Therapy Mammals

by Jon Methven

  She apologizes for Teddy’s manners. “He’s been grouchy today.”

  That’s because he’s a little asshole. I can sense it in his pampered posture. As I stare at Teddy’s soft features, I know I want six more of my own. I cannot even protect the two I have from ungodly humanity, but I crave a third and fourth Teddy.

  “Whats-a-whats-a-whats-a-matter with little Teddy Weddy Woo, huh?” I cannot remember which end of the spectrum we have settled on this month, cooing and fawning or adult sophistication. I do a bit of both. “He just needs a bout of tumbling, don’t you young person?”

  “I’m sure that’s it.” The mother turns the stroller away and hands him a rice cookie, which he deposits on the floor.

  Teddy’s mood is all of our moods. The body of Russ Haverly was pulled out of the harbor last night, drifting in the opposite direction of the boat. The sidewalk is filled with flowers and candles and placards of remembrance for Gopa’s unsung drug dealer. Despite the harsh murder conditions worldwide this morning, a dead body in the Hudson earned decent coverage, news vans stretched across the street watching the mourners stream in for the day’s education. Bill Chuck and Lieutenant Misch came to the house last night to tell me the news. Awful, just awful, I kept repeating, Misch asking me the same questions. Even though they have not said as much, as the last person seen with Russ Haverly, I am a suspect. I have an upstanding reputation as a meteorologist and a fairly adequate record as a father. I also have intuition, brought on by consumption of the new Luderica pills, that Lieutenant Misch has warmed to me. He does not give a damn about Russ Haverly. He despises our elitism, our people living on a manufactured island, a golf course in the backyard, foldable bicycles and lagoons and private school. He knows by now Russ was dealing drugs, that the underworld connected its sticky tentacles to our constituent, and one of us, perhaps me, had to slice it off.

  A small shrine has been assembled in the lobby. Candles, lacrosse balls, a jersey, photographs, white boards markered with nostalgia. I try to recall the moment things flipped and I crushed his skull with a four-iron. Did I intend to kill him? Because a jury will want to know. Did I leap into the frigid water to rescue him or to finish the job? How did I steer the boat without maritime skills? How did I get back home to Slancy? Was it justice or an overreaction, backlash from the very chemical enhancements Russ Haverly was providing?

  For the lacrosse community, their worst fears have been realized. When the boat washed up nearly a month ago, only the most ignorant optimists could believe Russ Haverly had swum to shore and would crawl back into our lives to put together a winning streak. Everyone hugs and cries, the tragedy pulling us closer. The lacrosse season has been canceled, which is just as well. Under assistant coach Hunter Herman, the Gopa Worthy have dropped their last five games. It is a relief to be able to blame everything on death, which many are calling a homicide even though the police have not made that designation.

  The atmosphere is too much for Harry Sedlock who emerges from the lobby to wander the sidewalk. He has lost more than the rest of us, an investor and an ally at a critical juncture, a childhood friend with demons Harry knew too well. I join him, placing the non-cigarette hand on his shoulder and pat it twice.

  “Appreciate that, Pisser.” I offer him a smoke, but he declines. “Shitty thing is I knew this was coming. Soon as he went missing.”

  “Sad day.” I blow into the sky, letting the pining May sun ignite my skin. The trees have a mystical look, branchy faces screaming at the heavens, yelping over the smoke and congestion and fumes, begging something out there to send backup. “He was one of us,” I say.

  Harry’s eyes are tired and red, tears and late nights, also worry and panic and planning and devotion and financial trembles. He only thinks about one thing these days, Moveable Museums, all our money tied up in it, our homes and children and lifestyles. The Luderica, coupled with the nicotine and caffeine, often invades my hearing so that everything becomes background noise. While my tribe hears Harry speak, his voice is there for convenience, something we listen to while concentrating on the trees. He speaks about our investment, about how sure he is of success as my people watch the screeching branches blow smoke, feel the eyes of the lacrosse parents upon us, wondering what happened. Do they suspect us? This is no time for cowardice, Harry says, we have to pull together as a community, buckle down, not let political correctness corrupt our business sense. Harry is in apparent mourning, which means arguing is poor form. Our investment has little to do with political correctness, we telepathically inform the trees. It is about right and wrong, and Harry is talking himself into the center of things, trying to convince us of the principles of our initiative, the responsibility he and I as entrepreneurs have to educate the rest of the world about the importance of gun control. This is about money, my tribe revolting, and the trees go on screaming, and Harry reminds us of the dozen journalists coming to look at our project. He will not use murder culture enthusiasts on the sidewalk outside the private school where he sends his children, but that is what they are. My tribe beats wooden sticks against the tin floor of my conscience, whomp whomp whomp, let us out.

