I had this sort of slight condition, let’s call it. I mean, anytime it ever came up, Rebecca, my girl, put it all to rest of course. I was just shy was all. That’s what she’d say. “Besides,” she’d say, “you know it wasn’t your gift of the gab I fell in love with. If you know what I mean.” Then, like the sexy lunatic she was, she’d take both my hands into hers, the window to my soul she’d call them, kiss them, lick them, and put them somewhere.
“Yeah, I know what you mean.”
But that was yesterday. In a manner of speaking. Two years, three months and twenty five days ago. I needed to be somebody new now, I guessed.
The last time I got reminded of my condition started on a Sunday night. My girl and I were lying in bed watching TV like always. Rebecca’s phone buzzed and lit like a pinball machine. Oh look, so and so from Rebecca’s CrossFit. Just stopping by to say, Hi, me and the fam stopped at Kidd Valley after skiing all day. Ate a cheeseburger, fries, milkshake. Apparently had to snap a photo of it. Apparently, everyone needed to be in on this riveting story, too. And I’m the one with the condition.
I couldn’t help it once in a while. I peeked this time. It read something like, “But Satan, my dears, has a new name, and it’s called Kidd Valley onion rings. I’m totally going there next time.”
Another one chimed in, “Carrot cake.”
“Pizza!”
I just wanted to lie in bed and watch an episode of The Apprentice uninterrupted. Why couldn’t all the constant buzzing wait ‘til morning when they all got together at the gym? But I took it in stride. The same way Rebecca took it in stride the kind of relationship stuff she had to put up with with me.
That same so and so from earlier then came up with the great idea, “Hey, let’s all onion ring or carrot cake together next time and bring our toys.” Rebecca showed me the text. I loved her for it.
“Why not,” I said.
With a name like Fubar you wouldn’t think it was a German joint. The tables were long and planky. They were so long in fact that the only way for two people on opposite ends of the table to hear each other would be for the two of them to really be making an effort. If you know what I mean.
We’re all bull jivin’ and I’m laughing at Rebecca and getting her to tell the part about this or that when without warning, it hit. Least that’s how it feels like to a guy like me. It was just like you see it at the ball park all of a sudden. It starts out as a small group. They rally their section. And that section rallies another section. And then? Damn wave. I swear it was like that. But instead of it being the wave, we had to go around and introduce ourselves. Which pretty much meant we had to come up with something funny. Jesus, I didn’t know we were all going to have to perform at this thing. I did what any man with my condition would. I got up to take a leak.
I stood at the urinal. My junk in one hand and a pint in the other. Soccer was on all the monitors. I could still pick out Rebecca’s laugh in the mash of bar noise. After that long with someone, you just do. The laugh. What’s not being said.
No doubt these German beers were talking to me a little on my way back. Not that much, though, that I couldn’t make out what exactly was going on. When I got back, this guy Seth was jawin’ some tale on the other end of the table. His girlfriend who must have heard this one a million times already laughed like it was her first. But on the other end, the end I was returning to, Rebecca was leaning her ears and every other part in on this guy like a love bird. The rest of our little circle was huddled and having a conversation of their own about something, and here she was setting out on her own.
I put my hand on her leg and gave it a little squeeze. “I missed you, Baby, I said.” Nothing. I rubbed up and down her thigh. She pushed my hand away. I put my arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. She offered a cheek.
I figured that was that and we’d go back to our small huddled conversations. Sure as shit, ole what’s his nuts starts spoutin’ off at the mouth again from the far end of the table. Seems he had a funny story for just about anything, I guess. When it was obvious Rebecca expected me to pay attention, I caught up with the story.
“So they’re just going at it, right?” he said.
“You mean, like going-at-it at it?” my girl says.
What are we, twelve? I thought. I looked straight at Rebecca. “You know what he meant.”
It wasn’t a complicated story: it was the middle of rush hour. The wife was not riding her husband in the driver’s seat. She was not bobbing up and down giving him a blowjob. They were in a fight. They had a kid in the backseat who was out of his seat belt and leaning up against the two front seats. They weren’t going at it at it. Smooth Seth told this story before, I could tell.
Another round of pitchers plonked on the table. I grabbed it first, poured me a tall one, and put the pitcher back down.
“I’m good, thanks,” Rebecca said.
You’re welcome, I thought.
Slick Seth goes on, “So what does this little focker do?”
“What’s he do what’s he do?” I said.
Rebecca ignored me.
“He looks over at me in traffic while mom and dad are jawing at each other and starts moving his hands like a conductor. Funniest goddamn thing I’ve ever seen.”
There was a little intermission where people got up to go to the bathroom. The servers cleared off the tables and asked if anyone wanted more. She got up. Then he got up. They disappeared to the bathrooms. I think I might have overheard her apologize for me.
They came back separately. Rebecca was not having a thing to do with me. She sat down and the chip on her shoulder nearly cut me. ” Okay,” I said, “have it your way.”
I really don’t know how else to describe it. It’s like this concert spotlight whenever I’m asked a question in front a big group. It angles and wheezes towards me and feels hot. My face feels like it has ants. Her voice echoes at the same time. “Jesus, why can’t you at least entertain your own family. I have to do it.” I knew it was hard on her.
I got up.
“Where are you going?” she said.
I walked right up to Seth and put my hands on his shoulder. I looked back at Rebecca. She looked pretty paralyzed.
“You wanna know an even better one than that?” I said.
Smooth, slick Seth looks up at me. “Uhhh, sure?”
I tap him first. “Duck.”
“Duck.”
“Duck.”
That’s the thing about not talking too much. You notice things. And Goose was copping looks at me all afternoon. She was kind of built like a teenaged boy, but I didn’t care. She got up and chased me halfway down the length of the table. I let her catch me of course. She pulled at my shirt. Maybe half the group noticed. Seth did. He didn’t seem to care too much for it. He probably felt the attention being dragged away from him. It was over like that. I never did catch her name or maybe I forgot it. Whoever she was, she went back to her seat.
Without actually looking at me, Rebecca said, “Ohhhhhkaaaaay.”
The waiter came over and asked how everyone was doing. A few made the check-please sign, others rubbed their guts and blew farts out their mouths.
I asked Rebecca about halfway home, “So, what’s your funniest rush hour story, Babe?”
“What is wrong with you?”
“Me? Nothing. I’m just tired from laughing so hard. I mean, seriously, that guy ought to do standup.”
“Oh my God, seriously?”
Yeah, seriously. Rebecca and I had a thing. She’d do the talking. I was the side kick. Yeah, sure I’d get bored after the fifth time of the same damn story, but it worked. We worked. But that back there? That didn’t work.
“You think that story was real, crying out loud? You really think that kid had his seat belt off?”
“Jesus!” She began to cry.
A few more traffic lights for the snot to stop running. I put my hand on her thighs. It was just she and I, mute. But I still felt this rush of nervous blood through my cheeks. So much for nearly killing a man and resting on that laurel the rest of your life.
(Go easy, Homies, I haven’t fictioned in a while)
Things Men Carry 