Cabin Fever - Illinois Wesleyan University



Cabin Fever

" What ever happened to Donny Osmond?" asks Mark as he shuffles through papers on his desk.

I sit it Mark's office, waiting for Mark to finish up some legal paperwork so we can leave for a weekend trip to Mark's cabin. Mark is a partner at a very prestigious law firm. They don't even advertise on television.

" I'm not sure," I answer. " Didn't his stomach explode after eating those Pop Rocks and drinking Coke at the same time."

" No, that was Mikey, the kid from those Life cereal commercials."

" Didn’t he die after choking on a ham sandwich?"

" No, that was Cass Elliott," says Mark.

" Wasn’t he the one arrested for masturbating inside an adult movie theater," I say.

" No, that was your mother."

" Oh yeah...” I say.

“ How did that turn out, by the way?” asks Mark.

“ They decided not to press charges. Fortunately they couldn't find a prosecutor who could stomach looking at the photographic evidence. Three of them even filed for disability."

“ I was listening to that 80's station on the radio this morning and they played Debbie Gibson. I always thought she was underrated,” says Mark as he signs a few more contracts.

“ I never liked Debbie Gibson. And really, could anyone tell the difference between her and Tiffany?”

“ Debbie Gibson was so much better than Tiffany. Debbie Gibson wrote her own music at the age of 15.”

“ Who cares if she wrote her songs herself? Crap doesn’t smell any sweeter just because it came from your own anus. Unless maybe you eat lots of chocolate. Or something with toffee - I bet that would work too.”

I look at Mark's desk, partly because it’s an interesting desk and partly to alleviate the uncomfortable silence that usually follows when one talks about things coming out of an anus or when one talks about Debbie Gibson. It is an antique desk once owned by Thomas Jefferson. Jefferson carved his signature onto the surface of the desk. Though a nice artifact, I don't think I would like the desk. The name disrupts the smooth surface of the desktop making it difficult to write anything. Although I suppose it could be worse. The desk could have been owned by John Hancock. Legend has it that John Hancock wasn't very popular with his peers, especially after he took up all the prime autograph space in everyone's high school yearbook.

“ Okay, everything’s finished,” says Mark as he puts aside the last of the stacks of paper. “ We should head to the cabin. Susan and Laura are probably there already waiting for us.”

“ I can’t believe we agreed to let them be there alone at the same time,” I say. “ My ex-girlfriend and my current girlfriend alone in a room with nothing to do but talk together.”

“ Oh, it’ll be fine,” says Mark. “ Well, at least in terms of things that might affect me. As for you, screwed, screwed, screwed.”

We leave Mark’s office and walk past the other lawyers in Mark's firm in the corridor. They give me their little lawyer scowls - looks just menacing enough to let me know they don’t like me, but not quite threatening enough for me to be able to press legal charges against them. They’ve had it out for me ever since I told them I didn't particularly care for John Grisham novels. Lawyers are such a tight-knit group. They're kind of like a regular family - only at reunions, the lawyers hang around waiting for grandma to fall down the stairs so they can help her sue. Which is totally different from my family where we gather around to watch grandma fall down the stairs just because we like the funny gurgling sound she makes when she hits the ground. Urgg, urgg, doof.

With the exception of Mark, lawyers leave me with a very bad feeling. Back in college, I had a law clerk friend who died of a broken neck at a firm picnic. It seems the partners had the law clerks all lie on the lawn to spell out the firm's name and they made him be the ampersand.

" Do you mind if I go to the bathroom first before we head to the car? I just had a couple of cups of coffee," I say.

" I actually have to go to the bathroom too. We can just use the executive bathroom on our way out. Thank goodness I don’t have to use the regular bathroom anymore. There’s this weird intern who has already clogged up the toilet eight times in the last three months - and that’s just from urinating."

I’ve never used an executive bathroom. Unfortunately I only have to use the urinal. I really wish I had to poop. I’ve always wanted to poop where rich people poop. I bet they have super fancy stalls. Sound proof or something like that - like the booths they used to keep Miss America contestants in so they couldn’t hear the other contestants answers. Or stalls with giant vacuums that would suck up any nasty, offending, gaseous odor - also, I suspect, like the booths they used to keep Miss America contestants in.

We walk down the corridor which is lined with portraits of firm members. Everyone looks so austere. I always wonder why people sitting for official portraits never seem to smile - as if being happy is the most shameful legacy a person could leave behind. Mark unlocks the door to the executive bathroom. Everything is very immaculate and shiny and posh. Even the graffiti on the stalls is written in calligraphy. Mark and I stand at the urinals. I get stuck using the urinal closest to the corner. I hate using the corner urinal. It makes me feel too cramped. We stand there for that awkward couple second stretch while we wait for something to come out - that little stretch that often causes severe doubts in your mind about whether or not you actually have to go. Finally, it occurs. I assume Mark has started urinating also, but it's kind of hard to tell with Mark because he's one of those demure guys who always pees on the side of the urinal because he's too embarrassed to make loud splashing noises. I’ve never been that way. When I urinate, it always sounds like a game of Marco Polo has broken out. Except for when I use bathrooms with bathroom attendants who always ask me to stop shouting “Marco... Polo” while I pee. For some reason, it seems to disturb the other bathroom patrons.

I finally break the silence. " Is it just me, or do you always get a little shiver every time you urinate?"

" Could we wait until we get out of the bathroom before we start talking? You know it makes me uncomfortable carrying on a conversation this close to someone with their penis out."

" It not like I'm hugging you or anything," I say.

" Well, at the very least can we discuss something that doesn't revolve around your penis."

" I'm a guy. Everything revolves around my penis."

