Too Easy

by Bruce Deitrick Price

  Another woman, she thinks, knowing that she still doesn’t really know if there is one. Definitely something evil here. She wonders if the thought excites her even as it repels her. Robert’s body still smelly from another woman? Or maybe I don’t care. It’s Robert’s problem. Okay, stud, let’s see you do two.

  Or maybe trapping him, finding him tired and impotent, is a turn-on. Oh, Robert, that’s really a shame, and I thought you were such a man. Getting old, I guess. . . .

  Anne goes energetically up the steps, knowing she’s on edge and she’d better watch herself. Knowing also she’s, by her own standards, getting a little nuts.

  So, she wonders, what will fix it? I find for sure that Robert is mine and always wants to be? Yes, that and he comes through the door and tears off my clothes and makes love to me. An Anne Klein outfit?—sure, what the hell!

  Or maybe I’ve got enough time to run upstairs and finish what I’ve started here. Maybe find a putter. . . .

  PART

  III

  Chapter

  21

  • They’re in a little bar in Astoria, Queens, a ten-minute cab ride on the other side of the East River. Sipping margaritas at 3:35 on a Wednesday afternoon. Nobody they know would be in Queens, and certainly not in a dim, musty dive like this. A cheap motel just down the street.

  “Hooky,” Robie says. “I love it. Fuck that paper.”

  They’re sitting shoulder to shoulder in a booth. Lots of names and initials carved in the wood table. Hillbilly music on the jukebox. Something about love in a trailer park. Not even five people in the place, counting the bartender.

  He turns more toward her, admires her new haircut. Very short, very chic. She looks more like the way he thinks of her. She just wanted a change, that’s how she explained it.

  She didn’t mention coming through the newspaper’s lobby on Monday, seeing Keith waiting out front, leaning on his big motorcycle. Not a care in the world, to look at him. Maybe not a thought either. Kathy studied him from behind a column, then went out another entrance. Glad she didn’t feel a thing when she saw him. Or maybe she felt pity for this juvenile delinquent almost turned thirty-five. Or was it anger? Maybe she wanted to go out there and yank him backward over his motorcycle.

  Then she thought: I don’t want to look the way he remembers me. For sure.

  “You look great,” Robie tells Kathy. “Super.” He kisses her. “And terrific. And wonderful.”

  He pushes her skirt farther up, looks down.

  She watches his face. “Like white?”

  “On you? Any color they make.”

  “If you whisper just the right stuff, I’ll take them off.”

  Robie laughs. “Now?”

  “For you, lover? Anytime.”

  “I’m thinking about it,” he says. “Love it. No, not yet. We’ll ease up to it.”

  She gives him that lazy fuck-me smile he sees in his dreams.

  “Another thing,” she says. “I can put a wig on this. Be a blonde.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Might be useful sometime.”

  Robie nods at her. Pressing his hand along her thigh.

  “If, you know . . .”

  He shakes his head.

  She stares seriously. “I don’t know, Robie, it’s a big step.”

  “I didn’t think it up,” he says sharply. “You did.”

  “Everything you were saying went that—”

  “Drop it, please.”

  He slides his hand up between her thighs, smiles grimly. “Sorry. Let me put down another one of these Mexican depth charges, and I can talk about anything.”

  “Or we can go in the bathroom and do something.”

  “Always thinking.”

  “Not you?”

  “Yeah, I though about it.”

  She smiles, delighted. “We don’t have to think about things. We can do them.”

  “I was thinking . . . will it always be like this?”

  “I sure hope so. . . . Why, what do you think?”

  “You know the guys I admire? Cartoonists in the paper. Every day they got to come up with that new joke. I can’t even imagine how they do it. Then I thought, well, if what’s-his-name can think of something new for Garfield every day, a couple of sex maniacs like us ought to be able to think of some new way to fuck.”

  Kathy laughs. “Robie, you say the sweetest things. . . . So it will always be like this. You agree?”

  Robie shrugs. “Looks like it.”

  “Always and always.”

  “At least.”

  She looks the place over, then stands a little off the seat, and eases her panties down. Gets them off her feet, balls them up in one hand and puts the white ball in Robie’s shirt pocket. “Close to your heart.”

