Therapy Mammals

by Jon Methven

  “Ever killed anyone?” I ask.

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “With the bus, I mean. The saying, ‘If I get hit by a bus.’ It ever happen?”

  “Clipped a few cars. Never killed anyone though.” No one chats up bus drivers. He is happy to share. “Bullets don’t always kill, but people panic when they get shot. That’s what causes the fatality. Same with buses. Person gets run over, they think—this is it. Typically, if you get it in your head you can survive, you probably will.”

  The stolen bus is old news now that the team has dropped three straight games, whispers about the missing coach, the failed season. Many parents are without their prescription supply, looking haggard and jittery as they arrive, jealous as I puff away in the disinfected safety of our building’s periphery. There is a subtle thread of interwoven madness that jibes with my frequency, those who intuit what I have done, allowing me to pass winks and nods with parents who return the sentiment.

  The Callisters’ nanny was anonymously reported to immigration, and rather than hire an attorney to defend their employee of nine years, they are searching for a new one. All the tires on the Babners’ SUV were deflated yesterday morning. One of the third graders arrived to school last week with an open book bag, into which a dead chipmunk was deposited. An anonymous parent wrote to three newspapers and the health department, claiming she found rat droppings in her order of Standcakes. There is a French kissing epidemic in the upper school that parents at first were willing to ignore, hoping it would pass. Only now it is making its way through the ranks, infecting some of the honors students. From my understanding, sexual promiscuity is not the concern, but rather the potential spread of herpes and flesh-eating bacteria and other skin-to-skin ailments that might distort our children’s appearances. Everyone uses extra sanitizer.

  A member of the senior class was rushed to the hospital last week. The parents spread the word that it was the flu, though the nanny chain is telling a different tale that made its way to the Gopa website. The girl, Emily Rosen, overdosed on a peculiar drug becoming more popular with the student body—Luderica, a prescription parents are using for children with stress and depression, and which aids with concentration. There is no mention of the bunnies this morning. A second child was named to the ECI program. This one is no surprise, Whisper Li, his mother being hugged and congratulated as though finally receiving her due for pushing this wonder into the world. She wears a skirt that is far too tight for a woman her age, not to mention one with a prosthetic leg. The beastly thing juts out sideways, her right foot at an awkward angle to the rest of her posture, as though shoving her disability into all our mornings: look at what I’ve accomplished on one leg, when the rest of you bipeds can only rear mediocrity. She is far too peppy this morning, any morning.

  Expecting it was only a matter of time for her son to be named, Sharon Li planned a party for Whisper, which is set for the coming weekend. All the math club families are invited along with the chess community, though Sharon personally called Laura to let her know that an invitation would not be extended to Gus. He makes the grandmothers nervous, and his presence would be a distraction to what should be a celebration of her son’s achievement. To show there are no hard feelings, she ordered two-hundred Standcake pancakes despite the rat dropping rumor she read about on the Gopa website.

  I have kissed the required cheeks and forecasted enough personal weather reports, that I make my way to the auditorium. The theater parents and students have organized into two groups to raise early morning awareness of the approaching play. Iliza and I have been assigned to fliers. When I arrive, Laura gives a slight wave, late for a meeting. My wife has avoided me for the past few weeks, which has included several missed Cooperative Marriage meetings. With me living in the backyard, bathing in the Jacuzzi, our only point of contact is the mug of coffee she sets on the porch each morning. I do not believe she suspects I was involved with the missing lacrosse equipment. But the stress around Moveable Museums, the rumors of pancakes with rat feces, the humiliation of us being the only parents on the chess team not invited to the Li’s party—our distance grows to completion. She is taking the kids for a weekend getaway with Ray McClutchen, not Olivia or Todd or snotty Maddie, or me. She needs to clear her head, discuss things with Ray, keep Gus’s mind off the party.

