Today's chief complaint

I had a pretty productive morning, all things considered. I’d promised my project leader at work that I’d make up the time from Monday on Saturday. Lo and behold, I woke up this morning and got my ass in gear quick enough to make good on my promise. Seven o’clock and I sat down at my computer to work. Got productive, too – at least for the first ninety minutes.

And then the dog nudged me in the thigh. All right, Chester, let’s go for our walk. So we went for our walk. And then I opened the kitchen cabinet – no coffee. All out of coffee. Have to have coffee in order to work. So I drove down to Starbucks, waited in line for the post—grad who was grinding coffee this morning. Got to have bagels and lox, so I stopped at the bakery for some fresh-out-of-the-oven bagels, then got home.

When I got home, I looked at the air conditioning vents. It’d been two months since I cleaned them, and boy did it show. So after I started up the coffee, I cleaned the vents. And then I sat down to work, breathing slowly. I’d only lost forty minutes – incredible, it seemed so much longer. Thank God the dog pooped quickly instead of procrastinating like he usually does.

So off I go, working. And then Mike wakes up, turns on the music, comes into the den, starts talking, can’t imagine what it’s about, some sex scandal or show on TV. I tune him out with “yes, I know” and “isn’t that interesting” responses, but he isn’t fooled. So he goes back to the bedroom and plays on his computer while I finish my work.

And then I decide to do laundry. Now who doesn’t do the laundry when they work at home? It’s de rigeur, as the French say. And I also brushed the dog – got a mountain-full of hair out of him, good for me – doesn’t that have to be done Saturday mornings?

And then back to work again. Look at the clock, only an hour to go before I hit the requisite six. Surprising to say, I get into it. There are days I’ve worked at home, I don’t get into it, and there are days that I do. This is one of those when I do. Productive, makes me feel like I’m actually worth the bucks they pay me to pretend that I like my job. Well, I don’t have to pretend. Today, I like my job.

So what’s my chief complaint? I have to work this damned Saturday at all. All because my father has Alzheimer’s Disease and I had to take him to his neurologist on Monday afternoon. And I’ve had this horrible gas all morning long. That damned nova lox, after all.

What I know about wolves

Chuck sat on the stool in the New York pub. He'd taken the train to New York to see “The Boys in the Band” and cocktails at the Carlyle. Chuck sighed toward the end of his weekend. New York was always a chance to get away from his routine and look at the men from Greenwich Village. Trouble was, most men in their 50s didn’t do that. They were married with grown children and a wife who cooked pot roast every Sunday. But he came to New York, prowling for man. Hell, he didn't have to be all that young or pretty -- didn't matter to him -- but he had to have a man on this trip. He'd go to confession tomorrow, say his Hail Marys, and head back to Philadelphia in time for Gunsmoke. But tonight, he had to have a man.

He walked into the bar in Christopher Street. They asked him for the password and he gave it. He'd been there any number of times, his own city ritual. He walked down the stairs into the room and sat at the bar. A man sat next to him, nursing a gin and tonic, wearing a dark blue jacket, thin matching tie, bald like a bowling ball, about Chuck's age but with a spare tire. Chuck ordered whiskey and soda.

"Where you from? I come from Chicago, but last year I lived in Santa Fe. Did love it there. Been in San Francisco, Key West, Baltimore too. Ma grew up in Cleveland and she met my father, who was a traveling salesman for Roebuck’s, and we all ended up in Chicago. You have to love Chicago, my friend -- second only to New York, is what I say."

The man wouldn’t stop chattering, but Chuck stopped listening. He focused on the whiskey soda, smiled, looked across the corner at another man. The bald man still didn't stop talking. Some nonsense about the Oldsmobile Motor Company. Chuck looked at the man across the way. Perhaps ten years younger, powerful barrel chest, a beard, dark blond hair, chiseled jawline. Chuck couldn't take his eyes off him. Chuck smiled at the fool next to him and said something, didn’t matter what, but averted his eyes to the bearded man.

The bearded man looked his way, nodded to him, and walked to the exit. The man's backward glance before exiting gave Chuck all the invitation he needed. Chuck came upstairs and onto the street, looking for him -- nowhere to be found -- but then he heard a voice behind him. "Hey," the voice said, "I'd like to see your hotel, know what I mean?"

"Sure do," Chuck stammered. Even better-looking out on the street.

"Good. Thirty dollars, then."

Chuck didn't have the money, so he went back into the bar and sat on the stool. The bald man resumed his story about a musical he'd written based on "The Miracle Worker." Chuck listened more closely this time.

A spoonful of butter light

Brittany collected her non-fat raspberry jogurt, soy almond milk, and a Smart Balance spread of butter light into her basket. “You wouldn’t believe how obese I’m getting, Heather. I can barely fit into my spandex anymore.”

She juggled the basket on one arm, resting her iPhone between her ear and her up-pinched shoulder, and read the ingredients for granolas in the multi-grains aisle. But something Heather said got her into giggle fits. “Yep, sweetie, Kim Kardo … now there’s a cow. Kim –“

“Hey, watch it, toothpick,” some guy with a green tattoo on his forearm said from behind. “Look where you’re going, cellphone bitch.”

“Of all the nerve.” She scowled at him, gave him her best like-whatever look with moon-shaped eyes. Some toothpick, but compared to that lardo fatso, maybe she was a toothpick. “Heather, you wouldn’t believe this like total asshole who insulted me. What a loser.”

She picked her granola and settled into a conversation about Princess Catherine and the new baby – though Heather didn’t want to talk royal, she walked to talk Kardashian. Anything else to buy? No – she got it all. To the check-out counter.

No one in line. “Hey, Heather, what’s up this weekend?” she said, laying her items on the counter. Some cashier rattled them through the scanner. She and Heather made their plans for the weekend – bar hopping to Hooters, the beach on Saturday, dinner at Bono’s in Long Beach … and margaritas on Sunday.

“Ma’am,” the cashier said, “that’ll be $45.32.”

