Man of the Year

by Lou Cove

  We position ourselves on the bed and start to kiss, as if we’d been discussing it all along. It actually seems like it’s the only thing to do. Getting to know one another in any other way would be mere nuisance. Whatever we do here, no one will know anyway.

  Atjeh starts whimpering from underneath the creaking springs of my bed and I kick her out of the cabin. She claws at the door for the next ten minutes and then finally quiets down.

  I wrap my arms around Sarah, rubbing her back as we rub tongues. When I reach for the clasp of her bra she leads my hands around to her chest, putting her covered breasts into the palms of my hands. I feel like an archaeologist who just discovered two precious golden eggs, and I clasp them reverently. She moans softly in my ear and I start to fill my pj’s, thumbs circling the padded center of her bra cups in search of nipples. Sarah grinds her Dorothy Stratten body against me but when I try to slip my hand under the polo shirt she forces it down between her legs. I feel the heat below the denim, a vague dampness, and my blood surges down, evacuating all my extremities save one.

  We’re gonna do it. We’re gonna do it.

  I probe with my mouth more deeply into hers. She tastes like Jolly Ranchers—pure, fruity, so different from Gretchen’s menthol smokes and Tab residue. I press the heel of my palm against her tilting crotch, searching for some elusive release, then slip my fingers up toward the waistband of her jeans. She grabs my wrist and moves my hand back up to her breasts, coos again in my ear.

  “I should go,” she says but then she kisses me again and we are back at it. Mud Slide Slim plays through another three times. Somewhere around the middle of the fourth round of “Hey Mister, That’s Me Up on the Jukebox,” I unsnap her jeans and raise the elastic band of her panties with shuddering knuckles. I can see paradise by the dashboard light.

  We’re gonna do it. We’re gonna do it.

  Sarah bites my earlobe, her voice raw and impossibly sexual. “I’ll get in trouble if they know I left the kids alone in the house.”

  “You left them?”

  “Yeah, the parents won’t be back until after one. They always stay out that late. And they drink a lot, so they come home and don’t notice much. They just make a lot of noise and then flop into bed in their clothes.”

  “You can stay with me.”

  “You’re different than the LA guys. Sweet.” She rubs my thigh the way you scrub a floor. “I’ll come back again. I like you.” We kiss once more, long, and then she walks out the door. “Keep the tape,” she says. “And think of me when you listen to it.”

  The one thing I don’t need is to hear “Love Has Brought Me Around” again. I huddle under my sleeping bag, trying for a solo performance, but my crotch kills and I can’t seem to do much with it.

  “Blue balls,” Papa tells me in the morning when I explain what kept me up all night.

  “What?”

  “Was it the au pair from up the hill?”

  “I hung out with her for a little bit.”

  “You mean made out?” he prods.

  “Do I need to go to the doctor?”

  “Nope. You need to go back up to your cabin and finish what you started.”

  “But she went home.”

  “That’s not what I mean,” he says, sipping his coffee loudly. “Do you have any Playboys up there?” I shrug. “Well, go and use them. Everything’s backed up in your pipes. You need to clear the system. It won’t feel better until you do.” I don’t know how to respond. “Go on,” he nudges. “Better than getting a VD shot, right? That’s what ends up happening if you go all the way.”

  “It does?!”

  “With the wrong girl. We’ll talk about it later. Go.”

  *

  The summer days are chaotic, noisy, unplanned. Adults fly in different directions, making exotic foods, disappearing without warning, yelling about Ronald Reagan and welfare reform, whispering about cocaine and cancer. The kids lose themselves in puzzles, arguments, and the woods.

  I call Uli every morning to let him know how far I didn’t get with Sarah the night before. “That’s so basil,” he says each time, breezing past the failures and focusing on the details. “What color are her panties? Is her bra padded or lacy?”

  Atjeh absorbs the wild spirit of Maine, nipping and barking relentlessly. David stomps around the house in flippers and mask, shouting “I love you, Papa!” through a snorkel. At dinner, Atjeh gnaws the snorkel in half.

  “It’s not easy defending this dog,” Papa says. “But look at those eyes.”

  Howie retreats to his room with Carly more than ever.

  We are all together in the studio, but something is keeping us apart. Papa says it’s just the summer way, “Time to do your own thing.”

