The Average American Marriage Page 19

  The simple answer to that question would be yes, but I say, “I wanted a connection, I guess. You know, just to feel like you gave a shit about it.”

  She says, “But we have a connection. You bought me a MacBook.”

  I say, “No, we don’t. I don’t think we ever really did.”

  She sucks up her tears and says, “Okay. Bye, I guess.”

  I say, “Bye,” and she walks out of my office.

  some chapter

  Getting Legal

  Before my lunch break, I Google “marijuana doctors” and find one a few miles from the office. Dr. Kenneth Ridgemont III. I call his office and a girl answers. I’m not sure what to say. I say, “Hi, I was wondering, do I need to make an appointment, or how exactly does this work?”

  The girl says, “No appointment necessary. Just come in anytime you want. The examination will take about fifteen minutes.”

  I say, “Okay, thanks.”

  I head over to a nondescript two-story office building on my lunch break and make my way to suite 206, which has no placard outside indicating that it’s a doctor’s office, just a plain door marked 206. There is no doorbell, so I knock and hear the same girl’s voice that answered the phone. She says, “Door’s open.”

  I walk into a small room about the size of my own office. The girl I talked to sits behind a desk. She’s pretty clearly high out of her mind. She says, “Hi,” then hands me a clipboard with one sheet of paper attached to it and says, “Fill this out and the doctor will see you shortly.”

  The form asks for my name, driver’s-license number, phone number—no address—and my symptoms. I have no idea what to write, but I figure I’ll have to make whatever symptoms I list believable; I might even have to do a little acting. I write “back pain” and “insomnia.” These shouldn’t be too hard to fake.

  I give the form back to the girl behind the desk and she says, “Great. The doctor is ready for you now.”

  A door behind her desk opens and out steps a guy wearing jeans and a T-shirt under a doctor’s white coat. He says, “Hello. Please follow me to the examination room,” like he’s a robot. I’m assuming he’s following some carefully scripted protocol, quite possibly a routine that’s required by law for this man to maintain whatever barely legal medical license he has. I follow him into the so-called examination room, half-thinking I’m going to get clubbed in the fucking head and wake up in a gutter with my wallet missing.

  I sit down in a regular chair in the examination room. There is no examination table. In fact, there are no items in the entire room giving even the vague impression that this is a medical office at all. There are a few shelves with office supplies, like toner and reams of paper, but no cotton balls, no bottles of hydrogen peroxide or rubbing alcohol, no charts of the human ear. The only thing remotely medical is a stethoscope hanging around the good doctor’s neck. It looks like he got it out of a doctor play-set from Toys R Us.

  He reads over the form I filled out. I’m expecting him to ask me questions, to verify that I am, in fact, in need of medicinal marijuana. Instead he says, “Okay, everything looks good here. Now I’m going to perform the physical examination,” and I’m ready for the clubbing.

  He bends down, takes one of my legs by the ankle, and extends it outward until my leg is straight. He says, “Great,” and puts my leg back down on the ground. He then puts two fingers on my sternum, gently taps it, and says, “Perfect.” Then he says, “Turn your head please.” Here comes the clubbing. I turn my head and he puts the fake stethoscope on my Adam’s apple and says, “Exactly.”

  Then the doctor whips out the form I filled out, signs his name on it, and says, “I’m going to prescribe you medicinal cannabis. Cannabis is most effective and least harmful to your body if ingested in the form of an edible, or if inhaled after being vaporized. Please take this to my receptionist and you’re all set.”

  The doctor leaves the room. I hand the form to the receptionist. She charges me forty dollars and I walk out with a signed and notarized document that allows me to purchase marijuana legally at one of hundreds of stores that sell it in Los Angeles.

  chapter forty-two

  Mea Culpa

  I call Alyna. She says, “Do you have those papers signed?”

  I say, “No.”

  She says, “Well fucking sign them, please, so we can just get this all over with.”

  I say, “Can we get dinner or something? I want to just talk about things before we actually go through with this.”

