Sputterpub's Blog

I notice when Sandy tries to get Liz gossiping (“Do you hear what they’re talking about? Can you believe it?”) and Liz does too. Sandy is clearly homophobic and definitely bad at whispering; she is forever being overheard. Liz must have felt for Stephanie, cause she shuts Sandy up by leaving the table abruptly. She covers her movement by advising Charlie to start some hot dogs for the kids, and she joins me and Stephanie while Charlie gets to work.

I contribute to the social salvage. “So how are you doing?” I ask Liz. “Charlie tells me you love to entertain.”

“Say what?”

“You mean I was misinformed?”

“I wish my time at home could be for me. Every time I turn around, Charlie’s inviting people over. Now it’s his brother’s family, but it can be visitors at work, acquaintances who were once college friends but he hasn’t seen in fifteen years, whatever. He needs people to like him; he’s got to be the superhost. And he expects me to be his partner in all of it.” She shifts her weight from leg to leg, as if she were barefoot on hot sand. She gulps her margarita.

“Is he still working as hard as he was? Or did you give him Hank’s number?”

“Still working. Oh, I’m not going to tell him about Hank’s deal. I know Hank too well. Charlie would not like him. There’s no point in even telling Charlie about that job. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

From what I’ve heard, the job with Hank would be great for Charlie. I’m thinking Liz may be underestimating Charlie’s ability to deal with different personalities. I feel sorry that she’s filtering for him. But I take a moment to come up with a nice way to say that (instead of my usual blurt), and while I do, the conversation shifts.

“Look at the puppies,” Stephanie coos. Tristan has tempted Anya to resume play, and the dogs are starting to frolic around on the lawn.

“Maybe the smell of cooking meat revived them,” I suggest, and that becomes my exit line as I cross the deck to Charlie. He’s brought out a big plate of franks and he’s poking half a dozen of them around on the rack of the barbecue. The others wait on a low table behind him.

“These are for the kids, Tommy.”

“Maybe some, but you and I are still kids enough to need ‘em too.” We watch the franks start to blister, and we salivate. “You know,” I continue, “I think I actually prefer the dogs to the burgers. It’s true I don’t know what’s in them, but I like the neatness of the package. I always know what size they’ll be.” Or maybe it’s just that Charlie, with his usual expansiveness, makes the burgers too big. He’s definitely a more-is-better guy. I don’t say that.

“You’re right. Let’s have some. Liz says we should wait for my parents, but I want a hot dog.” He sounds almost petulant. “Shit. My brother comes early. My parents come late. Liz is in a mood and she’s about to hit the vodka. I need more pot.” Charlie turns the franks again. They’re bulging all around and almost ready. He puts six buns on the grill.

“Candace has a theory.” I’ve stepped to the cooler and hand him an open Red Rock. “She says if it’s true that there’s an impulse gene, then there’s probably a patience gene too. She thinks different people live at different rates. We’ve been talking about it a lot lately. I think she may have something. We all know about respecting another’s space, but what about respecting the rate at which another feels?”

Charlie looks at me like I’ve lost it. “You and Candace have strange chats,” he says, as he inserts each hot dog into a toasted sesame bun. He calls Brad and Scott over and gives them two apiece. He hands one to me and takes the last one himself. We hear Liz complain to Stephanie about her hot feet as we take our first bites. Reduced fat oozes deliciously. While we savor our food, Tristan and Anya move quietly behind us and eat all the uncooked franks.

We don’t make it to the study. Ten-year-old Scott, who never walks when he can run, who actually tries to climb walls, Charlie’s nephew Scott finds us before we get through the doorway. We give up the idea of finishing our smoke and instead listen to his reports of skateboard daring. He brought his board on the walk and managed to terrify both his mother and neighbor Stephanie.

“You should have seen me Uncle Charlie!” he sings out, at once trying to jump up and dance ahead of us as we turn back outside. “I did a one-eighty and a jump off the curb and I almost caught my board when I tipped up,” he continues, and Charlie doesn’t have to give him more than a pat and a nod in response before he dashes off. I say: “Liz doesn’t sound too comfortable right now. I don’t think she’s up for this party.”

