I Hate Everyone, Except You

by Clinton Kelly

  “Can I help you?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Lisa said. “I was wondering, is the bleu cheese fresh?”

  “Is it fresh?” Evidently, it was not a question he received often.

  “Yes, fresh.”

  He spoke as one might to an eight-year-old. “It’s salad dressing. And it comes in a large plastic tub.”

  “Thank you,” Lisa said, “I will take that into consideration.” Mark returned to salting his fries.

  After I paid for lunch, we sat at a table by the window, not far from the salad bar. I scarfed down my chicken sandwich and saw Meredith enter the dining room through the door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY behind Lisa. “Uh-oh,” I said. “She looks pissed.”

  “We didn’t do anything wrong,” Lisa stated.

  Mark must have put Meredith on tray duty because she began to tidy the empty tables around us. She wouldn’t look in our direction, and I couldn’t blame her. We followed her with our eyes. Once she had a few trays stacked in her hands, she passed by our table.

  “You guys are such assholes,” she said.

  “I didn’t do anything,” I blurted, as she made her way back to the kitchen.

  “You are such a pussy,” Lisa said to me, through a bite of half-chewed hamburger.

  I shrugged. Maybe I was. I felt bad for laughing at Meredith’s expense, but I was also kind of hurt that she had a secret crush she had only shared with Lisa. We were a trio. If I had been a girl, Meredith would have told me too.

  We finished lunch in relative silence, and I dropped Lisa off at home. I gave her my house key and told her I’d be home around midnight. I went home, entering through the garage, and put the porno in my dresser beneath my underwear, just in case there was an emergency and my parents came home while I was gone. I couldn’t have Caddy Shack Up lying on the kitchen counter. I also took a bottle of champagne, one of the many Mike’s clients had given him around Christmas, from the back of the liquor cabinet and put it in the refrigerator. Mike and Terri would never miss it. I had never seen them drink champagne in the seven or so years they had been together.

  * * *

  Work was uneventful, just the usual filling of water glasses, folding of napkins, clearing of tables, setting of tables, emptying of ashtrays. I was actually an excellent busboy. The restaurant had recently held a competition for head busboy, which I won, so I made an extra dollar per hour and got the busiest stations, the ones with the best view of the harbor outside. The waitresses all liked me because if I ever saw them so much as lift an empty plate, I would swoop in and finish the job. If they told me table 12 needed more breadsticks, I was on it like fire. They were obligated to give me 15 percent of their tips, but most gave me 20. Occasionally a diner, usually a man on a date with a woman, would tip me directly, thanking me for taking good care of them. I loved that job. It was the one place I felt I was truly popular.

  I returned home around twelve thirty to see Lisa’s car in the driveway.

  “This dog has been scaring the crap out of me,” she announced when I walked in the door. She was sitting downstairs in our den watching TV with Noel on her lap. “She’s been growling at every little noise outside. I thought someone was out there trying to kill us.”

  “She’s a pain in the ass like that,” I said. “Last weekend I barely slept because she was barking at the bedroom window at three a.m. Lhasas were imperial guard dogs in Tibet or some shit like that.”

  “Thanks for the history lesson, dork. Where’s the movie?”

  “In my underwear drawer. Can you get the champagne out of the fridge? I’ll set up the movie.”

  Lisa went up to the kitchen, and I rushed upstairs to change out of my uniform into jeans and a polo shirt. Soon, she came downstairs with the bottle and three brown ceramic coffee mugs, one of which was to be used as an ashtray. We were one of the first families on our block to have a big-screen TV, which was housed in a giant wooden cabinet that took up half the room. As she poured us each a mug of champagne, I put the video in the VCR and hit PLAY on the remote.

  Lisa sat on the couch, and I sat on the floor. We watched the entire movie from start to finish in engrossed silence. Neither of us spoke. Neither of us took eyes from the screen for one second. We sipped champagne and refilled our mugs without looking at them. We lit, smoked, and extinguished cigarettes without looking at them. We were taking it all in, every sexual act, moan, and groan. But mostly we were memorizing the dialogue.