We zip up and walk away from the urinals. Mark's urinal automatically flushes, but mine won't operate. I can never get an automatic flusher to operate unless I’m still sitting in a stall and don’t actually want it to flush. And then it’s like being at Niagra falls. I stand there for a few seconds waving my hand in front of the sensor trying to get it to flush. I walk away from the urinal and then try the sneak-back - walking back in front of the urinal trying to set off the sensor, but it doesn't work. I finally give up. Mark walks over to the sink. I wait for him by the door.

" Aren't you going to wash your hands?" asks Mark.

" Why do you care whether I wash my hands? It's not like I’m going to sneak up on you while you take a nap and start putting my fingers in your mouth. At least not since you had that bad dream back in college and accidentally bit me. I hate using restroom sinks. I have more faith in where my penis has been than where those faucets have been."

" I wouldn't be so sure," says Mark. " I've seen some of the holes your penis has dug into over the years. Your penis has been accepted in more places than American Express."

" That's probably because I charge a smaller per transaction fee and no longer require a signature before using it."

We exit the bathroom, pass the outer doors of the law firm and head towards the elevator. There is a young intern carrying stacks of legal-sized documents. Why can't lawyers use regular-sized paper? If they would stop using those big words, I'm sure they'd be able to fit everything onto one regular page. I wonder if he’s the intern who has clogged up the toilets the last three months. For some reason, he looks like the type of person who would clog up a toilet by accident. All fat and greasy looking.

We get in the elevator and the elevator descends. A wave of annoyance sweeps over the elevator after someone gets off needing to only go one floor. And of course this is the guy who always manages to be in the absolute back of a crowded elevator. I've learned that the only sure things in life are death, taxes, and the fact that the person in the very back of a crowded elevator will always have to get off first. The elevator finally stops at the first floor and we push through the throng of impatient people who try to enter the elevator before everyone has gotten off.

" It's a nice day out," says Mark as we exit the building.

I know there is something wrong. Anytime a friend starts talking about the weather, there's always something wrong. Or if he mentions that the last time he masturbated, green stuff came out. That’s also a pretty good sign that something is wrong. Unless it’s St. Patrick’s Day. Then I suppose it’s OK. We walk in silence to the parking garage and head to Mark’s car.

“ You know,” Mark says hesitantly as he drives away, “you’re the worst thing in the world for her.”

“ Things are getting better between Laura and me.”

“ I wasn’t talking about Laura. I was talking about Susan.”

And just like that - in a blink of an eye, in a snap of a finger or some other metaphor that signifies really, really fast - the big elephant has entered the room. That thing that everyone in the room knows exists, but feel that if no one mentions it, everyone can avoid all sense of awkwardness. Like when you accidentally spit on someone during a conversation. Or when you get caught purposely spitting on someone while they sleep because, quite frankly, you just plain don’t like ‘em.

“ I see the way the two of you look at each other,” continues Mark. And then he hesitates and finally says, “ I know I’m not the most dynamic guy in the world, but I’m in love with Susan. I’d be good for her. I asked her to marry me last night and she said yes.”

I’m taken aback. I wasn’t ready for that last sentence. It came more abruptly than a virgin at a Girls Gone Wild taping. One of the Girls Gone Wild tapings with Snoop Dogg... not one of the tapings with the creepy host of The Man Show who asks the girls to take off their tops and show him where babies feed.

“ What do you mean you’re getting married?” I ask. “ You just met.”

“ We’ve been together awhile. It’s been four months now,” says Mark.

“ Four months? I have scabs older than that.”

“ First, four months is long enough to know I love Susan. And second, four months is an awfully long time to be all scabby. I’d have someone look into that.”

“ Would you mind driving a little faster?” I ask Mark. “There’s something that just creeps me out about this part of the country. It reminds me of all those creepy hillbilly horror flicks that came out in the 70's. It’s like these hills have eyes or something.”

“ Are you kidding me?” says Mark. “ These hills don’t even have indoor plumbing and you think they somehow have managed to evolve eyes?”

“ You have nothing to worry about with me and Susan. We are way in the past. She was the first person I ever loved though. And you’re my best friend and you’re in love and you deserve this. I’m happy for you.”

And I truly am happy for Mark - in that sad, unhappy, I really don’t want you to get married because I might still have feelings for your fiancé kinda way. And a part of me is still in love with Susan. Has always been in love with Susan. But Mark was right when he said I would be the worst thing in the world for Susan. Mark would be much better for Susan than me. He would give up everything to make Susan happy without even hesitating... and me... I would stop and think that everything sure is a lot of stuff.

“ Thank you,” says Mark. “ I know this isn’t easy and our getting married might be awkward, so feel free to take time to think about it, but it would mean a lot to me if you were my best man.”

Ack!!! The smell of cow manure that has been wafting through the car has just been replaced by the unmistakable stench of a bad idea - which smells even worse than the stench of cow manure because it doesn’t have the little bits of chewed grass to freshen things up a bit. I must get out of this duty. At all costs, I must escape!

“ Of course I will. I’m honored to do it,” I say.

And just like that - in two shakes of a lamb’s tail, in a New York minute or some other metaphor to signify really, really fast that no one ever uses in real life - just because my little brain couldn’t think quickly enough to avoid social awkwardness, I am committed to being the best man at their wedding. I'm not sure what to feel. Though happy for them, my heart feels empty. It's like moving from the house you've lived in your entire life. You look back at those barren walls - with their bright squares of paint where your favorite posters once hung and you know you can never go back. It is no longer yours. And it hurts.

The Talk with Abu

" Let’s go take a walk,” I say to Abu as he looks out the window of Mark’s cabin.

" Outside?"

" Well, we could do a couple of laps around the sofa, but the scenery would probably get boring after a few minutes."

