7. The Program

I have always been fat. Even while skinny in my twenties, I knew that I was really just a fat person masquerading as a skinny person. But I started off as a fat kid, and luckily grew into a tall man who lost a significant amount of the weight and kept it off for about a decade, but proved my own adage right by gaining it all back by the age of thirty. And then I just packed on more weight as I steamed toward 40. And now, at 41, I was not obese, but I was only about three pounds away from it, carrying around about 30 extra pounds.

In my linage, I clearly hailed from my mother’s roly-poly, bottom of the barrel, Irish potato folk stock. And my step-father, who was from a decidedly devilishly thin Swedish line, never let me and my likewise rotund mother and sister ever forget this. My childhood was fraught with constant nasty wounding comments about my weight spat by him, and then mother sneaking me sweets to make up for it. So the psychology of my heft was now twisted somewhere deep inside my gut, in a blackened spot I preferred not to poke at.     

But here now toppling over the age of 40, I decided I needed to diet again. This was necessitated by the fact that I was distinctly rolling toward having to start shopping at the Big and Tall Shops. I dreaded these places, as besides hosting a limited selection of billowy affairs, their items also carried appropriately heftier price tags. And while this was logical to me, as a shirt the size of a skiff’s sail should be more expensive than, say, a normal human-sized shirt, it displeased the miser in me.  So I mulled this diet idea over obsessively for a while before deciding to finally make it official by mentioning it to my dear Thaddeus.  

“I’m going on a diet,” I said proudly, standing up from the couch with some degree of difficulty.

“Oprah says to call it ‘A Program,’” Thad said rather sanctimoniously, as if Oprah had called him personally and told him to call it that.

“Oh, and what does Oprah mean by that?”

Without looking away from the television he said, “You have to affect diet, exercise, and life style changes together to lose weight and keep it off.”

Rather stunned by this completely logical bit of TV wisdom I said, “Well, that makes perfect sense.”

“Of course it does,” he said looking up rather Stepfordly, “Oprah said it.”

Thad had only recently put on some weight. For all of our lives he had always been the thin, pretty one. But as he neared 40 himself, something metabolic had happened, and he had began to sprout a belly like a surprise tumor, which, interestingly, he absolutely, completely, and resolutely chose never to acknowledge. 

Now, having always been skinny, Thad did not have the ingrained American knowhow to be ashamed of his fat, so he had no idea how to begin to wear this new belly of his. He started off by covering it with clingy sporty knits and stretchy horizontal striped poly-cotton blends, all of which fit him like the skin of a summer sausage. I so wanted to show him the way of the fat, how to drape and conceal and just put a damn coat over it all, but after the first few humorous comments I got in about his weight gain, I was regulated to the guest room for a night and instructed to NEVER bring up the topic again. So instead I had learned to endure shopping outings with him in a shirt so tight it appeared he was rustling a particularly comfy throw pillow, or jeans so snug he could not sit down properly, and had to be taken home laying prone in the backseat of the car.  

So because of this unsaid covenant between us, I knew I had to approach the whole idea of dieting carefully, as not to upset his sacred sensibilities. But because we lived together, I knew to make this Program work for me; we were going to have to make some changes.     

A few days later I dared to broach the topic again, as he stood in the kitchen making a cake.

“So, I’m going to start my Program next Monday.”

“Good for you,” Thad said with absolutely no good will in his voice at all.

“What I’ve decided is that I am going to eat less, eat better, only get one sweet a week, garden more, and walk to work more.”

“Bravo,” he said licking the batter covered spatula.

Even though his eyes said he wanted me dead, I decided just to go for it, “You know this might be a good thing for both of us to do.”

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU SAYING!” He erupted, as if from some demonic pit from far below the earth’s surface, coming at me with the spatula like it was a shiv.

“Nothing!” I whimpered, backing away, scared for my life.

“ARE YOU SAYING I NEED A PROGRAM TOO?” The voice was not his; it was otherworldly, maybe James Earl Jones’.

“No, no!” I couldn’t even look into his eyes, afraid their glare would turn me to stone right then and there in the kitchen. 

“THEN WHY DID YOU SAY IT!”

“I was wrong!” I cowered, “I just thought it would be easier on me if we both did it. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

The next thing I knew he was simply gone, vanished from my view, as if he had evaporated before me, leaving no trace but the spatula tossed in the sink.

I later saw him smoking outside, and knew not to go to him.

We didn’t talk much that night.

Two days later I decided to broach the subject again, as my start day was quickly approaching.

I walked in to the Kitchen to find him making sandwiches for lunch.

“You know what one of the treats Mom would make us when we were kids?’

“What?” he said.

“A sugar sandwich.”

“Get out!”

“Nope. Hand to God. A sugar sandwich.”

“Just a sandwich made of sugar?” he asked.

“Well, it was two pieces of the gooiest white Wonder Bread you ever saw,  spread with butter, and then sprinkled liberally with sugar.”

“You…are…kidding?” Thad said mouth draped open for effect.

