Another Bad-Dog Book

by Joni Cole

  “A million dollars?” I rolled my eyes, careful not to smudge my mascara. Whatever. I had more important things on my mind. That morning, I had to take my first CPR class at Curves where I worked part-time, then hightail it to a memorial service for the wife of a photographer I sometimes worked with, then hustle home to make Chicken Athena for six. Steve and I were having friends over for dinner, and I didn’t want to rush the meal preparation. Working with filo dough makes me tense.

  I arrived for the CPR training seventeen minutes late, hardly my fault given the torrential downpour outside, and all those nothing-better-to-do drivers who refused to go over the speed limit. I knelt next to the one unclaimed body lying face-up on the Curves gym floor. Two other newly hired fitness technicians, as well as my boss, Dixie, were already stationed by their plastic torsos. Dixie gave me the hairy eyeball as I started finger-combing my rain-flattened hair.

  “Sorry I’m late,” I stage-whispered, though, in truth, I wasn’t the least bit sorry. Dixie was the reason I was stuck here in the first place, after having successfully avoided CPR training my whole life, on the theory that if I knew how to revive a choking victim with vomit pooled in his mouth, then fate would most likely put me in a position where I’d encounter one.

  Yet here I was on a Saturday morning, fulfilling a requirement passed down by Curves’ corporate that all of the employees at all of its franchises must be certified in CPR. When Dixie first mentioned this requirement to me during my job interview, I’d brushed it aside, just like I’d brushed aside all the rumors that the Texas-based company was run by right-wing nut-jobs who channeled corporate funds to support extremists like abortion clinic bombers and homeschoolers. I’d only applied for this part-time job so that I could use the exercise machines for free and tone up among ladies who were most likely older and fatter than I. That alone, I figured, would provide a much-needed boost to my self-esteem, though my theory hadn’t actually panned out. As it turns out, I fit the Curves target demographic perfectly, a depressing thought in and of itself.

  Dixie had hired a Viking to teach us CPR, a Viking named Vince, or at least that was the name stitched onto the breast pocket of his white bowling shirt with an EMT iron-on patch on the sleeve. With his white-blond crew-cut and brawny build, Vince looked equally capable of single-handedly righting an overturned car, and/or barbequing thousands of pounds of chicken legs and thighs at the Minnesota State Fair.

  “First, shake or tap the victim to see if he’s responding, then feel for a heartbeat,” Vince held two beefy fingers to his dummy’s neck and waited for a pulse. When, apparently, there wasn’t one, he continued, “If the person is unresponsive, call 911 before you begin administering CPR.”

  Dixie and the other technicians listened with composure, as if Vince was simply offering instructions on how to boot up a computer. But already I was starting to feel a familiar panic. Since childhood, I’ve had a recurring nightmare in which I am trying desperately to make a phone call but can’t get through, either because the phone is defective or because my hands are shaking so badly. Sometimes I’m trying to phone the police because a zombie or a murderer is after me, but usually I’m just trying to reach my mother, who has instructed me—in the nightmare, as in real life—Make sure to call when you get there! I know that if I don’t manage to phone home, my mother will be worried sick, which means that she is going to be livid later when she sees me alive, and likely embarrass me by yelling in front of my friends.

  “A, B, C, D . . .” Vince started reciting the alphabet, each letter accompanied by a sharp thrust with the heel of his hand between his dummy’s painted-on nipples. “....J, K, L, M, N, OFF!” I envisioned the poor victim’s ribs snapping like potato sticks. “If the chest does not rise at this point . . .” Vince paused for dramatic effect. We all stared, eyes glued to his dummy’s chest, hoping to see some movement. “. . . then tilt the person’s head back and give him two breaths.” He blew into the sanitized plastic lips inserted into his dummy’s mouth hole. “Now you try,” he instructed the rest of us.

