have never before felt the need to lie to her—seriously, never. A fib now and then maybe (I haven’t seen the last box of Girl Scout cookies) but a lie, never. Not that it has been easy. I mean telling the truth can be brutal. For me that is. She says it’s because I’m so egotistical, that I don’t care if I hurt her feelings or not. Immature, she calls me. Let me ask you something. If I tell her a lie in order to spare her feelings, assuming she is right just for the sake of arguing, does that necessarily mean that I am maturing, becoming more human, as Molly would say? If you follow her circuitous logic I suppose the answer would probably have to be yes. Not that immaturity is Molly’s one and only complaint against me. She has others, a few possibly valid, relatively minor character flaws, but mostly ridiculous accusations.

Her list of grievances against me: undersexed, egocentric, insensitive, callous, pushy, anti-social, vulgar, misanthropic, lazy, arrogant, stubborn, immature, selfish. A God damned baker’s dozen. And not in any order except of convenience and granted this is an incomplete list, thrown together for illustrative purposes and to prove this point: I am underappreciated. You heard me right. But let us take a closer look at these alleged complaints.

1. Undersexed—I submit that I am sexed just enough for my age and state of health, not over, not under. Can I help it if hormonally she’s just hitting her stride? Where was she when I was seventeen?
2. Egocentric—normal state of a healthy mind.
3. Insensitive—if telling the truth is insensitive, then I am guilty as charged. But tell me, where in the Ten Commandments is it stated, Thou shalt not be insensitive, hmm? Tell me. But it does state quite clearly, Thou shalt not bear false witness. It’s number nine. Look it up.
4. Callous—isn’t this really the same thing as number 3?
5. Pushy—I have no idea what she’s referring to.
6. Anti-social—Admittedly, I don’t like her friends. Name one husband that likes his wife’s friends. Just one.
7. Vulgar—just goes to show that Molly is more prudish than I am.
8. Misanthropic—I like plenty of people (most of them dead or fictional, but people nonetheless).
9. Lazy—I work out every morning for an hour and a half, weights and cardio both. In the summer I play tennis and swim. I read three or for novels a week. She couldn’t name one book that she’s read, or I should say finished, in the last year.
10. Arrogant—at least she hasn’t accused me of being impolite.
11. Stubborn—not true. My life is one compromise after another.
12. Immature—been over that.
13. Selfish—never. Allow me to illustrate.

The alarm went off at five-thirty in the morning. I got up specifically to let her sleep in a little, an altruistic act if ever there was one. Her boss had been on her case about her numbers and it had been stressing her out. If she didn’t turn them around and quick, she might find herself back out in the field calling on customers. If you’re thinking that I let her sleep in order that she might do a better job at work and that this is somehow in my best interest more than hers simply because she is the sole financial provider for our family, let me politely suggest that your thinking is convoluted. I took a quick shower and made sure to shave my right armpit (carefully avoiding the thing) with Molly’s triple bladed razor. I rinsed out my stubble (another selfless act) then I used a washcloth to give myself a good scrub. It would be a few days before I showered again. The reason why will be made clear shortly.

I let the dogs outside with both collars on, one for the invisible fence and one for barking. The houses in our neighborhood are close together and there have been complaints. After a cup of coffee (laced with three heaping tablespoons of sweetened cocoa) I took the boys to school for early track practice. The freezing temperatures meant that it would be an indoor practice. When I came home I fed the dogs and woke my daughter up.

“You have ISAT tests this morning, remember? Come on, you have to get up, Melon.”

When she was born my mother said her head looked like a cantaloupe and we started calling her Melon. The poor thing thinks it’s because melons are sweet. She always wakes up grumpy, kicking and thrashing about but as soon as she’s dressed she really is sweet. She came downstairs while I was cooking scrambled eggs with diced ham. I put half a bagel in the toaster for her. My stomach was too tight to eat anything. I watched her devour her breakfast.

“Are you ready for your tests?”

“I think so”

“I’m sure you’ll do just fine.”

“Mrs. Thomas says I belong in the advanced reading class”

“Maybe your test scores will be high enough this year.”

