We Come to Our Senses (14 page)

“The backs of your front teeth,” I announce.

“Really?” she asks.

“Yeah, really. I mean, unless it doesn't count. Does it count? Wait, you don't have to tell me. But I think it should. And you know what?”

“What?” she asks, smiling as I walk in, zipping up.

“Even if it doesn't count I love them, okay?”

“No. I think it counts,” she says. “When my mouth is open.”

Today's episode airs on 11/19, a sibling of 11/91, which was when I came home from combat deployment. I was 19. Shea was there, waiting. I'd sent her weepy letters. She'd watched CNN. And of course there's 9/11, the date G. H. W. Bush
formally laid out his plans for war. (Ugh, I'll never forget it, 9/11/90, because as soon as he gave the speech I got this sinking feeling. I just
knew
our unit would be mobilized—which sure enough it was, in mid-November, 11/90—heck, maybe even 11/19/90. I'll have to look. That would be too weird.) Next week, Thanksgiving is on November 26—1-1-2-6—the exact last four digits of my Social Security number. They won't show a new
Friends
episode, which is totally depressing.

Bokhara. That's the rug pattern. It's Pakistani, and mostly red but with small golden octagons in two rows, lengthwise. Real soft. The wool has great lanolin content. The guy at Nieman's told us the octagonal shapes were supposed to represent elephant footprints. Crazy.

It was difficult at first to try and deal with the Must See evolution: Where was regular
Seinfeld
? Where was Thursday night? (And where did
Cheers
go, anyway?) When they first started messing with the whole lineup, specifically when
Seinfeld
bailed on us, it felt like things might fall apart. No kidding. I mean, what happened?

Miraculously, we've only become thicker. Richer. This is partly due to the fact that
Frasier
is now on Tuesdays, in
Seinfeld
's old spot. Also, Shea and I are trying to put our faith in
Jessie
—the new show between
Friends
and
Frasier
—because of its decent premise and time slot.
Will & Grace
is . . . well,
was
an odd one to get used to. We weren't sure if we'd be into faggot comedy. In fact, we were pretty sure we wouldn't be. (Plus, this whole Shepard-boy-Wyoming-thing with the barbed-wire fence is a super-downer.) But they're hilarious! That one little queer guy is just so queer that there really isn't anything to worry about. It's not like he's trying to sneak up
behind you, you know? Plus that other guy isn't so gay all the time. And, as Shea points out, Grace is hot.

What's next? We are hungry. Are we? Wolfgang Puck's frozen pizza, four cheeses? Lean Cuisine? Amy's vegetarian burritos? Uncle Ben's bowls? “Honey,” Shea calls. “Can you bring me the throw when you come in?”

“The what?”

“The Sundance catalog thing. The, uh . . . Western Blanket!”

“Oh, yeah, sure.” I fumble with the blade of the Waiter's Friend wine key. Nick the inside of my upper thigh, then put a cocktail napkin in my boxer briefs to sop up the blood. Sometimes there are episodes that leave things on a heavy, sort of deep note. Sad pop music plays over memorial clips, like that Green Day song did during the last
Seinfeld
. Sometimes they hit you pretty hard.

“Honey! It's on! What are you doing?”

Sometimes I wonder when a thing is a thing, or a them. Like, in the war we made
them
become
things
. (I mean, a guy is only a guy before you thunk him with an M203 grenade. Afterward? He's Ragú. Ragú is what we called it, what was left of it. Of them. So, like, he was a
them
, and then he was a
thing
. A Ragú.) Shea and I try to
make a them
out of a thing. A something out of nothing. Which we did, one time, just after the war. But the baby wouldn't stick inside her—for lack of a better term. So I suppose it went back from being a thing . . . to a them? I can't find a formula to describe it. Yet.

Sometimes I need to bleed just a slip. Eight, seven p.m. Central.

Gulp and gulp and gulp Nouveau and picture the friends
in the fountain. The fountain, the fountain. Azure marble silver finish triple-Moen spontaneity. The friends jump in the fountain. The actors don't really look like their own show opening anymore. They're older in real life, with different hairdos and everything. To some people it's probably kind of weird that they stay the same age during the opening theme song, when they all jump in a big fountain. But Shea and I like it. We were their age when they started jumping in, so it's kind of neat, you know, dreaming about being just out of college, right when
they
were just out of college. And every week, this fountain sort of kicks us into history. And there's this stereo that Shea got me from Restoration. It's a brown resin-plastic, fifties-style radio but with a CD player in it.

