VII.
Audra’s voice sounded even more resolute than usual over the phone. None of the hedging “likes” and “you knows” that cripple the sentence structure of every other American kid. None of the declarative statements ending in a vocal question mark.
Come to think of it, I say “like” and “you know” a lot. Well, screw it. Mangling the language keeps me young.
“Audra,” I said, “not to nitpick, but I didn’t ‘steadfastly refuse’ to sign the petition. I simply said, “No, thanks.” If your dad wants to circulate a petition, it’s his right. Just as it’s my right to decline to sign it. Yes, I completely disagreed with him. But there was no hostility. At least, no open hostility.”
“Was there under-the-surface hostility?”
“Oh, Audra.”
“What?”
“Nothing, Audra. I guess I find it annoying how hard it is for me to lie to you.”
Commie, can your primitive nervous system flirt on its own? I called Audra as if it were a chore. But in two seconds, intimacy slipped out on its own.
“You’re probably a shitty liar anyhow.”
“I’m getting better at it. The truth is, when your father told my daughter that she must be vigilant about anti-Semitism, there was a part of me that wanted to snap his head off.”
“He told your daughter what?”
I should have known she wouldn’t have heard that part of the story. I recounted the omitted section of the conversation with Nat and, over the phone, could feel his daughter’s nervous system cranking up to Def Con One.
“I don’t believe he said that. I do not believe he said that!”
“Audra, please. Alyse very clearly explained our point of view on this, so there’s no need for you to lay into him.”
Commie, you notice how many times I say the word “Audra” when I talk to her? That’s another kind of flirting, isn’t it? I always liked it when girls spoke to me and said my name. That, and when they’d make a point of touching my arm. Greatest things in the world.
“Audra, I hope you’re not planning to confront your father over this. It’s not worth it, believe me. My wife and I already made him feel bad enough about it. Just let it go.”
“Okay,” Audra said. “I won’t say anything about it. But the only way I can do that is to make some excuse for not showing up tomorrow night for Hanukkah, because, if I go and see my father, I don’t think I’ll be able to keep my mouth shut.”
“Audra, I think you’re old enough to miss the lighting of the Hanukkah candles.”
“Yeah, probably. I wonder if I’ll get to a point in my life where I can convince myself to ‘let it go.’ Every quote-unquote adult is constantly saying that to me: ‘Let it go.’”
“Well, Audra, hopefully that’s one of the few things we’re right about.”
“If you decide in the next 24 hours that you’re wrong,” Audra said, “please let me know. Email or text me and just write, DON’T LET IT GO.”
The call lasted maybe five minutes. The second I hung up, a text beeped for my attention.
Talked 2 pinkie-less kid. Admits he held Bose headsets over dog’s ears, cranked ‘Holla Back Girl.’ Dog freaked, bit pinkie.
Commie.
I texted back:
That’s a great song. What’s the fucking dog’s problem?
You texted back:
Only u would say that. Gotta run 2 court. Late 4 hearing.
I loved that you remembered me as having a unique point of view. It just made me happy. I immediately went to Sylvia’s desk and asked her to call my kids’ schools and find out when spring break was so I could start looking into flights for the family to Grand Cayman.
So long as we’re on the subject of me and you: The second I looked down at my phone and saw the text was from you, I had this weird little rush of memory. It was as if all of my old familiarity with you came back through Verizon, because, before I even read the text, I thought that if you were contacting me in the middle of the day like this, it must be something really good. And, sure enough, it was really good. As much as I watch cop shows, I never saw the kid’s confession coming. Anyway, just sensing that your text would be a doozy says something, doesn’t it? Maybe all it says is that I remembered that you’ve never been boring.
Even now, you’re more interesting than most.
(Another lame joke.)
Yeah, I know. I never run out.
Of course, now, in retrospect, it’s the last line of that final text you sent me—Late 4 hearing—that sticks with me.
If I had typed my text a tiny bit faster or used the shorthand that everyone else uses, maybe Commie would have gotten to court a few seconds earlier and the hearing would have started a few seconds earlier and ended a few seconds earlier and he would have gotten out of court a few seconds sooner and . . .
