It Won't Always Be This Great Read online

  Anyway, to make an annoying story short, all that gym time gave him a case of athlete’s foot so bad it made me consider amputation. I gave him the standard topical treatment—thank God for rubber gloves—and said, “Rick, I have two words for you: Flip-Flops.” He laughs and says, “I know. What was I thinking walking around a locker room barefoot? I’m such an idiot.”

  There’s something endearing about a person who calls himself an idiot, so I said, “Hey, from the ankles up, you look fantastic.”

  You won’t believe what he says in response.

  “Looks can be deceiving.”

  I swear to God.

  Rick leaves and my suppressed agony over Audra does a total jail break. I mean, I told you about how bugged I was about the cloned dog, so you can just imagine . . .

  I stop again, like I did in the car, and say to myself: Why is this bothering you so much? But, this time, the self-help pep talk doesn’t pay off. I am bothered. Saying something that stupid trumps my self-forgiveness machinery.

  If only I’d gone upstairs two minutes earlier, I wouldn’t have heard what Alyse said so I wouldn’t have had some unjustifiable bug up my ass about her so I wouldn’t have been even subconsciously thinking the looks of my marriage were deceiving so I wouldn’t have said looks are deceiving to Audra so I wouldn’t haven’t given a second thought to Burlingame saying looks are deceiving so at this moment my life would be moving along in its normal state of whatever.

  Like I said, that’s how my mind races. Eighty miles an hour on the wrong side of the highway. You’d think I could come to some kind of peace treaty with myself, but no, no, no.

  I tried cooling my jets by drifting over to Arnie’s office. His life was insane in such a concrete way, so maybe he could unknowingly talk me down by simply describing the experience of waking up with his multi-polar wife that morning.

  Arnie was just finishing up with the hunched-over guy. Wait, what am I saying? It was a different guy. Jesus. Forget that.

  Actually, this patient—I remember now—was a fireman. Excuse me. A firefighter. I’d seen this guy waiting to see Arnie many times before, so I guess he had some kind of chronic problem. Arnie introduced us and, nodding toward me, said, “Captain, if your feet ever start going to shit or you burn off a toe in some warehouse fire, here’s your man.” The firefighter cracked up and left.

  When the firefighter was a safe distance away, Arnie added, “Poor guy comes in twice a week.”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “He’s got back pain that’s all in his head.”

  This I liked. What could be better for me at that moment than to hear about someone who’s legitimately worse off than me? A bit too excited, I asked, “Why do you think it’s in his head?”

  “Well, the pain comes and goes with no identifiable causality.” Arnie smiled. “You like that health-speak? Causality?”

  “That was very impressive, Arnie. You should be on CSI.”

  “Yeah. Or a real doctor. Anyway, aside from the phantom causality, a little amateur psychology tells me it may be all mental. See, that guy’s a major fireman and–”

  “You still say ‘fireman?’”

  “Yeah, why the fuck not?”

  “No reason. Go ahead.”

  “Well, this guy has medals and commendations up the wazoo. I’m mean, he’s done some seriously heroic shit. He single-handedly saved this guy from King’s Point—a super-rich guy who was smoking in bed because his wife was out of town. Poor guy gets a weekend furlough from his marriage and all he wants to do is whack off and smoke? Burns down half his house. This was in spring of ’01. Anyhow, the guy is so grateful, he gives the fireman his house on Martha’s Vineyard for a week. Of course, he’s only grateful to a point; he doesn’t give his savior the Vineyard house during the summer—that’s peak-season. He gives it to him for ten days after Labor Day.”

  “So, the fireman was there during 9/11.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I think I see where you’re going.”

  “Yeah. This guy invites some of his army buddies from all over the country to this house on Martha’s Vineyard, where they fish for blues all day and drink all night. They’re so wasted they don’t hear about the attacks until the next morning. Three-quarters of his firehouse is dead. He was the biggest hit-the-beach guy in the outfit, so he knows he would have died. But instead, he spent September 11th half a mile from the Kennedys. Not that he saw any of the Kennedys, but you get what I’m saying. Survivor guilt.”