  The cigarette burns down to my fingers. My other hand shakes Harry’s. My phone buzzes. I am caught in the shadow of Josey’s inked frame on the far side of the glass. She watches Harry and I, standing near Lieutenant Misch who tips a chin toward the window. It is clear from their proximity, the familiarity of their closeness.

  “Tonight at Mimic,” the voice says on a delay, the mechanics of her mouth through the glass preceding sound, a time travel wormhole.

  “I have that thing tonight you helped me with earlier,” I say.

  “After your thing. Bar on Seventeenth. Remember not to drink the wine.”

  Jammy With An Earthy Finish

  Historically, uprisings have begun on the doorsteps of power—storming of the Bastille, the jungles of Cuba. If we ever get around to a class war in America, wine tastings are a good place to initiate the first blows. They are equipped with menacing pretension, a caustic exclusionary vibe from people who can afford to sip privilege out of tiny glasses, swirling and admiring and kissing cheeks. Tonight’s event is held at the Gopa school, an occasion we could not possibly cancel just because a friend and faculty member was pulled lifeless from a local harbor. I imagine the front wall of windows exploding inward as bandanna-wearing rebels shimmy down ropes, machine guns over their shoulders on straps similar to Ray McClutchen’s fold-up urban trike, and me, the only one armed with a BB gun as I decide whether to defend my brood or join the revolution.

  The tasting doubles as a benefit for Last Course, an organization that provides dessert for the homeless, a sweetening to the appeal of poverty. Both Laura and I sit on the planning board of this wine tasting, for which I spent much of last night opening and then resealing hundreds of wine bottles. We donate old pancakes to Last Course, which distributes them to the homeless along with crusty pastries, expired ice cream, gelatinized cannoli, and other near-molding delicacies.

  Parents have fallen into their proper circles—Manhattan with Manhattan, Brooklyn with Brooklyn, Slancy with Slancy. We island dwellers avoid tense talk around Moveable Museums and steer toward the gentle discourse of Russ Haverly’s body. Selections to the ECI program have been put on hold in honor of the coach’s confirmed death, which has led to several discussions on the Gopa website. Who will replace Russ on the ECI committee? How long will this delay announcements? Will sympathy skew the results toward lacrosse players, Olivia offers, and if so does it speak well of the minority players? She only speaks of one minority benchwarmer, her boring kid Todd, who is only half minority.

  “I expect Damian will get in,” Jackson says. “I’m less certain of Rhythm.”

  “She’s made great strides,” Jason says. “Why are you so down on Rhythm?”

  “It’s because she’s white,” I say, uttering what Jackson would never relay to a divers
e crowd. I am referring to a post I read on a message board, which I wrote, that says white students have a disadvantage in the ECI selection because of a communal burden to conform to political correctness. “Jackson is right. No way Rhythm gets in.”

  “Fuck you, Pisser,” Jason says.

  I have angered Jackson as well. “Yes, Pisser, fuck off. You’re ruining the evening.”

  Personally, I would prefer that all eighteen spots be filled based on merit. Rory Stokes, Vietnamese or Malaysian, was a bullshit pick because his father likely funded the entire program. Begrudgingly, Whisper Li earned his spot, although I feel he was chosen ahead of more capable students, including Damian, based on pressure from his mother’s clique. Mostly, I just want to get under Olivia’s skin and see if I can eradicate that accent.

