Lovesick (2 page)

“I don’t
feel
like myself,” she says accusatorily.

Peering over bifocals, Gregory gives her a look. “You seem like yourself.”

Cookie’s pooch starts tearing into a bag of zinc lozenges.

Sid doesn’t bother resurrecting my toothpaste pyramid. Instead, he piles the boxes on an already crowded shelf. Stuffing the last one in quickly, it starts a domino effect, shoving the mouthwash off the ledge. Now Sid’s chasing two bouncing plastic bottles of Listerine down the aisle.

“Cleanup on Aisle Six,” I call.

Cookie shakes her head, ashamed of her husband.

“I swear, if I find out that you’re diluting my medication,” she scolds Gregory, shaking the container, “or, God forbid, substituting it for …”

“Placebos?” I suggest.

“Hey kiddo, the adults are talking here.” Cookie whips around to address me. “Mind your own beeswax.”

I’ve grown accustomed to Cookie’s put-downs.

“All I’m saying is you should cut Gregory some slack,” I insist. “I
personally
filled your prescription myself and I
swear
the pills are legit.”

“DO NOT stick up for this man,” she hollers, her voice cracking
as she pounds her cane on the ground. “I’m on to you, buster,” she tells Gregory.

I love that she calls him “buster.”

Rattling the bottle, she says, “I’m licking all these pills when I get home, and if I taste sugar, I’m reporting you to the DEA.”

“The FDA,” Gregory corrects her.

Sid is finding this entire exchange highly entertaining. Cookie and Gregory stare each other down. Belinda stops pulling at the silver hoop-ring in her lower lip long enough to see who blinks first.

“Leash!” Cookie orders me, stretching out her arm, blindly.

I pat Loki softly on the head and then pick up the dog’s leash from the floor and hand it to her. The schnoodle still has that pack of lozenges clamped between her teeth. Cookie gives the leash a tug and Loki relinquishes the bag. I wonder if zinc prevents dogs from catching a cold, too.

“Take these,” Gregory says, handing her a brown bag of more pills.

She snaps it out of his hand.

“Do me a favor,” Gregory yells to her as she waddles away, “make sure you drink lots of water before you launch into your little lickfest.”

“Oh, you’re a regular Buster Keaton,” she mumbles loud enough so we all can hear. “Sidney, let’s go!”

“Sweetie, I’ll meet you at home,” Sid says, leaning on one of the lunch counter barstools. “I’m going to grab a cup of tea with Andy, assuming that’s copacetic with G-man?”

“You’re your own person,” Cookie tells him.

Belinda’s ready to ring Cookie up, but Gregory waves her off.

“Door!” Cookie commands Belinda.

Belinda is all skin, bones, and tattoos. She takes her sweet-ass time getting the door for Cookie.

“Do come again,” Belinda tells her, and the two exchange phony smiles.

Sid moseys behind the counter and starts playing with the pearl handle on the soda fountain. “Damn shame you disconnected
this,” he says. “Lydia made the sweetest egg creams,” Sid says, trying to get a response out of Gregory.

But Gregory ignores him. Sid and I wait for the go-ahead.

“Can I go?” I ask finally. I’m overdue for a break.

“Go. But fifteen minutes means fifteen minutes.”

Gregory then waves me over.

“And one more thing,” he whispers sternly in my ear, his voice raspy. “I don’t need you defending me to Cookie or anyone else for that matter. I’ve got everything covered just fine.”

Then fill your own damn prescriptions, answer your own phone calls, ring up your own damn customers, and restock your own shelves. You can’t pay me enough to endure this abuse. I should walk out the door right now and leave you twisting in the wind. Find yourself a new whipping boy.

I quit you, miserable old man.
And I would, too, if I wasn’t madly in love with his daughter.

ACCORDING to my calculations, I’m ready to get married.

I’ve zeroed in on the relevant variables, constructed the proper algorithms, evaluated the empirical evidence, and crunched the
numbers. I’ve checked and rechecked the math, reverse-engineered the process, and charted the results.