We head out the door. Abu has to walk out sideways and has to kind of shimmy through the door because evidently log cabins built in the 1920's weren’t really designed to accommodate really fat people. We start to walk down the dirt trail leading away from the cabin. We have on our orange safety vests because it is deer season. I hate the idea of deer season. We go through the trouble of giving deer their own season and congratulate them by hunting them down? At the very least this principle should also be applied to baseball season. But, it feels good to just get away from the city and bond with an old friend. It reminds me of that scene in Stand By Me where the four friends walk along an old railroad track, discovering the true value of friendship. It's just like that, but in the movie they found a dead body and eventually called the police, whereas Abu and I found a body and just covered it up with leaves, because really, who likes to get involved?

" Nothing is better than fresh air," Abu exclaims as he inhales a deep breath.

" I suppose, but doesn't your shoulder hurt from carrying all those tanks of oxygen around with you," I ask.

" Yes, but do you think I'm going to breath this polluted mountain air? Besides, I’m a 450 pound man. I’m not going to survive a brisk walk in the woods without an oxygen tank. Just getting off the toilet is a cardio workout for me. These tanks are getting heavy though. I need a sherpa or something like you had last year to carry your bags during Christmas shopping.”

“ It turns out he wasn’t a Sherpa. He was just a lonely guy who had nothing better to do.”

“So, did you talk to Laura about you know what?” asks Abu as we continue to walk down the trail.

“ Laura’s not giving birth to Lord Voldemort... you can say pregnancy out loud. And we haven’t talked about it yet. I keep waiting for her to approach me with the news, but it’s been two weeks now. I can’t believe she’s keeping something that important from me.”

“Well, you never mentioned to Laura that Melissa has a marijuana problem.”

“ That’s different,” I say defensively. “ I haven’t figure out how, but it’s different somehow. I just know it. Man, I can’t believe Melissa has a drug problem.”

Abu and I continue to walk through the woods. I take one of the joints I confiscated from Melissa and light it up, taking a puff before I hand it to Abu.

“ So,” says Abu after he inhales and passes the joint back to me, “ How on earth did you get Laura pregnant? I thought you always used condoms.”

“ We usually do. Sometimes I even wear two condoms when Laura and I have sex. Laura and I prefer different types of condoms and sometimes it’s just not worth the argument. There’s only one time we didn’t use a condom. Laura came over to my place to talk about her sister who just went into a coma and we got back together and we were careless.”

“ Man... you and Laura are having a make-up sex baby. I think that must be some kind of record... you managed to fuck things up mere minutes after getting back together. I can’t believe you and Laura are having a make-up sex baby.”

“ Can we stop calling it a make-up sex baby? Or at the very least, tell me what the Latin translation of the phrase is so it sounds classier.”

“ I can’t believe you actually went through with this weekend. You’re trapped in a small cabin with Laura, Susan and the make-up sex baby.”

“ You really like saying that phrase, don’t you.”

“ Oddly enough I do. Make-up sex baby. It has such a nice ring to it. It’s almost as catchy as the dog in the commercial who says Snausages!”

“ Don’t make me hurt you Abu.”

“ Does it look like I’m shaking?”

“ Actually it does a little,” I say.

“ I’m 450 pounds. The accidental jiggling of my man boobs doesn’t count as fear.”

“ Well, let’s not use the phrase make-up sex baby again or else I’m going to have to get all rough house on you,” I say trying to sound menacing. “ You see these hands, Abu. They’ve been registered as lethal weapons in over ten states - though that’s mainly from that bout of typhoid I caused back when I worked at KFC.”

“ Dude, you really need to start washing your handing after using the bathroom. When people order extra crispy it shouldn’t be from things flaking off your hands.”

“ I need to start taking karate lessons or something when I get back to the city so I can back up that lethal hands line. No one messes with you when you can break through ten concrete blocks with your head.”

“ You could never break ten concrete blocks with your head. Last summer, you made me take you to the emergency room because you ate ice cream too fast.”

“But it really hurt. I couldn’t even think anymore!”

I hand the joint back to Abu after taking four puffs. I probably should have handed it back after one puff, but I think when you provide the marijuana, you shouldn’t be required to share equally.

“ So,” I say, “ It’s great that you and Thelma agreed to come up this weekend to the cabin. It would’ve been totally awkward if it was just me, Laura, Susan and Mark.”

“ It’s still totally awkward,” says Abu.

“ But the awkwardness is spread amongst more people. It just makes it seem less. But, to make matters even more awkward, Mark proposed to Susan and she said yes.”

“Oh, man. That’s beyond awkward. That’s... ultra-awkward.”

“ Ultra-awkward?” I ask.

“ Yeah. I was aiming to come up with something much more clever, but mid-sentence I realized that I had nothing.”

“ At least you and Thelma can represent sanity in the cabin.”

“ I don’t know about that,” says Abu. “ Thelma and I had sex for the first time last night.”

I’m taken aback. I wasn’t ready for that last sentence. First Mark springs the wedding on me. Then Abu springs this having sex with my close friend. Doesn’t anyone believe in segues anymore? But I recover quickly.

“ Congratulations!” I say. “ You should have told me earlier... I would’ve picked up a card on the way up here. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me earlier.”

“ I didn’t mention it because I was horrible. It’s been awhile since I last had sex and I came in less than a minute.”

“ I’m sure it wasn’t that fast.”

“ She was still reaching to turn off the lights when I came,” says Abu as he cringes. “ And Thelma had this confused little look on her face - like she wasn’t quite sure what had just happened. And it didn’t help that I had the weirdest sounding orgasm. You’d think after seven years of celibacy, it would’ve been this loud, explosive orgasm. Fireworks, you know. But only this bizarre noise came out - it was like that odd gurgling noise your grandmother made when she fell down the steps in my apartment building last summer.”

“ Oh man, you had a urrg, urgg doof orgasm? That is such an unsexy sounding orgasm. My family is thinking of putting my grandmother in a nursing home.”

