Curing the Uncommon Man-Cold

by J. L. Salter

  “Hey! What about…?”

  Amanda tuned him out as she grabbed her purse and departed. She wished she’d had a camera to capture the expression on his face. If this isn’t tough love… nothing is.

  * * * *

  It was the beginning of Amanda’s second horrid week of the annual Crisis Phase for her grant application evaluations.

  The wall clock showed 8:11. Amanda was a few minutes late arriving at her office, but King Louie wasn’t there to notice — he usually rolled in around 8:45. That gave her time to read the blog for Day Seven. Christine’s Scare-Cure had indeed gone viral.

  She read through the recently posted comments. Up to that point, bloggers either posted appreciation for sharing the info on this new treatment or they merely expressed pleasure at seeing Marty get what was coming to him. Of course, Marty had several defenders as well.

  But with another day’s comments, a subtle shift appeared. Bloggers were beginning to suggest that Missy and Almira had taken this project way too far. To summarize the views of the dozen or so new comments, it was clear they agreed with the initial concept, but thought it should have ended — one way or the other — after about three days. For it to stretch into eight days (and counting) was on the verge of pathological, they said. Nobody explained what pathological meant in this context. But it didn’t sound good.

  “Has it gone too far already?” Amanda pondered out loud. “Is it my fault for pushing? Or Jason’s fault for resisting?” Not sure. Maybe both. Maybe it was all Christine’s fault for originating the concept of curing the uncommon man-cold. Some things in nature were not meant to be tinkered with. Perhaps this illness was one of those taboos. But why should Amanda suffer? Indeed. Related question: how much should Jason suffer? Hmm. How much would Jason endure? And why?

  Amanda read a short piece of Christine’s recent addition. It was difficult to concentrate on the central blog for some reason.

  She clicked on the shadow blogs to check current tallies. Kick Marty Out — 85… that had gained nearly thirty votes overnight. Free Marty — 46… up more than a dozen. Lighten Up, Missy! — 22… more than doubled since yesterday. Then she clicked on the Burn-Witch link. It had increased nearly six-fold overnight! Burn the Witch — 29. Christine’s persona was not exactly popular, but interest in her demise was showing the most dramatic vote increases.

  Amanda logged off and went to the staff room to see if coffee was brewing. Two co-workers stood near the coffeemaker discussing the exciting new man-cold blog!

  “Yeah, everybody’s buzzing about it.” Gayle yawned.

  Joan lowered her voice. “My sister says she knows that guy Marty.”

  They’d both seen her walk in, but didn’t immediately move from the appliance to let her have access. Was that a snub? Not sure. Amanda figured some of this section’s women hated her simply because her office had a door.

  “So who does your sister say that Marty guy is?” Amanda slightly raised her cup to communicate her peaceful intention. In offices, sometimes women formed momentary alliances to briefly exclude other females. Typically these would shift and vary, but there was always someone offending somebody, no matter how unintentionally. Often it was overtly deliberate. This particular episode seemed mostly a matter of them staking a temporary claim on the coffeemaker turf. Obviously, no encroachments were welcome while they were speaking to each other.

  The co-workers parted to give Amanda access to the coffee. Evidently she was on their “conditionally accepted” list. For that particular day, anyway.

  “Hi, Amanda.” Joan waved half-heartedly. “Oh, Sis wouldn’t tell me. Just said she’s pretty certain.”

  “She’s just guessing.” Gayle contributed even though she didn’t know Joan’s sister.

  “I’ve seen that blog.” Amanda filled her cup halfway. “It could be in Colorado or Maryland.”

  “Or even in Nashville.” Joan, eagerly.

  “How could anybody tell who it is?” Amanda only pressed the matter because she knew so little about how blogs function.

  Joan answered first. “Well, my sister says those computer wonks can run some sort of trace or something that backtracks to the originating hub.”

  “Hub?” Gayle winced as though the word were painful.

  “Whatever you call the things that route Internet traffic. It’s a weird number system with lots of decimals. I don’t know. Like I said, only the computer geeks can do it.”

  “I didn’t know they could track a blog.” Amanda. “Somebody told me the FBI and CIA couldn’t even trace it.”