  It is six weeks before the spring play, which is already sold out. Still we make calls and hand out fliers so it is known that, along with doctors and engineers and athletes and scientists, we also breed solid thespians that appreciate the historic importance of Thornton Wilder in the context of Broadway theater. Parents enrolled at other private schools will call the box office hoping to get tickets to see what they are missing, only to learn they are unavailable. This will create chaos on opening night with theater junkies and jealous parents trying to score tickets on the sidewalk to what will be an indisputably average rendition of Our Town. Iliza and I do not speak as we dangle fliers for passing cars. Tungsten and Allie are halfway down the block, along with parents I do not know, Josey Mateo is on the far side of the street shepherding other students. Drivers do not recognize me as the Channel Fourteen meteorologist, rather just a stumpy father who forgot to comb his hair. Allie Sedlock is the main draw, a skintight dress backing up traffic, while Tungsten smiles and waves.

  I wish I were better looking, more dynamic, able to perform a feat that might draw attention to Iliza. I wish I could summon the playfulness of other parents. I love my daughter more than the sum of all my accomplishments, and it sickens me to stand near her knowing what she does when we are not invading her childhood with assignments and ritualistic improvement. Tungsten, the understudy, is elated with all the honking and excitement, whereas Iliza, the leading lady, is stuck with me, a man who would kill for her honor and yet cannot engage her in polite conversation, cannot dance each time a car honks. Iliza checks her phone.

  “Don’t do that, honey.”

  “Don’t do what?”

  “The phone. You have to be engaged.”

  She sighs. “You can leave. I know you don’t want to be here.”

  “I want to be here.” Iliza has picked up on my disgust. “Shall we go down and stand with the Sedlocks?”

  “No, we shall not.”

  “Can I ask why?”

  Her shoulders slump. She turns to me with revulsion. “Because you smell, Dad. You need a serious bath, maybe throw out that suit. It’s embarrassing.”

  “I’m getting back to my natural odor.”

  “You look homeless.” A car approaches. Iliza dangles a flier, and when the vehicle does not slow, she tosses it into the air gust.

  “Let’s talk then,” I say, lighting a cigarette. “How are things with the play?”

  “Fine. What else did you want to talk about?”

  How about Russ Haverly? How about the possibility of a sex tape, your father looking at a terminal stretch of twenty-five to life, but not before I drain your college fund paying off lawyers? How about Toby Dalton in my kitchen this morning?

  “You excited about this weekend?”

  “Am I excited about being dragged to the middle of bumfuck so that my mother and Ray McClutchen can have an affair without feeling guilty?”

  “Watch your mouth.” I am relieved to hear she does not approve. I could hug her right here on the street, which would be disastrous to her reputation.

  Iliza gives me a tortured look, a long, unpleasant honk, exposing her middle finger to the motorist. “Besides, the only reason I have to go is to keep an eye on Gus who is too weird to be invited to parties and you and mom don’t want him to feel lonely.”

  “That’s not the only reason.” It’s the only reason. “Come on, it will be a hoot.”

  “A hoot? Christ, Dad.” She glances at Tungsten and Allie, beauty pageant contestants to our having snuck in the side door.

  “Your mom and I are just going throu
gh a thing?”

  “This thing,” Iliza says. “Is she sleeping with him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Oh, hell. Who would know, Dad? Who should I ask? Maybe fucking Olivia.”

  “Your mouth, dear, please.”

  “Why can’t you just get a divorce like normal people?”

  Because studies show children raised by divorced parents exhibit antisocial and aggressive episodes. They grow up seeking normalcy only to discover that normal is out of their grasp, that their childhood was a sham, that innocence was robbed from them, creating a hard exterior. Also, we cannot afford a divorce, or to live separately, and neither of us wishes to vacate the Slancy home or the backyard into which I have sunk so much time and money. Also, what would happen to me?

  “I don’t want a divorce.”

  She throws down her fliers. Everyone watches. “Then do something. Tell mom to fuck off about Ray. She’s just doing him to irritate you. Slap the shit out of him for getting involved with mom. Just. Do. Something.”

