“Oh, yeah? Well…it’d be a lot easier to conduct a reasonable discussion with you…if we weren’t standing in this ridiculous kitchen.”
“What’s wrong with this kitchen?”
“Canary Yellow? Please. That’s the one color I will fight my customers to the death over to prevent them from making a tragic mistake.”
“Then why didn’t you say so before?”
Actually, I’m fairly certain I did, although perhaps not that strenuously.
“Because you wanted it,” I say.
“So? You can’t just tell me it’s not what you want? I suppose you didn’t like the pink and black for the bedroom either.”
I mutter something.
“What was that?” Helen says.
“I said, it’s fine if you live in a bordello, which worked out fine in the end, come to think of it, because Stavros loves it.”
“Oh yeah. Stavros.”
“What about Stavros?”
“You criticize me for bringing home a dog? You brought home a whole person!”
And now the dog is no longer whimpering. He’s howling.
“What?” I demand. “Now you’re telling me you don’t like Stavros?”
“No.” She immediately backs away from that, for the first time looking contrite. “I don’t just like Stavros, I love Stavros. Even though it’s not how I pictured my first year of married life—”
She didn’t picture things being like this? Well, I didn’t either. I sure never pictured this fight.
“—I can’t imagine what it would be like without him. As far as I’m concerned, he can stay forever.”
I’m not sure how crazy I am about the emphasis she put on that he.
“But,” she adds, “you could have asked me if it was OK to move him in before not after the fact.”
“Oh, right. And you would have just said yes right away without even meeting him?”
“Of course not. I’d have thought you were out of your fucking mind. But it would’ve been nice to be asked first. And, you know, once I’d had the chance to think about it, I’d have asked to meet him, and it all would have worked out the same in the end.”
“I’ll try to remember that the next time.”
“Please do. And Sam? Does she really need to be here every day for GH? You know, it’s really not that great of a show.”
Where the hell did that come from?
“She’s my friend,” I say.
“And imagine how thrilling it was for me that week that Alice was here every day, how wonderful to see you and your old girlfriend cuddling on my couch.”
“Alice was never my girlfriend. She’s just a friend.”
“Right. Your friends. Your family. Do you think I really want to go to your father’s every Sunday for the rest of my life?”
Now hold on. “You don’t like my dad?”
Again, she backs away from this, softens. “No, that’s not it. I love your dad. Who in their right mind doesn’t love Big John? But every Sunday, Johnny? Especially when it means I have to put up with Aunt Alfresca too?”
“So she’s a little hard to take at times.”
“A little hard to take?” The laugh Helen gives out here is just a touch maniacal. “The woman hates Switzerland, Johnny! What kind of person hates Switzerland?”
“Hey,” I say, “after my mother died, that woman made sure I was fed. She gave up her own life to take care of us.”
“She also kept telling you that you killed your mother.”
“So? That’s just her way.” It feels so odd to be defending Aunt Alfresca and yet even as the words leave my mouth, I recognize their simple truth: “I don’t care how batshit crazy she is, I love that woman.”
“When she thought my shorts were too short, she tweeted ‘I see London, I see France, I see D.A. Helen Troy’s underpants.’”
“She’s just obsessed with social media right now. She’ll get over it soon. I’m almost sure of it.”
“And then she critiqued my underpants…on Twitter!”
“Well, you have to admit, you were wearing that nasty pair you reserve for when you have your period.”
“I don’t want the world to know that!”
“And who can blame you? But you can’t give Aunt Alfresca ammunition like that. It’s like, I don’t know, an open invitation.”
“Are you defending what she did?”
“Not even close but—”
“There should be no but in that sentence. But has no place in this, unless you want to talk about what a butt you’re being about everything.”
“Hey now!”
In addition to the hiding cat and the howling dog, we now have an upset Stavros I see as he knocks on the wall outside the kitchen.
“Is it OK if I…” He indicates the fridge. “I just wanted maybe a little milk…”
“Now look what you did,” I say to Helen as I reach for a glass for Stavros.
“What’d I do?”
“You upset Stavros.” I get out the milk. “Look at him.” I pour.
“You’re crazy,” she says as I put the milk back in the fridge. “I’m not the one shouting ‘hey now!’ at the top of my lungs. If anyone’s upsetting him, it’s you.”
“Oh, please.” I hand the glass to Stavros. “I’m not the one who—”
“It’s all fine.” Stavros drains the glass, backhands a milk mustache away and sets the glass in the sink. “I’m going to go watch some TV. Just let me know who gets custody of me when you’re through here.”
And he’s gone.
But wait a second. He thinks we’re going to split up over this?
“So where were we?” Helen asks, like she was on a roll and can’t wait to get back to it.
But you know what? Never mind what she feels like attacking me about. I’ve still got a few of my own complaints to register here.
“That clock,” I say.
“What?” she says. “We weren’t talking about a clock. What clock?”
“The one in the bathroom upstairs, the one you bought without consulting me first, the one that incessantly goes ticktickticktickticktick-tick. You know.” I pause before delivering the coup de grace. “The one that isn’t even centered properly.”