“Heather, I’ve had enough margaritas to last me to the end of the month,” Brittany said, swiping her card. She massaged her neck – boy, it sure was inconvenient, shopping while holding a conversation. “Let’s go to the martini bar on Second Street.”

She got her groceries and headed out the door. “Second Street’ll be great, Heather. What’ll you wear? I think I’ll –“ but just as she crossed the street, a bus hurtled toward her and flattened her dead.

I need three things

“Hey Mel,” Buddy said, twisting his mouth down on the right side, “the way I see it, you don’t need a frying pan. Just go outside in August and crack an egg over your head.”

“Cheap shot, Buddy,” Rob said. “We need better material for Saturday’s show.”

“Who said that was for Saturday’s show? Anyway, guys. Pickles wants to go on vacation in July. And she wants a new outfit, and new shoes. Where should I take her? Rob, where’d Laura get her latest dress? Help me out here, I’m desperate.”

Rob spread his arms out like an umpire calling it safe. “I’m not getting in the middle of that, Buddy.”

“I will, old boy,” Sally said. “Take her to Coney Island.”

“Too chintzy.”

Mel added, “You can take her to Cleveland.”

“Too smelly.”

“All right, Buddy,” Rob said, “take her to the Smithsonian in Washington.”

“What about right here in good old New York?” Buddy asked.

“That’s right, old boy,” Sally said. “Shop around until you get the answer you want.”

Time is running out

Melvyn stomped down the hallway toward Daniel’s office. Shit damn, he’s not there. Where the hell would he be? We’ve got to have the code loaded into the build by 5:00, no ifs, ands, or buts. And speaking of buts, he’s probably outside smoking one, or someplace else sitting on his. Screw Daniel, he’s a lazy shit.

Melvyn turned the corner and ran into Hilda. She was carrying an 8-inch stack of loose papers and they flew everywhere.

“So sorry, Hilda,” Melvyn said and started walking away – but changed his mind. Got to be polite, she works for the boss, she might get me fired. He breathed in and out slowly, turned back and leaned down to the floor.

He pretend-laughed. “I can’t believe I’m so klutzy these days, running around trying to get the build out every day. You’re not hurt are you?” Of course Melvyn knew that Hilda wasn’t hurt, but he did have to kiss a little ass here, you know.

“Not at all,” Hilda said, collecting the papers and scurrying away.

Thank God that’s over, Melvyn thought – now back to Daniel’s desk. Finally, he’s there.

“Hey, screwball,” Melvyn said, putting a casual swoop into his tone of voice. Got to keep the idiot on his side, he thought – “what’s the story with your code? Submitted yet for the build?”

“Nah,” Daniel said. “Victor and I found another issue. It’s gonna take another day. But don’t worry, I’ll –“

“Ah, shit,” Melvyn said – aloud. Shit himself, he thought – don’t let him know you’re mad. “Well, that’ll just have to do. Until tomorrow then.”

Melvyn turned away and, looking around, beat his fists on his knees. There’d be hell to pay with the management team at tomorrow’s meeting, but what could he do? The stupid developers couldn’t produce diddly.

A woman and her chores

Monica woke up the next morning, her mind in a deep fog. Where was Will? Even after ten years of marriage, she blushed at what they’d done last night. If it weren’t for the empty wine bottle on the floor and the imprint of Will’s head on his pillows, she’d have thought it was a wild, fantastical dream. But there it was – and thank goodness, they wouldn’t have to separate. How could they, after he said he loved her?

She put on her robe and tied her hair up in a bun, then went downstairs to get breakfast. Will’s mother would bring the children back and she had to get breakfast ready, walk the dog, take out the trash, bring in the newspaper – her morning ritual, all the little artifacts of life and love that made having Will and this house worth it. Worth it all.

When she reached the landing, her heart jumped into her throat. Will had left a note. Probably had gone to his mother’s to pick up the children. But instead, it read, “I’ve decided it would be best for the two of us if I stayed at the New York Athletic Club for the time being, until the lawyers sort it all out.”

On the bedroom floor

The more calm Monica became, the wilder Will sobbed. “I wanted to be a good husband to you, but I couldn’t. Please forgive me, Monica, please forgive me.”

“You can’t help being who you are It’s not your fault you never loved me.”

“That’s not true,” he said, a heavy urgency in his voice. “I’ve loved you since the first moment I saw you. Do you remember the bathroom at the firm? You were so charming and you didn’t know it. You entranced me right from the start. You had spirit, just like your grandmother. All the other girls bored me, but you challenged me.”

He patted her hand. They looked at each other for a long moment. They rose for a hug – and held it. She began to feel the spark – and held onto it. Will’s beard nudged her on the side of her neck. She ran her hands through his hair, stroking his jaw. Whether driven by defeat, an instinctive fear of being abandoned, or desperate nostalgia, she still felt that jolt – and wanted him, against her better judgment.

“Monica, my lover. We’ll always have this.”

“Will North,” she said, pulling him toward her, “come to the bedroom.”

When they were finished, their clothes scattered on the floor beside them, they drank a bottle of wine.

It cannot be undone

Monica’s head began to clear and she saw the truth, clear as spring water. She understood at last – but instead of tearing her up inside, it sewed everything all back together. She knew why he objected to the competition, why he objected to her family, why he buried himself in work, why he had an affair. She knew what drove his insatiable need to control the heat, the lights, the children’s activities, their food, their sex life – and she knew why he always had to have something to do.

“Would it help, Will, if I told you I know? It’s obvious just to look at you. You want your freedom. You’ve never really wanted to be married to me. Or to anyone, I believe.”

He faced her, ghostly white, his eyes an electric blue, and broke into a chaos of sobs. “Yes,” he cried, “it’s true. I never wanted the obligation. I accepted the responsibility, but nothing about it has made me happy. I don’t want to be obligated to anyone but myself. And I hate myself for it.”

She thought about their ten years together. There’d never been a real moment of security in their marriage, any sense of permanence and continuity that had defined her parents, her grandparents – the knowledge that, no matter what, they’d be together to the end of time. That would not be the case for Will and her. She must’ve always known it, deep down, but had never acknowledged that he’d leave one day, for one reason or the other – whether for a job, another woman, or a war. That’s why she’d hesitated for so long before marrying him. And she’d gone back to Mr. Huxtable to prepare herself for this day, and to become the woman she’d always wanted to be.