  We are banished each evening at seemingly random times, and I return to my cabin to console myself with Sarah’s utter, amazing, forever foreplay that is never consummated. Human beings can’t possibly be meant to withstand this kind of abuse! Papa said, “When you can, you’re going to LOVE it,” but I can’t and I don’t. Strangely, I find myself missing Gretchen. She may not be as pretty or well-endowed as Sarah, but she’s easy to be with in ways I never considered.

  *

  Amanda, David, Rebecca, and Matty are banging at the cabin door, then bursting in, filling the space with their noise and bustle.

  “Howie’s making pancakes,” Amanda trills.

  “Can I read this comic, Lou?” Matty asks from the corner.

  “Come have pancakes!” David says. “He’s making them shaped like flying saucers!”

  “Get out!”

  The kids touch everything on their way out, a begrudging pancake train of brats.

  “Pollock stew?” Howie calls when I finally show.

  “Blech. How come you’re up?”

  “Rough night around here,” he says softly, flipping a UFO burnt side up. “Rough night. I don’t like sickness.”

  I nod, flashing on the late-night echo of Enid’s horrible bark.

  “So we haven’t talked about our next move, hombre.” Howie shakes his head, clearing his mind and changing the subject. “Burt does Cosmo, he gets Smokey and the Bandit. I do Man of the Year, but I’m not Paul Michael Glaser just yet.”

  “Burt didn’t actually show everybody his penis,” Carly says, shuffling into the kitchen, bleary but beautiful.

  “That should make me a bigger star!”

  “Not based on size,” says Papa, his perm sagging and askew, cup of coffee in one hand, newspaper in the other.

  “I didn’t get into this line of work so people could forever comment on the length of my dick!”

  “Should have thought of that sooner.” Papa fake sighs, pats me on the head.

  “I think you should go back on Donahue,” I say. “All they talked about was whether or not it’s right to have naked guys in magazines. They should do another one, talk about the new masculinity.”

  “Big word,” Papa says.

  “Amen, niño. I can’t complain about being on a national TV show, but shit…”

  “What about that other show?”

  “Which? Merv?”

  “Yeah, Merv.”

  “I actually got the call: ‘Do you want to do the Merv Griffin Show?’ At least, that’s what I thought they were asking. But I don’t have Hollywood ears or something, because what they actually said was: ‘Do you want to do Merv?’ See? I hear, ‘Do you want to be on the Merv Griffin Show,’ a big fucking afternoon television show. So I said hell yeah, and they said, ‘Well, if you want to do Merv, you’ve got to do Merv.’ And I go WHAT? And they said it again. ‘You gotta DO Merv. You gotta suck his dick.’ And I said, I don’t think so. I don’t think I want to do Merv.”

  “Howie?” Mama says.

  “Princess!”

  “Are you talking with my son about sucking Merv Griffin’s penis?”

  “Well, this isn’t a case of actual dick sucking. It’s a cautionary tale. The temptations of stardom and those who prey on the tem
pted…”

  The warm pancake smell turns from amber to acrid as we realize all at once that no one is watching the pan.

  *

  I escape the after-breakfast banter and lie flat on Howie and Carly’s sheets. I think I smell their waking sex, imagine how it looked, stretch my body, escaping into their warm world. My hand hits a hard object under the pillow and I pull out Howie’s journal.

  I feel my heart stop with the idea, already morphing into action, that I am going to read the latest installment. Not that this is off-limits. He always says it’s an open book. But as my own journal gets more and more private, the idea of reading his feels increasingly treacherous. I close the door silently and sit against it.

  He has underlined the title for this entry: “Alive in the Middle of a Post Card.”

  Mid-morning in Maine where Americans vacation with “Summer Drinks” rules. That means get your own. The day is filled with constant rapid fire organizing and moving, kiddie shuffling and doggie dodging. A lot of people in a little house. I’ve kept pace by imbibing intense drugs and bouncing off the wall. Today, I’ve had it up to here and come out of bed grouchy because screaming little Rebecca and Dave have broken into my dreams with absolutely repulsive kidlet squeals. Carly takes a birth control pill and we both feel the relief inherent that our present “vacation” is only a temporary plight.