  One can fail at an athletic feat. One can falter at career. But there should be a different word for when a father fails his children not by what he did, but by what he did not. It is this essential strength I crave within myself—not playfulness, not happiness, but a feral longing to survive—the very reason I researched medication and took Russ Haverly’s offer to obtain Luderica, which has transformed me into a mindless creature with interconnected depths. What I mean to say is that Iliza’s accusation, rather than causing me to experience the failure I know I should, tasks my mind on how everything in my Gopa world is interconnected. Whisper Li does not care for Gus. Therefore Sharon Li disinvited him to the party. This incited Laura to take him and Iliza away for the weekend to cheer his spirits and make Iliza despise me. If Ray fucks my wife and impregnates her this weekend, that little twerp Whisper Li is at fault. But we mustn’t blame children. Where were the parents?

  Flier-less and irate, a Luderica-less stupor, me staring into traffic as I consider the trajectory of the universe, Iliza wanders the block to stand near Tungsten. She receives a hug from her friend, a motherly pat from Allie who offers me a shrug. Alone and weird, I flick the smoke and place a call across the street.

  “Hey, Tom,” Josey says. “Everything okay?”

  “I need a favor.”

  Prosthetic Spoils

  Three days later, during the hours when only crime and psychopathic fitness occur in the predaylight metropolis, the mothers of the Upper East Side head to the Excellcient Fitness Center to exercise and swim. Private school moms are incredibly evolved members of our species, organized and prioritized and able to cycle and bike and swim and micromanage on only five hours of sleep and Russ Haverly’s assistance. I am there but not there, gliding through the motions, following Josey and her crew of self-sufficient hackers through basements and narrow hallways as they point out security cameras to avoid. She introduces me but their millennial-ness escapes me as soon as I hear it. Which is for the best. These are people who do not wish to be remembered, who are here as a favor to Josey and would prefer never to see my kind again.

  There is a large transvestite and a smaller man, angry, with a godlike mullet who seems familiar. Someone named Phil is in charge. They gain access to the fitness center in moments, a series of gadgets and digital readers that pluck the codes from locked doors. Josey introduces me as the Channel Fourteen meteorologist who has delivered a stunning fifty-nine consecutive days of accurate weather forecasts. She tells them I am the author of several clever diatribes on the Gopa website, a forum her crew reads for entertainment. The angry man says he enjoyed my dispatch on physical education, how students do not get enough exercise, that we all end up fat and achy and tired, able to read and calculate equations, but what good are those skills if we lack charisma? He fist bumps me and mentions he does not approve of the way my people are raping civilization, that if sightseers begin loading buses to tour school shooting locales, he will personally burn down my home.

  “I’ve done some sick shit,” Phil says. “But your ethics are off the charts.”

  “We had to get involved because you nearly killed the advice guy by tinkering with his bike,” the mullet says. “You nearly ruined everything.”

  “It was a tricycle,” I say, which makes Phil smile, my tribe on edge. “What do you mean: involved?”

  Josey gets between us, sternly to Phil. “Now’s not the time.”

  “What’s that smell?” the transvestite asks.

  We all sniff. “I’m not using deodorant or shampoo.”

  “You smell like you’re rotting.”

  “From your sins,” Phil adds.

  “We’re in a gym,” the transvestite says. “You could use a shower.”

  “Don’t listen to her.” Another fist bump from the mullet. “I haven’t showered in nine years. Your natural aromas will recalibrate. Fucking tricycles, aye?”

  “Here.” Josey finds the women’s locker room and ducks inside, checking to ensure it is empty, all the mothers burning the hell out of hip looseness and buttocks cellulite. She returns to the hallway and hands me a key. “This will open any locker. Move quick but not too quick. We’ll watch the doors.”

  There is no time to rethink the decision. My hands quake, an epileptic fervor as my tribe strains for grace. I fit the key and rattle open tiny doors. It takes me about twenty lockers until I discover what I am after, removing both the main item and a smaller replica. Just before I shut the locker door, I notice the assortment of toothpastes, deodorants, and a cornucopia of pharmaceuticals. There is an entire bag of Viagra and other erectile dysfunction pills that have not hit market. I imagine Sharon Li rations these at home. I recognize the brown containers, unique to Russ Haverly. There are four bottles that I open to be sure. At least two months of Luderica as I pocket all the drugs.

