The girls went off to yak in the kitchen. I took Dumb and Dumber into the living room. I asked did they want anything to drink and they said water. I made it clear how we got beer and wine and all kinds of hard stuff for cocktails. I said anything you want.

Moose hooked a thumb over his shoulder. He said, no can do. He told me, he promised. Then he went on about how he’s still on probation for last time. Probation because he busted out a window at a bus stop. He made a point about how it was the biggest window.

In the living room he was doing the reenactment.

Moose got drunk off boilermakers. This was not last week but the one before. Coming back from wherever, he was at the bus stop, the kind where all around there’s glass windows, and he decided it was a good idea to put his head through one of them.

In the reenactment, Moose grabbed my shoulders and made like he was going to crack his head against my head. I was playing the part of the window.

The bitch of it, he said, was the cop didn’t have the first clue until after the light turned green. That’s when the girls drove by in the other direction. He was sitting there when it happened, the cop was, at a red light. Facing the opposite way. Moose did the head-butt thing right behind him, and the cop had no idea.

The light changed and the girls went by, and that’s when the cop turned, to look at the girls, and there was Moose, stooped over on the curb, holding his head, with blood dripping down his arms, crunching around on a sea of broken glass.

If the girls had gone left or right, or if they were ugly, or guys, no problem.

Moose shook his head and said tough break. He said, “The wife, she’s still pretty hot about it.”

So then, water.

The crap started at seven. Molly had on this yellow number. She looked the way a bus does going down the road. Picture a bunch of screaming brats inside. Me. I’m the hatchback driving behind and stopping at all the stops.

We were at the door, both of us, like we expected it was going to be somebody remotely exciting on the other side. Like her friends are the kind of people that can really blow your hair back.

Me because I couldn’t wait for a drink.

I remember Molly gave me this look, with her eyes she was saying don’t be an idiot. I was doing my best impression of happy. Also I did that sort of shrug, the one that says who me.

The way we are, it’s pretty stupid. Molly and me, sometimes we go whole days without ever saying two words. We’re always finding new ways to avoid talking. It’s like that maxim, if you don’t have anything nice to say.

The guests all came together in the same car. It was two couples, and they sucked equally. Molly did the introductions, how do you do pleased to meet you, and I tried making myself look taller. In long pants nobody can tell you’re standing on tiptoes. It’s not that I’m too short. Something you should know about us, we’re like James and the Giant Peach. Molly is the peach.

I don’t know how else to describe it.

Kelly’s husband, Ashley, I didn’t like him from the start. He had one of those really loose, el cheapo handshakes that men should never have. The kind of handshake where you don’t know what to do with it. He looked the way a teenager does on a first date, after realizing his zipper was down the whole time. You could tell he wanted to be anywhere else.

The other guy, Moose, that’s what they call him. He’s the one going with Carrie. Moose is like a grain silo, with arms and legs sticking out. Picture Paul Bunyan, or the old Brawny Man. Molly said, “Moose is in computers.”

I thought about him crammed in a Volkswagen, some plastic flowers on the dash, doing house calls and fixing busted microprocessors with a tiny screwdriver.

Maybe there’s nothing worse for a man than when his wife picks out his clothes for him. And it’s always something you hate wearing. After I die, when I’m laying there in the coffin like cold meat, and everybody comes to stand around my corpse talking quietly about what a great guy I was, Molly’s going to have me done up like a sailor or some damned thing. I’ll be the only guy to ever go in the ground wearing a bullshit turtleneck.

This will be her final unkindness. Hardy-har, and thanks for those corduroy pants that balloon out at the crotch. It’s the sort of thing that gets under my skin like a fresh paper cut.

So you can imagine when I walked out of the bathroom and there was my worst outfit, pressed and spread across the bed like it was somebody really thin having a nap, you can imagine how I wanted to run out into traffic. They’re pretty regular clothes. I’m not saying that. It’s just I’d rather eat peanuts. Probably it would help to mention I’m allergic to peanuts.

The worst part about the outfit was this old man sweater, the one Molly got me for my birthday, it’s the kind without sleeves, and you’re supposed to wear it over a button-down shirt. Whoever thought that up should be hanged.

Instead of putting it on I spilled mustard all down the front. I forgot to mention I was eating a sandwich. Anyway I made a stink about it so Molly would hear. When she came in I did the routine where I’m a total fuck up and how does she ever put up with me. Molly went sort of hysterical. She started hollering and she was flapping her arms around like a turkey. I almost smiled but I know better.