“ It’s probably for the best. Your grandmother sure does fall down a lot.”

“ Yeah,” I say. “ It’s like she almost expects to fall down. Right now she has four replacement hips on layaway. But you’re changing the topic. If you’re going to keep Thelma happy, you need to slow it down.”

“ I couldn’t help it. I started feeling her breasts and it just happened.”

“ Don’t think of them as breasts. Think of them as speed bumps.”

“ Last I checked, speed bumps don’t have nipples. Though if they did, it certainly would make driving through my neighborhood much more pleasant. Especially in winter. Maybe I should get a book, like the Kama Sutra or something.” asks Abu.

“ I tried the Kama Sutra once, but all the pictures and diagrams and directions just confused me. I can’t even understand the diagrams on airplanes telling you how to open the emergency exit. How on earth am I going to understand something that has twenty steps? All I got from the Kama Sutra was some nasty paper cuts in some rather odd places. And, quite frankly, you should never have to flip the page while you’re fucking... it just kills the mood. Especially if your girlfriend is reading one of Oprah’s Book Club selections.”

“ Life was a lot simpler back when I was lonely. I’m just not good at this dating thing,” says Abu.

“ I’m not good at this love thing either, Abu. Other than Laura, Susan was the only person I ever loved.”

“ Do you regret not going after Susan back then?”

“ Truthfully, yes. I remember back in high school, I swore I would walk to the ends of the earth for her.”

“ Why didn’t you?”

“ I was seventeen when I said it. At that age, I didn’t realize the ends of the earth were so far away.”

“ That’s actually kind of sweet,” says Abu. “ Of course, I’m rather high right now, so I could be mistaken. Melissa sure knows where to steal the really good pot. I wish I was smoother with women.”

“ I wish I were too,” I say as I take the last puff of the joint before it starts to singe my fingers. “ My older brother is much more of a ladies man than me. I can’t remember the number of times we walked into a room and it turns out he slept with every woman there. I was always so jealous of him.”

“ I don’t have a desire to sleep with a lot of women or have a bunch fall madly in love with me,” says Abu wistfully. “ I just want to find that one person who I can give my heart to. My older brother is similar to yours. I remember we were at this party. I was 28 and still a virgin and I had to listen to him brag that he had slept with every woman in the room. Rather than being jealous, I was more disgusted with him - though that may have been because we were at a family reunion at the time. But I think it’s more than that. A lot of my fares are prostitutes and they always talk about how they are able to separate love from sex. I’ve never been able to do that.”

“ Maybe it’s not the time to talk about it, but you should stop giving cab rides to prostitutes, Abu. I have nothing against the profession, but the police have been harassing you for months for helping them.”

“ I know, but I can’t turn my back on them. They need me. They’re like family to me. And it’s not just because they have similar rates of syphilis as my family. I’ve been thinking about moving to Atlantic City eventually. They’ve been talking about legalizing prostitution to make themselves more competitive with Las Vegas.”

" I'm in favor of Atlantic City legalizing prostitution. I don’t know if it will stop their tourist declines, but at the very least it might finally make playing Monopoly an interesting experience.”

“ I think legalized prostitution should occur everywhere in the United States. Half of the world’s problems are caused by old, ugly white guys who can’t get laid, so anything that alleviates that problem couldn’t hurt.”

” I’ve always wondered about prostitute etiquette. Are you supposed to tip a prostitute. I mean you tip the mailman at Christmas, but in reality he really hasn't brought as much joy into your life as a prostitute.”

" Obviously you’ve never met the mailman in my neighborhood who is very popular with the stay-at-home moms. There’s something about those summer mailman shorts that seems to drive the soccer moms wild. So, do you even want to be a father right now?" asks Abu.

" Yeah, I do," I say. " But one part of me is excited and another part of me is scared to death. I'm just so scared, Abu. I mean, how can I justify screwing up someone else's little life when I'm still trying to perfect ways to screw up my own. And it's hard because I know I'm supposed to say all the right things and reassure Laura that everything will be perfect, but I'm just not sure. We can’t even make it through one date without breaking up. We’re not capable of measuring our relationship in hours, let alone trimesters.”

" At least abortion is still legal, “ says Abu. “ It's scary to think soon we might have to go back to the days when abortions were performed with wire coat hangars. I read somewhere that before Roe vs. Wade, 11% of women undergoing illegal abortions died. Of course that figure would be a little lower if the doctor remembered to take his coat off the hangar before doing the abortion."

“ I’ve always been a supporter of abortion rights, but now that it’s my own child... it’s ... just... hard. Abortions are like getting hit in the groin. It’s much easier to accept when it happens to someone else.”

“ This is far too serious a conversation for me to have when I’m high and the pot munchies are kicking in,” says Abu. “I’m trying to be sensitive here, but I just can’t concentrate. All I can think of is wanting those caramel candies that have the white sugary powder center.”

I pull a bag of the caramel candies from my pocket and hand one to Abu.

“ You’re in luck,” I say. “ When Melissa stole the pot, she also stole candy from the drug dealers. Say what you want about Melissa. She may be abrasive and morally bankrupt, but girl is smooth.”

The Talk with Thelma

It’s early the next morning. Around 10am - which I suppose isn’t considered early for most people. But when you don’t have a real job, anything before the Price Is Right’s showcase showdown is considered early. The early bird may get the worm, but if you wait until noon, I’m pretty certain there will be some worms available. Plus, you can down that worm with a really good martini.

Everyone seemed a bit on edge this morning. I suspect it’s because no one had sex last night. Laura and I have the whole pregnancy cloud hanging over us. Abu and Thelma have the whole bad sex cloud. And Mark - well, Mark is just too uptight to have sex when others are close enough to hear.

