baptized,” I say. “I’ll get exorcised. Simonized.”
She smiles. A little. But still doesn’t look up.
“Euthanized?” Finally, I give up and my eyes follow hers to the bills and budget sheets between us, and I can’t help but think of the boxes of her eBay shit in our garage, as Lisa, no doubt, thinks of the money I wasted on poetfolio.com.
Airline Deal Proposed
Buffeted by fuel costs soaring
and with labor costs surging
Delta and Northwest are exploring
the possibility of merging.
Or maybe she isn’t thinking about my lame business at all, but fantasizing about Lumberland Chuck, about running off for some therapeutic skin-slapping teenage humping in the sturdy sex fort he’s no doubt building in some big phallic tree on his property. (Chuck being the sort of guy who would own property.)
That Lisa would be lost in such a fantasy seems even more likely when the back doorbell rings and she overdoes the surprise in greeting her happily divorced friend Dani—“What are you doing here?”—bottle-blond Dani, packed into her teenage-daughter’s jeans, with the forty-year-old single-gal wrist tattoo and gravity-be-damned implants that I get in trouble if I notice, Dani the friend Lisa always seeks out when she’s unhappiest with me.
She has come bearing two skirts roughly the size of headbands that she “tragically can’t fit into anymore,” but which will be perfect for Lisa—“with your hot little bod”—and this feels like a slap at me, somehow, as if I don’t deserve my wife’s bod, as if Dani is pointing out how Lisa would kill (like herself) out on the open market—what a team they would be! And even the skirts feel like a lie to me; it’s as if Lisa expected them, as if they were part of a cover story. Lisa says, “Want to come in for a glass of wine?” and of course Dani does.
“Hey Matt,” she says, and I say, “Hi Dani,” and that’s all we get as the women encamp at the kitchen table over fishbowls of Merlot, chattering (for my benefit, I think) about their kids, and waiting for me to leave the room so they can get down to the real talk. I slowly finish loading the dishwasher and drying the pans, scooping up the bills and bank notices until I can think of no other reason to stay in here and am forced to leave.
Dad’s watching TV, so I go upstairs to check on the kids, who are supposed to be getting ready for bed, but are engaged in futuristic cartoon battles on their Game Boys instead, Franklin pleading, “Can’t I just play until I die?” I know that he means until his little Game Boy character dies, but it chokes me up anyway (I’m so weepy these days), and I watch my boy’s digital avatar bounce around in what looks like a giant spit bubble until finally, it passes on. (No service; in lieu of flowers, go to bed.) In addition to his little speech problem, and his pooping problem, and his oversensitivity, Franklin is frailer than his big brother. Teddy would probably survive just fine at that tough public school. But lisping, tiny, day-dreamy, slow-to-read Franklin? He’ll be some yard-thug’s second-grade bitch.
“Can’t I stay up?”
“Wish I could let you, but I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Federal sleeping statutes.”
“Please.”
“Out of my hands.”
“Please?”
“You know if I could do anything at all, I would.”
“But I don’t want to go to bed.”
This reminds me that it’s been roughly forty hours since I’ve been in a bed. This is, of course, the great dream for a kid, staying up all night. Were I to tell Franklin that I didn’t go to bed at all last night, his eyes would get huge. Wait. You’ve seen the undiscovered territory, the world after bedtime?
“Sorry, pal.” I pull the covers up over his chest and ruffle his hair.
He grabs my arm. “Don’t leave.”
My Kid Is a Plagiarist
He’s stolen all of my best-loved stuff:
the quivering jaw, endless drinks of water,
clutching for arms as Daddy tries
to retreat
She smiles. A little. But still doesn’t look up.
“Euthanized?” Finally, I give up and my eyes follow hers to the bills and budget sheets between us, and I can’t help but think of the boxes of her eBay shit in our garage, as Lisa, no doubt, thinks of the money I wasted on poetfolio.com.
Airline Deal Proposed
Buffeted by fuel costs soaring
and with labor costs surging
Delta and Northwest are exploring
the possibility of merging.
Or maybe she isn’t thinking about my lame business at all, but fantasizing about Lumberland Chuck, about running off for some therapeutic skin-slapping teenage humping in the sturdy sex fort he’s no doubt building in some big phallic tree on his property. (Chuck being the sort of guy who would own property.)
That Lisa would be lost in such a fantasy seems even more likely when the back doorbell rings and she overdoes the surprise in greeting her happily divorced friend Dani—“What are you doing here?”—bottle-blond Dani, packed into her teenage-daughter’s jeans, with the forty-year-old single-gal wrist tattoo and gravity-be-damned implants that I get in trouble if I notice, Dani the friend Lisa always seeks out when she’s unhappiest with me.
She has come bearing two skirts roughly the size of headbands that she “tragically can’t fit into anymore,” but which will be perfect for Lisa—“with your hot little bod”—and this feels like a slap at me, somehow, as if I don’t deserve my wife’s bod, as if Dani is pointing out how Lisa would kill (like herself) out on the open market—what a team they would be! And even the skirts feel like a lie to me; it’s as if Lisa expected them, as if they were part of a cover story. Lisa says, “Want to come in for a glass of wine?” and of course Dani does.
“Hey Matt,” she says, and I say, “Hi Dani,” and that’s all we get as the women encamp at the kitchen table over fishbowls of Merlot, chattering (for my benefit, I think) about their kids, and waiting for me to leave the room so they can get down to the real talk. I slowly finish loading the dishwasher and drying the pans, scooping up the bills and bank notices until I can think of no other reason to stay in here and am forced to leave.
Dad’s watching TV, so I go upstairs to check on the kids, who are supposed to be getting ready for bed, but are engaged in futuristic cartoon battles on their Game Boys instead, Franklin pleading, “Can’t I just play until I die?” I know that he means until his little Game Boy character dies, but it chokes me up anyway (I’m so weepy these days), and I watch my boy’s digital avatar bounce around in what looks like a giant spit bubble until finally, it passes on. (No service; in lieu of flowers, go to bed.) In addition to his little speech problem, and his pooping problem, and his oversensitivity, Franklin is frailer than his big brother. Teddy would probably survive just fine at that tough public school. But lisping, tiny, day-dreamy, slow-to-read Franklin? He’ll be some yard-thug’s second-grade bitch.
“Can’t I stay up?”
“Wish I could let you, but I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Federal sleeping statutes.”
“Please.”
“Out of my hands.”
“Please?”
“You know if I could do anything at all, I would.”
“But I don’t want to go to bed.”
This reminds me that it’s been roughly forty hours since I’ve been in a bed. This is, of course, the great dream for a kid, staying up all night. Were I to tell Franklin that I didn’t go to bed at all last night, his eyes would get huge. Wait. You’ve seen the undiscovered territory, the world after bedtime?
“Sorry, pal.” I pull the covers up over his chest and ruffle his hair.
He grabs my arm. “Don’t leave.”
My Kid Is a Plagiarist
He’s stolen all of my best-loved stuff:
the quivering jaw, endless drinks of water,
clutching for arms as Daddy tries
to retreat
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