  She says, “We tried that. Remember?”

  I say, “I know. But it’s different now.”

  She says, “You’re fucking right it’s different now. I want a divorce now.”

  I say, “I’m sorry. I just want you to know that I’m sorry for all of this.”

  She says, “Great. Sign the papers,” and hangs up on me. I realize this is going to take a much stronger approach than I had initially anticipated, so I get in my car and drive from the Marriott to the house, to my house, to our house.

  I ring the doorbell and Alyna answers. She’s surprised. She says, “Now’s not a real good time.”

  I say, “Why? Do you have company?”

  She says, “Yes.”

  I say, “Who?”

  My question is answered by the company in question when I hear the lawyer I went to see, who claimed to be the biggest fucking shark in the ocean, say from my own fucking living room, “Alyna, I don’t actually recommend talking to your spouse right now, from a legal standpoint.”

  I push past Alyna and walk in to see this motherfucker sitting in my living room. I say, “I met with you. How can you be my wife’s attorney, too?”

  He says, “No law against it. And you didn’t hire me anyway, remember? So . . . sorry, pal, you got the biggest shark sitting on your couch. Soon to be your wife’s couch.”

  I say, “Get out.”

  He says, “Alyna, do you want me to leave?”

  I say, “This is legally my fucking house. Get out.”

  He says, “Understood,” and tries to give me his card as he moves to the door. Before he leaves, he looks at Alyna and says, “Get him out of here as soon as you can.”

  Once he’s gone I say, “Are you and him . . . ?”

  She rolls her eyes and says, “Be fucking serious.”

  I notice Andy and Jane are gone. I say, “Where are the kids?”

  She says, “Isabelle took them for a few hours so I could meet with my lawyer.”

  I say, “That guy is such a sleazy piece of shit. I can’t believe you picked him.”

  She says, “He was pretty highly recommended by one of my . . . Look, what the hell are you doing here?”

  I sit down on the couch and say, “I don’t know how else to say what I need to say except that I’m sorry, Alyna. I’m sorry for everything I’ve put you through, for everything I’ve put the kids through, and it’s over. And I want to do the right thing.”

  She says, “You know, there was a time when I was willing to forgive it all—in the very beginning. I was even willing to take some responsibility in it. But when I gave you the chance, you just—you didn’t do anything. It was like you needed time to make a fucking decision about what was more valuable to you, our family or some twenty-year-old slut.”

  For a brief second I actually think about being honest with Alyna, with the mother of my children, with the woman I cheated on. I think about trying to explain to her what it’s like to be a guy whose main sexual outlet is jerking off to porn every night after his wife falls asleep. I think about trying to explain to her what it’s like to fuck a girl like Holly, a girl who is hotter and better at fucking than any girl I’ve ever met, including Alyna. I think about trying to explain to her that I had to fuck her, that I didn’t want to end up like Todd’s dad on his deathbed wondering what it might have been like. I think
about trying to explain to her that, even if she forgives me and I move back in, I’ll still be thinking about fucking every other girl I see. And I think about telling her that I might even cheat on her again, because now that I know how incredible fucking someone else can be, I honestly don’t know if I’ll be able to stop myself if the opportunity arises. I think about trying to explain what it’s like to be a man in his mid-thirties who is married to a woman who has clearly lost interest in fucking him. I say, “It will never happen again. I love our family. I love you and I just wanted to come over here tonight to have the chance to tell you that in person. I want to make this right. I want us to be okay again, if we can be.”

  She says, “Were we okay, though? I mean, why did this happen in the first place?”

  I say, “We were okay. I just fucked up. People fuck up. And I really am sorry.”

  She says, “We weren’t okay. And I feel like the problems we had could have been fixed with time. But now . . . how can I even think about any of that sex stuff Roland was talking about before? If our problems had us teetering on the edge of a cliff before, all of this seems like it might have pushed us over the edge, you know?”

