A Gopher Gets Away

Anyway, it’s probably six or seven at this point, and Alicia’s at her little makeup table, pinching blackheads from around her lip, or something, and she keeps looking at me in the mirror, and she’s finally like, What?

      And I take a sip of my beer and I’m like, What?

      And she says, May I help you?

      May I help you? What is that? May I help you?

      She says, Well, you standing there is kind of weird.

      And I’m like, weird? What do you mean, weird? Since when was it weird to watch a beautiful woman getting ready, number one? And secondly, it’s my fucking apartment. I take care of every bill. I pay for everything. If I want to stand in the bedroom doorway and watch my girlfriend get ready, I’d say it’s okay.

      Right? Okay.

      So she lets out one of those deep pouty breaths of hers and says, Nevermind, Guy. Whatever.

      And she’s all passive aggressive and rolling her eyes at me, which I’ve asked her something close to a thousand times not to do.

      Then I ask her what time she’s going to be home. Which is not an unreasonable question, right? Given the circumstances?

      And she goes, I already told you, we’re getting dinner. I’ll be back by ten.

      Ten, she says. Ten. Okay? Ten.

      So, then I ask her who this guy is that’s taking her out to dinner on a fucking Thursday night.

      And in another of her pouty breaths, she says, I’ve already told you this like a hundred times, Guy.

      And she’s saying my name like it’s a breed of rodent, or something, and I’m thinking, You know what? You haven’t told me a hundred times, because I haven’t asked a hundred times. Sure, yes, it may not be the first time I’m bringing it up, or whatever, but I’m obviously nervous about it. I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one who would think it’s strange that you’re going out to dinner with some photographer on a fucking Thursday night.

      I mean, yes, I do get it. She’s trying to get back into modeling and everything, and she’s got to do this sort of thing—networking and all that—but still, dinner? Jesus fucking Christ woman, you can’t give me a morsel of compassion? I mean, considering the circumstances, considering how tough things have been lately. She’s hardly said a word to me, by the way, since I lost my cell phone. What’s that? Two weeks now? For what? Because I accidentally, accidentally, left my phone at the bar, and one of the dishwashers took it. You should’ve heard her: Oh there’s another two-hundred dollars we’ve got to spend because you were drunk. Man, I love how she says we, like she’s the one working ten-hour shifts. And anyway, my being drunk had nothing to do with it, because I wasn’t fucking drunk. Careless, sure. Tired, definitely. I mean, it’s not like I’m intentionally putting my phone down and saying, Huh, let’s here for someone to pawn. The woman has absolutely no empathy whatsoever. The only thing she knows how to do is think about herself.

      Anyway, so now I’m like, Well, don’t photographers make their own hours? Why does he have to be taking you to dinner?

      But she doesn’t answer me. Just tells me to stop shouting.

      And I say, I’m not fucking shouting. And now, I’m shouting because she’s accusing me of it.

      Then she turns around on that old antique bench she’s sitting on, the one that belonged to Queen Elizabeth or whoever, and says, Fine, Guy. I’ll call him and cancel. Is that what you want? For me to throw away every good opportunity that comes my way?

      And she’s saying this, of course, because she knows, knows, I can’t say yes. The second I say yes to that, any time I want to have a drink on my day off, any time I even feel like engaging with another member of the human species, she’ll be standing there with a big old reminder of how I told her to cancel on the photographer.

      So there she is, victory in hand, and she turns back around and starts doing her eyes or whatever she’s onto in her elaborate process of beautification, and I go get another beer from the fridge and turn on the television in the living room. And literally, literally, the second, the fucking second I put on the television, she charges down the hall, pounces on me, snatches the remote straight out of my hand, and goes and turns the volume way the hell down.

      And I’m like, What drugs are you on, woman? Are you kidding me? I can hardly hear it.

      And she’s like, Well then sit closer to the television. I don’t want you waking him up.

      And that’s just ridiculous because the kid’ll sleep through pretty much anything. I mean if he’s going to suddenly develop a sleeping disorder, I don’t think it’s the Animal Channel that’ll set things off.

