Late for Work
WHEN I was next aware of anything, there was bright sunlight coming through the window into our bedroom. I was in bed—alone, unfortunately. Oh, crap! I overslept! I need to be at work!
Dashing out of the bedroom toward the bathroom, Bill was suddenly in front of me. “Woo, slow down. What’s the emergency?”
“I overslept! I’m late for work! I’ve never been late for work!”
“You’re not late for work.”
“Bill! Do you see what time it is? I’m late!” Why wasn’t he getting this?
“Mark, take a breath. You’re not late for work. I called them and told them that you would not be in today.”
“Bill! We need the money!” I tried.
He nodded. “Yes, but not at the expense of your sanity and health. And while I love the sight of you all naked and hunky….”
“Hunky? Are you feeling okay?” The man must be having a relapse.
“Yes, you. And while I like the view, why don’t you go put some sweatpants on and then come back out here and have some coffee and some breakfast. I need to talk to you.”
“Should I be worried? Wait, what am I saying? Of course I should be worried.” But I did as he suggested and went to get dressed. While I was in the bedroom I checked the clock and noticed that I had slept about ten hours. Oh, right—and I really needed to pee! Breakfast sounded like a good idea, but only after a little off-loading occurred. A few minutes later I joined Bill at the table, significantly relieved.
“Did you tell work that I wouldn’t be in at all today or that I would be late?”
“I told them you wouldn’t be in at all today. You needed the rest more than anything else. I think you should even be radical and take a nap this afternoon.”
“I have class this afternoon.”
“Yes. One class for one hour. Mark, you are always working anymore. Even for you this has been extra driven. What’s going on?”
I sighed. As much as I didn’t want to, I guessed that I needed to tell him the truth. I rose from the table and went to the closet, pulling out a plastic box. Taking the tub back to the table with me, I opened it, pulled out the thickest stack of papers that was on the top, and placed it in front of Bill.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“The bill for your hospitalization. All $165,000 of it.”
“$165,000?”
“Yes. You heard me right. And that’s just the part that didn’t get charged to Moira’s credit card.”
“Oh my God!”
“And that’s just the most recent one.”
“There’s more?”
“Yes.” Returning to the tub, I pulled out some more papers which I one-by-one placed in front of him. “Neurologist number one. Neurologist number two. Test number twenty-seven. Consult number nineteen….”
“Why didn’t you tell me about these?”
“I’m telling you now. I’ve been trying to follow orders and give you stress-free, trouble-free opportunity to recover. I would rather have never had to show you these.”
Bill sat quietly for several minutes, just staring at the various bills and the gigantic, overwhelming numbers they all represented. “Crap.”
“At least.”
“Mark, I’m so sorry you had to bear this burden alone. Please, don’t ever do that again. Let me help you.”
“Any other time and I would… and will… do that. But these last few weeks have not been your standard, run-of-the-mill weeks, now, have they?”
Bill rose from the table and wrapped his arms around me—which felt absolutely wonderful and so overdue and welcome. “What are we going to do?” he asked, as scared now as I had been each and every minute since the bills started arriving. The first doctor bills started coming while he was still unconscious in the ICU. They had never stopped, with some new bill arriving every day. I quite honestly had not had the courage to total them up lately, although since the big one arrived that sort of knocked the others into a lower place on the list of things to worry about first.
“I don’t have the slightest idea.”
“So is this why you’ve been working like a man possessed lately?”
I didn’t answer in words but nodded. “I got kinda scared.”
“I can understand why.” Bill sighed. “Ever since we got here, I’ve let you down over and over and over again.”
“Bill, what are you talking about?”
“I’ve been a miserable excuse for a boyfriend. All I’ve been is a burden to you for months now. I’ve screwed up your holidays. I’ve screwed up our plans about school. I got back and got sick.”
“And how many of those things did you do deliberately?” I asked.
“You know what I mean.”
“I know you’re going to try to blame yourself for things that were entirely beyond either of our control. Things just happened. A whole bunch of things. All at the same time. And they can stop anytime now. Really.”
“Can we run away?” he asked, only partly joking.
“Honey, this is away. We’re already there.”
“That’s what I was afraid you were going to say.”
“This is what we’ve run to.”
“Oh, Mark, my baby, I’m so sorry.”
“Oh, will you give it a rest!” I complained.
“No. Not until I’ve berated myself at least 451 more times.”
“Why 451?” I asked out of curiosity.
“I’m looking at your copy of Fahrenheit 451 over on the table. The one you’ve been reading for your English lit class. It was the first number that appeared in front of me, so 451.”
“Fair enough,” I said, now understanding.
“I really am so sorry I’ve put you through all this turmoil.”
“Okay, 450 more to go.”
“You’re not really counting, are you?”
“Sure. Why not? I’ve been in hell for longer than I can remember. Someone owes me something. And you should know that I expect you to get really good at sucking up and apologizing the farther you go through the list. By about apology one hundred, you should be so good at it that people will want you to write books about how to apologize. And sex. I need lots of apology sex.”
