Couplehood Page 9

  Victoria’s Secret is big trouble. That’s a good-looking catalogue. That one I don’t throw out so fast.

  In all fairness, it’s more than a catalogue. It’s a lovely story, a novella, really, that I keep by my bedside, and every night I read a few pages and see what those wacky girls are up to this time.

  There are no words, of course, but you can put together the story. It’s about a group of women, a Slumber Party Organization. I don’t know what their particular agenda is; I don’t know if it’s a political assembly or more a social, community-minded, grass-roots type of thing. But I do know they get together every couple of months to, apparently, slumber.

  They meet at this great hunting lodge one of them owns, and though they’re obviously very close, there’s tremendous anxiety regarding their attire. They’re just not sure what to wear. And this is where the drama comes in. The conflict.

  They each bring a couple of changes, and they try them on for each other, hoping to gain the approval of this very rigid group. They slip into something—“What do you think? No? Okay, I’ll try on something else.” And then someone else takes the floor. Many of them are quite distraught and end up standing on the porch alone, so demanding are the slumbering wardrobe requirements.

  One woman wearing a peach negligee comes in and leans on the piano.

  “Better! That’s definitely a piano type of garment. Make sure there’s a baby grand around when you wear that, because it really accents the weave.”

  Trying on, taking off. Trying on, taking off. On and off it goes. Until finally, content with their choices, they proceed to slumber.

  A couple of pages of women sleeping, and then, toward the end of the book, you notice they’re modeling the heavier stuff: sweaters, coats, luggage, and gloves. That’s because they’re leaving.

  It’s the end of the party, and they’re getting ready to go home. But though the chapter is ending, you know they’re coming back next month, because they never tell you which one is Victoria, and what’s the big secret.

  There are catalogues that my wife gets excited about that absolutely fly under my radar. I never even know about them till things show up in the mail.

  “Where’d we get this?”

  “I ordered it,” says the woman I love.

  “What is it?”

  “Tea cozy.”

  “A what?”

  “A tea cozy.”

  I run those two words around in my head for a few seconds, thinking that will help me.

  “Okay, I don’t know what that is.”

  “It’s a thing, you put it over a pot of tea, and it keeps it—”

  “Cozy?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Good. Because that’s the one thing I felt our tea was lacking: that certain coziness.”

  When a catalogue comes to our house, we’re both free to browse through it. But with other types of mail, territories need to be defined.

  Whose mail is whose? If it’s addressed to both of you, who gets to open it first? If it’s addressed to one of you, but you know that it’s going to be for both of you anyway, are you allowed to read it without your spouse pursuing felony charges?

  And what about letters that truly are personal? Friends that you knew before you were a couple and never bothered to talk about? Old lovers? The very delivery of one of these letters can drive a wedge right through your home.

  “Who is that?”

  “I told you about her.”

  “Never.”

  “No?”

  “Trust me.”

  “Well, probably because I haven’t spoken to her in fifteen years.”

  “Why would she write to you now?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Does she know you’re married?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “What does she want?”

  “I don’t know—you have the letter, you tell me.”

  “I had the letter—I threw it out.”

  I think it’s amazing that any mail is ever delivered in this country.

  Have you ever dropped a letter into one of those mailboxes on the side of the road, isolated, in the middle of nowhere? I always think, “They don’t know this mailbox is here. I might as well be throwing it in the garbage.” How do they remember where all the mailboxes are? Do they update the list? I don’t think they do.

  But we have faith.

  We trust that they will deliver our mail—anywhere we want. And for only 29 cents. Isn’t that remarkable? We tell them, “Take this piece of paper to Bangor, Maine, and for your efforts, I will give you a quarter and four pennies.”

  And they do it. Would you do it? No. But they’re wonderful people. Devoted men and women, forming a human chain of hands, taking my little letter across the country.

