Seth Baumgartner's Love Manifesto (18 page)

“L
et's get a move on,” my mother says, racing ahead of me. “The mall closes in half an hour.”

The golf tournament is in two days, and my mother insists I have a new outfit for each of the three days of competition. My standard golf uniform, a navy polo and khaki cargo shorts, would be fine by me, but once Mom gets an idea in her head, it's hard to shake her from it. And her idea tonight is to make me “stand out among all the other guys in the tournament.”

It doesn't matter if you win or lose,
she said to me as she weaved her Lexus through traffic.
It's whether, at the end of the day, people remember who you are.

We've already been to Macy's, J.Crew, Dick's Sporting Goods, and the Gap, and we're still empty-handed. Now we're headed over to Abercrombie, which is the last place I want to be with my mom. Likelihood of being seen by
someone I know: high.

“Let's go, Seth!” She barks at me like she's the drill sergeant and I'm dragging ass on a basic-training march.

I trail behind with my head down and my hands stuffed into my pockets. I stay far enough away that people might not suspect we're together but close enough that she won't spin around and start leading me by the arm.

As I follow her into the store, the pulsing music drowns out the click of my mother's heels on the tile floor. The stench of Fierce punches me in the face so hard my eyes tear up. Why does this place have to pump so much cologne into the air? It's like pollution. We walk past a clerk, his head buried in the racks, and make our way to the tables piled high with polos.

“This orange one is nice,” my mother calls to me, too loud even for the music. She picks up one of the neatly folded shirts. After all the folding I've been doing at the pro shop these past few weeks, I sympathize with the employees here. By the time my mother is done riffling through the inventory, they'll have a few hours of extra work ahead of them. “And the stripes…Doesn't Tiger Woods wear stripes?”

“You're thinking of real tigers,” I say. “Anyhow, who cares what Tiger Woods wears? He cheated on his wife with, like, twenty women.”

Mom shrugs. “Who doesn't these days?”

I glance at my mother but she doesn't look up.
Does she know about my father and what he's been up to? I so want to say something. I so want to say something. I so want to say something!

But all that comes out is, “Tiger Woods wears red. His mother thinks it's his power color.”

My mother slings the orange shirt over her shoulder and starts pawing through the others. “Well, orange is
your
power color. You'll wear this one on Sunday.”

She moves to a table arranged with shorts and grabs a pair of pale pink ones covered in tiny blue embroidered moose.

“No way,” I say.

She holds the shorts at arm's length. “I think they're cute.”

“Maybe I'll wear them with the orange shirt,” I say. “I'll look like a toucan that flew through a wood chipper.”

“Don't be silly,” she says, scoffing. “We could find a neutral shirt to pair them with. Navy or white.”

I lean against one of the clothing racks and shake my head. Clueless as my mother is, I know she means well. “Put the shorts down,” I say to her. “I'd rather play in those ratty old Grinch boxers I have.”

She reluctantly nods and drops the piglet-colored moose shorts on the table. “Why don't you check on what they have in the back of the store? We should divide and conquer.”

My mother doesn't have to say it twice. It's not the conquer part that interests me; it's the dividing. I weave my way through the tables to the rearmost section. More of the same. Clothes stacked high on tables and shelves. Dramatic overhead lighting and loud music. The only difference is the stench of cologne might be stenchier back here. Probably
less ventilation. I feel a headache coming on but decide to wait it out, stay invisible, until my mother wants to leave. I search out the discount rack and sort through the polos.

I'm not sure if I see the hand first or feel the slap across my face.

“What the hell?” Caitlyn growls, her eyes drilling into me.

Anger swells in me, but it's quickly overcome by confusion. My face tingles, stings. It feels sort of prickly. My fingers make their way to my cheek and move across the spot where her hand made contact. It's the first time anyone's ever slapped me, and I'm not quite sure how to react.

“What's the matter?”

“You know damn well what's the matter,” Caitlyn hisses. She pulls her walkie-talkie from her belt and announces to her coworkers that she's on break. I had no idea she worked here. I never even thought to ask if she had a job. “That podcast of yours?” she goes on. “
The Love Manifesto
? I listened to the whole thing—every episode from the beginning. Sure, you altered your voice, kicked up the bass, threw in some echo, but I can tell it's you. You make me sound like, like…What did I ever do to you?”

My mind scrambles to figure out how Caitlyn might have found my show, who might have told her. Then my mind scrambles to remember exactly what I said about her in my podcasts. Something in my chest plunges into my belly. I said I'd rather shove ice picks in my ears than hear her talk about club music. I said her perfect boyfriend
would have an earbud jack in his head and a USB port in his ass. At the time I thought it was funny, but now that I look back I know I deserved the slap.