“Oh, she’s just a little tired. A margarita will shape her right up. She loves to entertain.” We turn right and through the French doors. The yard is now crowded.

Charlie’s brother and sister-in-law are seated at the table with Liz. Jeff is drinking a beer as usual and Sandy is pretending she isn’t, by refusing a bottle of her own and drinking most of her husband’s. She’s also looking for Charlie, because she quit smoking a year ago and she wants to mooch hits off his cigarettes. Stephanie, the frustratingly lovely lesbian insurance attorney, is standing at the edge of the deck watching the pooped puppies. And Scott’s fourteen-year-old brother Brad is trying to get the dogs to play with him on the lawn.

The animals are having none of it.

Liz and Charlie live in one of the sunniest neighborhoods in Oakland. I’m just outside it, on the other side of a freeway. Their place nestles in a flat triangle between three major roadways, and it’s always at least five degrees warmer than elsewhere in the area. It’s about eighty-five in the yard right now. Their Anya is a two-year old collie, heavy-coated. Stephanie’s puppy is a Bernese Mountain Dog. She calls him Tristan and he looks like an Ewok. His coat feels as thick as a sea otter’s. Both dogs are doing everything they can to cool. Lying on their sides, tongues lolling onto the ground, they are black-brown-and-white mounds of pulsing fur.

We join the folks on the deck with Scott dancing around us. I let myself space through the Jeff-and-Sandy greetings; I know they both think I’m stupid or brain-damaged or something, the weird friend of brother Charlie’s, and I don’t much like them so I do nothing to correct that impression. Jeff may be okay, but he seems too desperate to be happy. Sandy is vain, attention-hungry, and alcoholic. Those sentences simplify them, of course, but since it’s how I’ve heard each of them describe the other, the statements probably are not unfair, on some level…

While Charlie goes into jovial mode by the door, opening the cooler and pressing wet bottles into hands with particular comments about color and body, I move to the edge of the deck, to Stephanie’s side.

“Tristan is growing so fast you can almost see it happen while he rests,” I comment. The puppy is starting to come to life on the lawn. He’s still overheated but too young to stay down long. Stephanie looks fondly at him and then turns her liquid chocolate eyes my way. “He’s such a sweetie,” she murmurs and smiles toward the lawn. Her dark hair shines in the sunlight. “I don’t know what I would have done without him these last few months.”

She and her ex-wife broke up shortly after acquiring Tristan. Karen says the puppy is the one thing she’ll really miss from their marriage. What with Charlie’s hospitality and Liz’s tendency to say nice things, it was inevitable that they’d be friends with their neighbors. And Stephanie and Karen were lovely neighbors. Both in their mid-thirties, both fit, brunette, pretty, smart, and friendly, the only surprise to the other residents at this end of the block was their domestic and sexual relationship. And they weren’t in anyone’s face about that, except when they forgot to lower the bedroom shade all the way, and then only Liz and Charlie could see, and they didn’t have to look. No, it wasn’t the couple’s love that shocked the neighborhood. After a few years of being together, Stephanie and Karen began to fight with each other, and there was the shock. Then everyone learned how much Karen drank. Then everyone heard how abusive and violent pretty Stephanie could be.

When Karen concluded she had no choice but to leave, Liz and Charlie put her up till she could find a new place. So they stayed in the middle of it. And they’re still the audience for Stephanie’s and Karen’s individual stories of what went wrong (everyone’s ex is crazy), and how their dating scenes are going now. I’m over here a lot, and I’ve become audience too. So it’s no surprise to hear Stephanie launch into descriptions of the last four women she dated.

It’s also no surprise that Sandy is fascinated. She hears what Stephanie is talking about (she has to make a bit of a lean-back effort from the table to eavesdrop) and she relishes it. I can’t figure why she’s so fascinated about the idea of women loving women, but she is. Come to think of it, she seems acutely and vulgarly interested in anything to do with sex; her eyes light up when conversation or action becomes suggestive, and she loves double entendre.