  “My heart,” Robie says dramatically. “Looks like cardiac arrest. It’s the margaritas, or that smell . . .”

  “You’re silly when you drink. You know that?”

  “You aren’t worried about my heart?”

  “You talk about that smell . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “I don’t want any jokes. I want this expression like, you know, you’ve gone to heaven and seen the face of God.”

  They start laughing, so loud even the two drunks at the bar look over.

  • • •

  Robert jogs through Grand Central Terminal toward Track 23. Catch the damned fucking 6:39 to get to damned fucking Bronxville at 7:07. A conductor is yelling something, waving at him. Robert takes a long step into the train, stumbles a little, catches a pole.

  Whew. The brain’s wobbly, but the legs are weak. The dick’s dead. Long live the dick.

  He glances scornfully at all the sober assholes who stayed at their desks until 6:30 or some shit like that. Suckers. Let me tell you what I did this afternoon. Funniest thing, I had a doctor’s appointment—hey, that’s what I thought—and the next thing I know this gorgeous nurse starts taking her clothes off. . . . Ah, you couldn’t take it.

  He sits on the aisle, next to a fat, matronly woman. He gives her a few secret sneers, just to make sure they understand each other.

  Now, what time is it, kids? It’s sober-up time. By a tremendous act of will. Think sober thoughts, get sober . . . or, conversely, just think of a story where everybody got drunk.

  See, Anne, this guy got a little promotion, and we had to do the right thing, newspaper-wise. Get drunk and make silly speeches. That’s basically the only requirement for my work. Drinking and stupid human tricks. Haha. Aren’t you glad you’re in a sensible line? You’re so lucky! Boring!

  He fidgets in his seat, trying to stretch his long legs into the aisle. Arms crossed sullenly over his chest.

  Fuck you, Anne. You hear that?

  You’re not careful, we’ll do it. I swear.

  He snickers, remembering how Kathy looked at him, said, Robie, what are you saying, we should get rid of . . . ?

  Well, damn, it sure would make life simpler, wouldn’t it?

  He thinks about Anne’s smug expressions. The way she seems so industrious, so organized. So right on top of things. Everything except what counts. Haha.

  The more he thinks about her, the angrier he gets. I married a monster. It’s unbelievable.

  You think somebody’s so nice, so agreeable. But then when love comes to shove, whatever the fuck that is, you see the monster. Monster, monster, monster.

  Alright, maybe she’d be agreeable. But I’m gonna take a chance like that? What, six to one, she spends the rest of her life trying to fuck me. All that boring, pent-up energy, I mean, what’s it want to do? Find some fucking obsession, right? Anne’s classic. I can see right through her. Does the girl bit pretty well. But we’re talking gonzo furies inside.

  Robert sees in his head a few times he almost told her what he wanted, almost handed her the letter. Then he couldn’t do it. Then he thought, No, it’s not the smart thing to do. No, let’s be shrewd about this. Why tell her anything? Life is perfect, that’s all
she needs to know.

  Let her think that. Then if something happens to her, she had a good life right until the last second. Right? That’s what I want for her. She really loves me, right? She doesn’t want to live without me, right?

  Basically, Anne’s nice. And I like her. If she just weren’t such a monster. How could she suddenly be so unreasonable? We always shared everything, compromised, accommodated each other. What happened to her?

  I bring this thing up, she’d go right over the edge. Fulltime monster. And it’d be my fault. Believe it. Dr. Robie Frankenstein.

  I can’t tell. What is it most? I feel sorry for her, Anne the boring loser? Or I’m afraid of her, this monster that’ll leap out of there? Jesus, I think about it, I just get more pissed. Fuck you, Anne, you hear that?

  Robert twists a little side to side, gives a mean eye to some kids who brush against his leg. His head hurts.

  It’s nuts thinking about it. But what if she did just disappear? Maybe the house blows up one day. I mean, wouldn’t that be just the perfect solution for everybody? Even her, really. What do you think, Anne? Come on, tell the truth. Well, damn it, if you’d walk away nice, we could work something out. Why can’t I depend on you? That’s all I want to know.

  Robert realizes it’s after seven. Almost there. Drive home with the windows open, get that cold air in the face, get sober. God knows Anne is. Haha.

