Chapter 49

When we get home, I head for the washroom and run a bath. Lying there with The Road Less Traveled, I consider those holes again. Mary and I must manage our holes pretty well. We wouldn’t be married this long if we didn’t keep them in check. Then I look at Max and Margot, no commitments, no voleos when you least expect them. They don’t get dragged off to dance contests or into the bedroom, saying, “Let’s go, amigo.” They do what they want, when they want. Does that make their holes bigger or smaller?

I hear Mary and Judy practicing Spanish. They’re taking lessons. They sit at the table, asking Muller, “Querría bailar conmigo?” and he responds with something that sounds vaguely Spanish. He never ceases to amaze me. He meringues like a Cuban, but can’t even touch his toes. The other morning, I found him drying his private parts with his oxygen. Silvio had him do a tango with Carmen last night. It was pretty hot stuff. You didn’t hear him complaining about his nutsack then. Carmen’s a real grinder. If Muller was wearing his ice pack, there’d be steam coming out his waistband.

Muller gave a good account of himself, and you look at Judy beaming, and you wonder how he does it. The thing with Ruby seems to be tapering off, although Otis practically swallows his teeth when Muller and Ruby dance. He blubbers away, saying, “Get your pudding pop away from Ruby.” Bisquick takes that as a call to attack Otis’s gibblies, and pretty soon Otis goes off downstairs to do Otis Cries for You. Someone asked him on his show the other day what he’s paying in royalties for the music. Otis said, “Zippo,” and Margot practically tackled him out of his chair. She says he’s a stone’s throw from a serious judicial inquiry.

Mary’s banging on the door now telling me she’s got to pee. “Some of us have small bladders, Sam.”

I get up and towel off. Muller and Judy are dancing in the living room. After a while, the music starts sounding the same. I open the bathroom door and Mary rushes past me, saying, “I don’t know who’s worse, you or Muller. Close the door behind you.”

Muller has jambalaya with tiger shrimp and Andouille sausages simmering on the stove. We eat and I wash the dishes. Mary and Judy study their Spanish while Muller goes through some cookbooks. I’m so bushed from work—and Mary’s midnight rambling—I head off to bed with the girls going, “Buenas noches, viejo amigo.”

During the night, I dream of Frank and this stupid idea he had back in the seventies. He wanted to create a fleet of wiener vans, each with a big plastic hot dog on top. He thought it would revolutionize the industry. He even had Nelson, our janitor, drive around to hockey arenas and baseball diamonds with the first prototype. It was a hit, but the van didn’t meet city specifications. The inspectors sent Frank a cease and desist order. Frank told them to fuck off. The city told him to fuck off right back. Then came an injunction.

The wiener van sat behind the office until Frank’s car broke down at the cottage. He called Nelson. Nelson didn’t have a car so he had to use the wiener van. On the way home, they all got sick from gas fumes and ended up puking by the side of 47. After that, the wiener van went back behind the office where it sits now.

The night Max got mugged and tied up, he was staring at the wiener van for hours. “I was starving,” Max said. “All I could think about was hot dogs.”

Mary elbowed me at some point during the night. “What’s so funny?” she said, and I told her I was dreaming about the wiener van. “That stupid thing?” she said, then put her head on my chest. “Forget about the wiener van.” Her hand started wandering. “Listo ir de nuevo?” I told her to knock off the Spanish. I was too tired for Listo ir de nuevo, whatever that means.

This morning, I’m up and about, ready to face a new day. “What time’s this thing tonight?” I say, searching for my underwear under the sheets. “Don’t say it’s early. I’ll be fighting traffic as it is.”

“It’s seven o’clock,” she says. “Can’t you knock off early?”

“I still have the east side soffits to paint over on Cedar.”

“Are you worried about this contest tonight?”

“Of course I’m worried. I’m afraid I’ll break my neck.”

“Silvio says you’re getting better.”

“I’m comic relief.”

“I think you cut quite a dashing figure,” she says. “Especially”—grabbing my hand—“with that swarthy tan of yours.”

“Krupsky thinks I’m burning to a crisp.”

“Forget Krupsky,” she says, pulling me down. “Dámelo, Sam.”

“Dámelo to you, too, Mary.”

“You don’t even know what that means.”

“I’m betting Muller doesn’t, either.”