John Locke - Wish List
I nod. It’s all hot in the kitchen this night, and in my mind my wife’s legs are Jinny Kidwell’s, and I’m allowing myself to keep the image there because it’s fun and it’s certainly not the same as cheating. There’s no way I’m ever going to be in the same room with Jinny, much less in the same bed, so it’s not cheating, right?
I’m only thinking all this about Jinny because there’s something about the idea of putting her name on a wish list that makes it seem almost possible, and that’s what it’s all about. I mean, when you’re a guy, and you’re alone and thinking about sex, you can either look at porn or create a fantasy in your mind. But the fantasy has to be based on something plausible in order to work. What I’m saying is, if I’m alone and seeking relief, my mind can only create a plausible connection with Jinny Kidwell if there’s some type of outside influence. But thinking about the wish list, and having verbalized it with Richie and Mike, I’ve caused Jinny to move into the realm of visualization.
And if you can visualize it…
Lissie likes watching the Academy Awards. I usually let her do it alone, but I remember from the promo that Jinny Kidwell is one of the presenters tonight. When the time comes for Jinny’s entrance, the cameras are all over her. She’s wearing a gunmetal gray dress that’s tasteful in front, and practically obscene from the back. When she turns to exit the stage I can see two dimples between her hips, which means if her dress was a half inch lower in the back, the show would have to carry a PG 13 rating.
“God, she’s gorgeous!” Lissie said.
“You think?”
“Don’t you?”
I do. But what I say is, “Compared to you? Not so gorgeous.”
A short time later I’ve got Lissie in bed. I’m really going after it, really hammering her.
I know I’m disgusting. I know she can’t possibly want me touching her, much less riding her, but there she is, acting like I’m her version of Jinny Kidwell. Like I said, I don’t deserve her.
I’ve got my eyes shut tight, mouth slightly open. My back arches upward…
Then something shifts in the cosmos.
I feel it beneath me.
One minute Lissie’s into it, the next she’s not.
Still, if I can just hold this image of Jinny in my mind for three more seconds…
But no.
Lissie says, “Damn it Buddy!”
And pushes me off.
“Jesus, Lissie! I was just about to—”
“I know exactly what you were about to do,” she says, scooting away from me on the bed. I try to follow, but she makes her arm rigid between us, like Diana Ross, singing Stop in the Name of Love.
Then she says, “Who is she?”
“What?”
“Some new girl start at the office today?”
“What? Are you nuts? Of course not! Why would you even think that?”
She sits on the edge of the bed, her back to me. Her eyes follow the trail of clothes that runs from the door to her feet.
“Your friends were here today,” she says. “What did you talk about?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“I swear!”
“Uh huh.” She reaches down, picks her panties off the floor, slips them over her feet and pulls them to her knees. “Fine.”
“Jesus, Lissie.”
She stands, lifts her panties to her waist in a fluid motion, then goes to the dresser and selects a flannel nightie that practically screams, “Don’t Touch Me!”
“Lissie, you’re the only woman in my world. I swear!”
She shrugs the nightie on, walks back to the bed, and stares me down.
A moment passes before I cave.
“I mean, yeah, Richie and Mike are a little uncouth sometimes, you know? They were talking a little crude.”
She waits. Like me, she’s wondering where this is heading.
“I think maybe Mike likes you.”
She arches an eyebrow. “What do you mean, likes me?”
I can’t believe I’m willing to sell my friends out so easily.
“Well, he made a crack about how lucky I was to have you, and how you’re way out of my league…”
I peek at her face to see if she’s buying my bullshit. She isn’t, but I have an endless supply and know how to shovel it.
I say, “I guess it hurt my feelings, you know?”
“Hurt your feelings.”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Because I knew Mike was right.” I shake my head. “It’s true. I don’t deserve you.”
She gets a funny look in her eyes, like when her nephew soils his diaper, the one she just finished changing. She doesn’t like changing diapers, but she loves her nephew.
“So this was some sort of caveman thing? Like I’m your woman or something?”
I shrug. “I guess.”
Then her voice gets an edge to it and I know it’s all going south on me.
“So you were going to show Mike who’s boss.”
“What? No!”
“No? Well, guess what: this time I believe you!”
“Uh…whaddya mean?”
