Sisterhood Is Powerful

“Dad, are you going to wear your mustard pants again?”

“They aren’t mustard, Richard. Don’t gulp your milk.”

“They are too! And I wasn’t gulping my milk.”

“They’re canary, aren’t they, Dad?”

Harding Davis put down his copy of the Post. It was difficult to be too angry, because the article he was reading was quite complimentary of himself, for the Post, at least. But at the same time he had to try consciously not to throw an angry look at his wife. He hadn’t seen his children in a week, and this was how they were behaving.

“I don’t think we need to argue about the color of my pants. It will all depend on the weather. Marie, my coffee is cold. And Richard, hold your knife properly.”

“I was!”

“Richard. You were not. Unless the little things are done correctly, nothing good can happen. Please remember that.”

Marie intervened to take Mr. Davis’ cup. She disappeared into the kitchen and then returned, placing the newly filled cup exactly where it had been, as if to illustrate his remark. For the moment, there was quiet in the Davis family. Sunlight streamed through the windows of their porch, while outside the faint hum of a powerful air conditioner kept the Washington summer at bay.

“Are you going to the office today, Dad?” Barbara asked.

“Children, haven’t you bothered your father enough? This is the first chance he’s had to be with you in a week, and this is how you behave.”

Mr. Davis drank gratefully from the cup Marie had brought him. Thank God it was decent coffee. He was just beginning to realize how tired he was. For the last three months his life had revolved entirely around the fate of a handful of hostages in the Middle East. There was not a day in the last three months that he had not expected their release. Now, at last, they were free. Now President Bush had received them, and State had won a victory. The Secretary had divided the glory between the President and himself—hardly a surprise—yet within State his own stock was at an all-time high. If anything, the praise for him in the Post was too egregious. Thank God it was well off the front page.

A telephone rang faintly in the background. Marie disappeared again and then returned.

“It’s for you, Mr. Davis,” she said, uncomfortably.

“Who is it, Marie?”

“Your sister, Mr. Davis.”

“We’re not home.”

“She says she can see you. She’s in a car out front. She says she has a car phone.”

Harding Davis spread butter evenly on his toast. He placed a spoonful of strawberry jam on his plate. Looking down at his hands he remembered that they always had strawberry jam because he liked it as a boy. As a boy he and Gladys had gathered strawberries on spring mornings in the mountains. He spread the jam on his toast and took a bite. Then he drank from his coffee.

“Tell her we are at breakfast. Tell her I will call her when we’re finished.”

There was a dead silence at the breakfast table. Even Richard knew better than to ask about crazy Aunt Gladys.

“What did the Post have to say?” asked Diane at last.

“They were reasonably complimentary, even though half their facts were wrong. Harvey won’t like it, I’m afraid.”

“Dad, why don’t you tell them, so they get it right?”

“Speaking with the newspapers is a difficult and dubious art, dear. You must never let a reporter realize how very much more you know than he does. Otherwise, he will never forgive you.”

The phone rang once more and Marie dodged quickly out into the kitchen. Somewhere in the distance the Davis’s could hear the sound of a car horn.

“It’s your sister again, Mr. Davis,” said Marie, feeling put upon.

“Yes, Marie. Bring me another half cup of coffee. Tell Gladys she can hold the line if she wishes. Richard, please sit up.”

“Dad, are you going to get away at all this summer?”

“Your mother and I will probably do some sailing with Chris and Anna. He was kind enough to offer.”

“He ought to be,” Diane said, slicing the last of her melon. “The Post wasn’t very nice to him.”

“Perhaps not. It’s a marvelous boat. Well, you must excuse me.”

He rose from the table and brushed his lips with his napkin. The walk from the breakfast porch to his study seemed unusually long. He sat at his desk and picked up the phone.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning to you too. Hope I didn’t disturb you.”

“Why have you called?”

“To give you the good news. I’m getting married.”

“Well. Congratulations.”

“I knew you’d be thrilled. You never thought it would happen, did you?”

“Of course I did.”

“Of course you did. Of course you did. I forgot you know everything. That’s how dumb I am. I even forgot you know everything. Well, your dumb sister’s got a man. Can I come inside?”

“My family is just finishing breakfast, Gladys. It’s hardly time for a visit.”

“Oh right, I forgot that. I do forget things, don’t I? Well don’t forget your sister’s getting married. Are you going tell Mom and Dad?”

“I thought you would do that.”

“Harding, you’re so helpful. They ought to call you helpful Harding. Bye, bye.”

“Good bye, Gladys.”

Harding wheeled his dark-gray Buick up the drive to State. He braked at the entrance, and handed his keys to an attendant. His executive assistant, Wilson Perry, was waiting on the curb.

“There’s a crushed rat by the entrance,” Harding told the attendant. “Can we have that disposed of?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Davis.”

Harding turned to Perry.

“Good morning, Wilson.”

“Good morning, sir. The Secretary would like to see you at 9:30 to discuss the White House reception. Here are the morning dispatches.”

Davis took the stiff, white paper folder from his secretary and walked to his office. It was 7:30. He sat behind his desk and drank the coffee that waited for him. He placed the dispatch folder on his desk, the white rectangle brilliant against the dark, polished wood.

©Copyright 2010 Alan Vanneman

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Life Is a Game of Inches

I figure it’s like boots. I never go anywhere without my boots. Without my boots I’m nothing. I’m five eleven. What’s that? That’s nothing. With my boots I’m six one. I fucking dominate. When I walk into a bar, heads turn. They fucking turn. I’m a good-looking guy. I know that. But without my boots I don’t stand out. People see me, they smile, and that’s it. But with my boots it’s Hey! Who’s this guy! They want to fucking know me. They feel they ought to fucking know me. Chicks will fucking take my arm, like, this is the one I want. This is the guy to have. I have my fucking pick. But I’ve done that, you know what I’m fucking saying? I’ve done the bars. I’m not a kid any more. I’m ready for more. I’m ready for the big time. Which is why I’m fucking going for it.

Real estate is like everything else in LA. You’ve got to have a fucking edge. My boots give me an edge. I see those guys at five nine and I laugh. What kind of a fucking life is that? So if I’m a six one guy, why do I have a five nine crotch? So that’s why I’m going for it. I need the whole package.

Now, this is not an implant. That is crap, like they’re going to cut open your dick and stick in some plastic? That is so much crap. What this is is a penis extension. Every guy, or at least just about every guy, has a bigger dick than he knows, because part of your dick is inside you. It’s like you have about two inches of dick inside you, and I figure I have at least that, like I could have three inches. Could I use three more inches on my dick? I think I could!

I mean, I think I have a regular dick, like I have about six inches, which is a regular dick. Can you imagine what it would be like to have a nine-inch dick? Nine inches! Can you imagine what it would be like to go into a sales meeting with a nine-inch pecker in your pants? Can you fucking imagine? I see all kinds of couples when I’m out showing houses, and I know what half those chicks are thinking. Yeah, they call me, they want to see that little house one more time. And I ball them. Oh yeah. Sure. Which is cool. But I want more than that. Because LA is about image and attitude. Attitude creates image, and image creates attitude. And if you have a nine-inch dick, you become a different person. You become a fucking different person entirely. Because, I mean, chicks talk. You ball a chick with a nine-inch dick, and the word is going to get out. You ball a chick with a nine-inch dick, and she’s going to remember it for the rest of her life.

Which is why I think I’m going to go for it. Of course, it costs bucks, which is one thing. And you’ve got to get the right doctor. You can definitely get screwed if you don’t get the right doctor. I heard about this guy who worked on Bruce Willis, and I figure that’s the guy I need to get. I figure, if he’s good enough for Demi Moore, he’s good enough for me, right? Because that fucking chick is fantastic.

I need a good commission for this, a good forty-five grand. That’s the figure I need, because this is a serious operation. I mean, it’s cool, it’s totally cool, but it’s serious, because what they do is they cut around your dick, not in your dick, but around your dick, and the part of your dick that’s inside you slides out, so all of a sudden you’ve got two or three inches you didn’t have before. It’s pretty fucking simple, when you think about it. I know having a guy cut around your penis doesn’t sound like a lot of fun, but I figure, this is science. They know what they’re doing. They got lasers and shit.

I know there was this article in Buzz about these guys who got screwed over, like they were impotent and crap. So what is that? These are guys who are assholes, who don’t know their way around town. Because if you don’t know your way around town, you will definitely get screwed in LA. I mean, this town was built on screwing. There are real estate agents in this town who will sell you shit, absolute shit, for top dollar, if you don’t know your way around town, and I am one of them. But I will also get you a fucking dream house, that no one else could fucking get, if you know your way around town.

So what I need is the Bruce Willis guy. This is the guy that I’ve got to get. Because I know there can be complications, like your dick could turn purple, which I think could turn off a chick. So I need at least forty-five grand.

They also have this thing, which I’m not so sure about, where they take fat from your body and inject it into your dick, so it’s thicker. Is that good? I don’t know. I don’t know if chicks are going to say “hey, this guy has a thick dick.” I don’t know that. But I also figure, if you plough some chick, she may not think, “hey, this guy has a thick dick,” but if the chick is totally ploughed, she’ll remember that. I mean, if you totally plough a chick, you fucking own her. And maybe that could happen, because you had a thick dick. It could be an intangible, something that counts even though you don’t know it counts. Like, I once read this interview with Johnny Wadd in Penthouse and he said his dick was thicker than his wrist. Well, shit. Who wouldn’t want to have a dick like that? So maybe having the injections would be worth it. I mean, I’d have to check it out.

Also I figure I need a Porsche. I know a guy who can get me one. It would be unregistered, but I could handle that. I mean, it’s about fucking time, right? The agency gives me a Bonneville, which is like shit, but really it’s not a bad car. And, to be frank, I don’t need a car to get chicks. It’s not that. It’s just that I’m ready to take my life to another fucking level entirely. Because there is this chick at this fitness center I go to—if you saw this chick you would fucking die. In fact, I don’t want you to see this chick. This chick has skin like you wouldn’t believe. It’s like satin. It’s like dark honey. It’s like coffee and cream. I think she’s some kind of Asian chick, because her hair is like black silk. It is like fucking black silk. And she has the world’s biggest fucking eyes. I mean, when Bambi saw this chick, he committed fucking suicide. She has these big dark-brown pupils, and big eyes, and this fucking beautiful dark skin. This chick is so cool. I mean, you never have to guess about where she’s looking. When Chris looks at something out of the corner of her eyes, it just about blows you away.