The cool autumn air creeps into the cabin as Thelma and I sit on the couch, wrapped in Linus-sized blankets that don’t cover more than half of our bodies. I take a sip from a cup of hot chocolate that no longer seems as appetizing now that all the mini-marshmallows have melted. The others have just left to go to the grocery store and Thelma and I are alone in the cabin. Thelma and I look out the window as the car pulls away from the cabin. The stillness of the forest is interrupted by the gentle hum of the engine and the shouting motorist whose car they've just taken. The car disappears around the bend. Unfortunately, the road is straight and they have crashed into a tree. But they all get out of the car OK and are still able to continue on to the supermarket.

I suppose I should have gone to the grocery store with the others since my pot-induced munchies late last night are the main reason we ran out of food. But since no one saw me eat all the food, I just blamed Abu. If you’re going to smoke pot, it’s quite helpful to have a really fat friend to blame for eating all the food. A broad smile overcomes Thelma's face as she points out the window. Thelma hasn't really seen anything though- she just gets the urge to smile and point every so often.

“ So...,” I say to Thelma, while trying to suppress a smile. “How are things going between you and Abu?”

Thelma examines my face for a few seconds and then she starts to scowl.

“ Abu mentioned that we had sex for the first time, didn’t he?”

“ Well... he mentioned that he managed to have sex. I hear you’re still waiting.”

“ Don’t you dare take pleasure from this. I swear I’ll find ways to hurt you.”

“ Oh come on... It wasn’t as bad as he thinks, was it?”

“ Remember me telling you about the worst oral sex I had ever been given?

“ I think you need to be more specific. You’ve had a disproportionate amount of really bad oral sex in your lifetime.”

“ The time with the guy who only had half a tongue because he had previously bitten off part of his tongue during an epileptic seizure. And his tongue couldn’t really go in very far, but he was so intent on trying to please me that he wouldn’t give up. For a half an hour it was just this little half nub going in and out. In and out. And he would never stop. He was the Energizer bunny of bad oral sex. And occasionally he would look up with his tongue stub hanging out, all smiling and looking so proud of himself. I didn’t have the heart to tell him he was really bad at oral sex so I had to start releasing pussy farts just to get him to stop.”

“ First of all, I have to say for the record that you are the grossest girl I know. I’m simultaneously proud and appalled to call you a friend. Secondly, Abu wasn’t as bad as tongue nub guy, was he?” I ask.

“Well.. If Abu’s penis had a nose, I would’ve released a pussy fart all over it. That’s if I even had time. There was no foreplay. I didn’t even get one play. I got decimal play. And then to make it worse, Abu felt so embarrassed that it ended so quickly that he started weeping. Not just sniffling... out and out weeping. The kind of distraught weeping you see at a funeral that makes you just want to tap the weeper on the shoulder and mention that the person who died really wasn’t all that nice to be weeping so hard.”

“ Wow... that’s awfully bitter. For a second, I almost thought that I had said it.”

“ I know... it’s been over a year since I’ve had sex. I apologize. Bad sex always makes me cranky. That and elderly neighbors who try to talk too long when you’re passing by in the hall. The worst part is I really like Abu. It sucks when it turns out that someone you really like is really horrible in bed. Why couldn’t he just have scabies or something else easier to cure? Last I checked there wasn’t an effective vaccine for a bad fuck. And to top it off - and swear you won’t tell him this - but Abu’s a really bad kisser. The tongue to saliva ratio is just way off. It’s less like a kiss and more like when you see someone engaged in a hot dog eating contest.”

“ I’m sure Abu will get better,” I say, trying to offer encouragement.

“ Oh, come on. Are you trying to tell me, in your vast amount of sexual experience, that bad sex has ever turned into amazing sex?”

“ You know, being upbeat and positive isn’t one of my strong suits, so when I make the effort to be nice, you could at least work with me a little.”

“ You’re right. Try doing the being nice thing again. It just took me off guard. I wasn’t expecting it. You should do the nice thing more often. It actually makes you almost human-like.”

“ OK, here goes... just put the bad sex thing out of your mind and think of Abu’s positives. For instance, you might not know it, but Abu has a very romantic side to him. You just have to be willing to shave through three layers of body hair to find it.”

“ Eight seconds.”

“ Eight seconds?” I ask.

“ I was just counting the amount of time you could be nice before you switched back into a frog.”

“ I can be nice for extended periods of time,” I say, slightly offended. “ When I was younger, I had this uncle Larry who all the kids adored. I liked him because he was kind, but the other neighborhood kids only liked him because he'd always bring pockets full of candy every time he came over. But, one day he stopped bringing candy. He said he got tired of us attacking him with a pinata stick every time he came over. After that, the other kids never gave him the time of day, but I still spent time with him whenever he came over. At least until my parents finally took away my pinata stick - then it wasn’t as much fun.”

“ I’m going to say this as a friend,” says Thelma, “ and partly to get back at you for making fun of my sex problems with Abu, but it wouldn’t hurt if you were nicer to Laura. More giving. In a relationship you have to make sacrifices. To give until it hurts.”

“ I do. It’s just that I have a lower pain threshold than most people. I’d give an arm and a leg to make things more peaceful with Laura. Not my own arm and leg, mind you. But an arm and a leg, nonetheless.”

“ And you can pay attention to Laura more. You need to stop focusing so much on your own needs and be a better listener.”

“ I pay attention to Laura.”

“ No, you don’t,” says Thelma. “ I hate to say this because I hate getting involved in other people’s business, but...”

“ You’re a psychologist. Your whole life revolves getting in other people’s business.”

“ Focus. We’re talking about you now. As I was saying, you’re not very attentive. For instance, you probably haven’t noticed that Laura’s bulimia has returned. I could hear her throwing up in the bathroom after breakfast this morning.”

“ Do you think I’m insensitive enough to not notice if her eating disorder came back. I merely didn’t notice that she was pregnant.”

