Nothing

My first porn magazine. Blueboy, June 1980. A man – all wet in a navy blue bikini, his looks chiseled, lean, and blonde, the hair on his chest slithering down his navel toward his groin, before disappearing into his tiny bathing suit – graced the cover of the magazine. And inside the cover, one gorgeous guy after another, wearing nothing, page after page. My 17-year-old heart raced one beat after the other. But it wasn’t the only part of me pulsing that afternoon in Pittsburgh.

I got it at the university bookstore. It cost twice what it ordinarily would, only since I felt compelled to buy a copy of Playboy. I walked up to the cashier, my Blueboy concealed by the Playboy on top, feigning nonchalance as I raised my eyebrows, looked around as I handed the cashier the magazines. She just punched the numbers into the machine, asked for the sum (no way do I remember that, 35 years later). I paid, got to the car, put the magazines at the bottom of my gym bag, and headed straight home, hoping Mom and Dad wouldn’t find out.

Next twenty-four hours, I set a masturbatory record I have never since equaled: six times in less than twelve hours. And then the phone rang. I heard my mother talking, and it was clear – someone had died. Her Uncle Frank Monahan, a stroke. He was only 73.

I ran upstairs, grabbed the magazines, tore them to shreads, and smuggled them into the garbage. I had killed one of my favorite uncles. I resolved then and there that I would never, ever masturbate again. Or buy a copy of Blueboy.

Worst job I ever had

Hey, I got me some biceps, a narrow waist – and a round bulge in my shorts, if you know what I mean. So I moved myself down to Fort Lauderdale and got me an apartment at 34th and Dixie Highway. Nice pad – even got me a separate bedroom with its own bathroom. View out the bedroom window was onto another apartment, however. The lady there tricked with some redneck from Margate every night, worse is my luck.

But hey, I’m in Lauderdale and because of my biceps, waist, and bulge – got me a job as a personal trainer at this gym on Wilton Drive. Sure, all the guys are gay, right? Well, I’m not, but hell, I don’t mind if they look me up and down while they’re writing me checks for $60 an hour to tell them what they should already know how to do ... which is, like, lift a weight? An idiot’s born every minute.

“Okay, buddy, let’s do 12 benches at 90 pounds,” I say to this sap named Don who comes from Tuscaloosa. I come from Dayton, Ohio – great state, but damned cold come wintertime. So this Tuscaloosa Don lays himself down on the bench press and pumps out his 12 reps. Good job, I say – especially for a train-wreck 60 year old with bigger biceps than me, and a narrower waist. I mean, come on – 60 years old and the body like me? I’m 27. Freak.

“So get this story,” he says to me one day. “I was reaching for a quarter weight, and this black says ‘hey that’s mine,’ and I say, ‘why’s it on the rack then? And the black guy, he says, ‘I want to use it,’ and I say to the black guy, ‘that’s too bad,’ and he says, ‘well, we’ll see about that,’ so I tell the black guy, ‘try making me,’ and he says, ‘that’s stupid,’ and I respond, ‘who you calling stupid,’ and he says, ‘I’m no one to judge,’ and I say, ‘you’re fuckin’ rude,’ so I go to the manager and say, ‘this black guy, he just threatened me over a 25-pound weight, do something or I quit.”

So Tuscaloosa Don, he told me the manager went over to the guy and kicked him out of the gym. And then Tuscaloosa Don got his 25 pounds and did his set.

Me, I just wondered why that guy had to be black in the story. I mean, how did that figure, any more than his eye color?

Hot

“I’d like to have a cup of hot tea,” Prunella said, patting her hair net into place. “Hilda, put your crossword down and tell the waitress what you’d like.”

Hilda took her reading glasses off and let them dangle around her neck on their chain – a memento from their mother, who died in her rocking chair after watching an episode of Ironside. Mama had always had a crush on Raymond Burr.

“I’ll have a small glass of sherry, please, and thank you, my dear.”

“Hilda, you’re drinking? Oh, well ... oh, well, then I’ll have a very modest glass of dry white wine. Miss, what would you recommend?”

The waitress recommended a chablis. Hilda giggled a little, “Oh, let’s live a little on the wild side – I’ll have a glass of wine, too. Make it, make it –“ she glanced over at Prunella and burst out laughing. “Make it a Dubonnet over ice!”

