Couplehood Page 8

  Our friends have this cabin on a lake, and they invited us up fishing.

  Now, having grown up in the city, I wasn’t a big “fishing” guy. Didn’t fish on any regular basis. You can fish in the city, but you catch things you’re not that happy to have—like a snow tire and a union organizer. Nothing that you would actually heat up with a touch of lemon and serve to company.

  So we’re fishing and my wife had a problem with killing the fish.

  I wasn’t crazy with that part either, but I figured, “If we just wait for them to die naturally, it could take forever. Certainly till after supper.”

  Most people like to distance themselves from the dirty work. Like a Mob hit. “Look, do what you gotta do. I don’t want to know, I don’t want to be involved.… I’ll eat the thing, I just don’t want my name coming up, understand?”

  To me, killing fish is not as cruel as the fact that we tease them first. We dangle worms and things they like, so they think they’re getting a snack, when in fact what they’re getting is death. It’s not honest.

  We advertise worms, then go, “You know what? We’re all out of worms. How would you like a big hook in your mouth instead?” The ultimate Bait and Switch.

  And fish, God bless them, are so dumb, they simply do not catch on. How many years have we been fishing? A zillion years? They haven’t figured it out? All it would take is one fish to see the worm and say, “Wait a second.… Worms don’t just dangle like that.… Something’s going on here.… HEY!”

  But they don’t. They line up. They see their friends getting yanked out of the water, and they don’t care. They’re cocky. “Don’t worry, Honey, that won’t happen to me. He didn’t know what he was doing, whereas—OWWWWW! … This one’s got a hook, too!”

  They don’t see that whole pattern. Worm/death. Worm/death. I would catch on. If I went to a restaurant, and every time I ordered fruit cup, somebody dropped an anvil on my head, I would begin to notice. “Hmm.… Fruit cup/death. Fruit cup/death. You know what? I’m gonna get the soup instead.”

  Fish—they’re in schools, but they’re just not learning.

  I tried to convince my wife that fish don’t feel the hook.

  She says, “How do you know?”

  I said, “I don’t, but that’s what they say.”

  She had no argument. “Well, okay then, if you’re sure that’s what they say.…”

  Again, why would They lie?

  But I’m sure animals say the same things about us. Go into the woods and you’ll hear grizzly bears saying, “You know when you bite people’s arms off? They don’t feel it. Believe me, if I thought they felt it, I could never do it. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. No, you know why they’re screaming and jumping around like that? It’s a dance. It’s the Dance of Joy. They’re saying, ‘Yippee! Thanks for trimming that section off me.’ Every six months, they shed that part of their bodies naturally.… That’s why they have those short-sleeve shirts. It’s part of nature—don’t worry about it.”

  Apparently we only get upset about killing animals if they’re cute. Like dolphins. We get all upset when dolphins get caught in tuna nets, but no one cares about the 10,000 dead tuna on the same boat. Little ugly tunas, one on top of the other, screaming for help, “Hey, someone get this crate off my eye!” No one’s concerned.

  Because they’re not cute. Dolphins, on the other hand, have that great round, smiling face, the friendly eyes, the bald head—they look like your Uncle Marvin. We can’t slaughter anything that looks like it might show up for the Holidays.

  We’re outraged when other cultures eat animals we don’t. “They eat dogs? That’s disgusting. They’re savages. How could someone eat a dog?!”

  But chickens? Who cares? “Cut it up, put it in a bucket, we’ll eat it in the car.”

  They’re not cute. “Boy, look at that chicken! With the triangle-on-the-head thing—it’s so ugly! But you better put that puppy down, buddy!”

  Puppies are adorable. But lobsters? “Boil that one alive—it’ll teach him a lesson.… Fix yourself up, like the Labradors.… Make an effort!”

