The Average American Marriage Page 17

  I say, “Desperate Housewives. Yeah. Her name’s Teri Hatcher.”

  We watch for a few minutes. She says, “That guy is funny. What is this show?”

  I say, “Night Court.”

  She says, “How old is it?”

  I say, “It’s from the eighties.”

  She says, “Like when Fresh Prince was on? Or was that the nineties?”

  I say, “Nineties.”

  She says, “What’s that guy’s name?”

  I say, “John Larroquette.”

  She says, “He’s seriously funny. Did he die or something?”

  I say, “No. Why?”

  She says, “Because he never did anything else.”

  I say, “He’s done a bunch of stuff.”

  She says, “Like what?”

  I say, “He did a show called The John Larroquette Show that I think he won some Emmys for, and he’s on a bunch of TV shows now. He did some CSI stuff. He’s been on Parks and Rec.”

  She says, “Seriously? Are you making that up?”

  I say, “Why would I?”

  She says, “To be funny.”

  I say, “How would that be funny?”

  She says, “It wouldn’t.”

  We fuck again before we go to sleep, and as I pull out and blow my load in Holly’s ass crack, I wonder if John Larroquette ever gets pissed off when he has to explain who he is to girls Holly’s age.

  chapter thirty-eight

  Happy Fucking Birthday to You

  After getting some green tea from the kitchen, I sit down at my desk and log on to Facebook to check the inane shit Holly has posted since I last looked. It’s strange to have a pretty decent memory of each time she was doing something on her cell phone the last time we hung out and then be able to see each and every thing she was posting. It’s the only thing that stops me from asking her what she’s doing on her phone every time she’s typing away in my presence.

  As soon as I go to her page, I realize that it’s unmistakably her birthday. There are forty-six posts on her wall, each with their own collection of comments all wishing her a happy birthday and asking what kind of presents she wants or where she wants to go out to dinner or how drunk she plans on getting. I had no idea it was her birthday at all. I scroll through all of the recent posts that have anything to do with her birthday, and I sleuth out a few things. Donald Himmel definitely wants to fuck her. Ken Grint definitely wants to fuck her. Tommy Hooper probably has fucked her, based on his comment, “Wish it could be your birthday eve two years ago. Bomb! Night. Up for a replay?” But beyond all this, I learn the most from one of her own comments to a post from Tony Berg that reads, “What chu need fur yer bday lady?” Holly replies, “My laptop is fried. Got a new one laying around hahaha?”

  I don’t know if Holly expects me to know that it’s her birthday or not. We’ve never discussed anything remotely approaching the topic, but I can only assume that, because she knows I’m on Facebook and we’re friends, she thinks I should know.

  At lunch, I go to CVS and get her a card. I don’t want it to say anything about love, but even though she swallowed a load of my semen less than forty-eight hours before this, I want the card to have a clear message of romance, so it doesn’t seem like I’m just a friend. I find one with a flower on it that reads, “I’m so glad you are in my life. Happy Birthday!” This is perfect. I get some wrapping paper, some tape, and some scissors and head back to the car.

  After CVS I drive through McDonald’s and get lunch, then head to an Apple Store, where I have to deal with a teenager trying to upsell me on the most expensive laptop they have. I finally convince him that I’m unwilling to buy anything more costly than the bottom-of-the-barrel Macbook Pro, which is still fucking twelve hundred dollars. I reason that this will make Holly extremely happy, and the amount of fucking we’ve done has already been worth at least twelve hundred dollars, compared to the money I’ve spent on Alyna over the years versus the amount and quality of sex we’ve had.

  Back in the car, I finish my fries, then do the worst wrapping job I’ve ever done in my life on Holly’s new computer. When I get back to the office, I think briefly about waiting for Holly to go to the bathroom and surprising her by sitting the computer and the card on her chair. Thankfully I think this through to its logical conclusion, which involves far too many witnesses, so instead I send her an IM that reads, “Can you come into my office please?”

  She comes in and sits down across from me. I say, “First of all, happy birthday,” and I hand her the card. She smiles and says, “Ooh, thank you. I thought maybe you forgot.”