  This conversation creeps up often enough, our skin color conflicting with our tribal goal as parents. Typically, I bring a stable of rehearsed arguments, only to be overrun by firmer policy from Jackson and Olivia. That was before the Luderica made me crazy brave. Before the savages raided my innards as I try to sip wine and simultaneously contain this war. My creatures do not want a class war. They do not want a race war or a nation war or a religious war. They are the worthy. Their desire is a war of the reputable versus the fallen, and they have taken me hostage. I often wonder why I carry a weapon. It is to protect my family from people like me.

  “I would expect a remark like that from you,” Olivia says, sipping, pronouncing it re-mahk. “You don’t know what it’s like where I come from—”

  “You come from Long Island. Private schooling. Country clubs.”

  “—having to prove yourself day in and day out,” she says, threatening a weep, accent gone, “to Neanderthals who do not understand the white privilege they inherited simply by being born into a lottery.”

  “You’ve never worked a day in your life,” I say

  It escalates quickly. One of the lacrosse fathers has wandered over to take Olivia’s side, consoling her along with Devin Brenner. Ray stays out of it, as does Harry. Allie offers Laura a squirt of disinfectant and they concentrate on their hygiene. Others watch from their circles, eager to see if this is the culmination when someone finally gets physical with me. Up until this point, we parents have been stabbing each other silently on the Gopa message boards, but I feel their licks elsewhere. Boycotts of Standcake. Rumors that I do not understand meteorology and plagiarize my prognostications. A petition, intercepted by Josey Mateo, to have me banned from school grounds. It is the reason I snuck in to the school last night, and, along with Josey and Little Petty, opened two-hundred bottles of wine, spilled out the top inch, and filled each with enema discharge. The things I have done for these people. They talk about defending their children. I have murdered for all of our children.

  “…living off the tripe your husband passes off as inspiration.”

  The lacrosse father. “You are out of line, sir.”

  “…white men account for seventy percent of the suicides in this country.”

  “Someone get security.”

  “…blamed for constant injustice by pushy liberals who want everything handed to them and when they don’t get it, it’s the white guy’s fault.”

  Laura now, “Tom, will you shut up please?”

  “…the things I’ve done for you people. All you people.”

  “The weather?” Olivia looks around our circle for support. “Hah!” If she only knew.

  “By gawd, he smells.” Another lacrosse father, “He’s drunk. Get him out of here.”

  Little Petty is screwing a woman who works at a spa that provides colonic therapy. Not knowing exactly what he would use it for, he told her to preserve some of the enema runoff in gallon milk jugs, which adds a subtle earthiness to the vintage. I left the Malbecs and Syrahs ass-juice free, and up until now I have been concerned with ensuring Laura does not ingest the cabernet. The bottle I am holding was the end of Little Petty’s batch, when the concoction grew flaky.

  “Perhaps I was overserved.” I put up my hands, admitting defeat, and pour Olivia another glass. Devin sticks his glass forward, as do Harry and Allie. “A toast,” I say.

  “Yes,” Harry agrees. “To all of us and our investment.”

  “To Last Course,” Laura adds.

  “And to the children,” I say. “May they all know a friendlier tomorrow.”

  We sip. Devin examines his glass. Olivia swirls her nectar, shoving her nose into the goblet. “It’s nice,” she says.

  I top her off. I am less agitated now but it’s too late, a parent having pointed me out to security. It’s just as well. I have someplace to be.

  “And stay out,” one of the lacrosse fathers mentions at the door. “Take a shower why don’t you.”

  Imperialists Of Youth And Idealism

  The establishment is in the basement of a gaudy hotel that caters to a subculture of bleached hair and questionable fashion. It sells tacos to tourists during the day, and at night is transformed into a dive club without bouncers or velvet ropes. A single bartender manages eight feet of real estate, a small scaffold that serves as a stage. Two musicians belt out cover songs that sound oddly familiar to the music emitted from behind Iliza’s bedroom door. The man, handlebar mustache, plays a guitar while the girl dances and hums into a microphone. The band’s name is The Elevators.