“Mrs. Thomas says that test scores don’t tell you everything, but the school has to go by them. It’s the rules.”

“I’m sure she’s right. Are you done with breakfast? Then hurry and brush your teeth so we’re not late. And don’t forget to scrub your retainer.”

I made sure Molly was awake before I left the house. I dropped Melon off in front of the whale, the huge blue cement structure (two actually: a head and a tail, sticking up out of the ground fifteen feet from each other) that was the mascot and preferred drop of point for Highland’s elementary school. Then I took Naperville Rd. past I-88 to the Town Square Center and pulled into a parking space in front of the Egg Harbor Café. I walked into the office building next door, up the wide carpeted (preppy pink and green) stairs and into the first suite. The waiting room was spacious and decorated with modern economy. I gave my name, put my insurance co-pay on my credit card and was told to wait. In ten minutes or so my name was called, my first name. I stood up and accompanied a nurse to the first room on the right.

“You’d be surprised to learn how many men are having their backs waxed these days,” she said.

“Excuse me?”

“Take your shirt off,” please. “The technician will be with you shortly.”

“I think you have the wrong patient.”

“Are you James?”

“Yes.”

“James Harrison?”

“No.”

“I’m sorry, there seems to have been an error.”

We walked back to the waiting room where the correct patient was found. We laughed awkwardly about it and I sat back down and waited for my name to be called. It took about twenty minutes. I noticed that my legs were bouncing up and down on the balls of my feet. I tried to stop but when my mind wanders they do it again. I smiled at the fat woman sitting across from me when she noticed.

“Nervous?” she said.

I smiled with my lips only, indicative of nothing.

“I’m having an ultrasonic derma-brasion,” she said. “It’s a new procedure, supposed to take ten years off.”

“Oh.”

“I have my thirty-fifth class reunion this summer.”

“That’s good,” I said, picking up a magazine, any magazine and opening it. I found myself looking at an article on anal itching. It made me itch. The woman kept on talking.

“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with wanting to look your best, do you?”

To most reasonable people silence indicates lack of interest. Apparently not the case here.

“Some people think it’s vain to go to a doctor for your looks. I don’t. My husband says I don’t need derma-brasion. What do you think?”

“I think it couldn’t hurt,” I said with a deadpan stare.

At first she smiled. Then her look became uncertain and slid into affronted. She picked up her purse, moved to the other side of the waiting room. The truth shall set you free.

The nurse called out both my first and last name this time. I followed her to the same room I had previously been in, passing the other James (back waxer) on the way. I took my coat off, placed it over the back of a chrome chair.

“Have a seat,” she said. “And remove your shirt.”

I noticed she didn’t say please this time. Had I done something to offend? In the middle of the stark, forlorn looking room was a large beige chair with all kinds of levers and buttons coming out of it on both sides, like something from a Kafka novel. It was covered with a strip of sterile white paper. Directly above, stemming from the ceiling, hung a large jointed arm with a spring. On the end of it was a light that looked like an old fashioned beauty parlor hair dryer. I sat down, my legs dangling in mid air.

“The doctor will be with you shortly,” she said. “Please read over these papers and sign them.”

I put my name down without reading anything. After another long wait the doctor came in. He was a tall, slender man with perfectly trimmed hair. The kind of face you see on soap opera actors; his only defect, a smile with slightly cocked teeth.

“Well, let’s have a look, shall we?” he said.

He pushed some buttons, moved a lever, flipped a switch. A bright light came on almost blinding me. The chair tilted back with a mechanical whir becoming a bed with a headrest. I raised my right arm, put my hand behind my head. The doctor put on special glasses with magnifying lenses attached. Wearing rubber gloves, he poked and prodded at my armpit.

“I see you’ve already shaved him?” said the doctor to the nurse.

“He did it himself,” she said.

“You’re conscientious, I see.” Molly should have heard that. Then, “Hmm. Were you out in the sun quite a bit as a child?”

“I suppose.”

“Do you ever remember getting a sunburn right here?”

“It would be rather difficult to do, don’t you think?”