  You can’t scare them. “My friend lives in North Dakota, on a hill, it’s really pretty remote, the door is in the back …” And they go, “Don’t worry, we’ll find him. Is this his name—‘Ed’? Just give us three days, and 29 cents … that’s all we ask.”

  Even they know that 29 cents is a bargain. And a lot of times they kind of—lose it. That’s why, if you give them real money—10 bucks—they guarantee it. “For 10 bucks, there’s no fooling around. For 29 cents, there is some fooling around, we’ll grant you that.”

  It’s like greasing a guy in Vegas. “Tell you what, for 10 bucks, I’ll take care of you. I’ll bring this to Ed. For 15 bucks, I’ll bring you back a little piece of paper that tells you Ed got it. For 40 bucks, I’ll bring back Ed”

  Whether it’s stuff in a catalogue or stuff in a store, my problem is I have zero sales resistance. I am a salesman’s dream. All they have to do is tell me one reason why I’d be stupid not to buy something, and I buy it. Because I don’t want them to think I’m stupid.

  I was in this stereo store, looking at this VCR/CD player/laser disc/pants presser combination thing. I wasn’t even thinking of getting it, I was just playing.

  Salesman comes over. “You know, that CD player’ll hold up to 20 discs at a time.”

  “Yeah?”

  He says, “Yes-siree-bob. That’s at least 18 hours of music.”

  “Okey-dokey.” And he wraps it up.

  You see, he opened my eyes. I hadn’t done the arithmetic. Eighteen hours, sure. Who wouldn’t want that?

  Then I got it home and realized, “Wait a second! I’m not up 18 hours. When would I use this? The last four hours will actually be keeping me awake. This is not something I need.”

  I’d have to get up at four in the morning just to program this thing. “Honey, wake up. Any thoughts about what you might want to hear tonight at two in the morning? I’ve got Springsteen, I’ve got Mozart, Gerry and the Pacemakers—everything. I have a Vaughn Meader record in there. Help me, I have nothing left.”

  You know why I got this thing, truthfully? Because I wanted one more remote control unit in my life. Can never have too many remote controls, I say. I now have twelve of them lined up on the table. I invite friends over and say, “See those? They’re all mine. And I don’t know how to work any of them. Not one button do I understand, but I know they’re mine.”

  I own things that I myself can’t operate. It’s embarrassing. Friends say, “Hey, did you tape that show?” and I’ll have to tell them “I tried, but something happened. I just got fuzz and the sound to a Jimmy Durante movie. And by the way, did you call this month? My answering machine is flashing that somebody called, but it won’t tell me who. Was it you? I’m asking everybody.”

  The problem is, they keep coming up with technology nobody asks for. They believe we want Freeze Frame Search, and Split Screen, and 14-Day Timers. Clocks that make coffee and cameras that talk. We don’t want that. You know what I want? I just want to lie down. That’s really all I want. If I could lie down for half an hour, I’d be so happy. I’ve been reading instructions since 1987, my head is pounding, I can’t do it.

  I want to write a letter:

  “Dear Japan, S
TOP!!! We’re fine. This is plenty of stuff. Why don’t you stop with the VCRs and work on diseases. Go cure a disease—I’m going to figure out my cordless phone.”

  I think the reason we have trouble mastering our new toys is that there’s simply no more room in our brains. At a certain point in life, your brain just says, “Thank you, but we’re closed. Packed solid. We’re not accepting any new information.”

  I am an adult man, and I am genuinely unable to learn anything new. Even simple stuff. Phone numbers.

  If I have to call up Information for a number, I can’t take all seven digits. It’s too much. I have to split it with whoever is in the room.

  Operator says, “That’s three-eight-four …”

  I throw it to my wife. “Three-eight-four—that’s yours, you got it?”

  “… six -five-two-four.”

  “Okay, six-five-two-four.”

  Hang up. Plant it in your head. “Six-five-two-four. Six-five-two-four …”

  “Okay, what was the first part?”

  She looks up. “I forgot.”