  Josey is seated at a corner table with her crew, about which she has leaked few details during our evening fires. I met them before, during our theft of Sharon Li’s prosthetic legs. It appears from their postures that they already do not care for me. I am the opposition—a privileged homeowner, opposed to their youth and rectitude, which permits living rent-free in an abandoned grocery store. Linda is the large transvestite of unknown ethnicity. Little Tom Petty seems on a perpetual diet or bender. Phil is in charge, an ex-boyfriend of Josey’s who may or may not be working himself back into the rhythms of her affection. He strikes me as a Harvard graduate posing as a rebel to complete a doctoral thesis. He has small eyeglasses that age him, a T-shirt that reads Words. He conceals a condescending procession of eye maneuvers, though I have a teenaged daughter and speak fluent eye roll. Phil is trying to rough me up with gesture.

  Linda stands in line for a living. She runs a service where people can text her to wait outside clubs or theaters or shoe sales hours before an event begins and, for a fee, can show up just as the doors open and swap spots. Phil is a mechanic at a bowling alley. Currently, Little Petty earns a meager salary as a tour guide where he spies on the Sedlocks and Moveable Museums. “Horse bones make the hardest knives,” he explains, showing me his weapon and asking for a look at my BB gun, which he does not return. They pool their wages for living expenses and to support various initiatives, which until this evening Josey has been kind enough to exclude me from.

  When life falls out of balance and order and discipline transform into lawlessness, you permit the universe to commit resources that fill the failure with chaos. Human beings depend on chaos to develop. Every great feat or invention was born out of failure, out of a need to fill the void with pandemonium. In my case, the transformation comes from Josey Mateo. She is not an ally who enjoys me because I read the weather properly, though she did send a new round of correspondence to Channel Fourteen earlier this week mentioning the unprecedented sixty-plus days of perfect weather coverage. She is not a theater junkie interested in taking my daughter under her wing. If she likes Iliza, it is a secondary notion to her involvement in my life.

  Josey and Phil and Little Petty and Linda are activist hackers, cyberterrorists in certain circles. Having graduated from hacking the websites of hate groups and religious movements, into infiltrating banks’ emails and making the findings public, they have settled on a new campaign. Word has come out about Moveable Museums’ foray into a mass shooting tourism business. Their intention is to destroy it and anyone who gets in the way. Quiet
, Dominican Josey covered in therapy ink to seem pathetic and lost, is nothing of the sort. She is calculating, having taken the job as an administrative assistant at Gopa to gain access into our lives—the Sedlocks and McClutchens and Ferrises and Pistilinis. She studies our spending habits on VillageShop. Watches our interactions on the Gopa portal. Knows our marriage banters, fallouts with faculty members, how often we visit the Manhattan Cryobank. Befriends a member of the Moveable Museums investment club, dopey, sad me, to report back to her crew.

  “No compromise. We will destroy this business no matter the repercussions.” Phil tells me this as he sips a ginger ale. “You will lose your investment whether you help or not. If you go to the police, or tell the others, it only prolongs the inevitable.”

  “Tom won’t snitch,” Little Petty says. He spent nearly a year infiltrating the Sedlocks’ trust, their most loyal employee. “Tom wants a way out.”

  “Tom will find certain police friendly to him,” Josey says, eyes on her skin as she inks a giraffe with a lion’s face. “Tom needs friendship.”

  “We weren’t planning to approach you, just let you rot like the others,” Phil says. “Then you nearly killed the advice guy with that bike stunt. We think he might be an ally, even if he is fucking your old lady.”

  The clouds lift, my role clear. They may not know the extent of my involvement with Russ Haverly, or Toby Dalton, or the photographs of my daughter, or if I was trying to kill Ray McClutchen or just maim him. I am certain one of these people leaked the details of Moveable Museums to Lieutenant Misch, and his reluctance to investigate me is a result of my cooperation. My heartbeat is too rapid. I can feel the blackout approach. I need Luderica, water, something wet, an escape. The tribe bellows from my throat, slamming pitchforks into moist fields, the scents of feral wretchedness in my perspiration that sully my composure. Phil blinks. Josey draws on her wrist, eyes avoiding mine, as though she has accidentally seated herself at the wrong table. I check over my shoulder for a waiter, but a cocktail is not forthcoming.