Twisted Sisters

by Jen Lancaster

  Suffice it to say, I received not only a Thanwell prescription, but also a boatload of free samples and a couple of Thanwell pens and a handy tote bag. (Sure, Thanwell loves how much she prescribes their drug now, but just wait ’til her stupid book comes out. We’ll see who’s doling out notepads then.) Much like a street-drug dealer, Dr. Karen wanted to guarantee I had enough supplies to become good and hooked. I had to assure myself that this was a perfectly reasonable way for a television psychologist to behave, even if it violated everything a psychologist who happened to be on television would do.

  As soon as Deva, Bernie, and I started to meditate pregame, I swallowed half a Thanwell, and within ten minutes, I was sedated to the point of sleep. That’s when Deva placed the amulets around our necks. My body was out seconds after the swap, so the actual Bernie in his Reagan vessel was down for the count in the supply closet we’d appropriated as a dressing room. I ran a comb through my new mustache, threw on my cold-weather gear, and went out to greet the camera crews.

  And now I’m in the stands, freezing my brand-new testicles off.

  Which brings me to my next point: I may have a small problem.

  Rather, Bernie may have a small problem. At no point did it occur to me that having a tiny bladder might be one of Bernie’s myriad issues. Yet here we are. There’s at least an hour to go in the game and there’s no way I can hold it that long.

  Why did Bernie/I drink so many beers? I despise beer.

  I try to distract myself with the action on the field, except there is no action on the field. Come on, guys, I’ve run farther for a taxi. Faster, too.

  Despite being full to bursting, I find myself taking another generous swig of beer. Stop it, Bernie’s body! Don’t do this to yourself! Or myself! Or whichever one of us is actually wearing these pants right now.

  Someone in a dark shirt (a Bear, yes?) catches the ball and he actually begins to book down the field. Well, all right! This is what I’m talking about! You! In the white pants! Go! Run very fast! That’s it! The whole crowd is on their feet, cheering, and I’m swept up with them.

  Touchdown!

  Everyone who isn’t high-fiving one another is hugging. I never wanted to touch a stranger before, yet here I am, liberally doling out backslaps and fist bumps. Funny, but I sense a bond with the community of fans here, despite the weather and the terrible beverages.

  Okay, this football thing is beginning to make some sense. I can see how people might enjoy gathering and observing the spectacle that is an enormous man finally, finally putting some grass between himself and the other players. There’s real joy to be had. More so if there were a dome over the field, but still. Maybe if Pepperdine had a football team, I’d have experienced this sooner. (FYI, I didn’t even realize U of C had a team until I was a junior.) Granted, my family members are huge football fans, but they also eat at Wieners Circle and vacation in Florida, so it’s not like I’ve ever considered them paragons of judgment.

  But this? I could get used to this.

  As I sit here, surrounded by a crowd of strangers all rallying together to root for the same goal, I wish it were Bernie who was experiencing this rush. He deserves this epiphany, not me. Yet I’m also acutely aware of how hard this would actually have been for him if he were really here. Suddenly, I want to mourn the fact that this really isn’t his accomplishment. After the cameras are put away and the crowd returns home, Bernie won’t have conquered anything, and come next season, he’ll still be sitting alone in his apartment while all his buddies are at the game. That’s not fair.

  I pledge to help him any way that I can after the fact.

  But for now, I shall chug this beer.

  (It’s possible, Bernie’s body, that we may need to have a chat about your predilection for alcohol consumption.)

  When the crew notices I’ve drained my glass, Faye sends Mindy down with yet another Budweiser. Ladies, enabling? Really? And yet Bernie’s hand grasps the glass like a life preserver, much to the chagrin of Bernie’s bladder. Because clearly I’m not running this show.

  We’re reaching critical mass here, at least in terms of Bernie’s urethra.

  I try to envision warm, arid places, in the hopes that I could possibly reabsorb this excess beer. Isn’t that what long-haul truckers do? No, wait, I just read an article on Salon.com about how big-rig drivers have a higher incidence of kidney problems. Damn. I already usurped Bernie of this magical experience called professional football—I don’t want to impinge his fluid and electrolyte regulation as well.