“Not if you fell asleep without suntan lotion.”

“I suppose it’s possible.”

“I’m asking because this is not a mole.”

“No?”

“No, it’s something else. We’ll know more after we get it under the microscope.”

“You don’t think it’s...”

“Only one way to find out. This is going to prick a little bit,” he said, holding a hypodermic. The nurse swabbed my armpit with iodine. She covered my shoulder with blue paper, a square hole in the middle, taping it to my chest and arm. The needle felt like a cold bee sting. Three times.

“Be right back,” said the doctor. The nurse tried to relax me with small talk.

“So, what do you do?”

“Do?”

“For a living, I mean.”

“I took a buyout from my company six months ago.”

“That’s happening all over. Any luck finding another job?”

“I haven’t really looked. But my wife has a decent job. It’s not like we’re going to lose our house or anything.”

“Maybe you could go back to school, start another career.”

“I don’t think so. I didn’t like school much.”

“I’m sure you’ll find something sooner or later.”

“Yes,” I said.

As we talked I felt my arm growing heavy, three fingers tingling. I tried to move them but they felt dead. The only way I knew they were there was that I could still sense them at the back of my head.

The entire procedure was finished in less than ten minutes. It was an eerie sensation feeling the scalpel slice across my skin yet registering no pain. Most of the time had been taken up by the double set of sutures used to close the incision. The soap opera doctor had asked me about my family and talked to me about his recent ski trip to Vail. I could imagine his picture-perfect family shooshing down the slopes of an exclusive resort. I watched as he walked across my field of vision holding a pair of forceps, a piece of my flesh dangling from it like a bloody leech. He placed it in a test tube, corked it.

“You’ll get a call with the lab results.”

“And what if it turns out...you know, what next?”

“There are basically two types of skin cancer.” When he said the word my skin crawled, my insides contracted. “If you have the first kind you’re finished.”

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t look so concerned. I mean that we got it all out. Your treatment is finished.”

“Right. And what about the second kind?”

“Let’s hope you don’t have the second kind.”

“What are the chances?”

“Let’s not worry about that now. Let’s try to stay upbeat about it, okay? Go home and try not to think about it too much. We’ll know for sure in a week or two.”

“A week or two?”

“Lab gets backed up sometimes.”

How could he be so blasé about my life? MY LIFE. “Oh,” I said. “Sure.”

“I want you to be careful not to rip out my stitches. No physical exertion of any kind for two full weeks, understand?”

That wasn’t going to go over well with regards to Molly’s complaint number one. I drove home through downtown. Even though the day was cold, it was sunny and people were out milling about. I decided to park in the Jackson Street ramp, maybe walk around for a while. I didn’t feel like going home just yet. I still couldn’t feel my arm. I took the stairwell down to ground level. It reeked of urine and I had to wonder, as I always do, what is it about public stairwells that attract men (let’s face it, women don’t have the aim) to piss in the corners? And what sort of man just whips it out, not a care in the world, and starts urinating, in public? There’s not anything about a stairwell that remotely resembles a urinal, except of course the smell. Maybe it’s a primal imperative that cannot be resisted, the way a dog can’t pass by a fire hydrant. (Misanthropic? No, just observant.)

Anyway, just outside a heavy metal door was the homeless man of Chicago Ave. He is there through the summer and winter, rain, sleet and snow. The U.S. post office has nothing on him. He was bundled up in a clean (for a homeless man) blue parka, his hood pulled down over his eyes, his hands buried deep in opposing sleeves. The only sign of life were the white puffs of steam emanating from the cherry red muffler wound round his neck and face. I’ve always assumed he is emotionally or mentally disturbed. He never seems to bother anyone, but when the weather is nice, he can often be seen working on a lap top computer. God knows where he got it or what he does with it. I used to imagine he was a famous writer doing research, but no book is worth that. Sometimes he carries a big eraser board with a message on it, usually something moral and trite like: Remember the Golden Rule, Love Your Neighbor, or Boycott Onions. It was there now, a big white board propped up against the bench beside him. The sign read: SIMPLIFY. Nothing about love, or beauty, or truth, just SIMPLIFY. I shrugged my shoulders, rolled my eyes as I usually did and passed him (holding my breath) to go into Barnes & Noble.

