Dog Training The American Male (8 page)

Encouraged by the real estate
market, with no federal regulations to fret over, Lehman and other investment
firms continued buying, slicing, dicing, repackaging and reselling residential
mortgages while raking in billions of dollars in profits. Jacob’s stock bonuses
continued piling higher. On paper he was a multimillionaire, and his bosses and
new peers gleefully taught him how to leverage his assets to attract women.
Suddenly, the social dweeb was styling in Armani suits, a new haircut, and hot
ladies vying to be his permanent arm candy to sleep with.

By early 2006, the programming
whiz kid was suddenly struggling just to sleep alone. Despite the juggling of
accounts, it appeared to Jacob and a handful of other junior executives that Lehman
was leveraged more than twenty times its own net worth. When Jacob tried to
point out the potential dangers of this $600 billion deficit, he was ignored.
When he attempted to sell his stock, he was delayed, bullied, and ultimately
denied.

Two years later the housing
bubble officially burst and Lehman’s death spiral was complete, dragging Jacob
Cope’s net worth with it. Within days he had lost his job, his stock, his pension,
his corporate Mercedes, and his corporate-leased apartment. With the other big
investment firms and banks entrenched in their own bailouts and mergers, there
were no jobs to be had, Wall Street shedding its work force by the thousands.

 Waiting for the economy to
recover, Jacob sublet a one bedroom apartment in Brooklyn and looked for work.
He attempted to finish his degree, but his rise and fall had been so harsh that
he couldn’t stay focused.

Two years passed. He moved to
Trenton, New Jersey and worked the grill at a local burger joint. He purchased
the Volkswagen van from his boss, not because he liked the way it ran (which
was rare), but because he feared that one day he might actually need to use the
vehicle as his residence.

Depressed, he drank . . . a
lot.

 When he spent his rent money on
booze, he was forced to moved into a homeless shelter. The shelters wanted him
sober; his mind—wracked in fear—wanted him inebriated.

In April of 2011, the van became
his home—his self-fulfilling prophecy complete.

* * * *
*

Turning off the
main strip, Jacob
followed 52nd Street into a lower-middle class neighborhood. The house he and
Nancy were renting was two blocks down on the left, the driveway occupied by a
PMS MOVERS truck. Two scantily-clad female bodybuilders were seated on the open
tailgate of the vehicle, neither of them Jeanne.

Jacob parked by the curb and
climbed out. In the back of his van were two suitcases, his George W. Bush
ventriloquist dummy, and a heavy cardboard box that held the Yoko doll. Vinnie
had urged him to get rid of the life-like sex toy. In the end Jacob had decided
to bring her along—not for sex (after all, he had Nancy for that) but because
he was feeling anxious about the move and found he could talk to Yoko to
alleviate his fears.

I get by with a little help
from my friends . . .

Glancing over his shoulder at the
two muscular females, he quickly decided it was best to leave the heavy box
inside the van until later when he could store the Yoko doll in the garage in
privacy. Removing one of his suitcases, he tucked the ventriloquist dummy in
the crook of his right arm and walked up the driveway . . .drawing
the attention of the two female bodybuilders.

Jamie Morrison competed as a
middle weight. Although the ebony-skinned woman was lankier than Jeanne, she was
no less intimidating. Her training partner, Stacy Shear, was a heavyweight, her
bulging flesh lathered in cocoa-butter, her wavy brown hair bound in a ponytail
that fell to the small of her sculpted back. Both bodybuilders wore red
muscle-tees with PMS MOVERS emblazoned across the chest. Having finished
unloading Nancy’s belongings, they were alternating sets using a Shaker weight
dumbbell while they waited for Jeanne.

Jacob entered their aura like a
skirt-clad businesswoman walking by a construction site.

Jamie smiled, pursing her lips.
“Hey tough guy, need a hand with your doll collection?”

Jacob avoided eye contact with
the Nubian goliath. “No thank you. I think I can manage.”

