Fierce Pajamas: An Anthology of Humor Writing from The New Yorker (25 page)

Briefly, I married a woman who now stars in a popular television comedy series. I will call her Angela. We met on a blind date. In fact, now that I think of it, it’s a funny coincidence; Pam Dawber, who was then a total nobody but later went on to star in “Mork & Mindy,” fixed us up. Angela and I met for lunch, on a day in early spring, asparagus time. Between the cold cucumber soup and the crabmeat salad, we became engaged. Our waiter, having overheard our pledges of troth, announced that he was a minister. Angela ordered a second carafe of the house white. Before coffee, the waiter performed the ceremony in a small alcove between the coat-check room and the pay phone. We tipped him extravagantly. As we were leaving, the coat-check lady casually mentioned that the waiter had not actually been ordained. Outside, Angela said that she was feeling vexed. I said never mind, if we consider ourselves married, we’re married. But we quarrelled. The quarrel made us realize that perhaps our decision to marry had been made in haste. Again, of course, there were no children. I still get Christmas cards from Angela and often watch her on TV.

That was by no means my shortest marriage. One day I married an entire subway carful of gorgeous ladies. There were forty-three of them. It was an uptown B train during rush hour. Never before had I been on a subway car with that many women and no other men present. Being recently divorced, I saw no reason not to marry all of them right then and there. I officiated at these ceremonies myself and, afterward, catered the reception and took photographs. There was plenty to drink and plenty to eat—hot chafing dishes filled with sweetbreads in wine sauce, silver trays of tiny lamb chops, roast-beef carving stations at either end of the subway car. We rode together to 168th Street, the end of the line, and then all forty-three of my new wives changed to an uptown A train headed for the George Washington Bridge Terminal, where they boarded buses for New Jersey. In New Jersey, they had homes with back yards, children, and husbands. I have been told that these forty-three marriages don’t count in the final standings. I couldn’t disagree more. I loved these women well and wish them well. In my book, they all count.

1981

LARRY DOYLE

LIFE WITHOUT LEANN

M
Y
the time you receive this, it will have been more than five hundred days and nearly seventy-five weeks since Leann and I broke up, and, while I cannot proclaim our long ordeal ended, I am pleased to report some encouraging developments in that direction.

LEANN WATCHER OF THE WEEK . . . Kudos (and a two-year subscription to this newsletter) for Mike, of Evanston, Ill., who so eloquently and informatively captures a brief encounter he had with Leann on Jan. 6.

“Leann has lost some weight,” Mike writes, “but she is no less beautiful for it. She says she has been exercising, taking classes, doing this, doing that. It appeared to me that she was struggling to fill some void. Your name didn’t come up, but it wasn’t so much what she said as what she didn’t say.”

THE
STRUGGLE CONTINUES . . . If only it could all be such good news. But unfortunately,
OPERATION: TERRIBLE MISTAKE
has not been the success I anticipated, and I’m afraid a new strategy may be required.

As you may recall (LWL #57), the operation’s objectives were to: (1) apply societal pressure; (2) foster emotional uncertainty; (3) precipitate reevaluation; and ideally (4) achieve reconciliation.

The following conversation starter was suggested:

LEANN, I WAS SO SORRY TO HEAR ABOUT YOU AND LARRY. YOU MAKE SUCH A WONDERFUL COUPLE. SO I DON’T MIND TELLING YOU, I THINK YOU ARE MAKING A TERRIBLE MISTAKE. THIS IS MY OWN PERSONAL OPINION ON THE MATTER.

Unfortunately, a number of well-meaning individuals took this suggestion rather more literally than intended, and repeated it verbatim to Leann, creating a cumulative effect other than the one desired.

I have now received word through an intermediary that Leann requests I “call off the zombies.” I will honor her wishes, as always, though I must emphasize that I cannot be held responsible for the behavior of individuals acting on their own initiative.

LEANN ANONYMOUS . . . In our first meeting at Gatsby’s, the bartender, Mark, graciously accommodated us by closing off the back room and supplying extra folding chairs. All in attendance praised the wisdom of moving these mutual support sessions from my apartment, which some had complained was not neutral territory, and which had become quite cramped in any case. (On a related matter, Mark told me privately that, while he appreciates our patronage, he’d prefer that in the future we try not to monopolize the jukebox, or at least play a variety of songs. He says that if he doesn’t see some improvement the Hank Williams selections will have to go.)