“Oh, sister, listen to this scandalous talk! Oh, let’s make a splash of it then. I’ll have a beer!”

Hilda covered her mouth with her eyes. “Mercy, dear! Oh, waitress, if my sister’s having a beer, what would go well with it?”

The waitress said a sidecar would suit her just fine.

“Oh, nonsense ... let’s have something with a little kick.” Hilda rolled her eyes back and opened her mouth wide, wide open. “Let’s make the Dubonnet over ... over gin!”

Prunella gasped, but then she pursed her lips, look to the left and then looked to the right. Finally she whispered. “I’ll have an Absolut vodka martini. Very dry, very chilled, with two olives. And don’t be stingy, baby.”

I object!

"I'm going to open doors for you," little Joey heard on the movie screen, "doors you never even dreamed existed!"

It was the weekly showing of Rosalind Russell's 1958 "Auntie Mame." The madcap aunt in the black negligee, red robe, cigarette holder, and martini enchanted little Joey -- just like she enchanted her 9-year old nephew Patrick. Joey and Mikey came every Saturday afternoon (showing until May, theater management told the boys) to see if, somehow, they could transport themselves from their ordinary, suburban life just outside Indianapolis, Indiana. Joey and Mikey lived across the street from each other, typical 1970s nuclear family. Joey and MIkey, youngest in their families, each had 1.35 siblings -- both families, pretty typical.

Joey and MIkey fought over which family was the Flintstones and which family was the Rubbles. Joey's dad might not work in a gravel quarry or drive a car with his feet, but he did yell out "Bertha!" every time he came home, expected dinner on the table in less than five minutes. Okay, so Mikey's dad fixed people's plumbing for a living (hardly Barney Rubble-like) but his mom did giggle in a silly way like Betty Rubble. And she had black hair she wore in a bun. The kids liked to find movies and television in their lives, but gosh, they had a hard time of it. There was nothing Auntie Mame about their Indianapolis lives.

Joey wanted to design movie sets when he grew up. He loved to rearrange the furniture in his room and pestered his parents enough, they painted his bedroom a different color every year. One Saturday afternoon last summer, he'd moved himself into his brother Jeffy's room and moved Jeffy into his own. No one discovered it until Jeffy started screaming right before dinner. They made him move everything back. Why couldn't they understand? He wanted to try something new, not the old, boring stuff! Oh, well, at least he had Mikey -- who wanted to become an Academy-award winning actress when he grew up. Mikey could picture himself:

"Thank you, Warren. And the nominees for best actress are Miss Bette Davis for I Object!,' Miss Katharine Hepburn for 'The Goddess of Park Avenue,' Miss Vanessa Redgrave for 'A Leftist in Liverpool,' Miss Maggie Smith for 'Droll Baby,' and Mikey Winters for 'Queen for a Day.'" Applause, applause while Paul Newman opened the envelope: "and the winner is Mikey Winters!"

Joey and Mikey planned to run away from home, go to Hollywood. Just as soon as they saved up $75.00 from their allowances.

Readily available

Martha screamed at George. "What do you mean, she's pregnant?"

"Yeah, Jessica's pregnant! Three months gone and she's going to keep it. I can't get her to change her mind."

Martha huffed and puffed. Well, he'd have to try. This was way too much of a burden on their marriage. As if they hadn't had enough to deal with: his alcoholism, her hysterectomy, his prostate cancer, her repeated yeast infections, his erectile dysfunction, her hairy upper lip, his infidelities with Swedish yoga instructors -- all those things, enough to derail their 28-year marriage. But this? Jessica being pregnant? How could he let something like this happen?

"Well, it's not exactly my fault, Martha. I'm trying to get her to have an abortion, or at least give it up for adoption, but she's insisting. She wants to keep it and raise it as a single mother." "A single mother! How ridiculous. She can barely do her laundry, make her bed, and empty her wastebaskets. Managing a baby, how's she ever going to do that? I suppose she thinks we’ll be readily available" Martha was sure that, when all was said and done, she and George -- at their age, getting close to 60 -- would have to care for this baby. And all because George was going through his mid-life crisis. Good God, she thought, this child would graduate from college when they were close to 80.

