Plus One

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Plus One Page 23

by Christopher Noxon


  It was insanity, all of it, but as he got up from bed, he moved with an unfamiliar sureness of purpose, his concentration locked on the tasks before him. Sam and Sylvie were roused, dressed, and set in front of bowls of oatmeal. Figgy was kissed on the back of the head and fed a story about a late-night food truck run with Huck the night before. As he clutched his gut in feigned gastrointestinal distress, she murmured something about never trusting a taco truck.

  Alex had thumbed out an email the night before, sending a two-word text to Clive: “I’M IN.” Now today there was a text from Clive with a long line of exclamation points, a smiley face emoticon, and two words of his own: “GOOD MAN.”

  It was as if he’d never had any doubts, as if he hadn’t stashed away and nearly forgotten the Top Dog packet the day of Figgy’s party. But now he felt like a seasoned producer, a guy with an Aeron chair and a dry-erase board. What had seemed preposterous before now felt inevitable—describing it for Miranda, Top Dog became an incisive look at the immigrant experience in America. “The dogs are just the hook—it’s really about the people,” he’d told her, Clive’s pitch re-forming in his own mouth. “This old-world guy and his Americanized daughter, both grieving the loss of the matriarch, bonding over these animals. And working all this out in the pressure cooker of these competitions—it’s great drama.” He reminded himself now to tease these themes out with Clive. Working with him would be great—he needed partnership, collaboration, the mentoring of an elder. And damn if Miranda didn’t perk up when he talked about the show. The thought of her sent a twinge up his spine—that goodbye kiss? Tongues hadn’t been deployed. So technically, it was really just a goodbye peck? A really prolonged, intense, super-hot peck?

  Who was he kidding? He knew he’d crossed a threshold. The kiss might or might not technically count as cheating, but it definitely fell into the increasingly crowded category of things not to share with Figgy.

  After dropping the kids at school, he immediately sat down with Clive’s prospectus and a stack of statements from the bank. It shouldn’t be hard to pull out two-hundred-some thousand in equity—during the renovations, he remembered Valerie mentioning something about home equity lines of credit. Because he was the sole officer of the blind trust, he probably wouldn’t even need Figgy’s signature to get it.

  Of course he should talk it over with her first—but as this conversation played out in his imagination, he knew in an instant how it would go. He’d bring it up during one of their late-night logistics meetings, laying out Clive’s folder on the kitchen island alongside the school forms and furniture catalogs. She’d think it was nuts. She’d tell him he shouldn’t work with Clive. She’d shit all over it. And then what would he do? Insist he knew what he was doing? No. He was done playing the part of flaky middle manager to the decisive CEO of Figgy Inc.

  By the time a cab arrived, Alex had downloaded a home equity loan application and made an appointment to meet with a manager at the bank. He’d tell Figgy about the show when the pilot was done and syndication was wrapped up. Maybe he’d make it a two-fer and tell her when he told her about the vasectomy. He pictured himself sitting down with Figgy as the autonomous, sterile, empowered, confident producer of a new TV show, negotiating his new place in the marriage from a solidified position of accomplishment.

  The house was his as much as hers. But his balls—those were his and his alone. Time to start acting like he had some.

  • • •

  Alex had determined on the cab ride over that he was going to be utterly unembarrassed when Dr. Finkelstein cut a hole in his scrotum. He was going to be the steeliest, most resolute guy ever to don a paper robe and sling his feet into stirrups.

  But now that he was here, naked from the waist down while Finkelstein finished up with another patient down the hall, he felt his resolve waver.

  The setting was all wrong, for one thing. He’d been expecting something more like an OR, with a bank of swiveling lights and softly bleeping displays and at least one hovering resident in crisp blue scrubs. Instead, his transformational rite of passage was taking place… in an ordinary exam room with floral print wallpaper and a desktop radio on the counter tuned to an oldies station. The nurse, Diana, had teddy bears with party hats on her scrubs. He’d felt more seriousness at a teeth cleaning.