  I say, “I think we can do this. And I think that, if we don’t at least give it a try, at least really make an effort to repair this, we’ll always wonder if we should have.” This gets to her. This makes sense to her. I say, “I know now that what I did was terrible, and I’ve learned from it. I really have.”

  She says, “What did you learn?”

  I realize I was just saying words I thought she wanted to hear. I didn’t know she was going to quiz me on it so quickly. But I still manage to conjure up a response: “I’ve learned what’s most important to me—you and the kids. Us. This life we’ve built is the most important thing that I’ll ever know, and I can’t just let it slip away. I think, I hope, that you can’t either.”

  We talk for another hour or so. The conversation involves a lot of me apologizing and trying to remind Alyna of the good times we had before I cheated on her. She seems receptive, or at least that’s what I infer from the fact that she’s allowing me to stay and talk. She keeps repeating “I don’t know” after most of my attempts at apology or reconciliation. I attempt to appeal to her sense of duty as a mother by mentioning that I don’t want the kids to have to go through life without a father, a real father, around. This seems to get the best reaction out of her, or at least the closest reaction to forgiveness that I can detect. I hope that she’ll come sit next to me on the couch, but she never does. She just stands by the kitchen counter, leaning against it, sometimes picking up her car keys and mindlessly staring at them as I talk. Occasionally she’ll offer something like, “Even if we work this out, things are going to be different—a lot different. Will you be able to handle that? I’m talking about the stuff we talked about at dinner that night.” I assure her that I’m willing to accept all the old demands and any she might want to add to the list.

  Throughout the conversation, I take a quick survey of the living room and see that my Xbox is still plugged into the TV. All of my DVDs and Xbox games are still on the shelf where I kept them. My laptop computer is still sitting on the counter in the kitchen. She never put any of my shit in storage. That must have been a bluff, a move designed to put pressure on me to get rid of Holly. This gives me hope that she never really wanted a divorce in the first place. Near the end of the conversation I say, “I don’t know what it would take, but I’m willing to do anything to go back to the way things were.”

  I think this gets her legitimately teetering. I look over on the coffee table and see a picture of our entire family. We took it at Disneyland about six months ago. I fucking hate Disneyland. It’s even worse when you’re pushing a kid around in a stroller while the other one is sprinting around demanding to ride the fucking teacups two hundred times. That picture reminds me of nothing but one of the most miserable days of my life, but it’s that picture, that image of me holding Jane, who unbeknownst to me had a diaper full of shit at the time, and Andy screaming in a pair of Mickey Mouse ears, and Alyna doing her best fake smile, that breaks me down and I start tearing up.

  Maybe it was because I was too busy fucking Holly, or because I didn’t really know how I wanted it all to resolve, but I’ve never cried through any of this. The real emotional weight of the situation never set in, but sitting there on my couch trying to imagine any scenario in which I am not a father to my children and even, on some level, a husband to Alyna makes my eyes sting and my nasal passages swell a little. Alyna sees what’s going on as I wipe one of my eyes. She says, “Look. I appreciate you coming over here and saying all of this. I really do. But I don’t think anything’s getting figured out tonight. I have to go get the kids. Why don’t you go back to your hotel? Give me some time to think.”

  To some degree I feel like I know how she must have felt when she laid out her demands and wanted an immediate reaction from me that I couldn’t give her. In that moment, I want her to take me back. I want to see my kids tonight. I want to sleep in my own bed again. But I understand. I say, “Okay.”

  She walks me to the door and I don’t try for a hug. She doesn’t offer one, either. I say, “Tell the kids I love them. And I guess I’ll wait to hear from you.”

  She nods. I turn to leave and she says, “Tomorrow.”

  I turn around, expecting her to say that she’ll have some decision on this by tomorrow, but she says, “Tomorrow night I have a parent-teacher evaluation at Andy’s school. Why don’t you come?”

  I say, “Okay. I’ll be there.”

