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June 26, 2005

Holding Up the World

In which there is infidelity, infelicity, and indecision.

I am concerned throughout the first half hour of my relationship with Judith. She is inconsiderate at the start of things, refusing to ask me where I come from and what it is my people value. Instead it is, “Have you been to this place before?” and “Do you like the wine?”

Eventually I bring her around. I assume it is my rapid blinking.

“Is there something wrong with your eye?” she asks, which leads to, “This is common among people who come from where I come from,” to which she replies, “And where do you come from?” Which cheers me.

“The Hamptons,” I say, which cheers her.

This is at the 32-minute mark. A few minutes later the waiter brings our salads and then we are in love.


“Have you ever eaten loin before?” I ask.

“I think it’s heavenly!” she says. “Just heavenly!”

“Try the soup,” I suggest.

“The soup!” she says. “Just lovely! Heavenly!”

“Where I come from,” I say, “We have soup all the time.”


Judith swears on her bible that she won’t do it on the first date.

“Are you very religious?” I ask.

“Not so much” she says, “But a bible is a bible, and I do so fear the fires of hell.”

“They are terrifying,” I admit. “But, here, have some more wine.”


After we do it, I ask about the bible and her fears.

“Are you ready for another go?” she says.

To which I respond by pretending to fall asleep. To which she responds by falling asleep.


In the morning we remember our other lives and feel wretched in our guilt.

“Hernando,” she says. “He trusts me. How he trusts me!”

“For me, the problem is named Megan,” I say. “Which brings me to the question of whether you would mind keeping it down a bit.”

At which point I hear Megan from the other bedroom. Apparently, she is awake.

“Could you keep it down in there?” Megan yells. “And that goes double for that hussy Judith.”

“My wife,” I explain. “We have an understanding.”

“She knows my name?” says Judith.

“I went through your purse,” Megan yells through the wall.


Later on we call Hernando. He comes over. The four of us have lunch. Hernando is upset but also intrigued by our suggested solution to the problem of his anger.


“Where I come from people don’t get angry about things like these,” I say, after.

“I’m not angry,” he says. “Not any more.”

He is lounging in the bed, smoking a long cigarette.

“Is this an ultralight?” he asks.

“I’m afraid so,” I say.

“Give me another then,” he says.

He smokes them both at the same time. He coughs.

“That’s better,” he says. He loses consciousness eventually.


“The girls went out to get some chicken,” I say.

“How long have I been out?” he asks.

“A while,” I say.

“I guess that’s what happens when a man gets too happy,” he says.

“Go figure,” I say.

“Go figure,” he says.

We are keen friends now.


On the other side of the street, the Jeffersons are finger painting with their kids. Bob Jefferson folds his undershirts and reviews the stock columns. Betty darns socks, boils eggs, waters plants, and paints the walls a more cheerful color.

Or so I imagine. For the sake of contrast. The thought of it heightens my own understanding of things.


The girls come back. We eat and drink and gorge. Afterward, our fingers are greasy.

“I’ve stopped caring about my work,” says Hernando. “My efficiency has dropped as a result, and yet I keep on getting a raise each year.”

“I love to eat fried foods,” I say. “As a result, I am getting fat.”

“It’s true,” says Megan. “I’ve been meaning to say something.”

“For me, it’s a failure to think beyond my next new miniskirt or what I will order for lunch when we go to the lodge next Tuesday,” says Judith.


We each pity the others and admire the others and envy the others. We admit, in concert, that we are past the best parts of our lives, that we are fading. That there is little pleasure in accepting this and even less in lacking the will to do things any differently.


Megan and I have a dog. His name is Charles. He eats one half-cup of high-protein kibble in the morning and another half-cup just before we go to bed. His life involves a series of goings out and comings in. There is a worn blue pillow where he lies. He seems content.

“Do you admire Charles?” I ask the other three. They ponder on the question and decide that they do not.

“The drama,” says Hernando. “Does he miss it?”

Charles is asleep on his pillow by the window. It is late afternoon. The light on his back is rich and honey-colored.

“I don’t think he does,” says Megan. “But I think that I would.”

“Charles chases things sometimes,” I say.

“When was the last time you threw his rope chew?” says Megan.

“You have a point,” I say.

I reach beneath the chair and grab his rope chew. I throw it across the room. But Charles keeps on sleeping. It almost looks like he is smiling.

“Dogs always seem to be smiling,” says Hernando.

“It doesn’t make me feel any better,” I say.


Hernando and Judith ask if they can spend the night. We’re giddy with the thought of it. We move the coffee table and gather all the pillows in the middle of the living room. We drink beer and get drunk. We brag and tell lies and tremble on the verge of committing unspeakable acts. But nothing happens. We look at one other.

“This isn’t thrilling,” says Hernando.

“We did it all this morning,” says Judith.

“Is that the problem?” I say.

“I think so,” says Megan. “The mystery…”

“Kaput,” says Judith.

“Kaput,” says Hernando.


We put our clothes back on, slide into our sleeping bags, and talk about the things that most concern us. There are no flashlights. There is no campfire. We will fall asleep and then we will wake up.

But in the dark, tonight, there is a pause. The four of us are holding up the world.

Posted by bogenamp at June 26, 2005 08:40 AM