Sputterpub's Blog

Keith is a somewhat silent man, and Marnie mistook that for strength. They met when they were young and he was frisky; she didn’t notice in all the excitement that he was boring. After they settled down Keith did what he always did with his dullness; he hid it in quiet service. He made himself useful by fetching and repairing things, industry that familiarized him with all the consumables that now inhabit his weekends. He didn’t reveal himself.

Unfortunately, revelation is what Marnie’s always wanted. She arrived with a mission and she has never let it go; she hungers to understand. Keith had that itch too, early on, but just enough grownups disparaged his questions for him to give up the game. “You mean you don’t know . . .?” was a response he heard too often as a questing child. And neither of his parents taught him how to be embarrassed, so he retreated into silence. He chose to appear to know and so gave up learning.

Marnie heard the toxic phrase but it didn’t stop her. She was raised by an energetic foolish mother and a didactic indignant father, and she early learned to push through any sneer or awkwardness, to get an answer. Her parents’ mistakes were obvious to her always, and she was able to overlook those mistakes, mostly, while she asked her questions and basked in their boggled pride.

She works to know herself, and she says she wants to understand her mate. She keeps pushing at Keith’s silence, and he, depending on his momentary love or hate for her, either tries to placate her with the answer he thinks she wants, or baits her with half-amiable passivity. He wants to be unbothered.

Marnie is easily animated by ideas, and Keith mistook that for gaiety. She gets so excited in a good debate that she trembles and her nipples harden; Keith misunderstood that for sex. He grew up alone and silent, and all he ever wanted was a talkative partner. He met, mated and married Marnie, and he figured as long as he was nice to her she’d be happy.

She starts on him again, after he changes lanes without signaling and two other drivers honk their objections. “Gad,” she begins with a mutter and increases her tone as she speaks. “It’s really a matter of elegance,” and she isn’t aware of the disparaging look on her face. “Remember the zipper?” We all recall the event: a chaotic afternoon commute; a mess of traffic trying to merge from four lanes to two as half the city workers aimed for their homes; horn honking and finger flipping and acceleration lunges when any space opened up; and one driver, a young attractive black man in a big old American sedan, who opened his door and rose to stand on what would be the running board of an older car and almost sang to the crowd: “People! People! Let’s all just make like a zipper!” It was classic, wise, humorous. It happened long enough ago that Keith and Marnie agreed about it, but now she’s brought it up so often when complaining about Keith’s driving that of course it’s one of the sore spots.

(concluded tomorrow)

They’d bicker more if it weren’t for the marijuana. They cut their freshmen brains on it, together at Cal in 1968. They’d smoke dope and play pool or do newspaper puzzles, or watch TV. Star Trek was first-run then, and pot made the show brilliant. It tweaked their classes more challenging and their arguments at once more esoteric and more entertaining.

They smoke it still, every night if they have it, and they usually have it. They get it from Keith’s old roommate Robert, who grows it on his place up the coast, or from Greg their gay gardener, who buys it from a guy who gets it from a man who acquires it for medicinal purposes and doesn’t use it. The marijuana is much stronger than it was 30 years ago, and it costs more than garnets, but Keith and Marnie keep smoking it every night. They still manage to get high enough that any motivation to argue with each other dissipates like the smoke tumbling upward in the lamplight of their room.

Morning is another matter. Marnie is often irked then, and she’d pick a fight if she didn’t have to get to work. Sometimes she’s irritated enough that she makes time, in the car during the commute and even spilling onto the street after they park, unhappy enough that she harangues Keith on a corner. That never looks good. It doesn’t accomplish anything either, but Marnie seems unable to control herself. She says it’s frustration but it looks like rage. She wonders if it’s hormones and tries to drink less coffee; I wonder if it’s her brain and bring the Prozac up again.

If they stop commuting together, and if they continue smoking at night, they’ll probably stay married till one of them dies. But they’re practical people; it just doesn’t make sense for Keith to drive alone.

The strange thing is how much better Keith looks than Marnie when they argue. The fact is, she usually has justification for her anger and an organized argument. But no matter what words or body language she uses, she comes off as bitchy and strident. He appears put-upon but patient.

(continued next Wednesday)

They’re so different. Keith says he’s the kind of guy who notices what’s right in a situation, while Marnie sees what can be improved and likes to think about how to accomplish the makeover. That was true when they were young; now Keith rarely sees anything right in a situation. Now Marnie is more inclined to accept things, because she knows that she has to allocate her energy. She doesn’t tilt at windmills or argue with pronouns any more. But the gulf between their attitudes has not gotten any narrower as they’ve matured.

Keith loves toys. He goes to warehouse stores. He buys appliances and electronic devices. Now that he’s pretty much stopped drinking and having imaginative sex, the only way he gets happy is when he has a new gadget to hook up or load or debug or play.

Marnie on the other hand is made nervous by things. Clutter agitates her. She says it’s like visual chatter. As far as she’s concerned every appliance and system has idiosyncrasies, and she’d like to limit her obligation to understand their quirks. The remote control unit that governs the bedroom TV, for example, has a fussy power switch. About a third of the time that it’s pressed, it turns the TV on or off, as commanded, but only for two seconds; then the machine reverts to its former, off or on, mode. Marnie and Keith have learned not to trust that button. Or their dishwasher: it has intermittent problems releasing the detergent from its little time vault, so Marnie has to pay attention for the click that indicates dispensation. Keith’s response to those issues is to look for improved governing gadgets. Marnie tries to understand and have a relationship with each of the systems, so she wants to reduce (or at least not increase) the number of systems. Their friends get each side of the argument, but just about everyone thinks Marnie is overreacting. “Just let him shop at Costco,” they all say. But they don’t understand that all the stuff makes Marnie feel a little ill in her own house – a little edgy everywhere – and she shouldn’t have to take Prozac for that.