Also this chick doesn’t have a face. She has faces. She has like three or four different faces. When she smiles she has one face, when she’s straight she has another. Because this chick has fucking incredible lips. There is no other chick in the world with lips like this. They are so thick. I mean, they are fucking erotic. Her nose is kind of like a black chick’s nose. She could almost be part black, except that her skin is so creamy, and she has that straight hair.

Usually she wears this black unitard, and when you see her in that you don’t want to see her in anything else. She has a fucking great body. She thinks she’s fat. I saw her with this one chick, and they were both wearing shorts, and Chris was talking about how she had this fat under her butt cheek that she hated. Well, Christ, you should have seen that chick’s thighs. Her tits aren’t that much. I saw her once wearing this white leotard, which she’d sweat through, and you could see her nipples. She has these little brown sweet sexy tits. And her ass is fucking unbelievable. She thinks it’s big, of course. I hear her telling the girls “I’ve got this big ass.” Once she was in some kind of rehearsal, and she was wearing this high-cut leotard and this fucking shiny panty hose, and when she bent over I could see her fucking tan lines. I mean, Christ, that gave me three extra inches right there. I had to go in the john and whack off. I could have gone through a steel door with that bone.

I’ve been seeing this chick for two years. I try to talk to her but she won’t let me. I tried to tell her I could get her a job as a model—which I fucking could. I could get this chick a job in a day. I could do her career. I don’t even know what she fucking does. I saw her first in this aerobics class when I was working out, so I took the class. When I started coming on to her, she dropped the class, so I went back to the weights. Then I saw her in class again. I didn’t want to spook her, so I kept my distance. I’ve never seen her with a guy. There are definitely gay chicks in that place, but I’ve never seen her with one. So she’s available. She’s definitely fucking available. But this is no ordinary chick. This is not a chick you get with a Bonneville. This is not even a chick you get with a fucking Porsche. This is a very special chick. You have got to be on top, absolutely on top of everything, to have a chance with this chick. You have got to be the guy that, when you walk into a room, and I mean any room, you are the party. Right now I am a player. I am a fucking player. But I am not a star. I am not the party. Which is why I need the whole package. I need the Porsche. I need the dick. I need it all.

©Copyright 2009 Alan Vanneman

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“Life Is a Game of Inches”—The Back Story

“Life Is a Game of Inches” is a story that changed my life—not as much as I would have wished, but substantially. As they say, you can’t complain.

Back in the day, when I was an unpublished writer, like untold thousands of unpublished writers, I had a clever idea. If I could just sell scripts for two sitcoms a year, or maybe even just one, I’d have enough cash to live on for an entire year, and I could devote all the rest of my time to writing “for myself.”

Naturally, I was a complete failure at this, but I did keep my eyes open, to learn more about scriptwriting and when I saw an article in the New Yorker (Feb. 5, 1996) by well-known scriptwriter John Gregory Donne, “Don Simpson was outrageous, erratic, and a great producer,” I read it. I didn’t know who Simpson was, but I thought if I read the article I might learn something about writing scripts.

I didn’t. Donne talked in a vague way about a script he and his more famous wife Joan Didion had worked on for Simpson that never went anywhere, and, the more I read, the less the article seemed to go anywhere. John and Joan never made a picture with Simpson, didn’t know much about him, and I was wondering why Donne had even written the article when suddenly, at the end of the piece—after poor Donny was dead, actually—it seems that the script that Johnnie and Joanie had tried to sell him, well, they had sold it to someone else, and now it had been made into a movie. I felt a bit had, feeling that Donne had somehow talked the New Yorker into paying him to plug his own movie, and it somehow moved me to verse—free verse, at least, in the form of the following poem:

Death of a Thug

(Lines inspired by “Don Simpson was outrageous, erratic,
and a great producer,” by John Gregory Donne, the
New Yorker, Feb. 5, 1996, p. 26.)

Donny died big; he went down hard
The madams mourned and the pushers paused
When the big guy bought it
You had to know Donny
He gave great memo
“Your plotpoints suck!” he told me
And it was true. I was soft, and Donny punished me.
Donny cut to the bone:
“You got the bucks, you get the fucks
So don't fuck with my bucks.”
We all lost a little when Donny died
But Joanie and me the most. We cried.
Yes. We cried, all the way to the bank
Because we knew this was our last opportunity
To cash in on the big guy before his eyes fell out of their sockets
And because our latest picture, “Up Close & Personal,”
starring Robert Redford and Michelle Pfeiffer,
Is opening soon
At a theatre near you.

Well, that was pretty much that. I continued to get nowhere, of course, trying to sell scripts to Hollywood, and continued to get nowhere trying to place the novels and short stories I was writing. Two years later, I was in a bookstore in Union Station when I saw High Concept: Don Simpson and the Hollywood Culture of Indulgence, by Charles Fleming. I remembered Donny’s name, so I picked up the book and started reading. I liked what I read, so I bought a copy. High Concept is in fact an excellent book, and I learned an awful lot about poor Donny, whose massive success in Hollywood as a creator of fantasies—he co-produced such films as The Karate Kid and Top Gun—only encouraged him to try to make his life a Hollywood fantasy. Basically, he wanted to become a tall Tom Cruise. Simpson ended up more or less eating himself to death—his weight ballooned at the same time as he was compulsively pigging out on diet pills.

One thing that Simpson at least considered before he died was something I never would have imagined—penis extension surgery. This gave me an idea for a short story—“Life Is a Game of Inches.” After a few rejections, the story was accepted by Reed Magazine, published at San Jose State University in California.

When “Life Is a Game of Inches” was published, I was publishing about one short story a year, in little magazines like Reed and the Willow Springs Review, averaging about one acceptance per two hundred rejections. I was having no luck getting an agent, and I was wondering if I ever would. Then in early 2002 I got a letter from an agent whom I had never heard of, saying that he had read “Life Is a Game of Inches” and asking if I would like for him to be my agent. About a month later, he had gotten me a contract to publish Sherlock Holmes and the Giant Rat of Sumatra and to write a second Holmes novel.

Unfortunately, the reviews and sales for the Holmes books were less than spectacular. I parted ways with both my agent and my publisher, which is why I am self-publishing on the web. But, believe me, it is nice to be able to tell people that you are a published novelist. So I owe John Gregory Donne, and Don Simpson, and Charles Fleming, a debt of gratitude.

©Copyright 2009 Alan Vanneman

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Guess Who's Coming to Dinner?

Julia finished polishing the last spoon and placed it on the table before her.

“It’s quite a coup for us, really,” she said.

“Of course,” said Margaret.

“Yes, I know I shall enjoy having that abominable woman in my house.”

Both women pitched forward in a fit of silent laughter. Margaret clasped the arms of her chair and struggled to regain her breath.

“Are you sure you’re up to this? I mean, the woman is going to be here for five days. What if she smokes?”

“Of course she smokes. More to the point, does her consort smoke, and what does he smoke?”

“Her consort?”

“Her young man. She has several. She chooses among them for companionship when she travels.”

“But what if she brings more than one?”

“I shall not permit that. Fornication yes, orgy no.”

The two women paused from their laughter to put the silver back in the heavy felt bags. Margaret, though a guest, insisted on tying all the ribbons.

“For all that, it’s an important step,” she said. “I think the caucus will appreciate it.”

“They will. Bryars told me that quite seriously. He’s willing to help on a number of issues. We have to have a linkage with the blacks and women on the faculty.”

“Well, I think it’s very brave.”

Julia felt all seriousness slipping away. She tightened her lips in an effort at self control.

“We won’t talk about it any more,” she said. “Harold and I are meeting her—them—at the airport at 10.”

Harold walked behind Julia and Henrissa through the airport. He slowed his pace to exchange the suitcase in his left hand for the one in his right, but then decided not to. He looked for a porter, but they were all black.

“Isn’t that moving sidewalk around here?” he asked.

“I’m afraid we passed it,” Julia said. “Can I take something?”

“The thing around my neck, if you could. Thanks.”

Julia cast her eyes around the airport.

“Where is Duncan? I scarcely got a chance to meet him.”

“He does not travel by our ways,” said Henrissa in a soft, lofty voice. “He will find me.”

“I’d better look for him,” said Harold. “It’s over thirty miles to the campus.”

Henrissa smiled at their white ignorance. “He does not travel by our ways,” she repeated. “A black man knows how to find his woman. When the time has come, so Duncan will come.”

“Tell us about your new novel, Henrissa,” said Julia.

Henrissa’s smile deepened. “The time for that will come too. For now, I am tired from riding on the white man’s airplane. I must be strong for the young ones tomorrow.”

Harold and Julia’s car was an ancient, roomy Ford LTD, which unfortunately refused to die and let itself be replaced by something fuel efficient. Henrissa sat by Harold in the front, her green turban occasionally glistening from the lights of a passing car. Julia sat alone in the vast rear seat. She tried several times to initiate a conversation but Henrissa was not forthcoming. Eventually, she gave up, and she and Harold discussed the prospects of left-initiated reform of the British Labor Party for the remainder of the drive. When they arrived at their substantial, four-bedroom home, Henrissa declined their offer of a drink and went straight to bed. Harold had a scotch and soda while Julia had a glass of sherry, and then they went to bed as well. Three hours later they were awakened by a beating on the front door. Harold went down to investigate.

A young black man with very dark skin and finely molded features was standing on their front step. He wore a jacket made of beautifully soft leather, colored a dark burgundy. The jacket was closely fitted to his body and open to the waist, revealing his bare chest. Gold chains shone around his neck. His head was cleanly shaven, and he had a cigarette tucked behind his left ear.

