Love In The Time Of Apps

by Jay Begler

  Goodwin hyperventilating ever so slightly said to himself “What the fu…” He wondered irrationally if Sheila might be possessed by an evil spirit like Linda Blair in The Exorcist, but instead of doing all those things the possessed do, like speaking in foreign tongues, having their heads turn 360 degrees or only buying retail, she would recite nothing but cruel ethnic jokes, “Did you hear about the new motto of the Bialya (a fiction country appearing in DC comic books) synchronized swim team? Every man for himself.” Goodwin thought about it for a moment and then dismissed the possibility of possession as out of hand, in part because it was silly and in part because he knew that Sheila would never allow herself to be possessed by a spirit, evil or otherwise, because the spirit might add to her weight.

  Unable to accept her continuing comedic onslaught, Goodwin began to fumble unsuccessfully around in his pockets hoping to find some of those Xanax infused M&Ms given to him by Wang. He sensed the first signs of a migraine, whose symptoms notched up slightly after each of Sheila’s jokes. Then, a crushing realization, one that caused a huge spike in his head pain and a wave of nausea: there was another Sheila in the room next door, telling the same jokes in exactly the same manner. He was not the second funniest person in the family; he was the third. In fact, compared to them, he probably wasn’t funny at all.

  He imagined her with Lolli Glick, exchanging secrets about him and laughing. As if this were not bad enough, he quickly reminded himself that there were Two Sheilas and they would be laughing at Goodwin and not with him. To make matters worse, the laughter would be by a trio: Lolli and the Two Sheilas.

  Appreciative applause and laughter of the Host-Pital staff in attendance was now continuous. Goodwin had the disquieting thought that the vast unseen audience, the hundreds of millions of television viewers watching both Sheilas’ monologues, were also laughing. What he did not know was that a major Las Vegas hotel had already made an offer to Schnell to have the Two Sheilas do a new act, FUNNY GIRLS. “Listen,” the producer said to Schnell, “to sweeten the deal, I’ll have that super star Celine Dion open for them.”

  Sheila broke from her routine. “So what happened, Dr. Kildare? Did the woman who wanted my dress mug me?”

  “Actually, you were struck by lightning; you’re very lucky to be alive.”

  “How do you know?” she laughed. Her question was the prelude to a legion of jokes and remarks at Goodwin’s expense. “You’re not married to Philip. It’s a joke. I am only joking.” She began laughing again. “After all, Doctor Kildare, you never had sex with my husband did you? I mean he has always been turned on by doctors. He starts panting like a dog in heat whenever he sees McDreamy in reruns of Grey’s Anatomy.”

  Laughing erupted again. Goodwin correctly assumed that the millions of television viewers were now laughing with Sheila and, in a way, at him. Even Kildare laughed. Understandably, Goodwin was the only one not laughing, which was consistent with the medical tenet that laughter and extreme nausea are incompatible. Sheila was speaking for less than 15 minutes and was already humiliating him on national television.

  Goodwin mustered his courage, stepped forward and, rather sheepishly, said: “Sheila, this is amazing. You’ve never joked and now you are actually joking and laughing.”

  Although Sheila saw Goodwin, she did not acknowledge him or his remark. Instead, in a half-joking way, she looked at the ceiling and shouted: “Oh my God! Oh my God! I’m cured! I’m cured! I’m no longer comedically challenged. I’m not Hypo-Humoresque any more. I can now understand Philip’s measly little jokes, though I probably will not laugh anyway. In fact, I’m probably Hyper-Humoresque. And, all it took was heavy duty shock therapy.’”

  Goodwin and Kildare excused themselves and entered Sheila Left’s room. She noticed Goodwin as soon as he entered the room. “Ladies and Gentlemen, meet my husband, Philip Goodwin.” Hearing this, Goodwin assumed that this Sheila might be more hospitable than Sheila Right. She summoned Goodwin to come to her, much in the way a comedienne would summon an unsuspecting audience member to come on stage to be the foil for her jokes.

  “So, Philip, glad to see me?”

  “I’m so happy you’re alive.”

  “But, Philip are you glad, really glad to see me? It is not a trick question. You want to go home to think about it? Need a second opinion? Folks, say hello to Philip.”

