Long Division (40 page)

Presently, I do not have a therapist. Naturally, I have nothing against acquiring one in the future should it become necessary. Honestly, I have no idea what the signs of that necessity will be. Compulsive flossing? Crying in public restrooms? Joint pain?

For the uninformed: Lonesome George is the rarest living creature on the planet. He's the only remaining specimen of his certain subspecies of Galapagos tortoise. I think scientists discovered him back in the seventies when he was still a young spry thing. Now George is pushing seventy or eighty or so, and though they've scoured the lush Galapagos islands high and low, zoologists still haven't found another tortoise of his kind. George is doomed to plod along in solitude. No friends. No family. No lovers. I think the scientists may have tried to mate him with other closely related subspecies females, but Georgie just won't have it. He's holding out for his true partner; one who very well may not exist. Talk about patience! 392 days or forever.

Note to self: Check on this when you actually write the book. It could have been quilting. Or some type of ancient weaving thing. I seem to remember a loom.

Okay. I lost my cool last year when Derek Metticus fed chewed-up Skittles to Churchill, our class beta fish. Churchill went completely cuckoo bananas and banged his head against his hard plastic bowl until he died.
RIP Churchill. Unknown-February 23, 2003.

What's to share so far? I'd barely had an hour to start collecting it.

It wasn't really a manchego, but a boring Vermont cheddar. Manchego = $13.99 a pound!

Lactaid is a registered trademark of McNeil Nutritionals, LCC. Go McNeil!

Not really called a “vagueness pact,” but some substantially less negative-sounding phrase. It might even include the term “top secret.”

A totally awesome game I made up last year.

Note: Consider a chicken. Ask landlord about building a henhouse.

Actually, it was a trigger point for an IED, which means “improvised explosive device.” An IED can be numerous types of patched-together bombs. They can be detonated by motion sensors, magnets, tripwires. Tons of shit.

She was wearing a Seattle Mariners hat, a Seattle Mariners sweatshirt, and, honest to god, Seattle Mariners earrings. I just can't trust people who are that shamelessly passionate about anything.

His mom left (disappeared without a trace!) before Gus could walk. His dad never ever talks about it, so naturally, over the years, Gus has LOVED to discuss his missing mother with me. It's interesting to think about how his theories regarding the absent parent have really evolved over the years. They've darkened and changed as adult life taught him to reserve a portion of his heart for dry cynicism. Back in middle school when Gus and I first became great friends—back when he was this goofy, happy kid who built model rockets and was charmed by the way his home rock tumbler could turn regular sidewalk gravel into smooth, lustrous stones—back then he had these cheery, optimistic ideas about his mother. He fancied that her departure was due to some heavily demanding, altruistic career path. She had to leave to fight some evil virus from killing entire states of third-world countries. She was a top member of a super secret international crime-fighting force. But by high school, his fantasies started to sour a bit. She was brain-washed into joining a religious cult. She couldn't help it; it was hypnosis. Or she had left Gus and Rex just after finding out that she was terminally ill. Maybe she thought a fast departure would be less devastating than a long, brutal one. I think Gus liked this theory best because it allowed him to simultaneously mourn her loss and forgive her for going away. How can you blame a dead woman? And then it wasn't until two summers ago, right after we graduated from college, when Gus and I were helping my mom set up for a garage sale, that I realized that his mom-hope had fizzled out completely. We were carrying card tables out to the lawn and the topic of his mother came up. “It doesn't matter if she was an alcoholic, a drug dealer, a tightrope walker, a schizophrenic, a con artist, a flat-out bitch, or any combination of any of those, I really just don't care anymore.” He had started to flip through a box of old disco records my parents were giving up. “If there was really something positive about her that would make me feel better about who I am and where I come from, my dad would have told me by now. I know that.” And something about this made me very sad for Gus. Obviously there was
something
positive about his mother somewhere. She couldn't be an entirely loathsome creature. It was like he finally swallowed this sweet nugget of hope he'd been carrying in the back of his throat for so long. But I guess it is a rather silly hope when logically you know there will never be something real to bite down on.

She did not pretend not to see me. She came up and said something like, “Oh, Annie Harper. I didn't know you lived down in Tacoma now?” And then we chatted quite pleasantly. She works for a small independent publisher of parenting books downtown and has no children of her own. We're only twenty-four. But she was remarkably overweight. That part was true.

If they haven't been already.

Physical training

I keep the toilet paper I actually use on the back on the tank now. Those dispensers are sort of superfluous anyway.

Except I would surely not capitalize “his,” because I definitely don't want people to think I'm talking about God or Jesus or somebody. This title would be doubly cool if my name were actually Grace. Oprah would eat that shit up.

He actually hasn't told me anything like this yet, but I read the news. I know a time will come when his phone voice will sink into more morose tones and he'll relate to me the tragic injury of some dear friend.

“Next week on
Miss Harper's Class
watch as Steven threatens to sabotage Max's science project and blackmails him for fifty Yu-Gi-Oh cards! Does Max even have fifty Yu-Gi-Oh cards?”