If George was going to have a mid-life crisis, why didn't he just buy a 1966 Corvette Stingray like Bob Smith did not long after he started combing all his hair over one side to cover his bald spot? No, he had to do this! And now Jessica was pregnant and they were in a fix. George had to go out and buy a twin-engine speed boat and hire the captain who got their 19-year old daughter pregnant.

"Oh, shit, George! It's bad enough that we're going to be grandparents, but to have to raise the damned kid, too!"

Sculpting hands

“Hey Judy, get me a beer,” Ron said. He yelled at the kitchen door, knowing full well that his lazy no-good-do-for-nothing wife was in there. Probably watching her fingernails grow or thinking about the next dye job she’d get at the beauty parlor. Don’t she know who the captain of the ship around here is? Hell, he’s the man of the house and he brings home the moulah that pays for the freakin’ joint.

Judy heard Ron’s bellowing from the living room. Let him yell, for all she cared, she thought at the kitchen table, finishing up her crossword. What, he didn’t think she knew about the twins across the street? And what about the Bellows maid, who got pregnant and ran off to Colombia? Did he think she was stupid? That no-good-do-for-nothing man that saddled her with two wide-eyed girls as sweet and gentle as she was – well, as she once was, before she met that cheat of a man.

“Ah, get it yourself, I’m busy,” Judy said. She could yell at the kitchen door, too. She had more important things to do. She was heading down to the basement to sculpt a fruit bowl. A gift for Ron’s mother, of course. Ron didn’t even appreciate what she was doing, ever since his father died, looking after Mama Dorothy. Judy couldn’t understand why Dorothy mourned that awful man – whose girlfriends at the lounge and drunken Friday night binges made Ron look like a saint.

She got up from the kitchen table and was about to open the basement door when Ron barged into the kitchen.

“And where’s my dinner? Should be on the table now. Ma would have it ready, so why in the hell can’t you?”

Connected

“Now if you’re going to write a thank you note,” Matilda said to Celia, who stared at her with wide eyes and an open mouth, “you need to start with a proper salutation. ‘My dear Mr. Woodsworth,’ is appropriate, child. Capitalize the M but not the D.”

Students were less and less bright these days, Matilda sighed. Back when she’d started teaching for the Open University, they’d been so eager to write. She’d loved those students. But the dim, incurious, and uninspired nincompoops they sent to her these days bored her. Matilda felt no connection to these children, and Celia Johnson was the worst in the pumpkin patch.

She sat there, pen in the right hand, seeming to wait for even more instruction. How clear did Matilda have to make it? She sighed again. Matilda would much rather be at home with a gin and Dubonnet and her crossword puzzle. But no, she had to pay rent to Old Mrs. Stickney, so she had to tutor these pupils at the Open University.

“I don’t see why we need to write these notes anyway. No one does this anymore. My mother just rings up her host after being invited for dinner. Can I go to the bathroom, Miss Dumont?”

“’May’ you go to the bathroom, child, and no. We write thank you notes because it is the correct thing to do, my dear. Whenever someone does you a courtesy such as inviting you into their home or giving a gift, it’s only common courtesy to thank them in written form.”

“That’s such an old, dried up custom,” Celia said. She put her pen on the desk with a bang. “And I have to go to the bathroom. I can’t wait.”

Celia stood and left the room without waiting for Matilda’s leave. Children these days, they had no respect for their elders.

Dead

The two of them walked out of the doctor’s office, their feet leaden and their pace slow. Neither said a word as they got into Harold’s old Ford. The ancient jalopy sputtered to a halting start.

Georgianna looked out the window as they drove up Main Street. There was Busby’s Grocers, where she’d gone so many times. And the Andover Barber Shop, where Harold got his hair cut every other Saturday afternoon at 4:00. And Main Street Cinema. She and Harold had seen “Gone With the Wind,” and she’d taken the boys to see “Fantasia.” And, at the top of Main Street, there was Chestnut and Oak – Chestnut to the left, Oak to the right.

