closes her eyes every so often as our pal the nurse periodically checks on us. Then, with her signaling again to remove the oxygen mask, I stand up and comply, positioning my ear so I can hear within a whisper’s reach. At that moment the nurse appears at the doorway and stomps in. “What are you doing?” she barks. “Why is her mask off? Why are you so close to her?”
“My mom wants to tell me something,” I plead.
“Make it quick. I’m watching you.”
I turn back to the bed. “What, Mom? What is it?”
My mother, even with great effort, can manage nothing more than a whisper.
“Did you dump her yet?”
2.
T wo days have passed since I visited Mom, and I keep seeing that oxygen mask of hers in my mind’s eye. Still, if she hadn’t asked me to dump my wife, I know I’d be worrying about her more.
The weekend distracted me. I had a romantic encounter with Tyler Friday night, having told her I settled a big case instead of revealing I was in front of the Disciplinary Committee. I spent the day Saturday admitting defeat in every tiff I intentionally started with her as an approach to foreplay, since I can’t resolve cases over the weekend. But the highlight was playing basketball in the driveway with my three kids all day both days. Now it’s Monday and back to business.
With my truck in the shop, I’m taking my weekend car to see the expert, Dr. Laura Smith. It’s a 1976 Cadillac Eldorado convertible, wide whites and all. But I’m not too happy about driving it from the burbs of upper Westchester to Brooklyn because it could also use some time in the shop.
“Tyler,” I call out before leaving, “remember you have to keep an eye on Otis to make sure he doesn’t get that funnel thing off his neck and rip his stitches out.” Otis is my eighty-five-pound Labradoodle. He looks like a doggy reggae star with his dreadlocks. Yesterday he cut his paw pad chasing a squirrel through a thorny rosebush and had to have it stitched up.
“I’m not watching Otis,” she yells back from somewhere upstairs,“I have my tennis team practice this morning, which I guess I could take him to, but then I have to go to the mall in the afternoon. So I can’t do it.”
“But the vet said to keep an eye on him,” I yell, “and I’ve got to meet a doctor on a potentially large case out in Brooklyn,” I say, lying, to initiate the foreplay process at the start of the week. “Can’t you skip the mall?”
“Nope,” Tyler screams. “He’s your dog. You watch him.”
So I have a choice to make. Take her on or else take the customary path of least resistance. I choose a middle-of-the-road approach, hoping to appeal to her slim sense of reason. “Do you really have to go to the mall today?” I ask. “Would it be possible for you to go tomorrow when the housekeeper’s here so she could keep tabs on Otis?”
“No can do. Got to go to the mall today.”
“You got to? Are you firm on that one hundred percent?” I call out, getting tired of all the yelling and ready to surrender.
“Look,” Tyler yells, “I’m getting waxed today. Rita’s only working one day this week and today is it. The week after, I’ll be bleeding like a wounded lamb and I don’t feel comfortable getting waxed when I’m on my period. And for certain I’m not waiting three weeks to get this done ’cause the grass on the infield is growing.”
“Couldn’t you find a different groundskeeper?”
“Not an option. Rita’s actually from Brazil. Do you know how hard it is to find a hair-removal therapist to give you a Brazilian who’s actually from Brazil?”
Hair-removal therapist? “Okay,” I yell, “I’ll take Otis.” Otis tilts his head and lifts his ears upon hearing his name. “Come on, Otis, my man. You’re going to see what it’s like to be a lawyer.”
We enter the garage and he jumps in the front of the Eldo. “In the back, Otis,” I command, four times. He just stares at me with those expressive eyes of
“My mom wants to tell me something,” I plead.
“Make it quick. I’m watching you.”
I turn back to the bed. “What, Mom? What is it?”
My mother, even with great effort, can manage nothing more than a whisper.
“Did you dump her yet?”
2.
T wo days have passed since I visited Mom, and I keep seeing that oxygen mask of hers in my mind’s eye. Still, if she hadn’t asked me to dump my wife, I know I’d be worrying about her more.
The weekend distracted me. I had a romantic encounter with Tyler Friday night, having told her I settled a big case instead of revealing I was in front of the Disciplinary Committee. I spent the day Saturday admitting defeat in every tiff I intentionally started with her as an approach to foreplay, since I can’t resolve cases over the weekend. But the highlight was playing basketball in the driveway with my three kids all day both days. Now it’s Monday and back to business.
With my truck in the shop, I’m taking my weekend car to see the expert, Dr. Laura Smith. It’s a 1976 Cadillac Eldorado convertible, wide whites and all. But I’m not too happy about driving it from the burbs of upper Westchester to Brooklyn because it could also use some time in the shop.
“Tyler,” I call out before leaving, “remember you have to keep an eye on Otis to make sure he doesn’t get that funnel thing off his neck and rip his stitches out.” Otis is my eighty-five-pound Labradoodle. He looks like a doggy reggae star with his dreadlocks. Yesterday he cut his paw pad chasing a squirrel through a thorny rosebush and had to have it stitched up.
“I’m not watching Otis,” she yells back from somewhere upstairs,“I have my tennis team practice this morning, which I guess I could take him to, but then I have to go to the mall in the afternoon. So I can’t do it.”
“But the vet said to keep an eye on him,” I yell, “and I’ve got to meet a doctor on a potentially large case out in Brooklyn,” I say, lying, to initiate the foreplay process at the start of the week. “Can’t you skip the mall?”
“Nope,” Tyler screams. “He’s your dog. You watch him.”
So I have a choice to make. Take her on or else take the customary path of least resistance. I choose a middle-of-the-road approach, hoping to appeal to her slim sense of reason. “Do you really have to go to the mall today?” I ask. “Would it be possible for you to go tomorrow when the housekeeper’s here so she could keep tabs on Otis?”
“No can do. Got to go to the mall today.”
“You got to? Are you firm on that one hundred percent?” I call out, getting tired of all the yelling and ready to surrender.
“Look,” Tyler yells, “I’m getting waxed today. Rita’s only working one day this week and today is it. The week after, I’ll be bleeding like a wounded lamb and I don’t feel comfortable getting waxed when I’m on my period. And for certain I’m not waiting three weeks to get this done ’cause the grass on the infield is growing.”
“Couldn’t you find a different groundskeeper?”
“Not an option. Rita’s actually from Brazil. Do you know how hard it is to find a hair-removal therapist to give you a Brazilian who’s actually from Brazil?”
Hair-removal therapist? “Okay,” I yell, “I’ll take Otis.” Otis tilts his head and lifts his ears upon hearing his name. “Come on, Otis, my man. You’re going to see what it’s like to be a lawyer.”
We enter the garage and he jumps in the front of the Eldo. “In the back, Otis,” I command, four times. He just stares at me with those expressive eyes of
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