blinking yellow light that said “Caution! Your husband is headed-for-divorce-unhappy”? And then it came to her. The earring. Two months ago, it had appeared in Kenny’s right ear like a midlife-crisis beacon. But Gracie had been distracted; she hadn’t thought much of it. Why hadn’t Gracie thought much of it? What would Kenny have had todo? Take out a billboard on Sunset Boulevard proclaiming himself in the throes of early-midlife-about-to-screw-someone-else crisis? Even then Gracie probably wouldn’t have noticed. Gracie avoided driving down Sunset Boulevard at all costs—the Euro-cafés and their midriff-baring constituents distracted and annoyed her. And when she did, she’d become so enraged at the sheer numbers of giant SUVs and Hummers choking the road that she wouldn’t notice the billboard unless her car sprouted wings and flew into it.
Of course, Gracie had made fun of Kenny. Who wouldn’t make fun of a forty-year-old man with an earring? Why, the great Jon Bon Jovi himself couldn’t pull off the look in the early ’80s. Why would her slightly paunchy, Hawaiian-shirt-wearing hubby be able to pull off the look? Gracie had thought it was a passing phase, like when an errant teenager comes home with a blue Mohawk and a tongue ring. Gracie had viewed this new transition as an opportunity to try out her parenting skills.
First, Gracie had tried to ignore the offending item. But how does one ignore a violation of the laws of nature? Women should not have mustaches and men should not wear ear jewelry. Period.
Obviously, this step was too difficult for her. Gracie had moved on.
Next, she had tried to talk to her child, er, husband, with an emphasis on positive reinforcement. Gracie had sat Kenny down with a glass of wine and told him how attractive he was, especially his earlobes. Gracie had told him how she’d never really noticed his ears until now, and, gee, they were really nice ears. Incredibly nice ears. Ears that didn’t need any help at all to look nice.
Finally, she had pleaded. “What are you thinking?” Gracie had beseeched, spilling wine on herself as she gestured towardhis stupid, insane, ridiculous ear (which really wasn’t so attractive, come to think of it).
“What’s the big deal?” Kenny had said, as if he were a teenager talking to his so-out-of-it-she-hums-to-Crosby-Stills-and-Nash mother. “It’s just a statement. Besides, Steve-O thought it looked rad.”
“Steve-O?” Gracie had asked, incredulous. Steve-O was a twenty-two-year-old Nike commercial director who was still living in his parents’ house in Encino—and embarking on a $100-million science fiction movie starring Bruce Willis. “Steve-O is barely weaned! He still wears pull-ups!”
“Steve-O is a very talented director,” Kenny had said, as though she had insulted his very child.
“You look ridiculous—you’re a forty-year-old man you’re successful, you’re smart—” (“ish,” she meant to add.
Smart-ish.) “Think of your dignity.”
Gracie had looked at him, in his trademark Hawaiian shirt and ironed jeans and, now, his earring. Maybe it was too late for dignity.
“My look works for me,” Kenny had said, puffing up, screaming-loud orange and green hydrangeas stretching across his chest. He looked like a proud baggage handler for Hawaiian Airlines.
“As a matter of fact,” he had told her, “a lot of people, important people, like this look. A lot of important people.”
“Are any of them named Magnum P.I.?” Gracie had yelled as he walked away. Again.
Kenny had given up fighting with her.We used to fight, Gracie thought, we used to stake claims in battle and fight until our eyes bled. And then, oh my God, she thought, we’d make up, we’d fuck as intensely as we’d fight. Gracie thought they had grown up, that they were beyond screaming andpunching at the air, that they knew that at the end of the day, at the end of the fight, they were still going to be together. Gracie
Of course, Gracie had made fun of Kenny. Who wouldn’t make fun of a forty-year-old man with an earring? Why, the great Jon Bon Jovi himself couldn’t pull off the look in the early ’80s. Why would her slightly paunchy, Hawaiian-shirt-wearing hubby be able to pull off the look? Gracie had thought it was a passing phase, like when an errant teenager comes home with a blue Mohawk and a tongue ring. Gracie had viewed this new transition as an opportunity to try out her parenting skills.
First, Gracie had tried to ignore the offending item. But how does one ignore a violation of the laws of nature? Women should not have mustaches and men should not wear ear jewelry. Period.
Obviously, this step was too difficult for her. Gracie had moved on.
Next, she had tried to talk to her child, er, husband, with an emphasis on positive reinforcement. Gracie had sat Kenny down with a glass of wine and told him how attractive he was, especially his earlobes. Gracie had told him how she’d never really noticed his ears until now, and, gee, they were really nice ears. Incredibly nice ears. Ears that didn’t need any help at all to look nice.
Finally, she had pleaded. “What are you thinking?” Gracie had beseeched, spilling wine on herself as she gestured towardhis stupid, insane, ridiculous ear (which really wasn’t so attractive, come to think of it).
“What’s the big deal?” Kenny had said, as if he were a teenager talking to his so-out-of-it-she-hums-to-Crosby-Stills-and-Nash mother. “It’s just a statement. Besides, Steve-O thought it looked rad.”
“Steve-O?” Gracie had asked, incredulous. Steve-O was a twenty-two-year-old Nike commercial director who was still living in his parents’ house in Encino—and embarking on a $100-million science fiction movie starring Bruce Willis. “Steve-O is barely weaned! He still wears pull-ups!”
“Steve-O is a very talented director,” Kenny had said, as though she had insulted his very child.
“You look ridiculous—you’re a forty-year-old man you’re successful, you’re smart—” (“ish,” she meant to add.
Smart-ish.) “Think of your dignity.”
Gracie had looked at him, in his trademark Hawaiian shirt and ironed jeans and, now, his earring. Maybe it was too late for dignity.
“My look works for me,” Kenny had said, puffing up, screaming-loud orange and green hydrangeas stretching across his chest. He looked like a proud baggage handler for Hawaiian Airlines.
“As a matter of fact,” he had told her, “a lot of people, important people, like this look. A lot of important people.”
“Are any of them named Magnum P.I.?” Gracie had yelled as he walked away. Again.
Kenny had given up fighting with her.We used to fight, Gracie thought, we used to stake claims in battle and fight until our eyes bled. And then, oh my God, she thought, we’d make up, we’d fuck as intensely as we’d fight. Gracie thought they had grown up, that they were beyond screaming andpunching at the air, that they knew that at the end of the day, at the end of the fight, they were still going to be together. Gracie
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