Their own white clapboard house was on Chestnut Street. Harold really did need to clean the leaves off the roof. He hadn’t yet done it this fall. They’d been there for how long now, thirteen years? Yes, the fall of 1936, just after Allen’s fourth birthday. They’d moved over from the little house they’d rented from Aunt Dodo in Lawrence. She remembered the boys chasing each other around the house in those early years, and the cat. Tippy had hidden in the dining closet for several days after they moved in. Poor Tippy, now gone to kitty heaven.

“Harold,” Georgianna said, her mid-alto voice cracking after so long a silence, “we’re not to tell the boys. Not yet, at least.”

Her husband didn’t answer, but that was his way. He fixed his gaze straight at the road ahead, but after he turned onto Chestnut, he pulled the car to the side of the road and stopped. Harold gazed over at Georgianna. His eyes narrowed and he pressed his lips together into a single flat line. “Okay,” he said, and started up again.

It's not working

“This is, like, totally not working for me,” Josh said into the telephone. He’d called from his rented room in the Hollywood Hills. “I want to break up.”

Andrew nearly swerved the Audi into the I-280 guard rail. He steadied the car just before the turn-off to the 101 Freeway. “Oh, my God! You’re really serious.”

“I know that when I had the affair with Kent that I was unhappy with what I was doing with my life. And I’ve been unhappy with our relationship and I’ve been trying to make it work and I have to trust my instincts because I know that my instincts have always been correct in the past. I have to take care of myself and I know this is the right thing for me. I –“ Josh stopped, his voice cracking.

Andrew just noticed his mouth had gone dry, his hands were shaking, and he felt the inner pit of his stomach. But he felt an inner calm descend on him. Ever since Andrew inadvertently read the e-mail from Kent, it’d been a rollercoaster with Josh. Finally, a decision. He’d reached the exit into San Francisco and pulled over into a parking space.

Had he actually found a parking space on the street in San Francisco?

“Look, Josh,” Andrew said, putting the car into park. “Why don’t you sleep on this? This seems pretty half-baked, Josh. Just yesterday you were talking about coming out to visit next week. Let’s talk about it then.”

“—I’m, I’m not coming out next week. I’ve already discussed this with my therapist and I’ve decided I’m not going to see you. Good-bye, Andrew.”

“But Josh –“ and the phone went click.

Andrew stared at the ’78 Oldsmobile Cutlass in front of him. That’s what he loved about San Francisco. Smart people, even gifted people, didn’t care much about appearances. It was all about what was inside the head. Not like Josh. Josh didn’t give a damn about what was inside his head, only his buff physique and blonde highlights.

He started up the car and drove the eight blocks to his Noe Valley house. There was a comedy club he wanted to make this evening.

The crime

Freeman took on the job like any other routine burglary. Small ranch. Perfect setup. Owner at work all day, neighbors too, house set back a hundred feet from the street, small windows, easy rear access. Already checked, no security system. Stupid yuppies, as if that six-by-six ADT sign out front would fool an old pro like Freeman Rivers.

Being Houston, this idiot – and his neighbors – wouldn’t be home from work for hours. Even if they left now, there’d be traffic on the roads. You could always count on a Houston traffic jam to keep someone away from discovering a hit job in progress.

That morning Freeman got to the back by a neighbor’s house. No cars in the driveway, good – but the owner had a dog barking at the back door. Damn. Freeman got a look at the thing. Little red and white number. Well, he’d let it outside and go inside himself.

Jimmying the door open was a piece of cake, even with the double lock. That only meant instead of fifteen seconds, it was thirty-five to get inside. He opened the door. Dog was all over him in a second, barking and nipping. But when Freeman opened the door wide, he didn’t go outside – two cats, those Siamese kind – they ran outside.

Well, hell with them. So Freeman went in the house and left the door wide open. When the dog went out, he’d close it and get to work.

Dog began to growl when Freeman went right for the living room. Good – flat-screen TV, DVD player. All the best stuff. There was that Wedgewood on the piano. Rich guy. Had a grand piano, too. And crystal in the china cabinet – old money, looked like. Probably has jewelry. These Midtown queers, you know – yep, he saw the soft porn magnets on the fridge. Gotta get to business.

Went right for the bedroom. Jewelry box right out there on the dresser, a gold ring right on top. He grabbed the whole thing, stuffed it into his satchel. Dog was still on him, barking and growling. Freeman kicked the dog, but wasn’t prepared when the mutt sank his fangs into Freeman’s ankle.

