BREAKING UP IS HARD TO DO

FRIDAY, AUGUST 20, 2004

“Morris! Morris! Are you sick?”

Morris heard Rona, and he felt her hands shaking his body in bed. “I’m fine,” he grunted. But he wasn’t fine. Not at all.

As his eyes opened, a heaviness pushed him into the mattress. It tightened around his throat and fell into his chest, it pressed against his heart and squeezed at his stomach. Morris wanted to bury his head in his pillow. Bury it along with the shame and guilt from the prior night.

“Morris?”

He didn’t want to get out of bed. He didn’t want to shave or dress. He had no interest in reading the Newsday sports section or eating his bagel. And the thought of getting in his car and making his first sales call—to Dr. Kirleski—tightened his chest even more.

The clock on his nightstand blinked 7:30.

He wanted to stay right there. In the safety of his bed where there was no tempting receptionist and cheap motel, no cheating on Rona and fudging Celfex expense reports. No waves. Or maybe sit all day in his RoyaLounger 8000. Watching those comforting black-and-white movie classics. Maybe some musicals or screwball comedies. And if there happened to be a movie that contained tsuris, Morris could simply mute it or change it or even end it with the press of a button on his remote.

Call in sick, he thought. Call my district manager, Laurie, and tell her I’ve caught something. Why not? What’s one more crime in my new life of crime?

Morris had never improperly taken a sick day. That would upset the people who depended on him. But today—

“Morris,” Rona groaned into her pillow, and nudged his shoulder again.

Sure, take a sick day. Stay home all day. With Rona. Trying to look into her eyes. Without looking guilty.

He swung his legs out of bed and shuffled to the bathroom. Each step was like a step on death row. Like Cagney in Angels with Dirty Faces. When he looked back at Rona, cocooned in the blanket with one arm flung to the now-empty spot next to her, all he could think was, How did this happen?

There was plenty of excitement blaring from Morris’s car radio on the drive that morning. While Morris had been—or maybe wasn’t—schtupping Victoria at the Bayview, the Mets had stomped the Rockies in a doubleheader in Denver. And while sweeping a doubleheader in August didn’t mean a World Series, for Mets fans it did produce a similar euphoria. It was a new sign of hope.

For Morris, there were no such signs. Just the same shopping centers and Starbucks. Intersection after intersection, block after block, as he crept closer to the Roslyn Medical Arts Building, which was as bad as the crime scene. It was where the crime was hatched.

Morris drove to Dr. Kirleski’s on the same route he always took, but it was an entirely different course. The smooth and level ride that had been Morris Feldstein’s life was now bumpy, and it rattled him. The straight center lane was now twisting, and Morris couldn’t see around the next curve.

He stopped at a red light. What do I say to Victoria? And shouldn’t I say something to Rona? If I do, what? And when? Where is Rabbi Hillel when I need him? I could use a miracle. Like the Mets doubleheader last night.

Morris was so lost in thought that he didn’t notice the light turn green, until every driver behind him was angrily pounding their horns.

He stepped on the gas and peered into the rearview mirror, cringing at the angry line of cars behind him.

I will tell Victoria that she is a wonderful, wonderful woman and I am flattered that she finds me attractive but I am married to Rona so we must never, never do anything like this again and I’m sorry I hurt her but let’s just be friends and that she is welcome to any future Mets tickets which Celfex provides.

And as he turned into the parking lot, he knew this act would certainly create waves with Victoria. But it had to be done. Now.

“Hello, Morris,” Victoria said with a nervous smile from behind the glass partition. She tapped a pen against her desk.

Morris jammed his hands into his pockets and jingled some coins. “Hullo, Victoria.”

Jingle-jingle. Thump, thump, thump.

The lobby was empty. Which relieved Morris. Because this breakup, which might rival the Clark Gable-Vivien Leigh scene in Gone with the Wind, didn’t need a live audience.

“Morris. We need to talk.”

“Yes, we do.”

“Follow me.”

She led him through a dim corridor, into Exam Room 1. The sharp scent of disinfectant stung Morris’s nostrils. He was comforted by the industrial-size tissue box that sat on a stainless-steel counter. That would come in handy to absorb Victoria’s tears.

Victoria positioned herself on the examination table, the disposable white paper crinkling under her. When she crossed her legs, and her floral summer skirt crept above her knees, Morris thought, This conversation is going to be very hard, letting Victoria down. So maybe we should go out one more time. To get it out of our systems. Then never again. Ever!

“Are you okay?” she asked.

He said, “I’m fine. Are you okay?”

Her lower lip projected slightly and her voice quivered as she spoke. “Oh, Morris, you’re such a good guy. And I had a nice time. But . . .”

But?

“But I think we should be friends. I mean, you are an incredibly sensitive guy, and I’ll never forget what happened. Or didn’t happen. But to tell you the truth, Morris . . . I-need-some-time-to-get-over-my-divorce-from-that-SOB-Jerry. And-it’s-not-you-it’s-me-Morris-so-please-can-we-be-like-really-good-friends?”

She stretched out her hand to consummate the arrangement with a brisk handshake. As if they had just agreed to sell a car instead of end their romance.

That was that.

After awkwardly writing up several orders for Celfex refills, Morris left Dr. Kirleski’s office. Into the scorching sun. His shoulders dropped. His chin slumped into his chest.

He was not rid of the guilt over briefly cheating on Rona. But now he was experiencing the pain of Victoria’s rejection. Like losing a doubleheader. Like the Rockies last night.

I do not know if I can take any more of this, he thought.

He opened the trunk and stared at the case of medical samples, glittering in soft pastels. Beckoning him to help himself. Literally. He reached toward the Celaquel. Just one. To lift me out of this funk. To smooth out the waves.

But that would be a flagrant violation of Our Prescription for a Long Career: The Celfex Pharmaceutical Employee Code of Ethics. As well as a possible federal crime. So he got in his car. Drew in the hot, oppressive air. And exhaled it with a long and labored “Oyyyyyyyyy.”