  Alex shifted on the padded blue upholstery, his paper gown crinkling and warping, exquisitely attuned to updrafts from below the table. He kept his eyes fixed on a framed landscape of an Italian hill town. He flashed on Finkelstein in shorts and sandals at an art fair in Laguna Beach, picking this landscape off a wire grid display and sticking it in the trunk of his Acura.

  “Hold still.” The nurse held up a straight-edge razor. “Just a little prep before we get started.”

  Alex’s heart hammered away. He pointed at the razor. “Haven’t seen one of those in a while. So retro!”

  She moved toward him without comment. He jerked up.

  “Please hold still, Mr. Sherman-Zicklin.”

  He held his breath and she went in again. Shaving cream. It felt warm going on, the lather thick. He closed his eyes and sighed. When Huck had raved about getting his pubes professionally trimmed, Alex wrote the notion off as vain and vaguely pervy. But maybe there was something to be said for manscaping. This was very nice. A few slow deliberate swipes and she was done. Alex let out a quick breath, glad she’d stopped before the stirring in his groin had reached its full expression.

  The nurse went back to her tray of supplies and then advanced again, this time with a roll of surgical tape. She ripped off three, four, five strips and then crisscrossed them against his penis, flattening it against his stomach, as if his now-tiny nubbin was a wild animal that might make a run for it. Then she mopped him down with a swab of cold fluid that filled the room with a coppery, vaguely vinegary odor.

  The door swung open and in came Finkelstein, grinning and slapping his hands together like a headliner waltzing on stage after the warm-up act was through. “Okay Diana—all prepped here? Mr. Zicklin, you ready to go? You feeling okay?”

  “Just dandy,” he said, as casually as he could, trying and failing not to picture the view from the opposite side of his knees.

  “Let’s get the anesthetic going.” Finkelstein knelt down and picked up a syringe. “You’ll feel a slight sting.” Alex swallowed hard. He flashed on Figgy in the delivery room with Sam, chin set against her chest, her expression locked in primal determination. Now here he was, a high, wheezy whimper escaping his mouth as the needle went in. The pain radiated into his abdomen and spread through his intestines.

  Alex puffed out his cheeks and tried to keep quiet.

  “All done. Just sit tight. You’ll be numb in a second.”

  The pain flared and then eased, replaced with an odd tugging sensation, as if a massive weight was pulling his organs down toward his pelvis. He kept his eyes shut and head tilted to the side. Between his knees he was dimly aware of Finkelstein and the nurse working away.

  “You catch the Ozzy roast last night? On Comedy Central?” The doctor shot a quizzical look over his taped-up member.

  Alex opened his eyes a crack and looked down. “Sorry?”

  “The Ozzy roast. Did you see it? You know he’s one of the charter members of the Friends of Finkelstein. He’s out there on the wall. His wife sent the picture in—such a doll. They’ve talked about me on the Stern show a few times—you must’ve heard that, right? You seem like a Howard guy.”

  Alex shook his head. “Must’ve missed it.”

  “I don’t generally talk about my patients—but my patients generally don’t talk about me on Howard Stern. So.” He laughed. As he talked, his hands kept moving. From up here, he could’ve been shucking oysters.

  “Everything… all right down there?”

  Finkelstein went right on shucking. “For a guy who bites the heads off bats, you’d think Ozzy’d be okay with a routine procedure, wouldn’t you? But oh no. Remember, Diana, what a wreck he was? Wr
ithing around, shaking, crying? We had to give him a general.”

  “Wait—you can do that? I don’t have to be awake right now?”

  “Oh stop—you’re fine. You’re a champ. Almost done here.” He turned to the nurse. “And how about that Lisa Lampanelli bit? The thing about how Sharon has to stick her arm up Ozzy’s butt every time he talks? Did you see his face? Priceless.”

  Alex rocked forward. “Um, doc?”

  “What I don’t understand is how they get away with the language—I know it’s cable, but I didn’t think they could say anything. Did you hear that guy Jeff Ross call Ozzy a withered-up old cocksucker? It was after nine, but—”

  Alex slapped a hand against the exam table. “Doc… maybe save the recap until after we’re finished here?”