I know, I know. It’s just a reflex: an obsessive, useless, morbid, self-destructive reflex. I wish I could get a prosthetic nervous system. Just order up a whole new set of instincts.
Seems unlikely. What can I say? I ain’t no Harlem black girl.
I left the office at 12:30 to eat and to buy Charlie’s Hanukkah gift. The stores would be packed, I knew, so I downed two slices of pizza as quickly as I could.
Beat Down Sports Gear was less packed than I’d expected, but it still maintained a packed attitude. Shoppers grabbed at merchandise without a trace of holiday spirit. Or maybe that is the holiday spirit. Get yours before it’s someone else’s. The only evident good cheer was the store’s physical decorations—menorahs and dreidels under blue and white lights fighting it out with Santas and plastic trees under red and green lights.
Did I mention that I hate holidays? Not just the holidays, but holidays, as in all of them. Any day that feels out of the ordinary makes me edgy. I’m at peace with the boredom of everydayness. In fact, I’m pretty much at peace with boredom. Boredom implies that everything’s okay. No crises going on; no one in bad health; no festering dilemmas. What’s bad about that? Sometimes I’ll be reading a book and, when I realize I’ve been staring at the same page for a half hour, I feel great. My mind’s been given free rein to float, and it’s taken full advantage. Those glazed reveries are when I have my best thoughts. Not that I have any major use for those thoughts. A lot of the stuff I’ve been throwing out to you has come out of those mental space walks. Of course, you may not necessarily agree that’s an upside.
I went overboard on buying hockey stuff. Pads, sticks, jerseys, masks, gloves, pucks—you name it. The teenage sales clerk must have been working on commission because, every time I said, “Okay, I’ll take that,” he’d grab it up and say, “Sweet!” He did an impressive job of hauling all the merchandise in one trip over to check-out. As he reached out to start entering his employee ID number into the computer, his sleeve rode up his arm to reveal a tattoo that read, in blue, Times Roman Bold, Italic, 18-point, all capitalized letters:
OH SHIT!!!
Were we ever that openly profane? We said every word in the book, sure, but permanently etching them into our skin? I don’t think so.
Jesus, listen to me. I sound like Fred Mertz.
Did I ever tell you that during my junior year of high school, I worked in a women’s shoe store on Main Street in Flushing? The place was owned by a widow in her early fifties named Blanche Diamond. She’d come in once or twice a week to look things over. Mostly it was just a thirty-five-ish manager named Ted Something, a sixty-ish salesman named Sam Something and, in the afternoons, me. Ted was my first contact with unbridled raunchiness. He’d look outside the store to check the foot traffic and report back, “Motherfucker, there’s not a swinging dick on the street.” When Blanche would stop by, Ted would watch her leave, then turn to Sam and me, and say, “Jesus, did you catch the smell of Blanche’s box? Someone’s gotta tell her that even if her old man kicked off,
she’s still gotta wash out her box when she takes a fucking bath.” Sam would cough out his Lucky Strike laugh. I’d try to smile like I was one of the boys even though I was usually somewhere between horrified and disgusted. You spend all those years in elementary school, junior high, and high school sitting in classrooms, your mind drifting out through the huge windows and imagining what wonders are going on in the outside world. But when you finally get to experience a sample of it, it’s appalling beyond your darkest dreams.
Next to the shoe store, college was a relief. Scuzz Lehman used to stick his head out the window of the frat and yell, “Yo, Snatch!” at girls passing by. Nice. And, at the first mixer I ever attended—in fact, the first time I’d ever even heard the word “mixer”—I heard our semi-sadistic pledge master, Bonk Berger, say to a girl, “Well, Barbara, if you’re not gonna ball me, I’m gonna mingle.” That was somewhat eye-opening. Otherwise, I don’t remember things being overly gross. Even the standard misogyny was pretty mild. “I wouldn’t fuck her with your dick” was a little rough. But mostly it was stuff like, “I wouldn’t throw her out of bed.”