  In my hotel room I watch American Idol and think to myself that Alyna is probably doing the same thing in our living room with Andy and Jane. Before I go to sleep that night, I notice, for the first time since I started fucking Holly, that the gnawing in the pit of my stomach is gone. When I was fucking Holly and Alyna didn’t know, I was constantly worried she’d find out. When I was fucking her and Alyna did know, I was constantly worried that I’d never see my kids again. I close my eyes, and the last thought that goes through my mind before I sleep is a memory of how Jane’s head smelled once when she was lying on my chest and I was watching football in my living room.

  chapter forty-three

  Evaluation

  I meet Alyna in the parking lot of Andy’s school. She says, “Thanks for coming.”

  I say, “There’s no way I would have missed this.”

  She says, “I know, but still, thanks.” The way she says this makes me think that Andy’s teacher has become aware of our separation somehow, that I’m walking into what will amount to a two-woman tag-team kickfest of my ball bag. I hope this is not the case as Alyna and I head into Andy’s school without touching one another.

  Once inside, we head to Andy’s classroom, where Mrs. Banks is waiting for us. She shakes our hands and goes through all the bullshit protocol that’s probably mandated by the school board or maybe even the state. She sits us down, opens a little book with some notes in it, and says, “First of all, I’d like to let you know that Andy is certainly one of the brightest kids in the class.”

  I say, “That’s great.”

  Mrs. Banks says, “Yes, it is. He excels at understanding any concept that I present in class, in a wide range of subjects, and he seems to have a proclivity for the visual arts as well as for music. Twice a week we let the kids get out instruments and form their own bands and put on shows for one another. Andy particularly enjoys this, and he’s taken a liking to the drums. My apologies if he starts requesting a drum set for his next birthday,” then laughs a weird, forced laugh. Alyna smiles. I just keep looking at Mrs. Banks and say, “So this is all great news.”

  Mrs. Banks closes her notebook and says, “That is all great news. But there was one thing I wanted to speak to you about.” Then she stands up and says, “If you’ll follow me over to the art wall, I’d like to show you Andy’s latest creation.”


  We walk over to a wall covered with maybe fifteen or twenty drawings done by four-year-olds. A few of them aren’t bad, but most are shit. Most are just scribbles. Some have barely recognizable impressions of human faces. I zero in on one, though. It’s a skeleton getting shot by a guy with a machine gun. I say, “Wow, this one is really good.”

  Mrs. Banks says, “Yes, that’s Andy’s.”

  Alyna is impressed by it, too. She says, “Wow. I don’t want to insult the other kids but it’s pretty clearly better than the others by, like, a lot.”

  Mrs. Banks says, “Yes. He’s quite talented. He clearly exhibits the ability to create an image that is very representative of the idea he is trying to convey. But it’s the meaning behind the image that concerns me a little bit.”

  I say, “What was the assignment?”

  Mrs. Banks says, “It was to draw something that you think represents happiness.”

  Alyna says, “Oh my god.”

  Mrs. Banks says, “Yes. Some of Andy’s artwork, this most recent piece included, suggests a level of distress that I think we might want to address in this evaluation.”

  Alyna says, “Is he not getting along with the other kids?”

  Mrs. Banks says, “No, it’s nothing like that. He gets along with everyone very well. He’s actually very socially gifted, in addition to his other talents. All the other kids seem to enjoy his company very much.”

  I say, “Then what’s the deal here?”

  Mrs. Banks says, “At this stage, these drawings aren’t really anything to be overly alarmed with. Children will quite often create violent or frightening imagery in an assignment like this if they feel the need to convey to an adult that they’re not feeling all that happy lately. Which is what I wanted to speak to you about. Is everything okay at home?”

  As she asks this question, I’m reminded of a bunch of shitty movies in which a teacher or someone outside the immediate family asks this question with the overt implication that the kid is being abused. The conversation must have conjured the same type of reaction for Alyna, because she beats me to the punch. “Are you asking us if Andy’s getting abused at home?”