  This implies that I would have known before I forgot and confirms my initial suspicion that she expected me to know, even though we’d never discussed it. I don’t bring this up. I wait for her to read the card in which I’ve written the following note:

  “Holly, I know the circumstances aren’t the best but I can’t tell you how glad I am that I stayed late that night to help you in the file room. You’ve made me happier than I thought I could be since we met, and I just want you to know that you’re very special to me and I’m excited to see where this goes. Happy Birthday.”

  I expect her to say something similar to me after she finishes reading it. I hope she’ll tell me how important I am to her or how much she enjoys spending time with me. This is not the case. After she reads it she says, “Thanks. That’s really cool,” then she sits the card on the edge of my desk and stands up to leave.

  I say, “I also got you a present.”

  This gets a big smile from her—a real smile. She says, “What? Really?”

  I say, “Yeah,” and pull out the computer.

  She looks at it and says, “Should I unwrap it in here?”

  I say, “Sure.”

  She unwraps the computer and almost shits her pants. She says, “Oh my fucking god. Are you even serious right now? A fucking Macbook?”

  I say, “Pro.”

  She says, “Yeah, I don’t think they make the regular ones anymore. This is so cool. I so need a new computer, too. Oh my fucking god. Thank you so much.”

  She hugs me and says, “Is it cool if I leave it in here, in your office until after work? I don’t want to be messing with it at my desk.”

  I say, “Yeah.”

  She kisses me on the cheek and says, “Oh my god! Thank you so much,” then heads back out to her desk.

  I sit back down at my desk and look at the card I gave her, which she’s left on the edge of my desk. I didn’t spend much time crafting the message inside, but I’d still hoped it would produce some emotional reaction in her. I had hoped it would serve as a verbal admission of the affection that I’ve genuinely started to feel for Holly, and prompt a similar reaction from her. Instead it sits at the edge of my desk, just shy enough of the edge that it won’t fall off. It reminds me of Holly sleeping on the opposite edge of the bed from me at night. I decide I’m reading too much into it, take out my phone, and cue up some pictures of her bending over and spreading her ass so I can see her perfect asshole.

  chapter thirty-nine

  The Biggest Fucking Shark

  “This isn’t going to be fun. Get that in your fucking head right now. You think things are bad now? Well, let me tell you, they get about a million times fucking worse. You have to know that moving forward. So, you’re probably asking yourself, What is it that I can do for you? Fair question. Here’s the answer. I can make it so when the dust settles, when the smoke clears, you’re sitting as pretty as you can be after something like this. I can make it so your life is less miserable than it would be otherwise. And, most of all, I can give you the best possible foot to stand on once it’s all said and done. And most other guys who do what I do won’t tell you this shit. They’ll tell you they’ll get through this with you. They’ll be your friend in all of this. They’ll share the knowledge they have
from doing this shit hundreds of times with you. Fuck that. I’m not your friend. I’m not your shoulder to cry on. And frankly, if I can be frank, I don’t care what kind of emotional toll this takes on you. Because you’re not paying me to be your pal. In fact, you’re not paying me to be anything. You’re paying me because I already happen to be what you need: a fucking shark. I’m the biggest fucking shark in the deepest part of this cesspool of an ocean we’re all swimming in. Sure, there are other sharks. But they’re small. They’re weak. Maybe they’ll take one of her arms or a leg or a chunk out of her ass. Not me. I’ll eat that bitch whole and spit out the bones. Then I’ll eat the fucking bones. And I know you’re probably sitting here saying to yourself, ‘This guy just referred to my lovely wife as a bitch.’ That’s right. She can be whatever you need her to be to you, but to me, she’s a bitch, and I need to tear her apart. Because, like I said, when the dust settles and it’s a year from now, do you want to be living in a studio apartment in the Noho Arts District? Or do you want to be living in a house in a nice suburb, maybe even the house she’s currently kicked you out of? This is California, my friend. She gets half of everything right out of the gate because you failed to secure a prenup. Most other guys just try to minimize the damage and convince their clients to get it done as quickly and quietly as possible. That’s a fucking mistake. I will fight and scratch for every fucking dime I can get, and I won’t play nice. I’ll hit this bitch where it hurts. You have dogs? I’ll take a full week bargaining the custody of the dogs, until she’s so tied up thinking about whether she’s ever going to see Fido again that she just signs the cars over to you without a second thought. You got kids? I’ll twist her little pea brain so tightly around the idea that maybe you’ll get custody and she’ll wind up with nothing but weekend visitation that she won’t even understand what the hell’s happening when she signs the house over to you. Play the emotional property against the financial property—shit works like a fucking charm every time. Most guys don’t have the balls to do it. They don’t have the balls because they’re pussies and pussies don’t have balls, my friend.”

