Jennifer Johnson Is Sick of Being Married (8 page)

I even buy a new set of clubs, with Brad's blessing. He knows there are only two types of golfers on the course: players who own their own clubs . . . and posers, who don't. I want to be a player, not a poser, so I buy a set of expensive golf clubs after reading an article online called “What to Ask Yourself Before Buying Your First Set of Golf Clubs.” It asked what my golfing goal is, which is to bamboozle other golf players into becoming my friends. Then it asked if I'm
in it for the long haul
. What's my level of interest? This, of course, is
zero,
but my level of dedication is high. That's why I bought a titanium super-pro extra-deluxe set of golf clubs that cost five thousand dollars. The golf bag is made of white leather and has a built-in cooler for my ice water.

Ice water turns out to be a real necessity for the Ladies' Golf Brunch, which is held on a swelteringly sticky late August afternoon. I pour half a bottle of baby powder down the backside of my underpants and wear a pair of disgusting disposable sticky-backed armpit guards so I don't sweat through my perky yellow shirt. Sweat stains on the golf course are a no-no—for women, that is. Men can sweat like pigs skewered over a fire pit, but ladies must remain cool and dry.

I wish I could say that I did.

My first mistake is eating biscuits and sausage gravy at the bruncheon. Why they'd serve us biscuits and sausage gravy before a long hot day playing golf is a good question, but an even better question is why I'd eat them. My stomach begins to gurgle on the way out to the first hole, while I'm riding in a golf cart commandeered by two league captains, who both go on and on about how painful it is to play with amateurs and how everyone bets on which newcomer will be named worst player. This year they're betting on the octogenarian woman with asthma or the clumsy brunette who knocked over the pancake trolley during the bruncheon's welcome speech.

I quickly realize my many other mistakes, like that I bought a nine-thousand-pound golf bag that has no legs. Everyone else's golf bag has nifty little tripod legs that let the bag stand up on its own and be rolled merrily along without any effort. I have to haul my bag on my back. We only get to ride golf carts from the clubhouse to the first hole; for the rest of the time we have to walk. It's like the Bataan Death March. When we finally get to the next hole, I have to lay the heavy bag down on the grass, then pick it back up again, which feels like repeatedly picking up and laying down a hot human corpse.

I also forgot to wear sunscreen, and while everyone else is wearing a sun visor or a hat, I only have my canary-yellow headband on. Soon sweat starts dripping off my forehead and stinging my eyes so I can't see anything but a smeary saltwater sun. I also forgot to buy gloves, which results in a massive blister forming on the web of my index finger and thumb; this happens about four holes into the game, forcing me to swing like a paraplegic, not that anyone's watching me by then. They've already marked me as a phony.

It happened somewhere between the first hole, when my nine-iron went whipping out of my hands on the very first swing, nearly bludgeoning the octogenarian woman with asthma, and the third hole, when I sent my golf ball whistling into the dense tree line along the fairway. To make matters worse, I try chipping the ball out of the woods and my wedge catches on something, causing me to stumble and kick the ball backward, shooting it right out of the trees and onto the fairway's seventh hole, going in the opposite direction.

According to all the sticklers around me, I must play the ball from where it lies, even in this preposterous situation, and so I traverse the golf course backward, thwacking my way through irritated and amused groups of women who shake their heads and stare at me. This humiliation is compounded by the fact that I desperately need a bathroom. The rumbling in my tummy is worsening and gets to the point where I deliberately rewhack my ball into the bushes so I can take an emergency poo at the edge of a large half-hidden sand trap.

By the time I reach the eighteenth hole, it's dark. Everyone else has finished and is up at the clubhouse, which I correctly choose to avoid, instead retrieving my car while towing my nine-thousand-pound golf bag along. “Here, just pop the legs out,” the valet says, clicking some mystery button, which causes a neat set of tripod legs to eject. The next day I discover I won the “Worst Player” award and they now all call me “Fern,” because I so often went flying into the trees.

It wouldn't be so bad if Brad wasn't watching me fail. I'm depressed by my ongoing failure to be popular at the club, but Brad seems devastated. Between my pooping in a sand trap and not getting invited to any cocktail parties or soirees, Brad's utterly stumped.

“Why don't they like you?” he asks me forlornly. “You're doing everything right! The dress, the hair, the nails . . .”