“ Whoa...,” says Thelma. “ I definitely wasn’t expecting that. But I was wondering when the pregnancy issue would arise with you and Laura. Laura and I are the same age and if she’s like me, that biological clock is ringing louder and louder. And there’s only so long that you can keep hitting the snooze alarm before you realize you’ve overslept.”

“ I don’t think that’s an issue,” I say. “ There’s still plenty of time. I just read in the newspaper yesterday about a 55 year-old woman who gave birth to triplets.”

“ That’s just not natural,” says Thelma. “ Birth defects become more common. The mother puts her health at risk. Pregnancy is like riding a bicycle with a basket on it. There should be an age when you’re legally not allowed to do it anymore. If the baby comes through the birth canal covered in cobwebs, you’re just too damned old. People need to listen to their bodies more. The thing about age is that your brain will lie to you every chance it gets, but your body always, always tells the truth.”

“ Laura still hasn’t told me she’s pregnant yet though. Why wouldn’t she tell me about it?”

“ Maybe she’s waiting until she’s absolutely certain she’s pregnant. Maybe she’s afraid, given your past break-up history together. Just be there for her when she’s ready to talk. Be a better listener.”

The talk with Laura

I look over at Laura, and stare silently at her as she sings along to the radio - although it would probably be more romantic if there was something besides static on the air. But I sit there and listen, trying to give the whole being a better listener thing a chance. Laura finally reaches towards the radio, her arm gliding gracefully through the air like a Motown back-up singer, and turns the radio off. I notice Laura seems anxious, so I walk over to Laura and start massaging her neck. Her neck muscles are extremely tense, which I hate to see - mainly because it means I’ll have to give an extra-long massage. Unfortunately, I have overly skinny fingers and my hands tire easily. I once tried to improve my skills by taking a course in massage, but I didn’t get much practice. I had this Asian instructor, Miss Tida. She was from the old school of Oriental techniques - we were only allowed to use our massage skills in self-defense.

“ There... does that feel better?"

“ Yes,” says Laura as she smiles sweetly at me. “ Nobody gives a better 45 second massage than you, baby.”

Despite her words, I can tell Laura is lying to me. She’s wearing one of those new fancy watches that with the push of a button can tell you your blood pressure. From the reading, I can tell she’s still tense. At least Laura stopped wearing the watch during sex. That was the cause of our eighth break-up when I looked down at her watch and realized Laura was faking an orgasm. Laura bought me one of those watches for Christmas last year, but I never liked it. It’s not a good gift idea for the chronically late. Every time I checked my watch to see what time it was, I had to sit and rest because my blood pressure had risen because of the anxiety caused by being late. I look down at Laura’s watch again to confirm that her blood pressure is still high. I take this as my opportunity to finally ask Laura about the pregnancy.

“ Is everything OK?” I ask Laura. “ You seem anxious.”

Laura is quiet for a little while before finally saying, " I missed my period."

" Are you sure?” I say, trying to pretend that it’s a surprise. “ Maybe you wore a red pair of underwear that day and just didn't notice."

I remember in sixth grade when they first tried to teach us about sex education. They always picked the most physically repulsive teacher for this so none of us would get too aroused. Ours was Mr. Mauriso, whose face had more moles than actual face. Mr. Mauriso believed you should only have sex after marriage - and even then, only if nothing better was on television. Inexplicably though, he had twelve kids. Evidently, his family didn’t have cable.

He described menstruation as a female's body purging its system of unwanted material. If the material did not come out, the woman became pregnant. For quite awhile, I believed constipation and pregnancy were the same medical condition. I still remember years later the confused look on my dates faces when, instead of a cigarette, I offered them a dish of prunes after sex.

" My period is usually not late," says Laura. “ I also took a home pregnancy test and it came out positive.”

“ Well, those tests aren’t always reliable,” I offer as I sense Laura is still a bit worried about being pregnant.

“ And remember when I had you watch Melissa while I ran an errand. The errand was an appointment with my gynecologist.”

“ But you said he wasn’t very good.”

“ No, he’s the best gynecologist in the area, medically speaking. I said I wish he wouldn’t always say the phrase Wasssssuppppp! when he had his fingers in my vagina. What’s it going to take for you to except the fact that I’m pregnant? Does the baby need to stick it’s arm out of my vagina and wave to you before you’ll believe it?”

“ Of course not. A baby wouldn’t have the motor skills to wave. But a thumbs up or something wouldn’t hurt. But either way, this is a good thing, right?

" Sometimes the future of our world really scares me," says Laura. " I wake up in the morning and the first thing I see is all this vileness and pollution."

I can understand Laura’s point - though I’m a bit disconcerted seeing that I’m usually the first thing Laura sees when she wakes up in the morning.

" I'm not sure if I'm ready to be a mother yet. I'm mean, sure many people keep calling me one, but I still feel insecure."

It’s hard to know when you’re truly ready to bring someone into this world. My mother wasn’t very equipped to be a parent. She was always so obsessive about everything. My mother used to put plastic covers over every piece of furniture we owned. She even laminated the dog once so he wouldn’t shed fur all over the place. Then she became over-protective and started to buy plastic covers to put over the plastic covers so we wouldn't ruin the original plastic covers. I had this theory about my older brother. He never really went away to college. I think he spent those four years trapped somewhere between these layers of plastic, surviving on bits of stale pretzels from eras past.

" And what if like I take my eyes off my child for a minute and he gets kidnapped by some guy in a van. I don’t want my first child to become a milk carton baby.”

I never understood the decision to put the photos of kidnapped children on the back of milk cartons. I’m all for helping to find missing children, but there has to be better ways to start off your day than being confronted with pictures of kidnapped children. At least wait until lunch to start revealing the ugliness of the world. The only way they could make breakfast even creepier was if they put photos of Jared, the Subway diet guy, on every carton. There’s just something vaguely disturbing about a guy who takes such delight in the fact that he can fit his entire body into one leg of his old fat trousers.

