Family Affair

by Caprice Crane

  “We normally like to meet with the pets and people a week before the photo shoot, so we can get a feel for the animals—their personalities, and also their relationships with their owners,” Trish inserts. “This type of same-day deal isn’t our norm.” She wasn’t so pleased when I okayed the shoot a half hour earlier, but the couple sounded so desperate that I didn’t want to let them down. Now, with her curiosity boiling out about PETCO, she is en fuego.

  “Anyway,” I deflect again, “who do we have here?”

  The man clears his throat. “This is Lucinda. That’s Cally. Hermes. Rocco. Dante. And that’s Wilhelmina.”

  “Are they allowed treats?” I ask, reaching for the cookie jar.

  “No!” both the man and woman shout simultaneously, with a conjoined look that’s like a hot curling iron held at my throat. I immediately withdraw.

  “As I was saying,” the woman huffs. She pats Hermes. At least I think it’s Hermes, but they all moved, so it could be Wilhelmina. “The animal communicator told us that our babies feel left out. Very left out. They want to be on holiday cards. They feel that as family members it is a slap in the snoot for them to not be included in our annual photo session.”

  “So wait,” Trish interjects. “You take pictures of you and your children each year? And make those into cards?”

  “These are our children,” corrects the woman, as she gestures toward the dogs.

  “Of course they are,” I say.

  “Okay. Wait, wait. So, you guys take pictures of just the two of you? And you send those out every year as holiday cards?”

  “That’s what they said, Trish,” I remark a little more aggressively before turning back to the couple. “I totally understand how they feel. And we will rectify that immediately. This year, these gorgeous creatures will be opening at a mailbox near you! Right, Lucinda?”

  “That’s Dante,” says the father. Dammit, the dogs moved again.

  “Could you excuse us for a minute?” Trish asks the Skinnys, and before she even gets a response, she drags me into the next room—which is perfectly fine with me, as my brain is itching because I’m so desperate to tell her the incredible news.

  “Spill!” she demands.

  “They want to franchise TLC Paw Prints booths across the country, starting with a five-store pilot!” I squeal. “We have to get them a prototype.”

  “Shut the fuck up,” Trish says.

  “What, I’m going to joke about something like that?”

  “Shut the fuck up,” she says again, and then again, though it’s clear she doesn’t want me to shut up at all. She starts to beg for every detail, right down to how they said the word pilot.

  TLC stands for Trish and Layla’s Canine Photography, and even though we’ve branched out to cats and bunnies and the occasional ferret, we are predominantly dog photographers. Plus, tender loving care is exactly what we deliver while readying Sparky for his close-up. We’d been pitching PETCO to let us set up a Paw Prints photo booth—one single booth—in one of their stores to see how it would go over, and unbeknownst to us, they’d done some test-market research that went over like gangbusters. Now they wanted to try out the concept regionally, and possibly franchise hundreds of them. Using our name. All we have to do is get together a prototype and some loans to cover start-up expenses.

  “Holy fuckin’ shit,” Trish says, as she backs up from me, shaking her head in disbelief. “We’re huge.”

  “Easy there, big fella,” I urge. “We’re not huge. We have an amazing business opportunity being presented to us. But one step at a time.”

  “Layla?” Trish says, in a tone that means I’m about to be reprimanded. “This is one of those times we’ve talked about. Where you celebrate in the moment. This is a victory. This is not something to be cautious about, this is not something to decide later if you are happy about, and this is not something that is going to be taken away from you. This is an amazing moment. Now start jumping up and down and fucking act like you just franchised your business across the fucking country, because you did.”

  “Oh my God!” I scream as it really sinks in, and we jump up and down together. But then the dogs start barking—all except Rocco, for some reason (I can tell Rocco from the rest because of his lazy eye)—and I have to go back out and calm the Skinnys down. It occurs to me while watching them that they could easily be the kind of people who can eat anything they want, as much of it as they want, and then burn it all off in fifteen minutes just by being so uptight.