The teacher

“After the funeral yesterday I was looking forward to being left alone. I just finished cleaning up and was about to sit at the piano. I’m practicing Mozart’s C major variations for our next lesson.”

“Twinkle, twinkle, little star! So what’s stopping you?”

“I have a caller,” Monica answered, “a very important caller.”

“It is only I, dear pupil, your fairy piano teacher. Play away, shall we? Let’s have a contest. You play as many wrong notes as you can tolerate and I’ll try to make a different daffy face each time you miss a note.”

Monica laughed at him on their way back to the music room. They were like lovers, not two minutes in the parlor before heading to the back room – lovers of the piano, she reminded herself.

“Miss Killer Thumbs, I would like to hear the variations, but not as your teacher,” he said, a broad smile stretching across his face, “as your very old and very devoted friend.”

“Yes, indeed.” She sat at the piano and started into the variations, but did the repeats only for the main theme. She wanted to cover as much music as possible with Mr. Huxtable, and she didn’t have patience for repeats.

Mr. Huxtable stood by the piano and rolled his eyes to the back of his head and oinked like a pig. “You’re skipping the repeats. Mozart wrote them out in long hand. The least you can do is respect the cramps he got doing it.”

Monica stopped the music and slapped her hands on her thighs. “I’m the widow today, Mr. Huxtable. No repeats. Tomorrow you can be teacher again and do as many repeats as you like. I even have a black dress you may wear.”

You can't afford it

“Albert Sachs, you get your sorry ass down here at once.”

His Algebra II teacher, the Humpty Dumpty-looking Mr. Wilmerding, had finally found it. The caricature showing him tottering on the edge of a purple wall.

“I didn’t do it, Mr. Wilmerding. I promise!”

“If that’s so, who else in our Algebra II class is capable of such artwork?”

Albert looked around. Susie Smith could barely sign her name. “Perhaps Susie did it.”

Susie stuck out her tongue and narrowed her mean little eyes. “In your dreams, butthead.”

“Nice try, Master Sachs. I shall write up a note for your aunt and send you to detention for three days. And you can’t afford another one of those. Now get back to your seat at once.”

Mr. Wilmerding returned to the lesson of the day. “Class, can someone tell me the definition of a perfect square?”

He couldn’t resist it. He absolutely had to answer the question. There was no way, during the 1.5 seconds of silence that enveloped the shy room, Albert wasn’t going to answer the question. It would mean an extra week of detention. But it would be worth it.

“Mr. Wilmerding is a perfect square.”

Those voices

“Sciatica,” Malvina pronounced, her voice rising from alto on the first syllable into soprano on the second and back to mezzo-soprano on the third. “It sounds like the name of a village on the Amalfi coast. ‘I had a sensational season in Sciatica, you really must summer there one year.’”

Maximilian sniffed and pushed his glasses back up his nose. They’d fallen down while he was reading an article in the day’s Wall Street Journal. Some article by George Will about the calamity that would unfold if the Clinton tax plan took effect.

“What was that you were saying, darlingest,” he said, his own voice falling from its usual high-pitched tenor on the first syllable of darlingest all the way into the basement of the bassest bass he could muster. “I was reading the newspaper.”

“Maxim, you haven’t been listening to a word I said. I was telling you about Hilda Soldemaier’s bout with sciatica. She has to go into surgery for it.”

“Of course, I was listening to you. The old girl’s got to go under the knife because she’s been walking around in pain for years.”

“There’s no need to get snippy, Mr. Marlow. I’ve only been your wife forty-three years. And you don’t need to repeat what I said.”

“I thought I did,” Maximilian answered, and then went back to his paper. “But it’s of no moment to me what Hilda Soldemaier does. We all know how she got sciatica, and that’s by working on her back all these years. I mean, really – six husbands, after all.”

It's in the mail

Chuck stomped into the office wearing low-cut torn jeans and a Grateful Dead t-shirt. He hadn’t shaved since last Thursday and hadn’t washed his stringy hair since Friday. He squeezed in his narrow cubicle chair, and swung his legs up onto the miserable shelf that constituted his desk and let them plop with a bang that had Catherine nearly jump out of her skin.

Catherine sat at the next cubicle wearing a tartan plaid skirt and buttoned-down white blouse with blue lace trim. After a nasty herpes bout, she’d decided to redo her hair in a Marlo Thomas bob. Maybe the new style would divert people’s attention from her lip pimples.

“Gracious,” Catherine said. She’d dropped Cathy in favor of Catherine not longer after Prince William married Kate Middleton. “Could you be a little less obnoxious this early in the morning?”

“I’ve got a mother, okay? So lay off me.”

“Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.”

“Never went to sleep,” Chuck said. “Too busy coding the website. What’s with the hair? It’s kinda nice.”

Catherine smiled to herself. He had noticed. But before she could reply –

“Charles Hemphill,” Mrs. Findlay boomed from across the room, heading over with her bouffant gray hair and pointy-rimmed glasses. “You need to pay for the headset you took home, and you know it. Where’s the forty bucks?”

“Hey, lady, it’s in the mail. You’ll get your forty smackeroos.”

Chuck looked over at Catherine. The left side of his mouth turned down and he looked up at the ceiling.

Marty and Jerry had gotten to the point in their conversation when they’d run out of small talk and had to get to the business of confiding in each other.

“I feel like something’s missing,” Marty said to Jerry on the balcony. They’d been drinking mint juleps with some appeteasers – peel-and-eat shrimp, green olives, and rice crackers and a wicked cheddar cheese that made Vermont seem like the Bronx.

Jerry looked around the balcony and into the Mid-town condo. “I don’t see anything missing.”

“Nothing real, I just think something’s missing in my life.”

“You’ve got the best boyfriend a guy can ask for, a great condo in the middle of Atlanta, a hot body, and a great job. You’ve got the Armistead Maupin three – apartment, job, and lover.”

