Plus One (29 page)

A
side from four square blocks of Santa Monica, most of Venice, and the noodle shops on Sawtelle, Alex couldn't stand the westside. As far as he was concerned, the westside was responsible for all the worst L.A. stereotypes—the Porsche-driving agents and insufferable spiritualists, the health-club megaplexes and whole industries devoted to Botox injecting, teeth whitening, and vagina rejuvenating. But even Alex had to accept that the westside had one thing the east just didn't: All the good doctors.

Which is why his whole day was wrecked because of a Thursday 4 p.m. consult with Dr. Lewis Finkelstein of Century City. He'd sent Rosa to get the kids from school and made a vague mention to Figgy about an errand that would take him most of the day. Now here he was, jerking through worsening traffic on the fringes of Koreatown. With each successive block west, he felt as if he was probing deeper into a hostile nation-state. “Proceed on the
highlighted route,” the GPS purred as he crossed over Doheny, in that silky, ever-confident way of hers, as if there was nothing at all alarming about the horror show unspooling out his windshield. Ten days in Hawaii had soured him on L.A.—he marveled at its deep and extravagant ugliness, its hot mess of poor planning.

Alex recognized a familiar black glass office tower looming on the horizon. The sight of it sent him scrambling for his cell.

“Huck,” he said when the call connected. “Brotherman. Talk to me. I'm about to meet Finkelstein.”

“The wizard?” Huck said.

“The very one,” Alex said.

There was a silence, then: “Is Figgy making you?”

“No—she doesn't actually know. Keeping this on the DL.”

“Sneaky,” Huck said. “Props. Manning up.”

There it was again—why'd everyone have to keeping using that phrase? He plowed on: “But I did a very bad thing. I got on Google last night. One guy—his testes blew up into bowling balls. This other guy got snipped and then
peed blood
every time he came.”

Huck made a horrified croak.

“Am I gonna be that guy?” Alex continued. “I know I want to do this, it's the right decision… but I really
do not
want to be the guy who pees blood every time he comes.”

“Calm yourself,” Huck said. “Finkelstein's a pro—dude snips a dozen balls a day. Premium balls too—guy does half the Lakers. And I heard he just did the new state rep. Congressional balls!”

“I just need to know. Did you have any problems at all? I mean, after? You know—function? Sensation?
Operation
?”

“All good. I'm telling you, whole thing actually makes sex
sexier
. None of that meddlesome reproductive business getting in the way of you and the
pussay
.”

Finkelstein's office was now just a block away. Alex got into the right lane and slowed way down. “I think I'm going to throw up,” he said. “I can't believe I'm voluntarily getting snipped.”

“Wrong,” Huck said. “You're getting
clipped
. He uses these tiny little titanium thingies—clamps 'em right down on your tube.”

“Nice,” Alex said. “I'm about to lose you in a garage—so listen, did you get the invite? For Figgy's thing?”

Alex had spent the last two weeks toggling between obsessing about his vasectomy and worrying about Figgy's birthday. Her fortieth was coming up on Saturday, and he'd left the party planning to the last minute. Figgy herself had been maddeningly vague about what she wanted—all she'd say is how much she hated that an arbitrary round number was forcing her to make a big deal… and that whatever they did should include a Hansen's cake with buttercream frosting. Alex understood that as the husband, he needed to plan something big, thoughtful—and expensive. The occasion, he knew, called for bling. But the prospect of buying her jewelry in their current circumstances made him intensely nervous. He'd be spending, after all, money he hadn't made. If he spent too much, she'd think he was a schmuck, wasteful and disrespectful of all she'd done to earn it. Not enough and she'd think he thought she wasn't worth it. He'd tried to explain the dilemma to Huck last week.

“Homes—relax,” Huck had said. “Not a problem. You need to make some sort of gesture, obviously. But you don't necessarily need to spend
bank
. Remember the golden rule: free for those who can afford it. My boy Les has a whole guest room full of crap he gets in goody bags and luxury lounges. Coupons for African safaris, helicopter rides—they just sit there, piling up. I know he's got a few from jewelers. He keeps telling me to come take whatever I want.”