  But what am I doing being catty? I’m more of a dog person—one who will soon have photo booths across the country! It’s nice to have something you’ve worked so hard to achieve come to fruition. I should be happy in the moment—and just be glad I got where I was pointed.

  brett

  Trouble in paradise. Particularly today.

  A wandering eye has never been my problem. My eye doesn’t wander, really; it stays put in my skull. Which is not to say that into my field of vision does not occasionally cross an obstruction—something or someone it’s nearly impossible to see through, around, or beyond. So I look. But only accidentally.

  There’s a new SID (sports information director) at UCCC. She’s basically the PR point person. Forget the fact that she’s in my direct line of vision, there’s worse news: She has particularly perky tits. And she’s on my practice field. That means forty-five boners just popped, and I have to reprimand my football team for ogling these breasts, which are pointing and waving at us, Hey! Over here! Ogle me! Well, maybe not the “ogle me” part, but definitely the “Hey! Over here!” part.

  I knew there was potential trouble when I first found out that Hot Girl was not, in fact, just some random chick, but instead the newest member of our staff. Yes, Hot Girl was actually Hot SID, which sounds just a bit too close to STD for my taste, which is maybe for the best. I ignored her in the cafeteria the first time I saw her, because I find it’s better to avoid cleavage that doesn’t belong to my wife.

  Her name is Heather. Of course it is. I find that name’s the perfect blend of nice suburban girl with “She can do what with her what?” This girl is way too pretty, and certainly a liability around the football field. You try to preempt staring under these circumstances, to perfect the casual glance that takes her in but doesn’t linger too long, as if she’s just another streetlamp, but in fact she’s a ten-car pileup headed by a rolled-over semi loaded with melons. And the doors have popped open. And they’re spilling all over the road.

  “No gawking,” I hypocritically bark at my guys. “Anyone looks anywhere but at the ass of the guy in front of him, you’ll drop and give me fifty. And I’m not talking pesos.”

  They laugh. I’ve yet to inspire the fear in these guys that Coach Wells implanted in our team from day one. Maybe that’s because he’s older and I’m just an assistant. Maybe it’s the “ass of the guy in front of him” remark, because a twenty-year-old male football player would rather be kicked in the crotch than be suspected of being gay at practice—even the two or three who I am certain are gay. Maybe because they know my bark doesn’t match my bite.

  Frank Wells—I still call him Coach—and I are pretty tight. Maybe even tighter than my dad and me. We just get each other, and he’s easy to talk to. Granted, he’s always using football analogies to make his points, but there’s something comforting in that. People give him shit for it all the time, but I kind of like it—you really gotta be creative to pull off some of the analogies he does. That’s something I’d like to be able to do: Layla’d show me one of her dog pictures, mention a problem she had, and I’d be able to bring it back to football and say something wise. And motivating.

  “Okay, ladies, conditioning,” I shout at the team. “Touch the line!” Groans come from a couple of players as the team forms two lines on opposite sides of the field, five yards apart. “And go!”

  The first two players start running across the field sideways until they reach the end, where they have to touch the line. I st
and at the line to make sure they touch it. If one guy misses, they all have to start over. These drills are called gassers. We do conditioning at the end of practice, when they’re already empty, and they run another two hundred yards, stopping and starting until they practically fall over. It’s torture, but anything that doesn’t kill you, I remind them, probably needs to be done twice tomorrow.

  “Don’t cross your feet, guys. Technique!” reminds Coach Wells. One of Wells’s favorite maxims is this: “Practicing technique is kinda like brushing your teeth. You don’t do it for a couple days, everybody knows.” The guys poke fun at Wells for all of his sayings—behind his back, of course—and I guess we did, too, in my day, but as I said, now there’s a certain charm to them. I’d be lucky to be half that smooth.