“That’s just it. I can’t shake the sense that God will notice and take it away.”

“Not to mention, Robert Donaldson finally sold the apartment next door and you don’t have to deal with his antics.”

“Don’t even mention that over-indulged cretin. He still makes my blood boil.”

“You can’t stand it that he’s not here anymore.”

“You’re insane. I popped open that five-year old bottle of champagne the day after the closing. And split it with half the entire building. I wasn’t the only one, you know.”

“Yeah, but you lived next to him and dealt with the dog poop on your doorstep, the snubs in the lobby, the accusation of pedophilia – you name it.”

“Wherever he is, may he rot in hell.”

“Something tells me you’ll have him rotting here.”

“If only.”

Wet

Doin’ the Yuma to Bakersfield route always did get Bart down, he thought on a day when the desert rose to 110 in the shade and the snakes didn’t come out. It pissed him off today because the air conditioner in his cab had busted out and he had to make it to Bakersfield, hell or high water, get the delivery to the Safeway distribution coreplex. Least, they called it that, their distribution coreplex. Bart had no idea where they ever came up with coreplex, but what’d he care, so long as he dumped the stuff and got his commission?

If he didn’t, he’d lose his truck. So he turned on the C.B. to hear what was happenin’ up the road. Maybe he could catch some babes at the next lounge bar with some other truckers. He’d been wantin’ some lately, hadn’t been getting it for at least a week or ten days runnin’. A record for Bart.

He saw the Mustang convertible come up the rear on his left. Too fast, the idiots. Top was down, too – instant death in a rollover. When they got up to him, he dropped his mouth. Two babes, both in white tanks and jeans shorts. Tan and blonde, wet t-shirts, knockers galore, tight hips – woah, Mamma, he’d hit it out of the ballpark with these two. His heart began to race, and he accelerated. Couldn’t let them out of his sight.

“Hey, truckers, I got me some live ones passin’ in a Mustang,” he radioed over the C.B. “I’m gonna nail ‘em.”

But the Mustang passed him too fast, so he floored the accelerator. Good vision, no turns, nothin’ to worry about. He just had to have those babes, could just feel himself getting excited down there. Before he knew it, they were a hundred yards in front of him. And then he hit his stride – they didn’t get any further than a hundred. And then it seemed like he was getting closer, and closer, and closer –

Bart didn’t see the rusty Ford pick-up on the entrance ramp, and when it collided with his truck, he weaved to the left, to the right, and then his cab flipped over and the trailer turned over away from the pick-up and slid until they stopped. Dazed – not sure if this was the end – Bart stared up at the steering wheel in front of his face and his left hand.

Well, Bart thought – at least if I die, I’m still wearin’ my weddin’ ring.

On the sidewalk

East Hampton in summer, those languid Saturday afternoons after sunning ourselves on the south-facing ocean beach, walking up and down Main Street, the wide sidewalks with Polo, J. Crew Coach Tiffany Restoration Hardware St. John’s. Oh, how I remember breathing the summer air – cool, yet warm, dry, yet wet, quiet, yet buzzing, Los Angeles, yet New York, Steven Spielberg and Alec Baldwin – they came to Wayne’s funeral last year, you know. Alec was real sweet to me after the funeral, even sent me a mass card. Oh, how I miss Wayne …

Onward and forward, Mark. Don’t live in the past. Today is another day, you need to look at the present, don’t think about the dead, the gone, the before. Ross and Wayne have gone to the next world – give them peace, and learn how to say goodbye. They had their time, God knows, Ross made it to 86 and Wayne to 94.

But oh, my heartstrings yearning, how I wish Ross could’ve made it to 91 and Wayne to 96. Then I’d know … they only had a year left and we could make the most of it. We could do all those things we didn’t – like … like … like … well, maybe we did all the things we were going to do. Maybe time can’t stretch like we think it can. Maybe we just have to live, one instant at a time.

I walked into Dilley’s. I could use a bag of jelly beans. But Wayne was a diabetic – stomp on that thought, Mark, it doesn’t matter anymore.

"Look at it this way," he said

“Look at it this way,” Mark said. “It’s a job. I agreed to do it, and I needed to come up here. But that doesn’t take away the dull pain that’s pulling my insides down into the ground.”

He always exaggerated. I mean, like really – Ross had been dead for five years, and Sunday would be a year since Wayne died.

“Honey, you have know idea what it’s like to be in this house,” Mark rattled on, that over-serious pontification creeping into his voice, as always simultaneous with that over-sharpened contempt creeping into my cerebellum. “The walls are pure white now. There’s one painting on each wall when there used to be ten. Nothing’s on the kitchen counters. The cabinets are empty. The closets are almost empty –“

“Mark, I think you need to go to the Maidstone tonight.”

“That’s $800 a night. But the pug pix, sweetheart … that just got me sobbing. I know I said it before, but I got to say it again. I can’t stay here. It’s too damned depressing.”

“Look at it this way,” I said, “you always change your mind.”

I don't want to kill it

Little Boy Elliott hated it when his mommy called him Little Boy Elliott. Just because he was the youngest boy and had four nasty older sisters didn’t give his mommy the right to call him that when she wore those really scary old pointy glasses and wagged her finger at Elliott and yelled at his daddy and chased Elliott around the house with a ruler after he ate all the ice cream up. Little Boy Elliott didn’t like it.

“Little Boy,” his mommy yelled up the stairs, a screech in her voice like fingernails on a chalkboard, “”you’re up to no good, I know it! You come down here now and show me you’re being a good boy.”

Just one day, Elliott wished, he could get by without doing something bad, something to make his mommy yell at him and chase him around the house with that ruler.

“I’m lying on my bed, Mommy,” Elliott yelled back, “reading The Diggingest Dog. Promise, come check yourself.”

“Don’t you be smart with me, Little Boy,” she replied, and Elliott heard her feet stomping away from the landing. But then Elliott heard a flapping noise from his mommy and daddy’s bedroom in the back of the house.