  It’s like fur. We hate the idea of killing baby seals and foxes and minks—but there’d be no problem if someone showed up in a nice full-length Rat Coat. Or a double-breasted Weasel Jacket. Nobody would care. It’s the same way we treat each other: penalize the unattractive, idolize the cute.

  My favorite time of year to be outdoors is the Fall. I love that whole Autumn, New England, wear-a-big-sweater-have-hot-chocolate-listen-to-depressing-music-cry-in-your-dorm-with-Ali-MacGraw-Love-Story kind of thing. That image was such a part of growing up that I was genuinely surprised to get to college and find Ali MacGraw not already there and crying about something I said. I thought that just came automatically.

  But even without Ms. MacGraw, I’ve always found Fall to be an achingly romantic time of year. As it turns out, it’s not the location or the weather—it’s Tweed. There’s something about tweed that makes you fall in love. I’m telling you—you put on a tweed jacket or an itchy sweater, and in half an hour, you’re going to meet someone and get involved. Maybe it’s the itching of the tweed. It could be that as you’re standing there talking, you find yourselves scratching and pulling till one of you says, “Look, why don’t we go somewhere and get out of these clothes.” And in less than half an hour, you’re in a dorm, scantily clad and chatting.

  And of course, if you add crunching leaves to that, you can knock it down to fifteen, twenty minutes. Crunching leaves is very romantic. “Crunching” and “itching” together is almost overpowering. I’m telling you—hot cocoa, a couple of leaves, and tweed—you’re all set. Sometimes even a tight undershirt and a bowl of potato chips will do the trick—as long as you’re itching and crunching.

  Last Fall, we took a trip back East and drove through some beautiful farm country. Now, as you may know, there happens to be a particular, distinctive aroma around farms, and no matter how many times you’ve experienced it, no matter how old you are or how smart you are, you automatically turn to the other person in the car and casually ask, “Is that you?”

  Now, you know it’s not, but you always ask.

  “Is that you?”

  There are very few dumber questions. Because, essentially, what you’re asking is, “Is that you, or 7,000 acres of manure? Which of the two am I contending with here? Is it miles and miles of punishingly nasty steer funk, or just something that happened to you for a second? I can’t distinguish.”

  I got news for you: If there’s truly a chance of confusing those two things, get out of the car and live by yourself.

  Wish

  You Were

  Here

  I’ll tell you what I love about hotels: They can’t do enough for you. They want to make you feel at home, and then they give you things that nobody has at home. Shower caps, shoe horns … and sewing kits? I have never sewn in my life. What makes them think I’m going to start in a Marriott in Cleveland? Has anybody ever made that call? “Honey, I’m in Ohio, and my buttons are flying off like crazy. There’s a sewing kit right here. I have it. Talk me through.”

  And I love the little chocolates on the pillow. There’s a clever snacking item, because personally, there’s nothing I like better right before I go to bed than a nice diabetic seizure. A pound and a half of sugar before going to sleep, good idea.

  I want to know how they selected chocolate as the appropriate treat. What were the other suggestions? “How about … scallops? Do you think scallops would be good on a pillow? Or maybe kiwi. Several kiwi, thinly sliced …”

  When you’re in a hotel without your partner, it’s amazing what you’ll do to entertain yourself. If you’re there long enough, you will actually read the brochure with prices for carriage rides through the Old City. You pick up the phone book to see how many people with your last name live in town. When I was in Dallas, I actually looked to see if there were any Oswalds still living in the area; call them up and settle this thing once
and for all.

  And you watch TV you would never watch in real life. Those Specially-Selected-After-Hour-Movies? I love the editing decisions these guys make. They’re the sleaziest movies in the world—cheesy looking, overlit, with bad music, pathetic acting, no story, and nothing in them but sex—but they still use “discretion” and never let you see exactly what’s going on. They leave that final moment to the imagination, like, perhaps, at the last minute, her lips actually went around a cup of coffee she found in bed.

  Of course the last indignity about these movies is that they show up on your bill.