“It isn’t…What are you even talking about?” She shakes her head. “You know what? Never mind what you’re talking about, Johnny. I’ve had enough.”
“Oh, you have, have you? And what are you going to do about it?”
“I’m going out.”
“Where?”
She folds her arms across her chest defiantly. “Karaoke.”
I’m a hairbreadth away from saying fine and that her singing sucks, but some still-sane part of me knocks the words back down my throat, saving me from saying something hurtful that I would never be able to take back, and all I’m left with is the juvenile: “Karaoke is stupid.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, you’re stupid.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, maybe before you go out singing in public, you should try looking in the mirror first.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Spinach, Helen.” I make a face like a beaver and indicate the space between my front teeth.
I can’t believe I used to find that charming or cute. How is it possible she never notices that there? It is so annoying.
Reflexively, her hand flies to her mouth.
“How long has it been like that?” she asks from behind her hand.
I shrug. “A few hours, maybe?”
Now the eyes above the hand look horrified. Is it because of me seeing her like that, I wonder, or because of Daniel?
She straightens proudly, not like a lion exactly, but still. Then, talking through a tight mouth so I can no longer see the spinach between her teeth, she says with dignity, “I’m going out now.”
Purposefully, she strides to the front door, slams it behind her. As soon as she’s gone, a thought occurs to me, so when she comes back in a minute later, I’m standing by th
e doorway, waiting.
“Did you forget these?” I hand over her bag and keys. “You have a nice night now. Who knows? Maybe I’ll go out too.”
It’s not until she’s gone for the second time that the smug satisfaction and haze of anger lifts just enough for me to wonder if Stavros was right:
Did Helen and I just break up?
Long Night’s Journey Into Day
I look at my watch and see it’s just after eleven. Well, if Helen’s just going to stomp off, I’m not going to stick around here all night like a dog waiting for her to decide to come home again. So after talking with Stavros and making sure he feels OK with being left alone for a while so late at night—“What am I, a little kid, Johnny? I may have lost a few steps in the old memory department, but I’m not ready to burn the house down yet!”—I head over to Chalk Is Cheap for a beer or two.
In a way, it’s much similar to my last visit a few months ago. I’m arriving a little later than I did on that occasion, so the place is hopping a bit more, but a lot of female attention is directed my way and that’s even with me being without a cat this time. I can’t say it’s not flattering—what guy doesn’t want to feel attractive to the opposite sex? unless, you know, he’s gay—and yet. I don’t care how steamed I am at Helen, I don’t want to dance with some other woman. I don’t even want to play pool with another woman, although I am asked. Still, it’s nice to know that, should this really be the end for Helen and me, I may never recover from that but at least I’m no longer whatever the opposite of catnip is to women.
Right now, though, there’s really just one woman I want to see:
Sam.
As I pull into a guest spot right outside of my old condo, I’m relieved to see Sam’s place all lit up. I didn’t think she’d really be asleep this early on a Saturday night—not Sam—but there was always the possibility she’d be out somewhere; not to mention, although it’s sometimes hard to believe, people do change. Still, when I hit the buzzer and then try knocking—and knock and knock and knock—there’s no answer. So finally, I have to admit that sometimes all the lights are on and there really is nobody home.
I’m just turning away from Sam’s door when the one for the condo to the left of Sam’s—my old door—opens, and out pops Sam’s head.
“Johnny!” she says, beer in hand, looking very happy to see me. “I thought I heard someone at my door. Lily had some kind of work thing so I’m hanging out here tonight. Come on in.”
This is so typical Sam. She’s inviting me in like the place belongs to her, like she used to offer me beer from my own fridge, but this place isn’t hers. Of course it doesn’t belong to me either. It’s the new guy’s. Who, I must admit, I’m curious about.
“Thanks,” I say, entering.
The first thing I see is the guy sitting on the couch. And then it hits me: I know this guy.
“Bailey?” I say.
“Johnny!” Bailey says.
“You two know each other?” Sam asks.
“Of course,” I say. “Bailey’s the guy who bought the coffee shop after Leo died.”
Sam shoots him a surprised look. “I didn’t know that.”
“I guess you wouldn’t,” I say, “since you always have me go inside in the morning to get you your sugar bombs. But come on. How long have you been hanging out with this guy?”
Sam and Bailey look at each other, shrug.
“Off and on?” Sam considers. “About three months, maybe?”
Bailey nods agreement. “When I first bought the coffee shop, I lived in the apartment over it, but that was too close to work so I started renting this from the owner.”
That accent. Huh. I never noticed what a strong Massachusetts accent he has before tonight.
“And in all that time,” I say to Sam, “you never thought to ask him what kind of work he does?”
Another shrug from Sam. “Why would I?” Then she lifts a bare foot a few feet off the ground and waves her toes at me. “But look: he did my nails for me.”
“Very nice,” I say, but really, I’m feeling unreasonably hurt. That used to be my job. How easy it is to be replaced. Maybe Helen will think so too?
“You want a beer?” Sam offers, just like she used to when I owned the place.
I consider. “Yeah. I could drink.”