After lunch Molly went into the shower. She left a list of chores on the counter. The way she explained it, our house reflects how people see us, and it wouldn’t kill me to do a little work without bitching and complaining about everything.

So, fine. 

The list was things like dusting the bookshelf and washing the kitchen floor. What I really wanted was to make the chicken. I’ve been working on this new recipe. Basically it’s a roasted bird with sage and onion stuffing. Before it goes in the oven, I rub it with olive oil and different spices. Also I put in some chicken stock and lightly chopped vegetables. The trick for good stuffing is finding the right kind of bread. Then serve it with twice-baked potatoes, and bacon or sour cream on top.

Anyway Molly killed that noise pretty quick. You’d think it would put wind in her sails, me wanting to cook. But it doesn’t, and then I usually end up getting pissed off. Being that it’s a holiday coming up, she’s been staying late at work. I do accounting at Grubb & Wade, which is another way of saying I work hard four months out of the year. The rest of the time I keep the books and pretend like I’m busy. So lately I cook and Molly shuts up about it.

When I brought it up about wanting to make the chicken for her party, she told me forget it. She said because it was her friends and they were sophisticated and she wouldn’t have me shitting everything up. This was just after she got out of the bathroom. Right before she scolded me for not doing my chores.

Molly has this problem where she’s a bitch. Like at lunch I asked her to please pass the salt. She was sitting across with her nose in a magazine. All she could manage was nudging the shaker a little with her finger. I had to get up and walk over there for the damn salt. I should mention it’s one of those pretty long tables. I tell you I wanted to knock the tuna casserole into her lap.

I was getting ready to say something about it but she changed the subject. She reminded me again about the dinner party. She said, “I knew you’d forget.”

Then she licked her finger and turned the page. 

She arranged it so a couple of her friends from work would come over with their husbands or whoever. Molly is a customer service rep for cable TV. What she does all day is talk on the telephone. When you call because your picture is all static, it’s her on the other line. That should give you some idea how frustrating it is, talking to her.

I told her I didn’t feel like having people over. I said, “I’m not feeling it.” Molly went into a terrific fit about how I never take her out. She called me cheap and lousy. She asked where’s the romance. Having people over isn’t the same as going out. It’s not romantic. I considered mentioning it. Instead I picked at the green beans. 

I pull at the corner but it’s no use. Molly does this trick where she turns around all night like she’s getting cranked on a spit, and the whole time she’s taking more and more of the blanket. Maybe you’ve experienced this before. Rolled up like that, she looks like a burrito or a caterpillar. Meanwhile I’m under the window and shivering. I’d ask her to stop if I thought it’d do any good.

What I do is get up for another blanket. I keep a spare in the closet for when Molly goes berserk. I use it almost every night.

The alarm clock says four-thirty in the morning.

I feel like going for a beer.

What makes it worse is I’m superstitious. Like when I go for a walk, I’m the guy skipping over all the cracks. It’s not that I think something bad will happen. My mother died four years ago. But she did have osteoporosis.

So immediately after the dream I start panicking. That amounts to wheezing and some sweating mostly. Nothing too far off the map. I’m not a complete lunatic or anything. Anyway that’s what I’m doing when Molly decides to jerk the blanket. Then she tells me to knock it off.

Molly.

I can see her feet sticking out from the edge of the bed. Let me give you an idea how big they are. Our shoes are the same size. It used to be that was cute. Now all I can think is how embarrassing we look together.

I had that dream again where my teeth were falling out. How it goes is I’m standing in front of the mirror and plucking them off my gums like they were grapes. I didn’t say it was a pleasant dream. The hell of it is they were coming out with just a little effort. The teeth I mean.

Next thing is I’m awake and breathing like my hair is on fire. I start poking around inside my mouth, really shaking like mad, because you can’t be too careful. I’m pretty sure my whole face will cave in, leaving me all puckered and ugly. It happens where I get confused about what’s a dream, and sometimes it’s hard, telling the difference.

Also remembering things.

truth hugs the windsheild of a speeding car
an inside-out bumblebee, splayed and
baking
in the blistering sun

i found myself
falling and frantic
into an unmarked hole

first i didn’t know
how to feel

then i woke up
and i can’t stop listening