  The doctors and nurses in the room, concluding from her tone that Sheila was making fun of Goodwin, said, with a sarcastic intonation in their collective voice: “Hello, Philip!”

  “Philip always had a joke for all occasions. He was quite the funny guy. Told jokes to me all day long even though he knew that I wouldn’t, in fact couldn’t, get them.” A few boos erupted. “And you knew, Phil, that when you did this, it really hurt. Okay, Philip, your big chance; you are playing to a live audience. Tell a joke. Make ‘em laugh.”

  Goodwin, who up to that moment could always conjure a joke or at least a glib remark, was speechless. He began to perspire lightly under the pressure of knowing that he was not just playing to a small live audience, but hundreds of millions of people, including every single member of Harborside, his golf cronies, his family, his employees, and the lovely Lolli Glick. All of them were watching him fail his ultimate glibness test. As seconds passed with no word from Goodwin, there were nervous giggles from the doctors and nurses in the room. Spontaneously, a number of interns began to chant, “Joke Goodwin joke…joke Goodwin joke. Soon everyone in attendance and quite likely many in television land joined in. At that moment Goodwin thought of a little amusing theory he used to postulate to his friends at the club to the effect that between the cerebrum and cerebellum everyone had a “comedibellum” where they stored jokes. At this moment, before a vast audience, Goodwin knew that his comedibellum was empty.

  Sheila put up her hand to signal for the chanting to stop. “What’s the matter, Philip, can’t get it up? Folks, I am not talking about his ability to perform sexually. That would take a miracle of Jesus-Lazarus proportions; you know, raise the dead. To tell the truth, however, it’s unlikely that even Jesus could help Philip in that department. He’d ultimately give up in disgust and say: ‘Hey, what did you expect? I’m not God.’”

  Goodwin’s first impulse was to walk out of the room, but he believed people would see him as a bad sport and that Sheila’s mocking of him was effective. So, like the poor audience member who comes on stage to be decapitated by the comic, he stood by Sheila and smiled rather lamely.

  “Okay, Philip, let me help you out. Remember that old joke from the humor quotient test to see if I was HH. Let’s do that one. I will give you the same set up, and you give me a punch line. That should be easy for a funny guy like you. Here goes.” Sheila recited the joke from her HQ test involving cannibals and high-ranking church officials.

  Goodwin was about to use the punch line regarding perverts and “odd official ingredients,” when Sheila interrupted and said, “No... no...no, Philip. No puns. That would be too easy. Just come up with a good old-fashion and original punch line for the folks here. Okay, Philip, fire away. Give us the dope!”

  Goodwin stood mute. He could not think of a punch line, clever or not. After another awkward and seemingly long silence, one during which he felt that he was perspiring through every pore in his body, Sheila, imitating a buzzer on a game show, said: “Buzz! I’m sorry your time is up. You don’t win the Grand Prize, one night with me but, as a consolation prize you get The Wit and Wisdom of Philip Goodwin.” Doing a mock whisper to the audience Sheila said: “It’s a very small book. Now, let’s see, what would be a good punch line?”

  “Don’t be too critical of my effort here, Philip. After all, I have been beyond Rem for quite some time. How about this? The Chief runs up and says to the officials, ‘I’ve got good news and bad news. First, the good news, we’re not going to cook you. Now here’s the bad news, at least for you. Want to know why we are not going to cook you? Because, tonight is sushi night. Vatican rolls and Vatican Te
mpura.” Everyone in the room, except Goodwin, exploded with laughter. Goodwin, his mouth dry as the Gobi Desert, realized that the joke was better than anything he’s ever created.

  “I know these are tough to understand,” Sheila said. “Let me try another. The Chief runs up and says, ‘We can’t do anything until the camera man and director from the Food Network arrives.’ Funny concept, cannibals on food channel, right, Philip? No. I bet everyone in this room thinks so. How many people think that the concept of a food channel for cannibals is funny? Raise your hands.” Everyone in the room except Goodwin raised their hands. “How many in the room don’t think it’s funny?” As she asked this question, Sheila raised Goodwin’s rather limp arm. “What’s the matter, Philip? Getting a touch of the Hypo-Humoresque virus?”