  In the hallway, I am greeted by a heavy smile from Josey, confusion from the others who notice my bounty: prescription bottles and other paraphernalia. The mullet smiles. I recognize his features. He looks like a miniature Tom Petty, the Sedlocks’ tour guide, a rush of fear crushes me. “Sick, bastard,” he says. “I’m starting to like you, Tom Pistilini.”

  “That’s what we came for?” Phil asks Josey. “What the hell is it?”

  I hold up the prize. “A prosthetic leg.”

  We Shall Know It By Its Meaning

  Laura and Ray’s weekend trip has arrived, for which they will cart along my children but not his. They will attend the lacrosse game in Rye, New York, then continue on to a charming Connecticut town north of the Long Island Sound. My hope is that Gus’s weirdness will ensure they never get the opportunity to desecrate their marriage vows. It pains me as I look over the Doppler that they will be greeted with pleasant skies and intermittent clouds, the perfect climate to sip wine and suck down oysters and stare into one another’s eyes, consider how nice it is not to have me lurking in the backyard. If Clutch McClutchsky gets a look at her breasts, that’s the end of me. After two kids and years of suckling and enough lump scares and needle biopsies, Laura’s breasts remain magnificent, which will keep Ray addicted and devoted. He has more money and zest and all around positive vibes to sustain life’s setbacks and come out a perkier geriatric, a point about Ray I respect.

  My weather assistant has obtained instant celebrity status in the Channel Fourteen newsroom. Penelope Garcia’s outfits have grown smaller as her laughter grows louder. She is constant merriment, throwing back that head of hair, her youthful tits bouncing at a chuckle per second, which everyone enjoys. In only a few weeks, Penelope has garnered an impossible following on social media, sending out my PISSER REPORT to millions of fans. My lack of proper bathing, combined with general fatigue, makes me look like the understudy of our broadcasts, the camera focusing more on Penelope and the ass. “Look at it,” a homosexual assistant tells me. “It never moves when she walks, like con
crete.” It’s a subtle shift, one he could deny if I called him on it, but I know. Whitman knows. Penelope as well. She is complimentary, treating me as the guru of our strange collaboration, pushing on everyone that my forecasts have been accurate a remarkable sixty-one days. She knows about it because of Josey Mateo, my marketing department, who updates the number daily, sending correspondence to Channel Fourteen and our competing news organizations.

  “Oh my, oh me, he do it again!” Penelope screeches—explosive energy sucking the magnetism from the room. She pinches my cheek. “This man is asombroso.”

  It is not me. It is not even the Luderica any longer. I am at war internally, my natives restless for validation, their instincts honed without the use of computer models or radar. I can stare at the sky for a moment and know about wind speed and ultraviolet rays, cumulus clouds and atmospheric pressure. I enjoy the savages, my opposing forces, and would eagerly work out a truce. But there is only so much Tom Pistilini to go around, and they are tiring of the weather besides. Which is good, because the weather is tiring of me.

  My days are numbered. Even as my descriptions of the atmosphere grow crisp and flawless, I sense viewers no longer wish to hear flawless weather. They want playfulness mixed with their disaster, meaning weaved with five-day outlooks. Penelope and I yuck it up and holler across the PISSER REPORT stage, and she hoots and claps and does timely dances when the sun shines or the rain gallops or we come to the bridge where weather and pop culture meet. There is always a bridge, Whitman has explained, a way to make weather and culture and philosophy one, and our playfulness must find it.

  The Luderica has dragged out playfulness from my psyche, even more so once I am restocked with Sharon Li’s supply. Her pills are newer, the chemistry more advanced, as if Russ was pushing the beta versions on me and saving the quality stuff for other parents. I have altered my chemical composition so many times that occasionally the cloud coverage evaporates, erasing my default doom, allowing me to enjoy the cathartic cynicism of Lustfizzle, an ability to relay the world’s murder with a wink and an elbow. But I no longer wish to summon the playfulness that daily headlines, even the PISSER REPORT, require. A father of two children, I am obsessed with the dangers in the world, fraught with worry at each new broadcast.