One more thing about Angie. SHE DOESN'T HAVE A JOB. A few months before her husband left for deployment, she quit her post as an office manager of a real estate firm to spend more “quality time” with Mr. Henderson, or Captain Henderson, or whoever. She claims to be sending out résumés, but there was something about the vacuum streaks in her carpet and the spotless grout of her kitchen tile that saddened me. How can full-time fretting be good for the psyche? Well, fretting and knitting.

So a few days have passed since I wrote this, and I just came back and reread that last bit about
The Bachelor.
Jeez, I am such a big-stage dramatical. Sure, I miss David, and deep in this quivering lobe of my brain I worry about his safety nonstop, but how much does my missing have to do with the W.A.R.? And how much of my missing has to do with the fact that I'm simply A.L.O.N.E.? (And how much of it actually has do with him?) ? ? ? Alright. I'm going to flip to the back of this book now and have a peek at the answer key.

Ugh. If only.

At the time. Now that I'm writing this and trying to think critically and stuff, I'm a little more sympathetic to Greek/Roman Lady. It's so hard to think rationally when you're bathed in the warm, viscous mess of self-pity.

Oh, the spelling! My community is plagued.

100% true altruism?! Does that even exist? Does the word itself leave space for a sliver of selfish intentions? I certainly do hope so.

Christ, those dodgeball games were fun.

“Tra” is a word I made up in college that means “stuff.” Mostly boring stuff. Or even annoying stuff.

Perhaps I'll start printing out all my antiwar/anti-George W. forwards that old friends from college send on classy parchment paper and stash them in some fancy chest at the foot of my bed. Now that sounds like an artifact!

Meal Ready to Eat. It's a foil packet of food kind of like you get on airplanes. Except the nutritional content is designed to make your poop really dry so you don't have to wipe much and can go days without having to wash your crusty bum. Ick! Definitely take this part out of the real book, Annie.

I have not told David about this journal. My pre-memoirs. My womanly memoirs. My femoirs. My fem Wars! It'll be more touching when I hand over the publisher's bound proofs for his approval. Sometimes I feel deceptive for not sharing my authorial aspirations, but doesn't everyone secretly kind of want to be a writer/rocker/movie star/artist? I'll tell him someday. I promise.

When we first went away to college Gus would mail me sketches of all the new friends he'd made. It was always quite amusing when I finally met the people in person or saw them in actual photographs. After having the sketches for so long, it was hard not to notice their cartoony features—droopy earlobes; catlike eyes; this one poor guy with a birthmark the shape of Ohio.

Yes, this bar sells pickled hard-boiled eggs. I've seen David and his friends actually eat them.

I cringe when Gus says “kick-ass,” knowing the damage control I'll have to perform later.

Gus uses some strange words that I think he steals from obscure fantasy novels.

Fuck. I can never get those two straight.

Even after eight years, a shared queen-sized bed, and a very openly loving relationship, my mother still calls Rebecca Aunt Carol's
friend.

Specialize? So what is he during peacetime? A florist? A mailman?

Annie, does David write often? Have you two talked about marriage? Have you seen his living will? Does he have siblings? Where do his parents live? Are you going to take time off when he returns? Can he send you videos via the Internet? What kind of care packages do you send him? Does he need any books or magazines? Have you sent him shaving cream? Don't they always need shaving cream? How often does he call? Are the connections usually good? Have there been any injuries in his unit? Does he carry a gun all the time? What kind of gun is it? Do they have a chaplain in their camp? Do you know the denominational affiliation of the chaplain? Does he sleep well? Do you sleep well? Does he tell you about his dreams? Are you having bad dreams? How are his love letters? Are you saving all the letters? When does he come back? How much longer will he be in the army? Do you think he'll stay in? Have you talked about it? Are you going to eat that drumstick? Are you in some sort of support group? Do you have a flag in your classroom? Do your students say the pledge of allegiance? Do your students know he's gone? Do you watch Fox News? Do you get Fox News? Do you think it's going to be weird when he gets back? Does he complain about the heat? Do you know if he smokes? Do you smoke? Have you been going out much lately? Who are you hanging out with? Are your friends supportive? Would you want to adopt one of our neighbor's kittens? Do you want me to send David my issues of
Reader's Digest
? Can I have his address? Do you want whipped cream on your pie? Have you been losing weight? Are you stressed? Are you miserable? Do you get the
Times
or the
P.I.
? What's the difference in time zones? Can't you just wait until he's back? Wouldn't it be fun to have a welcome-home party? Do you want me to start planning? Is David religious? Did you two ever go to church? Can I send him an annotated Bible? Can he call you much, Annie? How often does David call? What do you talk about? What does he tell you about? Can he e-mail? Can he tell you what he's doing? What is he doing? What's his rank? What does that stand for? Do you think he'll want a government job someday? Would you mind moving to D.C.? Have you ever been to the Holocaust Museum? Do you like museums? Does David like museums? Does he get to watch sports over there? Is he a Seahawks fan? Are you a Seahawks fan? Is the game on? Is there any more wine? Annie, can you check the pantry for more wine? Have you sent him a Christmas gift? How long does the mail take to get there? Do you want to go to Arizona for Christmas? Did you know it's eighty degrees there? How hot is it in Iraq, Annie? Do you know how hot? How hot? How hot? Hot hot? Hot? Annie? Annie, do you know? Hot, Annie? Are you hot?