Stacy blocked his way. “Bet those
chicken arms of yours couldn’t manage thirty seconds on the Shaker.” She grabbed
the dumbbell in one hand and violently shook it, her right arm and upper body
muscles reverberating, spraying him with sweat. “Try that, Doll Man.”

“Yeah, Doll Man, show us your
guns.”

“Guns? Oh, you mean my biceps. Gee,
I don’t know if I should. Let me ask my friend.” Jacob turned to the George
Bush dummy, his right hand discreetly sliding into position beneath the doll’s
shirt. “Mr. President, you’re the decider. Help me out here.”

Jacob animated the doll, throwing
his voice. “Jakester, are you seriously asking me if you should jerk-off a
dumbbell? That’s just D-U-M dumb.”

Stacy pointed. “Hey, the little
man talks.”

“You must be the brains of the
outfit. Sweet Jesus, Jacob, check out the size of Godzilla’s camel toe. If it
snows later we can all go skiing.”

Stacy’s smile disappeared.

“Seriously Jacob, if Rumsfeld’s
dick was that big, we’d have never invaded Iraq. Hey, Tarzan, be honest: do you
and Cheetah over there pee standing up?”

Jamie shoved her index finger in
the dummy’s face. “Keep talking, Mini-Me, and the next thing you’ll be peeing
is my fist down your throat.”

“Just wash it off first. I hate
the taste of man-gina in the morning.”

* * * *
*

Jacob entered the
house, the dummy’s
head twisted backwards. “I tried to warn you, Mr. President.”

“Maybe I misunderestimated them.”

Hearing voices, he headed to the
kitchen where he found Lana and Jeanne putting away dishes from cardboard
boxes. A gray cat was nuzzling at their ankles.

“Welcome to your new home, Jacob.”

“Thanks. Where’s your sister?”

“Making a coffee run. Jeanne,
better take Madonna out back before she shits all over the carpet.”

Jeanne picked up the cat and
nuzzled it against her neck. “Madonna’s a good pussy, yes you are.”

Jacob watched Jeanne exit out the
back patio sliding door with the tabby. “Jeanne sure does love her cat.”

“Jeanne’s pussy saved our
relationship.”

“Right, because she’s . . . Wait,
what are we talking about?”

“Jeanne and I had a rough time
when we first moved in together. I never thought we’d make it through the first
month.”

“Why? What happened?”

“Things changed. When you’re
dating someone new you’re always on your best behavior. A month after we moved
in together, the honeymoon was over. Sure, there’s always sex, but how many
different ways can you strap your partner to the bedpost?”

“I don’t know? Three?”

“Jeanne saved our relationship
when she bought Madonna. Instead of just being house mates, we became a
family.”

“I see. Then you’re suggesting I
buy Nancy a cat.”

“No, Nancy’s not into pussys.”

“Right . . . because
she’s straight.”

“No. Because my sister loves
little white foofie dogs. We had a Bichon when Nancy was little. The pup ran
off one day and broke her heart. Now you’re going to get her another one.”

“I am?”

“Jacob, do you want this living
arrangement to work or not?”

“I do. But a dog’s a big
commitment.”

“So is moving in with your
girlfriend. Trust me, when my little sister’s doubled over with menstrual
cramps, you’re going to need something to change Mrs. Hyde back into Dr.
Jekyll.”

“I think we can manage without a
dog.”

“Really?” Reaching down, Lana
grabbed Jacob’s testicles, squeezing them.

“Ahh! Let go!”

“You think Hootie and the
Blowfish here are going to tame my sister’s menstrual cycle?”

“Meds . . . I’ll
get her meds!”

“Wrong answer. Try again.”

“White foofie dog . . . white
foofie dog!”

“There’s a good boy. See, Jeanne
and I really want this to work out. My sister likes you; most important she
trusts you. So don’t screw this up.”

“White foofie dog . . .got
it.”

LIVING
TOGETHER

PHASE ONE: NESTING

A new home is a blank
canvas waiting to be painted with the history of its occupants.