Alex took this in. “So I can get birthday jewelry with… a coupon?”

“Not exactly. It's all non-transferrable—they don't hand out luxury goods to maids and assistants and whatever. They ask for your ID when you cash it in. Which is why I went down to MacArthur
Park and got myself a fake ID with my picture and Lester Sychak's name on it.”

Alex flashed on Huck idling his Audi wagon, slowing along the curb and signaling to a guy on the street that he'd trade cash for “mica.” “So… you've got a driver's license that guys use for buying beer or working construction—for luxury-lounge coupons?”

“Genius, right? Wanna cash one in?”

It didn't sound exactly legal, but Alex figured there wasn't any harm in acquiring a celebrity freebie that would otherwise go unclaimed. Most importantly, Figgy would get her bling and he'd neatly sidestep the question of whose-money-it-was. The next day he and Huck paid a visit to the Beverly Hills jeweler Daniel Frick, who took one look at the coupon and handed over a chunky silver necklace with a single ruby. “It's part of our
celebrity
collection, Mr. Sychak,” said the jeweler, his clipped British accent a tart mix of privilege and suspicion.

Beyond the bling, Alex knew he needed to arrange some sort of event. He'd had a meeting with a ginger-haired, pink-lipsticked party planner named Alice, and they'd traded an increasingly frustrating chain of emails. He'd considered, then rejected, an elegant dinner party (too conventional), a hot air balloon ride (Figgy got motion sickness), and a lavish blowout at home (parties made her anxious).

The truth was, Alex felt conflicted about any sort of grand gesture. It felt vulgar. His standard-issue liberal guilt was mixed with something else—was it hostility? Or resentment? Every time he checked in with Figgy at work, she was being fussed over, fetched for, and otherwise feted. Planning for her birthday made him feel like just another fawning attendant. Even sex had become a bizarre sort of combat. She claimed to be back on the pill, and Alex claimed to believe her, but he now made it a point to keep track of her ovulation schedule and pull out before the moment of truth.

“Just being tidy,” he'd said last night.

She'd responded by turning onto her side and making a motion with her hand that looked suspiciously like a scoop and dip. Was she actually trying to inseminate herself with his spillover? Was she so committed to getting one past him?

All of which probably had something to do with why he'd gotten so excited when his mother came up with the idea for “a totally unique, unforgettable, socially conscious” surprise birthday party. It was risky—Figgy might very well hate it—but for sure she'd be surprised. And wasn't she always zigging when everyone else zagged? They'd keep it
real
. He signed off and got Alice the party planner going on the particulars. The invites had gone out yesterday.

“So we meet at your house at nine?” Huck said now.

“Yup—just don't dress up,” Alex said. “Super casual.”

“Fine—but you've got to help me out with something,” he said. “Please do not invite Kate—the only way I can deal with this thing is if I can bring Sydney.”

“Sydney?”

“The waitress at Interlingua?” Huck said. “With the calves and the blouses? It is
on
. I'm telling you, divorce—it's catnip, dude. I casually dropped a mention of the separation over coffee and she followed me home like a schnauzer in heat. And I'm telling you homes, these younger ones, they're
dirty
. Internet porn is a wonderful thing, my friend. I haven't had this much play since college.”

Alex had run out of road and was descending into the parking garage. “Losing bars—gotta go,” he said. “I'm going in. Wish me luck.”

“Don't
even
stress this.”

He hung up as he turned his keys over to the valet and headed for the lobby. The elevator was packed, and he had to wedge himself against the wall, keeping his head down to avoid the close
cluster of faces. Everyone in the elevator, he sensed at once, knew exactly where he was going.