  I say, “Well, thanks. It sounds like you’re very capable and everything.”

  He says, “Understatement, but yes, I am.”

  I say, “Anyway, like I said, I’m still talking to a few more people—”

  He says, “You have to. Even I recommend seeing what’s out there. Get that peace of mind.”

  I say, “Right. So I’ll let you know within the next day or two.”

  He stands up and shakes my hand and says, “In the end, it’s obviously your choice who you want to go with on this thing. But make no mistake, I am the biggest fucking shark you’ll meet in these waters. And when you have the biggest shark on your side, the other fish can’t fuck with you.”

  I say, “That’s very reassuring. Thanks again.”

  He says, “My pleasure,” and I leave his office wondering if he has that entire speech memorized or if it’s slightly different every time he delivers it.

  chapter forty

  Kid’s Birthday Party

  The entire time Holly and I eat dinner at Villa Piacere, she sits there checking Facebook to see who’s going to be at her friend’s birthday party. She looks up maybe twice, but she never stops talking. She says, “I thought this party was going to suck, but Joel Revoredo is going and it looks like he’s bringing Anthony Iannucelli. They’re fun. And Tim Lavalley is going. Oh wait, though, I think he quit drinking. Lame. Whatever. Ooh, Josh Thorpe. This actually looks like it might be pretty fun.” I notice that all the names Holly mentions are guys.

  As I get the bill, I say, “Seems that way.”

  She says, “Don’t be a dick.”

  I say, “I’m not. I can’t wait to meet all your friends.”

  She says, “You’ll like them, I bet.”

  There is no way on this planet that I could possibly like them unless their parents just gave them guy’s names but they’re all actually chicks who look like Holly and have the same desire to fuck me in the same filthy manner. I’ve been curious about what her parents said about me since we ran into them in the mall. I say, “Hey, what did your parents say about meeting me?”

  She says, “We didn’t talk about it.”

  I assume this is a lie, but maybe not. Maybe they have the kind of relationship where the parents don’t ask too many questions and she doesn’t volunteer too much information. I say, “Okay. Just curious.”

  She says, “Oh, and Phil Dimp is going. This should be pretty fun. You ready to go?”

  I say, “Just need to get my credit card back.”

  On the way to the party I listen as she keeps thinking of people who are going and reading me comments they’re all making about the party. The most interesting of these is offered by a guy named Dan Carmine. Dan’s comment reads, “Somebody better suck my fucking dick this time. I got snubbed at your birthday party last year. Hahaha.”

  Although Holly assures me this is a joke, I imagine a party full of twenty-year-old girls sucking random guys’ dicks in every room. I had no such parties when I was twenty.

  We pull up to the house, which is unmistakable because it’s the only house on the street with a dozen or so drunken, screaming kids in the front yard. I fully expect to run into another set of parents who are closer in age to me than to the kids at the party. I say, “Are this girl’s parents home?”

  Holly says, “No. They’re out of town.”

  I say, “Oh,” and we get out of the car and head in.

  Once inside, it’s clear I’m the oldest person at the party by a solid twelve to fifteen years. I get a few stares from guys and girls. The girls are trying to figure out why I’m there and the guys are sizing me up. I put a hand on Holly’s lower back to establish that I’m with her, and this seems to allay some of the concerns these kids appear to have about my presence.