“
I'm
boring?” she says, advancing on me. “Why don't you take a good long look at yourself, Seth Baumgartner? Do you have any idea how boring you are? You barely even talk. Hanging out with you is like work. Hell, it's worse than work.”

“Who told you about my podcast?” I say.

Caitlyn plants her fists on her hips. “Now you think I'm too dumb to find your stupid show on my own? I have a brain, you know. You just never took the time to figure that out. You were too busy staring at my tits.”

Of course, her mentioning her chest and gesturing toward it—along with all the angry bouncing she's doing—causes my gaze to drop. She slaps me again.

“Jeez, Caitlyn, I—”

“You nothing,” she says. “You messed with the wrong girl. If I ever catch your lame, pencil-dick, womanizing ass anywhere near me again, I'll make sure you aren't just rebounding from your last girlfriend; I'll make sure your face is rebounding off the sidewalk.”

I want to make things right with Caitlyn—to apologize—but every time I try to say anything, she jumps in and tears me into smaller pieces. I want to tell her it's only a podcasting personality, that none of it is real. I want to tell her how I exaggerate everything, play things up for the drama of it.

“Caitlyn, let me explain.”

“Don't even say my name, you pathetic player wannabe. You make me want to puke.” She pokes me in the chest with a stiff finger. “You talk about anonymity on the podcast, but it was clear to everyone who you were talking about.”

“You're right,” I say.

“Damn straight, I'm right!”

“What's going on over here?” A woman wearing a black sleeveless turtleneck and tight jeans is standing on the opposite side of the table from us. She's wearing a lanyard around her neck that holds a bunch of keys and a name tag that says Y
VONNE
: S
TORE
M
ANAGER
. “Is there a problem, Caitlyn?”

“No problem,” she says. “Just taking care of a little business. I'll be done in a minute.”

“You'll be done now. Like, right now.” She leans over the table toward Caitlyn so she doesn't have to raise her voice over the music. “The only business you should be doing when you're here is A&F business. Take care of your personal affairs on your own time.”

“I'm on break,” she says.

“You're still wearing your lanyard. You're still in the store.”

Caitlyn folds her arms and nods.

“Seth? Is everything okay?” My mother comes up alongside me, one arm loaded with shirts and shorts. Her free hand runs up my back to my shoulder.

Caitlyn's eyes alternate between me, my mother, and Yvonne. She goes back and forth a few times as though she is weighing her options. One side of her face curls up into
a devious smile and she extends her hand to shake. “You must be Seth's mother,” she says cheerily. “It's so nice to meet you.”

My mother awkwardly shifts the clothes to her other arm and shakes Caitlyn's hand. “Why, thank you,” she says. “Are you one of Seth's friends from school?”

Caitlyn lets her hang for a few seconds too long—until I jump in.

“Did you find any good shirts up front, Mom?”

Caitlyn nudges me aside with her hip and faces my mom. “Have I got something to tell you, Mrs. Baumgartner. I was listening to Seth's podcast the other day. Have you listened to it? It's really funny….” Caitlyn seems to be enjoying herself, relishing every moment.

I glance at my mother's face. She's smiling, expecting to hear something nice about her precious son. The fact that it's about podcasting, something I do because of her, swells her up even more. Little does she know the bomb that's about to drop.

I step in. “Caitlyn, I don't think—”

She spins on me. “That's right, Seth. You
don't
think.” She turns back to my mother and goes on. “Seth was podcasting the other day, and he was talking about—”

That's when instinct takes over. I grab Caitlyn by a shoulder, scoop her head in my hands, and kiss her. I kiss her long and hard. I don't want to come up for air.

“Oh!” my mother gasps. She steps back, unsure of how to react.

I want to keep kissing Caitlyn—to keep her lips locked—
until my mother is ushered from the store at closing time and they drop those metal gates. I want to keep kissing her until there is enough space between Caitlyn and my mom that her angry words won't destroy my family.

The knee to the balls cuts things short.

If the slap was a tingle, this is a full-on electrocution. For an instant, my vision goes white and my bottom half short-circuits. I crumple to the floor. Then the slow locomotive of pain starts rumbling through my pelvis. I always thought getting nutmegged would feel like a speed bag getting punched by a boxer—something external with lots of rattling around of the chandelier—but the pain of Caitlyn's knee strikes deeper. It weaves somewhere deep between my hips, around my spine, and then takes hold of my whole body from my chest to my knees. Heat flashes through me, then come the chills. I curl into a fetal position, but it does no good.

From under the table, I hear Yvonne bellow the words at Caitlyn that have become so familiar to me: “You're fired!” she yells. “Get the hell out of here!”

“You should have raised your son to be a gentleman!” Caitlyn yells at my mother.

“Get out!” Yvonne booms.

The last thing I see before my eyes clench shut are Caitlyn's feet weaving between the tables toward the front of the store.