I took the escalator to the literature section and browsed. I don’t know what I was looking for. Something different I suppose. I walked down the K—O aisle. I passed Kafka, Kinsella, Lahire, Marquez. At the sight of Love in the Time of Cholera, I felt a twinge of guilt. Not the false kind of guilt you feel when you believe you’ve done something wrong but the other kind, the real deal. The tug at your gut you get when you worry about being caught.

A few months back, shortly after quitting (okay, being asked to quit) my job, I had been meandering around downtown when I wandered past Zelner’s Book Cellar. I often check to see if there are any signed first editions that I might like to ad to my meager collection. Molly doesn’t like me spending money on “decorations” but I keep trying to tell her that they’re not decorations, they’re investments. I had checked the locked glass case and it was as if a light were shining down from above right on it. A pristine copy of El Amor en los Tiempos del Colera, by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, my favorite book of all time, not to mention, one of the world’s all time modern classics, in the original Spanish, first edition, first printing, signed and notarized. I recognized from pictures I had seen of it online that it was one of a thousand copies signed by Marquez to benefit the victims of the Nevado del Ruiz tragedy, whatever that was. It was tagged with a price of $1500. Not a problem with my credit card. A bargain really considering the 2% cash back offer. I paid the bills so there was little chance Molly would ever know. But standing there in front of the paperback version brought back the old fear.

When had I started hiding things from Molly? And why did I think I needed to? It went against everything I believed in. And I don’t believe in much. But the twinge of guilt passed quickly as I continued my search passed McEwan, Morrison and all the other authors I had read at one time or another. Then on to Naipaul, Oates, Ondaatje—nothing piqued my interest. Then I noticed a book in the M’s facing forward. That usually meant one of the clerks liked it. Either that or the publisher’s rep had been in recently. There was only one copy left. It was a book of short stories by Haruki Murakami, a Japanese writer I had heard of but never read. I guess I’m not much into modern Asian culture. In trying to get me into a sushi restaurant one time Molly said I needed to learn more about things outside my world. She called me a selfish narcissist who cared only about himself. I said, “That’s redundant twice over, besides you’re describing the entire world, not just me.” She said, “See, that’s what I mean.” There was a picture on the front cover of the Murakami book of a small upside down elephant. For some reason it intrigued me. I paid for it and went home.

I entered the house through the garage, lowering the door behind me. The dogs weren’t waiting at the door as usual and the television was on. I took off my jacket, placed it over the back of a chair, putting the book and my post surgery instructions down on the table along with the antibiotic ointment the nurse had given me. I would have to hide it someplace where Molly wouldn’t look. I was still wondering how I would explain to her why I wouldn’t be taking a shower for the next two days. Maybe if I washed my hair in the sink after she left and used cologne, she wouldn’t notice. Maybe I worried too much. After twenty years of marriage we were so used to each other’s habits, we hardly noticed one another anymore. Maybe that was why it was so easy to lie to her. I now had two lies: the book and the surgery. Make that three.

I saw her knees at first from behind the sofa, then her head with its silky black hair cascading over the armrest. I came around in front, saw that she was lying there fully naked, both hands between her legs, working. Dr. Phil on the television. I didn’t know whether to be angry or embarrassed or what. I chose ironic.

“Dr. Phil? I never would have guessed.”

“Don’t talk to me, I’m just about to, to...about to...”

“Shame on you. He’s old enough to be your father.”

“So are you.”

“You know, you shouldn’t do that here.”

“Why not?”

“This is my house. Are you nuts? What if my wife came home?”

“Now you’ve ruined it. I was almost there. Do you realize how hard it is for me to have an orgasm?”

“I’ve told you, don’t say that awful word. Say something nice like pleasured or finished instead.”

I’m from the generation that never uses words like orgasm, clitoris or penis in public. We have Bill Clinton and his infamous cigar to thank for our nation’s desensitized use of sexually explicit language. But it still shocks me every time I hear it. The written word is one thing. Spoken language, an entirely different kind of beast.