“Nope. That was our afterschool snack. My sister and I would come in from school and sing ‘Sugar Sandwich! Sugar Sandwich!’ and Mother would make each of us one.”

“My mother would never have done that. We got fruit or granola or something terrible. Sweets were Verbotene!”

“And that’s because you’re from a very thin line of people, so sweets were more of a special treat. But for my family of potatoes in overalls, sweets were an everyday occurance. And thus why I still have some of my weight problems today.”

We were silent for a minute, I think he realizing my point.  

He started quietly, “I’m not going to do a Program myself, but I will help you on yours, okay?”

“Okay. No problem. I appreciate that.” It wasn’t optimal, but I could live with it.

We were silent for another minute.

Then he said, looking me in the face, “And you know I think you look great just the way you are.”

“Thank you,” I said and my whole body went warm from my fat little toes all the way up to the top of my fat bald head.

           We finished making the sandwiches together.

8. Letter to the Editor

To Whom it May Concern:

I live in the campus historical district and work in my yard as much as possible. On Monday night, as I tended to gardening duties, I rounded the corner of my house to see a neighborhood woman standing on the sidewalk talking loudly on her cell phone, as her enormous dog pooped in my yard with the veracity of Ed Anser after an especially magnificent chili dinner.  As the dog finished and they began to walk off, the woman then noticed me, standing there mortified. It was then and only then that the woman stopped, and rather off the cuff said, “Sorry. Do you have a bag?”

I looked at her, like she was Monty Hall from Let’s Make a Deal, and said, “No, actually I don’t have a bag on me right here, standing out in the middle of my yard.”

With a shrug she said, “I’ll come back and pick it up,” and lopped off with a cutsie wave and a rather sadistic smile.

          A number of things came to mind. The first was that maybe this naïve neighbor woman had been sold this dog by a passing gypsy maven who had promised her that it was a magical dog that never did poop –and this sad, clueless woman only  found out that she had been taken by the gypsy while standing there in my front yard. Or my second thought was that maybe the dog had begged and begged his kindly clueless owner to be taken on a walk and promised not to poop as the lady was inexplicably out of all forms of bags or bag-like material, but then, there just in the middle of my freshly mowed and edged yard, he could just not stop himself. Or thirdly, maybe this boorish neighbor woman was just an irresponsible dog owner.  I thought about all of these possibilities as I realized, ironically, that this was not the first time that this has happened, with the same woman and the same dog, but different poop.

          And that poop is still out in my yard. And it’s been four days.

          I am now coming to the terrible realization that I fear my friendly neighbor woman is not going to return to perform the removal act that she promised me.  

          At this point I ask that this courteous neighbor woman to please return to my house, as I would like to exchange information with her. My reasoning is that since she clearly knows my address, yet I do not know hers, I would like to find out her home address so, at my convenience, I can return the favor by going over and pooping in her front yard.

Yes, that would be excellent.

                                                          - Concerned Neighbor Michael Stiles

                                                                                146 Tahlequah

                   

9. Dan Diamond is Forever

          Three years into our relationship, restaurant dinner conversation had become forced. We clearly knew each other, so favorite color and most liked movies are out. We talked off and on all day through phone, e-mail, and text, so ‘What happened at work today?’ has clearly already been covered by dinner, plus I’m not allowed to talk about work too much or fear his ‘dead-eyed zombie’ stare of doom. And we knew most if not all of each others ‘interesting stories,’ we both variously relate to friends and family when gathered. We, in fact, knew each other’s stories so well that we can usually tell them better than the other.

In our day-to-day lives this lack of conversation topics was fine, as we could both retreat to our separate TVs or computers, but face-to-face in a restaurant, on a ‘date night,’ we were put to the test. And the mine field to dread is that twenty minute barren valley of dust between the ordering of the food and when it arrives. In this gully you actually have to talk, and not just blather (as it’s a ‘date,’ as he reminds me) but talk about something interesting, compelling, something that reminds your partner why he quit drinking to be with you. In short, you have a twenty minute window where you have to justify your entire existence to your mate, or be left to perish alone on a ice floe.

          It is for these terrifying conversational instances that I search my memory all week for ‘just the right story.’ And when I remember one that I have not entertained my dear Thaddeus with, I hold on to it until just the right moment, to lay it out to him, to remind him why he loves and cherishes me, and why he puts up with all of my crap.

          “Is that all, ya’ll?” The Chili’s waitress smiled, a wad of green gum clenched in the corner of her shiny white teeth.

          “Yes, thank you.” I smiled.  

          She shook her golden locks like Miss Congeniality, turned and strode away grandly. 

          I looked over to Thad, who looked small and miserable. The restaurant was crowded and loud, both of which he hated, but this had been his night to pick-so Chili’s it was. Something about a guacamole burger he liked or something, I wasn’t sure, but I certainly agreed. He sat hunched, eyes darting from the boisterous table of high-fiving frat guys to one side of us, to the table of two guffawing corpulent  couples on the other.