  • • •

  I get to the cafeteria and there’s Murphy’s Law—or the corollary to Murphy’s Law, anyway, the law that states that if there is one person on the entire campus whose name is spelled C-E-R-T-A-I-N T-R-O-U-B-L-E, that is the person you will run into in the cafeteria. So there is Heather, by herself, carrying a tray. She looks in my direction, and I send up a prayer to the Big Guy not to unite Hot PR Girl’s (what I imagine to be) very toned ass with a seat at my empty table. That is a world of trouble that I do not want to get into. It’s bad enough that my wife spends all of her time lately with every member of my family except me. It’s always something. She’s not coming to a team party because she’s baking with my mom, some delectable treat that I won’t even get to sample. Or she’s building a ship in a bottle with my dad, because nobody does that anymore and they thought it would be fun. Or we’re not spending my day off together because she’s taking my brother, Scott, to Century City to help him pick out some new date clothes. Does Scott actually have a date? No. But they’re thinking that if he gets one he should have the clothes.

  Occasionally, her friend Brooke pops into the act. But not too often.

  It’s hard to get mad at her, because Layla’s so freakin’ genuine about it. She just loves my family, and they’re totally crazy about her. It’s almost like there’s something too right about it. I rarely complain. I’ve just sort of accepted it. But you know what? It’s lonely. It seems like I’m always the last choice if it’s between me and them.

  But back to Heather, who is the last thing (okay, the last two things) I need to be all up in my face. So of course she walks right over, and in my head she asks, eyebrow raised, head cocked to the right, “Mind if I join you?” Then the fantasy nibbles on its bottom lip while it awaits my answer. The ghost girl knows the seat’s not taken. She’s playing it cool.

  The real girl isn’t playing at all. She’s walking right by, looking around awkwardly like the new kid—which she is, come to think of it. So chivalry, or a reasonable facsimile, takes over.

  “You can sit here,” I say. “I mean, this is a seat that’s open, here.”

  “Oh. Okay.” And she smiles and sits.

  “I’m married,” I practically shout, as I hold up my ring finger for proof. “See?” That’s the kind of thing you do when you go temporarily idiotic. “Not that you asked.”

  “Got it.” She laughs. “Seat’s not taken… you are. And how did you know I was just going to proposition you? Was it the Eau de Desperation that I spritzed on this morning?”

  “I’m sorry. That was really schoolboy of me. You just wanted a place to sit and eat your gourmet lunch.”

  “Apology accepted,” she says, with an easy smile. “Your wife would be proud.”

  I gulp. “It wasn’t about you—it was totally me. I was reminding myself. Just shouldn’t have done it out loud.” A for effort. F for tact.

  She gets an A for tact and gently changes the subject. “I thought I’d never make it out of that cafeteria line.”

  “You’ll learn. The way things are going, they’re talking seriously about some sort of reservation system.” Which is true. UCCC has an up-and-coming football team and great academics, but a greater feather in its cap is its cafeteria, which would blow away any food critic who knew it was here. We have a five-star culinary arts department, and the chefs-to-be run the cafeteria as part of their training. It’s pretty genius.

  “First meal here?” I ask, as I inspect her tray. “You’ll be okay with that. Just stay away from those garlic mashed potatoes.” I point to her tray.

  “Yeah, my last school cafeteria had the culinary expertise of a school cafeteria. I was hoping for an upgrade.” She looks at my plate and sees I also have the potatoes. “But …?”

  “No, no. You misunderstand. They are insane. I dream about them. I’m not kidding. They roast the garlic to perfection first, and there must be some secret ingredient because they’re seriously like crack. One bite and the monkey will be on your back.”

  She looks at me like she’s not sure I’m telling the truth. Then she takes a bite. She tries to affect a “no big deal” look, but five seconds later she takes a second bite. And then a third. “Oh my God, you’re not kidding. I want to eat these every day for the rest of my life.” She closes her eyes and moans as she savors another bite, and I force myself to look away and remind myself that we’re talking about a starchy tuberous crop, because the eyes closed/ moan combo is a bit too much to handle.

  “Okay, Meg Ryan,” I say. “I told ya. I don’t kid about carbs.” Suddenly I sound like a bumper sticker promoting the Atkins diet.