  For the next hour both Sheilas paced in their respective rooms and continued their identical monologues. With the exception of Goodwin, everyone in attendance in both rooms was doubled over with laughter. Hoping for invisibility Goodwin asked himself, “What’s worse than having a wife with no sense of humor? Two wives who were much funnier than me.” He now thought wistfully of the time he had lived with a humorless wife and whispered to himself, “Yale days.”

  Goodwin exited and walked towards Sheila Right’s room. Just as he reached the door, he heard raucous laughter and Sheila’s words, “That’s typical of Philip.” “More anti-Philip humor,” he thought. As he entered the door, Goodwin sensed that the doctors and nurses, all of whom seemed to be smiling at, not with, him were just made privy to an embarrassing secret about him.

  Sheila had finished her monologue and was bowing to a standing ovation. “Thanks, you’ve been a wonderful audience.” She began to look at herself in the mirror and was pleased by what she saw. “You know I think I’ve lost weight.”

  “I’ll be right back,” Goodwin said to one of the doctors and returned to Sheila Left’s room. She was looking at herself in a way that mirrored Sheila Right. “You know I think I’ve lost weight.”

  At that moment, Wang entered Sheila Left’s room. “Sheila, you look remarkably well.”

  “Flattery will get you everywhere, doctor,” Sheila said. She was now sitting on her bed and crossed her legs rather seductively in a manner similar to that of Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct. When Goodwin saw this, he thought, “She was beyond REM for months, split in two after a wild electrical experiment was performed on her body, and conscious for no more than two hours and she’s flirting with Wang.”

  “Mrs. Goodwin, do you think you are up to some tests? We just want to test your memory and thought processes.”

  Wang handed Sheila a long questionnaire that he had prepared to test the memory and mental acuity of both Sheilas. Goodwin, Wang, and Kildare excused themselves and went with Wang to Sheila Right’s room and gave her an identical questionnaire. The questions that had been developed related to intelligence, personal opinions and recollections. The answers by the Two Sheilas were identical.

  While these tests were being administered, Goodwin and Dr. Kildare entered the living room between the bedrooms of the Two Sheilas. A television camera had been installed in the room to view the next phase in this unfolding saga, the eventual meeting of the Two Sheilas.

  “Yes,” Kildare said, “I’ve given the matter a great deal of thought and we’ve met with our chief psychologist and chief psychiatrist and decided that for now, in terms of telling the Two Sheilas exactly what happened to them we need to be ‘oblique.’ Yes, “oblique” is the watch word.”

  Goodwin, totally spent from his humiliation offered up an exhausted, “I really don’t think you can be oblique. At the end of the day, you’ll have to tell them the truth.”

  It was a moot point, however. The Two Sheilas were standing within their respective doorways and staring at each other. For a long moment, they were motionless. Neither appeared to be in shock, nor agitated as they studied each other. Rather, each seemed to be deep in thought. No one, Kildare, Wang, Goodwin, the medical personnel in attendance and no doubt the hundreds of millions of viewers, had any idea of what to expect. If there was a defining moment for collective television audience anticipation, it was now.

  “Sheila Left, I’d like you to meet Sheila Right,” Goodwin said, but they ignored him and slowly circled one another and then, gently, if not tenderly, began stroking the other’s face.

  “I see it but I don’t believe it,” they said in unison, both laughing slightly and continuing to touch each other in exactly the same way. Each seemed to have an innate sense of what had happened to them. They were the calmest people in the room. There was no raving, nor ranting, merely a humorous aside by each of them simultaneously, “Gee, now I’ll have someone to help me with the dishes. I look terrific, much thinner in person,” they said in unison. Both began to laugh hysterically.

  Sheila Left asked, “When was the last time that we saw Yetta Movitz and under what conditions?” Goodwin could not help but think that Sheila Left had already thought of the two of them as “we,” and that Sheila Right, probably thought the same thing.

  Sheila right replied, “It was in November 2003. Philip came home early and Yetta, who was then 90, brought a cheesecake. Now, tell me what kind of cheesecake was it?”

