by Greg Olear
And here we are. Back at Square One—or Square One-A, I suppose. In bluer-than-blue New Paltz, New York, home of Mohonk Mountain House, historic Huguenot Street, and more massage therapists, per capita, than anyplace else on the planet.
Maude is snoring, her breaths almost in time to the steady snare drum. I’m on North Putt now, driving past Woodland Pond, the massive assisted living place that opened six weeks ago. During the past year, every senior citizen in town has put a house up for sale, it seems, glutting the market with excess inventory just in time for property values to plummet by twenty percent. Shitty timing, really. Two years ago, their Village shoeboxes were worth almost four hundred large. No more. A sucky time to retire: shrunken 401(k)s, shriveled pensions, hollowed husks of real estate paydays. The poor fuckers. But then, I’d have more sympathy for them if they didn’t keep voting down the school budget.
When we moved here, we were city transplants, with a colicky baby and two cats. I left my benefits job at News Corp., and after a few harried months of maternity leave, Stacy returned to work at IBM, this time in the Poughkeepsie office. Slowly but surely, we accumulated a circle of friends, all of them the parents of similarly aged children, most befriended by Stacy during her second pregnancy and leave of absence. That’s who we see socially: Stacy’s mommy friends and their (generally blah) husbands. Which puts me in the somewhat ghostly position of being one remove from the action. I know all of the Divine Secrets of the Ma-Ma Sisterhood—the salacious details of Gloria’s adventures in polyamory, of Ruth Terry’s bisexual forays, of Meg’s habit of swapping nude photos with well-hung black guys via a secret Hotmail account—but all of this dirt comes from Stacy. This place, she’ll say as she slings the gossip. The more you dig, the more you find. I don’t know if Gloria or Ruth Terry or even Meg knows how much I’m privy to, so I don’t bring any of it up. I play dumb. I’m already at a distance, as the only guy in the group, and this illicit harboring of secrets forces me to be even more aloof.
Five years upstate, and I’m a stranger here. I may as well be walking the streets of Skopje or Baku or Košice, lost and alone he doesn’t speak the language he holds no currency, an expat, an exile, a man without a country. This is my own fault, I realize. The energy needed to cultivate new friendships, to get to know people, to establish an identity apart from sad-sack SAHD, is beyond what I’m able to muster. As with the planning of Stacy’s bathetic birthday, I just don’t have it in me. I’m too fucking tired, too beaten down. When the phone rings, it’s almost always for Stacy, and when it’s for me, it’s either my mother or my sister. Pathetic.
Not that I can complain. I signed up for this, when I agreed—heck, when I lobbied—for us to leave New York, to quit my suck-ass job (which in retrospect seems not so suck-ass), to abandon my friends, to decamp even farther away from my family, from my comfort zone. My exile is self-imposed, and necessary. And yet I miss my old life. I miss my friends. I miss my sister. I even miss my mom. They all think, He’s busy; I don’t want to bother him; he’ll invite us for a visit when he wants to see us. Not so! What I want is for them to take the initiative, to call me up and say, “Josh, I need to see you, I’m coming up, and I won’t take no for an answer.” I want someone else to take the lead, because I don’t have the giddy-up to do it myself. But no one does. Instead, my friends pull away. The relationships fester—it depresses me, when I think about it, so I try not to—leaving me alone he is a foreign man, a stranger in a strange land. I observe, I take note, but I do not engage. Easier that way.
