Double Blind, Chapter Thirteen: The Travails of Mary-Margaret

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Thirteen

It was a survey of 16,000 American adults, a paper published in 2004 by David G. Blanchflower and Andrew J. Oswald. The finding that made the news was that greater income does not buy more sex, nor more sexual partners. But the finding that surprised me was the “happiness-maximizing” number of sexual partners in the previous year: one.

What I remember is the combination of smells: newmown grass, glove leather and cigarette smoke. Wearing a suede jacket, passing a smoker in the park, I find myself on the Pioneer Little League Twins, crouching at third, praying a bad hop doesn’t smack me in my new braces.

            All that’s missing today are the cigarettes (modern courtesies being what they are), but I do feel twelve years old. I plant a cooler of team refreshments at my wife’s feet and settle into the bleachers. Mr. Tomjonowitz exclaims “Play ball!” I’m about to pee my pants.

            Marcus has the same dilemma I had, but in the opposite sport. When I was twelve, soccer had just penetrated the American consciousness, and I couldn’t do a thing with my feet. Voila! A goalkeeper. In Marcus’s case, years of goalkeeping has taught him how to catch a ball, and stop a grounder, but not to throw. Add the minor detail that’s he’s six feet tall and Voila! A first baseman.

            The second batter of the season is a small, determined southpaw who jumps on the first pitch and smashes a grounder down the line. Marcus slides over in front of it, takes a bad hop off his chest, corrals the ball at his feet and races to the bag. His first putout. I grin at my wife.

            “Okay. You remember how we practiced?”

            I give her the high five, the scissor clinch and the fist bump, followed by the voodoo finger-waggle. We snap our fingers and point at Marcus, who saw our little performance and is cracking up. Any other kid would be mortified.

            I’m sorry. Greeting-card moments with the wife? I’m confusing you. Let’s back up.

            I am the greatest dodger of bullets in American history. For an entire month, I pretended to have a job, shuttling credit card advances to my bank account to impersonate paychecks. When that gave out, I went to Richard with sad stories about stock losses. I asked him not to tell Jessie, because I wanted her and the kids to enjoy the holidays. Having spent years hiding casino losses from his own wife, Richard had his checkbook out before I could say “please.” God bless that man.

            I spent my days at a pool hall in Mountain View, honing my eight-ball skills with a group of laid-off techies. Meanwhile, I kept up an email correspondence with Marty, who gave me regular updates on the study. He also seeded the lab with a cover story about my ailing uncle in Michigan. Poor Marty was carrying around more illicit info than a Mafia snitch. God bless that man.

            Every Tuesday and Thursday, I hiked an open space preserve near Foothill College, my Walkman tuned to Nancy’s show. I wasn’t ready to drag the woman into my murky present – she had enough on her plate – but it was good to hear her voice, to recall the saffron hopes of my alternate universe.

            Nefertiti disappeared. Whatever her motives, they didn’t include criminal charges. I was grateful.

            In mid-December, the personnel committee met to consider my fate. Citing my devotion to the cause and sterling record, they invited me to return to work after New Year’s. They also invited me to attend a weekly meeting of former users. I told Jessie I was attending a networking group for scientists, and reported each Wednesday to a Quaker hall in Palo Alto.

            Facing authentic victims of chemistry and addiction, shadowed by the cabernet blur of my mother, I felt enormously humbled. And ashamed – that I should take a life most people would envy and pollute it with cheap drama.

            Most of this havoc began with my vagabond penis, so I resolved to tame it. Whenever I could grab a couple hours, I checked into a hotel, rented a prick-flick, and masturbated to my heart’s content.

            Without, I might add, the help of Horny Housewives. My wife’s antics had disappeared from the Web. Even the old stuff – yanked out of the archives as if it had never existed. I was tired of trying to figure this out, and more than happy to cultivate a friendship with the real item. Sometimes all you need is the affection that sprouts from a mutual interest, and in our bright, beautiful children, Jessie and I had the best of all possible hobbies.

            And God! The kid can hit a ball. He comes up in the third inning, raises that right elbow just like I told him, and strokes a drive over the centerfield fence. Jessie and I forgo the fancy handshake for indecorous screaming.

            Marcus is enormously embarrassed by the hullabaloo (a home run being the rudest thing you can do to an opposing pitcher). But he seems to enjoy the mob scene at the plate, teammates gathering to happily pound the snot out of him. The ringleader is his new best friend, Ponce. How boys manage to do that, I’ll never know.