      So then she’s like, You know what’s ridiculous? You sitting around and getting drunk instead of keeping your promises.

      And I’m like, What promises? Please tell me about all these promises I’ve been breaking.

      And she says, You promised you’d work on your script tonight.

      Now, first of all, yes, I said I would work on it. But I never got down on my knees and said I promise you sweetie, I’m going to work on the script tonight. Never. This is her idea of a promise. I say I’ll do something once, just mention it, and I’m bound to it for all eternity. And you know what? I was going to work on it. But put yourself in my shoes. I mean, she’s going out to dinner with this guy, this fucking photographer guy she knew back from when she was living in Tokyo or Shanghai or wherever, and she expects me to able to think clearly and write.

      Besides, I don’t think she’s entirely justified in saying I’m getting drunk. It’s not unreasonable to say that a couple of drinks might help the process along. I mean, how else am I supposed to relax? I’m not allowed to do anything else. I can’t smoke cigarettes—that was out almost as soon as we’d started dating—I can’t smoke weed, because despite its imminent legalization, she doesn’t want to set a bad example for the kid. And most recently—you’ll love this one—no more red meat, because apparently the majority of medical professionals deem it unsafe for a twenty-four year old to eat a porterhouse.

      I should have known. I should have known from our second fucking date when I took her to that wine place in the East Village. I should have known when I ordered us a bottle—and not one of those cheap thirty-dollar bottles, I ordered us a bottle from the middle of the goddamn menu—and the entire time I’m making all of these elaborate toasts trying to get her drinking, but let me tell you, it would be have been easier to empty out the entire Atlantic ocean with a straw than it would have been to get her to finish a glass of wine.

      Had I known how it’d all turn out, that I’d end up arguing in the middle of my living room over the volume of a fucking nature show, I’d have ordered a glass of house red, kissed her on the cheek, and ended it right there. Man, let me tell you something, if you can help it, don’t get involved with anyone beautiful, especially not anyone who has a couple of born-agains for parents. I mean, I love the kid and everything, but the only reason she wouldn’t get an abortion is that she said they’d disown her.

      But how was I supposed to know? How could anyone have known? She’s just about the most beautiful girl anyone’s ever seen. I mean, not when she’s standing there looking like she’d be ready to eat your intestines with a goddamn spoon, but in general, you know? I’m pretty astounded she talked to me in the first place. And it’s not even what she looks like—not that that didn’t help to move things along—but it’s the way she could get me to stop worrying all the time. How she would come to the restaurant before my shift was over and just sit there sipping a ginger ale at the bar. And then when we’d take a cab back to Brooklyn, the entire time she’d be massaging the back of my neck and all, and I’d look out over the Hudson and for a few minutes forget how tired I was from everything.

Anyway, the woman downstairs starts going at her ceiling with a broom. I guess we were shouting or something, and because she doesn’t want to wake the kid, she stops biting my head off for a moment and goes and starts putting on her earrings or whatever, and I just sit and stare at the ceiling, because what the hell else am I supposed to do?

      I must have been looking at the ceiling for a decent amount of time, because the next thing I know the doorbell’s ringing and Alicia’s telling me to buzz him up. Which is like, what? Are you fucking kidding me? Not only is she going out to dinner with this guy—not lunch, dinner—and not only have I made it fucking alpine-water clear that I don’t want her going, but she wants this guy buzzed up into the apartment. And she’s having me do the damn buzzing. It’s outstanding. It’s beyond fucking words.

      But what am I going to do? Leave him out there in the cold? I know Alicia isn’t anywhere near ready—god-for-fucking-bid—so I buzz him up, crack the door, and go and get another Corona from the fridge. And when I come back the motherfucker’s standing there playing on his phone and just nods one of those little, “Oh, heys," like we’re waiting at a bus stop together, and goes back to Facebooking or whatever it is that’s so important.

     So I’m like, Hey, how’s it going? like a normal fucking person, and you know, to be nice, I offer him a drink, which of course he declines, but I get him one anyway, because whether or not I want to rip his throat out of his neck, it’s the polite thing to do.