  “You forgot? How could you forget? I had FOUR numbers and I still have them.” You have to redial. “I’m sorry to bother you for that number again, but my wife got distracted and failed the small task given her. Could we have another chance, please?”

  Sometimes I can remember a number if there’s a pattern. Like a couple of pairs. “Three-eight-two, five-five, eight-eight.” At least they’re trying to work with you.

  Sometimes you get a straight flush and you’re thrilled.

  “Give me a call when you get a chance. My new number is two-three-four, five-six-seven-eight.”

  “What are you—kidding me? I’ll call you every day. That’s just a gorgeous, gorgeous number. I’m going to call you five or six times a day. In fact, hang up right now. I wanna call you again, just to use it.”

  When you move, they give you a new number, and you don’t have much say in what you get. And you should, because it’s a big thing. A phone number is like your name; you want to get a good one.

  A bad number is embarrassing. “Aw, look what they gave us—seven digits, no sequence, no pattern, no repeats—this is CRAP. No one’s going to call us. Would you call a number like that? I wouldn’t. Ahhh … Why even have a phone with a number like that? I’d rather move again and take our chances.”

  Sometimes you get desperate to make your number memorable.

  If there’s no pattern in the numbers, look for one on the keypad.

  “Ooh—it’s a little square.… It’s a ‘Z,’ a little Zorro with a hat. It’s a little couch and an ottoman—that’s what it is: ottoman, couch, hat—call me.”

  Or you change the numbers to letters, hoping it spells something cute. “SNOOPY-5.” “Yippy-I-O-Ki-eight.” Problem is, your friends are too embarrassed to use it. They’re adults, telling the operator, “Yes, that’s a collect call to ‘INKY-DINKY-DOO.’ … I don’t know the actual numbers, ma’am, all I know is Inky-Dinky-Doo. Let’s not belabor this.”

  For years they’ve been promising us phones where you can see who you’re talking to. I think they’re putting it off because if people could see you, you wouldn’t be able to lie anymore. You can’t say, “Oh, I was just leaving.” They see you’re in your pajamas, they know you’re not leaving.

  That’s why we have answering machines—so they can lie for us. “We’re not in right now …” Of course we’re in.

  “We can’t get to the phone right now …” We could get to the phone if we wanted to. We just don’t feel like it.

  And friends get so upset when they find out you’re “screening” your calls—listening to see who it is before you pick up. What are they upset about? They don’t know you’re screening till you pick it up, and if you do pick it up, it means they passed the audition. They’re in. But they get so insecure. Even when you are out, they’re convinced you’re actually there and snubbing them. And they leave you those lengthy, pathetic messages.

  “Are you there? … I know you’re there.… I’ll wait.… I’ll wait all day.… Come on, you’re not there? Really? Last chance … Okay, I just wanted to let you know that our machine is busted, so if you call and we don’t answer, it’s because we’re not here.… Hello? … Oh, I thought I heard you pick up.…”

  And I like when older people call our house. They still don’t quite get the concept of answering machines, and talk to it like it’s a secretary. “Yeah, urn, please tell Paul to call me.… I’m his aunt.”

  Deciding who gets to record the outgoing message on your answering machine is a big deal. It’s very important, because that person represents the house. One of you gets singled out to maitre d’ the calls.

  And it affects the callers. If my voice is on the tape, my friends just start talking to me.

  “Hey, it’s me. You were right—that girl you were telling me about really is cute. Call me.”

  Implication: “I don’t even know you got married.”

  If my wife’s voice is on the tape, they’ll go, “Hey you guys, how you doing? Good? Good. Paul, call me.”

  Implication: “I greet you both, but I’m interested in only one.”

  You may suggest leaving a joint message. Can’t. It’s too cutesy and no one will like you.

  See, answering machines are hard appliances to share. I know when I check the messages, I treat them differently if they’re not for me. I’ll jot it down, but there’s not a lot of attention to details.

  I’ll say, “Debbie called.”

  “Debbie who?”

  “Debbie.”