Freeman felt a white, hot pain dart up his leg and into his knee. “Fuck!” he said, and kicked the dog in the head. Dog bit him again, this time deeper. Freeman kicked even harder. Dog kept barking and nipping at his heels.

Freeman limped, holding the jewelry box, into the living room. Got to get out of here before the dog got him even wors. He was dripping blood on the floor. DNA evidence. Shit. Damned dog. He walked by the piano, saw a black box. Just enough room in his satchel for it. Dropped it right in. Looked in the living room, DVD player, TV – can it, he’d get thousands for the jewelry.

He got out of the house, left the door open. Dog followed him outside, he was dripping blood onto the pavement. Shit, fuck, damn. DNA evidence. What the hell, got to get out. He saw the cats over at the edge of the yard, perched on a fence. The hell with them. Owner deserved to lose his pets, too. Fuck the dog owner.

Two hours later, Freeman was inside his apartment and had bandaged the two bites. Not too deep, good. And he got six gold rings and a diamond ring. Diamond ring had the initials C. M. D. on the inside. Perfect, he’d get at least a thousand for this shit at the pawn shop. And then he opened the black box. Sure it’d be more jewelry. But no. There was a plastic bag in there with ashes, and a piece of paper. Catherine Dryer, born May 9, 1930, died October 18, 2015. Shit. He got the sucker’s dead mother.

He took the bag outside and dumped the ashes in the garbage. Fuck the bitch’s son and his damned dog.

A special offer

Last month I got a special offer from Amazon. Buy the entire DVD collection of the ‘80s classic, “Cheers.” And now I’m up to Season 4, you know, the one where Diane and Sam go for Round 2 of their immortal love match, to see which one will score the knock-out punch. Poor Sam and Diane, they never got it right.

There’s something about that show. Maybe because it premiered when the country was still recovering from the ‘70s. Looking at the theme, you still see those ’75 Ford Mavericks and ’78 Granadas driving down Beacon Street.

The Maverick is this almond green and the Granada is this rust brown. Super ugly by any standard. Hell, those cars are super ugly no matter which color's splashed on them. Who thought up those duds, the bastard child of Edsel Ford? Had to be someone. Even Mercury had its own versions – the Comet (twin of Maverick) and Monarch (twin of Granada) – and Lincoln had its Versailles, which was nothing more than a Granada in a tuxedo. And a cheap, powder-blue, wide-lapeled, polyester tuxedo at that.

But (quoting Sophia Petrillo) I digress. “Cheers” was a great show. It was one of my all-time favorites, right up there with “The Mary Tyler Moore Show,” “Frasier” (note to self: order this DVD collection for Christmas), “The Golden Girls,” and “The Patty Duke Show.” What, you ask – “The Patty Duke Show?” I wanted to make sure you were reading. I might’ve liked Patty Duke’s show when I was six, but I grew out of toddler-hood not long after that. No, for me fifth place would be tied between “Maude” and “Bewitched.” That’s right. I like women with power. Eat your heart out, Archie Bunker.

And does anyone still drive a Maverick? Last mention of a Maverick was in the ’08 campaign when John McCain was doing his maverick stuff and Sarah Palin was coo-cooing it. How quickly we forget. Someone sent me a picture of that almond green car with the caption, “Now THIS is a real maverick.” Like, whatever.

So I was talking to a colleague at work the other day, a 22-year-old super-smart over-achiever named Heather. I said she reminded me of Mary Tyler Moore from the show. And you know what, she asked me, “Who’s Mary Tyler Moore?” I looked in the mirror. Am I really that old, or is she just stupid?

Ted Danson is 68 this year. Shelley Long is 66.

I am ready

Geraldine taped up the last box and listened to final screech-screech of the tape across the top of the box. So satisfying to leave this sanitized house in Westwood with its crown moldings, great room, center island kitchen, and master bedroom fireplace. So satisfying to have the last box packed – this one, a box of spatulas and bag clippers.

How on earth had they ever collected so many? They really only needed one spatula and perhaps a handful of bag clippers. I mean … a bag of potato chips, pretzels, and tortilla chips. Three maximum. But there were at least fifteen spatulas and thirty bag clippers. Why on earth had they ever gotten all these?