  Holly runs into some kid she knows and says, “Where’s Katrina?”

  The kid says, “Out back, I think. Smoking.”

  Holly says, “Cool,” and we make our way through the kitchen to the backyard where another dozen or so kids are huddled around a keg smoking weed out of a pipe. Holly spots Katrina and makes a beeline for her, saying, “Katrina! Happy b-day! You did it!” I follow her to the group and wait to be introduced, but that never comes, because Holly and Katrina are too busy hugging one another and saying how much they’ve missed one another since the last time they hung out a month ago. I introduce myself to Katrina and say, “Thanks for having me out to your party. Happy birthday. Great house, by the way.”

  She says, “I guess. It’s the one I grew up in. Thanks for coming, though. You smoke?”

  I wonder what the mortgage is as Katrina offers me the pipe. I say, “Sure,” take the pipe and look forward to feeling a little less uneasy in this strange party, which I know I’m far too old to be attending. I inhale as deeply as possible and launch into a coughing fit. A guy standing to my right pats me on the back and says, “You all right, man?”

  I manage to cough out, “Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

  Another guy taps me a beer from the keg and says, “Here, dude.”

  I take a sip and start to feel the weed kicking in. The party immediately begins to feel more fun. I look at Holly. She’s whispering something to Katrina. I lean in to her ear and say exactly what I’m thinking: “You’re fucking beautiful.” I kiss her on the cheek. She laughs and says, “I’m going to go inside for a second. You cool out here?”

  I feel like I am. I feel like these people, these kids, are my friends. I say, “Yeah, I’ll be out here.”

  She heads inside and I introduce myself to everyone standing around the keg. They’re all fellow CSUN students or friends of friends of CSUN students. Some of them know Holly, some don’t. They ask me how I met Holly and I tell them. One of the guys who introduced himself to me as Zip says, “Fucking pi
mp, bro. I hope when I’m an old dude I can pull a piece of ass that hot.” I take this as a compliment.

  Zip and I discuss various things with input from some of the others, such as the nature of reality, the possibility of a microchip being implanted in your brain that will give you the ability to achieve instantaneous orgasm, and what is the strangest kind of pornography that each of us has seen. I perceive this conversation to have taken place over the course of at least an hour. I look at my phone and see that only fifteen minutes have passed since Holly and I got out of my car when we pulled up to the party.

  A girl standing around the keg named Jill or Joan says, “So, you and Holly are cool together.” This is not a question. It’s some kind of strange approval, or at least that’s how I’m hearing it.

  I say, “Thanks.”

  She says, “Thanks,” in the exact same inflection I did. I can’t tell if my confusion is from me being high or from her being high. It doesn’t matter. Jill or Joan says, “So, this might be like too depressing or offensive or something, but I’m going to ask it anyway.”

  I say, “Okay.”

  She says, “What’s the worst thing about being old?”

  I’m not offended in the least by this question. Maybe because I’m high, I approach the answer with the most earnest evaluation I can muster. I say, “You really want to know?”

  Everyone around the keg has turned their attention toward me, toward the next words that I will speak, toward the prophecy about to be delivered by the wise old sage who’s wandered into their celebration of youth. I say, “Realizing your potential is gone—that’s pretty bad. But the worst thing is being okay with that. At some point you’re going to wake up and you’ll have a job that you don’t like, but it won’t be like other jobs you’ve had that you don’t like. You can’t quit this one and move on to another one, because now you’re married and you have kids and you have bills. And you’ll tell yourself that it’s just temporary, that even though you’re married with kids you still have time to get around to doing whatever it is that you wanted to do when you were young. But then the job stops sucking as much, and not because it gets better, but because you just stop caring. You get used to the routine. You give in. You realize that your life will never get better and you tell yourself that what you ended up with isn’t so bad. It’s not good, but it’s not bad. This is it. This is what it’s going to be until you can retire. And maybe you’ll get to go on a cruise or something once the kids leave the house, but whatever you thought you’d be doing when you were young . . . you realize one day that you’ll never do that thing, and then you eventually become okay with that. That’s the worst thing about being old.”