And what a spectacle! The more you dig, the more you find. Enough drama for a reality show: The Real Housewives of Ulster County. The relationships overlap and blur together like a Seussian fever dream, an X-rated One Fish Two Fish, until a grand design can be read into the nonsense. From there to here, from here to there, funny things are everywhere. Begin with Bruce Baldwin, the muscle-bound personal trainer at Ignite Fitness, and his affair with Cynthia Pardo. This is not a quiet, discreet, Don Draperian sort of arrangement; everyone in New Paltz knows about it, because Cynthia Pardo has a big mouth (“She could deep-throat Seattle Slew,” as Meg so colorfully put it), one fish two fish red fish blue . . . Bruce Baldwin and because, as the Dia:Beacon incident demonstrated, they have eschewed lovemaking in the relative privacy of motel rooms on 9W for boisterous romps in public places within biking distance of their houses—we see them come we see them go the Wallkill Valley Rail Trail, the old stone houses, the hiking paths at Lake Minnewaska, unlocked bathrooms at various watering holes. Plus, everyone knows who Cynthia Pardo is, even if they don’t know her; as a broker with Coldwell Banker Oh! What a house!, her comely visage smiles at you from FOR SALE signs on every third yard in town. She sold us our house, in fact, although we didn’t meet her socially until later. Cynthia is married (for the time being) to Peter Berliner, a manager at Ulster Savings and, as I said, a nice guy, if something of a schlemiel a Wump with just one hump. They have three kids—a son in fourth grade; a daughter in second; and a five-year-old, Ernest, a high-functioning autistic who, like Roland, gets services at Thornwood. Peter Berliner is an avid bowler I like to bowl how I like to bowl. His top score is 285. He’s a fixture at HoeBowl in Kingston, a legend of the local leagues. Meg’s husband, Soren, also bowls, not avidly, but enough to have formed a friendship of convenience (that is, another guy with whom to have the odd beer and take in the occasional movie; what in Hollywood is called a bromance) with Berliner, who happens to live on Cherry Hill Road, a few houses down from Meg and Soren. Meg and Cynthia are BFFs—or were, until the latter’s affair with Bruce and some are very very bad, a New Paltz native and Meg’s date to a senior prom from hell (she thought about pressing charges; things got that ugly)—put a strain on the relationship. I struck up a friendship with Meg, as mentioned, in the waiting room of the Barefoot Dance Center, where I enrolled the kids at the suggestion of Gloria Hynek, whom we met through Catherine DiLullo, our doula for Maude. Cathy’s husband we like our Mike has a thriving acupuncture practice (New Paltz is renowned for its healing arts). We saw a lot of Mike and Cathy when we first moved here, but they sort of fell off the grid when they adopted two children from Ethiopia to complement the two they’d already adopted from China. Mike DiLullo is part of an informal clique that meets for drinks every week or two (usually at the Gilded Otter, a brew pub), a group that also includes Jen Hemsworth, who left her husband and her two young children I do not like this bed at all to live with her lover, also named Jen, a nineteen-year-old student at Bard College; Paul Feeney, a goateed graphic artist whose “art” hangs in coffee houses, and whose slatternly ex-wife Felicia hangs in wine bars, all over the Hudson Valley; Ruth Terry, who had an affair with her au pair (an au fair?) Gretchen, a twenty-year-old from Austria with enormous boobs, only to send the poor girl packing when it ended in tears all I like to do is hop from girl to bop to girl to bop, which didn’t stop her from putting the moves on the next one, who was flat-chested and from Colombia; and the ubiquitous Cynthia Pardo not one of them is like another. Meg used to hang out with the group, too, until Cynthia started up with Bruce, precipitating their falling out. Gloria, like Meg and Ruth and Jen Hemsworth and more married mothers than you can shake a stick at, also splashes around in the same-sex kiddie pool hop hop hop, although she primarily schtoops guys (including Paul Feeney jump on the hump of the Wump of Gump, one of her regulars) with the full consent of her husband and Haven’s father, Dennis, an attorney at a Poughkeepsie law firm. Dennis doesn’t care, though; it turns him on to see other men and women have at his wife at our house we play out back—some dudes are into that, apparently; it’s kind of a thing—sometimes, he even finds lovers for her. Gloria spends a few nights a week at Paul Feeney’s house, although they tell Haven she’s away on business (even though she doesn’t have a job), because they want to keep their son’s home life as normal as possible—an uphill battle, given Gloria’s inability to keep anything secret: the nature of her if you never did you should genital piercings,
the battery-powered accoutrements of her these things are fun and fun is good experimentation-crazed sex life, the cock-size of her numerous paramours I wish I had eleven too and whether or not they are “cut.” In addition to practicing law and complacent cuckoldry, Dennis (seven meaty inches; mushroom head) plays bass in a (beyond lousy; off-the-charts bad) cover band called String Cheese; Paul Feeney is the drummer (which must get awkward, I’d imagine), but the band’s front man and driving force my Ying can sing like anything, Chris, is Jess Holby’s husband. Chris teaches at the Culinary Institute in Hyde Park, but his wife does the cooking at home and I get fish right on my dish. The Holbys have not, to the best of my knowledge, cheated on each other, although in this place, nothing would surprise me and some are slow. Dennis and Chris know each other through their wives, who were freshman-year roommates at Skidmore College. The String Cheese keyboard player—an important member, as their repertoire is heavy on pre–Glass Houses Billy Joel we are not too bad you know—Ken, is a science teacher at Rondout Valley High, whose own marriage ended a few years back when he was caught in the marital bed I will sleep with my pet Zeep with his personal trainer at Ignite Fitness, none other than—ta da!—Bruce Baldwin. And thus the circle of incestuous sex fiends comes full circle.