  I am sick of children and the wolf-coyote “Dog” that pretty much is a 90% source of irritation and 10% pure awe.

  Food is King here and governs the flow of everyday TRAFFIC. I am yet to submerge myself into anything but food, kids, drugs, and ponds. I think it’s time to clean some cobwebs out and pay attention to restful things.

  I fling the book onto the bed and take this in. When he says he is sick of children, I know he means the little kids, not me. And I am sick of them, too. It explains why he and Carly are around less than ever, taking off when they can, sleeping until after we’ve all left for the pond. Why Papa takes long runs alone on the carriage trails every day and Mama bakes treats, picks berries, goes antiquing. She ends every day with a swim in the pond. Steve and Enid stay close to home, leaving the kids to wander. Matty gets lost in the woods for real and we have to call the police. A state trooper picks him up a mile down the road around dusk. Everyone cries, scolds, eats more pollock stew. The more scallions you sprinkle on top, the easier it is to swallow.

  New Year’s Eve in August

  All these days are disappearing. There’s never enough time with Sarah and she still won’t touch my business. Never enough time with Howie and he still hasn’t really explained how our partnership will proceed once he flies back to Berkeley. I keep trying to formalize both relationships but the next thing I know Mama’s putting a plate of Elvis sandwiches in front of me, arm around my shoulder, kiss on my keppie, reminding me that “Tonight’s our last night. Birthday night, and all together.”

  “All that’s missing is Dick Clark,” Howie says, pecking Mama on the top of her head as he walks by. “But I’ll take the Hunan Princess over him any day.”

  Mama blushes and Papa says, “Hey! You’ve got plenty. Keep your hands off my one.” He points to his MARRIED T-shirt, but he doesn’t move any closer to Mama.

  The adults dress up in the evening, fill baskets with food and drink, then go up to have a pre-party cocktail with Sarah’s boss, the jerk on the hill. Carly sews two pairs of white drawstrings for my parents and presents them to Mama and Papa as a going-away, wasn’t-this-a-wonderful-year? gift. They immediately slip into the loose pants and model for the group. Papa tops his off with a navy blue sweater dotted by sailboats. It’s uncharacteristically preppie, but something on Mount Desert Island is rubbing off on him. Mama wears a matching white snap jacket with Nehru collar. Uncharacteristically hip, but then, she’s let her hair down more than usual this summer.

  “Do we have to spend time with that inbred blueblood?” Howie asks?

  “Gotta kiss the ring,” Papa slaps him on the back by way of encouragement.

  “Listen,” Steve, the wine connoisseur, says to Howie. “I’ll bet you ten bucks this guy’s going to have a wine cellar to kill for, but it will be filled with crap. So when he serves you his pricey vinegar, I’ll give you the signal and you tell him ‘it lacks a certain varietal character’ and he’ll know the hippies know more than he does about grapes.”

  “It’s a plan,” Howie agrees.

  When they return we are all given something to carry down to the dock for the end-of-everything party. Papa’s peppering me with more queries than I can answer. “Nice way to celebrate your birthday, tonight, isn’t it? New Year’s Eve in August? All together? Hard to say good-bye. But a good summer, don’t you think? Memorable summer? What was your favorite part? I’ve got a few favorites. Favorite parts. But I want to know yours. Yours first,” he urges as we make our way along the wooded trail.

  I look at him curiously, wondering why the hell he’s talking a mile a minute. “Yeah, I wish we could stay forever…”

  “Not realistic. Everybody’s got to work. But work is good for you. Builds character. Not to say that a bit of vacation doesn’t, too. This has been good for everyone, I think. Gives you time to think. Relax. Remember what’s important in life.”

  “I think it’s important to—”

  “Also reminds you what you can do without. Why are we living? What’s it all for? Need to sort that out, make decisions, act. You can’t wait forever for life to just turn out the way you want it to. You have to grab it. Don’t abide boredom, Louis. Understand what I’m saying? Don’t let it rule your life. That, and anyone else’s expectations. They don’t matter in the end, and if you follow the desires of others you never realize your own. You need to make a move. Take a stand. Don’t apologize. See?” He catches a breath in the midst of the stream of words. I stare blankly at him now. “What? Am I talking too much? It’s not me. Sorry. See…” he slows, pulls me out of the group trundling down the fragrant, wooded hill. “We had a bit of a party with our wealthy friend up the hill.”