I follow her to the kitchen and that’s when I see a hula-girl chandelier hanging over the dining room table. Huh. I used to have one just like it. What are the odds…
“Isn’t that my…”
“Yes.”
“But I threw that thing out.”
“And I salvaged it from the Dumpster and stored it in my basement. I don’t know why. It just seemed too cruel to the world to have it disappear forever. I knew it would come in handy someday.”
She hands me a beer: Sierra Nevada Pale Ale.
“Nice beer,” I compliment Bailey when Sam and I are back in the living room.
“Thanks,” he says, looking inordinately proud, when I think we all know who’s responsible for what kind of beer he stocks his fridge with.
“Hey.” I gesture back toward the hula-girl lamp. “Doesn’t your wife object to that thing?”
“What wife?”
“Didn’t you buy the coffee shop with your wife?”
“No. I don’t know where you got that idea. I bought it myself.”
Huh. Where did I get that idea? I don’t even remember. Great. So now, on top of everything else, I can’t completely rely on what I’m sure I know because apparently some of what I think I know is wrong. What a world.
“So what’re you guys up to?” I ask, feeling awkward as I take a seat in my old living room. But before they can answer, I can see what they’re up to. I don’t know how it escaped my notice before, but what they’re watching on TV is hockey. Or “hawkey,” as Bailey informs me, so apparently Sam hasn’t bred that out of him. Yet.
“Hey,” Sam says defensively, “baseball season’s over, there’s no football on Saturday night, and I can’t take watching the pre-season Knicks. It’s too nerve-wracking. What are they up to now? An injury per game?” She shudders. “Besides, hockey’s a legitimate sport.”
“Go, hawkey.” Bailey raises his beer glass.
It strikes me that Bailey’s a funny guy in a goofy kind of way.
“Actually, Johnny,” he says, “it’s a good thing you came by. Perhaps you can settle a dispute for us.”
A dispute? I love disputes. Maybe this will take my mind off my own troubles.
“Sure thing,” I say. “Shoot.”
“Do you think Mr. Peanut’s a snob?”
“What?”
“You know, the guy on the Planter’s Peanuts products.”
“Yeah, I know who Mr. Peanut is.”
“Well, do you? Think he’s a snob, I mean. Sam says no but I’m going with yes.”
“He’s offering the world peanuts,” Sam says. “You can get peanuts at any ballpark. How can a peanut-vendor be a snob?”
“But he’s wearing like a top hat,” Bailey says. “No vendors dress like that at the ballpark.”
“Yeah,” Sam says, “but if he were a snob, Mr. Peanut would be selling wasabi nuts, not just garden-variety peanuts.”
“Actually,” I interject, “you can probably get wasabi nuts at any ballpark these days too.”
“No shit?” Bailey says.
I nod.
“See?” He points his beer at me. “That’s why I don’t go in for any of that baseball/football crap.”
I ignore this aspersion to two out of my three favorite sports. And anyway…
“I’m afraid I’ve got to side with Bailey on this one,” I say.
“What?” Sam is outraged.
“Come on,” I say. “Mr. Peanut? Dude wears a monocle. How can he not be a snob?”
“Thank you,” Bailey says, with a vehemently appreciative head nod.
“You’re welcome.” I head-nod him back.
“Geez,” Sam says, “look at
the two of you. You’re so proud of yourselves, you might as well be wearing monocles.”
We watch the hockey game in silence for a few minutes, but really, hockey?
I shoot a look at Sam who’s sitting curled up in a corner of the couch, catch her eyes, raise my brows. She rolls her eyes like, I know, right? If she still said that. Hockey? But she’s smiling good-naturedly as she does so, like, Hey, tonight it’s the only game in town.
“So,” she says at last, “just what are you doing here tonight? Did Helen kick you out?”
“Actually, she walked out on me.”
Hearing my response to her joke, Sam’s no longer smiling. Instead she’s moved to the edge of her seat, concerned.
“What? No. Why?”
“We had a fight.” I can’t believe I’ve finally said the words out loud. It sounds so awful.
“Wait a minute. You had a fight?”
I nod glumly.
“And now everything’s over?” she says. “What are you, a Kardashian?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say.
“You know? They get married, spend ten million dollars on the wedding, then get divorced before the year’s up?”
“Sorry, that doesn’t compute. I don’t keep up with those people.”
“But you know who they are, right?”
“I think I’ve seen a few. Or maybe it’s always the same one but with different hairstyles and, I don’t know, she keeps losing and gaining weight quickly?”
“There’s more than one. You don’t think they’re hot?”
“God, no. You?”
“God, no. I’m more of an Emily Blunt girl.”
“Oh, yeah. I know who she is. I’d totally do her. Well, I would have when I was single. If she’d have had me. Which of course she wouldn’t.”
Sam waves this all off like I’ve loosed a stream of annoying hornets around her head.
“Getting back to the matter at hand,” she says, “what makes you think everything is over just because you had a fight?”
“Because we’ve never fought before,” I say.
“So? Everyone fights.”
“I don’t think that’s true.” In fact, I’m almost sure of it.
Isn't It Bro-Mantic? Page 26