“Orgasm, orgasm, orgasm,” she said, laughing.

“You know you’re not supposed to come to the house.”

“It’s Wednesday. Where were you?”

With the procedure I had forgotten all about our weekly lunch date. Her roommate had classes from ten to two on Wednesdays. We had an understanding that we didn’t need to speak before then. I would simply show up with takeout food and we would make love until we were starving and then gorge ourselves on cold Chinese or Mexican or whatever I had brought.

“What if my wife came home?”

“You said she never comes home for lunch.”

“What if the neighbors saw you come in? How would I explain that?”

“You worry too much. My boyfriend says you have Social Anxiety Disorder. S.A.D. for short. He’s a Psych major.”

“You’re boyfriend?”

“You knew I had a boyfriend. I never hid that from you.”

“I know but I can’t believe you’ve discussed our relationship with him.”

“What relationship? We meet, eat, have sex. You call that a relationship? Did you think this was a long term thing?”

“First of all, we don’t have sex, we make love. You make it sound so clinical. And secondly, I was using the term relationship in the general sense, in the way that anyone who interacts with someone else has a relationship. I don’t think a relationship, no matter what kind, should be discussed with anyone outside of that relationship.”

“You’re repeating yourself.”

She was turning into Molly. “I know.”

“You’re adorable when you’re upset.”

“I’m not upset.”

“Okay.”

“Why don’t you put some clothing on?”

She grabbed my hand, pulled it toward her, placing it on her knee. She slid it toward the convergence of her legs. “Why don’t you take some clothes off and join me here on the sofa? We still have time.”

I still couldn’t feel my pinky. “I don’t feel like it.”

“You sure? I’m all slippery.”

“Stop that. Besides, it’s not right in my own house.”

“Why didn’t you show up? You never said.”

“I forgot. “

“Are you dumping me? My boyfriend says you’re going to dump me soon. He says you’re a predatory sexual deviant just getting your fix off me but that you’ll move on soon. That’s why he hasn’t come around and beat your face in.”

“Did he say that?”

“Sure, but he didn’t mean it. He’s all talk.”

“Even so, a person doesn’t like to hear that someone is thinking of beating his face in.”

“He won’t do anything. He’s afraid of you. I told him you used to box.”

“Why did you tell him that?”

“I don’t know, to get a rise out of him I guess. Don’t you ever tell someone something just for the fun of it?”

“No, never. People receive information by communicating. We act based on what we know. If our information is not reliable, what good are our actions? What good are we?”

She got up and started to dress. “You know, I shouldn’t have come over. You’re a real downer, you know that?” She made her way over to the kitchen table, noticed my post surgery instructions and said, “What’s this? You had something done today? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want you to worry. Besides, it was nothing, a simple mole removal.”

“What’s this about biopsy results?”

“Nothing, give it here.”

“It isn’t anything serious, is it? It’s not contagious?”

“No. At least I don’t think so.” Let her worry.

“How long have you known about the procedure?”

“It’s been scheduled for a month.”

“A month?”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t tell me? Have you told your wife?”

“No.”

“You know something, my boyfriend was right. You’re a total narcissist, always thinking of yourself.” Tossing her boyfriend into the same kettle as my wife unnerved me. “You’ve got to be about the most egotistical man in the world, keeping this to yourself.”

“I didn’t want to worry anyone.”

“That’s rich. You didn’t want to worry anyone all right. You wanted to keep all that worrying to yourself so you could soak up all that self pity. You live off that stuff. You’ve been marinating in self pity so long that you smell like self pity. You know what my boyfriend says?”

“I could give a flying fuck what your boyfriend says.”

“There’s no need for that.” Now fully dressed, she came close to me, grabbed me by the shirt and licked me across the lips. You don’t know what you’re missing, she said.

 

o you hear that?”

“Hear what?” I said.

“That tap, tap, tapping noise,” said Molly. “It’s driving me crazy.”