  Joan chuckled. “Not without a warrant. But if you get cozy enough with a brainy computer geek, he’ll hack you into the president’s Twitter.”

  “I wouldn’t want anywhere near his twitter.” Gayle frowned.

  Amanda’s hand shook slightly as she took a half-hearted sip of coffee. “So, if you get really friendly with a geek and he does that tracking stuff, you could actually find out who runs those blogs? I mean, whatever subject any blog was about.”

  “Sure, I guess.” Joan shrugged. “Only, you’d have to want to know really bad… to be willing to get that friendly with the wonk guy.”

  “I wouldn’t,” said Gayle. “Besides, it wouldn’t be just any geeky guy who could unmask the blogger’s Internet footprints. It’d be the creepy one with the most pimples, the hairiest warts, and the ugliest belly button.”

  Joan looked slightly astonished. “Would you have to see his belly button?”

  “Nobody would want to know that bad.” Amanda tried to smile, but it felt more like she was gritting her teeth.

  “Well, no matter where this blog takes place, I hope they fix that Marty guy real good.” Joan obviously had experience with man-colds. “This is the first website I’ve ever seen that gives us any hope at all.”

  “I don’t know,” Gayle added. “I’m hoping that poor man just leaves her apartment before they do anything else to him. He’s suffered enough.”

  Amanda weighed in. “They’ve been pretty tough on him, but some people say he deserves it because he insisted on staying even though she told him it was Hell Week.” Oops!

  “They have Hell Week there, too?” Gayle looked puzzled.

  Joan had answers for nearly everything. “I guess everybody deals with budgets or something about this time of year.”

  “Not to mention teachers,” Amanda added, “heading back to the classroom about this time.” Nice save.

  “Yeah, Missy is probably a teacher.” Gayle sighed. “I used to want to be a teacher, but I realized I can’t stand children.”

  “Good thing you figured that out early.” Joan nodded.

  “Oh, it took me a couple years of teaching before I figured it out.”

  Amanda saw an opportunity to depart while they were established on a different subject, so she said her goodbyes.

  When she got back to her office, Amanda closed the door. Icy sweat had formed in her armpits. Besides blabbing to so many other people, Christine evidently had overlooked that little loophole in the blog’s security: if you sleep with the ugliest computer geek in Tennessee, he can hack the blog back to its source just to show off for you. Danged witch!

  About midmorning Amanda’s cell phone rang.

  “You got a minute to talk?” Christine.

  “Yeah, but first I got something to say. Your fail-safe security on the blog has even more holes… besides the dozen-plus people you’ve told or involved. Get this, Christine: I was talking to two women this morning who practically ran the Internet blog lines back to your house already.”

  “Impossible. They’re bluffing.”

  “I don’t think so. They said not everybody can do it, but it’s a specialty of those ultra-turbo computer geeks.”

  “That’s a gross generalization… they’re pulling your leg. Besides, who’d be so curious that they’d cozy up to an ultra-nerd?” Apparently Christine satisfied herself on the matter. “Anyway, that’s not why I called. We need to discuss t
his evening’s plans.”

  Amanda wasn’t through griping about security flaws, but her fatigue factor trumped the other complaint. “More evening plans? I don’t think…” Amanda heard a sound and then looked at her cell phone screen. “Hold on, I’ve got another call. It’s Jason.”

  “No! Don’t take his call. Make him wait at least an hour.”

  “Why? Maybe it’s an emergency.”

  “The only emergency with his supposed sickness is when he needs new batteries for the remote control.” Christine always spoke with authority even when she had no idea what she was talking about. “This is no emergency. Trust me, he just wants to wheedle you for some food or booze or something.”

  “Okay, I’ll keep him waiting for a bit. Now, what’s happening at my place tonight? I could really use an evening off.”

  “We’re going to carve a cushaw.”

  “A what-shaw?” Amanda was clueless.

  “Cushaw. It’s in the squash family, sort of. But probably the branch of the squash family that’s used steroids for five generations.”

  “Huh?”