  “Yeah, it makes sense.”

  “I guess,” Arnie said, though he shrugged doubtfully. “Personally, if I were him, I’d be the happiest guy in the world.”

  “That’s probably a key difference between a chiropractor and a fireman.”

  “Exactly. And chiropractors don’t die in the line of duty.”

  “Well, there’s that.”

  “Although I would have been pissed that the rich asshole whose life I saved gave me his Vineyard house off-season.”

  “Shit, I’d have given the guy the July 4th weekend.”

  “Damn straight.”

  Then—and this is so weird, Commie—Arnie shakes his head and says, “Speaking of rich assholes, I heard something so fucked up on the radio this morning about these people who cloned their dog.”

  “I can’t believe you said that! I heard it too and it really bugged me.”

  “Of course it bugged you. Idiots throwing money at problems that aren’t even problems.”

  “Right. Like with enough money, you can control shit.”

  “Not to mention the fact that one of the biggest problems with dogs is that they don’t respond to money.”

  “That’s true too, but—”

  “I can’t even control my wife with money, and these people are trying to buy off dogs? You know, I actually offered to pay Fumi to see a psychopharmacologist?”

  “What do you mean, ‘pay’ her?”

  “I told her that if she’d go to a shrink and try some medications, I’d pay her. You know, like a salary. On top of all the money I already give her to blow on nothing every day.”

  “So, is she going to take you up on it?”

  “She’s said she might—might!—think about it.”

  “Maybe you should offer to pay her to think about it.”

  “Don’t laugh,” Arnie said. “I wish marriage was like being a pro athlete, where you could have an opt-out clause.”

  Right there, in that moment, I knew Arnie was my best friend. Talking to him was just so much fun. So unrestrained. And, really, what the hell else is a best friend but someone who you have an easy time bullshitting with? It wasn’t the first time I’d had that thought about Arnie, but I’d never totally put myself out there with him. I don’t know why. Maybe some vague thing about separating church and state: There’s work people and non-work people.

  But, actually, from time to time, Alyse and I would go out to dinner with Arnie and his first or second wife and we always had fun. Once, Arnie had us laughing until we almost threw up because he wanted to start a TV show called, Live from the Chiropractor’s Studio. He would have a different chiropractor on each week in front of a studio audience of chiropractic students. It was the best double date I ever went on, but then we didn’t get together again for over a year. For some reason, I’m just unmotivated when it comes to cultivating friends.

  Most of the people Alyse and I socialize with are girls she grew up with and their husbands. We only have one or two couples from Maryland that we get together with, and even that’s only like twice a year. Maybe. Otherwise, I’m a perennial “and guest,” and always careful to make a good impression . . . It never ends. Not that I have a bad time with these people, because I don’t. You, eat, drink, talk, divvy up the check, over-tip, get in the car . . . talk about the other couples, assess their m
arriages, debate who’s starting to look old/fat/miserable, pull into your garage, and call it a night. Not so bad. Besides, Alyse enjoys it, partly because I’m quietly funny and great at seeming like I give a shit about everyone else’s lives, and partly because Alyse is so much prettier than the other wives that she’s always the star of the meal. (Well, that part is just my theory, but I’m probably right.)

  Even though I get along well with the other husbands, I never hook up with them on my own because I’m not into golf. All they do is work, golf, and play husband. They don’t even have a goddamn poker game. Alyse thinks I should get into golf because I’d be so good at it. But other than playing the occasional indifferent round, I pretty much hate golf. Well, the game itself is okay. It’s golfers I can’t stand. I mean, you get these dumpy guys who could never put two dribbles together on a basketball court, and suddenly they turn forty, take up golf with a vengeance, shoot in the eighties, and it’s like: Oh, suddenly you’re an athlete? Please. Every time they take their twelve practice swings and mumble their one “swing thought,” I just want to drag them off the tee to a basketball court, back them down in the post, and wipe the floor with them. I’ll give you a fucking swing thought.