  I have no choice but to void.

  With much trepidation, I shimmy out of my sleeping bag and set down my beer; then I climb the stands until I can exit under the seats. I spot a ladies’ room first and begin to queue up until I notice a bunch of women who look like Geri giving me the evil eye. Whoops, my bad, ladies!

  The men’s room is down a few paces and the line’s not nearly as long. For the first time in my life, I’m cheered by this inequity. As I snake my way into the bathroom, I notice there are two options—urinals and stalls. Clearly I want privacy because I’ve not exactly operated Bernie’s equipment before.

  I wait for a stall to open. A couple of the toilets are out of order, and the rest of the options appear to be occupied for the long haul. Through the seam of the doors, I can see little glimpses of the men on their thrones, and it would appear that they’re all busy on some sort of personal electronic device. Men! Now is not the time to play Tetris!

  A hefty guy in an Urlacher jersey with a neck like a honey-baked ham gives me a slight shove. “Shit or go blind, pal,” he says, nudging me not so gently toward the urinals. I have no choice but to comply, as I don’t want poor Bernie to take a punch. With his agoraphobia and this unfortunate mustache, I feel he’s suffered enough.

  I position myself in front of the urinal and then I . . . I . . . Huh. I’m unsure what comes next. How does this work? Do I unzip or do I just pull everything up and over my waistband? Does that include the berries as well as the twig? Is it like an udder—is milking required?

  From the corner of my eye, I try to observe the moderately intoxicated man on my right. Aha, unzipping is the way to go, followed by a simple grip. Noted.

  My goodness, he just goes and goes and goes, doesn’t he?

  The guy spots me observing his business. “Take a picture, jag-off, it lasts longer,” he barks, flushing and exiting, without benefit of hand washing.

  I’d judge him, except I fear I may have inadvertently eye-raped him.

  I unzip Bernie’s pants and with a very tentative hand, I reach in and what is this bizarre force field I’m encountering?

  Oh, wait.

  Long underwear. Heh. Forgot about the layers. But look at this! The long johns have a flap, as do the briefs. So convenient! So modest! So much less chance of hypothermia! It’s as though these bottoms were designed by men for me. I wish men wore bras—perhaps then they could finally engineer a push-up model that doesn’t make me feel like I’m wired for explosives.

  Now that I’ve opened all the barn doors, shall I grasp or was that guy simply hanging on because he was drunk? I wonder, do I just put my hands on my hips and freestyle? I feel like if I don’t keep a modicum of control, this has the potential to go horribly awry, like a monkey holding a fire hose. As much as I’d like to respect Bernie’s privacy, I must look in order to aim properly. And I’m just about ready, so here we . . .

  Clearly Bernie is not Jewish.

  There’s a child safety cap on this thing.

  How does that . . . do I push down and turn?

  Technically I’ve only seen three completely naked men in my life, so I can’t say I’m an expert on the male member. (Where is Geri when I need her?) But of the three I’ve seen—Boyd, Sebastian, and the brazen homeless guy on the Red Line right before he was arrested by the CTA police—n
one of them were walking around with their collectibles still in their original wrappers.

  This is surreal, kind of like spotting a DeLorean or a Betamax; although there was certainly nothing wrong with those models, they’re definitely out of vogue now.

  But if my education in biology is to be trusted, the customized trim should have no impact on performance. So I grit my teeth and I assume the position.

  Ready, aim, fire!

  Or not.

  Hmm. I suspect Bernie’s bladder may be agoraphobic, too.

  Perhaps I just need some encouragement. I know, I’ll flush the urinal and then I’ll be motivated by the sound of running water. Yes! Genius!

  Okay, one, two, three, pull!

  Not pull. Go. Go!

  Ahh.

  The relief I feel is instant, and I congratulate myself for having had the fore . . . sight (ha! I am hilarious!) to keep a steady grip. Although why am I surprised that I have the means and wherewithal to urinate like a proper man? I’m adept at almost everything I try. Good for me!

  My stream turns to a trickle and eventually peters out.