I come around the corner of the house just in time to hear Liz complain. “Char-leeee…” her tone climbs as she drags out the last syllable. “My feet are hot. You know how much it bothers me when my feet are hot.”

“So take your shoes off.” Charlie is mixing margaritas in the kitchen. His voice comes through the screened window above the sink. Liz walks across their deck to the window. She sends her words through the screen like cigarette smoke.

“I can’t take my shoes off,” she whisper-shouts at her husband. “My toenail fungus is too ugly.”

“Jeez, Liz.” I can hear Charlie’s exasperation with her. He doesn’t want this conversation. “Can’t you just put on lighter shoes?”

“You know I hate it when it’s squishy in my shoes. So I’d have to wear socks. And then my feet will be hot. Which is the problem I have now.”

I speak. “Hey folks…What up? Do you really want me to hear this? Where is everybody?” I take the four steps in two strides and sit down at their round glass table.

“Like you haven’t heard worse!” Charlie snorts at me through the screen. “Jeff and Sandy and Stephanie are walking the dogs and the kids. My parents won’t arrive till later. What’ll you drink, Tom?”

I’ve known Charlie for more than fifteen years now, and Liz for the ten they’ve been married. He’s a dedicated host. As usual, he has placed a cooler on the deck, between the wood-framed double-paned French doors to the breakfast nook and the window to the kitchen. It’s filled with boutique beers and waters, stuck in crushed ice like cloves in oranges. One of those or a margarita? With everyone else away he’ll probably offer hits; beer will go better with pot. I pull an Anchor Steam. I smile hello to Liz as I consider whether to sit down again or to wander inside.

“You’re looking good Tommy.” Liz’s words hold me there. “Is that a new shirt?”

Liz is obese. She’s five feet tall and seems about as wide, with tits each bigger than her head. Charlie’s big too, but he’s over six feet and can carry it. Anyway, as Candace has informed me more than once, men wear weight better in our culture. A portly man can be attractive but it’s still a challenge for us to admire a large white woman. With all my flaws, I’m not fat. I work out. Liz always looks at me like she appreciates my body, and she often comments on my clothes. It’s like she’s flirting. But she tends to say nice things to everyone. To their face anyway. She’s complicated. She’s referring now to the new shirt Candace gave me: silk or rayon or something light, in good colors. “Yeah,” I answer. “Candace didn’t want to come but at least she dressed me for the occasion.” I could kick myself as I hear my own words. Didn’t want to come? Why didn’t I say couldn’t come? I told the unnecessary truth again. Tommy the space cadet. At least Charlie and Liz are used to it.

Charlie appears at the door stomach first, brass proto-pipe in hand. He tamps its contents with a thumb, makes his quartz lighter glow, tokes through his multi-colored beard. “Couldn’t get Candace here, huh?” he asks without exhaling.

“As usual. But that’s okay with me. It works for us to socialize separately.” I’m sure Candace would be just as independent even if we were married, but I’ve come to accept her position on the concept. When she comments that she’s tried it twice and isn’t good at it, that’s about as self-effacing as she gets. I’ll take it. I receive the pipe from Charlie and draw on it slowly, making an orange disk in the bowl; then I hand it back to him. I look at their well-tended garden and exhale.

“Uh-oh. Here come the kids. Let’s go to the study to finish this.”

I follow him through the kitchen, past the huge tossed salad, the fixings, the platters of half-pound burgers and kosher hot dogs. All Charlie has to do is fire up the gas barbecue and we’ll be ten minutes away from grilled meat. As we edge between their tall plastic garbage can and the kitchen bar I read the empty hot dog packages on the top of the trash. Kosher reduced-fat all-beef franks. “What part of the beef do you suppose is in reduced-fat all-beef franks?” I ask.

Charlie turns his big grin toward me as he moves across the dining room. “I don’t know what’s in the ones with unreduced fat. I guess they just remove the big white globs of lard before they grind.”

“You realize I lost the rest of my iced coffee in the course of that debacle,” she points out. “Let me say this. At Emotional Heights, iced caffeine will be readily available.”

“Yeah. Yeah. And we’ll be able to get all dressings on the side. Dream on. And tell me about, what did you call her?”