At the reception desk, he signed his name on a sheet of perforated stickers, pausing briefly at the box marked “reason for visit” and briefly considering “Snip?” or “Clip?” before settling on “Consult.” As he eased into a padded chair with his clipboard and intake forms, he scanned the waiting room—just a nervous-looking guy in his forties clenching his hands hard on the armrests while a woman at his side ran her hand up and down his neck.

Alex tried to focus on the form, frowning a little as he spelled out the address on Sumter Court, and then making a long row of Xs in the NO column beside the shockingly long list of conditions: small stream, cloudy urine, dribbling, impotence, frequent voiding, stones. None, nope, not really, only sometimes, only when drunk, gross, super-gross, thanks for asking! Three pages in, on an insurance form so densely printed it looked like a solid block of gray, he wrote Figgy's name in the box marked “primary cardholder.”

Somehow, he'd thought he could leave Figgy out of this whole business: Why'd
she
get to be primary cardholder? He knew keeping this business a secret was—how do you say?—wrong. But it also felt necessary, crucial even, not to mention
thrilling
in a way he couldn't quite explain, this throwing his feet up in the stirrups. He was a pioneering feminist, crossing state lines to exercise his rights. My body, my choice!

Alex finished the form and waited. It could've been ten minutes or an hour later, he had no idea—but finally, his name was called and he was ushered back into Finkelstein's office. The paneled walls were decorated with framed diplomas and a gallery of family portraits. Alex got close and examined the faces—mostly older, tanned, comfortable men with comely young women. In each photo, babies bounced on knees or slumped against shoulders.

“Ah yes—the Friends of Finkelstein.”

Alex swiveled around and faced the doctor. Fiftyish and fit with small, wire-frame glasses and a big, crooked smile, he wore a loud paisley tie and a stethoscope slung jauntily around his neck. “My patients send me these pictures—I've helped bring over twenty-two hundred babies into the world, at last count.”

“Isn't the general idea to
prevent
babies?” Alex asked.

“Vasectomies are simple—the lube job of urology, ha ha,” he said. “Pure craft. Reversals, on the other hand—that's the art.”

“Huh,” Alex said, sitting down.

Finkelstein narrowed his eyes at Alex's chart. “So: thirty-eight, married, otherwise healthy, no prior urological issues. You've got—what? Two kids? All done? Positive you don't want any more?”

“Yup,” Alex said. “Ready to hang up the spurs.”

The doctor gave him a polite chuckle. “And Mrs. Sherman-Zicklin? Where's she on this?”

Alex flashed to Figgy at her office, glued to her laptop, gnawing on her nails, oblivious. “She couldn't get out of work today,” he said. “But yeah—she's
great
with it.”

A flicker of suspicion passed over Finkelstein's face as he leaned back in his chair. “I'm obliged to inform you that this is a one-way procedure. It can be extremely problematic to undo the work we do together. Of course down the line… if things change… as they so often do—especially among
my
patient population—you'll keep me in mind. I don't mind saying I have a tremendous success rate.”

“I see,” Alex said, gesturing over at the photos on the wall. “I think for now, I'm good with just the basic… lube job.”

Finkelstein pushed a glossy brochure across the desk printed with huge block letters: CRYOPRESERVATION. Alex flipped it open and scanned pictures of men in lab coats, steaming metal vats, and happy couples walking toward bright horizons. “Are you
up to speed on banking?” the doctor asked. “We collect a sample of your sperm before the procedure and store it—as long as you need it. There's no guarantee your swimmers will do the job once we thaw 'em out—frozen semen is not half as vigorous as fresh sperm. And then there's the cost of storage.”

“No, thanks,” said Alex, quickly deciding he'd rather not spend the next twenty years hiding monthly bills for the upkeep of a chunk of iced semen.

“Suit yourself,” said Finkelstein with a smile. “My schedule's tight right now, but I'm sure Donna out front can find a place to squeeze you in. Recovery time is two days max—you'll want to stay off your feet and avoid any lifting or exercise. And you'll need someone to bring you in and take you home. The missus can get out of work for that?”