  The train shudders to a stop. Robert gets up unsteadily, moves along with the people getting off. Fucking assholes who died like cattle . . . the machine gun’s rapid rattle. Shit, the stuff I used to know. Knew that whole poem by heart. I knew ’em and I wrote ’em. What happened to that? Like New York News really cares, right? Haha. The readers think Ann Landers is the country’s leading philosopher. Yeah, ha, I guess she is. Dear AL, what should I do with my boring wife who’s in the way? Oh, you don’t like my idea? Well, fuck you, too. So you made ten million telling saps what to think. I’ll do it myself, thank you very much.

  In the station he sees himself in a mirror. Whoa, check this guy out, looks a little used. He focuses his eyes, stares at details from his hair down to his jacket. Alright, like I said, a little party, gee, Anne, wish you could be there.

  Robert goes out into the parking lot, taking deep breaths, slapping his face several times. Just don’t want to do anything stupid.

  Maybe like slap Anne a few times. Woman makes me so mad.

  Yeah, that’s funny. I think I’d enjoy that. Slap her around, rip her clothes off, make her crawl around on the floor naked, begging. Say something nice, sweetie. Nice and dirty. Woman needs somebody to wake her up, sort of what Kathy did for me. Hell, who wants the job? Hey, you. . . . Guy in his Paul Stuart togs. You want my wife? You’re probably some kind of pervert anyway. You like doing it by the numbers? My wife’s in taxes. Haha.

  Robert leans against the fender of his car, watching one car after another pull out. The headlights scything through the dark.

  Funny thing, thinking about somebody else fucking your wife. Man, it must be over when you don’t care. Kind of sad.

  Other hand, what the hell isn’t? He laughs darkly, gets in the car. I got a lot to think about. . . .

  He gets out of the car, takes off his topcoat, throws it on the seat. He walks back to the station, finds a phone, calls Anne.

  “Hi, honey. I’m right here in the station. . . . Yeah, Bronxville. Car’s acting funny. Probably flooded it. Tell you the truth, we had a little party at the office. Don’t worry. I’m almost back to my normal pedestrian self. Anyway, didn’t want you to worry. I’ll give the car a rest, then be on my way. Everything cool?”

  “Sure. You want to eat out? Or come home?”

  I already ate out, Anne. Haha. “I’d like to just be home, tell you the truth. Nothing fancy. You mind?”

  “No, no. Take your time.”

  “Lovely. See you.”

  Good thing, be a little drunk, think about whether I could really do it. And what’s the best way. Then think about it when I’m sober. Get things all clear in my head.

  He sees her there in the house, probably the kitchen phone, wearing one of her work outfits. One of those double-breasted numbers, which makes four, if you ask me. Hey, she’s entitled. The Monster of 114. Got to take care of her.

  Funny, something so way out, and after a while it seems completely reasonable. Like, let’s drop our jobs, move to California, live a new, silly kind of life, don’t think so much, make things out of seashells. California! Nuts, right? Then you start working out the steps so you could change your life around. And after a while, hey, you’re thinking about what color to paint the new den in fucking Pismo Beach.

  Just have to be smart. Work out the details. Do it.

  He walks slowly across the now-quiet parking lot. Enjoying the chill in the air, knowing it’ll help use up the alcohol.

  Seriously? You think you could do it? Yeah, that’s the scary part. I think I could. Don’t like to think I’d enjoy it. That’s sick. Alright, don’t touch that. We’re talking, do or not to do. As a practical matter, as the only sensible thing to do. Say a guy’s got some old parents, worth ten, twenty mil, he’s got to think about it. Sure, just some little accident, some little anything. Life goes on. Yeah, that movie where the plane crashes in the Andes, I think. A bunch of guys ate the dead guys, got through it. They made such a fuss about it. Wimps. You’re starving and there’s meat there. What’s there to talk about? The best cut, that’s about it. Haha.

  Robert stands by his car, watching the cold creep under his skin. He feels a few goose bumps, then he shivers.

  Hey, I’m feeling pretty good. What a day. Kathy and I get married, she’ll probably kill me. Good cause, I guess. Like Dylan says, ramming that green fuse through the something. Can’t remember. Everybody knew he meant screwing.