  (Seriously? With the uproarious puns? I should do stand-up.)

  (Get it? Because I can stand up to pee now!)

  (I suspect I may be drunk.)

  (I don’t hate it, but I am feeling compelled to hug strangers all of a sudden.)

  My job is now to, what? Wipe? Blot? Suddenly I’m aggravated with how private Seb kept his bathroom habits. Help a girl out here; what do I do? Wave it around until it dries? Or if I do that, will poor Bernie end up on the news?

  I surreptitiously glance to my left to see how my neighbor’s managing and I suddenly realize I recognize those wrists.

  I’m not sure if I want to die or stare.

  I go with die, with stare coming in a close second.

  He says to me, “Hey, Tom Selleck, you know what they say if you shake it more than twice.”

  Die. Definitely die.

  I’m about to pray for the earth to open and swallow me whole when I realize I’m not Reagan gawping at my boss/crush so much as I am a socially awkward systems analyst named Bernie navigating a first-time experience. I meekly reply, “Go, Bears?”

  As he washes his hands (bonus points for using soap) and dries them on a scratchy paper towel, he assures me, “You’re doin’ great, pal, keep it up!” and it takes me a second to realize he’s talking about the agoraphobia and not my newfound ability to use the bathroom while standing up.

  Which is probably better.

  • • •

  The Tuesday after the game, my team is gathered around the table in the conference room, waiting for the stragglers so we can discuss our strategy for the newest guest.

  According to the bio Rudy composed, Georgette’s in her midthirties and she’s currently living at home with her parents. Although her folks are still fairly mobile, her oppressive siblings are vehement about her not moving out. Georgette feels like she’s putting her life on hold unnecessarily, but no one else supports the idea of her leaving. Her married sisters insist because she’s the baby, it’s her duty to look after her parents, and she feels trapped. She moved home briefly three years ago after living in Asia, planning on leaving as soon as she found a job and bought a condo. However, despite her lucrative work as an interpreter and desire to be on her own, she’s essentially been bullied into staying ever since.

  “I can’t imagine anything worse than living with my parents,” I say. Hoo-boy, I’m extra-excited to swap with Georgette so I can tell off her awful siblings! I’m already planning my/her parting speech. Believe me when I say I’ve already worked out the litany of reasons why adult children should never live at home.

  Mindy wrinkles her unlined brow. “Why? OMG, I love living at home! All my buds are still in Winnetka with their fams, too. Plus, my mom does my laundry and lets me drive her Beemer and my dad’s got major swag! He has a band with his friends and they practice in the garage on the weekends. And he buys the best weed! The Sonoma Coma from Happy Lil’ Trees in Vallejo won a bunch of awards. Home is awesome! I’m never leaving!”

  As it would be unprofessional to stand up and shout, What is wrong with you and your parents? instead I reply, “Alrighty, I need a green tea, Mindy. Anyone else? Green tea? Coffee? Something? My treat!”

  Ruby and Faye place their orders, as do Deva and Jimbo, the show’s fitness guru. I’m confident that not only will Mindy take forty-five minutes to walk to the corner coffee shop; she’ll screw up all five orders, the hot beverages will be cold upon arrival (and the cold hot), and she’ll keep my change.

  Sonoma Coma? Perhaps.

  But it’s a small price to pay to be rid of her incessant yammering for a while.

  We’re supposed to be meeting with the entire team working on Georgette’s episode, but neither Marco the hair guy nor Dora the Explorer/makeup artist is here yet. (Some of Kassel’s monikers stuck even after he learned everyone’s names.) She texted saying her train was late. This would be a credible story if her train from Wicker Park weren’t late five days a week. Sometimes the Blue Line is dicey, but never to this extent.

  To me? Punctuality is key and I’d fire her in a heartbeat if it were my decision. Plus, I’m not sure Dora’s all that skilled. Every single damn guest gets the same smoky eye and it doesn’t matter if the guest is fifteen or fifty. Frankly, I’m surprised she didn’t smudge kohl all over Bernie, too.

