How to Avoid Sex (21 page)

…

Things were icy that night. She came out of the coma and refused to talk to me. I buttered her up with some jokes about genitals and eventually she emerged from her shell.

“Why didn’t you carry me?” she said.

“You looked a bit heavy.” I replied.

“But you’ve never carried me.”

“I wasn’t aware this was an issue.”

“I didn’t think it was. And then I nearly drowned.”

“You did drown. Drowning doesn’t have to result in death.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what’s the point?”

“You never carry me.”

She rolled over, avoiding me for the rest of the night. There’s something about being ignored that compels one to ponder. She was right. Never in my life had I carried my wife anywhere. Not to bed, not across the threshold of our first home, not out of the McKinley fire and not across the puddle that nearly killed her. Was it the duty of a man to physically carry his woman? Was it the desire of the woman to be carried by her man? Inadequacy reverberated within me. I’d never questioned my masculinity before this day. What kind of man was I to have never carried his wife? A masculine instinct took over my body, suppressing all logic.

I approached my wife, who was sleeping like a dead manatee in the hospital bed. I scooped my arms beneath her and picked her up. She’s not a skinny woman and her weight was a difficult thing for my arms to comprehend. IVs and catheter tubes snapped free as I moved her away from the bed. Having become disconnected, the heart monitor she was attached to barked like a digital dog. Nurses wafted into the room like a silent fart. With my wife awkwardly cradled in my arms, I turned to face them.

“I’m awfully sorry,” I said. “This is something I simply must do. I’d appreciate it if you moved aside.”

The nurses talked amongst themselves for a while like bad turkey impersonations. They chose a representative who said, “Please leave. You strike us as a good man.”

I nodded my sincere thanks and began slowly walking toward the hospital exit, carrying my wife proudly. Doctors, nurses and patients formed a guard of honour up and down the hospital corridors and slowly clapped in appreciation as we left. All I could think, as the outside air pissed all over us, was
I’m doing the right thing.

…

My wife awoke about 30 minutes into my aimless walk. She stared at me with the blank expression of a politician. I smiled down at her, flashing all five of my teeth.

“Your dreams come true today, my sweet,” I said in a whisper.

As the situation began dawning on her, she kicked her legs and whimpered. This made it difficult to keep my grip firm, but I persevered.

“What are you doing?” she said.

“Don’t fight it. You were right. A woman deserves to be carried by her man.”

“Put me down,” she screamed.

“Not on your life. I have a lot of making up to do. Are you hungry?”

She didn’t answer me straight away, which was somewhat bothersome as I was growing rather famished. I kept quiet though. This was all about her and I didn’t want to interfere with my petty wants. I endured her escalating screams knowing they couldn’t last forever. With her mouth
open as it was, she’d already swallowed several bats and I knew her threshold was approaching. Eventually she quietened down and said, “yes, I’m hungry.”

It took longer than I’d hoped to arrive at the nearest convenience store. Having another person weigh you down understandably slows your pace. We approached the stark fluorescence of the store and I manoeuvred us inside. Patrons stared at us in awe. A unibrowed child approached us and asked, “Is it okay if I get on too, sir?”

I assessed the situation. He was a small lad, so I didn’t assume his added weight would affect us too much. “I’m quite alright with it. However, I must seek the permission of a guardian. I wouldn’t want anyone to think I’d kidnapped you.”

“DAAAAAADDDDDD!” the child yelled.

From within a freezer emerged a charming looking sort. His hair was brilled back and his jaundiced complexion shimmered in the bright light. “Are you this scamp’s guardian?” I asked.

“I most certainly am,” he replied.

“Your boy – he’d like to join my wife and I. Would you object to this?”

He stared at his son with folded arms. His son stared back in anticipation.

“If you think you can handle the extra load, I’m more than happy with the proposal.”

The child jumped about. Liquid excitement seeped through the crotch of his pants.

“Are you sure about this?” asked my wife.

“Quite sure. Hop aboard, my good man.”

He mounted my wife like playground apparatus. The sudden increase in weight came close to toppling us. After a brief adjustment, we were ready.

“Some food please,” I called to the shopkeep.

Within seconds he handed over a large flask of gravy, which the three us took turns suckling upon. Although my arms ached like broken hearts, I felt full of life.

…

We had been travelling around for quite some time. A sizeable procession of individuals now followed us and news helicopters hovered overhead. My wife was largely silent and the child sat atop her like a throned king. He made up for her seeming lack of enthusiasm.

“There’s just one thing I’d like to know,” she eventually said.

“What’s that, my sweet?”

“Are you ever going to put me down?”

I had no immediate answer. I simply hadn’t planned that far ahead. I was involved in what was perhaps my first grandiose gesture. I hadn’t yet developed a blueprint.

“I’m really not sure,” I said honestly.

She breathed deeply. “In that case, I have one request.”

“Of course dear. Anything you desire. I want this day to be as perfect as possible.”

“I want the cat.”

This didn’t come as a surprise. The cat and she had been partners in crime ever since she gave birth to it as a dare. The added weight would be miniscule. If the child was willing to keep the cat under control, I saw no issue with it. I turned toward home and began my slow, stumbling walk. The growing crowds and helicopters re-oriented themselves and continued to follow. A reporter riding a penny-farthing slowed down beside us. He retrieved a microphone and jutted it toward me.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Popping back home to pick up the cat,” I replied.

“And this cat – is a good one?”

“You’d have to ask my wife,” I said with a chuckle.

The reporter repositioned the microphone and repeated the question to my wife. She didn’t respond.

“She’s a little overwhelmed by the enormity of my gesture,” I said.