I had been in the family room, trying to read the new book, the one by the Japanese writer. I was enjoying it. I needed the diversion after the day I’d had. The reeling in my hand had returned. I had taken three extra strength Tylenol capsules but my armpit still ached. I had been instructed not to drink alcohol for two days post surgery. I was having a beer.

“Are you talking about the bathroom noise, the one I had the electrician over listening to the other day?”

She was sitting at the kitchen table shortening forty-five beaded bracelets which she had made too long, trying to get ready for a craft show. “How should I know?” she said.

“What does it sound like?”

“It sounds like a Chinese water torture, that’s what it sounds like.”

“Okay, I’m coming to listen.”

I stood in the kitchen, listened to the tap, tap, tap. “It’s what I told you before. It’s the bathroom fan. The electrician says there’s a flapper up there inside to seal off the vent when the fan’s not in use. It’s supposed to open with pressure when the fan turns on. He said the wind must be blowing backward into the vent, causing the flapper to oscillate.”

“Why didn’t you have him fix it?”

“We’ve been over this. He replaced it with a brand new one and it still does the same thing. It’s because of the way our house faces, the proximity of the adjoining houses and the way the wind sweeps between them or something.”

“There has to be something we can do about it.”

“There is. Get used to it.”

I went back into the family room to read. There was nothing I could do about it, really.

“That’s your solution to everything, isn’t?”

“It’s worked so far,” I said, easing into my reading chair.

After she went to bed I read until I finished the story I was into along with my third beer. Then I went into the bathroom to urinate before bed. If I don’t go right before, I’ll be up by four o’clock and won’t be able to get back to sleep. When I forget to use the toilet, I lie in bed at night thinking about all the things I should be doing with my life. It would almost be worth it if I ever came to any real conclusions. I turned on the fan (I’m always polite) and stood there urinating. At my age it takes a little longer. Then while I was wiping the edge of the ceramic bowl with a little piece of toilet paper (believe me now?) I realized I couldn’t hear the tapping noise. I switched the fan off and the tapping started, then when I turned it on it stopped again—the Chinese water torture. It was maddening. She was right about that at least, if not a few other things: I did need to get off my butt, I did need to get a job, I did need to set a good example for the kids.

Then the tapping reminded me of something. Earlier in the day when I had passed by the homeless man, the one with the computer and the sign, I had stopped to watch him breathe. His frozen breath had been the only sign of life. No, that’s not entirely true. There had been something else. He was wearing these black boots, the thick-soled kind the teenagers wear and his foot had been tapping rhythmically on the sidewalk. I remembered standing there watching him breathing, thinking, what has he got to tap his foot about? Was he singing a song in his head or humming a tune even? What other explanation could there be? And if he could hum a tune, maybe his life was not as bad as I imagined it to be. Anyone who could hum a tune couldn’t be all that bad off. I couldn’t remember the last time I had hummed or whistled. When I was a kid I used to sing all the time. It instantly made be miserable to think that I no longer had a song in my head.

I suddenly hated that tapping sound more than anything in the world. I felt that I had to do something about it immediately, but what could I do? The electrician had tried and failed and he was a professional. But I decided I must succeed, if only to prove a point. I thought about what my boss used to tell me before I had quit (okay, been fired from) my job. He used to say try looking at the problem from a different angle. Be a creative problem solver.

I had the image of the homeless man still in my head, tapping his foot, with his sign beside him: SIMPLIFY. So I thought about it until I came up with the solution. Molly is always saying that the solutions to our problems are right there in front of us, if only we would look. I went into the garage and rummaged around for what I needed. It took a while because the garage was a mess. Maybe I would get around to that tomorrow if my solution to the fan was a success. It took me about two minutes. When I was done, I stood back, admiring the silver duct tape covering the switch plate. I tried moving my hands up and down over the fixed switch. It didn’t shut off. It worked.

I already knew what Molly would say about the tape on the wall. It would be another number to add to the list: 14) impulsive. But it didn’t matter. I had solved the problem. As for the constant fan noise? Well, after a while you can get used to almost anything.

[END]

© 2006 J.E. Ogle - Contributor's Bio

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