Intro Music: “Addicted” by Saving Abel

This is going to sound weird, but does it seem like I'm always nursing a wound when I do this podcast? A few weeks back I had those scratches across my shoulder. Now I have an icepack on my crotch.

All I can say is if having a baby is one-tenth as bad as getting kicked in the cashews, I vote for mandatory epidurals for every pregnant woman. Mandatory. Shouldn't even be an option.

Does anyone out there find that no matter how much you want to hold things together, sometimes they just seem to fall apart? Almost like the more you try, the worse things unravel? Well, how come my summer seems to be turning out that way?

I start off getting dumped by my girlfriend and seeing
my father out to lunch with his mistress. I get fired from my job and end up with a snoozefest of a position working for a guy who thinks it's more important to make money than it is to serve the customer. Then, my best friend in the world decides to freak out and hate me.

I've been podcasting about things in my life, trying to figure out what love is all about. Sure, I've been cynical about everything, but who wouldn't be, after the cascade of crap that's come down on me? This is my parents' marriage we're talking about. They've been together for nearly twenty years, and I know something that could wreck it all. Do any of you out there know what that feels like? Well, let me tell you…it sucks big-time.

And when it's all said and done, how much closer am I to figuring out anything about love?

I have no clue….

I've got to get some sleep. I have that big golf tournament coming up, so I need to practice before work. I'm guessing my natural swing will be severely hampered by bruised balls. So, later, gators. Oh, and you know the routine. Feel free to leave me a voice mail or send me an email. Tell your friends about the program. All that stuff. I'm out of here.

Outro Music: “Rehab” by Rihanna

V
eronica's fingers comb through Mr. Peepers's short fur. He rolls onto his back and stretches out. Tiny grunts escape the little traitor's throat. “Don't you think Mr. Peepers is a weird name for a Chihuahua?” she asks me.

“I think calling anything that small
mister
is weird.”

Veronica goes back to scratching Mr. Peepers's belly. Her hand on my dog seems foul. I don't want Veronica bonding with the family pet. I want to scoop him away and kick Veronica out. After freaking out on her on the front porch two weeks ago, I didn't expect to see her anywhere near my house ever again, let alone sitting on the floor of the TV room.

But here she is. She showed up all hugs and smiles. My mother ushered her inside before I had a chance to protest, even before coming to get me.

“I can't believe the tournament is tomorrow,” Veronica says.

Small talk.

“I know,” I say.

“Been practicing much?” Mr. Peepers shifts to his other side. Veronica scratches him faster and his leg starts pumping.

“Not as much as I should.”

“Seth,” my mother calls from the kitchen, “can you let little Peepy out? He probably has to go wee-wee. It's been a few hours.”

“In a minute,” I call back.

“Please do it now,” she says, this time more firmly.

Little Peepy?
Veronica mouths.

I shrug.

Veronica lifts up Mr. Peepers like he's an infant and kisses him on the nose. “Oh, let the poor guy out. His bladder's probably smaller than a grape.”

I plod across the family room and heave open the sliding door. When I drop back onto the sofa, Veronica still has Mr. Peepers cradled in her arms. Strangely, she's sitting a few feet closer to my spot on the couch.

“What's the weather supposed to be like tomorrow?” she says.

More small talk. Weather—the worst kind.

I want to tell her that it's supposed to be hot, like, fire-and-brimstone hot, that Mr. Mackie, the oldest living club member, is probably going to keel over from the heat, but small talk only goes so far when your ex-girlfriend
who cheated on you and then dumped you in the middle of Applebee's shows up unannounced and is sitting in the middle of your family room petting the family dog.

“Why did you come here, Veronica?”

“I don't know. I just wanted to wish you luck, to see what's going on. It's been a few weeks and—”

“Stop,” I say.

She stops.

“We both know you didn't come down here to check on the weather. And I've known you long enough that I can tell when you're lying.”

“No, you can't.”

“Sure, I can,” I say. “You lower your head and look at me through your hair with your eyes turned upward.”

Veronica brushes her hair aside. She glances toward the kitchen, where my mother is drinking her coffee over the newspaper. It's through a door and around a corner, so there is no line of sight. Veronica slides even closer. “I've been thinking about it for the past few weeks,” she says softly. She sets Mr. Peepers down, and he waddles off toward the kitchen, his nails
scritch, scritch, scritch
ing on the hardwood. As he passes the open sliding door he peers out into the sunshine. He growls someplace deep in his chest for a few seconds, then continues into the kitchen. “I think maybe we should get back together,” Veronica says.

“What?” I say.

She smiles. “I've been thinking about it, and I think we should give things another try.”

I can't believe she's finally saying the words out loud I've been fantasizing about for weeks. The tough skin I had worked so hard to grow melts away. I want to say yes. Something about it feels like it would erase all the other terrible things that have happened over the past month. Like pushing a reset button.