  “Okay, sir, that’s three long-distance calls, a turkey club sandwich, a Diet Coke, and ‘Melissa Goes to College’—apparently three times.… What a thirst for knowledge she must have.”

  But even regular TV—it’s amazing what you’ll watch.

  Like the Discovery Channel.

  When you have no place to go, you can’t believe how long you’ll watch this. An hour and a half watching a zebra chew a leaf.

  I always feel bad for the TV networks, spending all this money on prime-time shows, big budget mini-series, and special events, when I’m in a Ramada Inn with a chef salad on my lap watching a badger eat a straw hat from nine to eleven.

  And I love those talk shows. If you turn on Oprah, or Donahue, or Sally Jesse Raphael, and you see a panel of five women and one guy—you know the guy’s in trouble.

  You don’t even have to hear what they’re saying. You see the guy and you just know he’s gonna have a very tough show. He either did something to these women, or he failed to do something for these women—whatever it is, he’s just wrong.

  I know it, you know it, yet these guys have no idea. If they did they wouldn’t be on the show.

  But they are literally without a clue. Their logic is, “I’m right, she’s wrong, and if I go on national TV, everyone will take my side, and that’ll be the end of that.”

  Then they share their story, and the guy just gets buried: “He doesn’t come home for three days, and when he does, he brings his girlfriend to sleep with us.”

  The crowd boos and hisses.

  The guy just smiles and looks to the audience for sympathy. “C’mon, she knows I love her.”

  Why do they go through this? So that the hostility they breed in their home can now be enjoyed on a national level?

  And what about the car ride home? After the show. What could that be like? They’ve just slugged it out and spewed their mutual venom in front of millions of people, and they get into their car, look at each other, and say, “You wanna get something to eat?”

  I just don’t get it.

  Eating on the road can be tough. You always feel so pathetic, sitting in a restaurant by yourself. “Look at that guy. He has no friends.”

  You try to look busy. You bring a newspaper, and you read it extremely thoroughly. Things you don’t even care about—“Ooh look, the weather in Utah is apparently unseasonal.” You just keep reading, as if to say, “I have friends, but with all this reading I have to do …”

  And the people who work at the restaurant make it worse. Most tables are already set for two, and when they see you’re by yourself, they immediately take away the other plate, to highlight for everybody else your lack of companion. “He will be alone. Furthermore, there’s no chance of anyone joining him, because we’ve removed the plates and silverware.” They also figure you’re so depressed, you don’t need that extra knife around.

  The worst part of eating alone is that there’s nobody there to tell you that you have food on your face—another reason people get married; someone to say, “Honey, right over there you got a little thing … nope … nope—got it.”

  You could actually finish an entire meal by yourself and leave the restaurant with food still on your face. Conceivably, you could walk into another restaurant later that day with food already on your face. That’s the lowest thing there is. At least then, people will look at you and realize, “Well, that’s why he’s eating by himself. Look at him, he’s got sandwich on his face.”

  I’ll tell you something about traveling by yourself: It’s ultimately very healthy for your relationship.

  When you first learn that one of you has to go away, you’re actually both looking forward to it, but neither of you wants to admit it. So you both pretend you’re going to be miserable.

  “I’m going to miss you.”

  “I’m really going to miss you.”

  Again, it’s a competition.

  “I’m the one unable to live without you.”

  “No, I’m totally unable to live without you, I swear.”

  The truth is, one of you is thrilled to be going somewhere, and the other one can’t wait to have the house to themselves. Then, you get to where you’re going, and you find you really do miss each other. If for no other reason, you forgot how to be alone.

  “Honey, where are my keys? … Honey? … Oh, right, you’re in Phoenix.… I’ll just … find them myself. That’s what I used to do, sure.”

  Sometimes you get homesick because where you went isn’t all it was cracked up to be.

  “You wouldn’t believe the cheesy hotel they stuck me in. I wish you were here.”