  The others went at it with gusto, bums pointing skyward, their Curves-developed biceps flexing with the effort—fifteen chest compressions, two breaths; fifteen chest compressions, two breaths. Reluctantly, I followed suit, resigned to becoming a lifesaver. As I blew into my own dummy’s plastic mouth hole, I imagined him as my Latino heartthrob from the bagel shop in town. He would be so grateful after I saved his life that he wouldn’t even notice our twenty-year age difference.

  The CPR class ended forty-five minutes late because everyone (everyone but me, that is) voted to tag on infant CPR training. “Yeah, like Curves gets a lot of babies having heart attacks after their workout,” I cracked, but Dixie is humorless when it comes to liability.

  By the time Vince wrapped things up, I had five minutes to get to the memorial service and the rain just wouldn’t let up. On the drive over, I dry-swallowed three Advils. When I checked my face in the visor mirror, I noticed my eyebrows needed plucking. At that point, I almost bagged the service, but I’d already put so much effort into getting this far, it seemed wrong not to show up and get credit for going. I had barely known Ginny, the deceased, though I saw her occasionally when her husband, Paul, and I met for work at their house, or he brought her along to client meetings. She never said much, but she did take copious notes.

  The service was located in a big community room in the town hall building. When I got there, a dozen or so other latecomers were still filing into the room. To my relief, Paul was nowhere to be seen so I didn’t have to deal with that awkwardness, at least not yet. What are you supposed to say in a situation like this? “I’m sorry?” “How’s work?” “I’ll miss Ginny’s copious note-taking?” Everything seemed so trite, and of course grief-stricken people can be so touchy. You just never know what’s going to set them off.

  The room was chock-a-block full of people sitting on metal chairs crammed together in close rows. The stragglers in front of me took forever to claim the few empty seats scattered throughout the crowd. Everyone was being so damn solicitous, not like at regular town meetings in this very same hall, where neighbors yelled at each other over zoning permits and who was going to pay for the new dog park. I waited impatiently as they chattered.

  “Oh, there’s a space near the front, why don’t you take it?”

  “Oh no, you go ahead. You were here first . . .”

  “Is someone sitting here? Do you mind if I move this umbrella?”

  “Bill! So good to see you. How about this rain . . .”

  Oh, for goodness sakes, just sit down and shut up, I thought. It was bad enough that people came late to a memorial service (at least I had a good excuse; I was saving babies!) but now they were holding things up even further by talking about the weather. I decided to forego any seat and propped myself against a wall near the back of the room. That way, if the service ran late, I could sneak out without being noticed.

  The walls of the community room were covered with striking blow-up photographs of Ginny and her family, displayed to major emotional effect. In the pictures Ginny looked vibrant, even beautiful—posing on a mountaintop; beaming next to their daughter at the girl’s high school graduation; relaxing on a porch swing with their Persian cat on her lap. I didn’t recall Ginny being particularly good-looking in real life, or their cat being all that friendly. It must be nice to have a professional photographer as a husband, I thought with a stab of jealousy. If Steve displayed photos of me at my funeral, the guests would think that I died of red eye.

  The service started thirty-five minutes late and, right off the bat, the woman minister got on my nerves. She had one of those clergy-cultivated voices, like she’d just hung up the phone with God and had been personally reassured that everything was under control. She also milked the “power pause” for everything it was worth, trying to make every utterance, however mundane, come across as poetic and profound. “Welcome (power pause) to this celebration of a life.... Please (power paus
e) turn off your cell phones. Ginny (power pause) was a bright light . . .”

  To pass the time, I scoped out the crowd. A few guests were fanning themselves with their programs. The room did feel stuffy but, really, I couldn’t imagine treating a program to a memorial service like a playbill to bad regional theater. There, on the cover, was a perfectly retouched photo of Ginny. And what if Ginny herself, not just her picture, was actually in this room with us? I didn’t exactly believe in ghosts, but I did know that if I had recently died, and saw a bunch of my so-called friends using my face as a fan at my memorial service, I wouldn’t take it too kindly. In fact, those would be the first people I’d come back to haunt, just to scare the bejesus out of them.