“The expression is, ‘I wouldn’t kick her out of bed.’”
Really? Kick her out of bed? Oh yeah . . . I guess you’re right, Commie.
Commie?
Holy shit!
You’re out of it? Can you open your eyes? Say something else!
Oh, shit! Is there a button to push?
I’ll get the nurse and be right back!
Oh—don’t tell anyone about Jenji McKenna and my whacking . . . okay?
Nurse!
SUNDAY NOW
I.
Hey, I’m back. How you doing?
Mm. I spoke to Alyse last night and, God bless her, she thought it was great that I’d blown off the seminars yesterday to hang with you. Then, just from listening to me, she sensed that I hadn’t eaten. Can you believe it? Over the phone, she knew I was light on basic human nutrients.
I spoke to the kids. Esme was going bowling with friends. She started liking to bowl only after I bought her bowling shoes of her own. The idea of renting shoes already worn by a thousand other girls grossed her out. So, I guess being the daughter of a podiatrist has had an impact.
Charlie, who has tons of friends, was staying home with Alyse and trying to make sense of math. He’s been having a rough time with it and it really bugs him. Alyse goes with total honesty and tells him that some subjects come easier than others and that, for the tougher ones, you just have to put in more effort. Then Charlie gets that worried look on his face (the one he inherited from me) and Alyse will call his teacher and ask her not to give Charlie the impression that her teachings are overly important.
Alyse is tough. And funny. She said this morning, “Someday, Charlie’s gonna go to college and graduate Omega Cum Laude.”
That cracked me up. Then Alyse said, “Get something to eat.”
“I will.”
“I love you.”
“I love you.”
I went to Chamberlain’s Seafood Bistro all by myself. Usually I’d be self-conscious about eating dinner alone in a restaurant, but I think I went in too self-conscious to be self-conscious. I’m sure you’ve been to Chamberlain’s. It got a strong Zagat rating and the people eating there seemed like they could be friends of yours. Some definitely fit my mother’s description of Charleston’s “very active” Jews. The service was lousy. Amazing how waitresses develop that ability to look past you when you want their attention. It took a half hour to get my entrée, which was a trout with its head still attached. Trying to be cool, I pointed at the fish and said to the waitress, “Look, it’s a classic fish-out-of-water story.”
I think humor is more important to people in New York than in the rest of the country.
I got back to the hotel around 9:30 and drifted into the bar. I don’t know why. The first person I saw was Phil Burton, the guy who’d been so hot to give me updates on Richie Waddle’s nervous breakdown. Phil was hitting on a woman who reps Prince tennis racquets. Phil Burton, a guy who looks like a slightly more mobile version of Steven Hawking, gets a weekend away from his uptight pigeon of a wife and he thinks he’s got a shot with some tall, ex-varsity doubles player from Knoxville. Remember my idea for government-issued “YOU ARE OUT OF THE GAME” cards?
Phil should have gotten his card at 12.
“Hey! Where have you been? You missed all the seminars today.”
Phil introduced me to Darby Hinkle, his wet dream girl.
“I was with my friend in the hospital.”
“Wait. You were with Waddle?”
“No. Waddle’s back in Philadelphia having cheese steak with a side of thorazine.”
Darby Hinkle laughed. It was nice. I made a girl laugh.
“I was with someone else at a different hospital. My old college roommate. He lives down here. He’s in a persistent vegetative state.”
“A what?”
“He’s in a fucking coma, Phil.”
Darby laughed again. Maybe she just found it funny that I was zinging this little twerp who’d had the nerve to hit on her.
Anyway, Commie, I didn’t know why I was giving information about you to this douche bag and the tennis girl. But I got a glass of Pinot Noir and told them even more.
I told them about what happened earlier in the day.
“Oh my goodness,” Darby said, all wide-eyed. “That’s intense.”
Burton sniffed, clearly put off by the shift in Darby’s attention. “Sounds pretty nuts to me.”