The friends always go to commercial after the fountain opening, so a touch-up of wine to get past the break. I ask Shea if we'd run out of body parts to compliment. She says no way.

“Here's the Western Blanket, babe,” I say, and drape it across her small feet.

“It's actually a throw.”

Oh. “Man, I love that radio,” I say.

“Me too. It's dineresque. Oh, okay, I've got one.”

“Where?”

“Sit down and lift up your shirt.” I do, and she pokes me near my left kidney. “That one. That inky bubble of mole. It's gross, by the way.”

“Haven't you already said that one?”

“Of course not,” she says. “Wait. Maybe it's the one you keep scratching off, dummy. So yes. But no. It's new—you know? I don't know, check this out.” She snatches the
Restoration catalog from this bamboo-looking magazine holder we got at Pier 1. “I really want this chair. Listen.” She puts her hand on my forearm and begins reading. “A happy marriage of club chair and wingback produced these seats of compelling comfort and superlative style . . . Studs Terkel populism meets Dorothy Parker wit. Our La Porte Pressback Chair is built in the USA with a kiln-dried, double-doweled hardwood frame, high, rolled arms, and an angled wingback that promotes lounging, long talks, literary escapism, and languorous naps. Clad in luscious café velvet and accented with nailhead trim . . .”

“What the hell does all that mean? Who's Studs Turkey?”

We laugh ourselves to pieces. “I don't know,” she says. “But look at that chair. Pretty cool, huh?”

Melt into photo, the crisp setup: (a) is the chair, (b) is the dual map lighted globe, (c) the leather archival photo albums, (d) antiqued bronze magnifying glass, (e) and (f) the black cherry bookcase AND credenza. And, and it's all quite intelligent. And I do like whatever that long literary talks thing.

“Well, maybe we could,” I say.

She beams and starts to squeeze me, then, “Shhh. It's back on.”

At the start of the season, Ross said Rachel's name while taking wedding vows with Emily. He tried to explain it away. Said they all live together as friends, etc. Shea and I agreed that the stupid foreign Emily character wasn't going anywhere, and sure enough it got done.

“Are we taping?” she whispers. “Yeah,” I say. We have taped almost all of the
Friends
episodes, which is a lot. Tapes and tapes and tapes, and I'm toying with the idea of buying
a DVD burner at Sharper, so we can melt them down to a decent size. It took us all last Labor Day weekend to catalog episodes. It was a blast, though. Wine and wine and wine and wine, though no Beaujolais, all fountain.

Beer commercial. “Shea, do you want to skip
Jessie
and just watch an old
Seinfeld
tape before
Frasier
comes on?”

“Are we gonna eat anything?”

“Sure. What do you feel like?”

“I don't know. What do you feel like?”

“Mmm . . . not sure. Oh, it's almost back on.”

We both think Ross will marry Rachel. Shea thinks that Joey will marry Phoebe. Feebee. “What an awesome job,” Shea says, when Monica talks about being a chef.

“Maybe. But I guarantee you she'll be a mom soon. And nothing's more important than that.” I say this and then I don't know why I say it, because it's so goddamn hurtful.

Shea looks down at her chest.

“Sorry, sorry,” I say. “Really. Need a splash, babe?” “Sure.” “Hungry?” “Um, not yet, maybe. Hurry, you'll miss something.”

People can be high-art or dismissive and snobby, but there's no getting around the fact that entertainment can be fun. I mean, holy mack, not only did Joey just remember getting a turkey stuck on his head, but Phoebe remembered a bad Thanksgiving from a
past life
. And get this: Monica just remembered the Thanksgiving when she actually cut off Chandler's little toe! (Jesus Christ, she was fat during the flashback. And Rachel had such a big ugly nose.) Shea and I hold hands, we smile, we have a drink of wine and laugh our eyes wet. We can talk to each other if things get bad enough. Shea's
thick-socked feet are burrowed into the folds of fine Anthropologie Cotswold leather. The waft of her delicate Aveda hair billows up from my lap. It's addictive. She looks up at me during the commercials and we talk about stuff we like. Sometimes she doesn't look up, and maybe there's stuff we like on the commercials, which is fine because we're warm. In the show there are no cysts on anyone's ovaries. No scarring no blockage no residue of thing. Here, flutamide takes care of her extra hair growth—which never bothered me in the first place. Shea is incredibly clever and funny. She points out that during all of the Bud Light commercials, there's a three-part comedy blueprint: Quirky Scenario, then Humiliating Explanation, and then, after the “talking part” where they espouse Bud Light in a sentence, and more importantly when you've become convinced that the story couldn't get any funnier—bam!—they hit you with Part Three: an instant, knockout joke to end the commercial.