I want to lean in to kiss her.

I know I could.

The electricity between us tells me she'd kiss me back.

Veronica shifts to her knees and leans on my thigh. I can smell her perfume. It reminds me of fumbling around with her in the dark of the basement. “What do you say?” she barely breathes.

Every cell in me is screaming yes, screaming for me to get nearer to her. It would be so easy.

“What about Anders?” I say.

She sighs. “I just don't see myself with him. I see myself with you.”

Veronica leans toward me. She leans in close, her lips inches from my ear. Her breath tickles the hairs on my neck. “Maybe we could, you know, go downstairs or something,” she whispers.

My hand slides to her hip.

She presses her body against my thigh.

I want to kiss her so badly.

While I'm taking my time thinking about it, Veronica makes the decision for me. Her lips touch the line of my jaw and kiss it softly. I turn toward her. Our lips meet and
anything that was left of my resolve drops away. She feels so familiar, like an old glove. Soft, warm, comfortable. I know it's not the right thing to do. She cheated on me. She hooked up with Anders before breaking things off. My mind says no, but my body screams, “Hell, yes!”

We kiss for a while longer, long enough for me to be aware of
scritch, scritch, scritch
ing across the tile as Mr. Peepers heads outside. Then I hear grunting and the tearing of paper. More grunting. Then a loud hack. And another.

I push Veronica off me and head over to the sliding door.

“What's the matter?” she says.

I poke my head out into the blinding sun. Mr. Peepers is digging through wax paper and gnawing on a sandwich that lies half eaten on the ground. It's chicken salad. His face is covered with it. Mr. Peepers shakes his tiny head violently and starts hacking some more, coughing like he's trying to vomit up his whole digestive system. I pick up the sandwich. I wrap it back up in what's left of the wax paper and set it on the patio table.

What's one of Audrey's sandwiches doing on the deck?

I look past the rusty swing set, past the privacy fence, into the neighbor's yard. Our gate swings in the breeze. That thing is always closed. My father checks it every night before bed and every morning before he leaves for work.

I head through the gate and check the side of the
house. Nothing. I walk through the Beattys' yard and the Connors' yard. I check Mr. Venter's yard, even though he calls the cops when kids set foot on his sod. Still nothing.

I call out Audrey's name a few times.

No answer.

I head back inside. Veronica is still kneeling by the couch.

“You've got to go,” I say.

“Why?” she asks.

“I've got a lot to do. The tournament's tomorrow. I've got to go to the range and hit a few buckets, practice my flops.”

“What about…?” She motions to the spot where I was just sitting.

I shake my head. “It's not a good idea.”

“But what about your hundred and fifty-six reasons?”

My breath catches somewhere deep in my chest. “Where'd you hear about that?”

She sits back on her heels. “Everyone knows, Seth. It's everywhere—someone posted it on Facebook last night.”

Probably Caitlyn. I guess a kick in the nuts wasn't enough punishment. This will be worse. Much worse. Did I say anything on the show that might have insulted anyone else? Anyone at school? What's going to happen when classes start back up in September? It's one thing to be a faceless personality on a podcast; it's another for everyone to know it's me.

“I had no idea that was how you felt about me,” she
says. “You never told me any of it. If I had known…well, things might have been different.” She grabs my forearm, pulls me toward her. “Maybe they still can be.”

I pull away. “Look, Veronica, I don't think we should—”

“Of course we should.”

“No,” I say. “We shouldn't. We're done.”

Veronica stares at me. Her lips press together, but she doesn't make a sound. She grabs her purse and walks out through the sliding door. She passes through the same gate Audrey went through not five minutes earlier.

“What's going on?” my mother says, coming up behind me. She takes a sip of her coffee and runs her hand up my back. “Is Veronica okay?”

“You should be more worried about Mr. Peepers,” I say. “He's choking.”

My mother looks down at him. He's walking in circles around the deck and shaking his head. His tongue is sticking out of the side of his mouth like he'd rather have it surgically removed than suffer one more second of Audrey's chicken salad.

“What'd he eat?” my mother asks me.

“Hell between two slices of bread. A little lettuce. Some tomato.”

She watches him a moment longer. “He'll be fine.”

“So will Veronica,” I say.

We watch her cross the Connors' yard and head toward the side street that leads to her house. “She looks upset,” my mother says. “Are you sure she's all right?”

“Sometimes you can't see things clearly until you've taken a big bite of the worst chicken salad sandwich in the world.”

My mother smiles. It's a puzzled sort of smile, but it's the biggest one I've seen on her in a long time. It takes a decade off her face. “Seth Eugene Baumgartner, have you been listening to my radio program?”

“Nah,” I say. “I've got one of my own.”