He went over to investigate. A bright red cardinal had gotten inside the window and was flying around the room. Elliott closed the door and ran around the room after the little birdie.

“Nice little birdie, let me hold you,” he said, reaching out, but each time the little red birdie flew to another side of the room. The bird landed on his mommy’s nightstand and knocked over a bottle of Chanel No. 5 and the photograph of Grammy with Grampa. The bird flew by Daddy’s desk and all the bills and papers and whatever Daddy did when he sat there every evening, not talking to anyone, all that flew up and coasted down to the floor by the fireplace. And then the birdie pooped on his parents’ navy blue bedspread.

“Oh, that’s enough, little birdie, time to go outside,” Elliott said, and chased the bird to the open window, but he didn’t fly out – and then to the other one, and then he did fly out. Elliott closed the windows in the room.

Elliott smiled. Just wait until he told his mommy, he saved a bright red cardinal!

Just then the door opened and his mommy towered above him with those pointy glasses and her wagging index finger.

“Just look at this ungodly mess. I knew you were up to no good, Little Boy Elliott. You go to your room. You’re grounded for a month.”

The boss

The bright summer day started well that morning. Scintillating, Aaron Leibtschik thought to himself on the drive to work in the Princeton industrial park – he could even hear the birds singing in the trees, driving by in his Z4 with the top down. Once inside the complex, Aaron went through his daily routine of coffee (black, no sugar), e-mail, checking the product build, the morning status report, and his daily write.

Marvin Pinkelman walked into the office and looked down at his feet. Aaron detected a whiff of Old Spice in his boss’s wake.

“We’ve got a customer-facing issue with Aircom Mexico,” Marvin said. “The requisitions page isn’t loading up in Spanish.”

So much for the scintillating day and the tweeting birds. Translations were his domain. “Did they configure it correctly?”

Aaron logged into the customer database and poked around, while Marvin stood there, tapping his feet, hands now on hips. “What’s taking so long?”

“I’m seeing something very odd here. Come look at this, Marvin. These entries in the log table … the Spanish translations are there, but for some reason, that column on the far right has the wrong value. Let me run a quick test on our Spanish server …”

After just a minute, Aaron saw something even more strange – the tests ran beautifully on their own server. And he checked the local database – all the columns had correct values.

Aaron sighed. “Looks like someone tampered with their database. We’ll have to look at their logs. Long story short, we can get a patch out to them in the next twenty –“

“Good morning, Melvin,” Marvin said. His own boss had walked down the hallway. “We’ve got a problem. The translations software isn’t working in Mexico.”

Aaron started to sputter. “That’s not what I said –“

“Just to let you know, I’m on top of it,” Marvin said. Melvin nodded his head and disappeared down the hallway.

Albert taps a cigarette from his pack

The dual lines of oaks framing the long street in front of Albert’s car dizzied him, but he plunged forth. Someone had to pay for his lease on the time machine, and Aunt Gertrude was the only wealthy maiden aunt he had. The butler greeted him when he drove under the portico.

“Good afternoon, Master Abendegork. Miss Gertler is expecting you in the library for afternoon tea and sausages.”

Jeeves had an especially sour expression on his normally dour face that Albert didn’t like. “May I ask, Jeeves, whatever seems to be the trouble?”

“I’m afraid, Master Abendegork, there’s been some trouble in the house today. It seems the head footman has run off with the second maid. Miss Gertler is beside herself with worry. Formal dinner must be served, after all, and there is the matter of polishing her shoes.”

“I understand, Jeeves. Thank you for warning me.”

Albert entered the house. He reached for a cigarette from the pack in his suit pocket and tapped it before having Jeeves light it. The house was especially cold for July, he thought, but the stone columns and twenty-foot ceilings never did invite warmth. He dreaded visiting Aunt Gertrude under such circumstances. She placed special importance on the presence of servants at dinner and in her closet.

Elusive kitty

Oh damn, I thought on my pigeon-toed walk down the catwalk toward my apartment that Monday evening, if only I didn’t need to empty the dishwasher and fold the towels and do the whites and walk the dog and feed the kitties and talk to the bird and empty the wastebaskets and water the plants and balance my checkbook and pay the mid-month bills. All I wanted to do was beat off and watch an episode of “Bewitched.”

Well, nothing to be done about it. Why couldn’t Marty be home to help with the chores? Every time we get backed up, he goes to some family function in Modesto with that whiny uncle with the tattoo of a Playboy bunny on his right forearm.

When I opened the door, I called out for the pets. “Lucy, Dottie, Pumpkin – Daddy’s home.”

Lucy and Dottie came running, but of course. The dog always arrived first, wagging her sheltie tail and licking my nose, followed close behind by the kitty. She’s not a kitty anymore, I have to remind myself – she’s two years old, a full-grown cat. Meow, she purrs on her way to rubbing my shins. But where was Pumpkin, the little kitty?

“Oh, Pumpkin, you-hoo …”

I sighed, exasperated. He liked to hide, never came when I walked in the door. I put my backpack on the counter, dropped the water bottle in the sink, put the coffee mug in the dishwasher – damn, I have to empty it first, take it out right now before you forget, I thought. All those chores! I’d forgotten about the damned chores when Lucy licked my nose.. And Marty … wish he were here instead of Modesto.

So I scouted the apartment for Pumpkin. Pumpkin, come out from wherever you are, Pumpkin, I’m home, Pumpkin, I’ve got a tuna treat for you – you name it, I said whatever I could to entice the kitty. But no kitty. I sighed again, even more exasperated, and opened the closet door. No kitty. Other closets, the laundry perhaps? Nope, nada. My heart started to race, where could little Pumpkin be? I looked out on the balcony. But, horrors – what if Marty’d let him out and he’d jumped off the ledge when a bird flew by? Whew, I checked … no dead cats below the balcony.

“Marty,” I said as soon as he picked up my call to his cell, “where’s Pumpkin?”

“I don’t know,” he said, that annoying plaintive sound in his voice, “he was in the bedroom when I was packing. You must’ve let him out.”

I figured it out, even if he hadn’t. “Never mind, pizza brains. You want to open your suitcase now?”