“ Every parent has safety concerns and they deal with it. We’ll deal with it,” I say.

“ Or he'll write some autobiography saying what a horrible mother I was because I was the only parent on the block who required a local anesthetic to breastfeed her child. Or what if our child starts to drink? Or do drugs?"

I think back to Melissa. Now would definitely be the wrong time to bring up that her niece has a drug and theft problem. Plus Laura might be mad that I smoked all the pot and didn’t share any with her. She wouldn’t have taken any of the pot since she’s pregnant, but she would probably be mad that I wasn’t considerate enough to offer her some.

" You mean, what if our child is a normal teenager?"

" You never drank in high school,” says Laura.

" And you'd characterize me as a normal teenager? Just relax," I say, putting my arm around Laura and holding her close. “You’re going to be a good mother. We’re going to get through this fine. You’ve been dreaming of being a parent for a long time. It’s a sign that things are going to work for us.”

She sits on the bed for a few minutes before finally speaking.

“ I don’t think I’m going to have the baby. I have an appointment with the clinic this Thursday,” says Laura.

And she walks away towards the far wall and looks at the window... at the trees, at the birds, at anything that isn’t me. I sit there stunned. This is so not a good weekend for me. It’s like there was a sale at the bad news store and everyone in my life decided to buy me a present.

“ Were you ever going to mention to me that you were even pregnant?” I ask.

There’s a moment of silence. I’m not sure how long we stand there not talking. It feels like just a few seconds, but it’s probably longer. When thoughts are racing through your head, everything feels like it’s moving faster.

“ I just needed some time to think things through,” says Laura after a lot of deliberation.

“ And don’t you think I should have been at least invited to that party?”

“ It’s not your decision to make,” says Laura. “ I’m sorry, but it’s not.”

“ That’s the worst thing anyone has ever said to me,” I say.

And I say that out loud, even though I’m only really saying it to myself. Like it was a realization that just entered my mind.

“ I need to leave,” I continue. “ I can’t be here with you now.”

I open the door and walk into the living room of the cabin. Laura follows after me.

“ Don’t leave me,” Laura cries. “ You said you wouldn’t run away when I needed you and I need you to just be here with me.”

“ Don’t you dare throw that it my face right now!” I yell back.

And I’m angry. And I’m screaming. And I see the faces of Mark and Susan and Abu and Thelma and they all have that look on their face. That look where people can’t decide whether it is less intrusive to just sit there and hope everything blows over real fast or whether they should find a tactful way to slink off and leave us alone. But I don’t care that they are here and I say something that I know I shouldn’t say, but I’m angry and I want to embarrass Laura and I hate myself for doing it, but I can’t stop myself.

“ I said that before you threatened to abort my child without even telling me!!!” I yell as I walk to the door of the cabin.

Talk With Susan

I storm out of the cabin immediately and walk in a rage until I get out of sight of the cabin. Once I get out of sight, I just sit down. I suppose I could have raged even longer, but rage is a rather useless emotion when no one else is around to see how angry you are. Melancholy seems the most appropriate emotion available for when one is alone - at least until Webster’s dictionary considers my formal request to have masturbation be defined as an emotion.

I sit on a wooden swing that hangs from an old oak tree. The branch bows slightly in the middle, but is still strong enough to support my weight. As I swing, some of the fall foliage flutters around me as if the sky started raining colors. I wonder why you never see fall-themed snow globes, with the brightly-hued leaves replacing the bland, white snowflakes. That would be much prettier. But then my mind drifts back to my fight with Laura and I become sad again. I wonder if Laura would have gotten rid of the baby without even telling me she was ever pregnant. Then I think it might have been better to not have known. Then it occurs to me that you never really see abortion-themed snow globes either. Except for that one unfortunate Planned Parenthood fundraiser I helped organize last year. In retrospect, I knew I should have gone with my gut instinct and bought those aborted fetus bobble-head dolls as table centerpieces. Then I think my thoughts are really unfocused. Perhaps it was a bad idea to throw all my Ritalin into the pond this morning to stop those ducks from attacking me. As I sit alone with my swirling thoughts, I hear some leaves rustle behind me. I quickly turn around in case it’s the ducks again. Ducks are rather persistent and aggressive creatures - especially if they’ve found out you’ve invaded their habitat carrying a small club and a few packets of plum sauce in your pockets. But, my heart beat goes down as I spy Susan approaching in the distance.

I get off the swing and start to walk away because I’m just not ready to talk to anyone. I glance back, but Susan is still following me through the woods. I should have known Susan wouldn’t give up. Susan has also been known to be persistent and aggressive when she senses you have plum sauce in your pockets. I walk at a faster pace, but no matter how fast I move through the woods, Susan manages to keep pace. She’s like Jason in the Friday the 13th movies. Susan catches up to me and walks by my side without saying anything. Finally, I start to talk.

" I just love the color of leaves in the fall," I say, trying to talk about something innocuous. " All those bright orange and red hues. When I was little, I would spend all day just staring at the leaves. Then my mother would say to me, ‘Come inside. It’s only summer. You still have four more months until the leaves change color.’ But I wouldn't listen. I was convinced if I took my eyes off the leaves, one would change and I'd miss on all the beauty of nature."

" I've always preferred summer," Susan says. " That was always the season I fell in love. I loved the way the sun would beat down on my skin and my pulse would race and I could never focus my concentration for more than a few minutes."

" I think they call that heat stroke," I say. " I was the exact opposite. I hated summer. My mother always kept me indoors as much as possible. She didn't like me playing in the sun because I burn very easily. Where those other little kids kept getting those matches, I'll never know."

