Chapter 6

I’m sitting in the back of a pub in Ireland, watching the laser light show taking place within my pint of Guinness. Or as the locals call it, a beer. I’m watching the browns cascade into the chocolaty, coffee black bottom and feeling the eyes of twenty Irishmen.

As I drop the shot glass full of Irish Cream and Whiskey into my stout, I hear a voice bellowing from the next table over.

“How would you like it if someone walked into your country and ordered an American Car Bomb?”

I’m standing in a grocery store. I’m here to buy those chocolate and strawberry wafer cookies and some apple juice. But the store doesn’t have the wafer cookies. So I decide to give blood instead. A man in blue scrubs sticks a needle into my left arm, into a spot that’s painted with an iodine circle. I’m squeezing the little blue ball and watching Maury Povich on a 13” set. And then I look down at the needle and the solid red tube. It looks perfectly normal. Until the flow slows down. Then I realize that I’m not donating blood at all. The blood is flowing into my body.

My sleeping body is paralyzed as I lay next to my wife. My electroencephalograms have no delta waves. I’m dreaming and I don’t know it.

I’m standing in an art-deco kitchen. I’m having a serious conversation with what appears to be my gay lover.

“Hey George, what do you want to do today?”

“Let’s just stay in and grill some burgers.”

“I don’t know, you sure you don’t want to go see a movie?”

“Naw, let’s put on some hot dogs or let’s get some steak or something fancy. Yeah, steak!”

“I feel like we never get out anymore.”

“Who needs to go anywhere when we can grill some chicken breasts and pork chops on my Teflon-coated heating surfaces!”

“Damnit George, I told you, I’m not in the mood to grill food on you today!”

“Not even if I had some crispy bacon? You know you want to plug me in, baby.”

“Oh, Foreman. I can’t stay mad at you. But I’m not washing your grease tray. That’s disgusting.”

My monoamines are shut down. No norepinephrine. No serotonin. No histamine. My heart rate is irregular. The first step is dream recall.

The invitations were mailed in advance. The attire was strictly black tie. This was the highlight of everyone’s year. Except two people were late.

There were four guests already in attendance, pacing the floor: Miss Molé, C.C., Pico and Mr. Cream.

“This is bullshit,” Pico says. “They know better than this.”

“Calm down, Pico. It’s not a big deal,” says C.C.

“That’s easy for you to say. You get invited to all kinds of parties. This is Pico’s night to shine.”

“Shine, huh?” Miss Molé is not having any of that. “I don’t know who you think you are Pico de Lamo, but I’m the star of this show.”

Mr. Cream tries to smooth things over. “We don’t need to ridicule each other. We’re all equally important.”

That isn’t good enough for Miss Molé. “Of course, you’d say that. Nobody gives a shit about you. You’re just lucky you got invited.”

Mr. Cream’s feelings are obviously hurt as he hesitates and chooses not to reply. Instead he sulks on his way to the bathroom to bawl his fatty eyes out.

C.C. says, “It’s okay everyone, I’m sure they’ll get here soon. At least we know they’ll be coming together.”

Pico is getting angrier. “They’re probably stopped to screw on the side of the road, selfish bastards.”

“Maybe they had car trouble.”

“No. Not tonight. Something’s not right. They must be up to something.”

Something isn’t right. At that moment, Mr. and Mrs. Chip are sprawled in a ditch. Their rented limo had swerved off the road, scraping past a guardrail. Their fragile, triangular bodies, smashed into crumbs.

In the main hall, Pico de Gallo, Miss Guaca Molé, Mr. Sour Cream, and Cheddar Cheese are tired of waiting. After a few hours — even though no one wanted to admit it — it became clear there would be no party.

On the way out, an exasperated Pico de Gallo says, “How are we supposed to have a Nacho Party without any Chips?”

“Lara? Lara?! Are you here?”

I grab my cell phone off my nightstand, dial the 9 and the 1, and go downstairs.

“Lara, where are you?”

On the kitchen counter, next to a rotting banana, there is a handwritten letter:

You never know what you have until it’s gone.

I miss all the cute little things that used to annoy me. I miss finding the toilet seat up in the middle of the night. I miss the way you would leave the faucet in the kitchen running. I miss how you would snore through the night. I miss how you would take over the remote control and change the channel from whatever I was watching. I miss how you would storm into the bedroom if I were trying to make a private phone call. I miss how you would berate me in front of your friends. I miss how you would call me a stupid whore, your little slut, just a piece of trash that you like to fuck and brag to your friends about how funny it is when I say that I love you. I miss how you would come home late, after I was already asleep, wearing a used condom. I miss how your breath smelled like bourbon and cigarettes and your chest hair was itchy to the touch. I miss how you would leave your muddy shoes off of the welcome mat. I miss everything about you. The first step is dream recall. Remember this note.