Five interminable minutes later, he came back. “Honey,” Marty said, “you’ll never guess where I found Pumpkin.”

“Try me.”

The next step

John Paul tried to pick up the wooden box. He felt the dull pangs of arthritic fingers and set the box back down on his desk. He let out a deep sigh, looking at the box. How would he get it out to the yard next to the rectory, so he could say a few prayers for Ruby and bury her?

“Monsignor Finneran,” he heard from behind him. He’d forgotten, he left his office door open – which he always did, when school was in session. Nico Pirrelli stood in front of him. Again. John Paul wondered what the little heathen had done now. He glared at the boy, always a challenge to him, especially now when his cat had just died.

“I didn’t do anything wrong, Father John Paul. Sister Margaret sent me for twenty notebooks.”

“Nico,” he said, deciding to give the eleven-year old chance to help. He was tall for his age. “My cat has just died and I need to bury her in the yard behind the rectory. Would you help me carry the box outside?”

“Yes, Monsignor Finneran, but Sister Margaret will be mad if I don’t go right back to class.”

“I shall explain it to her, young man, and she will understand. Is it agreed, then?” John Paul thought about Ruby, twenty years of companionship, gone in the flash of a second. “The love of a pet, Nico, is a very tender thing. I loved my pussy more than anything. Why –“

The boy turned around and ran back to his classroom. “Anthony, come back here at once. Allow me to clarify –“

Behind that door

Matthew, Bernardo, and Will managed to elbow their way to the front of the line at NBC Studios in Burbank, California – Matthew wearing his blue Converse high tops and a sparkle vest, Bernardo having died his spiky hair orange and wearing a matching tie-dye muscle tank top, and Will in a light pink oxford button-down, pressed jeans, and loafers. Will, at 29, was the only one in the trio younger than 55.

And they’d managed to make their way into the studio for a taping of the “Let’s Make a Deal” reprise being hosted by Mel Gibson who couldn’t land any more movie roles after the unfortunate incident with the policeman. Monty Hall had signed up for the reprise but conked out after the first taping and was now designated as Host Emeritus.

The threesome had also managed to be called out as contestants as Mel Gibson asked them about their outfits.

“I’m a conventional Palo Alto yuppie,” Bernardo said, lifting his arms, making biceps, and showing off his nicely tailored armpit hair.

Matthew swizzled his hips and turned around to show off his derriere. “I’m a lawyer heading into the city to settle a big case.”

And Will folded his arms across his chest and tapped an index finger against his dimple chin. “I’m a San Francisco freak with no morals and loose fillings.”

“All right, Contestant Number One with the preppy look,” Mel Gibson said, “pick you a door.”

Will chose Door Number Three and won an electric blue Mazda Miata convertible.

“Contestant Number Two with the hot armpits,” Mel Gibson directed, “your turn.”

Bernardo choose Door Number One and won a trip for two to Southeast Asia.

“That leaves you, Contestant Number Three, with Door Number Two.”

The door slid open. “Congratulations,” Mel Gibson said, beaming a wide smile, “you’ve won a Gillette electric shaving kit.”

Write about a time you retreated

“Okay, Heather,” Elliott said, “time for your walky-walk!”

Heather bounced out of her bed and ran across the living room to the foyer, where Elliott stood. He leashed the dog, grabbed his coffee mug, and out they went – down the elevator, through the lobby, and out the door.

“Not so fast,” Elliott said, laughing, closing the spout on the coffee mug so it wouldn’t spill. Then he saw Jack talking with Les on the other side of the street. “Good morning, guys!”

Elliott loved these mornings with Heather. He’d usually walk down Fairweather Lane. Heather seemed to poop quickest down that street. She had a favorite lawn. But that owner had abandoned the house, and finally after four years, new owners had renovated and moved in. They’d painted the house black with white trim and put a rock garden in the front. No more poop grass for Heather.

So Elliott went around the other way. He’d go to the boulevard. Several nice patches of grass there, and Heather would jump out of her skin. They’d pass the Marathon station on the corner, and Wally, Jimmy, and Freddie always gave out doggie treats.

Heather squatted on the corner. “Good girl, Heather,” Elliott said, checking that box off. And then they rounded the corner, and she saw the gas station. “But don’t pull ont the leash! Heal!”

That dog, every time she saw the Marathon station, she went ballistic. And why not? They gave her treats every time. Kept a huge container of Pupperonis for all the neighborhood dogs. So Elliott walked over to the office – more accurately, Heather dragged him there.

“Hi, Wally. Great morning for dog treats.”

“Heather!” Wally said, a big smile as he leaned down to treat the dog. “It’s been forever, old girl. You want your treat?”

“Hey, Heather,” Jimmy said. “Such a great dog.”

“Thanks, guys. I’ll be over to fill up in a few minutes.”

As Elliott and Heather walked around the corner to the high-rise, they saw Rhoda with her brood – Zorro, Cocoa, and Lily – on their way to the service station. Heather went crazy once again, pulling at the leash. The second treat of the day. Why not, Elliott said? It was a beautiful Friday morning.

After Rhoda had treated Heather, Elliott said, “Okay, Heather. Say thank you to your Auntie Rhoda!”

Quirky

"How am I supposed to explain my mother to you in ten or twelve minutes?" Charlotte asked Alexandra, knowing full well that Alex's husband would be home at 7:30 a.m. from his night shift. Bruce would want to have sex with Alex on the kitchen table again. Charlotte would leave before that happened, she decided.

"Give me the Cliffs' Notes version," replied Alex with a hearty, bosom-y laugh.

"Impossible. The other day, she called me on the phone to tell me that Daddy had been sick in the emergency room. Got violently ill after having a skin cancer removed. Went on and on about how all the neighbors were coming over after Dad passed out, told me all this stuff about Hilda Hooper across the street, all while Dad is lying on the sofa passed out. God knows who these people are. Here I am, thinking my father's about to die, and Mom's telling me about the neighbors and their personal issues. So I think, 'Get to the point, Mother,' and finally, fifteen minutes later, after being walked through every pain-staking event of her day, she says Daddy's going to be all right. An allergic reaction from the antibiotic they gave him."