We ordered a round, and at Tom’s suggestion dispensed with the reading of the minutes. We proceeded immediately to old business, resuming debate on Leann’s eyes and whether they are a turbulent sea green or a sand-flecked moon blue. It appeared there could be no middle ground on the issue, until Dick stood up and declared, “To paraphrase Elton John, ‘Who cares if they’re blue or if they’re green, those are the sweetest eyes I’ve ever seen.’ ”

The motion to adopt Dick’s language carried unanimously, and we collected more change for the jukebox.

We ordered another round, and the conversation turned naturally to the rest of Leann: her quirky perky nose, her funny sunny smile, the perfect curve of her neck, her soft shoulders, and so on, until petty jealousies precluded further discussion.

Soon thereafter, we took a break to order more refreshments, and then it was time to welcome new members. A stubby and not particularly attractive man, who had been spotted with Leann as recently as mid-November, stood up in the back of the room.

“My name is Harry,” he said, “and I love Leann.”

Harry then related his long, sad tale, the details of which were all too familiar, ending with that same old refrain.

“She met this guy,” he said. “She says she’s deliriously happy.”

“Deliriously happy, eh?” Gunther said slowly, staring into his beer. “He’s
doomed.
”

Those of us who could still laugh did so.

“Really?” Harry said, cheering considerably. “So you think there’s a chance I can win her back?”

This question prompted extensive debate, leading to the inevitable threats of violence and ceasing only when Quentin moved that we change the name of our group from Lovers of Leann to Victims of Leann. The motion was soundly defeated, and we voted to adjourn.

Elmo closed the meeting by singing “Oh, Leann,” including a new verse that had recently come to him in a dream:

Oh, Leann,

I love you,

Love you still,

I love you,

I love you,

I love you still,

I always will.

LEANN ALERT . . . My special friend Jane, who has been so supportive during this difficult time, has suggested there is a need for a group addressing the concerns of the lovers of the Lovers of Leann. Anybody who knows somebody who might be interested in such a group should have them write to Leann Anon at this address.

THIS WEEK’S LEANN CHALLENGE . . . Leann is what she eats, but how well do you know what she eats? Everybody knows Leann likes horseradish on her hamburgers, but how many of you know what
kind
of horseradish? (Here’s a hint: She received a case of it for Christmas.)

The answer to last week’s challenge: From left to right.

LEANN’S MAILBAG . . . The mail ran heavy this week with entries to the “Candid Leann” photo contest, and it’s obvious I need to remind everyone that the rules clearly stipulate that Leann must be the only person shown in the photograph.

In consideration of those who may wish to resubmit, I’ve decided to extend the deadline two weeks, until Jan. 29. And remember, entries cannot be returned.

One of our foreign correspondents, Miles, writes from Windsor, Ontario, “I’m going to be in the States in the near future, and I was hoping to finally meet this Leann I’ve heard so much about. Do you have her phone number or an address where I can write her directly?”

No need for that, Miles. Just send your correspondence to Leann in care of this newsletter, and I’ll make sure she gets it.

And finally, Reggie, of Buffalo Grove, Ill., writes in and asks:

“Larry, isn’t it time you got on with your life? It’s been nearly two years [sic] since Leann broke up with you [sic], and I hate to be the one to tell you, pal, but it’s over. O-V-E-R [sic].

“But listen,” Reggie continues, “there are a lot of other chicks in the sea, my friend, and they’re yours for the picking. Go for it!”

Well, Reggie, I don’t quite know how to answer that. It’s difficult to determine exactly what it is you’re driving at, since I’m afraid I do not share your bitter perspective or your particular gift for playground aphorisms. So please understand when I suggest this: You know nothing about love.

But thanks for the letter, Reg. Your “Larry Loves Leann” T-shirt is in the mail.

1990

GARRISON KEILLOR

ZEUS THE LUTHERAN

W
HEN
Hera’s lawyer, Alan, had lunch with Zeus that Wednesday at the Acropol, it certainly crossed his mind that the ageless gentleman in the blue T-shirt and white shorts sitting across the table from him and smelling of juniper was the Father of Heaven (and of the Seasons, the Fates, and the Muses) and the father of Athena and Apollo and Artemis and Dionysus, plus the father of Hephaestus by Hera, his wife, and of Eros by his daughter Aphrodite—a guy who didn’t take no for an answer. So Alan felt silly saying, “Hello. How are you?” He knew the answer:
Great, all-powerful.
For aeons, Zeus had done exactly as he wished, following the amorous impulses of his heart, changing himself into a swan or a horse or Lord knows what for the purpose of making love with whomever he wanted. Now Alan had been hired to talk some sense into him.