  “No last name?”

  “I figured you’d know.”

  “I don’t know any ‘Debbie.’ ”

  “How about Bebbie? Webbie?”

  “What did she say?”

  “Call her.”

  “Did she leave a number?”

  “She said you have it.”

  “Under what?”

  “Bebbie Webbie?”

  Is This Kid

  Beautiful,

  or What?

  At this point in our lives, everyone we know or ever heard of has a baby. I’m telling you, babies are unbelievably popular. Bigger than the Hula Hoop.

  And for people who have babies, it’s not enough that they have babies: They want you to have a baby.

  “When are you going to have a baby? You two should really have a baby.”

  They have this plan for Nonstop Life Momentum, and they insist you play. When you’re single, they nag you: “When are you going to get married?” When you get married, it’s: “When are you going to have a kid?” You have a kid: “You should have a second kid—for the sake of the first kid.” It’s always something. I’m sure when I’m eighty, they’ll be asking, “So … when are you going to die?”

  What is the rush with everybody? What do they—need my spot?

  I think they just want the company. In case they don’t enjoy it, they won’t be the only ones who made a huge blunder with their lives. This way, they can drag you down with them. “You should really have a kid, you don’t know what you’re missing.”

  Sure I do. What am I—blind? I see what goes on, and it’s not entirely appealing.

  One time, we were on a plane, and this woman came on board with the Youngest Baby in the United States. Eleven minutes old. My guess is he was born at the baggage check-in counter; that’s the only way he could have made the flight.

  She sat in front of us and put the kid up on her shoulder, so he was hanging over the back of the seat, facing me. His little knuckles gripped the headrest, his tiny chin in the middle—like a miniature Kilroy Was Here.

  Now, at one point we hit some turbulence. The guy sitting next to me slept right through it, but I was a little queasy, and then I looked up and noticed the baby had actually started changing colors. He went from yellow to green, to blue, a little paisley pattern, and then back to green. I thought to myself, “Okay, here we go, show time!” and I scooted over toward my wife.r />
  Then I did something I’m not that proud of: I reached up and turned the kid’s head to face the sleeping guy. Just angled it away from me a little. I figured, he’ll never know—he’s sleeping. So, after a few minutes of shaking around, the kid, who was now some deep shade of mauve, made a little coughing noise, and then, a thing came out of his mouth, that to this day I don’t know what it was. It was like a grape, but different. Food that had no origin in our culture. It shot out and hit the guy’s head.

  The guy must have had kids of his own, because he just cleaned up his head and went back to sleep.

  I, on the other hand—if that ever happened to me, I would have to insist that you kill me. Just put a bullet in the side of my head and end the whole thing.

  I mean, if it were your own baby, that’s one thing; you’d accept it. But someone else’s baby? A strange baby? How do you just go back to your life? And it’s not that I wouldn’t want to go on living, I just wouldn’t know how. How do you assimilate that event in with everything else you have planned? Your friend picks you up at the airport and asks, “How was your flight?” What do you say? “Well, a baby cheesed on my head, but otherwise, fine.”

  You’re just going to carry on with your afternoon? I think not.

  Babies have to put up with some pretty disgusting practices themselves.

  I saw a kid who had some little dried-up food on his face. (Not since birth, just since lunch, I imagine.) His mother took out a tissue, spit on the tissue, and rubbed it into the kid’s face. I’m not making this up. This goes on, in communities around our country, on a daily basis. It’s enough to break your heart. You know that if babies could talk, that’d be the first thing they’d bring up. “Hey, don’t do that. It’s revolting. Would you like it if someone did that to you? Okay, then.”

  It is disgusting, but it sure does work, doesn’t it? There’s something in Mother Saliva that cleans like nobody’s business. All women, once they give birth, their enzymes change, and saliva becomes Ajax. It’ll clean anything: a baby’s face, a countertop, a Buick—you get enough mothers, you could do a whole car in 30, 40 minutes.