No one will appreciate this mathematical certainty as much as Sid.

Sid prefers Langley’s Diner next door, but we need some privacy, and I want to minimize the risk of bumping into someone we know, so I persuade him to accompany me to Roy’s Gourmet Coffee Roaster two blocks away. Next week they’re opening a Starbucks around the block, but I’ll never go: the coffee’s fine, but I hate that they insist you order in Italian—and I don’t need their cheese plates, paninis, or Sting CDs, just some coffee, thank you.

Roy’s Roaster is busier than I’d hoped, though it appears the coast is clear. A pleasant enough teenage barista with strawberry blond hair and out-of-control acne waits on us.

To celebrate today’s big announcement, I order an extra-foam, vanilla double-latte. This prompts a cockeyed look from Sid.

“Tea for me,” he says firmly.

“Lemon Zest, Earl Grey with Bergamot, Earl Grey with Lavender, English Breakfast, Scottish Breakfast, or Irish Breakfast?” she ticks off mechanically.

Sid’s completely stumped.

“We also have a variety of green teas and some herbal blends. Or maybe you’d like Darjeeling?”

“No, darling, just tea,” Sid says. “You have that, right?”

Sid is regretting our decision to come here.

“He’ll have English Breakfast,” I tell her, pushing Sid toward a table.

We sit and quietly enjoy our beverages. The age difference has never bothered me before, but sitting here, silently, with more than fifty years between us, I do feel a bit like a volunteer in an elderly assistance program. I shouldn’t say “elderly.” The elderly hate the term
elderly
almost as much as they hate
geriatric. Senior citizen
is no longer politically correct, either.
Retiree
is about as polite as it gets.

“Were you able to locate that old vacuum cleaner so we can proceed with Operation Jet Stream?” I ask him.

“Uh-huh. It works like a charm. But I know you didn’t drag me to this frou-frou place to talk windshield wipers. What’s with all the drama?”

I give him a long, affectionate stare. Sid is a good friend. He’s smart; he’s helpful; he has a lifetime of experiences and all the time in the world to share them. I trust him. Sid was the one who convinced me not to move in with Paige. (As if that would have even been an option with Gregory.) “Living together is a cop-out,” he’s prone to telling me. “When you live together, you’re committed to working things out
until
they get tough. When you’re married, you’re committed to working things out
when
they get tough.”

“I’m getting hitched,” I say, trying to downplay the news.

“Congrats! Who’s the lucky girl?”

He knows exactly who she is. Sid couldn’t be any more immersed in our lives. He watched Paige and me fall in love. Gregory is his best friend; he is mine. Sid and Cookie are Paige’s god parents. “Brewster men make boys,” Sid is always saying. Paige is the closest thing Sidney and Cookie Brewster have ever had to a daughter, and they spoil her rotten.

“I’m thinking I’ll pop the question in the next couple of weeks. I’ll need your help with the final arrangements,” I tell him.

Sid’s eyebrows poke out over his massive sunglasses. Only now does he realize that I’m serious.

“Final arrangements? This ain’t a funeral, kid. It’s great news, but what’s the rush? It’s only been a few months. You sure you’re ready for marriage?”

Sid has asked me this question before, and this is the first time that I’ve had a suitable enough explanation.

“Because I’ve got proof,” I say, slapping my pie chart on the table.

Sid’s expression swiftly goes from playful to disturbed. Sid lifts his shades and holds the chart up to his nose to get a better look.

“This is horseshit!” he says, laughing and tossing the chart on the table.

“Hold your horseshit,” I tell him. “I made this chart for
you.
Right about now I bet you’re wondering why I didn’t just do a simple list of pros and cons like a normal person—”

“There’s nothing normal about this, Andy.”

“Indulge me for a moment.”

“I don’t like the looks of this chart. I don’t even understand it.”

“Each slice signifies a different factor influencing my decision to propose, by percentage. Take this slice labeled ‘Timing.’ It occupies about 10 percent because it’s more important to the engagement formula than, say, ‘Necessity’ which occupies 5 per cent of the pie,” I explain.