  Finkelstein set something down in his tray, stood up and laid a hand on Alex’s knee. “All done. No big whup, right? Don’t forget the scrotal support and ice compress—normal to feel some discomfort. Avoid heavy lifting, give yourself a day to recuperate. I’ll leave a prescription for the pain. Any serious swelling or discharge, let me know. Otherwise, see you in a few weeks.”

  “So that’s it? Are we done?” He let out a long breath. As he was preparing to get up, Diana leaned in. With a single vicious motion, she ripped up all five pieces of tape at once, leaving behind a bright red crosshatch pattern across his belly and the underside of his dick.

  “Now you’re done,” she said.

  • • •

  Alex still felt woozy after he got his clothes on and ventured into the reception area. “Vasovagal lightheadedness—totally normal,” the nurse said, dropping Finkelstein’s prescription into a plastic bag with a sheet of after-care instructions and a few squares of gauze. “There’s a pharmacy in the lobby, if you want to pick up your scrotal support and medication right away. Ah, here’s your wife now—”

  Wife? Alex looked frantically around the waiting room. Miranda stood by the door, draped in a knit cardigan and plump leather purse.

  Alex felt a jolt of giddiness as she came forward and took his arm. “Easy there, Sher. Let’s get you home.”

  She’d come. She’d said she’d come and then she’d come. In the elevator, she asked how it had gone and then reached into her purse and pulled out a napkin-wrapped baked something. “Bacon scone?” she said. “Made it fresh this morning.”

  “Thanks—but I’m feeling a little rough.”

  “Suit yourself,” she said, popping a piece into her mouth. She checked her phone and followed him into the pharmacy, acting for all the world like this was the most normal errand one could be doing at one o’clock on a Tuesday, even when Alex got the script filled, swallowed two Vicodin dry, and then asked for her help comparing the various options when it came to scrotal support (finally settling on a basic-model jock strap with a protective cup advertised as “padded for extra comfort!”).

  Maybe it was the empty stomach, but Alex felt the effect of the pills almost immediately, his tongue going tingly and then a warm molten sensation percolating up through his limbs. By the time he was safely buckled in Miranda’s car—a dented, plum-colored Saab with a popsicle-stick-and-yarn craft dangling from the rearview mirror—the wooziness in his chest was replaced by a full-body tingle, like he’d just stepped out of a steam room.

  Miranda rolled down the windows and turned on the stereo, silvery ringlets flying loose against her face. Alex closed his eyes and listened to the music. It was “Peace Warrior,” an inoffensive reggae ballad by Franklin Sykes, the singer who’d just signed onto the cast of The Natashas. “Perfect,” he said, his eyelids fluttering. “Of course you love this guy. All women love this guy. Figgy has such a crush on this guy….”

  “He is pretty dreamy,” she said.

  They drove without talking for a while, Alex enjoying the warm wind whipping around the car’s interior, the shadows of palm trees and billboards scrolling through the sunroof. He pictured what they looked like from the street, a guy of a certain age in a Saab driven by a young, pale blonde. An attractive young couple. It was such a beautiful city—so much prettier out of his minivan, over here on the right, in the passenger seat. He never didn’t drive. When was the last time he didn’t drive?

  “Thank you for doing this—so sweet of you.”

  “It’s fine. You needed a ride.”

  “I’m very grateful,” he said, then paused to take her in. Her hair was flying all over, lit up from above. Every part of her was unfamiliar—the long, tapering neck, the spray of freckles on her arms. She flashed him a smile. She was attentive, nurturing. He thought about that kiss on the street, imagined what she looked like naked, a flush on her cheeks and a film of sweat on her forehead.

  “I’m pretty looped,” he said.

  “So you are.” She reached over and gave his knee a quick pat. “You’ve had a big day.”

  She parked on the curb outside the house and insisted that he wait for her to help him out. As he was fumbling for the seat-belt buckle, he spotted a stack of pages jammed between the parking brake and his seat. He had just enough time to pull it out and give it a look. It was a script. Miranda’s name was at the bottom, with a date and WGA registration tag. GERALD & GERALDINE.

  “What’s this?” he said, getting out of the car.