          “Hey,” I said, leaning in to him, “Have I ever told you the story of Dan Diamond?”

          “No, who’s that?” he looked suspicious, sipping his sweet tea. 

          “Remember that first apartment I had back in 88’, the one that was part of the old cut-up house?”

          “Where you lived in the back, upstairs part?”

          “Yeah, yeah…well, while I was living there, this old guy moved into the house out back. It was just a tiny place, and he had a kid with him, like a little kid. But we shared the same parking lot, so I ended-up meeting the guy and his name was Dan Diamond. He was an old country man, probably fifty, kind of a John Wayne type, but on real hard times. The kid was his, named Billy, or something like that.”

          Frowning, Thad said, “Did you sleep with this man?”

          “No, that’s horrible. Now shut-up and listen to my story.” I continued, “So it was around Halloween, and I guess this was one of those times you and I had broken up…”

          “And you were sleeping with the neighbors…”

          “Shut up!" I barked. "So it was around Halloween and I remember because I had made up a bag of candy and treats and took them over to the little kid, he was probably 8 or 9, because they were real poor, and I just thought it would make the kid happy. Anyway, Dan Diamond ended-up inviting me over for dinner one night after that, and we ate in his little dirty house, but he fixed big steaks and we sat and talked and he told me his story.”

          “Uh hum…” Thad said drinking. I could tell I was losing him, as he was not much one for exposition. 

          “So Dan Diamond was from some small far flung little Oklahoma dirt town-Antlers, Pink-something like that…“

“Pawhuska,” Thad smiled.

        “Exactly! Maybe Pawhuska. Anyway, Dan Diamond began as an electrician, and by the time he was 30 he had moved to Oklahoma City and started his own company, Diamond Electric, and he had 20 or 30 guys working for him, and this is when we were kids back in the late 70’s, and he had a big enough company that he had TV ads that would play on Channel 25 during the old Count Gregore Creature Features that played Saturday nights…”

          “Oh my god!” Thad gasped, “I remember those commercials! The vans were red and gold with a lightning bolt going through a big diamond!”

          “Exactly!” I was thrilled, as he seemed completely enthralled.

          “So what happened to him?”

          “Well, that’s what I wanted to know! So over these big charred steaks in his little grubby apartment, he went on to tell me that about this time when he was just making it big, he was still a big ol’ drinker. And one night he was out carousing when his truck pitched off into a bar ditch while he was on his way home from some cowboy club. He was thrown from it, and ended-up almost dead, in a coma for about two months.”

          “Oh no.”

          “Exactly. And they didn’t think he was going to make it, but he did. And when he woke up, he opened his eyes and the first person he saw was this Nurse named Rita, and he said to her-now these are the first words he’s spoken in two months-he said to her, ‘You’re the prettiest thing I ever seen. I’m gonna marry you one day, little lady.’ And three months later they were married in Vegas!"

          “Good for him!”

          “I know! And the whole time he was in coma, his main business partner, Chet, or Slim, or something…”

          “Earl, Junior, Cletus…”

          “Exactly. But his main business partner, Chet, had been running the business, so everything was fine and dandy there, so Dan Diamond could go off and marry Rita, once he recuperated. Then they moved to a big ranch out in the country with a hot tub and they had their son, little Billy, and they lived just happy as they could be-for a while.”

          I stopped to take a drink of my Diet Coke.

          “Yeah? Thad asked eagerly. “So how’d he end-up poor, living behind that crap shack of a place you lived in?”

          “That was not a crap shack. It was okay for my first place.”

          “You had to walk through the bathroom to get from the living room to the bedroom. The bathroom was the hall.”

          “Okay, fine. But anyway, everything was great with dan Diamond until…" I paused, "Dan walked in one day to find Chet doing it with Rita, in Dan and Rita’s bed!”

          “I knew it! Rita, you whore!”

          “And Dan threatened to kill them, and they both ran, and she ended-up asking for a divorce, and she got half of his business, but didn’t want their kid at all. So she just left little Billy with Dan.”

          “Terrible, terrible Rita.” Thad said, shaking his head.

          “Exactly. And it was about this time that Ken realized that while he had been in the coma, Chet had fixed the books or something, so Dan was actually terribly in debt and had no idea, so Chet ended-up getting away wall the money, leaving Dan broke.”

          “Bad Chet!”

          “I know. So in one fell swoop Dan Diamond lost his wife, his ranch, his hot tub, his company, all of his workers…”

          “And all of those pretty red and gold vans with the lightning bolt going through the big diamond.”

          “Yes. And then Rita went off and married Chet in a big wedding up in Tulsa.”

“Horrible.”

“I know. And Dan was left penniless, trying to find work so that he could at least put food on the table for him and his little son.”

          “That’s terrible.” 

          “And that’s where I met him. All of this had just happened weeks before he had moved into that little apartment behind mine. So here he was, poor and sad and desolate, no job, and no money.”

          “Poor Dan Diamond.” Thad, the more emotive and empathic of the two of us, looked around sadly.