But of course, they’d never worried about money. Perhaps Richard still didn’t. Geraldine grunted out a snicker. Tiffany would want Botox injections and a Mercedes convertible by the time she turned thirty. And there’d be weekly spa treatments and massages, shopping sprees on Rodeo Drive (did anyone know that Greta Garbo had owned that street), not to mention all the expensive gifts for her cheerleader friends.

“Mama, the men with the truck are here.”

That was Jennifer. Geraldine wondered how her baby was taking it all. She seemed okay, really had just shrugged her shoulders when Geraldine had told her they were moving to a townhouse in Pasadenal. But Geraldine would’ve thought a nine-year-old girl who liked reading Louisa May Alcott would be more attached to her neighborhood.

Not to mention her father. That lousy, stinking, cheating son-of-a-bitch man who’d ruined their lives.

Geraldine would show him. Who cared if he had all that money and fast cars and a tight and taut bimbette at his beck and call? Justice would be served. One way or the other.

She thought about the spatulas and the bag clippers. Geraldine could think of a few things she could do with those extra utensils. She laughed a short snicker again.

For example

He was such pond scum. For example, the last time I saw him, he’d taken my mother’s favorite picture of my Irish grandmother who came to America in at Atlantic gale while pregnant with my Uncle Daniel.

He was such a cheat. For example, while I was pregnant with our third boy, he had an affair with twins across the street. One of them got pregnant, fled the country, and the poor girl and her baby are living somewhere in Brazil.

He was such a liar. For example, he told me he needed money to pay for a new furnace and then took it to buy a purple dune buggy.

He was so devious. For example, he broke my mother’s fine china one night in a drunken rage and then fabricated a whole burglary, police report and all.

He was so indecisive. For example, he left me and then told me he wanted me back, only to leave me again when I agreed to return.

He was so childish. For example, when he had a simple cold, he stayed home from work for a week and ran me ragged with requests for meals in bed, snacks on the fly, and water refills every thirty minutes.

He could be so charming. For example, he complimented me on my dresses, my make-up, the color of my eyes, the waviness in my hair, the curve in my hips – and usually when I felt down about myself.

He was really good looking. For example, he had that dimple in his square-jawed chin, that smooth, alabaster skin framed by jet-black hair, those broad shoulders and narrow hips – and a killer smile that melted me in place.

He was so kind. For example, when my mother died, he held me in his arms while I cried and held my hand all throughout the funeral.

He was the love of my life. For example, no one seized my imagination as much as he did, from the moment I laid eyes on him, and I could never get him out of my mind. But since the divorce, I haven’t spoken with him once. And I like that.

Here's the problem

Matilda drew the bath water that Saturday evening after dinner. She’d made herself two chicken thighs, white rice, and green peas. It had been quite tasty, really, and she’d enjoyed eating the meal while watching the news on the BBC. There’d been a fight in Belfast and a riot in Dublin, but it was quiet here in Manchester, and the Queen was in Scotland. In America, Senator Kennedy had been shot, and that was only two months after Martin Luther King. But there was little to worry about in England, so Matilda ate her meal in peace.

After starting the bath water and setting the temperature hot, hot, hot – she treated herself to a really hot bath on Saturday evenings after the news, her one regular indulgence every week. It had been that way for nearly twenty years since Susan had died. After her bath, she’d get the photo album out and look at all the memories she and Susan had – day trips to Wales, weekends in Cornwall, their momentous trip to Paris in those years before the war. Matilda could remember walking with Susan in the Loeuvre, spending a whole day there taking in every painting, every sculpture.

She took off her robe and, somehow by instinct, looked out the bathroom door. As if anyone were there to look – or had been there, these twenty years. Matilda laughed at her own modesty. She edged herself carefully into the tub, closed her eyes as she descended into the water, and purred. There was no better way to spend a Saturday evening than taking a long, hot bath with her memories of Susan.

I don't trust ...

This was the last time I’d trust the Safeway deli. I knew that roast beef was bad, second it went in my mouth. But no, I have to mind-fuck myself into thinking, just bad taste buds, buddy, there’s nothing wrong with it, go ahead and eat it. Well, so I did, and I hear I am now.