  “Oh that. Just something I’ve been working on. About my dad and the family and all that. It’s a pilot.”

  “You’re a writer? I didn’t know you were a writer,” he said.

  “I didn’t know you did reality TV. It’s L.A.—what do you expect?”

  • • •

  Alex said goodbye to Miranda on the sidewalk, savoring the quick but close hug she gave him almost as much as the awestruck expression she directed down the leafy path toward the front door. “Some house,” she said.

  “Thanks. I can’t believe—” he stopped midway through the line he used with everyone who came here for the first time: “I can’t believe I get to live here.” Not today. Not with her. For all she knew, there was no “get to”—this was all his doing. “What can I say? It’s pretty ridiculous.”

  He promised to give her a tour some other time—right now the kids were home and he just needed to plop down on the couch. “Frozen peas!” She called to him as he went down the path. “The nurse said frozen peas! For the swelling!”

  Alex walked in the door to find Sylvie camped in front of the kitchen TV and Sam at the computer. He dropped his keys and wallet on the counter. “Hey kiddos!” The kids grunted in response, eyes locked on their respective screens. Normally this is where he’d grab the TV remote and computer mouse and unilaterally shut down all media, demanding they speak to him—“Like a person!” he’d holler. He’d check their homework, maybe break out the Uno deck. But right now he was glad for the distraction. Rosa was on her way out, and he was on his own with the kids until Figgy got home.

  Alex went to the bathroom, took a look at the contents of his underwear—swollen, discolored—and then put on his new jock strap and some sweats and returned to the kitchen. He plucked a bag of Trader Joe’s soybeans from the freezer and headed for the couch. Frozen edamame: the evolved man’s choice for testicular swelling. He plopped down next to Sylvie and unfolded a blanket hanging over the arm, stuffing the chilly bag down his pants and pulling the blanket around him in a tight cocoon. “Sylvie honey—we’re not watching this,” he said, wincing at the laugh track blasting from a Disney Channel sitcom. “Daddy veto.”

  “Fine,” Sylvie said. “I’ve seen that episode like six times already. King Chef?”

  Alex began scrolling through the DVR playlist, happy at the prospect of whiling away an hour or two with Sylvie as superhero chefs battled it out in the kitchen arena. But what about Sam? Besides the occasional fashion show, he couldn’t be bothered with reality TV. After all that had gone on today, Alex had a sudden overwhelming desire to have both his kids cuddled up close. “Hey, Mr. Man,” Alex called to Sam, an idea flashing before him. “Get in here. I’m putting a m
ovie on.”

  “A movie? Right now?” Sam said. “I haven’t even done my vocab—”

  “Vocab can wait.” Alex furiously thumbed the keypad on the remote, splurging to download For a Few Dollars More. He’d watched the entire Sergio Leone oeuvre with his dad on late-night TV during one of his weekend visits after the divorce, as a sort of tonic for all the lady power he was fed at home.

  “Get ready—this is only the best Western ever,” he said, pulling them both close.

  The kids made dubious groans—“This looks old,” Sylvie said—but stayed put. The movie started and they all fell silent.

  He’d forgotten how bloody it was—after the sixth body was riddled by bullets, Alex pressed pause, got up, popped another Vicodin, and checked that the kids were OK. Both of their eyes were wide and excited; they clearly had no objection to the violence.

  “Who would you be?” Alex asked as he settled back in.

  “What do you mean?” Sam asked.

  “Which cowboy would you be? Clint Eastwood or Lee Van Cleef?”

  “Which one is which?”

  “Van Cleef’s the older guy. The colonel. Clint’s in the poncho—with the cigar? For me it’s all about Van Cleef. That’s who I’d be—I’d be right there, cracking safes and shooting bad guys from across the whole corral.”

  “You know how to shoot a gun?” Sylvie asked.

  “Oh sure.”

  “That is so not true,” Sam jumped in. “You can’t shoot. And you’re allergic to horses, remember? And dust. And also hay. You’d be all puffy and sneezy. The only guy in this movie you’d be is the man in the general store with the twitchy face and the ribbon tie. That’s you, Dad.”

 

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