          “I know. It was a real tragedy.” I paused dramatically as Thad eyed me. I continued, “But about a week after the meal where he told me all of this, I was having some friends over for a party, and we went out dancing up in the City or something, and I didn’t get back until way late. So the next morning there was this knock at my door about 9 AM, and I stumble to get it, and look out the window and it’s Dan Diamond. And I’m hung over as Hell, in, I dunno, probably a kimono with mascara running down my face…”

“Because it was 80's.”

“Exactly. Because it was the 80’s. And I open it and am, like, ‘Yes?’ and Dan Diamond says in his gravely old man country voice, ‘Michael, I need you to level with me. I just need you to level with me. I saw you go into your house last night with my ex-wife Rita. And if you are having an affair with her, I just need to know it, and you just need to tell me, because you need to man up and just tell me.’ And I said, ‘Dan, I’ve never met your wife. I had some girls over last night, and maybe you thought one of them looked like Rita…’ And he cut me off and said, ‘No. No. It was Rita. I know it. I saw her come up here with you. Is she still inside?’ and then I realized he was serious, and more importantly, I began to freak out as exactly at this moment I realized that Dan Diamond was completely bat shit insane, and probably all of what he had told me over that dinner we had was some sort of giant crazy lie.”

“No!” Thad gasped

“Yes! I know!”

“So what did you tell him?”

“I just pulled my kimono up close and said, ‘Dan, you are mistaken,’ and I was shaking at this point, but I said, ‘I have never met your wife. You know that.’ And the look in his eyes, oh, that look in his old beady country eyes: He wanted me dead. He absolutely believed his wife was inside my apartment, and I think he was ready to kill me to get to her. So I just said, ‘Dan, I have to go now,’ and as I shut the door on him I just knew then and there he was going to kill me. And as I backed away, I could hear him outside breathing. And then he hollered, ‘Rita! I know you’re in there!’

“No!” Thad said louder than he meant to, then looked around embarrassed. 

“Yes! And I just pressed myself against the opposite wall, terrified, on the other side that that rickety cardboard door, and then after what seemed like about thirty minutes of him standing out there breathing all heavy, he just went home.”

I stopped to take a breath. Thad sat motionless, his mouth open.

“And that’s the last time I ever talked to Dan Diamond.” I continued. “We saw each other in the parking lot once or twice, but I never said anything to him again, never made eye contact, mainly because I was afraid he would kill me with his big country hands."

“Good God!” Thad sighed.

“I know. He and his son ended-up moving away a few weeks after that, which was good, as I was scared for my life every night till he left. And I’ve never seen him since.”

“Wow,” Thad said thunderstruck. “So you think he was completely insane and just made up that whole story about Rita and Chet?”

“I guess, I have no idea. We know the stories about the red and gold vans are real, but I don’t believe any of the rest of his story. I don’t know what to believe. But once he accused the gay guy of having an affair with his skanky old truck stop wife, I knew he was completely off his rocker.”

“Poor Dan Diamond.” Thad looked down to his hands. 

“I know. Poor Dan Diamond.”  I repeated.

“Here is your order,” the perky waitress said, wheeling back up to our table, “these plates are hot, so be careful…” 

She placed steaming plates of food before us.

Thad looked over at me and smiled and I knew that I had justified my existence to him for one more date night. 

10. Some Things Considered

          “Get in! We’re late!” I snapped.

          “And what do you think I’m doing?” Thad barked, pulling himself into the car, grumbling.

          I started it up and backed out of the drive with a huff.

          We drove silently for a moment before I snapped, “You could have been ready on time.”

          “Oh, so now it’s my fault? You didn’t even tell me we had to go to this stupid formal work thing till like an hour ago…”

          “No, I told you on Tuesday, I just reminded you two hours ago. If you would write things down like a normal person…”

          “You never told me anything about this before one hour ago.”

          “Two hours ago.”

          “Whatever.” He looked away. 

          We rolled up to a light to wait in line, both breathing heavily. I had told him Tuesday.

          I turned on the radio to the dulcet tones of NPR.

          “Two hundred were killed in Fallujah today,” the announcer man said. “Most were civilians…” 

          Thad sighed loudly.

          I tried to ignore him, focusing on the dark street ahead.

          “Meanwhile in Mogadishu,” the announcer continued, “thousands were left homeless when bombs destroyed an entire section of a neighborhood…”

          Thad signed again, this time much more melodramatically.

          “Yes?” I asked, brows pitched. 

          “You know you only listen to NPR so you can tell people you do.”

          “What? I do not.” At that moment I realized my fault: I should not have snapped at him as we were getting in the car: he was now mad and was going to take it out on me until I could get the upper hand back and whip him back into place. This was my punishment and I had to take it. But I had to route him away from this unpleasantness before I stuck him in front of all of my colleagues, as that would be pure unadulterated disaster.

           “Yesterday you mentioned something about NPR to the Asian checker at Homeland and then began lecturing loudly on the oppression of Chinese artists in Shanghai.”

          “She brought it up, and I wasn’t lecturing. We were having a discussion.”

