Chapter One (B): Meat Lasagna

 

 

Chapter One (B): Meat Lasagna

 

“The Universe is all Transformation.

Life is what our thoughts make it.”

 

-Marcus Aurelius

 

In which Frank and Gia take separate lunches.

 

“Lately, he is being a fuck. Just a big, old fuck.”

It was almost two years of marriage, plus a year of dating on the front end.

It was a week before the TV news broke the story about mud-holes in space.

She was trying to reach him on the phone but it was ringing off the hook—no answer—because he was out having lunch with Scieszka. She wanted to remind him that the tank on the upstairs toilet was leaking all over hell, still, for the third day in a row. Fucking ridiculous. And wouldn't he finally think about finding a precious few minutes to fix it before getting sidetracked or heading out for the day? But he was already gone.

A tiny, tiny voice in her head said, “Well, maybe he remembered on his own.”

“Not a chance,” she told the voice. “It's not simply a problem of memory.”

“He just needs to be pointed in the right direction.”

“There's been a note on the door since Monday. And on the refrigerator.”

“Maybe he got up extra early this morning just to make sure it gets done.”

“Are you joking?”

“Maybe he's not only fixed the leak, but cleaned and mopped the bathroom, too.”

“My husband? Are you high?”

“Oh, don't we wish we were?”

“Yes, we do.”

In her mind's eye she could see the droplets swarming across the porcelain underbelly, rolling over teflon tape and rusted pipe threads, hissing and dribbling, turning the baseboards into pulpy much, staining the recently re-tiled floor yellow, and the scene made her want to drive sharp utensils into her own eyeballs. Her tiny, tiny voice reminded her, “If you want a thing done, you either do it yourself or you call a professional.”

There was no reason on Earth that Frank couldn't have made short work of it. She let the phone ring and ring and ring and ring and ring. It was twenty minutes past noon. On the half-chance his lazy ass was still in bed, she cursed him ever-so mildly.

The man just didn't seem to give much of a fuck, these days, it seemed.

One of the other cleaning ladies, a dark, French chick named Mona, leaned over and said, “A woman who can't get her man on the telephone is a fierce creature, indeed.”

“I am surely that,” said Gia, deep heat spreading across her cheeks.

“What are you having for lunch?”

“Tuna sandwich.”

“Me, too.”

...

 

Frank was across town, at the Grotto, with Bob Scieszka, eating lasagna, which was Gia's favorite dish. All-time, most extra-favourite. The Grotto's lasagna was the best in the territory, the best in the Americas, the best anywhere, outside of Grandma's home kitchen, and that wasn't just worthless talk-talk. There was a well-worn story about how the famous cussing chef, from television—passing through town en route to a pricey northern fishing expedition—had eaten lasagna at the Grotto and declared it “just fucking unbelievable.” And that was really saying something. The cussing chef! From television! (The downside of such praise was that this dish of cheese, sauce and noodles was now close to eighteen bucks a plate.)

The other premium dishes in Discord were the combination pizza at Lou-Lou's (just $22.99 for an extra-large), the clubhouse sandwich (taxpayer-subsidized) in the basement cafeteria of the federal building, and the beef cart special at Jack's Juke (only on Fridays). But the Grotto typically outsold them all. They also served up a decent seafood al-fredo, which was what Bob Scieszka usually ordered.

Frank told him, “If Gia knew I was here, having lasagna, she'd kick my balls.” Knowing that she'd packed tuna sandwiches for her own lunch, he felt a little bit ashamed of himself. And there was also the vaguest notion of some errand or chore—blank, utterly blank—lodged at the very back of his mind. (The very faintest flushing sound.)

Bob said, “Forget it. Enjoy yourself. Don't you think she lives it up when she goes out with her girlfriends? I can guarantee that she's having steak and lobster, with cheese biscuits, while you're stuck at home with macaroni salad.” It was Bob's secret, though just barely, that he wanted desperately to fuck Gia. Would have given one of his arms, maybe a lower leg, for the privilege.

“I don't know. Gia eats pretty lite. And she's too modest for lobster.” (And, come to think of it, he couldn't recall a time, recently, that she had gone out with female pals.)