"She could've said that in four seconds. 'Daddy had a skin cancer removed, had a reaction to the antibiotic, was rushed the hospital, is being treated, will be fine.' End of story."

"Rose Nylund on 'The Golden Girls' told less tedious stories. And hers were funny. That's the difference. If you ask my mother what time it is, she'll build you a Swiss village."

"What does she look like?"

"Rotund and fat. Wasn't always that way. She's almost 84. She blames me for her weight gain when I became a militant dyke. moved to Vermont, and drove a Subaru in Birkenstocks. You get the picture. But I worry about her. She controls Daddy and my brothers too much. Why, in a family of five boys and one girl, our toilet seats were always down. Imagine that -- six men, two women, and she trained every one of us, my father included, to leave the toilet seat down."

"How ladylike!" Alex said.

"You've got two minutes to prepare yourself for sex on the kitchen table with Bruce."

"Oh, Charlotte!"

"Oh, Alex! But I'm leaving before he comes home. I got turned off by boys by catching my brothers masturbating one too many times."

The door opened. It was Bruce.

"That's my cue to leave," Charlotte said, eyeing the kitchen table. "Have fun."

Tell us about Abigail

Calgon, take me away!

I came home from a long day of dealing with bickering spouses on the edge of divorce. Didn’t they realize that I’d heard nothing new in ten years? Lying, cheating, adultery, venereal diseases, concealing income, hiding food, destroying family heirlooms, breaking your great-grandparents’ china, I’d heard it all. And today, the worst of all, the Shepards. She’d taken their 3-year old daughter out of their Catholic school and put her in public education. Two years ago, and her husband only found out about it last Friday. I practically rolled my eyes. How could he be angry now, realizing he’d ignored his daughter for years?

But I had to be objective, and I had to be calm. Therapists can’t be excited or angry. I breathed in deeply through the nose, out through the mouth, just like they taught us in yoga class. All the salvation of the world can be found in yoga, I’ve come to believe as I approach fifty. That and my yellow lab, Abigail, just five months old.

Matthew was supposed to be home all day, taking care of the puppy. Will had gone to his software tester job down in Santa Clara, wouldn’t be back until 9 or 10 – but Matthew’d take care of things with the puppy.

I opened the door to the house. Thank God, I was home. Abigail came running, wagging her tail, jumping up, licking me on the face. But it looked like a bomb had gone off. The legs on the living room sofa were all chewed up, fringe from the oriental rug was strewn all over the floor, the chocolate cake I’d baked for Will’s birthday dinner was upside down and on the floor, and a trail of toilet paper came down from the upstairs bedroom, wrapped around the staircase, and down around the post on the landing. Oh – and the puppy had pooped on my favorite TV chair.

Breathe, Bernardo, I told myself. I looked at the puppy’s eyes, all innocent and unknowing. It’s not the end of the world, after all. But where was Matthew?

“Matthew, are you here?”

And then I walked around the house, finding nothing – until I went upstairs to our bedroom and saw the note on the nightstand. That was Will’s side of the bed.

In-between

Matthew had known from the start it’d end this way.

“Bernardo,” Will’s e-mail started, as Matthew made his way through it, “would you like to go to Ibiza this spring? Please, sweetheart, we really need this time alone – and a trip to Europe would really put some space between us and … you know.”

Matthew knew exactly what he meant. So he marched into the bedroom, thinking abstractly about the times the three of them had spent together – Matthew and Bernardo, buying the Pacific Heights house together, then two years later, Bernardo and Will meeting at the Eagle for a quickie, Will taking to Bernardo, then meeting and seducing Matthew (that had been wonderful, Matthew thought even now), then the three of them together, fitting together like three bananas, Will moving into their third floor apartment, then coming downstairs and living with them.

He found Bernardo rubbing Will’s blond temples while the two of them watched Giatta de Lorentis prepare a linguini marinara.

And Mathew saw the same look in Bernardo’s eyes, that look that had first appeared the day Will had fixed those downstairs windows, the ones that had been stuck all those years, that Matthew had tried to dislodge but never had – and then, instead of Matthew sleeping in the middle of the mattress, Bernardo did, facing Will –

Matthew snuffed out the image. “When the hell were the two of you going to tell me about Ibiza? It isn’t happening, fellas, it just isn’t happening.”

“If you don’t want to go,” Bernardo said, avoiding eye contact, “you don’t have to. But we’re going.”

A field's lonely blue house

White, puffy clouds scurried across the sky in a jagged pattern, and to Jason seemed to be racing toward him, as if to attack and destroy. He knew he’d drunk too much vodka after Mattie had found the condom, slapped him across the face, and threw up on his silk shirt. But he didn’t care. He just had to get out of that dump before Mattie tossed any pots and pans at him and gave him a concussion or something.

The wind picked up and Jason heard thunder in the distance. Ordinarily he loved those July thunderstorms, but not this evening. Still light out after eight on this Minnesota evening, Jason ran across the field and took cover in the blue shed. He’d no idea who owned it, but he didn’t care.

“Who the hell’re you?” a toothless old man asked. He sat on the floor, his back up against the wall.

“My name’s Jason. What’s it to you? I’m coming in from the storm.”

“Get the hell out of my place, isn’t yours to stay. Shoot,” the man said, waving. Jason took him in – a faded flannel and plaid jacket, too warm for the summer, combat boots with holes in them, long and greasy brown-gray hair, sunken eyes and hollow sockets. Homeless, Jason thought, just like him. Mattie’ll change the locks before he gets back.

The little house began to shake. Jason looked out the window. “Tornado’s coming, old man. We’d better seek safer cover.”

“Nowhere I know. Lay low, man. Isn’t any place we can go.”

Jason heard something like an approaching train, a deafening whirl of swooshing sounds with metallic clanks and wet swirls, and then he felt them and the house being lifted from the ground, rotating around at ever-faster speed, climbing into the funnel, seeing debris fly by the window, and then, before he knew it, landing with a thud.