  Arnie doesn’t like golf either, though he’s great at it. He just has a naturally perfect swing and he actually is a great athlete. He once said, “I don’t know what the big deal is with golf. It’s such a cake sport.” And, sure enough, with no lessons and no practice, he consistently shoots in the mid-seventies. In the summer, he’ll play once or twice a week purely so he can advise his playing partners to swing harder. No matter what might be going on with some guy’s swing, Arnie says, “Swing harder.” Why? Because if they take his advice, they’ll usually wind up in his office later that week. How great is that?

  XI.

  Anyway, I don’t know how I got sidetracked into this discussion of golf and my social life. Although some of the couples I was talking about do come into play in the story I’m telling you at such a ridiculously slow pace.

  Let’s see . . .

  I was feeling better just talking to Arnie but, of course, he had another patient coming, so I had to skulk back to my office. I had two more patients before lunch and then I called Alyse. Here’s another thing about a long-lasting marriage: She picked up the phone, I said “Hi,” and she said, “What’s wrong?”

  I think people know their spouses better than they know themselves. Your own mind is trickier—harder to get hold of.

  “Oh, nothing really. I just said something stupid to a patient and you know how that kind of thing bugs me.”

  “What did you say?”

  This is probably unbelievable to you, but I didn’t see that question coming. I felt shitty, so I called my wife, and that was as far as I had thought it through. Really, I didn’t even think it through that far. The call was all reflex, my fingers dialing on their own, the rest of me following along in mindless lockstep.

  “I just had a teenage girl in and we were talking about something as I treated her for a nasty ingrown, and—I forget how we got on the topic—but she was telling me, like, about how her boyfriend criticized her a lot about her weight, her hair, her make-up, you name it. Then she talked about how she spent a lot of time watching other couples and how she noticed that they all seemed happier than she was and, like an idiot, I said, ‘Looks can be deceiving.’”

  Alyse didn’t say anything. I thought maybe we were cut off.

  “Alyse?”

  “Yeah, I’m here. Go on.”

  “That’s it.”

  “That’s it? That’s what you’re upset about?”

  “Yeah. I just feel like I thoughtlessly disillusioned this kid.”

  Alyse made her little chuckle sound and, before I could whine about how I didn’t find it funny, she said, “Look, it’s sweet that you’re so sensitive about these things, but don’t you think you may be overrating your impact on this kid’s life? You’re not her father. You’re her podiatrist. Just because you gave her a less-than-idyllic view of the world doesn’t mean she’s going to wind up a spinster with cats. You told her looks can be deceiving, right?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Okay, maybe it would have been nice if you told her that one day she’d meet the perfect guy and live happily ever after. But you didn’t. You said what you said—which, believe me, was nothing compared to what she sees in the movies and on TV. I promise you, she’ll forget what you said or bury it under all the crap she finds out on her own. So, just let it go. I mean, really, you’ve got to give yourself a break. You’re not perfect.”

  “I’m not?”

  “No. You’re so fucking close, though.”

  I laughed. The sound of Alyse saying fuck in a joking context just rocks against her whole personality.

  “Thanks, honey. I feel much better.”

  “No, you feel a little better. By Monday, you’ll feel much better.”

  “Something to look forward to.”

  It wasn’t until I walked out for lunch that I came clean with myself: I had been flirting with Audra Uziel—a woman less than half my age. When that realization hit me, my right leg wafted in mid-stride, my head and shoulders drifted back, my eyes closed, and I just stopped. If I had to pinpoint the precise feeling that shifted my whole body into neutral, I’d say it was embarrassment. The sheer, limitless idiocy of flirting with this girl!

  Looks can be deceiving.

  Oh, really, Doc? Tell me more. Your insights are so meaningful to me and I just want to hear more and more and take you back to my dorm room.

  HOLY SHIT!