          “Really, Michael? The Korean grocery store checker brought up the oppression of Chinese artists randomly in conversation?”

          “Well, she asked me about the price of the Bok Choy, and I said I had heard a recipe for it on NPR and that seemed like a good lead in to the Shanghai story. And I’m pretty sure she’s Chinese.”

“No, she’s Korean.”

“How do you know?” I asked.

“I asked her last year…”

“You asked her about her nationality? You don’t think that’s a bit rude.”

“Oh, and how is that rude?” Thad scoffed. “I was checking out, I think with cat food, and I mentioned Charlotte Bronte, and she said something about her cat and then her Mom ‘back home,’ and I asked where she was from and she said ‘Korea.’ So there. It wasn’t rude at all, it was just conversational.” 

“Well, there’s my point exactly. I don’t think you are anyone to say anything to me about not talking to strangers, since obviously you will talk to anyone about anything at anytime. Remember that girl in the drive through window at Arby’s that you engaged about her hair color, and then we had to sit and pretend to be interested in her theories behind mobile home décor for, like, fifteen minutes as they cooked our fries? Hum?” 

          “She had pretty hair. It was the color of woven straw. And I thought she should know that. Plus my comment made her day, you could just tell that. And at least I wasn’t showing off trying to align myself with the wrong nationality by bringing up Taiwanese shadow puppet players.”

          We both were silent.

          The news went off and music began to play.  The announcer interrupted with, “And later tonight we'll have a soupcon of bluegrassy jazz, from the Creole jazz master herself…”
           I turned it up, just to annoy Thad. 

          “They only play that kind of music on NPR to make fun of real music.” He reached over to turn the radio back down. “They play this highfalutin stuff just to let you know that the actual music you really like is crap, because it’s not, like, Chilean flute music or an opera composed solely of monastic chanting in Swiss.”

          “Swiss in not a language.”

          “’Swiss is not a language’” Thad mocked viciously. 

          We were silent as cars sped past, we taking a left at a busy intersection. 

From the radio, a nasally sounding man began speaking professorially on the economy, “And if the tax cuts are not made permanent, the GDP of the US will surely continue to fail…”

          “It really is just a channel that tells you what Jews in New York think.” Thad said pointedly.

          I knew he was just trying to get my goat, but I had to respond.

“I don’t think you’re allowed to say that,” I sighed.

“Why? It would offend all of our Jewish friends? We have no Jewish friends. We’re in Oklahoma. There are no Jews.”

“There are Jews here, just not many. There’s a lady in the Communications Department, Ruth.” I said with a wag of my finger. “She’s Jewish, I think. Or maybe it’s just her name. Something O-witz. So maybe she’s married into it, but anyway, you’re not supposed to say it.”

“But you have to agree I’m right, it’s just an entire channel about what Jews in New York think, and I’m not saying that’s bad, I’m just stating the obvious. What’s that one show, the one where the two Jews named Ira talk about cars? I have never even met anyone named ‘Ira.’”

          “Car Talk.”

          “Exactly! That’s my point! Do they even drive cars up there? Shouldn’t it be ‘Subway Talk’? I mean, if you want to know about cars you should ask a big fat Midwestern to tell you about his Ford truck. Now that’d be a car talk.”

“You know New Yorkers drive cars too.”

“You mean ‘Jews drive cars too’?

“Please quit saying that.”

          “What, Mr. PC-college-sanctimonious? I can’t ask an Asian if she’s Asian and now I can’t even say ‘Jew?’”

“Stop it!”

“How come Jon Stewart can talk about being Jewish, but I can’t talk about him being Jewish? Huh?”

I threw on the breaks at another light. “Look, it’s for the same reason that I can make fun of you for being an imbecile but no one else can.”

“Ha ha,” he deadpanned. “You only listen to this highbrow crap because you think it makes you seem smart.”

“And you don’t like it because it makes you feel left out of the intelligentsia stratosphere.   

“Oh, blah, blah, blah. Did you learn all of those big words from NPR, Mr. Fancy-Pants? Jesus.” Thad said it dejected, his feelings now clearly hurt.

 “Sorry,” I said softly upon seeing his down turned eyes.  

Mentally scanning my options, I realized I quickly had to do damage control. I was already forcing him to go to a formal work event he did not want to go to, argued with him about the radio, and now had made fun of his intelligence-twice- to the point where his feelings were now hurt. If my estimations of his body language and huffing were correct, he was about one more insult away from demanding to be taken back home. I had to act fast, as by the ratcheting up of his finger tapping I could tell he wanted-or needed-a cigarette badly. 

Flipping through the CDs I pulled out one and held it up. “How about Britney Spears?”

He just nodded. We needed Britney to break the tension, and we needed her fast. The CD slid in and dance music suddenly replaced the distinguished British woman talking about genital mutilation in Africa. 

We sat in silence as Ms. Spears began to bump and grind her way into our heads in an orgy of mindlessness. Thad seemed happy, and for that I breathed a sigh of relief.