“Thanks, sweetie,” I tell him. “I guess it's just—”

“What's wrong with you that I'm not seeing?” he asks me darkly.

I look at him, stomach sinking.

“There must be something wrong with you that I'm not seeing,” he says, and I feign indignation, anger, and outrage at the idea. Inside, however, I'm thinking,
God help me.
If Brad ever figures out all the things that are wrong with me, especially the things he's not seeing, he'll stumble across quite a long list of flaws, and unlike golfing, my flaws are definitely here to stay for the long haul. There's nothing I can do about them. Because like all players on the golf course of life, you have to play it . . . as it lays.

6

Selling It Like It Is

S
eptember is a big month for Keller's. It's the time of year kids buy back-to-school clothes and people are getting ready for winter, buying various arctic gear. I was hoping to see the trees turn colors, but instead of a long lovely fall filled with rich red and deep golden leaves, we get a cold snap and all the just-yellowing leaves drop off the trees overnight. Then we're smacked with a snowstorm. It's fall, then
whoomph!,
it's winter.

Which sucks.

Today I'm taking Trevor down to the store for a photo shoot. He's going to be featured in the Valentine's Day catalog as chief cupid. I shower, shave my legs, wrestle myself into my cruel foundation garments, take an hour to apply my makeup, and then put on a tailored wool suit topped by my thick navy blue peacoat and black-watch plaid scarf. Trevor shows up in a sweatsuit. God, I wish I was seven again.

We go downtown, where I drive around the block after spotting a protest outside the store. It's a small picket line on the sidewalk with twenty people shouting and holding up signs that say
BOYCOTT KELLER'S! KELLER'S IS ANTIGAY! KELLER'S
HATES GAYS!

“What're all those people doing?” Trevor asks. “They look angry.”

“I'm not sure . . .” I tell him. “I can't read the signs . . . Can you?”

“Um . . . no.”

“Good! Here we go.” I pull into the underground VIP parking lot. A picket line always forms outside the store when gay rights are concerned, because Keller's is widely known for being antigay . . . mostly because they are. Also there happens to be a gay lounge across the street from Keller's called the Fairy Tail, a little joint that does drag shows and throws gay bingo night every Tuesday. Christopher stops in at the Fairy Tail after work sometimes, but he uses the back-door entrance, which everyone inside understands. That's why the back-door entrance is there. Today the protesters are responding to the news that the senate is postponing the vote on the Family Equity Act. As usual it's mostly employees and patrons of the Fairy Tail picketing; the drag queens stop over in between gigs, which is why so many of them are wearing pink wigs and glittering high heels. I drive around the building and down into the underground lot, so we can take the elevators up to the lobby. The last thing I want is Trevor telling his mom he crossed a gay picket line. She'd probably be afraid her son would join them.

The Keller's photo studio is in the basement. I lead young Trevor down there, lying to him the whole way. “This'll be super fun, Trevor! It'll go by really fast. Isn't it cool Grandpa Keller wants you to be in the store catalog? You'll love having your picture taken. You're a star. You're the most handsome boy in the world.” I know it's bad to lie to kids, but the truth seems worse.
This is seriously going to suck, Trevor. It'll take an excruciating amount of time and the pictures will haunt you as an adult because your family is exploiting you. Plus you may not know it now, but you are one weird-looking kid.

We take the elevator up to Cute Emily's desk, because I have to sign some papers before the shoot. “Well, don't you look nice!” she says. “Great suit.”

“This?” I say. “I just threw this on.”

She has me sign a raft of miscellaneous papers that Todd left for me while Trevor tugs on my arm, hugs my legs, bounces off the walls, and shouts, “I wanna go now!”

“Trevor,” I say. “Enough! I have to sign these papers first.”

“Mommy said I could get a new lunch box today!”

“I told you we're not getting a lunch box.”

“
Lunch box!
” he shouts. “
Lunch box! Lunch box! Lunch box!
”

“Stop it!”

Of course he
won't
stop it until I promise to buy him a lunch box. I could argue with him and make threats and swear at him at the top of my lungs, but by the time I've bullied him into going, I'll be worn out, red faced, and wanting to commit nephew-cide as well as suicide. It's much easier to just buy him the damn lunch box. When I'm finally done signing everything and Emily is done double-checking each signature, my right eyeball is ready to rupture. Trevor and I dash over to the Kidz Korner! department for a new lunch box.