  “Who are we still missing?” Faye asks, not looking up from her knitting. Today she’s working on a plush fisherman’s sweater, covered in a complicated system of cabling. I keep letting her hold it up to me for perspective, in hopes that I’ll be the lucky recipient.

  “Has anyone heard from Marco?” I ask.

  Everyone shrugs.

  Ruby asks, “Hey, is Kassel supposed to sit in with us?” She’s perched forward in her chair, careful not to press against the back of the seat, having gotten fresh ink over the weekend to celebrate having bought her first condo. (Me? I bought a ficus tree when I closed on my place.) Her right shoulder now sports an almost exact replica of television’s most iconic judge with the caption “Only Judy Can Judge Me.” She said her regret kicked in the minute the artist applied the final parenthesis and she’s already shopping for laser removal. Luckily, our DBS ratings-based bonus will cover the cost. When will everyone learn that skin is not a toy?

  “I thought I saw him in the hall,” Jimbo says, “with some hot girl. She looks like Jessica Rabbit. Rowr!”

  Jealousy strikes me like a flash of lightning, even though I have no claims on Kassel, nor is he yet aware of my intentions. But now that I’ve seen him a tiny bit naked in the men’s room at Soldier Field, I feel a real intimacy between us. Granted, he was a bit puzzled by Bernie’s inappropriate gaze, but he was so affable about the whole thing that it wasn’t at all awkward.

  Or much, anyway.

  My point is, I’m positive he and I could be so much more than just colleagues. I mean, clearly he’s fine with difficult people because he genuinely enjoyed being with my family, going so far as to eat three servings of Aunt Helen’s atrocious pistachio-laden Jell-O salad. Plus, he has that whole Boyd-with-a-briefcase thing, which is fairly irresistible.

  Kassel would fit nicely in my life. He’s quick and he’s funny and I believe he’d be an excellent counter to my more serious nature. We have that whole Ross-and-Rachel bantering thing, too. I imagine we’d be highly entertaining together. People would want to invite us out to dinner—I’m sure of it. Plus, he’s won Emmys. If we were married, then I would legitimately be able to display his awards on my mantel. While technically a win by default, it’s still a win.

  You know what? I need to express my interest in Kassel. I must make my newfound affection more evident. I should mark my territory. Going forward, I plan to demonstrate that he
’s captured my interest.

  As of today, I plan to be a flirt in all situations Kassel related. I shall ply him with my feminine wiles.

  As soon as I figure out what they are.

  While I review various aspects of my own pulchritude—bonus points for my hair and trim waistline—Dora the Explorer bursts in and throws off her backpack. “So sorry, you guys! My train was late.”

  I try to not roll my eyes.

  I fail.

  Deva notices and nods. She’s a stickler for punctuality, too, largely because of how lateness impacts her ability to time travel. I didn’t ask for further explanation, assuming one would make my head ache.

  As she unloads her backpack, she asks, “You guys hear about Marco?”

  “Is he okay?” Ruby asks, voice full of concern.

  “Very okay!” Dora exclaims. “He quit! He’s been freelancing for the Spider-Man, Part Femme flick and Tabby loved him so much that she hired him to work full-time for her.”

  “Way to go, Marco!” Jimbo pumps his fist. Jimbo pumps his fist a lot; it’s kind of his home-run swing. Well, that and having a wardrobe comprised entirely of Adidas track pants.

  I’m not sure how I feel about Marco’s leaving the show. On the one hand, he did beautiful work on our guests, and on the other, he was always hounding me to cut layers. “Oh, Missy Doctor, why you want to look like Crystal Gayle?” Marco’s from Italy—how is he even familiar with American country music? And by the way, can everyone just leave my ’do alone? Besides, I’m more Megan Fox than Crystal Gayle, so let’s cease and desist with the constant comparisons.

  I find myself protectively clutching my ponytail, so I flip open my laptop in order to do something else with my hands. “I guess we don’t need to wait for Kassel. Shall we begin?”

  As the rest of the team digs out tablets and notebooks, the conference room door swings open. Kassel marches in and announces, “Good morning! I assume you’ve all heard about Marco? Big news. Very big.”

  Aha! Now is my time to shine! Time to harness my inner minx!