As these words left my mouth, the crowds cheered and the helicopters flashed their spotlights like a disabled disco. The reporter cycled away, pumping his fists and yelling, “What a scoop!”

…

The trip home took just under two days. I was happy to arrive. We all needed to utilise the toilet and the mailman needed coaxing out of the roof guttering. I was terribly sore. My arm muscles were starting to entropy and drizzle through the pores of my skin. I was counting on the existence of some
soothing balm in our medicine cabinet. I kicked wildly at the front door, splintering it apart. I had to use my wife’s legs to free up enough space for us all to get inside.

The cat cottoned on to our arrival instantly and leapt toward my legs. I felt its claws hook into me and scrape away small strips of flesh. I hollered toward the ceiling, nearly falling down. I had to shake my leg ferociously before the cat flew off in a furry blur and collided in a distressing smear against the wall.

“You bastard,” said my wife. “I think you’ve killed it.”

“What would you have me do, my dear? It latched onto my leg.”

“You could have put me and this strange child down and removed the cat with your hands.”

I laughed sprays of saliva into her face. “Not a chance!” We both know I’m not putting you down. What kind of man would that make me? Now, who needs to use the toilet?”

The child raised his hand. I made my way into the bathroom. The immediate dilemma was a logistical one. How was I to angle my wife’s body in such a way as to avoid becoming drenched in her urine? I had no answer. I just angled her downward and asked her to lift her hospital gown. Her initial refusal was usurped by her plump bladder. I closed my eyes and hoped for the best. I would have crossed my fingers also, but they weren’t moving any more.

Not a drop of urine landed in the toilet. Instead it wept from my arm and soaked into all three of us. We participated in a combined, slightly disgusted wince. It was the child’s turn next. He was a trooper. He grasped his equipment and took aim. It all went in the bowl. I was rather relieved. Its one thing to have your wife’s urine coating your body, but quite another if it originates from a random child. It was my turn next. I wished that my grasp of hindsight had prompted me to ask an individual from the crowd to lend assistance. As it was, the three of us were alone. Without a zipper assistant, I wet myself embarrassingly.

“Quite unpleasant this,” I said.

Ashamed yet relieved, we emerged from our house. The crowd had grown ten-fold and as we emerged, a deafening roar lured blood from everyone’s eardrums. Thousands of people collapsed to the ground in pain, downed by their own powers of ovation. The tinnitus whistled in my ears like an overeager shepherd. The only benefit, as far as I could ascertain, was that the gutter-dwelling mailman
fell from the roof, impaling himself on a passing vole as he landed. Traversing the writhing bodies as I limped away wasn’t easy, but I persevered.

…

As the days stretched by, my wife grew despondent and the child grew gaunt. These were hard, ethically confronting times. My arms were now nothing more than skin-wrapped bone. They had solidified into place. The ghost of the vole-felled mailman sat on my shoulders, adding an esoteric weight that was more taxing on my mind than my body. He spent most of his time mimicking my voice and yelling sexually suggestive insults at people. I was slapped by numerous offended ladies and the occasional beat poet. I shrugged this off as unavoidable.

Crowds continued to gather and follow and the media never lost interest. A telegram, delivered by a ball of meerkats, kindly informed me that I’d been nominated for a civically minded award. The reason for my nomination was ambiguous but I gladly accepted it on behalf of my wife.

“Look dear,” I said. “We’re really making a difference.”

She managed a half-smile, which I wasn’t expecting and coughed a spray of black vomit into my face. “Thank you, love,” she said quietly.

“How are you doing, sport?” I said to the child, just in time to catch a centipede scurry from his left nostril.

“I think he needs a hospital,” said my wife.

“Has that thing always been inside your face?” I asked the child.

Rather than providing an adequate response, his eyeballs merely rolled back.

“I think it’s a new arrival,” coughed my wife.

“How rude! I didn’t allow it on board. Filthy little stowaway!”

“Please, dear. Take us to the hospital.”

“It’s hundreds of metres away. It will take hours to get there, encumbered as I am.”

“Will it?” interjected a synchronous duo of lumberjacks from the nearby crowd.

Without thought, they approached me in tandem stride and lifted the three of us aloft. My legs purred with relief.

“Who are you kind gentlemen?” I asked.

“All we’ve ever been are lumberjacks, sir,” they both said as they marched us to the hospital.

…

It was the same hospital my wife had been in days earlier, after the puddle incident. Although I didn’t know where I had intended to go with my wife, it felt shameful to have arrived at the beginning again. I had hoped for some forward momentum.

“Life is cyclical,” said the child before a team of concerned looking doctors retrieved him.

The lumberjacks put me down gently - however, the brief break afforded to my legs had made them lazy. I collapsed instantly. My wife rolled out of my arms and bounced along the corridor like a beach ball. War paint-smeared doctors chased after her with butterfly nets and spear-length scalpels. My rigid arms jutted upward, unable to move. They looked like beef jerky and made cooing sounds.

A short while later, the doctors returned with my wife safely captured. Her wide eyes stared at me in horror through the butterfly net.

“Are you proud of me?” I yelled to her.

“Not really,” she called back, before disappearing into the bowels of the hospital.

“Ungrateful bitch!” I screamed, hoping she could hear me.

Some children dressed in hospital scrubs encircled me.

“How are you, sir?” asked one.

“I’m not sure,” I said. “I guess I’m a little confused.”

“Confused about what?” asked another.

“The whole shebang really. I really do love my wife, don’t get me wrong. It’s just that sometimes it can all be… rather precarious. I think I’m in trouble.”