  Here is the upside of a memorial service: it really makes you appreciate your own loved ones. A lot of people had an arm draped across the shoulder of the person next to them or were holding hands, including two women sitting directly across from me. In fact, I suddenly noticed, several women in the nearby rows were clearly together. Was I standing in the lesbian seating section? You’d think I would have noticed this sooner, given all the mannish haircuts and clogs. But this is Vermont; who can tell?

  Then it occurred to me—I have very few lesbian friends. This seemed a shame, since grieving lesbians make a nice statement at a memorial service, showing the world that you were an accepting, even hip person. I did have a lesbian enemy, I realized, noticing the owner of the local bookstore with her partner at the far end of the row. When my last book came out, I emailed her asking if I could do a reading at her store, but she never responded. Who needs me, I thought with resentment, when Jodi Picoult lives up the street?

  Eventually, the minister finished her remarks and recited a prayer—“Our father (power pause) who art in heaven . . .”

  Next came the remembrances from several of Ginny’s loved ones. On one point, they all agreed—Ginny had quite the glow. Not only was she a “bright light,” as the minister had stated, but she was also referred to as a “brilliant light,” a “shining light,” and a “luminous presence.” Maybe she died of radioactivity, I thought, but that was my aching lower back talking. It felt like I’d been standing forever.

  The best speaker was the neighbor lady, who kept her remembrance short and sweet—how Ginny’s kitchen always smelled like whatever was baking in her bread machine. Plus, the neighbor lady couldn’t stop weeping, which has its own unique power to transfix an audience. The absolute worst speaker was Ginny’s meditation teacher, who went on and on about the spiritual significance of a drop of water and how Ginny—similar to a drop of water—was quiet, but had a big impact on people’s lives. Then he announced that he was going to lead us all in a guided meditation.

  That’s when I cut out, drawing some looks from the lesbians, but what was I supposed to do? By now it was late afternoon and my Chicken Athena wasn’t going to cook itself. As I tiptoed toward the door, I gave a fake smile to the bookstore owner, just in case I ever published another book. Seeing her with her partner made me wish Steve had been here to put his arm around me. On the other hand, I was just as glad to be going home to a working toilet.

  On the drive home, the rain still hadn’t let up, and some of the roads were borderline flooded. Great, I thought. Our septic system was probably overflowing into the next county. I caught a yellow light and raced through it, nearly hydroplaning into another car when I jammed on my brakes. This scared me so much that I pulled into a convenience store parking lot to calm my nerves. I also wanted a bottle of wine.

  Between CPR training, the memorial service, and now this near accident, I’d had it with life and death for one day. I bought my Pinot Grigio and set it on the passenger seat, next to the program from the service. There was Ginny’s smiling face beaming up at me. Maybe it was just the airbrushing, but she really did seem to have a glow about her. It was as if she was trying to illuminate something, but what? Beneath her photo, the program showed the dates of her birth and death. My God—it still came as a shock—she was only four years older than I when she died. Healthy one day, then sick and gone less than six months later, just like that.

  I drove the rest of the way home, white knuckling the steering wheel and in a bad mood. The windshield wipers could barely keep up with the pouring rain. What a pain, I thought, unable to see more than a few feet ahead. If all these drops of water had a spiritual significance, it was totally lost on me.

  A Cure for Aging Vermonters

  Apparently, there’s a pill on the market that cures both belly fat and stress. I learned this from an ad on television. The commercial featured real people—not paid actors—who had taken the pill with remarkably diverse benefits. One woman said the pill helped her relax. A distinguished-looking man said the pill helped him enjoy more time with his wife and kids. A shapely woman held up a “before” photograph, and shared how the pill had melted away her unsightly pounds and inches. Now she had energy for the things that mattered. Beside her, the woman’s husband squeezed her shoulders then smiled at the resulting cleavage.