When the check comes the five of us shift uncomfortably in our seats. No one wants to acknowledge what just happened. Action means responsibility. We all have our own theories as to why we shouldn’t have to pay.

Carolyn, with that pathetic, mascara mess on her face. The only time she stopped crying was to eat more than her fair share of the appetizer sampler. Just because she just broke up with her boyfriend, she thinks she’s entitled to all the mozzarella sticks she can stuff into her puffy cheeks. Who cares if her boyfriend was blowing a pizza delivery boy? Just because you moved in with a guy who has an unquenchable taste for sausage doesn’t mean that I’m paying for your mini-quesadillas.

To her right, Jason sat there not saying a word. His excuse hasn’t changed in months. How he’s tight on cash because he got fired. Downsized as he put it. And we felt sorry for him. Last year. But if you don’t try to get another job, you don’t have the right to complain about the injustices of the corporate world. Instead of blaming outsourcing and cursing the Indians who’ll actually show up on time, maybe he should blame himself. But no one has the courage to tell him. The truth would be insensitive.

On Jason’s right, is his friend Rick. He’s apparently a food connoisseur. But that’s just a fancy way of saying snob. His pasta had too much olive oil, his meat wasn’t pink enough, and I’m sure there was something wrong with the bread, even if I didn’t hear about it. The poor waitress spent all night returning his food to the kitchen and he spent all night complaining. He feels like his meal should be comped, except the manager’s not about to do anything.

To the left of Carolyn sits Kim. Kim does what she always does. She was on the liquid diet before it had a name. She thinks if she doesn’t order any food, she doesn’t owe anything. But I’m pretty sure those Cosmos aren’t free. She claims she’s just a social drinker. I think she’s a drinker who happens to be social and not the other way around. Either way her purse is staying shut and I’m looking at a bar bill that’s not mine.

So that leaves me. Sitting between Rick and Kim, staring at the bill that just happened to be set right in front of me. And the thing is, I don’t have an excuse. I don’t have a personal tragedy, I have enough money, my meal was fine, and sure I actually ate something. But you know what, I don’t want to pay anything either. My excuse? My excuse is fuck you. So I reach into my wallet and find Jason’s old business card, from when he was so excited to break into the corporate world. I place his business card in the black leather credit card case, and excuse myself to the bathroom.

But instead of walking into the men’s room, I just walk out the front door, knowing it will take the four of them at least 10 minutes to realize what just happened. I almost feel bad — almost — because I wasn’t just expected to pay. I was also their ride home.

In my forebrain, flashes jump across synapses.

It’s supposed to be funny. Dark humor.

It’s supposed to be a heart. A pink, gelatin heart with a funny surprise in the middle.

It’s supposed to be the perfect ending for your Valentine’s Day dinner. Or even better, for your intimate dinner party with a big crowd.

You’re supposed to fill a plastic sandwich bag with a mixture of corn syrup, grenadine and food coloring. You’re supposed to put it in a heart mold and surround it with your strawberry gelatin mixture. Chill and serve. And delight.

The perfect ending to a night of intellectual stimulation. Of deep conversations with our colleagues, our friends, our Pastor. Corduroy jackets with elbow patches. Calabash pipes and red wine. Leather-bound books on rich, mahogany shelves.

A five-course meal that is designed to impress.

Opening with a trio of Alpine Bay Oysters.

A salad made with eggplant, crab, avocados and apples.

Followed by a consommé with duck confit.

The main course is the smoked marrow from a cow femur.

And for dessert, of course, is a gelatin heart that bleeds when it’s sliced.

Except I didn’t use a heart mold. And the sandwich bag isn’t in the middle like a cardiac organ, but instead is running in a narrow, straight line. Like a blood vessel. Running down the middle of a crude, phallic aluminum foil mold. An anatomically correct mold. Complete with veins and scrotum.

As soon as Lara lifts the sterling silver lid off the platter, there it is for all to see. A pink, gelatin penis with a surprise in the middle. Ready to bleed.

There are some dreams you’d rather not remember.

Charlie’s flipping through my CD binder, looking for some foosball background music. “You bought a Dave Matthews CD? Listening to that band is like going to the dentist.”

“Whatever, you bought an Aerosmith CD for the song Pink. That song sounds like a piece of shit, dropping into a toilet,” I say.

Charlie responds, “Oh yeah, I know you bought The Rembrandts so you could listen to the Friends theme song. That’s like smashing your fingers in a car door.”

“Don’t even talk about the Rembrandts because I know you bought like 5 Master P CDs. That’s like choking to death on a blood sausage, while drowning.”

“Fuck you, buddy.” Charlie proceeds to unzip his jeans and lower his boxers. He walks into the kitchen with his pants around his ankles and pulls out a cheese grater from a bottom drawer. As he grates his scrotum, he screams, “This is what’s like to listen to Jagged Little Pill!”