 Having spent the majority of her
last eight years living in pre-furnished dorm rooms and college apartments, Nancy’s
contributions to her first co-ed living arrangement included a queen-size bed
and end tables, a quilt, several black and white framed Ansel Adams photos, a
set of dishes, fast-food cups, mugs, a coffee maker, alarm clock, blender, a
set of pots and pans, silverware for three, a half dozen cardboard boxes filled
with books, a twenty-inch flat screen television, and four powder-blue bath
towels.

 The impressive furnishings that Jacob
had purchased for his Manhattan apartment had been sold off years ago when his life
had gone into a tailspin. Besides his clothes, shoes, personal hygiene bag and
two cardboard boxes of “personal belongings,” his domestic contributions
amounted to little more than an air mattress, a zipper-challenged sleeping bag,
and a five hundred dollar gift certificate from
Bed, Bath, & Beyond
–
the latter a housewarming gift from Vinnie’s wife, Helen.

Other than Nancy’s bed, there was
nothing to sit on, nor groceries to eat. None of that mattered to the young
couple, who spent their first night in their new home eating pizza and making
love to each other in the master bedroom before cuddling together to watch a
repeat of
Saturday Night Live
.

Sunday was a bit more sobering,
the sun awakening them at seven A.M. as its unfiltered morning rays blinded the
sleeping couple from a multitude of bare windows.

 Within the hour, Nancy had
organized their day. With BB&B not opening until ten, their morning would
begin with a quick trip to the local supermarket to stock up on groceries for
the week.

 With that came their first
dilemma:
Were Nancy and Jacob roommates or a couple living together?

Roommates was a term that divided
the home into
His
and
Hers
, as in his and her bedroom, his and her
bathroom, and his and her groceries. A couple that lived together shared these
expenses.

 Nancy broached the subject on
the ride to the grocery store. “When it comes to the rent, electric bill,
water, and cable we split everything . . .right?”

“Right.”

“What about groceries?”

“Split it,” said Jacob.

“Good. I’ll keep a monthly ledger
– unless you’d rather create a computer program?”

“Pass. Wait, why do we need a
ledger?”

“To keep track of expenses. Let’s
say you go grocery shopping and spend fifty dollars. That goes into the ledger,
along with the receipt. At the end of the month we add up our expenses and settle
out.”

 “What about tampons?”

“What about them?”

“Are we splitting them?”

“I don’t know. Are we splitting
your jock-itch powder?”

 “I don’t use jock-itch powder.
Or make-up. Or razors for that matter.”

 “Fine. When it comes to
groceries, you pay for your stuff and I’ll pay for mine. Just make sure you buy
detergent; I doubt Helen will be doing your laundry anymore.”

 “You, uh . . .can’t
do mine when you do yours?”

 “I don’t wash my roommate’s
clothes. I don’t cook or clean for my roommate either.”

 “What about sex?”

 “I have sex with my boyfriend.
So are we a couple or roommates?”

 “Definitely a couple.” Jacob
turned into the Publix supermarket parking lot. “Hey, did I tell you that I
love you.”

“Aw, I love you, too.”

* * * *
*

The shopping cart
was three-quarters
full by aisle four.

 Jacob waited, helpless, while
Nancy compared prices on two different dishwasher detergents. After a minute,
she placed one inside the cart, then moved on to the liquid dish soap.

 “Nance, you just bought
dishwasher detergent; why do you need dish soap?”

 “You can’t wash everything in
the dishwasher; some things you have to wash by hand.” She grabbed a bottle of
dish soap, moving on to the bathroom tile cleaners.

Then the glass cleaners. Oven
mitts. Scrubbing sponges. Laundry detergent. Bleach.

 Jacob exercised his veto power
at the toilet paper. “I like Scotts. No dingle-berries.”

 “What are dingle-berries?”

 “You know . . .those
little wads of toilet paper that get stuck in your ass hairs.”

 “I don’t have that problem. You
get your sand paper; I’ll get my soft stuff.”