You know what it feels like when the back of your throat feels like sandpaper with rough air running over it, when you can’t stand having even a light sheet on top of your tummy, when you’re afraid to move because then, just then the volcano will erupt – and when it does, every time afterward gets easier and easier until the fourth time, you get this tension in the back of your throat, and say ho hum, another trip to the toilet, no big deal, just get it out of me.

And then there’s the thought that, finally, you’d lose that extra five pounds you’ve been trying to get rid of since Molly’s wedding in May. And then the afterthought, oh, and this time I really will lose the pounds and not gain them back at Thanksgiving. So maybe there is an upside to the convulsive ride my stomach’s taken me on today.

My family thinks it’s just nerves, you know, just a reaction after the funeral. Yeah, I told them, there were those two hours of nausea the night before Mom’s services. And yeah, I hadn’t been sleeping well in the two weeks since she died. Okay, you got me there. But I didn’t react this way last year when Dad died, did I? I was perfectly fine. Okay, guys, sure I was my mother’s baby. But she was 83 and had been bed-bound for five years. And so what if she was the only person I ever really trusted. What’s that got to do with it?

Dry

“Look, life sucks and then you die,” Josh said at the kitchen table. He twisted the cap off the bottle of pinot noir.

“What good pinot doesn’t have a cork?” Andrew asked. “That’s just cheesy, having a screw top with a pinot.”

“You’re avoiding the topic. Look, your mother died three weeks ago. It’s okay to be depressed. It’s not like it’s stopping you from going to work, or going to the gym. Didn’t you hook up with that muscle top on the same afternoon you picked up her ashes?”

“Watch it, Josh. This is my mother we’re talking about. And it wasn’t the same afternoon. It was the next day. But I have to admit, it gave me a dry feeling in the back of my throat, having sex with my mother sitting on top of the mantle. That and the kitty cat sitting on top of the box.”

“Why should it bother you? It’s not as if you didn’t fuck around under her roof plenty while she was alive. If memory serves, we screwed any number of times while she was having cocktails with your father, watching Fox News and yelling at the Democrats between Scrabble turns.”

“Sometimes I wish you weren’t my lover back then. You gotta bring up the past?”

Josh sniffed out a laugh. “Someone’s got to keep you honest, darling. Who knows you better than I do?”

Andrew neighed like a horse. “I do myself.”

“Poppycock. Who is it who never predicts how long it’s going to take to get ready for the evening? By the time you turn 40, Andrew, you should know whether it’s 15 minutes or 90.”

“That’s it, I’m hanging up.”

“What’re you talking about? We’re not on the phone, Andrew. You’re sitting in front of me. You can’t hang up.”

A new development

The door swung open to the empty Pasadena townhouse. The pair looked into the first floor – oh, so bright and airy, and oh, what potential for either a nautical theme of blues and whites or an earth treatment of greens and browns. And that kitchen with the white-framed cabinets (do you see the glass panes on the top) with an oh-so-convenient laundry closet (front loading, of course) to the right of the French-door refrigerator. And yes, there’s the powder room cleverly concealed to the left of the hall closet.

I know, the real estate agent (what was her name – oh, yes – Mrs. Findlay) said in a rushed and hurried manner that took them across the beige-tiled hallway floor into the simulated wood-floored living room – dining room combination (wasn’t everyone doing that these days) with its pair of sliding glass doors to the back yard.

“And just look at that vista,” Mrs. Findlay said in a manner that had Geraldine Grant expecting a view of Topanga Canyon and the Pacific Ocean, all at once. Mrs. Findlay led Geraldine by the arm around the house, upstairs to the bedrooms (three of ‘em, perfect for Geraldine, her daughter, and her son) – notice those bathrooms on the interiors of the bedroom, it’s what all the best townhouses are doing these days – it was then that Geraldine gave up.

The settlement had given her a juicy lump sum from Richard’s sale of the Westwood house, and it’d be enough to get her into this neighborhood. She’d figure out what to do with the furniture that Tiffany with the twenty-inch waist and the two-digit I.Q. hadn’t grabbed when they were splitting up the furniture. At least Geraldine had gotten Scout the basset hound.