“But you know what I mean, Frank. You catch the drift.”

“She's not so big on the beef, either. Red meat and such.”

Bob had to stop himself from saying, “I want to stick my red meat up her tender little ass, all the way to my balls.” Instead, he said, “Either way, you don't have to feel guilty about having a nice lunch with an old, good friend. You must know by now that everybody keeps secrets—even your lovely wife. Cheers, yeah?”

“Yeah, cheers.”

They knocked beer mugs together.

The Grotto was all burnt wood and orange lighting. Candles, fishing nets, cracked and bubbled glass. The waitresses wore black with fire. It was like the 1970s filtered through a smoky sunset lens. The perfect place to take a date.

“I'm seeing somebody new,” Bob announced.

“Very nice,” said Frank.

“We've been out of touch, you and I. We haven't talked since, what, June? This is me bringing you up to speed: If this was July, I'd be telling you that I'm seeing somebody new. But now we've broken up, and then we got back together again, et cetera, but then we were done, again, and now I don't know where we're going from here. That's the last few months of my life, in a nutshell.”

“So, you're back to being un-single?”

“I've got my hands on a nice little honey. We'll see. Relationships are complicated.”

“And what else have I missed?”

“I'm writing another book. Time and space and vortexes. Shit like that. Space stuff.”

The waitress brought two fresh mugs of beer.

“Keep them coming,” Bob said. “I'm getting shit-faced today.”

“Not me,” said Frank. Suddenly he recalled that the toilet tank was leaking. “Technically, I'm at work. Not only that, but Gia will lose her shit if she comes home to find me bombed.”

“Suit yourself. I'm having a party. You're invited.”

“What? When?”

“A week or two. I'll email the invite. Eat up. Drink, drink.”

Sometimes, Frank thought Bob was on strange drugs.

Sometimes, Frank bought drugs from Bob.

The waitress, a different waitress, came to clear away empty plates, and Frank asked her, “Excuse me, do you still make those tasty little apple cakes? Little apple pastries?”

“Yeah, awesome,” the girl said, faking enthusiasm. “They have green cream cheese filling.”

“Exactly. How much are they? I want to take a couple home for my wife.”

“Certainly, yeah. No problem. They're a dupondius apiece.”

“Pardon me? A what? Did you say... a dupondius?”

“You know, four bucks each.”

“Four bucks? Excellent. Can you pack two, to go?”

“Not a problem. Awesome.”

Bob was shaking his head. “Apple tarts. Fuck off. More beer, please.”

“It's a nice gesture,” said Frank.

“If you take her the tarts, she'll know you had the lasagna.”

“I'm not trying to deceive my wife, Bob.”

“They're your balls, Frank. Act accordingly.”

...

 

Gia and Mona were cleaning Room 110 together. It was a designated non-smoking suite but five empty beer bottles were bunged up with cigarette butts. Dried gravy on the TV remote, a blob of sneeze-snot on the lampshade. The bedsheets reeked of piss and sweat, and the air was greasy with crack-cocaine residue. Gia twisted her face in revulsion and Mona said, “Try to pretend you're at the beach. Margaritas and sunshine, and tanned men covered in tanning lotion. Can you smell it? Can you smell the coconut cream? The Old Spice on the cute guy's big balls?”

“It's not helping,” said Gia, “because, I think, my imagination is not that good.”

“What about your memories? Have you ever been to the tropics? I thought you were—”

“Twice, actually. Puerto Vallarta.”

“Very nice. Puerto Vallarta. I hear good things. My brother went there for Day of the Dead.”

“Frank and I went on our honeymoon, two years ago, and again last year, on our first anniversary. Puerto Vallarta and Emathios. Loved it. I would die there, if I could.”

“Are you going again, this year?”

“No, unfortunately. Sadly.”

“Why not? Are the bills piling up?”

“Aren't they always?”

“Yes they are. Your husband needs to earn more money.”

“You have no idea how right you are.”