  “Oh, so you were worrying about my weight,” she asks, mock-offended, but then drops the act when she gets distracted by three guys in business attire. “Who are they?”

  “Ah, the suits. There’s a law firm a couple blocks away. They got hip to how good the food is here, and they sneak in every so often.”

  “Nuh-uh,” she says in disbelief.

  “You don’t believe me? Then explain that,” I say, as I nod toward a far corner of the cafeteria, where about seven octogenarians sit and laugh as they dine.

  “I … wish I could.”

  “Senior center. Two blocks away. They’re first in line on days we have quiche. I think they assume there’s some sort of early-bird special because they’re so used to it out in the real world. Of course, maybe they’ve been here often enough to know that all the good stuff is picked over by the time the later afternoon rolls around.”

  She laughs out loud and smiles as she extends her hand across the table. “By the way, I’m Heather.”

  “Brett,” I say. “I’m the defensive coordinator for the football team. We do okay, as you probably know. But really what I am is kind of an investor. Well, an inventor. Well, I wanna invest in this thing I’m inventing.” Duh.

  “What is it?” she asks.

  “Oh, it’s just this … athletic apparel… thing.” I suddenly feel foolish talking about an idea that isn’t that far along yet, and we settle into an awkward silence, each of us eyeing the other, eating our meals, and wondering if we’re going to have sex. Hold it—where’d that come from? I haven’t actually thought about having sex with anyone besides Layla since … ever. I mean, we all have fantasies. But this is a real girl. Sitting across from me at a table. With one dimple to the left of her mouth and her hair tied back in a ponytail, unsuccessfully trying to make herself less sexy. This is starting to suck.

  “So what exactly do you do?” I ask, even though I know. I have to break the increasingly awkward silence.

  “I’m the new SID. I’m replacing Mike Stiller.”

  “He was a good friend of mine,” I say. And then add, “Duh-nuh-duh!” à la the part after “Jeremiah was a bullfrog.”

  She looks at me with a furrowed brow, and then looks away quickly. I do it again because I’m not content to let go of my song reference as a joke. “Duh-nuh-duh!”

  “Do you have some form of Tourette’s?” she asks sweetly. I mean, as sweetly as you can sound when you’re asking someone if they’re challenged.

  “That was ‘Joy to the World,’” I say. She just looks at me blankly. I now go so far as to start from t
he beginning. “‘Jeremiah was a bullfrog’? ‘Was a good friend of mine’?”

  She stands up with her tray. “I’m sure he was. Nice meeting you.”

  “It was a song,” I add, even though she’s already out of earshot. Is she too young to know it?

  I turn around and want to punch my own face in. Not just for coming off like an idiot but for bringing up my idea while I did so. I always do that. Whenever I’m nervous or surprised by something, my brain panics and expels the first thought that comes to mind. Which these days is almost always—you guessed it—Wonder Armour. Bleh.

  • • •

  I sit at the bar with Doug (yeah, my pal from high school moved back to the Los Angeles area around the time I started working at UCCC, and we picked up right where we left off) and our friend Jared. I’m recounting my unfortunate first encounter with Hot PR Girl, which I regret immediately because I’m suddenly suffering an unbearable Crime Against Music in the form of Doug singing Van Halen’s “Hot for Teacher.”

  “I got it bad, sooooo bad …” squawks Doug.

  “It’s bad, all right,” I answer, referring to his singing. “And she’s not a teacher.”

  “So how’s Layla?” Jared asks. “She’s really solid, dude.”

  “You calling my wife fat?” I joke.

  I know what he means, though. We all hung out a couple of times, the four of us, when Doug first moved back to town, and Jared hasn’t shut up about Layla since. Everybody loves her. But Jared’s got other reasons for singing her praises. He’s the recent recipient of a Dear John letter that wasn’t intended for him to find. He was trying to hide an engagement ring he bought for his girlfriend, and when he went into the sock drawer, he happened upon the note. When he called her on it, she said she wrote it “ages ago” and swears that she’s happy—but he can’t shake it from his head, and now he’s afraid that she’s gonna dump him any second.