“Pick one,” I tell him. “And hurry.”

“Should I get one with Batman?” he asks.

“Sure. Grab it.”

“What about Spider-Man?” he asks.

“Fine. Same guy, different leotard.”

“But Mom says all the cool kids get Incredible Hulk lunch boxes.”

“Then get the Incredible Hulk.”

“But I don't like the Incredible Hulk.”

“Then don't get him, Trevor. I don't care which one you get. Just pick one!”

“What about a silly one? Like Barbie?”

“Sure. Great. Can we hurry, please? Alan is waiting.”

“But Barbie is silly, right?”

“I don't know, Trevor. They all seem pretty silly to me, but it doesn't matter what I think. It's your lunch box, it'll carry your lunch, not anybody else's, so pick Spider-Man or Batman or Barbie. I don't care, just pick one.”

He picks Barbie.

The saleslady charges it to our account. Then we run for the basement, almost twenty minutes late. When I tug open the studio's heavy door, all the familiar smells greet me. The hot lights, the burned coffee, Awful Alan's aftershave. He's our catalog director and he's barking at Nell, the lovable but hopeless wardrobe assistant. “What do you mean, they're not here yet?” he shouts. “I don't give a flying freak!”

I wave at Nell.

“Hi, Jen!” She smiles. “You look awesome!”

“This? I've had it for a thousand years.”

Alan glares at me. “Well!” he says. “Glad you could join us! Need anything else before we get started? Coffee? Smoothie? Twenty grand to pay for another shoot if we can't get this one done in time?”

“Hi, Alan. Glad to see you're doing well.”

“Hey, Trevor,” he says. “Remember me? You ready for your big photo shoot?”

“No,”
Trevor says. “No, no, no!”

“But you're the star, buddy.”

“You're stupid.”

“Well, it's gonna be pretty cool,” Alan says. “Look at this cool camera we got. Wanna look through the lens?”

“No!” Trevor shouts. “Cameras are dumb.”

“Well, that's just
great,
” Alan says, taking off his glasses. “Perfect! I think it's dumb too. Unbelievable. They can't spring for a real model, so they send us this kid every year, who gets nuttier each shoot and takes more and more time . . .”

“Alan?” I look at him. “Take it easy.” I kneel down and whisper in Trevor's ear. His face lights up and he nods at me. “Okay. Trevor's ready.”

“Is that right?” Alan says.

“Yep.”

I pull Nell aside and tell her what I told Trevor, that he could keep his angel wings after the shoot if he did everything Alan said. “But, Nell . . . don't tell anyone, okay?”

She nods.

“The kid's . . . a little different, that's all. He'd rather wear angel wings than play football, you know, it's no big deal . . . but I don't want people to tease him.”

“I got it,” she says. “I'll make sure they go home with him.”

Trevor is already at the makeup table, getting his wings attached. Next to him are two perfectly perfect little blond girls wearing pancake makeup and white sequined shorty-shorts with matching white wings. They look like midget Victoria's Secret models. I fight the impulse to throw blankets over them and whisk them away to some far-off land where parents wouldn't allow things like this to happen. I wait for a few minutes and when they take Trevor off to wardrobe, I make a break for it and crash right into . . . who else?

“Ted!”

“Jennifer! Wow. Nice suit. Are you delivering a speech at the UN?”

“Thank God it's you.” I sigh. “Where've you
been
?”

“You know, more women should thank God when they see me,” he says. “Well done.”

“Coffee?” I ask.

“Love to,” he says.

We head upstairs, stopping at Christopher's basement design lab first. This is where he designs and builds all his fabulous store displays and fancy window dressings. He's the queen bee of a ferociously talented hive, a small army of fashionable youths who wear alligator shoes and jaunty scarves while constructing his elaborate displays.

Christopher calls them the Gay Bee Brigade.

I think it's completely unfair that they're all working today, considering they had to cross a picket line claiming their employer is antigay, but that's the Gay Bee Brigade for you.

Forever loyal to the queen.

The design lab is in full production for Valentine's Day. Half-naked mannequins are posed around the room in various states of undress. Disembodied arms lie strewn about like it's a war scene and an entire chorus line of fishnet-stockinged legs erupts from a large cardboard box in the corner. Sewing machines whir and whiz in the next room; a radio hooked to a rack of clothes rushes by. Bolts of fabric spill gently down a wall of metal shelving and cascade colors to the floor, where a spilled tub of pink sequins glitters.