“Don’t leave any loose ends,” says my drug counselor. “Apologize to anyone who has been hurt because of your addiction.” Ponce and Marcus remind me of my last untied shoelace. I resolve to take care of it.

            When she arrives, I am standing in front of Cybele, an alluring headless woman. Unfortunate choice, but I grew nervous in my waiting, and had to pace. Pisarro approaches at a deliberate rate.

            She looks healthy, and thinner, although it takes nothing away from the appealing roundness of her face and eyes. It’s a warm day, even for March. She wears a floral dress (magnolia blossoms), and a delicate white sweater, laced at the cuffs. I stand ready as she approaches, fidgeting with her bracelet like a nervous bride. She manages a smile.

            “Hi.”

            “Pisarro. I’m glad you came.”

            “Um… yes.”

            “I’m told a white carnation is a good flower for apology.” I extend my envoy, the flawless one that looks like a tissue-paper phony. She holds it with both hands.

            “Thanks.”

            I gesture to our old spot near the Shades. She settles on the bench; I remain standing. I dig a foot into the sandy gravel, like Marcus getting ready to bat. I have rehearsed this several times, but I still don’t know exactly what will come out of my mouth.

            “There were things going on that week. Things I can’t explain. I don’t mean this as an excuse. I mean this to indicate that this kind of… behavior is unusual for me. Whatever my sexual escapades, I don’t generally attack unless I’m invited.”

            I’m a skier on an icy incline, gathering speed, unsure of where I should cut my blades.

            “I hate myself for that day. Your sadness, your love for your brother were… enthralling to me. I didn’t know a human soul could run that deep. And you took this fragile part of yourself and shared it with me. I felt… honored. You trusted me so much, and I fucked it up.

            “I’ve learned a lot of humility lately. The hard way – believe me. It’s been good. But I need one more thing. I need a chance to win back your trust. I miss your friendship, Pisarro. I miss our lunches. And I miss you.”

            Here is the old joke: What women find most attractive in a man is sincerity. Once you learn how to fake that, you’ve got it made.

            I’m here to tell you: you can’t fake it. And one day you might find yourself in a garden of French sculptures, your skin so transparent that people could read roadsigns through your ribcage. And a woman with dewy onyx eyes will walk your way, comb her fingers into your hair, and bestow upon your lips, The Kiss.

Five minutes later, we separate and start laughing. She parts those ripe lips and says, “How ‘bout lunch?”

            We take her car to the Peninsula Creamery, a nifty old diner in Palo Alto. Pisarro ignores the menu, smiles at the waiter and says five remarkable words: “I’ll have the Bubbly Burger.”

            The Bubbly Burger is a Silicon Valley institution: cheeseburger, fries and a bottle of Dom Perignon for $150.75. In the dot-com nineties, lots of young supernerds would use it to celebrate their latest stock offering.

            I stare at Pisarro; she does me the favor of staring back.

            “You’re one surprise after another,” I say.

            “Yes. But I do have an explanation.”

            She stops. I roll one hand forward. “Ye-es?”

            She smiles, close-mouthed. “I refuse to talk until I have fine champagne on my lips.”

            The waiter arrives, wearing a grin, wrestling with the cork. “This is so cool! We don’t do so many of these since, you know…”

            “The bubble burst?” I say.

            “Exactly.” The cork pops. He fills Pisarro’s glass, and hands me a Coke. She takes the stem and lifts.

            “To the new director of the Intensive Care Unit.”

            “No shit!”

            “Please! Drink first, swear later.”

            I lift my Coke and swallow.

            “Congratulations! Does this explain our Rodin rendezvous?”

            “Not really.”

            “I had such good honest Boy Scout intentions, and you mucked it all up.”

            “Oh dear. And I know that must be a rare moment for you.”

            “Well! You see what it gets me.”

            She smiles wickedly. I didn’t know she could do that.

            “I’d say it got you a makeout session with the ICU director.”

            “I thought I would need the ICU. Now – you want to stop flirting and give me a little backstory?”

            She downs the rest of the glass and pours another. “You’re driving.”

            “Story of my life.”

            “First of all, honeybear, you’re dealing with a split personality here. One is me; the other is a repressed Catholic schoolgirl we shall call Mary-Margaret. So. Where to begin? After my brother died, I was going through the well-known steps of grieving – Shock, Anger, Bargaining, et cetera – when I ran into one that Mary-Margaret found highly disagreeable: Intense Horniness.”

            “Pretty logical,” I say. “We react to death by seeking life – through procreation, ergo sex.”