I'm a number-pattern guy. I never thought about that story structure until she noticed it. But she's dead-on. That's the way they all play out.
Friends
is wrapping. One quick knockout after the last commercial, then the preview of the next episode. I'm thinking maybe Wolfgang Puck. I don't know.

“Wolfgang Puck?” I ask.

“Okay,” Shea says.

“Skipping
Jessie
?”

“I don't care, you decide.”

“Microwave or oven?” “Microwave—oven takes too long.” “Yeah.” “Honey, will you grab your card so we can order the literature chair at the break?” “You sure? I mean . . .” “We'll get the miles.” “That make you happy?” “Yes!”

She loves me, she really does. I love her, really do. We love each other. Truly. Honestly. More than most. I'll bet our lives on that.

“I love you,” I say.

“I love you back,” she says. And we both know it's not television.

And my god, fat Monica cut off Chandler's toe at their Thanksgiving, only instead of sending the detached digit to the hospital to be sewn back on, she mistakenly sent a baby carrot that had fallen on the floor beside it! I'll pop in a pizza but hold off on the tape until the local news comes on. “Let's give
Jessie
another chance?” “Okay.” “The chair comes to $2,304.50, including ship.” “Let's see, 2-3-0-4-5. You know, February 30 is almost like saying March 2.” “You're cheating!” she shrieks. “Feb. 30 doesn't exist!” “I know, babe,” I say, “But that's how it came to me. February 30, 1945. So, anyway, whose birthday?” “What?” “Come on. Work with me, silly. Who's birthday is March 2, 1945?” “My mother!”

Give
Jessie
another try and wine, and then
Frasier
. Slice off a toe like a bloody baby carrot. I can hear the wet knife. Can feel the wet knife. Jesus, I still have to check the email. Amazing how consuming the Internet's becoming. The chair is 5-4-3-2 then 0, missing 1. Just like Shea and I. March 2 is the day that Gulf War combat formally ended. Took 100 hours, on a 24-hour news cycle. Anyway, I'll log to email after
Frasier
, at the start of the
Seinfeld
tape. It's the one where Jerry dates a woman called “Man Hands” anyway, so I know how it starts.

Pickle

SYCORAX
?
TODAY
?

Yes, even today, my brother plays a song featuring Sycorax, an eerie, operatic soprano, which is why it's so difficult to be around him and Janine. As the clarinet snakes from the Wi-Fi jukebox, the few forlorn men at the bar peer up from their drinks. With the rise of the orchestral chorus they sigh, or pick at scabrous ears and necks, then resume a silent perturbation.

And I tell you there is nothing like chasing your father's funeral in a drop-ceiling honky-tonk, midday in Nashville, alongside agitated siblings and exit-ramp panhandlers . . . listening to German opera.

Danny walks back from the jukebox barking like Hitler. “
Brenne Laterne! Nahe und ferne dammere auf!
” I'm so tired of these roles. I only want to focus on what's happening here, to try and salvage something between the three of us. I love these people. Dad is dead.

“I recall this ditty,” our sister, Janine, says, the strings and soprano wailing. She turns to Danny. “Dad playin' all that
Teutonic hostile stuff while y'all worked out in the garage, right?”

“Wagner,” he says. “Spohr, and whatever. I hear it every time I exercise.”

“Guys?” I ask. “Please?”

She rolls her eyes. Danny's jaw flexes.

Okay, I get it. I'll grant that Colonel Dad was a little freaky with the competition stuff, a bit too Bill Kilgore from
Apocalypse Now
. But it's not supposed to be like this today. Not between us.

“You know,” I say to Danny, “I was so jealous of that. I always wished you guys would ask me to join you on the weight bench.”