  “Picture something like a yellow crookneck squash.” Christine was probably looking right at it. “Now, the market lady said those usually weigh about three-quarters of a pound or so. Now imagine one about 65 times that size! They grow to be nearly four feet tall and can reach up to 50 pounds. Our bad boy weighs in at about 45 pounds.”

  “That’s not a squash!” Amanda’s voice was slightly too loud. “That’s one of the pod people!”

  “Whatever. Anyhow, we’re going to carve it tonight, at your place.”

  “Are you sure it’s even edible?”

  “Of course.” Christine’s authority again. “People have been eating cushaw for years… from Louisiana, all over the southeast, and up here through Tennessee. Even as far as southern Kentucky.”

  “Why? Did they run out of the normal-sized squash?”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve never carved and cooked a cushaw.” Christine spoke as though it was a routine requirement to pass high school home ec.

  “The last time I had to feed a hundred hungry people, we just went to the pizza buffet. What use would I have for 45 pounds of cushaw meat? Or whatever you call the stuff inside it.”

  “You won’t net out that much inside stuff because the rind is so thick and heavy.” Christine paused. “Have you got a chainsaw?”

  “Chainsaw? What?” Too loud again. “Are you planning to cut a big notch in the doorway to get this atomic squash into my apartment?”

  “As if. The saw is to cut through his heavy old rind. These bad boys have really tough exteriors, or so I’m told.”

  “Well, you aren’t bringing a chainsaw in my apartment.” Amanda put her foot down. “The lease specifically prohibits any type of motorized logging equipment.”

  “Okay, I’ll bring a camp saw and an axe. Chainsaws are hard to start anyhow.” She spoke as though she used one every weekend. “One more thing — I’ll need help bringing him in.”

  “Bringing who in?”

  “The cushaw.” Christine apparently strained to sound patient. “I’ll need help to get him in from my car.”

  “You said him again. Does the cushaw type of titanic squash actually incorporate gender?”

  “Very funny. No, I took a marker and drew a guy’s face on him. With one of my old wigs on his green-and-tan head, he looks a bit like a crookneck hippy. And I named him, of course.”

  “Of course. So, what did you name this sacrificial victim, scheduled to expire at my apartment tonight as part of your sinister campaign to terrorize my allegedly ill boyfriend?”

  “Well, his name is Jason, of course.” Christine cackled like she was practicing for a role in Macbeth — Double, double toil and trouble. Fire burn, and cauldron bubble. “We’re gonna scare your boyfriend right out of his cold.”

  “Scare him? Heck, you’re scaring me!”

  “See you at seven. Bye.”

  Amanda put down her cell phone and closed her eyes. Despite being apprehensive of her scheming friend’s devious mania, she thought it would be nice symmetry for Jason to meet his own Cousin Cushaw tonight.

  She rested her forehead on the desk. Amanda briefly considered pounding her head a few times in hopes of clearing up her confusion and exhaustion. But she didn’t.

  At that point her corpulent Yankee boss lumbered in and plopped down in her visitor chair with a loud whoosh of exertion. “Another nap?”

  Hairy hell.

  “You got those second dozen appraisals done yet?” His New York accent was especially grating when Louis demanded something.

  Amanda sighed. “No, it usually takes a full hour or more to draft each evaluation, and that’s after about three hours of reading. I’m not much farther along than when you asked me at 10:45.”

  Louis seemed unaware that thoughtful assessments actually consumed time. It didn’t take him very long to sort Amanda’s completed recommendations into three piles: yes, maybe, and no. He looked pointedly at the cell phone on her desk and shook his head. His toupee shifted ever so slightly. “We need at least a dozen more apps with preliminary sorting by my meeting tomorrow morning.”

  “Well, if somebody was helping me, it’d go a lot faster.”

  When the subject of assistance arose — even during the office’s annual Hell Weeks — King Louie quickly lost interest. He just grunted.

  Louis stared at her for a few moments, pried himself from the chair, and finally left her office. He turned the opposite way of his own refuge, so maybe there was another employee on his hourly circuit.

  By the time her boss left, it had been about forty minutes since Jason had tried to reach Amanda on the phone. She called him back. “Sorry, I was tied up in a meeting. What’s up?”

