44 Chapters About 4 Men (32 page)

I wrote a poem today. I’m calling it “Haiku of Shame.”

Trigger alert: It’s kind of a tearjerker.

When Ken dies, after

A lifetime by my side, his

Arm…will bear…
her
name.

Goddamn Shakespearean tragedy, isn’t it?

I wrote it in the car while Ken and I were out running errands, and I decided to recite it for him, beatnik-style, while drumming on the dashboard, as if it were a pair of bongos. Ken just rolled his eyes and said nothing.

Nothing, Journal!

I’d poured my heart and soul out to him through the ancient mystical art of haiku, and he didn’t even have the decency to acknowledge my pain!

I should have titled it “Reason Number 2,349 Why Ken Is an Asshole.”

I’m afraid it’s time to bring out the big guns. If subliminal spousal bibliotherapy, ex-boyfriend erotica, direct suggestion, and the majesty of poetry don’t inspire Ken to get inked, then he’s left me no choice. I’m going to have to employ the oldest and most potent influencer of bad decisions known to man (next to PCP, of course) —the power of peer pressure.

Cue the Alexander brothers.

Ken has been friends with Devon and Ethan Alexander (the same brothers who were the life of Jason’s “Big Game” party) since high school. The three of them have been negatively influencing each other for at least twenty years, so I figured if anyone could get Ken to make a terrible decision, it would be those two.

A few years ago, the Alexanders, who had always been pretty enamored with themselves, moved to California to pursue acting. Ethan, the younger one, morphed into
LA Alexander
. He was fitter, tanner, and owned way more tank tops and plastic-framed non-prescription glasses than ever before. While Devon, who is Ken’s age, became the Hollywood version—five foot six and full of shit.

Whenever the Alexanders are around—which isn’t much now that they are big shot “producers” (underemployed pyramid scheme–hustlers who live rent-free by always having some teenaged wannabe actress with her own apartment thinking that they are going to make her a star) out in California—Ken tends to let loose a little bit. I mean, he still won’t drink or smoke or have fun or anything, but he will stay up
way
past his bedtime.

So, last Wednesday, Ken called me on his way home from work to tell me that the Alexanders were in town for Ethan’s thirtieth birthday, so he and the guys were going to meet up at Wild Wing to celebrate and catch up.

“Sure,” I said. “You guys have fun,” I said.

I’ll just stay here and make dinner and do the dishes and bathe your children and put them to bed and drink by myself
, I said, in my head.

It was so unfair. Ken going to hang out with a group of our friends at a bar was the equivalent of him showing up at my annual Pap smear appointment.

Hello?! I’m the extroverted social drinker in this couple! Over here, asshole! I want to go pound some Jameson shots and talk shit about all the “beat-downs” that Ethan and Devon have been “slaying” in LA!

But, alas, it was too late to find a babysitter, and Ken was almost to the bar when he called. Per my usual, I was marooned on Two Small Children Island without so much as a dinghy.

Then, as soon as I was elbow-deep in dishwater and acrimony, my cell phone chimed.

Ken:
I think I’m going to be out pretty late.

Me:
K.

Ken:
This is so funny.

Me:
I’m sure it is.

Me:
I hope you fuckers choke on your chicken wings
(typed, then deleted)

In an attempt to eradicate my envious energy and get back to Zen, I threw the kids in bed, lit a lavender-scented candle, and dived headfirst into one of my favorite Deepak Chopra guided meditations.

Manifesting abundance through the systematic activation of the third-eye chakra? Yes, please!

Most of it was in Sanskrit, so I could have been summoning Lucifer for all I knew, but whatever mantra Deepak had me chanting, that shit worked.

No sooner had my man Deepak said his final, “Namaste,” than Ken was texting me to announce that the entire party was headed to our house!

Woop, woop!
People! Alcohol! Kids asleep! Abundance!