Mona pulled the cases off the pillows and a slime-filled condom hit the night-table like a wet bug. Splat. And viscous fluid dribbled onto the rug. Gia made another gagging puke-face and Moria burst out laughing. “This is why I could never stay here,” she said.

“I'm disgusted by this place.”

There came a series of sharp footsteps from the hall and then a large, unkempt, crater-faced man stepped into the room, covered in dirty, black leather. He blatantly regarded each woman's bottom, then smirked. The rally was still ten days or more away, but the hotel was already half-full of tattooed hooligans wearing chains and buckles.

“Can I help you?” Gia asked.

“I'm looking for Berk,” said the monster. “He here?” His teeth were the color of Tang.

“The room is vacant. We're cleaning it, as you can see.”

“You know what room he's in? I need to see him.”

“You can check with front desk.”

“I can, can I?” He made a click-click sound out the corner of his mouth, then slowly departed. The stink of burnt weed, shoe polish and cheap sex went with him as he left.

“Ass... hole,” Mona whispered.

“Tell me about it.”

“They're everywhere, these days.”

“Like cockroaches, yes.”

...

 

When Gia arrived home, the toilet was fixed and there were two apple pastries, from the Grotto, sitting on the kitchen counter. The filling was a bit on the warm, runny side, and she had to spit her first bite into the sink to keep from vomiting.

Frank came up from behind and wrapped his arms around her.

“You had lasagna, you prick,” Gia said, forcing a smile, feigning play.

“I love you,” he told her.

“Yeah. I love you, too. What's for dinner?”

He ordered a pizza from Lou-Lou's and they watched a movie together, on the couch—something shitty, with vampires and dull-pretty teenagers—and she found herself resenting the hell out of him, more today than yesterday, which was twice as much as the day before that. The tiny, tiny voice in her head was asking, “Why don't you work more? Why don't you earn more? Why don't you find a better job?” But Frank, of course, could not hear it.

“I spent my day cleaning up biker cum so that you and Bob Scieszka could hang out at the Grotto, and we're not going to Mexico this year, you fucker. You fucker!”

“I love you,” Frank said for the fifteenth or twentieth time.

“Yeah. I love you, too.”

Sometimes, she thought she'd like to kick him in teeth. Wipe that dopey smirk off his face, using the heels of her red fuck-me pumps.

...

 

Shit was serious.

Snowballing, out of control.

Gia thought, “I don't know how we're going to save us.”

To Frank, she let on as little as possible.

She bought a book. Men and Women and a dozen adjectives.

It wasn't helping.

...

 

Frank's Dream Journal, September 23, 201_:

 

Who am I today? I'm an old man. I have crested. I am finally 40.

It's very late, it's very early, I can't sleep, and I am thinking of dark places.

Somewhere, something matters to someone.

I'm supposed to be recording my dreams in this book.

The night before last, I woke up in a panic. I don't know what came over me. I took melanin to fall asleep. It made me hot and jittery. Maybe I remember strange faces—alien faces—like five Little Grey doctors were dissecting me in their UFO operating theatre. Not sure. Ugly little cocksuckers. Maybe I built the picture after waking... or maybe it's a dream from weeks ago. Can't say one way or the other.

I haven't gone to therapy in forever. I don't know the difference between a psychologist and a psychiatrist. I'm not even sure my therapist has a doctorate, even though I keep calling her, “Doctor.” Seems to me, she's nothing but an overpaid social worker. And since I have to go to my regular doctor to get my prescriptions filled, I'm guessing that's about dead-on correct.

Gia says I need to pay better attention to things. She says I am oblivious to my surroundings. I don't know how to excuse myself. I knock things over, leave cupboard doors open, stub my toes. What can I do about it? Things are not going so well, between us.

Still, I am thinking of dark places.

Those very particular thoughts—rope, bullet, caplet, or plastic bag?

I don't like sharp things. Make my hair stand on edge.

How many other people have these thoughts?It must be a lot. My therapist is booked solid, Monday to Friday, eight to five-thirty. I have to call two months ahead in order to get an appointment. She's just one of many. The Victor Building is full of people like her talking to people like me. We must be fucking Legion, I tell you—

...