“Teeny. If I ever introduce you to her, you cannot let on that I call her that.” Janet puts her fork down and sits back. “Her name is Christine, she’s five feet tall, and she acts short. She’s a little obnoxious, so I fondly think of her as Teeny.”

“And she’s in love with you?”

“No. Just obsessed. With something. It’s not me. It’s love or sex or the need to have a relationship or desperation or mania. The thing about Teeny is,” Janet leans forward and speaks with whispered energy, “she’s one of those gay people who acts like her corny concept of the other gender. You know what I mean? I’ve met men who acted dippily, helplessly feminine, and I found that repellent. Well, Teeny acts like the classic short man. She smokes cigars. She has a foul mouth in the other sense of the word too. She’s rudely horny. She’s obnoxiously outgoing and positive. She drives a Porsche and she does it aggressively. It’s creepy behavior when a man engages in it, but it contains an element of dishonesty for a woman to act that way.”

Sherry nods her understanding. She’s done with her pasta and sees that Janet isn’t going to finish her fish. “You want dessert?” she asks.

“I’ll share something. I could really use some hot coffee.” Janet looks around again.

“How much coffee do you drink?”

“Oh, you don’t know about my caffeine jones? Shit, I do an eight cup pot before I leave the house in the morning, a double cap on my way to the office, regular refills there all morning, and coffee in whatever temperature at lunch. Then I usually stop for the day, although I sometimes need a little more around 3:30. I don’t drink it at night unless I go out for dinner. In the last five years or so, I notice it tends to keep me awake.” Janet sees the waiter and watches him avoid her eyes.

“I’ll have coffee now too. Tim’s coming home late tonight, and I plan to be awake when he arrives.”

“Where has he been?”

“Computer show in Las Vegas. He left Sunday. He’s driving all the way back today. He’s trying to do it on one tank of gas.”

“No way.”

“Way. He’ll probably make it. That old VW is really just a four-wheeled motorcycle. And he’ll coast every chance he gets. Tim has all these memories of fantastic road trips. You know: San Francisco to LA in a Corvair with no brakes; cross country on $23.75 for fuel and food…to make some tall stories short.”

The waiter comes to their table. They ask him for coffees and a dessert menu. He describes the desserts instead. They order one pumpkin bread pudding with two spoons. Janet picks at the stain on her shirt and excuses herself to visit the ladies’ room.

The coffees are served quickly. Dessert arrives just after Janet returns to the table. She’s a little excited.

“Look who’s over at the table by the far side of the bar,” she directs without pointing. “Can you see them?”

“Oh, God. Is that Sheila? It’s Sheila and Gwen! I haven’t seen them in at least a year! Should we go over and talk to them?”

“I don’t think so,” Janet advises. “I mean, it’s been so long since we spoke, and they’ve been through a lot in that time. I think we’d look like rubberneckers.”

“I can’t see too well. How big are they? How long has it been since Sheila’s awesome operation?” Sherry squirms a little with curiosity.

“I noticed them on my the way to the bathroom so I checked out what I could as I came back. I’d say they’ve both lost weight. They’re still big, but they’re both tall.”

“Sheila had like a two hundred pound cyst removed. Right?”

“Two hundred fifty seven pounds. I remember the numbers. She was near six hundred pounds and then dropped to around three hundred in one day.” Janet considers. “I’d say she’s about two fifty now. But she’s at least five foot ten, so she’s in an acceptable range. Gwen never got as big as Sheila; now they look like they’re around the same size.”

Sherry looks over as discreetly as she can. “There’s some man joining them. Can you see from there?”

Janet glances and then goggles. “That’s Solly!”

“The guy you spoke about earlier?”

“The same. Do you suppose Sheila and Gwen need tax help? Hmmmmm,” Janet spoons spiced whipped cream on pudding into her mouth. She looks again and shrugs.

“Janet, I think the man is flirting with Sheila. That’s how it looks from here.”

“Come on. She doesn’t meet any of his criteria. Except single. And Semitic. And maybe smart.”