I scurried around, alternating between giddily clapping and trying to machete my way through the plastic jungle that was once my sleek, contemporary adult living room. Once the mountain of toys had been successfully mashed into every available closet, cabinet, corner, and stove I could find, I began pulling vats of alcohol out of the liquor cabinet, hoping to aid in the social lubrication of my guests.

The thing about being married to an accountant who doesn’t drink is that, when you ask him to pick up “a tiny little bottle of Peppermint Schnapps” for your signature holiday candy-cane martini, he will inevitably show up with a two-liter jug of Peppermint Schnapps because, “It was a better price per ounce.”

There are bottles of alcohol in this house that will outlive us all, Journal.

As soon as the final gallon of Triple Sec had been removed from the cabinet, my guests arrived. And it…was…glorious. Birthday boy Ethan, true to form, was tan, buff, tank-top clad, and bombed out of his mind. I’d never seen him so drunk, and Ken looked more than a little amused. In fact, he actually seemed to be enjoying himself. Devon, the older brother, followed, plopping himself on the couch where he alternated between contributing his two cents to Ethan’s stories and trying to get random girls on Tinder to Snapchat him pictures of their tits.

Bringing up the rear was Ken’s best friend, Allen, and his wife, Amy.

Allen and Amy have two kids, but you’d never know it based on the way they party. Just a few weeks ago, they went to an adults-only (nudist) resort in Jamaica and had a weeklong orgy. I know this because Amy was texting me a blow-by-blow (No pun intended!) of the action the entire time.

Life isn’t fair, Journal.

While they were spreading their ass cheeks for strangers on a nude beach, I was busy scrubbing skid marks out of my son’s Batman underwear. I hope whoever wound up blowing them had thrush and beard crabs.

Listening to Ethan and Devon rattling off LA stories while acting out all the characters was like watching a live episode of
Drunk History
. Ethan was bragging about how he’d saved Devon from getting a hand job from a transgender porn star named Tammy Tugwell at the Sundance Film Festival. Devon was telling us about how he’d seen one of the vampires from
True Blood
fucking a girl doggie-style on their couch in the aftermath of their epic Oscar party. It was beautiful.

But as entertaining as the Alexanders’ little pissing contest was, something even more interesting was happening on the far side of the room. Ken was smiling. As a matter of fact, he might have even been chuckling softly, like the coo of a dove.

Seeing Ken experience something resembling a good time while listening to the Lifestyles of the Single and Childless simply added fuel to the fire of my brilliant, sinister Gargamelian idea. All I needed to do was figure out a way to get the Alexander brothers and Ken into a tattoo parlor at the same time and let the gentle shove of peer pressure take care of the rest. I could do this. I had the universe and four hundred eighty-seven cubic liters of flavored liqueurs on my side.

I glanced at my bare wrist. “Damn, Ethan. Your birthday’s almost over, boo. Is there anything else you want to do before midnight? Like go to Waffle House or get a tattoo?”

Please say tattoo. Please say tattoo. Please
—

“Oh, shit!” Ethan slurred as panic forced his eyelids all the way open. “I was
totally
gonna get a tattoo today!”

Fuck yeah! High five, Deepak!

Allen and Amy hopped off the couch and started screaming and doing herkies like Satan’s cheerleaders.

Allen grabbed Ethan by the shoulders and started shaking him violently while Amy screamed in his face, “Shit yes, E! Get in the car right now! We’re paying!”

I glanced at Devon for any signs of protest, but he was still glued to his phone, willing his Snapchat app to ping.

With the swingers on board and big brother Alexander preoccupied with the promise of underage boobies, all I had to do now was convince Ken to go with them and pray that the momentum and camaraderie of a fun night out would be enough to get him to join his good buddy Ethan in a little tat session.

Unfortunately, Ken and his fucking morals didn’t share our zest for bonding and making lifelong memories. Instead, he actually insinuated that it was not only
not
a great idea to take our inebriated friend to get a tattoo, but that it was actually “wrong” because he was “blackout drunk” and would probably “regret it in the morning.”