            She sprouts a death-defying smile. “I love a man who can actually use ‘ergo’ in a sentence. But you see, I was using you for dual purposes. Primarily, you were my confidante – and a good one, I might add. You have this charming ability to not give advice.”

            “You’re welcome.”

            “On the other hand, I was sorely in need of a fantasy figure for the… relief… of my overcharged libido. Honey, if I had to pay you Screen Actors Guild wages, I’d be bankrupt.”

            “Point taken.”

            “And taken and taken. God! I’m a shameless woman. I was wearing my poor dildo to a nub.”

            The waiter arrives with our burgers. His face is medium-rare.

            “Pretending I didn’t hear that,” he mutters, and steals away.

            Pisarro hides her face, trying not to laugh out loud. She eventually recovers, and bites into a fry.

            “Why does the waiter always arrive on a word like ‘dildo’?”

            She samples her burger and washes it down with Dom.

            “A rare taste combination. Where was I?”

            “Union wages and dildos.”

            “Is the plural of ‘dildo’ oh-ess or oh-ee-ess? Now! Another reason you were such a good therapist, Grinder, was all those tales from your atrocious love life. Which accomplished two things. One, gave me additional visual fuel for my evening sessions. And two, firmly established your utter lack of judgement or ability to maintain a monogamous relationship. Guaranteeing that a wise, professional woman such as myself would never get involved with you.

            “Only, it wasn’t working. In fact, every time you told me a new Kelly story, it only increased my desire. Then, when you told me the final Kelly story – about your golf-course breakup – I realized that you were dangerously available.. I began to have all-night wrestling matches with Mary-Margaret. ‘But he’s married,’ she said. ‘But he’s handsome,’ I said. And then I put the little bitch into a half-Nelson.

            “By the time of our little picnic, I had soundly defeated her. I invited a known philanderer to a famed makeout spot, wore a very unprofessional bra to work, and accidentally – Oh my! – left a button undone on my blouse.

            “But alas, Mary-Margaret was not dead. She was hiding in the bottom of my lunch bag. When you unleashed your Roman hands, she jumped out and pepper-sprayed me with vintage Catholic guilt. The inner conflict demanded escape, so I fled, and covered up my utter hypocrisy with self-righteousness. Later, when I received the pornographic email, Mary-Margaret relished the opportunity to rub your face in it. Dr. Pisarro, on the other hand… wanted to be the girl in the photographs.”

            I take a slug of Coke and let the bubbles fizz my brain. Yikes! After three months of earnest rehab, I am having schoolboy conflicts of my own. But the schoolboy is getting excited. Pisarro notes my struggle, and sends me a husky laugh.

            “I know, Grinder. I seemed like such a naif when you met me. My co-workers call me ‘cartoon-girl,’ because I look like someone from a Dick and Jane book. Little do they know what evil thoughts lurk behind these den-mother features.

            “For instance: that night you first arrived at the ER. Whenever I walked away from your bed, I could feel that one good eye taking measurements of my ass. And yes, a smart woman knows her best anatomical features, and uses them accordingly. I began to leave things at your bedside so I could come back for them and walk slowly away. The best was when your awful porn-star wife was pleading for forgiveness.”

            The waiter returns, and asks how we’re doing.

            “Great,” I say. “Do you make champagne milkshakes?”

            He laughs, relieved that we’re not discussing accessories.

            “We haven’t quite taken the Bubbly Burger that far.”

            “How ‘bout an apple pie, a la mode. Dr. Pisarro?”

            “I’ll have the same.”

            Pisarro refills her glass, then sets her lips into a straight line, ready to strategize.

            “The carbon-dating girl?” she asks.

            “Gone. Apparently a one-time prank.”

            “No other current hanky-panky?”

            “Nada.”

            “Bueno.” She tents her fingers like a judge considering a sentence. “I like to run things, Grinder. That’s why I’m running the ICU. So here’s the plan. Find a full evening when you can get away. No quickies – I’m willing to wait. Also, I understand you’ll have to work things around your children’s schedules. Your devotion to them is one of the things that turns me on about you. Send me an email with the time and date of our rendezvous, and I will send your instructions. I’ve got a long list of plans for you, Mister. And Grinder?”

            “Yes, ma’am?”

            “The occasional maintenance boink with the wife, I understand. But no one else. Mary-Margaret can only stretch her mores so far. Understood?”

            “Yes.”

            “Good. I’ll make you happy, Grinder.”

            “I get the feeling you will.”

            An ambulance races down the street, siren blaring. The waiter brings our pies, steaming chunks of apple, vanilla melting down the sides.

Photo: the author as Satan