“I realize you’re omniscient, but let me say what’s on my mind,” he said. “Enough with the mounting and coupling. Keep it in your pants. What are you trying to prove? You’re a
god,
for Pete’s sake. Be a little divine for a change. Knock it off with the fornication, O.K.?”

“You want to see a magic trick?” said Zeus. And right there at the table he turned the young lawyer into a pitcher of vinaigrette dressing and poured him over the spinach salad and told the waiter, “Take this garbage away, Dimitri, and feed it to the pigs. And bring me a beautiful young woman, passionate but compliant, with small, ripe breasts.” It was his usual way of dealing with opposition: senseless violence followed by easy sex.

Hera was swimming laps in the pool at her summer house when she got the tragic news from Victor, Alan’s partner. She was hardly surprised; Alan was her six-hundredth lawyer in fourteen centuries. She climbed out of the water, her great alabaster rump rising like Antarctica, and wrapped herself in a vast white towel. “Some god!” she said. “Omniscient except when it comes to himself.” She had thought she understood Zeus’ fascination with mortal women until the day he tried to explain it to her. “The spirit of love is the cosmic teacher who brings gods and mortals together, lighting the path of beauty, which is both mortal and godly, from one generation to the next,” he offered. “One makes love so that people in years to come can feel passion at the sight of flowers.”

She said, “You’re not that drunk—don’t be that stupid.”

When Victor told her that Alan was gone, eaten by pigs, she vowed to avenge him, but the next day she was in Thebes, being adored, when Diane sailed into the harbor at Rhodes aboard the S.S. Bethel with her husband, Pastor Wes. Zeus, who was drinking coffee in a dockside café with the passionate, compliant woman and was a little bored with her breasts, which now seemed slightly too small and perhaps a touch overripe, saw Diane overhead as the Bethel tied up, and he felt the old, familiar itch in the groin—except sharper. He arose. Her strawberry-blond hair and great tan made his heart come over the top of the Ferris wheel. She stood at the rail, in a bright-red windbreaker, furious at the chubby man in the yellow pants who was laying his big arm on her shoulder—her hubby of sixteen years. She turned, and the arm fell off her. Zeus paid the check and headed for the gangplank.

Wes and Diane were on the final leg of a two-week cruise that the grateful congregation of Zion Lutheran Church in Odense, Pennsylvania, had given them in tribute to Wes’s ten years of ministry, and last night, over a rack of lamb and a 1949 Bordeaux that cost enough to feed fifty Ugandan children for a week, they had talked about their good life back in Odense, their three wonderful children, their good health and good luck, their kind fellow-Lutherans, and had somehow got onto the subject of divine grace, and that led into a discussion of pretentious clergy Diane had known, and that led to a twelve-foot dropoff into the wild rapids of a bitter argument about their marriage. They leaned across the baklava, quietly yelling things like “How can you say that?” and “I always knew you felt that way!” until the diners nearby were studying the ceiling for hairline cracks. In the morning, Diane announced that she wanted a separation. Now Wes gestured at the blue sea, the white houses, the fishing boats. “This is the dream trip of a lifetime,” he said. “We can’t come all this way to Greece just to break up. We could have done that at home.
Why are you so angry
?
” And then the god entered his body.

It took three convulsive seconds for Zeus to become Wes; it felt to the fifty-year-old minister like a fatal heart attack.
Oh, shit!
he thought.
Death.
And he had quit smoking three years before! All that self-denial and hard work—and for what? For zip. He was going to fall down dead anyway. Tears filled his eyes. Then Zeus took over, and the soul of Wes dropped into an old dog named Spiros, who lived on the docks and suffered from a bad hernia.

The transformation shook Zeus up, too. He grabbed at the rail and nearly fainted; in the last hour, Wes had consumed a shovelful of bacon and fried eggs and many cups of dreadful coffee. The god was nauseated, but he touched the woman’s porcelain wrist.