  “Uh, this might sound strange, but have you seen my pants anywhere?”

  “Well, you remember they were stained real bad, so you asked me to get them cleaned.”

  “Stained? How? When? Uh, I don’t recall…” Suddenly, Jason sounded terribly old and very tired.

  “Memory loss is fairly normal. You were probably light-headed at the time. You know, a half a degree of fever can play havoc with your mind.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Well, I kind of remember something about britches. I don’t know.”

  “What do you need slacks for? Those ratty old jammies with the elastic all sprung out of the waistband — aren’t they stylish enough?”

  “Naw, I need pants.”

  “I can bring anything you need, if it’s on your diet. You checked yourself in to Amanda Hospital, remember?” she explained patiently. “I’ll get your pants from the cleaners when you’re ready to go home. You won’t need them ’til then. Unless you’re ready to go home now. In which case, I’ll drop what I’m doing here at work and drive straight over to the cleaners. Are you going home now?”

  “Uh, no. I’m still sick, you know.” He coughed twice as proof.

  “Of course. Then no need for trousers. I don’t want any more clutter to deal with in my tiny apartment.”

  “Yeah, this place is pretty small. It seemed a lot bigger before I got sick.”

  “That half degree of fever is distorting your perception.” She smiled into the phone and wondered if he could sense it.

  “I guess. Still, a man ought to know where his pants are.”

  “But if you’re not leaving, why do you need them?”

  “Oh, nothing. I just wanted to step outside for a minute. You know, speak to the neighbors for a bit. Be neighborly.” He sounded so pitiful. “I thought it’d do me good to get some fresh air. Walk outside a few steps.” He was a terrible liar.

  “While you’re getting your strength back, you mean.”

  “Uh, yeah. That’s about it.”

  “So you saw a neighbor come home with groceries and you figure you can sweet-talk them out of a snack. Isn’t that really it?”

  He broke open like an overripe cushaw. “Amanda, I was prepared to ju
mp Missus Yodel as she reached her stoop. If I didn’t worry about becoming somebody’s girlfriend in prison, I would have grabbed her right then and eaten the top half of the first bag I came to. I’m starving!”

  “Well, we have a special treat for supper tonight. I think you can eat as much as you want.”

  “How about a rack of baby-back ribs, with baked beans, stuffed potatoes, Cole slaw, maybe an ear of corn, and some ice cream?”

  She admired his persistence, as well as his optimistic appetite. “I’m afraid it’s not quite that sumptuous.”

  “What? More acorn juice? More egg cousin tofu smushed crud?”

  “Nothing of the kind. You’ve eaten squash before, haven’t you?”

  “Oooh, squash. Yeah, I can do squash. ’Course, I don’t eat it when I have access to real food, but in an emergency situation like this, yeah, I could groove on some squash. Uh, how are you cooking it? Steamed, boiled… oh, fried in batter? That would be super. Absolutely turbo. Batter-fried squash.”

  “Now, I didn’t say any such thing. I just asked if you’d ever eaten squash. This isn’t my meal preparation anyway. Actually, I’ve never prepared this particular dish before. It’s kind of a cousin to squash.”

  “More cousins?”

  “This is a specialty handed down through generations in Christine’s family.”

  Jason groaned loudly. “I should have known. If she’s behind this, it’ll probably be a squash made of hummus, or some gluten-free, organic sprout cluster. Maybe soy-generated squash… or worse. That witch!”

  “Be careful what you wish for.”

  “Huh?”

  “If you think Christine is a witch, it might come true.”

  Jason paused and likely considered the implications. “Uh, anyway, I can’t find my credit cards or car keys, either.”

  “Why do you need car keys? You don’t have any pants.”

  Heavy sigh… with a moan mixed in. “Never mind.”

  “Okay, bye.” Amanda smiled briefly after she flipped her phone closed. Christine’s harebrained Scare-Cure strategy might actually be working. Jason had no medical symptoms of a cold, not even a sniffle. Out of sheer stubbornness, he was hanging on to the notion of being sick. Maybe the upcoming cousin cushaw episode would cure him over the edge.