“Where Henrissa?” he demanded.

Harold stared at him uncomfortably. He had forgotten who Henrissa was.

“Where Henrissa?”

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Harold managed.

“Don’t give me that shit, motherfucker. Where Henrissa?”

“I’d better get Julia.”

“I want my woman.”

The phrase rang a bell in Harold’s sleepy mind.

“She’s upstairs.”

Julia was silent that morning as she prepared breakfast for Harold and herself.

“Duncan arrived last night,” Harold said, starting on his eggs.

“I believe I heard him. No doubt his time had come.”

“He seems to have changed clothes. I didn’t recognize him at first.”

“I’m sure it didn’t upset him. He seems to be settled comfortably.”

“Of course. Will I be seeing you for lunch?”

“No. Margaret is coming over. She and I must persuade Henrissa to agree to some of the schedules everyone has worked out for her.”

Harold nodded and rose from the table.

“Well, good luck,” he said.

Two hours later, Margaret arrived.

“How is everything?”

“Don’t be so cheerful. This is my house, remember.”

“It can’t be that bad. Besides, we’ll have her hopping all day and out to dinner every night.”

“It is that bad and I am to have a faculty dinner for her myself.”

“My god.”

“My god indeed. Shall we get down to business?”

An hour later Henrissa joined them. She walked with a slow, stately gait, her stout figure wrapped in a long, dark-purple robe. A thick fringe of golden braid spilled down the front of the garment and hung from the hem.

“Good morning, Henrissa,” said Julia. “That’s a beautiful gown.”

Henrissa nodded, with a slow smile. “It is from Nambibia. I wear it to remind myself of the sufferings of my brothers and sisters.”

“The university sold all of its South African investments two years ago,” said Margaret. “Julia was instrumental in bringing that about.”

“Dr. Peters told me of this. It should have happened before.” Henrissa clapped her hands twice. “Where is my prince?” she cried suddenly. “Where is my dark star?”

After a minute’s pause, Duncan descended the stairs, with the mien of a bodyguard. He wore tight black pants made of raw silk and an emerald-green silk shirt, also tight, turned up at the collar. The shirt had a single button, at the waist, and displayed a perfect vee of Duncan’s belly and chest.

“Black skin warm in the morning sun,” Henrissa recited. “Black sun embrace glowing flesh.”

Duncan advanced to her and she placed a hand on his naked chest.

“Duncan,” she said, “bring me a Bloody Mary. Bring it quickly.”

“I’ll get it,” said Margaret, springing to her feet. She always handled the liquor for Julia when Harold wasn’t around.

“Duncan will go.”

“Margaret knows where everything is,” said Julia quickly. She did not want Duncan rummaging through her kitchen.

“Yes. Come along, Duncan.” Margaret was determinedly bright. She had taught high school for a year and knew how to make herself do things she didn’t want to do. Julia never felt so completely grateful for Margaret as at that moment.

“Henrissa,” said Julia, after Duncan and Margaret had left, “we never managed to get together on a schedule for you. We always seemed to miss each other. So I’ve used the schedule I sent you last month. I sent you another copy Thursday. I hope you got it. These things can get so confused.”

Henrissa smiled. “It is well. I have come to meet the young people. I do not need the pretty time charts, cutting up the day into pretty pieces. It is well.”

Duncan returned with a large goblet, larger than Julia thought appropriate, particularly at this hour of the morning, and handed it to Henrissa with a flourish. She took it in her left hand, then raised her right arm high and straight, rather like a Nazi salute.

“Black man!” she intoned. “Strong man! Black man go through morning on winged feet, seeking his race. Black man go!”

Duncan dropped to one knee, then rose gravely. Without a word, he turned and departed.

“Where’s he going?” said Margaret, always anxious to be help in these situations. “I could show him around, or at least give directions.”

Henrissa smiled. “The black man is a seeker,” she said. “His feet will lead him.”

“I’m sure Duncan will enjoy the campus,” said Julia, struggling for a transition. “The Afro-American Solidarity Group is meeting this afternoon. Perhaps you both would like to attend.”

“I will be there. My place is with the young people.”

“That’s wonderful. They’ve been looking forward to it so much. This evening, the Black Student Union is having a dinner in your honor. Now, tomorrow is the busy day, I’m afraid. There’s a breakfast with the Writer’s Workshop, which we managed to delay until 9:30, a guest lecture in Professor Rollins’ class on contemporary minority literature, a luncheon at the main student union, an open lecture in the afternoon, and the a faculty dinner here. Quite a large affair. I hope you don’t mind. We’ve scheduled you lightly for the next day, to give you time to recuperate.”

Henrissa drank steadily from her Bloody Mary as Julia talked. Now she looked down at the ice in her empty glass, still tinted with watery tomato juice.

“I have come to my black children,” she said at last. “I have come to hold their hands and teach their souls and know their blood. I will meet with no one else.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Julia began nervously. “I had discussed all of this with your friend, Dr. Bryars. He said you understood how important this was to all of us, and that you wanted to help.” When Henrissa failed to respond, Julia continued. “The dinner here, it really can’t be cancelled. The Women’s Caucus has done a great deal of work on this.”

“The White Women’s Caucus,” said Henrissa, suddenly aroused.

“Now, that isn’t so,” said Margaret, intervening. “We have a black member and Dr. Bryars and Dr. Rollins are both very close to us.”

“Annie Caldwell—she is your member! The white man’s light bitch, she and her lying brother!”

“We mustn’t take this into personalities,” said Julia, helplessly. “Annie never said anything. Perhaps she should have. I don’t understand.”

“She was too good for her people!” said Henrissa in a powerful voice that frightened both Julia and Margaret. “She and her brother both! She would not let him marry black! No, he was too good for that! She could only have white people in her house! She turned him against his own women, to marry white, to marry white women who steal jobs from black men, who steal black men from black women, and she made him marry one! White women who castrate black men and mutilate black babies, who write lying, thieving articles . . .”

“That article was entirely fair!” shouted Julia in an unsteady voice. “I went over every word with Raymond and he gave me his approval. Women’s liberation is not antagonistic to blacks. We have to work together. If you understood the situation here you’d know.”

“Racist lies! You are a knife at the throat of my people. You steal black men away from their women with your pretty talk.” Henrissa rose to her feet and took a step toward Julia, her face distorted with an anger neither of the women had ever seen before. Julia sprang from her chair and backed against the mantelpiece.

“Henrissa! You are a guest in my house. We want to work this out.”

“White bitch. Lying white bitch.”

Henrissa reached out one arm toward Julia, who pressed herself flat against the mantelpiece. When Henrissa took another step forward Julia swung with her right arm. But her right arm held a poker in it and the flat blade thudded against Henrissa’s temple. The black woman fell to the ground without a word.

“My god, she’s unconscious,” said Julia.

“She’s drunk,” said Margaret.

“On one glass?”

“She was drinking before she came down. I knew that right away.”

“In my house. What are we going to do?”

Margaret knelt beside Henrissa and tried to rouse her. She turned away quickly, a frightened look on her face.

“Julia. She doesn’t look well at all. I don’t know what’s wrong with her.”

“My god, what a fiasco. Can’t you do anything with her?”

Margaret called upon her childhood fantasies of being a nurse—preferably Victorian—and examined the woman once more.

“She’s dead,” she said at last.

“You can’t be sure.” Julia was dancing with anxiety. “I’ll have to call the doctor.”

“Of course. But she is dead.”

Julia knelt down and grabbed Henrissa’s arm.

“How do you feel for a pulse? I could never do that.”

“It’s right here. But there isn’t any.”

“Damn it, damn it, damn it.” Julia dropped Henrissa’s arm and rose to her feet. “That damned drunken woman and her damned lover. I put up with all of this to be called names and have her die here on my carpet?”

“It does seem hard.”

“Margaret, we’re back to square one. Worse than square one? Incalculably worse!”

“I know.”

“This is the worst thing that has happened to anyone on this damned campus.”

Downstairs they could hear the front door open and then the heavy sound of Harold wiping his feet on the mat.

“Julia,” he called. “I’m just in for a minute.”

“Thank god,” whispered Julia. She ran out of the room and down the stairs.

“Harold,” she said. “You must come. We’ve had the most terrible accident.”

“My god,” said Harold as Julia led him into the room. “Is she drunk?”

“She’s dead,” said Julia. “It’s most dreadful.”

“My god,” said Harold, sinking into a chair. “I come home to get a book and there’s a dead woman in my house.”

“That’s not the worst, I’m afraid,” said Julia. Harold stared at her. “It seems, well, actually, it looks as though I might have killed her, in a way.”

Harold continued to stare at Julia, whatever word he had intended to speak the minute before still frozen on his lips.

“You mustn’t take it so hard, Harold.” Margaret was speaking for the first time. “I’m sure no one can say it was Julia’s fault.”

“Well, what—what happened?” Harold managed at last.

“I, we were having a discussion. She became most abusive—really, it was entirely uncalled for—and then, well, she looked like she was going to strike me! I never saw anything like it. She took a step toward me, and I seemed to have this poker in my hand, and when she took another step I biffed her with it. And over she went.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that. Really, it was the most unusual thing.”

“She criticized you and you hit her over the head with a poker?”

“That’s not it at all,” said Margaret, intervening. “You had to be there, Harold. Her remarks were completely unprofessional. You would have done the same thing. The woman had been drinking.”

“It just seems excessive, somehow.”

“You weren’t there.”

“No, of course. I wasn’t.”

“The woman was staggering about in an absolute rage. I had to defend myself.”

Margaret nodded vigorously. “She looked demented. I never saw anything like it.”

Harold remained sunk in the chair. “What caused all this?” he said, staring at the corpse. “Was she ill?”

“Drunk, I told you,” said Julia.

“No, no, I think Harold’s onto something, Julia. Remember how she looked, so wild, all that strain in her face? It was an attack of some sort. It must have been. You know I think I read somewhere she had a weak heart.”

“Do you really think so? You know, she did have the strangest expression. Have you ever seen someone having a stroke?”