  Robert gets in his car, a four-year-old Toyota, and starts it up. Everything he looks at seems very vivid. Everything feels possible. Sure it is. Is this America, or what? We’re heading out, going west. Man, it’s a good thing she found me when I’m still young. Long trip and you got the fucking Indians up there in the hills. They’re always spread out along the ridge. Pretty. I wonder if that’s the way it was.

  He drives out of the parking lot, onto Kraft Avenue, for the run home. Go see the Monster in her lair. Hi, Anne. What a busy day. Glad to make it back in one piece. You have any fun today? No? Gee, that’s a shame. Things kind of dull? Don’t worry. We’re going to take care of that.

  He rolls his window down, lets the wind chill his face. For I’m a seafaring man, by heck. I am, I yam. . . . He remembers that people get numb permanently, sitting in a cold wind, but there’s the house up ahead. Too late. I’m disfigured for life. The Humpface of Bronxville. Now we’ll find out who really loves me.

  He pulls in the drive, nudges up against Anne’s Volvo. Uhhh, how’s that for a little bump in the night? Buy American, you asshole. Oh, that was funny. Cabdriver from hell. First time I touched Kathy’s breasts. The next thing you know I’m marrying her. . . .

  Robert gets out of the car, stretches, and walks across his lawn. Looking up at the shape of his house, the sky beyond. Nice. The stars up in the sky . . . are like a big pizza pie. Jesus. How’s that go? Oh, moon!

  He unlocks his front door, shuffles into the living room, making a lot of noise on purpose. “Anne! Honey! I’m home. . . . Hell, I smell LIKE BEER . . . take a SHOWER.”

  He hears her voice but he’s bounding up the stairs and can’t make out the words. What a pro. “Just a MINUTE!”

  He gets in the shower, soaps himself all over twice, goodbye Kathy. Then he grits his teeth and turns up the cold for thirty seconds. Ohhhh-fuck. All done in five minutes. He puts on some casual clothes, dark blue cotton sweater, tan corduroy pants, bounds back down the stairs. His thick hair still damp.

  He finds Anne in the kitchen, smashing a head of lettuce. “Hey,” he says, “you really get into that, don’t you?”

  She smiles at him. Good ol
d sweet Anne. He goes over and touches her arm, kisses her cheek.

  “Just relax,” she says. “Everything’s done.”

  Robert sits on a counter, swinging his feet. Smiling sort of dumbly, telling her he’s really a nice guy, not up to anything bad, just trying to earn a living with a bunch of crazy drunks.

  He watches Anne, looks her over. Nice healthy figure. Just a sweet person. What is that, ohmigod, some nipple? And look at that face! Who could hurt . . . ? Forget it. No way. I’m trapped here forever. Monster and me, and baby make three.

  Anne crumples the big head of lettuce.

  Robert grimaces. What am I gonna do? I’m A-l stuck. A thousand years from now we’ll still be here, Anne making little salads, me drooling on my tie.

  “You know what we ought to do,” he says.

  “What?”

  “Some night, just get wrecked. When’d we do that the last time? Years ago.”

  “Now?”

  “Oh, no.” He laughs. “I did it already today. . . . Just some night.”

  She gives him a pleasant look. “That sounds good to me.”

  There, he thinks. Sweet. What can I do?

  It was always like that. You’d go in a crowded room, and you wouldn’t see Anne right away. Then you’d feel this sweet presence, sort of lurking somewhere. What the hell is that? I feel something. No star face . . . not tits . . . not ass . . . What the hell can it be? Ohhh, it’s Anne.

  “Great,” he suddenly says. “Good cheap therapy, that’s what I always say.”

  “You do?”

  “Somebody does. I thought it was me. Maybe not. Well, it’s the thought that counts.”

  “And the proof.”

  “What?”

  “The proof, Robert. Like ninety.”

  “Oh, right. Riggghhhtt.” There, you see. Sweet and real funny.

  Chapter

  22

  • Anne leans back at her desk, staring at some figures that don’t make sense. Lunchtime coming up.

  She thinks, I don’t feel like eating alone, impulsively grabs the phone.