“This had nothing to do with Mike, and your feelings weren’t hurt. You were having sex with me, while thinking about someone else.”
“I wasn’t!”
“You were, and I won’t have it!”
“What’re you talking about? How can you even draw that conclusion?”
“All night at dinner you’re staring at my body, not at me. Then you rip my clothes off, never once looking at my face. Then you start touching me differently, but still I give you the benefit of the doubt.”
“Until?”
“Until just now.”
“Ever dawn on you I might be adding variety to our love making?”
“Not when you pound me like a street whore.”
“What?”
“You practically raped me! So don’t even—”
She presses her lips into an angry frown and stares at me like I’m a stain in her panties.
Hoping to diffuse her anger with humor, I say, “I guess a blow job’s out of the question?”
Lissie grits her teeth.
“Don’t even try to tell me you weren’t thinking about another woman. What’s really going on? Are you having an affair?”
“No! Honey, I swear!”
She climbs back in bed and turns her back to me. “Thanks a lot, Buddy.”
I put my hand on her shoulder. “Look, I—”
“Just…stop.”
“But—”
“Real class act, you are.”
“But—”
“Asshole.”
Out loud I say, “Jesus, Lissie,” but in my mind I’m thinking, How did she know?
But then I realize, women always know.
Chapter 4
It’s the middle of the night. Lissie’s sleeping soundly.
I slide carefully out from under the covers, pad down the hall, and creep softly down the steps to the kitchen. I pour myself a glass of water, sit at the counter, open my laptop and fire it up. I feel guilty, like I’m sneaking porn or something. When the welcome bell chimes, I nearly jump out of my skin, and shuffle quickly to the hallway to look up the stairs to see if Lissie’s coming. I stand there a full minute, but the house remains quiet, save for the light whooshing of my laptop fan in the next room.
I go back to the kitchen counter, click the internet icon and wait for the welcome page. When it appears, I type www.wishlist.bz in the address bar. A few seconds pass while I wonder what the hell .bz stands for, and then the survey appears, just like Mike said it would. I type in my email address, skip over the bullshit wording that gives the nut jobs hope that their wishes can come true, then type my list quickly:
Sex with Jinny Kidwell
A million dollars
My boss dies a horrible death
I pause. The first three are bullshit; I know it, everyone knows it. But I allow myself to think, what if?
What if I put down something plausible? Maybe there’s some whacko millionaire out there who’s reading these lists, waiting for a sincere wish to pop up.
I think about it a full minute and finally decide to do something special for Melissa, something to get her mind off what happened earlier. Wish number four becomes “Two Front Row Seats, Springsteen Concert, Louisville, Kentucky, Friday, March 12, 2010.”
Chapter 5
The next morning Lissie’s still upset. We barely speak while drinking our coffee. I apologize for the second time.
“You can’t apologize for something until you admit doing it,” she says.
Her eyes are pale blue, large, and full of disappointment. She looks down at her wheat toast and spreads honey on it.
Lissie works as a counter sales clerk in the makeup department of Macy’s, nine to five, weekdays only, a schedule that allows us to spend quality time together every workday morning.
“I’m apologizing because I disrespected you last night.”
She takes a bite of her toast and looks at me while chewing.
I add, “Instead of cherishing you.”
She sighs. “Let’s just get through the day.”
“It was stupid,” I say.
“Was it?”
“I was having a guy moment. I was being a jerk.”
She studies my face with those giant doll eyes. Then, amazingly, she winks.
“Maybe tonight you’ll get another chance. You know, to get it right.”
I rush to her side and give her a hug. We’re cheek to cheek, and her upper body is pressed against mine, and I think about Jinny Kidwell once again…
And realize I wouldn’t trade Lissie for ten Jinny Kidwells.
Moments later I’m driving to work, a place where morale is so low you could shoot craps on it. My boss? What can I say—he’s a client-stealing scumbag. I’m a loan officer at Midwestern Meadow Muffin’s main office in downtown Louisville. That’s not the actual name of the bank, but I don’t want to be sued for slander. I’m on I-65, heading under the interstate, trying to merge into the right lane so I can make the Jefferson Street exit, thinking about how Boss Ogleshit threatened to fire me. Ogleshit isn’t his real—oh hell, who gives a damn? I’m broke. Let them try to sue me! I work for Edward Oglethorpe, VP of Midwest Commercial Savings and Loan.