    So now we’re both standing there with our beers—he’s not even drinking his—and I try to make it a little less awkward and say, Hey, yeah, Alicia showed me some of your work. It’s really good stuff, man. Which he pretty much says nothing to. So I take another couple sips of my beer, and I see that he’s looking at the television, so I’m like, Do you ever watch the Animal Channel?

      And at least he’s put his phone away at this point, but he’s still basically speaking Neanderthal.

      And I’m like, There’s some really good photography there, man, you should check it out.

      And he just grunts.

      Then it’s a good fifteen minutes before Alicia comes prancing down the hallway in fucking stilettos, and I’m thinking to myself, Okay, yes, the kid’s going to wake up because of Animal Channel but is deaf to your catwalking on hardwood floors. And then, she comes and wraps her arms around the photographer’s neck, and he sort of lifts her up, which was kind of funny actually because he was probably shorter than her, even without the heels.

      Anyway, after a year or so of them fawning all over each other, she turns around and is like, Adrienne—(I think that’s his name, but I wouldn’t swear by it)—have you met Guy?

      Oh, yes, Guy, the man you live with. He hasn’t been standing around trying to entertain a brain-dead piece of shit for the past hour. But now, of course, the guy’s all smiling and saying, Yeah, yeah we met; he was telling me he liked my photos. Which, you can imagine, was pretty astounding because up to this point I was convinced the guy’s mental capacity was about on par with an Etruscan Shrew.

      Then he says to me, Can you believe her, she doesn’t look like she just had a kid, does she? And she’s all blushing and hanging all over his shoulder. I mean, it’s not like I tell her that all the time. It makes no difference what I say. What I say means nothing.

      Then she asks if he wants to take a tour of the place, but he tells her that they probably should be getting to the restaurant, so they don’t lose their reservation—the first intelligent thing he’s said all night.

      So she gets her coat from the closet, and before I can even do anything he goes and rips it out of her hands and holds it out for her to get into. Then she gives me one of her little reminders not to turn up the television and hands me her cell phone and tells me to call Adrienne’s number if anything comes up. Then she and the photographer go trampling down the stairs, cackling like a bunch of starved hyenas, and he holds open the door of the taxi he’d kept waiting.

      Anyway, with her finally gone I think I’ll maybe get a bit of writing done. But of course I can’t, because all I’m thinking about is this homunculus of a motherfucker being within pawing distance of Alicia all night. So, I figure I’ll have another beer, but then I’m thinking a beer isn’t going to do anything for me, so I have a couple bourbon and sodas and without any volume on the television I end up falling asleep on the sofa.

      When I wake up it’s something like 11:30. No, you know what? It’s 11:34. I look at the cable box, and it’s 11:34, and I’m like, Fucking great, because at this point I’m thinking she came home and saw me there passed out on the couch and didn’t even wake me up to come to bed. So I go and brush my teeth and toss my pants in the hamper—that fucking hamper—and start preparing myself for one of her pristine sideways glances, but when I open the bedroom door she’s not there. I check the kid’s room. She’s not there, either. I check her phone. Not a single missed call.

      And I’m trying to figure out what to do, so I look through her phone and find this guy Adrienne’s number. And he doesn’t pick up. So I call him again, thinking he can’t hear his phone or something, and this time it goes straight to voicemail, which means now the little motherfucker’s gone and turned his phone off. And I’m like, Is this guy fucking serious? Doesn’t he know that we’ve got a kid? It could be a fucking emergency, and here he is turning off his phone.

      So now I’m about to lose my mind. My heart is trying to break its way straight out of my chest, and I’m pacing all over the apartment, and I’m thinking, Guy it’s going to be fine. She’ll be back soon. Just cool yourself down. Everything’s going to be fine. So I take off my shirt and sort of wipe my forehead with it—I mean, I’m sweating like I’d just hopped off a fucking treadmill—and I go into the kitchen and grab a bottle from the freezer and a glass.