We continue to walk through the forest as a slight drizzle begins to fall. The sun has begun to set and the horizon has turned that threatening shade of magenta. I read the sun is expected to burn out in three hundred billion years, which confuses me a lot. These experts can't even predict if it is going to rain tomorrow, let alone forecast the weather billions of years from now.

The drizzle occurs at a steadier pace. I wonder if it is safe to be in the forest if there is lightning. Parents always warned not to be near trees. Well, most parents anyway. Mine actually tied me to trees and gave me a bunch of metal spoons to hold. But despite this parental warning, you never hear of any little forest animals getting struck by lightning. Not even those caught in metal bear traps.

" I used to love the rain," says Susan. " I would come home from school all drenched from jumping in puddles and people spitting on me because I ruined the grade curve. God, when did I start to hate the rain?"

" My father loved driving in the rain,” I say. “ It always made him feel peaceful. Whenever it rained he would take us on these long car rides in the countryside - which would have been great except we owned a convertible. And I remember one trip, just staring at the windshield wipers clearing away the drops of rain. There was this one bug stuck on the wipers which kept going back and forth. Back and forth. The entire trip. Just back and forth. Occasionally the bug would get cocky and only hold on with one insect hand.”

“ I always felt bad for bugs stuck on a car,” says Susan. “I always felt like I was taking them away from their home. Before I would let my family pull out of the drive-way I would have to take the bug off the car and put it on a tree."

“It’s kind of funny that as kids we treated insects better than we treated each other.”

“ There’s nothing wrong with being kind to insects,” says Susan. “ Except for that Christmas when you left little wrapped gifts by all the ant hills in the neighborhood. That was kinda weird.”

The rain starts to come down harder and causes our clothes to cling to our bodies. Susan’s hair becomes matted to her face and there’s something about the way the drops just roll down her face and cling to her cheeks for a few seconds before gravity finally causes them to fall to the ground - as if the raindrops don’t want to leave her. Susan is wearing a white T-shirt which is not an outfit one should wear in the rain when the guy you’re walking with is trying desperately not to fall back in love with you. Her nipples show slightly through her drenched shirt and my mind drifts back to that last night before Susan went off to college - when she stood outside my porch in the pouring rain and we made love for the last time. And it breaks my heart. A nervous feeling forms in my stomach. It feels like when I was seventeen and lost my virginity to Cindy Lou Hurtsong - except now my parents aren't standing at the foot of the bed taking photos for my scrapbook. I look over at Susan. I can sense she is cold. I move closer to Susan, putting my arm around her and offering her my jacket.

“ You should head back to the cabin,” I say. “ It’s way too cold to be out here right now.”

“ Do you mind if we just stay a little longer? It’s been a long time since we had a nice moment together. I don't get nostalgic often and I don't want to ruin the moment," says Susan as she shivers slightly. “ Besides, it’s not that cold.”

“ It’s freezing. When I went behind the bushes to pee awhile ago, ice cubes came out.”

“ It’s only cold because we’re climbing up in the mountains,” says Susan.

“ I never understood that,” I say. “ If we’re getting closer to the sun, shouldn’t it get warmer as you climb up.”

" Actually, maybe we should head back. It is getting cold outside. There's a bunch of ducks by that tree trying to exhale to see their breath,” says Susan as her shivers become more pronounced.

And by shivers, I really mean nipples, but I hate to sound too crude. We get up off the boulder and start to head back to the cabin.

" So, you and Mark are getting married," I say tentatively as we walk along the trail.

" Yeah, can you believe it?" answers Susan.

" I'm not even sure if Ripley can," I say.

" When I left for college, I wanted you to come after me, tell me I made a mistake by leaving,” says Susan. “ I know we’ve talked about this before, but why didn't you ever come?"

And I’ve asked myself that so many times since that day and I’ve come up with a thousand different reasons. But the truth is, I don’t know why I didn’t go after her. I just didn’t. I turn to Susan who is a slight step behind me and look her in the eyes and I start to tell her that I think I might still be in love with her and that I don’t want her to marry Mark, but then I don’t. Even though I know a decade from now, I will have asked myself a thousand times why I didn’t tell her what I was feeling. But, I don’t. I just don’t. And I can tell from the look in her eyes that she wants me to say the words and it will erase all those years where we did nothing. But I just stare at her for a few seconds before turning back around and continuing on to the cabin.

As I turn around and face forward, a tree branch hits me in my head and I go down. I lie face down in a pile of wet leaves, unable to get up.

“ Oh come on,” says Susan as she looks at my slightly groggy form. “ You weren’t hit that hard. Just get up and shake the cobwebs loose.”

“ I just got hit in the head with a large branch. What do you mean shake it loose? It’s a brain - not an Etch-A-Sketch.”

I lie in the leaves for what seems like hours, but is probably just minutes. I swear from the corner of my eye I can see a pair of ducks, giggling at me and nibbling some packets of plum sauce that they stole from me during the earlier attack. I finally get up. I can feel a bump starting to form on my head and wet leaves clinging to my hair.

“ Make sure you pull the leaves from your hair,” says Susan. “ I don’t want everyone in the cabin thinking I attacked you. I’m still on probation from that rock fight we had back in high school and I don’t need anymore trouble.”

We walk a little more and the cabin finally comes back into sight. Before we get on the final trail to the cabin Susan finally brings up what she came out here to talk about.

“ Are you and Laura going to be OK?” she asks.

“ I take it you heard everything?”

“ Yeah, I’m sorry.”

“ I’m not sure what my reaction was about. I’m a big supporter of the right to choose. But, when it’s your own child, your own baby and she’s thinking of getting rid of it and not even telling you. I don’t think I could ever forgive someone for that.”

Susan listens quietly, not certain how she should respond. Then she finally speaks.

“ Could you forgive me?” she asks as she looks into my eyes.

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