“No, but I’m sure that’s exactly how they would look. What else could it be?”

“Then she died of a stroke,” said Harold. “The blow from the poker was only icing on the cake.”

“I wouldn’t put it like that,” said Margaret.

Julia walked about the room with crossed arms, keeping well away from the body, though without appearing to avoid it.

“It does explain everything,” she said. “The pills and whatnot she had been taking, the liquor, that irrational attack on me, then the stroke. It does make sense.”

“I don’t think we need to tell anyone about the poker,” said Margaret. “It’s not relevant.”

“What do you mean?” said Harold, obviously startled. “Of course you have to tell everything. It’s all got to come out.”

“But it doesn’t really,” continued Margaret, brightening to the task. “It’s rather like a murder mystery. It was just the two of us. That horrible boy left before anything happened. We can say anything we like.”

Julia brightened as well, though Harold remained obtuse.

“Don’t you see?” she said. “We’re the only ones who know anything. Why, the three of us are the only ones who know she’s here. We could say she never arrived. Who would believe Duncan? He’s probably out getting some sort of fix somewhere, and we’ll never hear from him again.”

Harold remained obtuse.

“There has to be an autopsy. All sorts of things. There’s no use trying to hide anything because it all comes out in the end.”

“I think you’re being difficult, Harold,” said Julia, reluctant to disagree in front of a third person. “The woman died of a heart attack. You’re not doubting us, are you?”

“Of course not,” said Harold, wishing he had his pipe. “I just mean that there are things you have to consider.” He paused. Downstairs, someone was beating on the front door. “I’ll get it,” he said quickly.

As he left, Julia raced to the front window.

“Is it the police?” asked Margaret.

Julia shook her head. “I don’t see anything. Besides, I don’t see how it possibly could be. No one knows. We must hold on to that.”

Harold descended the stairs heavily, wishing very much that he had not come home. He opened the door and found himself staring into the well-tonsured face of Augustus Stevens.

“Harold, you idiot!” Augustus cried, waving a magazine. “I want to see your Trotskyite wife.”

“Julia is not home.”

“Yes she is. She’s always at home at this hour. I must see her.” Augustus pushed his way into the house. “I’ve just written this article exposing her completely. “Julia,” he shouted, “you’re ruined! Is she upstairs?”

“No, she’s not.”

“You’re such a bad liar,” said Augustus, pushing past Harold once more and heading up the stairs.

Harold and Augustus burst into the upstairs living room in unison. The two women, who had heard them coming, were standing uncomfortably at some distance from the body.

“My God,” said Augustus, letting the furled magazine slide from his grasp. “What happened?”

“Woman had a heart attack,” Harold said gruffly.

“Good lord. Did she hit herself when she fell? What a hideous wound she has.”

“It’s not so bad as all that,” said Julia. “Hardly noticeable, I would say.”

“You can’t be serious. Why, I’ve never seen anything like it. How did it happen?”

“Actually, it seems I hit her with a poker.”

Augustus stared at Julia. “You? Whatever for?”

“Really, Augustus, we’ve been through all this. You aren’t even supposed to be here.”

“You certainly aren’t,” said Margaret sharply. “This has nothing to do with you.”

“I suppose not.” Augustus gave a brief, sudden laugh. “Well, Julia, this certainly gets Black Lit Week off to a good start. Got any more surprises up your sleeve?”

“You needn’t be funny. This affects you as well.”

“Hardly. My relations with the Black Caucus have always been most distant.”

“I mean it affects the whole university. You remember the fuss they made over Thompson.”

“My God, you’re right. It cost us a new building, and he was only a suicide. This is the best issue they’ve ever had.”

“They don’t have it yet,” said Margaret.

“What do you propose to do?” said Augustus, interested.

“The three of us have decided,” said Julia, “that, given the purely accidental nature of this matter, along with the delicate issues involved, we feel the incident should not be reported.”

Augustus grinned. “No state involvement, eh? I have to applaud that. But we do have a problem, don’t we? Our authoress has departed in spirit, but her corpus lingers on.”

“Well, that shouldn’t be too hard. You and Harold can just put her in the station wagon.”

“The wagon’s been acting up,” said Harold quickly. “I don’t know if we should use it.”

The grin had left Augustus’ face at Julia’s words. “I don’t think it’s a good idea. Frankly, I, hmmmmm. I just came in here to tell you about my article.”

“It’s a little beyond that now.”

“All right. But I’m not going to cart a body around for you.”

“Perhaps you have another suggestion,” said Margaret, the sharpness in her voice starting to grow.

“Well, I do actually. It’s a little . . . I was talking with Ronald Dinsley the other day. He’s the one who gave it to me, in effect. In a way, I mean. After all, they did it to us often enough. Turn about’s fair play, don’t you think?”

Julia folded her arms. “You aren’t making yourself clear,” she said.

“I’m suggesting that we ingest her, so to speak. It’s been done, you know. I think Ronald would be willing to help with the technical aspects. He’s quite the big-game hunter. And he seemed very anxious to ingratiate himself with me.”

Margaret looked at Julia. “What do you think? It’s your house.”

“I’m not sure. We wouldn’t have to take her outside. And they could use the basement. There’s plenty of room down there. For anything. And then, of course,” Julia continued, in a strained voice, “there’s the party on Wednesday. It was supposed to be in her honor, but I don’t see the point of calling it off now. That’s forty people right there.”

Margaret nodded. “I don’t like the idea of getting someone else involved. We have too many already.”

“I know, but it can’t be helped. Unless you have a suggestion.”

Margaret shook her head.

“All right, then.” Julia turned her attention to the men. “We’ll go with your idea, Augustus. I think you ought to start right away.”

Augustus smiled beneath his neatly trimmed moustache. “Glad to. If Harold could help me get her downstairs, then I could call Ronald.”

One half hour later Ronald arrived, on his motorcycle, which he parked in Julia’s front yard. He was a large, hairy man, of the type Margaret referred to as homo robustus. He wore a plaid shirt and emitted odors Julia did not wish to identify. After nodding genially to the women, he descended the stairs to join the men.

About ten minutes later, Harold emerged, looking very pale. He went to the liquor cabinet and took out a bottle of tequila, over half full, and a new bottle of Wild Turkey.

“Do we have any limes?” he asked.

“Of course, Harold,” said Julia. Without being asked, Margaret disappeared into the kitchen, returning with a tray bearing limes, salt, a knife, a plate, glasses and an ice bucket.

“Harold, don’t you have a lot to catch up on at the office?” asked Julia.

“There are some things,” Harold said stiffly.

“Why don’t you take that down and then just slip out. I think it’s better if we’re not all congregated here. It almost looks suspicious or something.”

“You mean for appearances’ sake?”

“Yes. Besides, you’ve done enough. I’m sure Augustus and his friend can handle the rest.”

“I’ll just drop this off then. Is there anything I can get you while I’m out?”

“I think we’re all set.”

Harold disappeared downstairs with the tray and then returned almost immediately. He went to his study and came out with an armload of books.

“We should be ready by eight or so,” Julia told him as he headed downstairs.

When he was gone out the door Julia sat down in her favorite armchair and Margaret sat opposite her. The two looked at each other and relaxed.

Julia and Margaret were best friends. When speaking of Margaret to others, Julia invariably referred to her as “my single friend Margaret,” while Margaret, for her part, invariably called Julia “my married friend Julia.” Each woman seemed to be complimenting the other for making a conspicuous success out of a difficult and even possibly an ignoble situation. But neither felt that either had been so sorely tried as now.

“They’re awfully weak reeds, Julia,” said Margaret.

“I know, but what can we do? We need help.” Julia put her hands together and shrugged uncomfortably. “I feel we ought to be doing something.”

“We polished all the silver yesterday.”

“There must be something.”

“Perhaps we could tat.”

“I’m afraid I’ve never tatted.”

“Yes, but you can learn.”

When they recovered from their laughter Julia stood up.

“We’ll have to clean,” she said. “Unfortunate, but there it is.”

“I’ll take the upstairs,” said Margaret quickly, knowing how much Julia would dislike having to touch Henrissa’s things.

Two hours later Julia and Margaret were back in their chairs again. Ronald and Augustus emerged from the basement and came up the stairs to the living room. Ronald was white and drawn and thoroughly drunk, but Augustus looked strangely exalted.

“Champagne, Julia,” he cried. “Champagne or your best cognac. I insist.”

“I’ll see if we have any,” said Margaret coldly. “Did you drink all of that whiskey?”

“Yes indeed. All the whiskey and all the tequila. It has the makings of a capital drunk, but we need to round it off.”

There were several bottles of champagne in the cellar, but Julia had no intention of wasting any on Ronald and Augustus. Instead, she nodded to Margaret, who assembled a tray with a bottle of green-label Remy Martin and four snifters. Margaret poured a small amount in each glass and handed them around.

“A pretty piece of business,” said Ronald, after draining his glass, though his hand was shaking. “Ain’t seen so much blood since Billy and I put that doe away last winter in the Madre. We cut her heart out and ate it right there in the snow. Billy always was a good man with a knife. Reminds me of a time in ’Nam.”

“I didn’t know you ever were in ‘’Nam’,” interrupted Julia.

The color, which had been creeping back in Ronald’s cheeks, fled once more.

“You got a hell of a nerve, lady,” he said heavily, rising to his feet. “A hell of a nerve. I feel sick,” he added suddenly.

“It’s been a long day, Ron,” said Augustus, getting up from the sofa and putting his arm on the other man’s shoulder. “Why don’t I walk you home, and you can pick up your cycle tomorrow?”

“I’m okay, said Ronald thickly, as stumbled toward the stairs. “A little fresh air is all I need.”

“You know best. We did good work today.”

Ronald nodded wordlessly as he headed down the stairs. Margaret, Augustus and Julia listened in silence as his heavy boots thumped down the steps. He struggled with the door, opened it, and slammed it shut. Once out on the stoop he paused for a few moments to draw a deep breath of air before making his way across the lawn. Julia stared down from the window at him, her fingers twitching convulsively. There was an interminable delay as he searched for his keys, and then another as he labored to start the machine. Margaret and Julia winced as the powerful engine roared to life, and did not relax until the noise faded entirely from earshot.