  Like clockwork, when the movie ended, I hit rewind. The tape whirred in the machine and abruptly stopped. I hit PLAY again, and we began our second viewing of the evening, this time repeating all the dialogue we could remember and voicing our critiques. Such was our creative process.

  Caddy Shack Up is the story of Cathy, an attractive young woman with a slightly crooked front tooth and shockingly conical nipples, who takes a job as a caddy at the Burning Bush Golf Club. In the first scene, we learn that while she would be open to meeting and marrying a rich club member, she is also just plain happy using her body for sexual pleasure. “You don’t have to have an alterior motive for everything,” says Cathy. To which Lisa cried: “The word is ulterior, you illiterate skank. Not alterior Ulterior.”

  Cathy is soon undressed at the hands of a more experienced female caddy who says, “Why don’t you just lay down here and I’ll show you my specialty—the club massage.”

  “What is with these people?” I wondered aloud. “You want her to lie there, not lay there. Lie means to recline. Lay means to place. I have never been so disappointed in the American educational system. Canadians must watch this stuff and laugh at us.”

  “Well, they are the superior race.”

  The second scene was our favorite for its pure absurdity and aggressive sex. It featured Sam, played by some catfishy mustachioed guy in a royal blue polo shirt (identical to the one I had just changed into!), and an actress named Purple Passion, who quickly became our hero. She was black and spoke with an exotic accent (which I recently learned was from Baltimore). They were in the clubhouse bar and Purple Passion was putting the moves on him. Sam started off the scene by mumbling, “Hellacious caddy, hellacious caddy.”

  “What the fuck does that even mean?” Lisa asked.

  “He’s setting the scene, letting us all know what a bad caddy she is, which does seem like a mean thing to say while she’s rubbing all up against him.”

  “Prick.”

  Then we had to stop the tape and rewind it a few times because we couldn’t understand what Sam was saying. It took us a solid ten minutes to determine that he had muttered: “I like to putt with holes this stiff.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” Lisa said. “He must’ve screwed up his line. It was probably, I like to putt with poles this stiff. Not holes.”

  “You don’t putt with a golf pole. You putt with a putter.”

  “Who cares? I hate golf, and this guy is obviously drunk.”

  Sam and Purple get down to business, despite the fact that Lisa and I agreed Purple Passion could have scored a better-looking dude. She seemed like the type of girl we could hang out with, if there were any black kids at our school. Everyone we knew was Italian, Jewish, or Puerto Rican. A black porn star friend would have been fun.

  While she’s having sex with the drunk golfer, apropos of absolutely nothing, Purple Passion declares: “It’s not me knowin’ the clubs, it’s me havin’ the body.”

  This line outraged Lisa so much that she demanded I stop the tape.

  “What’s your problem?” I asked.

  “She missed her opportunity for the best line in this whole stupid movie! She should have said, ‘It’s not me knowin’ the clubs, it’s me knowin’ the strokes!’ ”

  “Yes!” I yelled, startling the dog, who up until this point had been asleep, despite all the sex noises blaring from the TV. “It’s not me knowin’ the clubs, it’s me knowin’ the strokes! Of course! I just fucking love you.”

  It was true. I did love her, not in any
sort of romantic way, but for her wit and her grumpiness and her loyalty and her dependability. She was The Id, and I was The Ego. And tonight we were operating free of The Superego, who was probably fast asleep in her bed, dreaming of making sweet love to a nervous-looking man with glasses on a bed of iceberg lettuce. Or romaine, which would be fancier.

  Lisa went home after we finished watching the movie for the second time. Cathy the Caddy thinks about quitting, but then she decides not to. That’s the entire plot. I told Lisa I would return the tape on my way to work the brunch shift the next morning.

  “Give me one ring when you get home so I know you’re not dead,” I told her.

  Lisa rolled her eyes.

  But a few minutes later, the phone rang once, and I curled up on the couch where she had been sitting, shut off the lights, and fell asleep.

  TURD IN THE PUNCHBOWL

  Had I known when my alarm rang that Paula Deen was going to ruin my Wednesday, I probably would have just said fuck it and gone back to bed.