BUTTHEAD
(snickering)
Heh heh heh heh. “Comes.” Heh heh.
Is this game of spousal musical chairs played in towns all across America, I wonder? Are housewives everywhere this desperate? Or is there something in the air up here, some peace-love-and-happiness/anything-goes Woodstock state of mind that has made New Paltz a veritable Divorcerama? Certainly I don’t see residents of my buttoned-up New Jersey hometown cruising the same-sex highway (bicycling, if you will). But it doesn’t matter what they’re doing in Livingston, or Peoria, or ports of call even more starboard-listing. Nor do the exploits of Cynthia Pardo or Gloria Hynek or Meg or anyone else amount to a Bogartian hill of beans. It’s what Stacy’s up to that counts.
Speaking of which . . .
Active bisexual. Could the affair be with another woman? Stacy’s never gone that route—although she’s kissed girls before, on stage, in plays, and at parties, on dares, in college—but she’s not adverse to the idea, as she’s told me on numerous pillow-talk occasions (she can be quite inventive and exploratory in the bedroom, befitting her actorly talents). And, as evidenced by the melodramatic plotlines of The Real Housewives of Ulster County, anything’s possible. I can totally imagine Gloria hitting on her; in fact, I’m convinced Gloria’s been wanting to get in Stacy’s pants since the day we met; all it would take is Stacy to give her the green light. It’s easy to picture: they’re at Bacchus, they’ve had a bit too much to drink, the conversation takes a kinky turn, as it tends to do when Gloria and alcohol are involved, and the next thing you know . . .
The Stones roll mosslessly off, and the bombastic announcer comes on. You’re in the middle of a rock block, he informs me, in the sort of voice that implies the Rapture has come and I’m one of the Chosen Ones. Nine songs in a row! Every hour! Guaranteed! Like my optioned screenplay, this sounds like a pretty sweet deal until you do the math—nine songs times three minutes per song equals twenty-seven measly minutes; not quite half an hour of guaranteed music every hour, plenty of space left over to trumpet the once-in-a-lifetime sale going on right now at the Poughkeepsie Price Chopper.
Usually they lead off with a decent song after the nine-songs-every-hour boast. Not this time.
Shot through the heart and you’re to blame . . .
My finger goes for the preset button so quickly it’s almost involuntary. Half the reason I left my native state was to escape the well-manicured clutches of Jon Bon Jovi. Also, I’m not in the mood to hear about the tarnishing of love’s good name. The next station is the one that plays the best of the eighties, the nineties . . . and today. The fawn-like Taylor Swift, the Romeo and Juliet song, whatever the hell it’s called, the one that sounds like a book report that fetched probably a C+. Maude digs it, but she’s asleep. Too bad for her. And on the third preset—
Good love is hard to find . . .
Same song. Same spot in the same song.
Coincidence . . . or the Universe is trying to tell me something?
I hold with the latter.