“It looks like love from here. I think your afternoon just got easier. Now you simply have to avoid flirting with the big guy.”

“Now I simply have to build that subdivision. Too bad I can’t buy an island in the bay for it. As it is, my residents will probably have a long commute. Like two hours each way.”

“Which is why they’ll need the counseling that comes with Emotional Heights.”

“Precisely.”

“I don’t know, Jan. Maybe you should rethink your attraction. This Mac is married, and I don’t care that he doesn’t talk about his wife to you. Solly’s single and, well, have you ever been with a small man?”

“No. I’ve always seen myself as large. I mean, look at these feet. And my hands match. Oh, I like my long fingers – don’t get me wrong – but I don’t want to be with a man whose hands are smaller than mine. And Sol’s: well, his fingers do look strong and blunt, but they’re shorter than my own.”

The waiter interrupts them with their entrees. Janet is annoyed to note the absence of her iced espresso. She waits through his presentation of her grilled salmon on basil-mashed potatoes with baby carrots and cherry tomatoes. She listens while he introduces Sherry to her housemade pasta with baby mussels. Then she begs, “Can I please have my iced espresso?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, ma’am. My mistake. I completely forgot. I’ll get it right now.”

Sherry can tell that Janet won’t continue her conversation until she has the coffee. She waits the two minutes it takes for the man to bring the drink. During that time, Janet tells her that Emotional Heights will provide a fifteen minute a day verbal ventilation period; from 3:00 to 3:15 p.m. residents will be able to say anything. Then Janet gets her coffee, and Sherry resumes. “Pardon me if this is TMI, but a small-framed man can do a good job in bed. I mean, it’s been my experience that there’s a kind a gymnastic quality involved. A very nice, all-over hug? And, how can I say this? maybe it’s just a perspective thing, but the organ of generation looks more impressive…”

Janet is blushing and having a bit of trouble chewing. She drinks half her coffee and pauses. “Right,” she says. “And with a tall one, you have to choose between kissing him and another activity. How are things with Tim anyway?”

“The sex is still pretty good. He is a little gymnast. But his obsession with the cartoon characters is getting hard to take. It may even break us up. We’ve been together for eight years, and I never knew this about him.”

Janet pushes a piece of salmon around in her greenish potatoes. “I visited his Web site last night. I think the giraffe is cute.”

“Oh, it is. So’s the monkey. It’s adorable the way the giraffe wraps her neck around the screen. The monkey moves like a cursor. They are excellent ideas. He got them from some childhood book about a giraffe, a pelican, and a monkey, who went into the window washing business together. He likes to think of his characters as window washers, too; they save people’s screens and help users see through the new Windows. I’ve got no problem with all of that. It’s the man’s obsessive attitude that’s getting to me. He thinks about the giraffe and the monkey all the time. He leaves drawings of them everywhere. His life is turning into a one-joke movie. It’s a good joke, but there has to be more. If there isn’t, I think I’m going to be out of there.

“Speaking of obsession,” Sherry continues, “is that gay woman still pursuing you?”

“Teeny?”

“Come on. Is that what you call her? Uh-oh.” Sherry notices the short man with the pitcher before Janet does. He has the glass container tipped and the iced tea is about to flow from it into the espresso when Janet comprehends and places her hand across the top of her glass. The man reacts to her sudden move, but shouldn’t have. A splash of iced tea has already left the pitcher; it becomes a splat against the back of Janet’s hand, marking her shirt cuff and the table around it. The man’s reaction increases the mess because he jerks the pitcher back, sending a gout of the tea toward himself, which he tries to avoid, which movement sends his rear end into the tall waitress whom Janet had nudged earlier. The waitress is hit on the back of her thighs and almost loses control of the tray she’s about to set down. She manages to hold onto the tray but two loaded plates and three full glasses hit the floor. Two men at a neighboring table acquire sauce spatters on their pant cuffs. Busboys sweep glass, mop food, and blot at the pant cuffs and at Janet’s shirt.