  “OK.”

  “How did that Sarah end up treating you? Chastity buckle loosening at all?”

  “What?”

  “I just mean, did you get a little more relief? You can’t expect too much at this age, but at the same time it’s not fair to have to suffer.”

  Howie appears alongside us. “That guy’s a dick,” he says to Papa.

  “Who?” Papa asks over his shoulder, his cautious shuffling down the hill turning to a flat-out run.

  “Richie Rich Cokehead.”

  “Did you tell him it lacked a varietal character?” I asked.

  “NO. I was all ready to show that snoot. But every bottle that came out Steve just kept shaking his head, giving me the ix-nay. And then the flush fucker pulls out the Château Lafite Rothschild and even I know it’s slam dunk. The rich keep on keeping on, Hutch.”

  “You’ll be rich by next year,” I assure him.

  Everyone flops down in the center of the dock. David snuggles against Mama, who stares off to the edge of the harbor.

  Steve and Enid arrive a few minutes later, moving slowly. She holds her head kerchief against the breeze and settles down next to Mama. Steve wraps a flannel blanket around her, though it’s one of the warmest nights we’ve had.

  “Start with the ’61 Château d’Yquem,” Steve says.

  Papa passes glasses around to the group, pours apple juice for the kids. “Here’s to friends,” he says as the sun drops. “Thank you for being with us through thick and thin. We love having you here.”

  “And here’s to the Man of the Year,” Mama adds.

  “You mean me?” Papa mugs.

  “I mean Mr. Gordon. Thank you for spending this year with us. The two of you … you’re family…” She chokes painfully on the word, smiles sadly. “Family now. And no one wants to lose family…” And then she starts to cry, in front of us all. I feel it, too.

  “Oh, my sweet Hunan Princess,” Carly says, hugging M
ama tightly. “It’s just the end of the chapter, not the book.”

  “Can we look on the bright side and toast to the other man of the year here?” Howie’s voice rises over the soft weeping all around us. “This marvelous boychik is thirteen today. That’s man stuff. And I know there’s no bar mitzvah here but we can do a little ritual ourselves, right?” He looks at me seriously: “You are circumcised, though, aren’t you?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “Good. Because that’s what my dad would call a shanda for the goyim. And it’s the least fun of all the mystical Jewish rituals we have. I’d much rather put you on a chair and carry you around while we dance the hora than pull out my shearing scissors.”

  “Maybe later,” Papa says. “Let’s try the pâté first.”

  “Pâté, shmâté. This is our boy,” Howie presses on, adopting a Russian accent, “joining the legion of strong-like-bull men! But also joining the human race with his heart and his generosity intact. You are a special someone, Louis Cove. And we love you. L’chaim!” he shouts, and everyone raises a glass and repeats, “L’chaim”—to life.

  Uncomfortable with the attention, I lie back on the dock. The sun is tucked halfway into its horizon, turning the sky-screen blue, then indigo, then orchid. Going for beta. Leaving alpha behind.

  I look back over my shoulder at the group: Mama stretched out, lying back on her elbows and looking out at the harbor. Matty, Amanda, and David rooting around in the bags of potato chips and Fritos. Enid huddled close to Steve, trying to stay warm in her robe even though the rest of us are in Tshirts. Howie and Carly kissing. Papa serving cheese and stuffed olives, pouring drinks, gracefully sliding along the dock in his Docksiders. Sarah promised she’d be here …

  I turn back to the water, stare deep into its cold, clear depth. I can see the bottom, maybe ten feet below. A crab shoots out from under the dock, senses me, and disappears. As the world darkens I see sparkles below suspended like stars shimmering, winking on and off unexpectedly, and the display sucks my breath away. Fallout from Three Mile Island, I wonder? No. Too beautiful. My heartbeat rises and I turn again, ready to tell everyone about the magic dust bringing the sea to life—a million stars shimmering right below us—but then think better of it, wanting to keep the secret to myself a few minutes longer. It is so alive and inside me, the same feeling I had when I was in my cabin at four in the morning, with Sarah all over my skin and in my mouth.