Ron Vigil
USA
The quarterback zips one in the end zone. Game tied. Twenty-one seconds to go, sudden death overtime. The announcer’s voice is laced with the frenzy of the developing drama. Excited neurons race through my body as little joy corpuscles pop all over. Commercial.
Thirty seconds to hit the head, grab a beer, barbecue chips, and hustle back to my warm comfy spot. Kids are blissfully absent. The anticipation of joy prompts a smile. At this precise moment a chilling question knifes thought the air, “Can you give me a hand?” The tone, volume and the fact that it’s my wife’s voice tells me I’m the target. My deer-in-the.headlights-look follows her voice. Oblivious to my panic, she unmercifully twists the knife in my side. “I want to rearrange the furniture.”
The enemy is upon me. In my face. Here and now. Every instinct in my body yells, “BATTLE STATIONS, BATTLE STATIONS.” Like those World War II movies when everyone dives into their foxholes, “INCOMIING!!” I need an anti-missile badly and I need it now. My mind races at Pentium II speed. Maybe it’s only a few minor moves and …then reality seeps in. Experience forces me to face the depressing truth. This is not going to be an easy, short thing. The Hoover Dam and Panama Canal come to mind.
Evelyn looks at me with her hands on her hips. All I can muster is a big sigh and a vacuous stare registering complete and total defeat. What seals it is she, who has to be obeyed, has been trudging up and down the steps for the last two hours doing laundry. The guilt and surprise in tandem torpedoes any chance for a counterattack. Only a life form lower then a slug would even think of trying. — Okay, so I’m human.
I survey the battleground. There are nine pieces of furniture in the area. Two rocking chairs, a short bench with two matching chairs, a baker’s table, a secretary, couple of small tables with lamps, and a collection of knickknacks. A fireplace occupies one corner of the room facing the long counter that separates the kitchen from the den. This drill is not new. I know each piece will be methodically moved to a new location. Studied, pondered… slowly. No trifling decisions here . And then the inevitable question, “What do you think?” Not that my opinion really matters, it’s more a curiosity thing. I’m thinking, “How many different ways can furniture be rearranged? Permutations, combinations. I don’t know what the number is, but think in terms of the population of China or the volume of water going over Niagara Falls.
As my wife studies change number sixteen, I think of my bachelor buddy down the street with deep envy. I know the black panther painting will still be hanging over his jumbo TV set which at this moment is vibrating with overtime football excitement. The brown bean bag is still gracing the same corner. The Florida Gator lampshades are still emitting that same orange glow. His rugs, wallpaper and curtains are all the same, same, same. And a case of beer still commands the top shelf of the fridge. Nothing has moved so much as a nano millimeter. Well, maybe the beers. This is a very happy man.
I know I’m whining, but while I’m at it, I might as well vent all my Venus/Mars frustrations. I don’t know if it’s biological, psychological or cultural, but it’s just uncanny how my wife can remember the most obscure details. Like she’s been secretly taking memory classes. Mundane events, past conversations,, what Maggie wore at the PTA meeting five years ago, the names and ages of our orthodontist’s children. What really gets me are the names. We have twenty-six families on our block, with kids, dogs, cats, and my wife can, without fail, rattle off – well, you get the picture. Me, I insist my kids wear name tags.
Then there’s this thing about my wife and cash. As in don’t have any, don’t need it, don’t want it. Well, maybe a few quarters in the ash tray. But she has an equalizer, the ever present, never leave behind, always faithful, pat the purse, roll the drums, …checkbook. “Evelyn I’m short a dollar for the tip. Got a buck? Sure, let me get my checkbook.” Anytime or place her checkbook is ready to spring into action with the speed of–well, have you ever seen those two gunslingers in the movies fast draw on each other? Faster than that. It’s all in the wrist. “Mademoiselle, an excellent choice. Will zat be cash, credit card or–ah, yes I zee the checkbook.” I don’t know why purse snatching is even considered a crime. There’s never any cash involved. “How hard was the Judge on you? Three to five. Purse snatching, heh?. Yeah, got a pack of chewing gum, three hair clips, a comb, car keys, a little bag of tissues, a wallet with maxed out credit cards and, of course, a check book. Did I mention the 10% off manicure coupon?”
It’s all over now. Decisions have been made. The pieces are in place. Black bakers table in one corner. Rocking chairs frame the fireplace. The secretary and small bench are spaced perfectly. Happily, all the little pieces that go on top have found new homes. I have to be honest. It really does look better. If I had a sharper memory I would swear this is exactly the way it was two years and three changes ago.
Okay, okay, so you sense the begrudging respect I have for my wife’s abilities to multitask. But don’t give up on me yet. You haven’t seen me punching that remote on Bowl Day with one hand, a beer in the other, while tossing down Fritos at the same time. And all the while yelling and jumping with the passion of a gorilla on mating day. Hey, not easy to do. Takes talent.