“All right, put in an offer. Four hundred thousand tops and I’ll take it. But not a penny more.”

“But didn’t you see this upstairs patio and the convenient sliding glass door to it?”

On the phone

“And you’ll never guess what she was wearing to the cotillion,” Mary Patton said, her voice just oozing lilies and daffodils, “A white dress with puffy sleeves and a hemline above the knees! Now can you just imagine this, Georgie? A white dress ... in April? I mean, it was simply ghastly, just ghastly, I tell you. I tried looking over at Malvina, and her eyebrows were cocked to the left and she was puckering her lips. You know how the poor dear talks and talks and talks. Now don’t you just hate that, when someone just talks and talks and never listens?”

“Yes, dear, I know –“ Georgianna edged in a word.

“But no one had the heart to go over to Betty Bixler and tell her that she ...”

Georgianna turned off Mary’s voice for the time being. She’d never know it, so long as every few minutes she uttered a few You don’t say, I don’t believe that, Tell me more snippets. Georgianna eyed the countertop. She had an apple pie to bake, a roast to go in the oven, and vegetables to chop. Dinner was in less than two hours. She had to get rid of Mary before Harold, Bob, and Allen came home from fishing on Lake Towanga.

But would the phone reach?

Georgianna walked over to the front door while Mary continued the tales of Betty Bixler’s fashion faux pas and Malvina’s gossip network plugging up the phone lines in town. But the phone line tightened to a stop six feet shy of the front door. Hmm, she thought.

Georgianna interrupted. “Mary, tell me what Martha George said about all of this.” That’d keep Mary busy for another five minutes. She put the phone down on the kitchen counter, tiptoed to the front door, opened the screen, and pressed the bell.

Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong ...

“Oh, Mary,” Georgianna interrupted. “I’m so sorry ... I simply have to go. That’s Harold’s mother – I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

Click.

Whew, that was a close call. Now back to the apple pie.

At the top

“So you wanna climb to the top of the Empire State Building?” Quincy said and then sniffed. “You must be nuts! It’s 20 degrees outside and windy. You’ll freeze your keester off, buddy.”

“Hey man, it ain’t closed, ya know,” Freeman said. God, those security guards – they got your goat every time ya wanted to do anything. Just the other day, tried to get a ham and cheese sandwich at a bagel shop and they practically cut off his balls. Damned dickheads. “I got a right to go up there, same as you.”

“You gotta right, no argument here,” Quincy answered. He turned the key in the elevator and pressed the top floor. “Go on up, you’re goin’ alone, ya know. Don’t come cryin’ to me when your dick falls off and hits some idiot on the head and kills ‘em.”

“Like, whatever, man. Thanks.”

The elevator doors shut on Freeman. Geez, it was great to be alone. He got a rush goin’ up in the elevator. That and the marijuana, he felt on top of the world and he wasn’t even a third of the way up. Oh, wait a second – now passing 50, half way up. Wished Cartletta were here – she’d love it, bein’ with Freeman at the Empire State Building. A far way from Hoboken – hell, even a far way from Newark. But no, she chose that no good Wilbur over him and got pregnant. Her loss, that loser’ll never marry her. She’ll end up with six babies and no daddy.

Freeman would’ve married her. But she didn’t want him. Not anymore.

The doors opened at the top floor. Freeman looked out. Yep, cold just like that snippy guard said – and windy too. No big deal, he wanted to be up here. And alone. He walked out and winced. Man, oh man, that was bracing. Why in the hell do people live in New York when it’s this cold? Who’s bright idea was it to put the biggest city in the U.S. of A. in this Arctic blast?

Didn’t matter none, at least not anymore. He took a step closer to the railing. That Corletta, she’d be sorry she left him. He’d make her sorry. Even by tomorrow she’d be regretting what she’d done – he’d show her. He walked straight up to the edge, looked over the glass and the railing. Long way down. Anybody jumped over, they’d be dead before they even got half way down. That’s what someone told him once, you’re dead of heart failure before your body even hits the ground and explodes into a million fragments.

He leaned out a little and thought about it for a minute. And then he thought some more. Shit, man, too cold up here. He’d go to that corner deli for a cup of coffee. Then he’d head out to Hoboken and shoot that Wilbur in the balls.