Friday, before closing, Oglethorpe said, “Buddy Flapjack? I hope you’ve got another career lined up, because time’s run out on this one. You’ve got one week to submit—” he looked at the printout in his hands—“three million in new loans. That’s new loans, Buddy.” To my coworker he said, “Marjorie Campbell? You’re next in line. It’s time to stop resting on your laurels, people. You’re only as good as your last loan app.”
I merge onto Jefferson Street and turn left into the bank’s parking lot. I find a space, turn off the engine, and take a deep breath. If you’ve ever seen an abused dog cowering before its owner, that’s me each day at the bank.
You need to realize—well, you don’t need to realize anything at all. But I want you to know there are four loan officers here at the main branch, and we’re all good at what we do. But every time we land a strong client, Oglethorpe swoops in, bribes them with golf dates, lunches, and sports tickets, and tells them to deal with him for future loans.
“What about Buddy?” my clients say.
“Buddy’s a great guy,” Oglethorpe says, “but he’s a worker bee. If he writes your loan it has to go to committee for approval. That’s fine for the average customer, but you’re top tier, so why deal with subordinates? You need money, call me, personally. I can get you same day approval.”
We can’t compete with Ogleshit, so we’ve become hamsters on a wheel, always scrambling to replace the clients he steals.
As I enter the main office, all five senses are assaulted by the contrived atmosphere some bullshit artist conned the bank’s management into buying. This is supposed to appeal to customers? Who says so? And who signs off on these decisions? Who approved the blue and black geometric-patterned carpet, the plastic potted plants and fake ivy clinging to the walls, the shiny wood veneer desktops, and mind-numbing Muzak piped through the ceiling speakers? Who selected the sickening sweet air freshener that squirts a blast of “Sunny Island Breeze” every fifteen minutes the first and third weeks of the month and “Polar Ice Mist” the second and fourth?
Muzak’s upbeat version of “Tie a Yellow Ribbon” is playing, as it does every two hours of every day, as it has for the past six years, as it will for the rest of my career, which apparently means Friday. The cloying tune is half over, and I’ve been conditioned to know that “Please Release Me,” is on deck. I wonder why companies like mine pay people to make bad music sound worse.
I pass Gus, the narcoleptic security guard, and head to my desk. Along the way, I nod in the general direction of the tellers’ forlorn faces, but avoid making eye contact, since I can’t abide their hapless glances.
I place my briefcase on my desk and take a seat in my faux leather executive desk chair. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, steeling myself for the beepy, electronic version of “Please Release Me” that’s cuing up even as we speak. I open my eyes and flip the tabs on my briefcase to remove some papers, and feel a cold wave of evil wash over me. I look up and—
“Jesus!” I say, startled by the face that could launch a thousand shits.
Oglethorpe’s secretary, Hilda, is standing over me, frowning, tapping her watch. My eyes instinctively go beyond her scowl to the faux wood clock on the wall. I’m five minutes early, which makes me ten minutes late, as per Oglethorpe’s Fifth Rule of Success.
“Guess you don’t care about office rules, since you’re out of here on Friday,” she says.
Bad as Ogleshit is, he’s not the boss I wish would die.
Hilda is.
Since Ogleshit is out of the office most of the time, schmoozing my former power clients, Hilda has assumed control over the office. Everything that happens within the confines of that space is recorded in her journal: every remark, mistake, or profanity. Every water break, bathroom break, cough, giggle, or fart.
The bitch is relentless.
Last month, deep in an audit, I noticed it was 11:30 p.m. and realized I’d been working sixteen hours. I looked across the conference table at Hilda and said, “Wow, it’s almost midnight.”
Hilda’s look told me I was dogshit on her shoe.
“I’m fading,” I said.
“Sink or swim, Pancake,” she said. “Your choice.”
“Can I at least get some crackers, maybe take a quick cat nap?”
“Man up, Pancake. This ain’t preschool, it’s your job.”
I manned up, kept my job.
When my grandmother was dying in the hospital, and the rest of my family had gathered at her bedside, I asked Hilda if I could leave an hour early to share her final moments.
“You a surgeon?”
“No.”