“Poor Ron,” said Augustus, helping himself to another glass of cognac. “I’m afraid he lacks the requisite sensibility for all this. At least he made it home safely.”

“I had hoped there would be an accident, and he would be killed,” said Julia.

Augustus laughed. “That’s a bit extreme, you know.”

“He’s not part of the university. There’s nothing to stop from talking about this all over town.”

“You don’t understand male bonding at all, do you, Julia? You really must read Dempsey on the subject. I used a lot of his ideas in my attack on you. You realize your position on Jane is untenable.” Augustus shook his head. “Jane Austin was not a Trotskyite. She celebrated the values of the 18th Century patriarchy.”

“I wasn’t aware that you had attacked me again,” said Julia, putting the cork back in the bottle of Remy Martin.

“I’m sure it’s preposterous,” said Margaret, collecting the snifters.

There was a knock at the door. After receiving a worried nod from Julia, Augustus descended the stairs and opened it. He was confronted by a police officer holding a young black man by the arm.

“This kid live here?” the policeman asked.

“God, no,” said Augustus. “At least, I certainly hope not.” He turned and called up the stairs. “You two aren’t taking in colored waifs these days, are you?”

Julia hurried down.

“I’ve never seen this young man in my life, officer,” she said. “He certainly doesn’t live here.”

“I didn’t think so, Dr. Tompkins,” said the policeman. “But he gave us this address and we had to check it out.”

“I understand, officer. You were only doing your job.”

Patrolman Royce had heard that before, but he merely nodded.

“Where Henrissa?” demanded Duncan.

“I don’t understand what you’re talking about, young man. There’s no Henrissa here.”

“Where Henrissa?” Duncan repeated.

“We’ll be heading back to the station,” said the policeman, gripping Duncan by the arm.

“Let me accompany you to the car,” said Augustus, stepping through the doorway. The three of them walked across the lawn, Duncan shrinking away from the two white men in a silent sulk.

“Drugs?” asked Augustus sympathetically.

Patrolman Royce nodded. “Picked him up at the student union higher than a kite, trying to hustle speed.”

“You know, officer, this is exactly the element that we don’t want on campus. But the trustees are afraid of publicity. It’s the sort of thing that needs to be handled informally.”

“It’s okay, Dr. Stevens. We know our job.”

Augustus paused. There was a note of surliness in the young man’s reply that he disliked. Patrolman Royce was a fine young man, an excellent physical specimen, but the American ethos had bred in him a distance from his superiors that was inappropriate. In other, older cultures a bit of patrician guidance would be exactly what a young man would want. Still, the man did know his name.

“I appreciate your sense of duty, officer,” Augustus persevered. “I only wanted to alert you to the university’s concern for publicity.”

“Sure thing, doctor. We’ll just run him off campus and see he stays off. We usually don’t bother with court proceedings unless there’s destruction of property.”

That was much better. The three walked to the police cruiser parked at the curb. Augustus was about to lay a fatherly hand on the young man’s shoulder when Royce turned to him.

“So long, doc. My partner and me got to drop this guy off so I can get home and screw my old lady.”

“Goodnight, officer,” said Augustus briefly, dissatisfied with the response. Of course, the lower classes should be fecund. Still, it was hardly appropriate to rush off like that. Augustus had enjoyed the manly companionship, the sense of shared community. The man was not sensitive enough to that. Probably not a Catholic, Augustus decided. He returned to the house.

“We don’t need you anymore,” said Julia, by way of greeting.

Augustus’ high spirits returned. “Yes, the day’s work is done,” he said. “Everything you need is in the downstairs refrigerator. I take it I’m invited to the big dinner after all?”

Julia nodded. Though it galled her bitterly, it seemed impossible to deny Augustus on this matter.

“Excellent,” he said, looking very pleased. “I suppose it starts at eight, like all these affairs?” Augustus smiled at Julia’s distress. “You needn’t look so worried. I have the feeling this will be the start of a highly fruitful alliance. You see, we aren’t so far apart after all.”

“Good day, Augustus.”

“Good day,” he said, still smiling.

He stood there for a moment, all but lost in the broad vistas opening up before him. The intellectual seduction of Julia, her stern resistance and eventual capitulation, her acceptance of the superiority of the male sensibility, her gradual ascent, under his wise tutelage, into the realms of higher conservatism, all these and more he saw not as possible but certain. Julia would make a superb hostess. He had always acknowledged that. Harold would be a problem, of course; Harold with his dreary, dusty Stalinist ways. Divorce was always awkward. But eventually Harold would acquiesce. Augustus seemed to see him in the background, fetching drinks and passing the cheese. It would all work out.

“You are going to leave?” asked Julia.

Augustus’ smile only broadened. “Of course. But,” he added, “I shall return.”

Julia followed him into the hall and shut the door firmly behind him when he left. Then she returned to the living room and collapsed on a couch.

“Thank god he’s gone!”

“Now we have to start getting ready for the dinner,” said Margaret, putting away the cognac.

“O god, the dinner!” Julia put her hands to her face. “I don’t think I shall ever entertain another novelist!”

Midway through the next evening Julia and Margaret met at the bar, just before the guests moved into the dining room.

“It’s going remarkably well,” said Margaret, handing Julia her second glass of wine.

Julia only nodded. It was going remarkably well. The absence of the guest of honor was scarcely noticed, due largely to the fact that Julia had told the caterer to upgrade the liquor from a B rating to a definite A plus. Instead of insipid academic punches, guests were greeted with Cutty Sark, Jack Daniels, and Beef Eater. What is more, the liquor flowed freely into the glasses of even the lowest lecturer and undergraduate.

The trick, Julia knew, was to keep her guests circulating until it was time to move upstairs to eat. There were far too many people at the party who wanted nothing more out of life than to get drunk on good free liquor for her to rest easy. Surprisingly, Augustus was her greatest support here. He was everywhere, talking with everyone, even blacks. He dropped his usual ironic politeness and listened genially to everyone, stumbling undergraduate and idiot full professor alike. Reading Julia’s mind, he pressed champagne on everyone and kept them from sampling the hors d’oeuvre too heavily. Julia tried to avoid him, but found herself staring again and again into his beaming face. Never had his smooth-shaven jowls so irritated her.

Dinner itself was the supreme test. No matter how James Beard and Julia Child had praised it, stew was still stew, even when served with a turnip puree over which Margaret had sweated real blood. Neither Julia nor Margaret were cooks, and they had not dared to think how the meal might go. They each had three helpings and Augustus had four. There was only one tense moment, when Harold had pushed away his plate before taking a single bite, rushing into his study for sanctuary.

“I just can’t,” he explained after Julia had collared him.

“Harold,” she said, gripping him by the ear, “eat your dinner.”

After that the dinner went smoothly. There was lots of stew left over, but that couldn’t be helped. Julia let her guests finish off the rest of the liquor, even though it meant that she did not get to bed until four in the morning. The next day Augustus came by, at four in the afternoon. Julia and Margaret were sitting in the kitchen, still winding down from the night before.

“Good afternoon,” said Julia. “You look quite tweedy.”

“I am in excellent spirits,” said Augustus. “You two should cheer up. I’ve come to take the rest of that stew off your hands. The Conservative Club is getting together this weekend, and I’m sure they won’t mind.”

Julia rose from her chair. “It’s a very big pot,” she said, pointing to the stove. “But I suppose you can manage.”

“Of course. I’m quite strong.” Augustus came up behind Julia and put his arms around her waist, pressing her slender back against his broad belly. “Things did go well last night, didn’t they?” he asked. “I have a feeling things will be going well for us a lot. Don’t you?”

Julia flushed. “Yes, Augustus. I’m sure they will.”

Augustus chuckled and released her. “Good day, ladies,” he said, lifting the pot and exiting by the back door.

Julia sat down at the kitchen table. A chopping block lay before her, in which a small Chinese cleaver was imbedded. She jerked the cleaver from the block with a single motion.

“I think,” she said, “that Augustus will have to go.”

©Copyright 2009 Alan Vanneman

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Mom

“Damn!”

The gravy from the veal curry was leaking on Mom’s dress. She twisted the aluminum container in her hands but it kept on leaking. She held it away from her and Josh took it.

“Thanks, Josh.” She opened her purse gingerly, with the hand that didn’t have gravy on it, and took out some kleenex. She daubed furiously at the stains.

“Is it a new dress, Mom?” Josh asked. He had trouble keeping up with Mom’s dresses.

“No, it’s not a new dress, but it’s a good dress. Jesus Christ!”

Josh loved it when Mom got mad, when it was just the two of them, and she wasn’t mad at him. The Thompsons and the Seymours came out of the restaurant and Mom moved around to the side of the car so they couldn’t see the gravy.

“Goodbye!” she said, waving gracefully. “The lunch was lovely! Helen, I’ll see you on Thursday.”

The Thompsons and Seymours waved back and got into their cars. Mom didn’t tell them about the gravy because it was unpleasant and because it was the Seymours’ idea for her to take the veal curry. Mom was always charming. She put people at their ease and brought out the best in them.

“Is the gravy still leaking?” she said, looking at Josh and lowering her voice.

“No, it’s stopped.”

“Good. There’s a plastic bag in the glove compartment. Put it in that. Then go say goodbye to Robbie and Dennis.”

Josh went around to his side of the car and got in. He opened the glove compartment and found the plastic bag. He put the container in the bag and held it up. Nothing leaked.

“Should I put it in the glove compartment?”

“No,” she said, taking some kleenex from the box by the gear shift and rubbing her dress with it. “Just put it on the floor. And don’t step on it.”

When Josh got back from saying goodbye Mom was still rubbing her dress with the kleenex.

“Will it come out?”

“Probably.”