As we neared the restaurant, he leaned over and turned down the music and smiled, “Well , this should be fun. I can’t wait to talk to all of your work people, and see if any of them are, I don’t know…Chinese or Jews, or Jewish Chinese...” 

The daemonic sparkle in his eye terrified me.

1. Terrifying Tale of the Garden Rapist

          In the midst of a completely random day at work, my office phone rang. “This is Dr. Stiles.”

          “Don’t kill me.” It was my boyfriend, Thad. As he was capable of many, many things that could result in me murdering him, I was immediately afraid.       

          “Oh, good God, what did you do now?” I sat down in my old desk chair wondering how much this escapade was going to cost me, emotionally or fiscally.  

          “What made you think I did anything?” He scoffed. I heard him light a cigarette.

          “Are you smoking in the house?”

          “No,” He lied. He always lied. He considered it one of his charms. “And anyway I’m outside on the porch.”

          “So you are smoking?” We had both quit smoking last year; I having given it up after twenty years, and he about the same. But he had decided himself fickle enough to pick it back up.

          “No,” he exhaled. “Lookit, someone just came to the door and it was this weirdo lady and she wanted to know about the irises out in the front yard…”

          “The tall white ones?” I asked. As a stay-at-home husband, my dear Thaddeus was easily excitable.

          “I dunno. Let me talk!” Thad hated to be interrupted, but as I relished asides, I seldom provided him this peace. “Lookit, she said she liked them-the irises- and wanted to dig them up or something, or exchange plants-flowers-with you, something like that, but I told her she would have to come back after you got off work and talk to you, since they’re yours.”

          I pivoted my chair to look out my office window at all of the passing college students outside the English building. "So she didn’t just take any?”       

          “No,” he exhaled and I imagine the long beautiful plume of smoke and cringed in regret: I could still taste it, and it tasted good. “I just told her to come back after five. That’s it.”

          “So the house is okay?”

          “Yes! Why do you always think that I’ve burned it down or something?”

“Because you did set the kitchen on fire…”

“I did not!”

“You did.”

“It was just a singed tea towel!” he yelled, “And I should never have even told you about it! You never would have known!”

“I smelled it for weeks…”

 “I thought you said we weren’t going to bring that up again?”

“You said I wasn’t allowed to bring it up again. I never said anything to the effect.”

“Whatever, Mike! I just wanted to tell you some crazy gardening lady was going to be here after five to talk to you.”

          “Oh, well, that’s fine.” Once I realized he had not lost the cat or crashed the car or accidentally dropped the laptop in the sink (again), I was suddenly terribly amused with the thought that some random woman was so taken by my irises. As a middle-aged gay man who had recently settled down into non-state sanctioned matrimonial bliss, gardening was one of my few free joys. “What did she look like?”

          “A weirdo. Long hair like Crystal Gayle, but up in pony tails with little girl ribbons.”

          “You’re kidding?” I laughed.

          “No,” he chuckled, “She looked kinda like an insane German doll. I was afraid of her so I only talked to her through the screen.”

          “So she couldn’t kill you? You know that mesh screening saves lives. Did she have a knife?”

          “No. She just looked very, very intense, with these crazy eyes. Like she really wanted those irises…”

          “Well,” I sighed, “She can’t have them. They are heirloom. I bet they’re as old as the house…”

          “Whatever,” he exhaled and hung up.

          I held the phone and hated that he hung up before I could say goodbye. My step-father did that, and I hated it when he did it too.

          Once home I paced, straightening, in preparation for our guest.

          “What are you doing?” Thad said. “You’re not having her in are you? The insane crazy eyed German doll?”

          “Well, what if she wants to come in, we could at least tour her through the house. Do we have any lemonade?”

          “Lord! You’re the crazy one! ” He threw his hands up and left the room.

          I was very proud of the house: a 1925 California Bungalow in pristine condition. I had bought it in 2000, and Thad had lived with me since late 2008. The house was full of many antiques, mostly tasteful, but some questionable. The house was very much reflective of my whims, filled to the brim in a sort of decadent Victorian whirl. And Thad, God love him, humored me by allowing me to continue to collect old china pieces, odd bits of furniture, and the random taxidermied bird here and there.

          A car pulled up in the drive and I readied myself. Through the tea-stained eyelet lace curtains I watched a man and a woman emerge and walk up the big steps to the broad porch that hugged the entire front of the house.

          “There’s two of them,” I whispered loudly to Thad, who was back in the Den, clearly out of earshot.

          “Can’t hear you,” he called over the TV.

          “Come here!” I barked.

          “Can’t. News is on.”

          Flummoxed, I checked myself in the mirror and peered back outside to find them standing right on the other side of the glass.

A knock and I jumped back with a small shriek, which is an unappealing thing for a large bald man to emit.   

          Clearing my throat in the most masculine way, I opened the door to find the couple. She was wide-eyed, short, with odd ponytails peaking off her head at strange and exotic angles. Thad was right: she had very crazy eyes. The man with her looked like a reformed hippy, calm from years of pot smoking, his pants pulled up too high.