      Now under normal circumstances this would work just fine. But, clearly, these are not normal circumstances, because by my second or third drink all I’m thinking is what it would be like if Alicia didn’t come back, if she just disappeared. And I start thinking about the kid and changing its diapers, and how if she were gone it’d be me just changing diapers all the time.

      And then, man, you should have seen this, like a fucking crazy person I start talking to myself—talking to myself out loud like a fucking crazy person in a mental ward—and I start saying, what if she doesn’t get back, and I’m pacing around repeating that over and over. What if she doesn’t get back? What if she doesn’t get back?

      So after an hour of this, the broom lady starts going at her ceiling. I mean, poor woman. The only thing she has to do with her life is bang on her ceiling with a broom; I’m not even wearing shoes.

      Anyway, her banging makes me come to for a second, and I realize I haven’t eaten all night.  So I go to the kitchen and make a bowl of Cookie Crisps and sort of sit up on the counter eating it. And by the time I’m halfway through it, I hear Alicia unlocking the door.

      At some point I must have put the chain on without realizing it, because when she opens the door she can’t get in. Now she’s out there rattling at the door, in complete disbelief, and starts shouting my name again and again. And I’m thinking, I’m thinking fuck it. You know what? I’ve been here sweating all over the place for the past two hours, why shouldn’t she sweat a bit?

      And she goes, Guy, you think I can’t hear you there? Open the damn door.

      Then she starts sticking her nose through the opening, trying to get a look at me, and when that doesn’t work, she starts blowing out her vocal chords, shouting at the top of her lungs: Guy, let me in the fucking house, you pathetic piece of shit! You think this is funny, you fucking piece of shit?! Just wait until I get into this fucking apartment. And she’s starts ramming into the door and kicking and just going fucking ballistic, which I’m sort of sad I wasn’t out in the hallway to see, but unfortunately you can’t be on both sides of the door.

      So, I just stand there, not saying a thing. I don’t even move. I just pick up the box of Cookie Crisps and fill my bowl.

      Finally, after God knows how long, the broom lady starts going at it—I’m surprised she hadn’t started sooner—and between Alicia’s howling and the broom lady’s thumping, the baby starts to cry.

      So, now my fun’s basically over, and I go to the door to take the chain off. But as soon as Alicia sees me there, standing in my fucking boxers eating a bowl of cereal, she loses it completely. I mean, I could’ve sworn that before she’d been going at it with everything she had. Clearly, I was mistaken. She starts to reach through the space in the door and try to grab me, and she’s like, Cereal? Are you kidding me? You’re leaving me out here, while you eat a bowl of fucking Cookie Crisps?!

      Finally, I get her to put her arm back, so I can close the door and get the chain off to let her in, but when I open it, she’s standing there still like a fucking statue. And I’m looking at her: her makeup’s a complete mess, her teeth are purple, and she’s looking at me with this bowl of Cookie Crisps, and after a moment her eyes light up, and she clocks me one right in the face.And now I’m all hunched over—milk everywhere, blood gushing out of my face—and she walks right by me to get the kid from out of the crib, but not before peeling her heels off one at a time and pelting them at my head.

      So anyway, after a couple minutes I get my bearings and grab up my t-shirt and go and sit at the foot of the couch and try and stop the bleeding, and I sort of start watching what’s on the television to take my mind off the fact that Alicia’s just split my face in two. It’s still on the Animal Channel and there’s this dog hunting a gopher in its gopher hole—this beautiful red dog with these high pointy ears—and it’s walking real slow, real low to the ground, and the camera keeps going between the dog and this gopher, and every time the gopher seems like he knows something’s up—like sort of looks around and senses something—the dog just stops and waits. It goes back and forth like this for a bit until the dog makes its move and charges at the gopher, pounces on the gopher hole, and snatches him out. The gopher tries getting away—almost does, too—but the dog’s faster and nabs him up and tosses the little thing in its mouth. Even with the volume basically on mute, you can still hear this gopher yelp. At first you're sort of rooting for the dog, but once the gopher gets nabbed up, you start feeling really bad; the poor little thing was just trying to live his life when this dog came along and pulled him out of his hole.