  “Oh, my Goddddd,” I groaned. “I’m so tiiiiired.” It was 6:15, about the same time I wake up every morning, give or take fifteen minutes. Usually, I spring out of bed with considerable energy, the source of which mystifies me, but not today. Mary had kept me up half the night by wedging herself right up against my kidneys.

  Damon was already awake; he had an early patient. “I was waiting for your alarm to go off so I could make coffee,” he said.

  In normal living conditions, at least in Western society, one half of a couple can make coffee in the morning without waking the other, but when we renovated our apartment I had the brilliant idea of configuring it as one big, open space. “We’re going to honor the architectural history of the neighborhood and create an authentic Tribeca loft,” I had told anyone who would listen. “The bed will be right smack in the middle of the room. It’s going to be superchic.”

  Five years later I want to kick myself in the nuts for sounding like a pretentious asshole. I just hope that eventually we can sell it to another pretentious asshole for three times what we paid for it. But because of the floor plan—which is no floor plan—Damon and I need to be on the same sleep schedule, lest one of us do something ridiculous like open the refrigerator and shine the light in the other’s slumbering face.

  The coffeemaker, one of those all-in-one numbers that grinds beans, brews espresso, and steams milk, roared and hissed. A few minutes later, latte in hand, Damon sat at the foot of the bed. “Bad night’s sleep?” he asked.

  “Yeah, thanks to this pain in the ass,” I answered, referring to Mary, who was listening intently. “Do you see how much room she’s taking up? I’m literally hanging off the side of the bed.” I wasn’t exaggerating. My left arm and shoulder were off the mattress.

  “You know, you can train her to sleep on the floor,” he said.

  “No, I can’t, Damon,” I said, enunciating both syllables of his name. “She’s been sleeping in our bed for the last seven years. What’s she gonna think when all of a sudden we just throw her on the floor? I’ll tell you what she’s gonna think: She’s gonna think we don’t love her anymore and then she’ll get depressed and wish she was never born.”

  Damon told me I was projecting. Or anthropomorphizing. Maybe both. I don’t know. I kind of zoned out, as I usually do at this point in this particular conversation. See, most of the time I enjoy being married to a psychologist. Damon is the most thoughtful, kind, supportive, introspective man I have ever met. When we argue, which is rarely, I find myself saying things like, “I’m sorry for acting out, but I’m frustrated by the events of the day,” or “Let’s step back and examine our rage for a moment.” It’s actually kind of amazing. But when Damon has the audacity to imply that my relationship with Mary is slightly cuckoo, I want to rip out a chunk of his perfect hair.

  I’m not an idiot. I know everyone thinks Mary is a dog. And she may very well be, but there’s also a very distinct possibility, as far as I’m concerned, that she’s a human being trapped in a thirteen-pound Jack Russell terrier’s body, albeit a human being who’s obsessed with smelling random puddles of piss on the sidewalk. And so I give her everything she could ever need to live an emotionally fulfilling life: organic freeze-dried chicken, filtered water, treats baked in small batches by local artisans, weekend hikes on the Appalachian Trail, spa days, et cetera.

  “You’re right,” I said. “I’m just being silly. I’ll start training Mary to sleep in her own bed tonight.” All three of us know I am lying through my porcelain-veneered teeth.

  I gently rubbed Mary’s velvety belly, wrested myself from bed, and shuffled across the concrete floors toward the bathroom, where the morning’s clothes awaited me. I had laid them on the vanity the night before with the intention of leaving for work as quickly as possible. Since the renovation, I’ve learned how to get ready for work in just fifteen minutes. Of course it helps that ABC employs a team of people to dress and groom me. I’m really only responsible for brushing my own teeth and maintaining my private parts. They do the rest!

  I left the apartment after kissing Damon and Mary good-bye on their mouths. Damon insists I do it in that order for sanitary reasons, though I suspect it’s a hierarchy thing. As per our usual arrangement, he will drop Mary off at the sitter on his way to work. Heading to the subway, I stopped by my favorite coffee shop and ordered a flat white for my walk. It’s a few short blocks away and usually the most tranquil part of my day. At this time of year, the sun and streetlamps halfheartedly compete to illuminate the sidewalks, pigeons coo from window ledges above, and deliverymen unload palettes of bread from big square trucks. Even the 1 train provides a sense of calm this early. A tacit understanding exists among the burly construction men, dozing hospital workers, bankers, and myself: Let’s start this day in peace.