          “Well, Hello. I am Angelique and this is my husband Paul. I came by earlier and your-friend-said I should talk to you about the irises out here.” She had the slight cadence of the country; clearly uneducated, but not deep country, so I was not too afraid.   

          “Yes, hello. My name is Michael. My friend told me you were coming by.” We were using ‘friend’ in that way polite Oklahoma people meant ‘homosexual counterpart,’ as we can’t use  ‘partner’  around here as people just think you’re talking about cowboys. But I was used to it, so it was fine.

          The woman continued, “I told your friend that I was interested in talking to you about your irises.” She said it in a very Jehovah’s Witness ‘May I talk to you about Jesus’ kind of way.

          As she talked I looked her up and down. Her crazy eyes had a rather odd LaToya Jackson slant to them. The man just smiled and nodded along, as if he was used to taking orders. But they were both clearly odd, and not in the good way. It was then that I decided I did not want to give them the tour of the house.

          “Yes, well, let’s go look at the irises you’re talking about…” I said, exiting out to the porch.

          We walked out into the front garden and made a few more general pleasantries before she got down to business.

          “I was just driving by. We live just around the corner some, and I work down at the Dairy, so I drive by here a lot. And I’ve noticed what a great garden you got, and I’ve just started gardening myself, and plants are real pricey at Wal-Mart, and I got me a lot of smaller irises and I was wondering of you might want to trade some of yours for some of mine?”

          “Why, sure,” I said without thinking. I was just mesmerized by the woman herself. She wore snug mom jeans, 3 or 4 sizes too tight. She had a sleeveless blouse on typical of the local folk, and was pretty enough for a 40 or 50 year old, but it was that hair that got me. It was the sort of hair that was highly prized in the 1970s: big and long and flowing free in those two majestic tails. The husband had still yet to speak.

          “So I brought you some of my irises in case. They’re out in the trunk.” She continued, “So, you want to do this?”

          “Well, sure. Sure. That sounds fine.” I said, again, without thinking. Beyond her appearance I was also taken up by the desire to be courteous to a neighbor, as well as charmed by the fact that she admired my garden, which I had worked so hard on. But she was moving this transaction faster than I anticipated.  

“Okay, then,” she said, and as I continued to be filled with that silly Sally Field, “You like me! You really like me!” feeling, she went out to her car and came back with a bucket and a giant three foot gardening fork. She dropped the bucket at my feet and brought the big fork up in front of her like a samurai sword. It was buffed to a fine shine, tipped with five, eight inch long tines. I saw her crazy eyes reflected in it, as she passed it between us, almost ritualistically.   

“There they are.” She said proudly, nudging the bucket with the fork.   

“Oh, yes,” I smiled, bending to inspect the bucket.  

What she had dumped before me were the withered carcasses of 5 or 6 limp, feckless miniature irises of the most commonplace colors. But as I looked back to her, what took me more was the fact that her Charles Manson eyes were now roaming my perfect lawn, zeroing in my gorgeous four-foot tall majestic heirloom beauties. My eyes narrowed and I realized I was cornered, as I had agreed to this swap.

It was at this point that the porch door slammed and Thad emerged.

“Hey,” he smiled at them, joining us, no handshake. “How’s it going?”

“Well, look,” I pointed down at her mean little bucket, “They want to do an irises exchange. Isn’t that neat?”

He peered into her bucket, and not one to be bothered by tact snorted, “Are those even irises?”

“Well, yes, they’re irises, you silly” the woman snapped, moving close to us, “They’re real pretty, they’ve just already bloomed.” She looked back to me, brandishing her giant shiny fork.

“Oh, I bet they are…” I said looking to Thad with that imploring look of

‘SAVE ME! THEY ARE TAKING ME HOSTAGE AND THIS IS MY ONE ATTEMPT AT FREEDOM!’ kind of way.

But he just smiled a chimerical smile and said, “Okay, just thought I would say ‘hi.’ Bye.” And he turned and went back into the house.

Coward! And just typical. He could beat rats off a burning ship if there was a couch and a TV remote somewhere in his eye line.

The woman and her husband looked at me. I could tell she knew that her shoddy little crap flowers were crap, but  she was too caught up in getting her hands on my innocent heirlooms to care. Her lips pursed and slightly curled up one side, revealing cruel teeth.  

“They are really pretty when they bloom,” the husband said to break the silence, pointing to his wife’s bucket. He had finally spoken, to defend his mate’s insanity. 

I looked around and realized there was only one answer without looking like the worst neighbor ever: “Sure. No problem. But let’s get them from the backyard.”

“Ha!” She cackled, grabbing the bucket and handing it to me. “Here, now you go empty this and I’ll start getting me some.”

My stomach turned. I looked toward the house and saw Thad standing in the Study window smirking at me thought the eyelet lace curtains.

Bastard.  