I was not to be outdone.

I scream, “Don’t you dare bring up Alanis!” and storm out of the room. Minutes later, I come back into the room carrying a ball-peen hammer. I walk to the kitchen table and unzip my pants as well. I lay my flaccid member on the solid chestnut dining table and raise the hammer in my right hand. As I lower it with all my might, I bellow out, “This is what it’s like to listen to Coldplay!”

My neurons fire back and forth like emails bouncing into your inbox.

From: IT Department
To: (9th Floor Mailing List)
Subject: Inappropriate Behavior Will Not Be Tolerated

A few weeks ago we installed security cameras on the 9th floor to protect our new computers. Since then we’ve caught some troubling behavior on tape. Please be advised that this is a serious concern and could cost people their jobs. This is a professional environment, let’s keep it that way.

-Thanks

From: redskins81@yahoo.com
To: IT Department
Subject: It won’t happen again

I’m really sorry about what I did. I didn’t think anyone would find out. please don’t fire me, I can’t afford to find a new job. It’s just that I don’t have the internet at home and sometimes when I stay late I get so stressed that I can’t think about anything else and then it’s really in the best interest in the company if I just take care of my urges. I’m just trying to be productive, that’s all.

and I’m really sorry for releasing onto the plant in the corner. I ran out of kleenex and I didn’t want to leave any stains near my chair so I just panicked. I noticed that the plant hasn’t looked so good lately, so if it would help, I can bring in a new plant. just please don’t fire me.

~sorry

From: em3121@gmail.com
To: IT Department
Subject: Rude

So I know that you caught me drinking on camera. If you want to fire me, then do it. You don’t have to broadcast it to whole floor. I’ve been struggling with this new account and I don’t think it’s a big deal if I add a little whiskey to my Coke. So what, people can’t have a beer on their lunch break? It’s just a flask, it’s not like I’m into drugs.

People have mimosas and bloody mary’s all the time for breakfast. Who cares if I prefer bourbon at 9 am? If I still get my work done, does it matter if I have peach schnapps in my water bottle? You have some nerve telling everyone about my drinking problem. Assholes.

From: wildman69@aol.com
To: IT Department
Subject: Where Do YOU Get Off?

Since when do you get to decide what is acceptable behavior? If I want to take a dump in a shoebox, let it petrify for a few days, then grind it up with a mortar and pestle, and then mix it in with the coffee grounds in the kitchenette, that’s MY business!

Blow me.

From: bwalsh@gmail.com
To: IT Department
Subject: whatever

So I’m probably going to get shitcanned anyways, but that’s okay. I hated this job. I’m not even sorry about it. I mean, I knew she was young, but how was I supposed to know it was the client’s daughter? Plus, it was her idea to play strip backgammon, I just happened to have enough coke to make it fun.

So what I’m asking, is if you’re going to fire me anyways, can you at least give me a copy of the tape?

From: IT Department
To: (9th Floor Mailing List)
Subject: Clarification of Inappropriate Behavior

It has come to our attention that we weren’t explicit enough in our previous email. Please refrain from placing beverages near the new computers. Thanks.

I’m tossing and turning yet not waking up.

Parties are never a good idea. The best-case scenario is that it’s only mildly disappointing. That it’s just not as good as you imagined it would be. That the martinis are only marginally bitter and the cheese spread is only slightly spoiled. The conversation is only somewhat mundane, the guests are only moderately banal. That’s the best-case scenario.

Tonight is the worst case. There everyone is, dressed to the nines. The best all of us have looked in years. So rich and successful. A fly on the wall couldn’t help but be impressed. When we hear the news, my mouth is full of foie gras. Lara is standing by my side, not eating or drinking anything.

What started with a cough turns to a choking sound. Which turns into something else.

Our bodies are incredible, wonderful things. As much as we think we control them, they are controlling us. Involuntary reflexes.

Something was coming up my wife’s throat, except she hadn’t eaten anything in hours.

It starts as a bubble, that sickening taste of iron and copper, and then it comes gushing out, spraying the lucky guests surrounding us, covering the appetizers and the white tablecloth they were sitting on. Dripping down to the beige berber carpet. The spray is thin as red wine but brighter. Stop sign red. Candy apple red.

At this point, there is so much blood in my wife’s throat if she stops throwing up, she would choke on her own plasma. But she doesn’t stop. She keeps spraying the walls with her own DNA. She covers the TV, but you can still see the CNN Special Alert. You can still see the shaky camcorder footage of the plane exploding on the runway.

The host comes up to us, doesn’t say a word, won’t even look us in the eye, just stands there holding our coats. Parties are never a good idea.

What if dreams are just memories that haven’t happened yet?