“Do you have any idea what it costs to throw a wedding?” Sid asks.

“I thought the father-in-law pays.”

Sid flashes me a disapproving look.

“Kidding.
Geez, where’s your sense of humor?”

“Be funny. Then I’ll laugh.”

“Look, I’ve been saving. We’ll be fine. Unless you think we should elope.”

Sid reacts to the word
elope
like he’s just heard nails across a chalkboard.

“Don’t you still have student loans left over from pharmacy school?”

“I’ve got twenty years to pay them,” I say, brushing him off.

“You’ve got it all figured out, don’t you.”

“I’m thinking a small wedding.”

“Well, then, you’re thinking too much. You’ll have whatever wedding you’ll have … within reason. It’s not
your
job to figure that part out. Your job is to
help Paige realize her fantasy.”

Sid lets the words linger.

“You heard me, right?” he confirms. I nod. “I did it for Cookie and you’ll do it for my goddaughter.” He looks back at my pie chart. “What’s this big slice labeled ‘Points’?” he asks hesitantly.

On our third or fourth date, for some unknown reason, I started awarding Paige points for various feats. For example, she got points the day she bowled a turkey (a miraculous three strikes in a row); Paige got points that time she split aces and doubled down in
blackjack; just last week she got points for slurping down a dozen slimy bluepoint oysters. After “I love you” no three words bring Paige more joy than “You get points” (although “You were right” and “I am sorry” are a close third and fourth).

For me, I explain to Sid, this is how love adds up.

Sid hates this system.

“Does she ever award
you
points?” he asks curiously.

“No, but she could. Paige likes points,
really.”

“Uh-huh,” he says with skepticism. “Okey doke, so I think we’re done with this little chart of yours.”

“Just indulge me for two more minutes,” I plead.

I pull out a thick black Magic Marker. “Take these two slices,” I say, using the marker to point to “Pressure” and “Posterity.” “I’m not getting peer pressure to get married, and I’m not getting married for show. Then there’s ‘Sex.’”

“Hold your horses,” he tells me, raising the stop signal.

“All I’m saying is monogamy doesn’t scare me.”

“And ‘Guilt’?” he asks of the corresponding slice.

“None whatsoever. I’m not proposing because I feel like marriage is ‘the right thing to do.’ I’m not caving to Paige’s demands. I want this. ‘Necessity’ isn’t a factor, either. Paige isn’t pregnant. I’m not proposing because I’m tired of the dating scene. I’m popping the question because I want to marry
Paige.
We’re not getting married because it’s convenient. ‘Fear’ doesn’t come into play, either. I’m not worried about ending up alone. I’m ready, Sid. She’s ready.”

“You’re brilliant, kid, but a moron when it comes to relationships.”

“I don’t understand …”

“Then let me put this in terms you will: you’re trying to solve the unsolvable.”

“Tell me
one factor
I’ve missed,” I insist.

“Look at me, Andy.”

I look at him.

“No formula, no pie chart, no miracle calculation is going to give you the answers. Take it from someone who thrives on math: there ain’t going to be a solution at the bottom of the page that
you can place in a neat little box. You want to marry Paige? I’m thrilled. You think she’s ready? You’re ready? I can respect that. But not this,” he says, swatting the pie chart away like a gnat.

He slowly takes off his shades to look at me. The sunlight hurts his eyes like pins and needles. They begin to tear.

“So what does the father of the bride think about all this hooha?” he demands.

“Don’t start.”

“You
need
Gregory’s blessing,” Sid says. “That part is
not
up for negotiation.”

“The guy doesn’t think I’m competent enough to drop pills in a plastic bottle; you really think he’s about to consider me worthy enough to marry the ‘apple of his eye’?”

“And the alternative is what?”

“He brought this on himself by hiring me in the first place.”

“Now you’re talking nonsense.” He chuckles. “You’re punishing Gregory because he gave you the job that landed you the girl of your dreams? We both know Gregory had little to do with it. You had your mind made up when you came back to Crockett in the first place.”