a touchdown,” said Serge.
“So football’s more important than his wife?” said Country.
“But it was the tying score,” said Coleman.
“It’s just a stupid game,” said City. “He needs to keep his eyes on the bowl at all times.”
Serge scoffed. “It’s not like he’s capturing a rattlesnake.”
“It’s worse!” said City. “It’s symbolic of his disrespect for her contributions to their union.”
Jim sagged against the table. “That’s what Martha said.”
“What about the explaining?” asked Serge.
“She said if I really wanted to see the touchdown, I could have stopped going.”
“But you can’t stop the stream,” said Serge.
“Yes he could have,” said City.
“It’s impossible,” said Coleman.
“No it’s not,” said Country. “Men just don’t want to make the commitment.”
Serge shook his head and turned back to Jim. “You were saying?”
“So then I tried explaining that it was no big deal, meaning if there were any drops, I could quickly wipe them up, but she took it to mean that all her hard work keeping the house nice was no big deal.”
“That’s an easy one,” said Serge. “With women, you don’t get to pick the meaning of what you mean. They do. All men understand this.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” said Country.
“It means that when you’re arguing, you have to watch your words carefully.”
“You just don’t respect women,” said City.
“That’s not what I meant,” said Serge.
“Don’t try to take back what you said!”
Serge sighed. “I think we’ve made a breakthrough. Up to now, the division between the sexes was this: liking and not liking the Three Stooges. Who would have thought it was actually touchdowns and peeing?”
Country offered the whiskey bottle. “Another round, Jim?”
He shook his head. “Better not on an empty stomach.”
Serge slapped his forehead. “Where’s our hospitality? The first guest to our new family castle and we haven’t offered him anything . . . Coleman, get him something to eat.”
“Like what?”
“Anything.” Serge stood. “Country, come with me. I want to show you something. I’m taking Christmas big!”
They left the table and walked around the corner.
A half hour passed.
“Serge? . . .” said Coleman. “Serge, where are you?” He walked through the kitchen. “Serge? . . .”
He turned down the hall and stopped. There they were beneath the mistletoe. Serge and Country, buck naked on the hardwood floor humping their brains out.
“ . . . Yes! . . . Faster! . . .” Country’s teeth gnashed. “ . . . Harder! Fuck it harder! . . .”
“Serge,” said Coleman, “I thought you were just supposed to kiss beneath the mistletoe.”
Serge looked up and smiled. “I’m taking Christmas big! . . . Why are you interrupting us?”
“It’s Jim,” said Coleman. “I think we might have a problem.”
Chapter Nine
MR. DAVENPORT
Serge jumped up. “What’s the matter with Jim? What kind of problem?”
Coleman pointed back in the general direction of the living room. “You need to come see.”
Serge zipped up some shorts. “Country, don’t move. I’ll be right back.”
Coleman led the way. “He’s in here.”
The pair approached the living room. “What’s that music?” said Serge. “It isn’t the Christmas tunes I had on the stereo.”
They turned the corner. Jim sat cross-legged on the floor.
“What’s he doing?” asked Serge.
“Going through your Led Zeppelin CDs.”
“ . . . Hey, hey, mama, said the way you move . . .”
Jim looked up. “This is the most excellent music I’ve heard in my entire life.”
“Jim?” Serge took a step forward. “Are you okay?”
“Listen to that time signature, man!” Jim slowly curved his arms apart in the air. “Drums go one way and the guitar blasts off in another, and then every few measures they meet up perfectly, like it was always meant to be—” Jim stopped and became racked with uncontrollable giggles.
“Coleman,” said Serge. “His eyes are all bloodshot. What did you do to him?”
“Nothing. We were all just sitting around the table, and he suddenly started acting weird.”
Serge looked over at the table. In front of Jim’s chair was a serving plate full of gingerbread crumbs. “Coleman, please tell me you didn’t give him the gingerbread house. It’s got pot in the walls.”
“You just said to feed him. It’s all we had.”
“Baby Jesus! What’s Martha going to say when she finds him in this condition?”
“Maybe we can get him into bed before she finds out, and he can sleep it off.”
“Good thinking
.” Serge bent down and grabbed Jim under one of his arms. “Help me get him up.”
Coleman grabbed the other. “He’s heavy.”
“Jim,” said Serge. “Time to be getting home, big boy.”
Jim pointed back at the stereo as they guided him toward the door. “But ‘Stairway to Heaven’ . . .”
Serge helped him crawl under the Christmas tree. “I’m afraid right now they’re playing ‘Stairway to Your Bedroom.’ ”
The pair steadied Jim as they walked him across Triggerfish Lane. Jim’s head lolled to the left. “I know you. You’re Serge.”
“Just keep on the way you’re going, one foot in front of the other.”
Jim looked ahead. “That’s a big house. And I own it. There are a lot of electrical wires in the attic connecting everything. Far out.”
“He’s completely baked,” said Coleman.
“Don’t think we’re not talking about this later.”
They made it up the steps. “Get his keys.”
“They’re in this pocket,” said Coleman.
Serge quietly opened the door and peeked inside.
“Why are you worried?” asked Coleman. “Martha’s not home.”
“But Nicole might be.” Serge tugged Jim forward and tiptoed. “She can’t see her dad like this. On the other hand, I did help her with the tattoo, so she might play ball.”
“There are the stairs,” said Coleman.
It was slow going, but they finally made it to the landing.
“What’s that music?” asked Coleman.
“Coming from behind that closed door,” said Serge. “Must be Nicole’s room. We’re in luck. Let’s hurry and get him under the covers.”
They hustled Jim into the master bedroom.
“Just lie down.” Serge began taking off Jim’s shoes.
Jim sat up. “But I don’t want to. Music . . . I heard music . . .”
Serge pushed him back onto the mattress and pulled off his socks. “You’ve had a big day.”
“Let’s go,” said Coleman.
“Husbands don’t sleep in street clothes,” said Serge. “Martha will know something’s up. What do you think he wears to bed?”
“I don’t know. His underwear?”