Mom was still mad. She hated being messy. Josh watched her as she started the car and twisted her head around to see if anyone was behind her. Her eyes darted back and forth. “Mom, you look like a snake when you drive” Josh told her once, when he was still a kid. That startled her. Now, of course, he knew not to say something like that. It was naive.

“Did you have a good time with Robbie and Dennis?” Mom asked.

“Sure.”

“What were you talking about?”

“Stuff. Robbie’s Dad got him a CD-ROM for his computer.”

“Is that good?”

Josh made a face. Mom liked to be difficult about computers.

“I guess we’ll have to get one. Mrs. Thompson said you looked handsome.”

Josh made another face and Mom laughed out loud. Josh wanted to say “Mom, you were the most attractive woman there,” but he couldn’t. That would be witty, because whenever Mom and Dad and Josh and Julia and Amy went to a good restaurant, Dad would say, “Marilyn, you’re the most attractive woman here,” and Mom would smile. Mom liked compliments. When another man complimented her, and Dad would tease her about it, she would just smile, the way she did when Dad said she was the most attractive woman here.

Mom was attractive, and she was stylish. Mom had tits. When Josh was eleven they were at the beach and a beautiful woman walked by, and Dad said “my, my,” and after that Mom only wore her bikini in the backyard, when she was getting her tan. Now she wore a one-piece at the beach, except when Mr. Sturmer came over, when she just wore clothes. Mr. Sturmer was the senior partner at Dad’s firm and had been Solicitor General for George Bush. Last summer, when Josh was thirteen, Dad got a telephone call, and he talked very seriously for about a minute. Then he hung up, and said that Mr. Sturmer had a stroke. Then Mom laughed and said “Well, maybe that will slow him down a little.” Dad made a face, but Mom just laughed some more. Later, Josh asked her what she meant, and she said that the law was no respecter of persons, and neither was Ed Sturmer. Then she said he thinks he should have whatever he wants. He doesn’t think about other people.

Everyone knew Mom was attractive. Once when Mom was dropping him off at GDS Katie Marvell saw her. She grabbed Josh by the arm and said “Hey, is that your mother?” When Josh said yes she let go and said “She’s quite presentable. Too bad you aren’t.” Then she turned away. He should have said something but he didn’t. That was almost two years ago. Now he would have said something. Katie liked to think she was sophisticated.

“Mom, do you think I’m presentable?”

Mom laughed. Josh thought she would.

“Of course you are. Who says you aren’t?”

“No one.” Josh paused. “Do you think this car is presentable?”

Mom laughed again. Well, he could have predicted that too. He should have used more finesse.

“Mom, a Supra is only $38,000.”

“Only thirty-eight.”

“Don’t you want a sports car? Mrs. Thompson has one.”

“My children are my sports cars, Josh.”

Mom was being funny. He knew that. But he didn’t know why what she said was funny.

“Well, how about a Civic del Sol?”

“No, Josh.”

“You said they were cute.”

“I don’t buy cars because they’re cute.”

“But this car is so old.” Josh kicked the dashboard to demonstrate his contempt. “Besides, no one drives Fords any more.”

“Really? I thought the Taurus was the most popular car in America.”

How did she know that? Josh thought for a second.

“Then let’s get a Taurus.”

“Too big.”

He was about to say “Mom!” the way he did when he was a kid, but that would be giving up.

“Okay, suppose we wait until next year to get a new car.”

“Why should we get a new car next year?”

“Well, if we do, I’ll stop watching Beavis and Butthead.”

That got Mom really red. He suspected she might laugh when he said that, but he didn’t think she would laugh this hard.

“Suppose you give up Beavis and Butthead and get all A’s,” she said at last.

“Well, I’ll give up Beavis and Butthead and try to get all A’s.”

“Why don’t you get all A’s and try to give up Beavis and Butthead?”

This wasn’t working.

“I wonder what sort of car Mrs. Clinton used to drive?”

Mom made a face. Mom loved Mrs. Clinton. Josh was afraid that when the Clintons sent Chelsea to Sidwell Mom would want him to go. Everyone knew the Quakers were dorks.

“They only have one child,” Mom said at last. “Besides, things are cheaper in Little Rock.”

“Yes, but Bill Clinton only made $11,500 a year when he was governor.”

“Josh.”

Josh laughed.

“See, Mom. We definitely should get a new car.”

“We’ll get one in two years.”

“Two years! I’ll be old enough to drive by then.”

“Then we’ll give you this one.”

Mom laughed. She had won that one. Josh watched the scenery pass by.

“Mom, are you going to go to the hospital again?”

“No, dear. Why do you ask?”

“Because last year you said you weren’t any more, but then you did.”

“I know. I wanted to reassure you. That wasn’t a good idea, was it? Because then when I did have to go back in you thought I was a liar.”

“I didn’t say you were a liar.”

“I know.”

“So, what did the doctor say this time?”

“I’ll give you the lab report if you want to read it. It says the malignancy is gone, and there is a very low chance of recurrence. I might have to go to the hospital again, but so might you. I’m not more likely than anyone else.”

She reached over and squeezed Josh’s hand. He felt his face redden and he knew he was going to cry, so he looked away. He didn’t cry much. When he stopped he looked straight ahead without saying anything. Now they were almost in Silver Spring and Mom had to keep her eyes on the road. He turned so he could watch her. Her long, thick hair fell luxuriantly about her shoulders. It was more beautiful than Mrs. Clinton’s.

“Josh, did you talk with Dennis and Robbie about letting Marvin play on your basketball team?”

“Yeah.”

“Yes.”

“Yes.”

“Well, did you reach an agreement?”

“Not really.”

“You know, I think his parents really want him to play basketball.”

“I know, Mom, but there’s just one problem.”

“What’s that?”

“Marvin can’t play basketball.”

Mom smiled. She tried to hide it, but Josh saw her.

“Well. That is a problem,” she said, her voice shaking.

“Yeah.”

“Yes.”

“Okay, Mom, you win.”

“You mean you’re going to let him play?”

“No!”

“Then what did you mean?”

“I meant I won’t say ‘yeah’ any more.”

“Oh, that’s what you meant.”

“Yes.”

Mom smiled. Josh sat back in his seat and relaxed. He didn’t have anything to worry about.

©Copyright 2009 Alan Vanneman

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Waking Up Christmas

Dennis positioned the step ladder in front of the entrance to The Christmas Store. A thick serpentine of pine foliage, set with broad, dark, red-velvet ribbons edged in gold, stretched the full length of the entrance. Climbing up the ladder, he stood on the next-to-the-top step and put on a pair of transparent plastic gloves. Then he shook the can of balsam spray and directed it carefully on the greenery, averting his face and pausing frequently to shake the can. Environmentally sound but slow as hell. Well, God save the ozone. He shook the can furiously to summon up the last traces of fragrance. Then he inhaled deeply. $8.99 shot to hell in two minutes, but it was worth it. The greenery smelled as fresh as the morning the workmen put it up. He climbed down the ladder, moved it, climbed up, took out another can, and emptied it. He took another deep breath, like an artist savoring his work, and climbed down again. Then he folded the ladder and carried it through the store to the back room.

As he closed the metal fire-door he took off the gloves and cautiously sniffed his fingers. I don’t smell too much like balsam, do I? He sniffed the air, turning his head back and forth. How do you smell your face? Sir, perhaps I could ask a favor. Would you smell my face? I said smell it, not fondle it. Sorry, but I . . . well, your cheek-bones. Yes, they are exquisite, but this is hardly the place. Please make an appointment. Lennie with his secretary. God, that was living. How was I? Mr. Bernstein regrets to say that he hopes never to see you again, in this life or any other.

Dennis went behind the rectangular counter in the center of the store. Within the counter was a small display island, now topped by a ten-foot spruce. Satin-wrapped packages were clustered at the tree’s base. Dennis slid open a panel in the side of the island and took out a rag and a can of spray wax. Damn! Get the old gloves, you idiot, and save a quarter. He who saves quarters goes to heaven. They really should use paste wax, the mahogany was so magnificent, but it wasn’t cost-effective. Marge had wanted rosewood, but he had talked her out of it. I hate rosewood. It’s so rosy. Now this mahogany has guts. He polished the wood with long, slow strokes. At least I’m getting my exercise. Look at those lats! I wonder how old he is. Look at the damn mahogany, for Christ’s sake. That’s what puts bread on the table. Well, look at it. Little Ralphie Lipshitz doesn’t have anything better.

When he finished with the counter Dennis went to one of the four large display columns and began polishing the dark, fluted wood. Shelves protruded from the columns at regular intervals, and as he polished he inspected each joint for the slightest trace of dust. Offer perfection and they will come. The glue they used on these was fabulous. Not a tremor, not a sign of weakness. It was marvelous what they can do now. All I need now is a new rag.

After ten minutes Dennis stepped back from the column to give it a final look and then went on to the next. When he was done with all four columns he started on the wainscoting. Now that was a pleasant word. Where would we be without wainscoting? I’ve got to fuck Dennis, he has the most fabulous wainscoting. Laugh if you like, but when the fucking’s done, who’s on top? The folks with wainscoting. My fine Jewish hostess—“Look at my wood,” she says. Look at my wood! Sing ho for the life of a JAP! Dennis squatted as he worked, shuffling to his right as he finished a section. Is this good for me? It can’t be. The knees go first. I’ll be bent and wobbly, and no one will love me. How, then? Get out the kneepads, ho, ho, ho. You’re cheerful, and it’s only seven thirty. Think about last week’s receipts. The whole mall is up 20 percent over last year, thank God, and we’re up thirty. Everyone’s up except for Betsy’s Bakery. Girl, what did I tell you about margarine! Quality, goddamn it, quality. Dennis pressed forward, the whole weight of his body leaning against the wood as he rubbed the cloth against the molding. Look at those lats! No, look at those receipts! If this keeps up, you will get that Bonneville!

Oh, black with gray leather interior. Leather seating areas, I should say. Your butt and your back. The feel of real leather. God, it’s so auto-erotic. Well, it will be. I’ll look fucking fabulous. Oh, look, it’s Dennis in his new Bonneville. He’s so fucking fabulous. Maurice, I’m afraid I’m dropping you. Yes, Dennis offered me a ride in his fucking fabulous Bonneville, and I just couldn’t say no. One look at those fabulous leather seating areas and my resistance just crumbled. I hope you’ll understand.