“I’m gonna develop a subdivision and call it Emotional Heights. I’ll build on a hill somewhere with a nice view, and homeowner’s association dues will help defray the cost of required weekly counseling for all residents. I’ll people it with folks like you and me – I mean it.” Janet mops the salad dressing with a crust of walnut levain as she speaks. The plate sits between her and Sherry, and the gorgonzola has mixed with the vinaigrette, so she’s scooping white liquid onto the edge of bluish bread. Sherry watches her with a little fascination.

“Whoa! How did we get here from your law firm client? Slow down, girl.”

“I’m sorry. You’re right. I need to relax. Where’s our waiter? I want some iced coffee.”

“Like that’s going to help.” Sherry laughs quietly and sits back in her chair.

A busboy pauses at their table. Janet signals with her eyes that he can take the salad plate. She swallows and tosses her chin-length hair before continuing to speak. “The firm needs some tax consulting, and I have the perfect specialist to introduce this afternoon. But I’m kind of involved with the two individuals, so things may get emotional.”

“It sounds to me like they already are, Janet. You’ve been on a roller coaster for nearly a year; what is going on now?”

“Okay. Both men are Michaels, but neither uses his first name. Mike MacDougal is the law firm administrator, and Michael Solomon is the tax lawyer he needs to consult. MacDougal goes by ‘Mac,’ and that fits him; he’s six and a half feet tall, not fat but big, and calm as a slow river. His long bones turn me on. And he seems to like me too. He’s married, but he never talks about his wife. He’s real good at eye contact. There are possibilities there.

“Mike Solomon couldn’t be more different. He’s maybe five foot five, small but fit, fastidious, nervous like a bird. He answers to ‘Solly,’ and that fits his Jewishness. He dyes his thinning red hair, wears his clothes too snug, appreciates cosmetics on women, resents his orthodox parents for refusing to let him get growth hormone shots. I’d swear he’s gay, except there’s no indication of it beyond habits of speech, posture, and attitude; he’s always dating and forever talking about finding the woman to marry.”

“Has he ever been married?” Sherry swallows the last of her mineral water after this question; she refills her glass from the big bottle they’ve opened.

“No. And he’s now past fifty, so I’m always surprised when he talks about fatherhood and his biological clock. Where’s that waiter?” Janet stretches her head up to the full extent of her neck and looks around the large room with an expression of annoyance. She’s momentarily too distracted to continue speaking. “Excuse me,” she taps the upper arm of the tall waitress at the adjacent table, “but can you send our waiter over? Tha-a-a-nks,” she gushes as she turns her attention back to Sherry.

“He’s been looking so long that he’s developed criteria that this woman must have. Let me see if I can remember ‘em…” Janet hums the last syllable as she breaks off another piece of bread and begins scraping its edge along the top of the butter pot. “The perfect woman must be: smart, small, sexy, single, successful and Semitic. Senior too, I think, cause Solly doesn’t want a young chick any more. Though how he reconciles the senior part with the childbearing idea is completely beyond me. And this is a man who got a Ph.D. in physics before he went to law school; rumor has it he’s smart.”

“You meet his criteria.”

“Yup. At first I thought I wasn’t small enough; I’m at least an inch and a half taller than him. But I asked him about ‘small’ when he first recited the list to me (I was still married to Jack then; it wasn’t a loaded question), and he said he had no problem with a woman of any height; he just figured the woman might have a problem with it, and he might as well be realistic. Anyway, he says ‘small’ means under five foot eight, so I do qualify. Aaah,” Janet pauses to talk to the wayward waiter. “Can I have an iced coffee?”

“We don’t really have any, ma’am. I mean, I can pour regular coffee over ice, but it will be pretty weak.”

“Can you bring me a triple espresso, served over ice?”

“We can do that,” the waiter drawls. “Would you like cream and sugar with it?”

“No. Black is fine.” Janet looks at Sherry. “And now I’ll have to watch the iced tea boys. They cruise around looking to top glasses and they’ll think my iced coffee is fair game for their pitchers.

“Back to the subject. I’m kind of looking forward to introducing these two. The visuals alone will be worth it. But there’s bound to be some emotional issues. I’ll want to flirt with Mac, and Solly will be watching me.”