Gah! Thanks a lot, Dad!

Ken might have been sober and rational, but I was full of Pucker’s Sour Apple, hellfire, and tarnation, and I wasn’t
going down without a fight. Through my liqueur-induced fog, I hoped that maybe, just maybe, if I could prove to Ken that the tattoo Ethan wanted was badass or at least tastefully unassuming, I could get Ken to cave.

“Don’t listen to him, honey. Ken just hates fun, that’s all. It’s your thirtieth birthday! If you want a tattoo, you should let Allen and Amy buy you a tattoo! Do you know what you want?”

Please be something cool. Please be something cool…

Ethan wobbled a little on his feet while he oriented himself to the direction of my voice.

I’m pretty sure he couldn’t actually see me through the slits in his eyelids, but he managed to stay upright and enthusiastic as he slurred, “Hell yesss I know what I want! I wan’
brefass
!”

The fuck?

“Did you just say breakfast?” I asked, trying real hard not to cringe.

“Yep. I wan’ it to
say
brefass
. On my foot.”

Oh, for the love of God.

Ethan made an impressively delayed gesture toward one of his bare feet, and the room erupted in laughter. Ken actually snorted. I had to admit, trying to keep my composure as if it were a perfectly natural thing for a grown man to want the name of the most important meal of the day on his foot was no small feat (Pun intended!), but I persevered.

“Nice choice, Ethan. I like it. Wherever did you come up with such an original idea?”

Ethan was ready with a rock-solid explanation. He had obviously defended this idea before because his retort was immediate and succinct.

Straightening his posture, Ethan declared to the room in a voice that was louder than necessary, “Because iss the firss meal of the day…AND…iss the bess meal.” He even threw in a sassy little head wag at the end, as if he’d just thrown down some irrefutable shit, and immediately, he had to catch his balance.

I could practically see my coveted Sailor Jerry–style heart tattoo with the letters
BB
emblazed across the front slipping through my fingers.

C’mon, Ethan. Give me something I can work with here, buddy. Ken is never going to sign off on this harebrained bullshit.

I glanced across the room at Ken to gauge the situation and found him casually sitting on the floor with his back against the coffee table, necktie undone, top of his collared work shirt unbuttoned, quietly laughing his ass off.

It was not looking good, but I pressed on, determined. “You make some excellent points, E. Have you thought about a font?”

“Normal.”

Duh.

“Are we talking Arial? Times New Roman? Helvetica?”

“Caps lock!” Ethan threw one arm up in the air for emphasis while he swayed with his eyes closed.

I bit my lip to suppress the cackle percolating in my throat and managed to summarize through gritted teeth, “So, you want it to say
breakfast
, on your foot, in all caps, in a normal font?”

“Fuck yes ma’am I do!”

My brilliant plan was gasping and flopping like a prized sea bass before my very eyes. At least the swingers were still on board. Allen grabbed Ethan by the shoulder straps of his tank top and spun him around to face Ken.

Jostling Ethan’s floppy body like a rag doll, Allen shouted over his shoulder at Ken, “C’mon, dude! This man needs a tat, stat!”

Not even pretending like he was going to get up, Ken turned his attention to Ethan and said, trying like a gentleman to suppress his laughter, “I just think you’re gonna regret it, man.”

Fuck off, Ken! Who asked you?

In a moment of desperation, and with surprising lucidity, I blurted out, “Ethan, is there anybody you can call who could verify for Ken that you’ve actually wanted this tattoo for longer than twenty-four hours?”

It was a long shot, but I’ll be damned if Ethan didn’t produce not one, not two, but three SoCal douche bags on speakerphone who all had the same response when he announced that he was going to get “that tattoo I’ve always wanted.”

Without missing a beat, each one mused in a prototypical stoner drawl, “Duuuude…you’re finally gettin’ the
breakfast
tattoo on your foot? No way! That is soooo awesome, bro!”