Without taking my eyes off Darby, I said, “No. A doctor assured me it’s common for someone who spends a lot of time talking to a coma victim to imagine the other side of the conversation, then reach the point of believing the coma victim has responded. It happens to the very sanest of people, like me.”
After a hush, Darby asked how you got in the coma.
I said, “From watching ESPN.”
I just didn’t feel like talking anymore.
I knocked off my wine, threw some cash down, and said good night to Burton and Darby.
Looking back, I think I could have fucked her.
Just kidding. Christ, she was like 5’11” with legs up to here. She’d have probably snapped my helmet right off.
If you woke up now and said, “I wouldn’t kick her out of bed,” it would be really funny.
Didn’t think so.
You know, last night when I thought you talked? As I ran out to find a nurse, I thought that maybe I’d found the cure for Persistent Vegetative State and I was going to win the Nobel or something. For his discovery of the Bore-the-Crap-Out-of-the-Coma-Victim Remedy, we honor . . .
Of course, part of me thought your awakening was too good to be true. But usually all of me thinks things are too good to be true, so I was still pretty excited.
Look, my flight is in a few hours and, even though last night took a little of the starch out of my story-telling desire, I don’t want to leave you hanging.
Where was I?
Oh. Beat Down Sports Gear. Jesus, the whole economy is so in-your-face. There’s that other big sportswear brand now: Under Armour. Their commercials make it look like you’re supposed to suit up to kill Catholics at Shea Stadium.
Whatever. The place was convenient, so I took my Amex for a spin and bought Charlie all that hockey stuff.
You know, I believe in advertising even less than most people seem to. The only commercials that ever worked in my eyes were for Charmin toilet paper—Mr. Whipple changed the face of ass-wiping. But now? Paying for thirty seconds on shows that everyone TiVo’s? It’s got to be a con game between the TV stations, the ratings people, and the advertisers.
And, speaking of economic bullshit, I went on the Internet back at my office. I Googled Hilton Head to find a local newspaper and see if there was a verdict in
your dog case. I was about to call you, but then I thought maybe you were in the courtroom and I imagined your cell going off and the judge getting pissed off, disbarring you and ruining your career. That’s how thoughtfully paranoid I am. The Hilton Head Island Times site had nothing new about the case. They did have a lead story about the late Indian summer that drove the local temperature into the 80s, breaking a record set in 1932. It hadn’t been that hot in over 70 years That. One. Day.
It’s too much to even think about.
I surfed off the Island Times and back to the main AOL page, where there was a photo of an actress in an “unflattering” bikini. When Alyse and I lived in the city, sometimes we’d go to a newsstand and browse. That was the evening’s activity. We’d talk and laugh about the articles. It was so much fun. We called it Rag Night.
“What are we doing Saturday night?”
“I thought maybe we’d just do Hunan Balcony, then a Rag Night.”
Around 1982, at the newsstand on 72nd and Broadway, there was a total Yuppie-fied guy with an Akita, and a homeless guy said to him, “Hey man, you got an Akita.” The Yuppie ignored him and kept reading Fortune. But the homeless guy went on and on about how Akitas are from Japan and they’re real expensive and they weigh 150 pounds, until, finally, the Yuppie walked away and the homeless guy screamed out, “Akita!”
The dog freaked, jumping and spinning around. And the homeless guy said, “They know their names too!”
Man, what a great city. I can’t believe you never lived in New York, Commie. You’d have loved it. Of course, you spent time in Beirut, Johannesburg, Sarajevo, Berlin, and Bhopal. Every time you told me you were in one of those places, I’d think to myself: Does every hotspot need American lawyers?
Anyway, I guess I’m stalling a little before telling you one of the more disturbing or scary moments in the story.
Hey, remember I told you that Meri’s Civil War freak husband quoted Aristotle about how trauma can make a man a monster? I looked that up last night. Aristotle never said anything close to that. The guy put phony quotes in the mouth of a Greek philosopher! I almost admire it. Such a nervy way to sound smart. And you can do it constantly.
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