“What is apology sex?”
“I have no idea, but it sounded plausible in my head.”
“Would you settle for just plain old passionate sex?”
“After going without for months now, yes, I’ll take any sex I can get.”
“Want to go do it now?” he asked.
“Actually, I’m a little too freaked out by these bills at the moment. Can we hold onto that idea until a little later in the day? Maybe when I come home to take that nap you mentioned earlier?”
“I think we can do that.”
Even though the sunlight was the first thing I had noticed when I woke up that morning, I had completely forgotten about it while we had our big talk. Looking up, though, I noticed the sun.
“Looks like a nice day,” I observed. “Want to go take a walk?”
“A walk?”
“Yes. A walk. Putting one foot in front of the other. And then doing it again. It’s the latest craze. People all over California are doing it.”
“Sure,” he said. “I would love to take a walk with you.”
I slipped on my sneakers and grabbed my house keys and we set out, walking down Moira’s driveway to the street. I had missed running this last week. Since he’d been home from the hospital I hadn’t had time to go once. Walking seemed like a good compromise.
He reached down and grabbed my hand. I looked around to see if anyone could see us and then thought, “Screw it!” I laced my fingers in his, and we walked down the street hand in hand. Moira—and we—lived in a very upscale neighborhood that was far more understanding of things that were different than we were accustomed to.
“This is a good idea,” he observed.
“I have them occasionally,” I said, enjoying the feel of the sun on my skin and the feel of his hand in mine.
“What made you think about taking a walk?” he asked.
“I miss running. This seemed like a compromise.”
“What do you mean? Since when have you been running?”
“Well, as it happens, not since you came home from the hospital. Hence the need for some exercise.”
“You went running? While I was gone?”
“Yes. Every day. I ran a lot. I built up some pretty good endurance. I had weeks to train my body again. Since you’ve been back I haven’t had time.”
“I’m sorry,” he offered.
“Okay. Here’s how this is supposed to work. You’re down to 449 now, but each apology is supposed to be a little bigger and more grandiose than the previous one. You’re supposed to build upon the work invested in the previous apology and make each one more showy, more elaborate, more grand. A simple ‘I’m sorry’ is regressing.”
“Should I get down on my knees?” he asked.
“That comes into play in the upper 300s, trust me.”
“Jeesh, what happens in the 200s?”
“I have to find a leather store before then and buy some whips and chains.”
“I don’t want to know,” he said. We’d never talked about such things before, so I didn’t know what his thoughts were on the matter. Actually, I didn’t even know what my thoughts were on the matter.
“So what made you start running again?”
“I had lots and lots of time on my hands. That, plus I was slowly going nuts here by myself, so I needed to find something to do to burn off some energy. With you gone I also didn’t have a sexual outlet, so I didn’t have that tried and true way of de-stressing. So running seemed like a pretty good option.”
“How much were you doing each day?”
“I was running about ten miles each morning.”
“Ten miles? Wow! You were doing great! Why didn’t you keep it up?” he asked.
I stopped and simply looked at him.
“Oh, right. Sorry.”
“Okay. Listen up. That brings you down to 448, but you have shortened each apology by another word. Last time it was ‘I’m sorry’ and this time simply ‘sorry’. So let me try this again. The idea is that each apology should build upon the glitz and glamour and grandiosity of the previous apology.”
“You’re not gonna let me forget that 451 comment, are you?”
“Hey, you said it, not me! And I’ve decided what comes in the upper 100s, after we get past the whips and chains.”
“Do I even want to know?”
“Probably not. But I’ll tell you anyway. I see at least one skywriting apology. Which comes after the airplane pulling a big banner trailing behind it saying, ‘Mark, with all my heart, I’m so sorry!’”
“Dude! Do you know what one of those must cost?”
“Not a fucking clue! But I’m worth it.”
Laughing, Bill said, “Well, on that we’re in complete agreement.”
“Are you doing okay?” I asked. This was the most exercise he had had, and I didn’t want him to overdo it.
“Yes, I’m actually enjoying this, but we probably shouldn’t push it too far the first time out. We can’t both be in bed sleeping ten hours at a stretch!” he joked.
“Why not? Maybe then I could get a little!”
“Am I detecting that Mark is horny?” he joked.
“Damned right that Mark is horny! Mark is an eighteen-year-old red-blooded American male who wants to have sex with his boyfriend on practically an hourly basis!”
We laughed together as we turned around and headed back toward the house. At Bill’s urging, we picked up the pace a little, which necessitated our walking without holding hands. By the time we got back to the house Bill was breathing harder.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Yes! That felt wonderful! Thank you for suggesting it.”
“Isn’t this the point at which you apologize for something? Like for not thinking of it first?”
“Nope. Not gonna try that again until I write some fresh material and go into rehearsals.”
I gave him a quick hug, instantly regretting the move when I felt how sticky he was. “You, go shower!” While Bill cleaned up, I had something for breakfast, since I hadn’t eaten since dinner the previous evening and it was already noon.