  “To see the cheesy hotel?”

  “Yes.”

  Or you just need to hear a sane voice. Ever call from a family get-together that she weaseled out of?

  “Hi—I’m going to go OUT OF MY MIND.”

  “It’s only for two more days.”

  “I won’t make it, you hear me? I WON’T.”

  Then you start pining for home, like a child.

  “How’s the house?”

  “What do you mean, ‘How’s the house?’ ”

  “What does everything look like?”

  “Since you left at four-thirty?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s all different. I repainted, knocked down the bathroom wall, and the garage is gone. No one knows what happened.”

  “How’s the dog?”

  “Fine.”

  “Does the dog miss me?”

  “Been crying since you left.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously? The dog has no idea you’re gone. Thinks you’re in the shower … Would you like to know how I am?”

  “Yes, yes, I was just going to ask. I swear—that was my next question. How are you?”

  Those miles between you can really change things. You forget how to talk.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing. Why?”

  “You sound distracted.”

  “I’m not distracted.”

  “You watching TV?”

  “No.”

  “So who’s that talking?”

  “You can hear that?”

  “Yes, I can hear that. What are you watching, ‘The Jeffersons’?”

  “I’m not watching—it’s just on.”

  “You’re watching The Jeffersons’ while you’re talking to me?”

  “I’m not watching it. I’ll shut it off. Wait.… Okay, there you see, I shut it off. No more ‘Jeffersons.’ ”

  Then you’re quiet. Then you tell her which episode of “The Jeffersons” you were watching. She saw that one. Actually liked it. You talk about Sherman Hemsley. Then you talk about what you used to watch when you came home from school as a kid. What you used to eat while you watched TV as a kid. You compare the merits of different snacking foods. Then one of you has the presence of mind to pull the plug.

  “What are we doing here? We’re talking long distance about Pepperidge Farm cookies.”

  You both say, “Good night.”

  You both say, “I love you.”

  You both point out how the other one sounds phony.

  You sit and say nothing for a while.

  You both promise to be better at this tomorrow and swear to never go away again.

  Then you hang up, and one hour later you wake her up to find out how “The Jeffersons” ended.

&nbs
p; Dear

  Japan,

  Stop!!!

  At some point, my wife and I got ourselves on every mailing list in the free world. All you have to do is buy one distinctly dumb product you don’t need, and everyone with a catalogue hears about it. “Hi! We understand you don’t care what you spend money on anymore. We have just the catalogue for you.”

  I like the Combination Products. Things that you probably already have, but not in this particular combination.

  “It’s a sweater vest and a bottle opener.”

  “It’s a hot beverage thermos and a snorkeling mask!”

  And, of course, if you look at the pictures long enough, you start thinking, “Well, you know, we could use that. With a thermos/snorkel mask, we wouldn’t have to come up for coffee anymore. We could snorkel all day and never come up!”

  Then they combine things that not only shouldn’t be together, there’s no way they could be. “It’s a cassette rack and a Doberman pinscher!”

  How could that be?

  “It’s a rain bonnet, but it’s also your parents.”

  How could that be?! I just saw my parents. They weren’t a rain bonnet.

  They’re doing it with stores now, too. Stores are branching out into areas where they have no business doing business. “Beauty Supplies and Cheese,” “Massage Tables and Skate Repairs.”

  There’s a cabinet store in my neighborhood that sells bookcases, shelves, and pineapple juice. Apparently, that was where they felt they were lacking—the juice market.

  “Look, we already have a hammer and a flat surface; go get a pineapple, we’ll make juice.”

  Even the fast-food places—everybody’s trying to do everyone else’s job. Hamburger places have pizza, pizza places have salad bars, chicken places have croissants, bakeries are developing film—everybody’s so desperate: “Don’t go anywhere else. We’ll get you whatever you want—just stay here!”

  But the catalogues are dangerous because they seduce you with the pictures you can peruse at your leisure.