Christopher works at a tall wooden drafting board at the center of the room. It looks like an island or a blocky ship moored at sea. “Jennifer!” he says when he sees me. “Ted! Come in, come in and see what magic we're making! First let me see the suit, Jennifer. Give me a spin. Okay . . . okay . . . very good, but, honey, my God, why stockings with a seam? Are you a hooker at the wharf?”

“No. Why? I thought they were sexy.”

“They're slutty. Take them off.”

“They're fine, they just need—”

“
Off,
” he says. “Now.”

“Fine. God.” I kick off my shoes and peel off my stockings. Christopher shouts for Tim to bring him a pair of nude nylons. Tim's his assistant and my other favorite gay bee; he's so cute, like a tiny little pocket gay, and has a high voice like Truman Capote's. Christopher gets horribly jealous of my affections for him. “Timothy!” he shouts. “Please hurr— Oh.”

Tiny Tim walks in wearing a herringbone jacket with the cuffs rolled up and a jaunty scarf. “You rang, Your Highness?” He's so cute. I wonder if he has to buy suits in the children's section.

“Yes, Timothy.” Christopher sighs. “I need a pair of—”

“Nude nylons.” Tim hands him the nylons. “I'm not deaf, you know.”

“Or mute,” Christopher says. “Thank you. You may go.”

Tiny Tim rolls his eyes at me and clicks his heels together. Then he leaves, whistling. It's always like this between them if I'm nearby.

“Hey, have you got any Angel Bears in?” Ted asks.

“Yes I have.” Christopher sighs. “Unfortunately.”

“Can I grab one? I need it for the shoot.”

“Be my guest. Take all of them. Horrid creatures. Look, look at this sketch for the window display. It's a travesty unfolding.” He shows us the big sloppy sketch on his drafting table. “I can't make beauty with nasty, cheaply made things. Look at this stitching!” He grabs a little white teddy bear from the shelf, which has cheap shiny silver wings sewn on its back crookedly. The bears have a satin heart on their bellies that says
ALWAYS BE AN ANGEL!

I tell them Trevor's doing the Angel Bear shoot today and Christopher says, “Bet he loves wearing those silver wings!”

“Yeah.” I sigh. “I was trying to hide that fact from Alan.”

“It's nice you watch out for him. I had an aunt, Ariel, like that. She lived with us after my uncle Dale died, and she knew what I was before I did and protected me from my parents, who . . . well, you know. She even convinced my mother that I had asthma and couldn't play during recess, so I stayed inside every day, while all the other kids beat up Clyde Owens outside because he didn't have an Aunt Ariel.”

“Can I give this bear to him?” I ask.

“You could . . .” Christopher says, “but I don't think you should. They came in boxes with these creepy hazardous-material labels on them.”

“Hazardous-material labels?” I look at him. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“That's not right. Show me.”

Christopher shouts for Tim. “Tim! Bring me another box of awful bears!”

There's a rattle in the next room and Tiny Tim comes in rolling a huge cart stacked high with boxes. He's barely visible behind them.

“Thank you, Timothy,” Christopher says curtly. “You may go.”

“Oh, may I?” Tim says, and steps out from behind the boxes.

“Yes,” Christopher says. “You may.”

“Hmph!” Tim stalks out, insouciantly flipping his scarf over one shoulder.

I look at the boxes and don't see any hazmat signs until Christopher carefully peels back the shipping label, revealing a nasty-looking black diamond with a big yellow skull and crossbones at the center. “Whoa,” Ted says. “That can't be good.”

“Well . . . maybe they're just reusing old boxes,” I say.

Christopher snorts. “Yeah, and maybe they're hiding the fact that these bears are toxic.”

“You could check the ship's manifest,” Ted tells us. “They're required by law to put anything hazardous on the ship's manifest, to prevent explosions at sea.”

“Where are we going to find the ship's manifest?” Christopher asks.

“We could ask the guys on the loading dock,” Ted says.

“You can ask them,” Christopher says. “Last time I went there they put me on a shelf.”

“Now, wait a minute,” I say. “Nobody's going to the loading dock. Let's not get carried away.”