When he was done with the wainscoting, Dennis put the spray wax behind the counter and went back to the storage room. He threw away the gloves and the polish-ing rag, and washed his hands in an industrial sink. Balsam and lemon. God I’m fruity. Let’s get on with it.

He left the storage room and went back behind the counter, taking out a huge metal can covered with florid illustrations and labeled “Biscotti.” No we don’t sell them but I understand they’re very good. Yes, they’re very good if you like dry biscuits for $20 a pound. Only Italy would bring you such crap. But they make great tins. He gripped the tin under one arm and pried off the lid, breathing deeply as the mingled scents of orange, clove, ginger and cinnamon rose in the air. Now that was better. If that doesn’t make you grateful, get out of my store.

Inside the can, twenty withered Valencia oranges, studded with dozens of whole cloves, were packed in a mixture of cinnamon sticks and fresh ginger root, where Dennis had placed them the night before. $13.99 a piece, and worth every goddamn penny. It’s marvelous the way they get that bronze color when they shrivel up. Who would have thought? Nature can do such wonderful things. He took out an orange and smelled it. See, isn’t it marvelous? Just hang half a dozen on your tree and your whole house will smell of Christmas. And we’ll give you some of the mixture so you can use them again next year. Isn’t that fantastic? So buy already!

Dennis held the can in one hand and walked around the store, using his free hand to spread the aroma of the spiced oranges with broad, theatrical gestures. Inhale, my children, inhale! Then he took out six of the oranges and scattered them among the packages at the base of the spruce, and placed the can underneath the spruce as well. What else do I need under my tree? What about buck-toothed angelboy John Elway, bare-ass on a bearskin rug? And what does little Dennis want for Christmas? Little Dennis wants Johnnie Akins, bare-ass on a bearskin rug. Not in Toledo, I think. Ah, Grandma with her shining silver tooth, and her Sears fruitcakes, marinated in corn syrup. If it’s Kayro, it’s got to be good. Poor Mom! I could forgive her anything, even Dad. Now, give Grandma a hug. But Mother, she stinks. Oh, you’re right, Dennis. You’re so perceptive. Well, go hug Johnnie Akins, then. Oh, that Aqua Velva!

For the next hour Dennis filled the shelves on the display columns. He arranged Santa Claus dolls, shepherds, angels, nutcracker soldiers, Father Christmas dolls, fairies and harlequins. They were fabulous. For $20 they were giving them away. He held a sixteen-inch Father Christmas in a green velvet robe with gold trim. Now this was fabulous! You didn’t deserve this for twenty. He’d like to see one for fifty, with some real handstitching. Well, why not? Why the fuck not? If goddamn Barbi could sell Bob Mackie outfits for $250, they could damn well sell Father Christmas for fifty. For fifty they could do serious work, nice velvet that would hang, even at this scale. Dennis held the doll no more than a foot from his eyes. This is the best damn value in the mall. I am not marking these down. They’ll stay at twenty through August and then they’re going up to thirty. But I’d like to see Helen make a fifty—maybe a twenty-four inch at seventy five. That would be fucking fantastic. You could use it as a centerpiece. He put the doll down and gave its belly a poke. Okay, old timer. Now I want to you to get your butt out there and sell, sell, sell!

He arranged the Father Christmas doll carefully and set a nutcracker soldier on either side. I like these nutcracker dolls, but let’s give them a Baryshnikov bulge. Sales rose ninety percent, among other things. And get rid of those damn nutcracker jaws. They’re so depressing. I don’t know why. Nine o’clock, let’s get cracking.

Dennis went into the storage room and unlocked a door that led to the mall’s office space. He walked down a narrow corridor to another door and unlocked it. Inside, he switched on the lights and stood over an electronics console. Let’s see. I remember. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. All good children go to heaven. Well, I would have. The name did it. Here’s Dennis! Dennis, Dennis, Dennis! It’s so fucking Toledo. Why not Andre Agassi, for Christ’s sake? How could you not win Wimbleton when your name is Andre Agassi? Maybe someday I’ll go. And who, sir, are you? Lord Dennis, the next Duke of Kent. Get back to the store.

Dennis walked down another corridor that exited directly into the mall. Christmas music flooded the three-story enclosure. Thank God for Bose! Good clarity, good definition, no echo. We’ve got to stop splurging. But Harry, it sounds great! Who’s it for, us or the customers? You’re a tough old bastard, Harry. Shit, maybe he’s right, but we’re selling class. Besides, I couldn’t stand to listen to Frosty the Snowman twelve times a day. People buy more when you play the traditional carols. I can prove it. If the salesman hadn’t been such a faggot in his goddamn Bally jacket, Harry wouldn’t have gotten his back up. We could have gotten a discount, for God’s sake! We do have a little clout around here. Oh Christ!

A man dressed in the full regalia of one of the guards at Buckingham Palace strode along the aisle, on his way to Nordstrom’s. Dennis couldn’t refrain from waving. Who’s the little faggot now? Oh, Christ, who cares, just look at him! What an idea! Oh God, don’t you just love that fucking beaver? Well, are you going to follow him? Why don’t you just ask him for his autograph? Hey I think I deserve a little breakfast, don’t I? So will it kill you to look at his ass for the next two minutes?

Dennis followed the guardsman down the mall, finally stopping at a stand that sold cappuccino. A girl, still in her teens, with a round face, grinned at him.

“Hi, Mr. Johnson, what’ll you have?”

“A regular, a small. Put a little whipped cream on it.”

“Coming right up.”

Coming right up! Coming right up! Well, isn’t that what you want? Isn’t that what you’re selling?

Dennis took the cappuccino, paid the girl, and went back to the store. There was a bench across from the entrance, and he sat there, surveying the interior while he drank the cappuccino. Look intelligent, here she comes.

“Is this how we make our money?”

“Come on, this my breakfast. I’ve been here since quarter to seven.”

“The store looks good. Is this all you’re eating?”

“Yeah, I have a dinner tonight.”

Dennis tilted his head back and finished the cappuccino with one long drink.

“It’s getting late,” he said. “I better make my rounds.”

“You can have until 10:30. I won’t need you till then.”

He nodded and rose, holding the plastic cappuccino cup in his hand.

“Do you think we need a trash can here?”

“People don’t want to look at trash.”

“I know. But then they’d have someplace to throw it.”

“Maybe between us and Port of Call.”

He nodded again and started walking.

“See you at 10:30,” he said.

Dennis walked past half a dozen stores, reviewing their decorations, until he reached the atrium. Ah, yes, the atrium. Well, we do try to be Roman around here. Do you admire our frescos? What about our thirty-foot, artificial tree? Well, what about it? We’re saving the fucking environment, for Christ’s sake. And you need artificial for display space anyway. You can be too authentic. He opened a small door in the base of the tree and flipped a dozen switches. The lights on the tree came on, followed by the strings of lights on the balconies overlooking the atrium, and the lights on the smaller trees that flanked the corridors emptying into it. That’s better. It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas. God, I hate those plastic ornaments! But what can you do? The space is just too damn big. Why can’t we have trains like they do in Washington. Those big engines are so gorgeous! For two thousand, they damn well better be. Besides, we want them to look at the stores. Old Harry! Something to look at while they sit! I don’t want them to sit! I want them to come to my store! That’s what I want! Better you should put thumb tacks on the seats! That phony accent! God, I love it! Harry, we won’t charge you! Christmas is on us! I am a retailer! What it takes, I’ll do! You want first class, I’ll go first class! Give me a list. No, Harry, I’ll do it. Give me a list. Give me a list! Angels? Angels I can do. Jacob wrestled with an angel. You Christians have a very nice bible. You should read it some time.

Why not cable cars? Do they do that? That would be great, your own little San Francisco under glass—Ghiardelli Square, the Cannery, cable cars, everything. You could do it. Yeah, you could do it. Cost a mint, but you could do it.

Modern Music should have done more. Look at that window, damn it! Nothing going on. Absolutely nothing! And when are you going to sell a piano? Not to mention an organ! Marty is getting a goddamn free ride. Right, times are tough, but you don’t tell the customer that. We’re not selling desperation. And look at Jeanie’s place! Those fabulous bureaux. That was the problem. Marty saw those bureaux and dried flowers and knew he could get a goddamn free ride. He should be paying half. Dennis looked at the highboy in the window, its doors swung open to reveal shelves cluttered with beautifully wrapped presents. Scattered among the presents were fat damask Christmas tree balls, dusty blue with silver trim, the size of grapefruits. They’re so marvelous! Where did she get them? Just look at them! You’re still dating him? He’s such a fattie. I know, but you should see his blue damask balls.

Dennis slipped into Nordstrom’s. Just a look-through. To give me an idea. Okay, to look at the guards. Oh God, there they are. Well, put them up front, for Christ’s sake. Oh, just look at them. Pardon me, sir, what’s it like to be six-one and gorgeous? How do you know he’d say no? Oh Christ, be serious. Well, invite them up to the chalet. Why not? A couple of us get together each year—of course, it’s not, it’s nothing special, just homey—Oh, Christ, homey! Yes, that’s what you look for when you’re six-one and gorgeous! Start over. Damn it, well, I will look good when I drive up in the Bonneville, white snow, blue sky, black Bonneville, new tires rolling smoothly through the snow. My God, is that Dennis? I didn’t know he could afford that. I thought he was just hanging on. Oh no. Christ, look at that outfit. And that equipment. Oh Dennis, is all that new? Well, yes, it is the New Year, after all. We do have to celebrate.

Okay, forget the outfit, damn it. Maybe if I gave up cappuccinos for the rest of my life. What would that be? A pair of pants and half a jacket. Okay, don’t give up cappuccinos. Just a few more seconds. I want to look at their buttons, damn it. What is that, intaglio? Security, another queer over by the guards. Just come along, sir. I work here, damn it. Just come along. All right, I’m going.