“You all right, man?” the old guy said. “Some kind of tornado. But we’re here.”

“I’m all right. Let’s go investigate.”

They opened the door and went out – and discovered they’d landed it Munchkinland. “So it really is true, after all,” Jason said.

I nailed it

Jason took the sheets off the bed, threw them in the washer, then wiped down the sink and tossed the towel in with the sheets. He hopped in the shower and sang “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown,” beginning to end. What a day. He’d be extra special nice to Martha when she came home from the Waffle House. Maybe he’d even nail her. He could do it. He’d done it twice in one day before.

After showering and shaving, Jason styled his hair just like Mattie liked it – with the feathering, a great mullet he’d worked six months to get. He blew it dry and combed it just so, then put on a flower-printed silk shirt, bell bottoms, and his platforms. Yes, he’d surprise Mattie, a trip to the Juke Joint and doing some disco. She’d love it.

He heard the buzzer go off the washing machine, so he put the sheets in the dryer, then sat down in the den and watched “Laverne and Shirley.” Jason sighed, it was a repeat he’d already seen. Didn’t matter, he’d watch it anyway. And he watched the “Happy Days” repeat after that, too – then put the sheets on the bed. Mattie’d be surprised, he’d made the bed for once.

He’d nailed it. She’d never know, as if it’d never happened, and he was in the clear. No way would she suspect. Mattie got home a few minutes later.

“Hey, hon,” she said, “what’s up with you, all dolled up watching the Fonz? I’m beat. Had a fat trucker feel up my tits today and then got yelled at the boss for screwing up an egg order. I’m taking a shower and going right to bed.”

“Crap, I was going to take you to the Juke Joint,” Jason said. “Thought we could dance away the evening. You don’t have to work until three tomorrow afternoon –“

“These legs aren’t dancing, no way, like not at all,” she said, laughing from somewhere down deep. “I’m off to the shower …”

Just like Mattie, he said. Jason gets showered and dressed to go out, and she poops out on him. A few minutes later, though, Jason heard a little whimper from the bathroom. He ran through the bedroom into the bathroom.

“What the hell is this?” she screamed.

Mattie stood at the toilet, pointing inside. Damn, Jason thought. He’d forgotten to flush the condom down the toilet.

My brilliant idea

The grapefruit spritzed tart and fragrant droplets right into the paper cut on Jason’s index finger.

“Ee-ouch!” he screamed and slapped his other hand on the counter top. Martha’s popcorn jumped out of the bag like confetti and landed in the jalapeno cheddar sauce. “Sorry, didn’t expect that one.”

Martha scowled, her mouth turning into an upside-down trapezoid. “Why don’t you put a band-aid on that cut? Wouldn’t have happened.”

“Oh, all right,” Jason said, making a fist and hiding his index finger in the womb of his palm. Martha turned away from him and put her hand in the cheese sauce and grabbed a handful of popcorn.

“Hey, these are great,” she said, chomping the popcorn, “yum, two flavors that were meant together. Like a Reese’s.”

Jason looked up. “We’re rich! We got something here.”

“Ah, Jason, no,” Martha said, hands on hips. “Not another one of your get-rich-quick schemes. Last time it was Jasonwater, when all it was came from the hose out back. Then there were those bacon-lettuce-potato sandwiches no one bought. And now this. Just popcorn and cheese.”

“Ah, come on, honey,” Jason said, scratching his shoulder. Mortie at the pawn shop had told him, don’t scratch the wound until it heals, ‘cause removing tattoos can get infected. “I do it all for you, baby. Get us out to Los Angeles so you can be a model.”

“Don’t think I’ll ever be a model, hon. Just a waitress at the Waffle House.”

It's only temporary

“Would if we could,” Giles continued, “but Mother cannot be in the same room as Dad, at least not now. Perhaps two years down the road, when her condition has advanced.”

Two years from now, Wilbur thought, they’d probably be gone, both of them, and here we were, discussing separating them.

“Down the road,” Egbert said, “we’ll consider moving them to be near one of us.”

“Why are we waiting? Don’t you realize, they’ve got precious little time? And we’ve got very little time to spend with them?”

“Wilbur, you’re getting emotional,” Giles said. “This is a purely objective decision, and we can’t allow our feelings to intrude on it. Putting our parents into separate nursing homes must be methodical and logical. If we start basing our decisions on feelings, we’ll make mistakes.”

Wilbur had had enough. “And if we base them on strict logic, my dear brother, then we’d be stuck in this quagmire of contradictions. Three months ago you said they had to be moved to the facility, rather than to Minneapolis, Dallas, or Boston, because they wanted to be together. Now that they have to be separated, their feelings don’t factor into the equation. So which is it, mastermind?”

I'm sorry

“Mom and Dad,” I said, in that moment feeling low-grade tremors in the bottom of my stomach, sandpaper on the inner linings of my cheeks, a burning sensation around the corners of my eyes, unsteady on my feet, and the pulse of my heart pounding in my ears, and seeing my parents, my father a jumble of confused blubber with question marks in his eyes and exclamation marks on his eyebrows, my mother’s lips two thin pencil lines and her expression as placid as a spring lake at sunrise, and deciding that, after all these tortured years of hiding magazines under my bed, choosing every word that I said, lying about what I did with my friends, pretending that I enjoyed my junior prom and sweetheart ball, acting like I cared for football, baseball, and beer, taunting other girlish boys – deciding it was time to take the plunge, “I’m gay.”

My mother put her hands over her face and began to shake. My father froze – and held the freeze – for at least a minute. And then came the questions.

“Does this mean you’re not going to the country club with Emmaline for New Year’s Eve?”

“How can this be true, when all your role models were 1930s actresses?”

“If you really loved us, why would you do this?”

“Do any of the neighbors know?”

“Have you taken it up the rear?”

Okay, I’ll admit my parents didn’t ask that last question. I threw it in there to find out if you were paying attention. But I did tell my parents that I was sorry, I couldn’t help myself. That was thirty years ago. Now I’m not sorry that I couldn’t help myself. It’s been an enchanting time.