  “Whether you want to reduce belly fat or stress,” the announcer guaranteed, “this is a feel good pill.”

  I couldn’t remember the last time my husband smiled at my cleavage. So I got my Visa and found the portable phone wedged between the couch cushions. If I called the toll free number in the next twenty minutes, I’d be eligible for fifty free capsules!

  If you watch TV like me, one thing you know for sure: nowadays there is a pill (or cream or patch) for everything—wrinkles, high blood pressure, moodiness, erectile dysfunction, dull teeth, hair loss, and, yes, even belly fat and stress. Which begs the question: Why are so many people still feeling and looking so yucky? Later, flipping through the channels, the answer hit me. These are the people who don’t watch TV.

  I live in Vermont, a state known for its cows and maple syrup, but not for its cable access. A lot of Vermonters couldn’t care less what happens to the Desperate Housewives on Wisteria Lane. They pride themselves on not being among the sixty-three million people who voted on American Idol. Parents, in particular, think that television will turn their children into SpongeBobs. “We don’t even own a TV,” I hear with astounding frequency when I pick up my daughters after school. But what these parents don’t know is that now there is a pill on the market that can actually enhance their child’s intelligence. For just three easy payments, their kids could be reading above grade level.

  The other week I happened to browse through the newspaper. “Vermonters are old and getting older,” read the headline. According to Census statistics, “Vermont is aging faster than any other state in the union.” But are we really aging faster? I wondered. Or is it just that most Vermonters don’t watch enough TV? We don’t know about the anti-aging pills, the energy enhancers, or the miracles of Botox that can set back the clock. Later, I was talking about this article with the mom of one of my younger daughter’s friends. This woman is in her early forties, and styles her steel gray hair like a helmet. Instead of watching television, her four kids have all learned to knit.

  She asked me, “How old are you?” So I told her.

  “You are not!” she accused, as if I had just claimed to be a man posing as a woman. “You look like you could be in your late thirties.”

  “Well it’s true,” I said, “I kid you not.” Then I smiled with the confidence of someone who has cable . . . and who knows just what toothpaste whitens teeth best.

  Copy. Paste.

  My father is in a hospital ICU unit, transferred by ambulance yesterday morning from his nursing home. I am in my home office 431 miles away, on deadline for a book project. My work task today is a mindless but cumbersome one. I have highlighted key passages in over five-hundred online submissions for the book I am working on. Now I need to simply copy those highlighted sections and paste them into a database.

  Copy. Paste. Copy. Paste.

  My sister, who lives just a few miles from my parents, calls me again. Our dad’s condition hasn
’t changed. “He’s been intubated. He’s on a respirator,” she tells me. I go into the kitchen and pour myself another cup of coffee. It is a nice spring day, blindingly sunny by the greenhouse window. My sister also tells me my mom won’t go into my dad’s hospital room. “She’s pacing the hallway.”

  “Okay.” This is familiar territory. In the months immediately following his first stroke six years ago, my dad endured every kind of emergency procedure. “Yes! Resuscitate!” My mother signed papers and more papers to make this clear.

  Copy. Paste. Copy. Paste.

  Every day, I need to meet a self-imposed quota for data entry; otherwise I will fall behind on my book deadline. I have been going through the submissions in alphabetical order. Today I am working my way through the Ls and Ms. Tomorrow . . . Tomorrow, I suddenly remember, I’ll be on a train. I’m going to see my dad who is dying.

  Copy. Paste.

  Why doesn’t she call? I am thinking of my friend Natalie who was supposed to let me know if she can split the cost of personal training. I have already set up the first appointment with the trainer for tomorrow, so I need her to confirm. Otherwise, I will have to cancel because I can’t afford it on my own. Wait a minute. I shake my head in disbelief. Why do I keep forgetting?

  My mom calls. “They’ve scheduled Daddy for an MRI,” she tells me. “They’re going to see if anything is going on.”