The woman wanted the entire backyard garden tour now that she had victims to stalk. As we walked, I pointed to the native Oklahoma rose stand and the wisteria covered arbor, but her big crazy moon eyes darted from one iris bed to the next.

“Oh, you have so many. So many. I didn’t know you had them back here too…”

“Yes, they came with the house…”

“Is it okay if I start?” she jittered.

As looked like she might jab me with the giant fork of hers so I just smiled, “Sure…” 

With a laugh she began her harvest, thrusting that fork into the ground with more gusto that I would imagine from a small pig-tailed woman. She wailed on the end of it till a fat tubular root popped from the ground. Then she grabbed it, and massaged it with her fake French manicured nails to get the dirt off, and then tossed it in her bucket. Over and over this happened. The husband just following her silently, as she danced around, talking to herself, “Oh, here’s one!” and “I need a violet! Oh, yes, a violet!” and “Just one more yellow. They are so tall and so pretty.”

I stood transfixed: I was not a lenient sort, and she was messing with my OCD perfection.

“Oh! Look at these!” She headed straight for my Grande Dame irises.

“No, no," I stopped her. "Those are my favorite. I planted those special, right there next to the back door …” They were tall and sleek with an iridescent white flower, like no other in the yard.

“Oh.” She looked very hurt

I felt bad as compared to her I clearly had so much: nice clothes, an education, decent diction. But I stood my ground.

She slumped away and I watched her begin to dig in the back part of the yard. As I watched I realized that there was an uncomfortable passion to her progress. This led me to believe there had never been any children in her life, only odd periodic hobbies to fill that void, and this was her current one: terrorist gardening. And for that I felt for her, as gardening had often filled a similar void in my life over the years.   

Once she filled her bucket with 10 or 12 of my babies she asked, “Oh, but can I have just a few more? I can empty the bucket in my trunk and fill it up again.”

I had begun to sweat, although it was a comfortable spring day. I was beginning to feel that horror I felt when as a child I watched the Grinch slither after the last can of Who Hash.

“Well, it’s getting late…” I began.

“Ah, what do you say? It’ll just take a second!” She waggled her bucket at me and I realized that I was now standing between her and that which comforted her at night and whispered sweet things to her in her dreams, covering her childless hollow.
“Well, I have had a long day….”  I continued.     

“Oh, you silly!” she giggled, “It won’t take a minute.” And with that she skipped out to her car, leaving me completely aghast: I had just used the white polite suburban ‘no’ and she had just ignored it.

I looked over at her husband, who shook his head and snickered, “When Angelique gets an idea…she gets an idea” he said.

I wanted him gone too. I wanted them both gone. And I desperately wanted a cigarette.

The horrid woman returned with her bucket empty and fork at the ready. I was now determined to speak up for myself and tell her we were done here.

But I did not, could not be so rude, as she dug up some more tall yellow ones and I even stayed mum as she went after the brilliant violet ones, but then as she lurched near the Grande Dames again I blurted out, “Ok, that’s it-we’re done here!”

She looked stunned, as I guess I had bellowed it.

“Okay. Oh!” she said, sounding hurt. “What about just one more of these? You have so many…”
The Grande Dames appeared powerless next to her and her giant shimmering fork. Her look was one of crafty country guile.  

I cleared my throat and mentally total myself not to scream. “Well, like I said before, those are really my favorites.  So ‘no’ really does mean ‘no’ here…”    

“What if I bring you some more of my nice ones to make up for it?” she sing-sang like a little girl, twisting one of her braids in her fingers, in what I assumed was suppose to appeal to me in a come hithery coy way. Instead it just made me very, very afraid of her, like I had just heard her rattle snake rattle.     

So I said nothing, but my face turned a dark crimson. 

“She’s real persistent.” The husband said, sidling up behind me.

I turned to him to say, “She certainly is…” and we exchanged a few meaningless words between strangers before I turned back and saw that devil of a woman depositing a huge forkful of my precious Grande Dames straight down into her grimy bucket. It was like they had been working in a team, he to distract me, and she to grab them.

 “Hey!” I began, stomping over to her.The Grande Dames were now half gone, a crater now gaping right next to the back door.  

“Oh,” she scoffed, dancing back away from me. “It’ll be fine. I’ll bring you some more of mine to fill that, and maybe we can do this again soon. Paul, come on!” And with that she smiled and exited the yard, her bucket bulging with my precious flower bulbs, her silent husband in tow.

I looked about, mortified, mouth agape: my perfectly manicured garden now had little dirt piles all over, as if mole men had attacked and sucked the plants down into their lair in the center of the Earth.   

In the Den, I walked up to Thad. He looked up at me and rolled his eyes, “What happened?”

“She just wouldn’t stop. I mean I asked her too. I mean I said ‘that’s enough,’ and  ‘no means no...’” I sat down dramatically, and continued, as if recanting a scene from The Accused. “And she just took and took, some of the prettiest ones, and it was like I couldn’t stop her…”

He lowered his magazine, “So she raped your garden?”

“Yes. Yes she did. She raped my garden.”
The fear in my voice was only half put on.