Lately they’ve each gotten more extreme about their preferences. In the past half year Keith has gone shopping more, returning to their garage with large boxes and bags of dry goods, while Marnie has increased the time she spends in her small study. He constructs utilitarian shelf units for the basement and fills them with batteries, lightbulbs, extension cords and paper products, while she rocks in her old chair and rereads Jane Austen, or browses through Elle. She’d like to live in a smaller house. One large room with the kitchen in a corner and adjoining bath and laundry . . . that would suit her fine. Keith would go crazy in such a small space. He doesn’t imagine it or any alternative to the house they have.

(continued tomorrow)

“Of course it makes a difference. Every little bit adds up.” Keith spoke even as he changed lanes again without signaling.

“Yeah sure,” Marnie uttered with sarcasm. “Like five minutes in a two hour trip. Really. There was a study done on a drive from San Diego to Los Angeles. Two identical cars going at the prevailing speed, but one driver had to stay as much as possible in the same lane and the other was supposed to be aggressive to try to make time. The lane changer arrived in Los Angeles four minutes and thirty-six seconds before the calm driver.”

I watched it all from the back seat, and I wondered.

“Well I don’t know who did the study, but I would have made a lot more than five minutes on that trip. Anyway,” he said with a tone a bit exasperated and a look in his rearview mirror, “there’s no way I’m happily sitting in this stew.” He swivelled his head to the right and darted one lane over.

“It makes me nervous is the problem. I’m always tense when you drive like this. Maybe you should take passenger comfort into account.”

“Maybe we should commute separately.”

“Yeah.”

Then Marnie looked out her side window for awhile, and Keith paid attention to the traffic. But they both knew commuting together was practical. Keith had free parking at his office building, and they could drive faster and toll-less in the diamond lane. It would have been more expensive and perhaps a bit silly to commute separately.

Driving in the 21^st century is a high-stress exercise in every metropolitan area. Across America people strap into bucket seats in high-powered vehicles and launch themselves into an environment which of course stimulates their glands to flood their confined bodies with adrenaline, to spur their heart rates and respiration and passions, to fill them with a lust to burst the bounds of those seat belts and diagonal straps and whomp the asshole who just cut them off.

Keith and Marnie are practical; they commute together. They are also 50 years old and feeling it in their individual ways. He gets heartburn easily. He tends to carry antacids. He also suffers from occasional hemorrhoid pain and seasonal allergies, each condition worsening with age. Marnie has some bone problems. She exercises a lot, and she feels some heel and knee pain daily. A few times a year her neck seizes up or her lower back springs out of whack.

But they’re not unattractive. She’s a little overweight but fit from all of her exercise. She takes care of her hair and she smiles a lot. Keith should shave his head; he never had good hair and it’s thinning unevenly. He would look better without the middle-aged paunch. But he has nice features and good shoulders and attractive teeth and hands. He could look worse.

(more on Wednesday)

These walls do not a prison make. These bars inhibit not. I bide in my room which is not a cell, so full of warmth now that I radiate. I could be a space heater, a hot brick against your back. The fibrous core of me is now transformed, soft-sweetened, ready to join with you. Waiting for you, but not much longer… soon …

Hank to Polly seemed substantial, solid. He had a large-featured face, long arms, big hands. His hair was thick and silvery; his smooth-shaven chin was prominent. She herself was 5’9″ and often 180. She had a strange light gait, almost mincing, which seemed peculiar on such a big woman, but Hank found her adorable. Across that room their pheromones performed a dance, or maybe it was the jasmine and musk, or more than those a stir of memories and expectations, but Hank and Polly saw, liked, and approached each other.

They tried to talk but it was loud among all the people. They had to stand with their faces close to one another, intensely aware of proximity. Each marveled about how strange it seemed to speak with one’s face that near, how intimate, how powerful, how long it had been. Polly wanted to look in Hank’s eyes but found herself fascinated with the movement of his mouth as he talked. Hank couldn’t stop gazing at the spot where Polly’s neck met her left shoulder; she hunched a little there, and he wanted to nuzzle the space apart. Rather quickly they cross-rationalized their escapes from the fundraiser.

They headed to Polly’s place.

I’m no longer the creature of an hour ago. I leave this chamber filled and about to fulfill. I brim now with hot energy, and loose a little essence to the air. I send out a bit of my scent. I will open myself to the golden raiment. I’ll wear flecked white like drifts of creamy snow.

She turned her key and pushed the front door. Within were the lamps, the heat, and the smell from her new oven. She looked back at Hank with a smile and offered to share. She said there was only one and it wasn’t terribly large, but she conjectured that it might be perfect. She told him as she led the short way through her small place that her oven had stopped working months ago, but she hadn’t gotten the new one until the day before. And she’d just realized how long she had wanted a baked potato, and had therefore set about to gratify her desire. She had forked it and racked it as she left for the fundraiser, and they could tell by the scent of hot earth that it was ready.

Ah: open, open.
Open to release.
Oh the exquisite ease of pressure,
the balm of liquid gold:
cool
soothe.
White cream mounds my edges,
like ermine singed with onyx
and shot with steaming pearls.