  I promise you, Commie, I’d not only never cheated on Alyse, but the thought had hardly ever even crossed my mind. No, Commie, Jenji doesn’t count. That started before I met Alyse, so she’s been grandfathered in. Oh, sure, I see a gorgeous girl somewhere and do the split-second Jimmy Carter lust-in-my-heart two-step. But I don’t dwell on it, and I certainly don’t seek it out. It’s probably been ten years since I’ve even leafed through the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue. Like I need that shit. I don’t want to pursue hopeless longing, and I could do without it finding me. I was in a Chinese take-out a while ago when a high school girl walked in with the sickest body I’ve ever seen and wearing this tight retro t-shirt. Sloping up and down this girl’s Hall Of Fame chest were the words: McGovern for President. I was somewhere between dying for this girl and wanting to ask where she got the shirt. I mean, it was a cool shirt and I would have liked to get one. But I didn’t ask for fear of her thinking I was just staring at her tits. That’s how conscientious I am about not dealing with all the—

  Look, look: I’m not a monk. I did wonder for a second if this kind of girl knows what effect she has on men our age. Does she realize that if she took her McGovern shirt off and gave some guy like us two minutes of free play with her breasts, she’d pretty much launch us back to the premature ejaculation age and make our lives complete? As you’ll see, there’s a connection to that thought with something that happened later that day. But, overall, just thinking that was no big sin, right? It was just a thought. More sociological than anything.

  Commie, I know you. You’re thinking: Yeah, sure. Sociological . . . But it’s the truth. Look, my life as it is has just enough other shit in it to keep me interested, you know? My attitude is: I married my dream girl. Put a check mark next to that line of our nation’s checklist for idiots and move on. I see guys our age out there—divorced, whatever—still looking for “the one.” I mean, really, what fifty-year-old still has the energy to pass himself off as perfect?

  So, God knows what hijacked my head and made me look at Audra—a girl that the nineteen-year-old me would have liked—and dip my fifty-one-year-old toe in the water.

  Why?

  I just couldn’t get over my stupidity.

  I thought to myself: Jesus Christ, at a certain point, the government
should just send you an ID card officially proclaiming: YOU ARE OUT OF THE GAME.

  And that, Commie, brings up another coincidence.

  XII.

  Well, technically, maybe not a coincidence. More like an appropriate segue to the next part of that day.

  See, the government-issued YOU ARE OUT OF THE GAME card led me to a thought about a patient named Ruth Kudrow, who is 82 and who not only has a crush on me, but actually hits on me every time I see her. I swear, she is shameless to a degree that only someone in assisted-living can be.

  I have three assisted living places I visit every other month or so. It kind of depresses the crap out of me but, frankly, it brings in a lot of money. I won’t go too deeply into this, but old people need to have their toenails clipped regularly or all kinds of bad things can happen. Plus, it’s hard for them to reach their toes. Plus, the toenails are often hard and erose. Plus, you have a segment of the elderly with diabetes, which bumps the need for podiatric attention through the roof.

  Actually, one of my diabetic patients at the Briar Hill Assisted Living Center is my absolute favorite patient. His name is Carolina Lewis. And, no, he’s not my favorite just because he’s 81, black and, according to Met Life, has been dead for twenty years already. He’s my favorite because he’s got a life story that you wouldn’t believe: As a young guy, he snuck away from working at his father’s junkyard in Texarkana, drifted up to New York, took the Civil Service exam, and wound up a big deal in the Small Business Administration. He tells great stories every visit. I love him. (And, in case you were curious, his mother was from Asheville, North Carolina, hence his name.)

  Anyway, suffice to say, each pair of dilapidated feet I treat counts as an office visit. So, yeah, it’s a lot of money.

  Unfortunately, Ruth Kudrow is also warehoused at Briar Hill. Before my visits, she bathes herself in a perfume you could smell from Cuba. When I work on her feet, she intentionally leans over to flash cleavage so gaping you could lose a Hyundai in there. She must think her cleavage can override the sight of her feet, but she’s so far off she’s not even wrong. I mean, this woman’s feet are so gnarly, they can only be described as the end of the world. You’d think the pavement had been walking on her for 80 years.