  Sheila Left began to laugh. “It was made with cottage cheese and it was awful beyond description. Okay, but let’s get very specific. Who do you know that has a tattoo on his bicep?”

  Sheila Right answered without hesitation, “Sydney Maxine, of course. And it says ‘Siempre’ when relaxed and ‘Siempre Fideles’ when flexed. He was a real patriot, not like some draft dodging person we know.” They were looking directly at Goodwin. It did not matter that at the time when Goodwin was eligible to join the military there was no draft. Those watching would not consider this fact and assume he was in fact a draft dodger.

  All Goodwin could think was, “What the hell?”

  Sheila Left said, “You know years back, Sydney belonged to the Marines, Special Operations regiment.” This news was yet another crushing blow to Goodwin who had not that long ago with his cronies was mocking Maxine’s masculinity. It didn’t take a great mental leap for him to realize that Maxine’s tenure as a Special Operation’s Marine meant he was clearly not a girlie man, but a man’s man; much more of a man than himself.

  Sheila Left continued, “Sydney once threw himself on a grenade to save his companions and was severely wounded. He saved their lives, but his back was virtually ripped apart and his spine injured terribly. He’s been in constant pain all his life, but he’s taken it in stride, even the part about ruining his golf game.”

  “Ruining his golf game?” Goodwin said softly, not wanting to hear a response to his question, but Sheila Left posed an answer. “Yes, he used to have a zero handicap, equal to a professional and actually was on the Harvard golf team. His occasional golfing buddy, Tiger Woods, often texts him for tips. Before his injury Sydney would always hit from the professional tees. Unfortunately, the war injury hurts him so much when he plays that he can’t swing as hard anymore. He can only drive 250 yards. (This was 20 yards better than Goodwin’s best drive.) Typical of his courage and good nature, Sydney never complains. He hits from the front tees on the insistence of his doctors. Some call these the women’s tees, and that’s fine with Sydney. He’s secure enough in his manhood to do that.”

  Goodwin imagined Arnold Schwarzenegger, but this time talking to him and asking, “So, Goodwin, who is the girlie man now?”

  Sheila Right said, “Gentlemen, would you excuse us. We would like to be alone for the rest of the evening.” Sheila Left nodded and said, “We have lots of things to talk about.” They turned to Goodwin and said in unison, “Philip, we’ll call you later.” Sheila Right, smirking whispered into Sheila Left’s ear. “And, Philip,” they said in one voice, “rest up, we are soo horny. Or are you still not up to it?” This was the last remark all of America heard before live broadcasting ceased.

  It was not what these Sheilas said, b
ut how they said it that disturbed Goodwin. There was something quite different about them, a characteristic he had never seen in the Original Sheila before, perhaps another unexpected side effect of the lightning. While there were no real signs that he could point to, he sensed malevolence. His next thought was disquieting; not only did he have two wives; he had two wives that were really out to get him. In view of their rising celebrity status, Goodwin suspected, they would probably have the means to do so.

  As he walked to the parking lot, Goodwin activated the PPR App that took him immediately to his ratings, PPR 19, down seven points. Goodwin was speechless.

  Compassion

  Goodwin’s ride home from the Meditainment Center midst a torrential rainstorm was torturous. He felt broken by his traumatic humiliation on television and was in a depressed panic. Goodwin never cared about people laughing at him, so long as he was the instigator, the author of a self-deprecating joke or off the cuff remark. This was different, however. To be so disgraced on national television was crushing and virtually unbearable. How could he show his face anywhere after his public flogging at the hands of the Two Sheilas?

  As he approached his house, Goodwin’s body tensed to the point where he gripped the wheel so hard that his knuckles became white and his fingers began to ache. No doubt, this was caused by his knowledge that the “press piranhas,” a descriptor of his from a somewhat happier time, would be waiting and anxious to spray him with harsh and embarrassing questions. The best that could be said for him was that he understood that his emotional state was fragile. He knew that emotionally he was the on edge, perhaps over the edge, and that when taunted by members of the press he might lose control and say or do something that would further diminish his tattered reputation. With that knowledge in hand, he cautioned himself that the watchword of the moment was forbearance. “Whatever you do,” he advised himself, “do not lose control. Don’t let them get under your skin.”