The Revised Fundamentals of Caregiving by Jonathan Evison Page A

seeing the world through somebody else’s eyes again—as I saw it through Janet’s or Piper’s or little Jodi’s—seems neither possible nor compelling to me.
    I will not be needy, I tell myself, piloting my dented Subaru south on Highway 3. I will not cry. I will not mention Janet. My shirt hasn’t seen an iron since the Clinton administration. Forest says to work the caregiving angle. Forest says to be myself. He says ask questions—but not too many.
    Her name is Katya. Forest has briefed me as to some of her particulars—the fact that she’s twenty-nine, that she recently dumped the aforementioned Goat Roper, and that she’s “pretty cute” and “really nice,” which doesn’t necessarily bode so well. Th e one piece of compelling information which Forest provides is that Katya works as a trapeze artist at a casino dinner theater in Tacoma. A trapeze artist! Who better to bedazzle me with her high-flying antics? Who better to defy the stultifying gravity that is my life?
    Katya’s eyes are as big and dark as avocados. You could hide a Cuisinart in her voluminous hair. Th ough her skin is a little on the bumpy side, her bone structure is remarkable; high, wide cheekbones and a plunging jawline. We are building our own Mongolian stir-fry at Colonel Lee’s in Bremerton—her pick. I’ve decided to be up front with her.
    â€œJust so you know,” I say, tonging some bean sprouts. “I’m only using you to get to the sword swallower.”
    She laughs. Already, a great weight has been lifted from my shoulders. I do not feel needy. I will not cry. Janet who? I avoid the frozen chicken and pork as I move down the line, stacking my plate with cabbage and bamboo shoots and julienned carrots. I’m wary of the raw meats, even if they’re frozen, because Jodi once went volcano on some frozen chicken. But I won’t mention that or anything about the kids tonight.
    Having performed the early show before meeting me, Katya is still in uniform beneath her long tan coat. “Sorry about all this,” she says of her jewel-encrusted blue leotard. She’s wearing a pair of running shoes that look like they might’ve belonged to her father—they’re huge. “Misty was late,” she explains. “So I didn’t have time to go home first.”
    â€œI think you look adorable,” I say.
    Her face pinkens like a sunset. I should’ve said hot—adorable is too familiar. But the sad truth is, already she feels familiar. I’m restless to be with her, impatient to hear the intimate details of her life. My neediness is not a hole to be filled but something beneath the skin scratching to get out.
    Katya absorbs this trespass gracefully. “So, Forest said you’re a nurse. Th at’s really cool.”
    â€œNot exactly. I’m just a caregiver.”
    â€œWhat’s the difference?”
    â€œAt least fifteen grand a year.”
    She smiles. “Who cares about money, anyway, right? It’s all about freedom. Hey,” she says, as we arrive at the hissing grill. “You totally forgot your meat.”
    I CAME OUT tonight expecting awkwardness and ultimately failure. I came with my exit in mind, armed with excuses. Still, I’m determined to stay on the horse as long as possible, so that next time, next horse—if there is another—I might stake my purchase a little longer. And in this manner I will inch my way toward manhood again. But things are not unfolding as I expected. At our table in the corner, beneath a frameless print of a Mongolian market scene at once reminiscent of Gauguin and Hanna-Barbera, in the shadow of a potted plastic monkey tree, my evening with adorable Katya unfolds swimmingly. Aside from a near slipup, when she asks me if I smoke and I almost tell her my wife made me quit, I’m pretty sure I’m holding my own. She seems charmed by my brief (and