Score another point for Eugenia Last.
INT. BACCHUS, NEW PALTZ, N.Y. – NIGHT
STACY and GLORIA, both dressed for a night on the town, are tucked into a dark booth at this, their bar of choice. Six empty bottles of La Fin du Monde ale sit on the table; both women are a bit loopy.
STACY
I still can’t believe you did that.
GLORIA
Why not? It feels good.
STACY
Yeah, but someone had to do it.
GLORIA
Someone had to pierce your nose. Didn’t stop you.
STACY
A nose is not a clitoris.
GLORIA
Thanks for clarifying.
STACY
You know what I mean.
GLORIA
Look, I’ll admit, it was a little embarrassing, but it’s not like the chick was offended. She does clit piercings all the time. It’s not like I got my mom to do it or something.
STACY
(shaking head)
I don’t know. I couldn’t do it.
GLORIA
Sure you could. It’s so worth it, Stace. Best money I ever spent. I can orgasm from running. Think about that for a second. Orgasms are a terrific motivation to hit the gym.
STACY
No, no, I get it. I understand the appeal. I just couldn’t do it. I don’t have it in me.
Break in the conversation as both women drain the last of their fancy, super-high-alcohol-content beers. As they do, they move closer together in the booth; they are sitting like lovers now.
STACY
Does it ever get in the way?
GLORIA
In the way?
STACY
When you’re . . . you know . . .
A beat, then another. “She’s Losing It” by Belle & Sebastian starts up on the sound system. Gloria leans in close, whispers in Stacy’s ear.
GLORIA
You wanna feel?
Stacy says nothing, but does not protest. Never breaking eye contact, Gloria takes Stacy’s hand off the empty bottle of beer and leads it under the table. Then she wiggles around a bit.
STACY
There it is.
GLORIA
There it is.
STACY
You’re . . . um . . .
Gloria kisses her greedily; Stacy responds in kind. Their hands never emerge from underneath the table. Finally, the kiss ends.
GLORIA
I’ve wanted to do that for the longest time. You have no idea.
STACY
Oh my God.
GLORIA
You’re such a good kisser.
STACY
Oh my God.
GLORIA
You wanna go back to my place?
Stacy nods vigorously; Gloria signals for the check.
FADE OUT
O-R-D IS ALL THAT REMAINS ON THE REAR PANEL OF THE BATTERED pick-up in the driveway. An “F” used to precede the trio, making the letters into a harmonious quartet, just as the truck itself was once white, and not a mishmash of faded eggshell paint, gray putty, and brown rust. A sign is attached crookedly to the driver’s-side door—PALADIN PEST CONTROL, it reads, in boldface Comic Sans, above a cartoon termite being dispatched by a cartoon knight in armor that is no longer shining. Leaning against the front fender, fiddling with a BlackBerry, is the owner and sole employee of Paladin Pest Control—the paladin himself, you might say—one Joe Palladino, a shortish guy about my age with linebacker shoulders and a ballerina waistline, his triangle-shaped torso suggesting something from the Baby Einstein “Shapes” video. His form-fitting black shirt is tucked into his white painter’s pants and cinched by a weave
belt, and in the center of the mess of Brillo about his mouth that might generously be called a goatee, a toothpick teeters this way and that, chomped between a set of crooked yellow teeth.
When he sees me, he tucks the BlackBerry into a clip on his belt. I’m not even out of the minivan when he starts talking, his voice as loud as a TV set at a nursing home. “So the mousies are back, huh?”
Maude hears him in her sleep, starts. The pacifier falls out of her mouth, but she doesn’t wake up. I alight and close the door gently behind me.
“Yup.”
“Good to see you, Josh.” Joe gives my hand an authoritative shake, like he’s the commander of a battleship and I’m his new XO. He spent time in ROTC, I think, although he never saw active duty. “You know, if you’d let me put those traps down, like I wanted to last year . . . ”
“Yeah,” I tell him. “You were probably right.”
“Don’t worry,” he says, patting me on the back. “We’ll do a number on those little critters.”