  In my orange plastic seat, I opened my e-mail to read the itinerary my assistant, Jackie, sent me the night before.

  Wednesday, March 11, 2015

  7:30 a.m.

  Call time at The Chew.

  Production meeting.

  Rehearsal.

  Hair, makeup, wardrobe.

  8:45 a.m.

  Shoot Episode #756 “The Chew’s Spring Break!”

  Airs same day. You’re making your macadamia-crusted chicken with mango and pineapple salsa in segments 2 and 3.

  Guest: Paula Deen. She’s cooking with Michael Symon later in the show.

  9:45 a.m.

  Meet with Jennifer re: upcoming interview with Mekhi Phifer. Meet with Katie re upcoming cocktail segment. Meet with Brad re: upcoming Clinton’s Craft Corner.

  11:00 a.m.

  Production meeting.

  Rehearsal.

  Hair and makeup touch-ups. Change wardrobe.

  12:15 p.m.

  Shoot The Chew, Episode #759 “Fast ’n’ Fresh.”

  Air Date: 3/16/15 (You don’t have much to do in this show, but Alonna and her sister will be in the audience.)

  1:15 p.m.

  Wrap The Chew.

  2:00 p.m.

  Stop by office.

  Pay bills.

  Post on Facebook and Twitter about new web content.

  Meet with Jill re: Macy’s Orange County event.

  Call Kate to discuss styling for new TLC show.

  SIGN INCOME TAX EXTENSION FORMS!

  4:00 p.m.

  Workout.

  6:00 p.m.

  Dinner with Emily (You put this in the calendar yourself. Do you need me to make reservations somewhere?)

  9:00 p.m.

  Pick up dog from sitter.

  The day appeared to be rather typical, though my eyes did hover for an extra half second on Paula Deen’s name, just enough time for a quick flutter of dread to wash over me. Nothing too ill-boding, more like the kind of feeling you get when you’re reminded that later in the day you have an appointment for your annual prostate exam.

  I’ve never really been a fan of Paula’s, but that’s the way life is. Maybe her esse
nce whispers sweet nothings to your very soul. I, however, find her shtick more annoying than a hangnail. And just for the record, it’s not about her Southern heritage or Southern food in general, because I’m quite fond of many Southern people and Southern food can be freakin’ delicious. Before I met Paula, my distaste for her was probably due to her seeming, in my opinion, very one-note—and that note is butter, y’all! Then I met her in person during the The Chew’s first season and, while I really wanted to like the woman, her good old-fashioned “charm” struck me as completely artificial. Then came her N-word scandal, and after that she admitted to her fans that she had Type 2 diabetes—two years after her doctors diagnosed her but only after securing a lucrative diabetes drug contract, and in the interim continuing to push an unhealthy lifestyle. So, eh, I’m not a fan. And I get the feeling she knows it.

  I have little, if any, say regarding the guests who appear on The Chew because I am a host and not a producer. And even though I like the show’s producers very much, they have a history with Paula, having produced her show on Food Network for many years. So when she’s booked on the show, I say hello and welcome her with as much enthusiasm as I can muster. That’s what I’m paid to do and I do it relatively convincingly.

  Today Paula made her entrance in the second-to-last segment of the show, teaming up with Michael Symon to demonstrate her recipe for chicken wings, while I sat nearby with my other cohosts, Daphne Oz, Carla Hall, and Mario Batali. When it comes to presenting a recipe clearly and efficiently, Michael is quite possibly the best in the business, but the interaction I witnessed between him and Paula made absolutely no sense. He might as well have been interviewing a crack-smoking unicorn about how to make a rainbow sandwich. Seriously. I knew less about how to make chicken wings after Paula’s demo than I did before it even began, which means she was actually able to destroy existing neural pathways in my brain pertaining to the effects of heat on poultry.