Alec and me in tweeds on the patio, overlooking the sea. What was it we were drink-ing. God, you’re forgetting! Hot scotch and water with a twist of lemon. It’s very English. We all looked great, and the gulls turning. There must have been a hundred of them, their wings and bellies white, and then pink in the sunset, against the blue-black thunderhead. We just stood there, looking, it was so beautiful. I was crying, it was so beautiful. And then the visit to our host, dying, dead already, his pretty boys, so proud that they were so good to him, and he didn’t care, because he was dead already. We bowed and scraped to show how much we cared, and he was dead already, he wasn’t even looking at us, he was just dead. And when we came back the gulls were gone and the thunderhead had moved, but it was still there, just hanging over the water, and the light had shifted. It was beautiful, but it wasn’t the same. I don’t have time to get my tux. They wouldn’t like it anyway—that’s out, we’re not doing that any more, it gives the wrong image. Well, what do you wear? This, I guess. No, I’ll be sweaty. Something muted. Five hundred homosexuals ate hotel food tonight in honor of AIDS victims.

Dennis looked at the sand-filled concrete urns outside Nordstrom’s entrance. There were half-a-dozen butts scattered in the sand. That alluring note of scarlet. Goddamn broads stinking up my store. Call maintenance. You see a broad light up I want you to kick her butt. Just kick it. Let’s go to the jock shop and look at the torsos.

I still don’t like this window! Luis, preppie sells! What would Ralph Lauren do? Why not buck-tooth angelboy John Elway bare-ass on a bearskin rug by an open fire, wearing Santa’s cap? That would sell. Why not Black Watch jock straps with a Baryshnikov bulge? Andre Agassi playing tennis in a Black Watch jock, gorgeous, hairy tanned gut and gorgeous, hairy tanned butt bisected by the sacred emblem of Scots manhood. God, I’d buy a ticket to that. Who wouldn’t? You could sell out the goddamn coliseum. Bad boy Andre in Black Watch plaid versus golden boy Boris in, in what? Something German. Screw it, you can’t do German. But you could do a lot. Rep patterns—take that old school tie and wrap it around your crotch. Well, why not? Why the hell not? Have yourself a very preppie crotch, for Christ’s sake. I could open my own store. Leave Marge out of it. I just wanted to do something for myself. I never dreamed it would blossom this way. Get those torsos from Calvin, maybe in a light chocolate, or coffee and cream. God, it would be preppie! Ducks in silver on navy, teal and ox-blood. And spaniels, and seals. And then you could reverse the col-ors—navy, teal and ox-blood on silver. What else? Stripes, paisley. Why not? Black with scarlet piping, silk paisley lining. Why not? Why the fuck not? My own store. Grandma, what are you doing here? I, I was just in the neighborhood. Um hmmm. Stop fondling my mannequin. I just wanted to hold it. Well, I don’t want you to. I have a business to run. Don’t speak to your grandmother like that! Grandma, you’ll have to let go, or I’m calling security. What seems to be the problem, Mr. Johnson? Officer, remove this woman. She’s groping my mannequin. Lady, you’ll have to come with us. How dare you! This man is a pervert. You should be arresting him! That’s private property, ma’am. You’ll have to come along with us, lady. Use the cuffs, Jerry. How dare you! Just doin’ my job, ma’am. Nothin’ personal.

On to Hardy’s. Oh, Ellie, your drapery’s starting to sag. She isn’t in yet? I’ll call maintenance. But not a bulb out anywhere. I like that. And I like those big, dusty-pink ribbons. What is it with dusty? It just works. Yours is not to reason why.

Dennis stopped in front of another store. Half a dozen dolls, one-third life-size, stared at him with aloof, eighteenth-century eyes. God, aren’t they perfect! This is the best fucking window in the state. See, Harry, this is what we wanted, eighteenth-century museum-quality figures with authentic costumes. Five-thousand dollars for a doll! For that you should get a kid! Oh, but Harry, who wants a kid when you can have one of these? Okay, scrap the Bonneville. No, don’t scrap the Bonneville. Look at the shoes, look at the hose. Christ, they really knew how to dress in those days. If only we could get them half-size, with period furniture, and something that would make them dance the minuet. The Japanese could do it. But sir, all the men are dancing with each other. Well, that’s how they did it. You don’t think there was any mingling of the sexes, do you? God no. They had too much taste for that. Duty calls. Damn it, stop putting your damn gum wrappers and plastic cups in our planters! We try to make this nice for you and you fuck it up with your fucking lipstick! Fucking broads and their fucking mouths! Put a cock in it, lady, that’s all you’re good for.

My God, the first wave. Look at them move! It is beginning to look a lot like Christmas. Yeah, you can hear those cash registers ring. You damn well better. Daddy wants a new Bonneville. Look at her! God, we should just hire ten of her to walk around and give the place class. What a jawline! Who wouldn’t be black if you could look like that! Oh, and who does he think he is, Mark Gastineau? What’s your position, cutie? I’ll show you a new one. Look at those lats, those delts, those gluts. Why don’t you go look at tampons, honey. I’ll take over. That’s right, bitch, hands off. Are they rich? They must be. Look at those pants—silk, the way they stick on her butt. And no panty lines. Damn it, damn it, damn it. What can you do? Maybe he is famous. He could be. God, a real pro jock. Ask for his autograph? I think not. Well, not bad, not bad. Get back to the store. Chubbie at four o’clock. I’m sorry, miss, you’ll have to leave. Your ass is just too fat for the premises. Your bum is a bummer. How can people think Christmas thoughts looking at those stretched pants. Put an apple in your mouth or you’re out of here.
© Copyright 2009 Alan Vanneman

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Men Are Dogs

Men are dogs. They’re dogs!

When I met Jerry I had been in contract management for about three years, and I have to say that contract management was pretty much my life. So what made it so perfect was that he was in contract management too, but with a different contract. Mine was for $150 million, forward funded for three years and authorized for five, while his was $450 million, forward funded for two years and authorized for five, so financially we were in great shape. And I have to say that he was in great shape physically. We met at the gym. He was benching, and there was just something about his thighs that got to me right away, so I was really glad when I found out he was career-oriented too. I got involved once before with a guy because of his thighs, and it didn’t work out too well. I had to blow him off after about three months, because all he cared about were free weights, mountain bikes and ESPN. But he was GIB, if you know what I mean, and I mean great, not good. Before that, I just didn’t know. But he would skip an orgasm so he wouldn’t miss the start of a game. And when he quit his job because it was cutting into his training time, I had to say forget it. That was an attitude that I just could not accept. And that was why I was so happy about Jerry, because he had these great thighs and he had his head screwed on right. Plus, the sex was great too, so I wasn’t missing anything. We were having a great time together, and when both our authorizations were extended a year in March, I took that as a sign. And I didn’t have to do much hinting either. A month later I got my ring, which was just about perfect. Edie was the only one of my friends — well, my real friends, anyway — who had a bigger one, and who could top her? So I guess I was sailing. I had the most wonderful wedding planner — it was like she could read my mind. We both fell in love with the dress, and I know that $2,000 is a lot of money for a dress you’re only going to wear once, but if you could see it, well, you would have died. I know I did. So everything was perfect, and the days were just flying by because I was so busy with my contract and the wedding, until finally I noticed that Jerry wasn’t as excited as I was. At first I thought he was just being nervous, the way men are supposed to be, and I thought, “I’ll bring him around,” so I planned this big seduction for him, and he wasn’t even interested. So finally I said “Jerry, is there anything wrong?” and he says “We have to talk.” Have to talk! So then it takes me half an hour to find out that he’s been seeing this other girl, and I say “Jerry how could you?” and he says “She doesn’t mean anything to me,” but then he mentions that it seems she’s pregnant, and I say “Are you sure you’re the father?” and he says yes he’s sure because she wouldn’t lie to him about something like that, and I say “Oh, you’re sure she wouldn’t?” Then he just sits there looking uncomfortable and I say “Well, what is she going to do?” and he says “What do you mean what is she going to do?” and I say “Is she going to have the baby?” and he says maybe she is. So I say “Jerry, this is great. My husband is going to be a father before I even get pregnant.” So he says “You don’t have to put it like that” and I say “How should I put it?” and he says “You just make it sound like a big deal” and I say “How should I put it, Jerry? How should I put it so that it doesn’t sound like a big deal that my fiancé goes around knocking up bimbos?” And he says “She’s not a bimbo,” which is probably the point where I lost it, because then I said “Oh, she’s not, then what’s her name,” and he says why do you want to know and I say I would like to know the name of the woman who is bearing my husband’s children, so he says she’s just exercising her reproductive rights, so I said what is her fucking name. I think I would have hit him if he didn’t tell me but eventually he says “Brenda Martin.” Fortunately I didn’t know her. I think I would have killed her if I did. After that he says “It’s crazy to get so upset over something that didn’t mean anything and only lasted 15 minutes” and I say, no, what’s crazy is spending $2,000 on a wedding dress to marry some shithead who can’t keep his dick in his pants. So then he says well why don’t you get your money back and I say I can’t get my money back it’s a custom-made dress which means it’s just for me and he says well at least you could probably get $1,500 for it and I no I couldn’t I’d be lucky to get $1,000, and he says well that’s still pretty good. So then I walked out and he didn’t even come after me. I was so mad! And then I went home and called my Mom and then I just went like through the roof. I was crying so bad she came over and when she got there I was still holding the phone, just crying. I had some vacation time arranged. Otherwise I would have died. So instead of going on my honeymoon to the Bahamas for two weeks I went to San Francisco on my no-honeymoon for a week. I don’t know if I felt better when I came back, but at least I was alive. So after I had been back for a week I went over to Mom’s and after lunch we talked a little. She had returned all the presents for me and all the other things that it would have killed me to do. So we were having coffee and she says “Oh, and I managed to sell the dress for $900” and I said who would buy it and she said someone named Brenda Martin.

Men are dogs.

© Copyright 2009 Alan Vanneman

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