Choices

Okay, listen up... this piece is liable to upset some (all?) of you. It contains a fair amount of rough language and a racial epithet or two. I used them for shock value, because it's language that I've actually heard used and, I'm ashamed to say, used myself. My intent is not to offend, but to illustrate some of the bigotry that falls between the cracks, even in private conversations between spouses. If this sort of subject matter offends you, I respectfully suggest that you read no further.

Choices

“Jack, are you happy?”

The zebra-striped referee blew his whistle and a commercial flashed onto the TV screen. Calmly, Jack Grizzard pointed the controller at the screen and pushed the MUTE button. Turning his attention to his wife of twenty-two years, his face betrayed the perplexed emotion he currently experienced. “You want to run that by me again, Martha Jean, I’m not sure I heard you correctly. For a second there, I thought you just asked me if I was happy.”

Martha Jean Grizzard had long gone by the name Mazie, so hearing her husband use her Christian name gave her pause, but she’d come this far and didn’t intend to get short-circuited by his attempt to make light of her question. “I did ask if you’re happy, Jack. Is that such a ridiculous question?”

The Giants and the Seahawks were tied 17-17 with the Seahawks driving for the winning score with less than two minutes remaining in the game, and Jack didn’t want to get cornered into a philosophical discussion that could and most likely would end up in an argument. “Of course I’m happy, girlfriend, who wouldn’t be, living with a gorgeous, smart, sexy little number like you?”

“I mean it, Jack, I need to know, and I need to know now. I’m sick and tired of you coming home, bitching about my cooking, grabbing a six-pack of Bud and heading for the den. Something has to change and pretty damned quick or you’ll be watching football all by yourself!” Surprised by the intensity of her voice, Mazie Grizzard turned away from her husband. Don’t you dare cry, damn it!

A quick lunge with the remote brought the voice of Bill Maas back into their den, giving a voice-over account of how the Seahawks quarterback had just been intercepted and the ball returned for a touchdown by the Giants cornerback. Jack watched for a few seconds and once again pushed a button. This time, the TV went dark and Jack tossed the remote onto the coffee table. “This isn’t really about me, is it? I should be asking you that question, if anyone should. But I don’t need to ask, Sweetie, because you just gave me the answer. I think the proper question is, ‘What do we do about it?’— I’ll let you speak first.”

Jack’s remark left Mazie unprepared to answer. She’d expected a little resistance, at least, and probably a lot more than that. What was he up to? “Oh, I don’t know…” she blurted out, throwing her arms up in the air in exasperation, then folding them across her chest and crossing her legs. Don’t you dare cry she reminded herself, grabbing for the pack of cigarettes on the coffee table. She removed one and almost got it to her lips before remembering that she’d given up smoking nearly six months previous. Throwing it down, she got up and gestured to her husband, “See? See what you make me do?”

Quickly, Jack stood and moved to his wife’s side, trying to embrace her. Opening his arms for her to fall into, he cooed, “It’s okay… what can I do to make it better?”

The words found some hidden place in Mazie’s emotional make-up that triggered her fight-or-flight response. “You want to make it better? You really want to make it better? Well, then, why don’t you just take me in your big, strong arms, pat me on the head, drag me into the bedroom and let me suck your cock before you fall asleep? What sane woman could possibly fail to feel better after that sort of royal treatment? But just in case that doesn’t work, why don’t you have your girlfriend, Charlene, call me a couple more times, ask for you and then hang up after she hears an angry female voice demanding to know who the hell is calling? That’d perk me right the fuck up!”


Hot, blazing eyes now trained their beams on Jack Grizzard as he meekly dropped his butt onto the couch. Arms folded against her breasts, Mazie towered over him, daring him to open his mouth.

“Mazie, I…” Jack stopped in mid-thought, unsure as how to proceed. Certainly, any combative response at this point would only make things worse. “I’m sorry, I guess…”

“You guess? You freaking GUESS!? Twenty-two years worth of shitty diapers, hospital waiting rooms, two-minute quickies with a partner barely sober enough to who or what he’s humping, unappreciated Ground Chuck Surprise instead of the sirloin I’d like to fix if my husband’s salary provided for such extravagances and evenings too numerous to mention watching brain-numbing sit-coms while I wait for my husband to drag his sorry ass home from the gym, club, golf course or tittie bar, and you fucking guess that you’re sorry?”

The ferocity of the words caused a rush of endorphins into her bloodstream, giving Mazie a feeling of euphoric well being not dissimilar, she supposed, to an orgasm, not that she'd ever actually had one. In fairness, thinking back on it, she further supposed that she probably bore some culpability in her repeated failures, but he certainly had never gone out of his way to exercise extraordinary measures in this regard. It suddenly occurred to her that this, too, would need to be addressed before their current conversation ended.

Her immediate anger quenched, Mazie softened, although she refused to remove her stare from the emasculated blob of protoplasm currently oozing across their leather sofa in his attempt to prove that sometimes it is better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to open one’s mouth and remove all doubt. They’d danced this little waltz on a few occasions in the past, each trip across the floor resulting in her giving in after he refused to reward her anger. Well, not this time, buster, the next one to speak loses.

Seventeen eternities passed as Mazie sat motionlessly, thoughts cascading through her mind as she attempted to think about anything other than her present situation. Nary a movement betrayed either’s position. Both combatants understood the rules of engagement well enough to wage war while waiting. General Mazie sent embattled troops supplies of resolve to her command center in hopes that the icy barrages of dismissal could be absorbed without penetration of her battle lines. Attack, at this point, was ill advised if not inconceivable without exposing her lack of true firepower. He’d have to get up to piss soon enough given the amount of Budweiser imbibed in the last two hours, and while he’s in the bathroom (assuming that he actually opted to use the facilities rather than just take a whiz off the back porch balcony), she’d figure out her next move. Damn!

Noticing that her husband wasn’t scratching any of his naughty parts, Mazie found her mood buoyed by his reluctance and she felt a strange, otherworldly ‘glow’ pass over them, as though the experience was carrying her to a new level of existence. Suddenly, she felt her anger start to dissipate, replaced by some sort of emotion that could only be described as confidence, so she shifted her tactical strategy.

“I want to fuck your friend, Trevor.”

********

The words sucked all remaining oxygen from the room, forcing a crimson-faced Jack to retreat to the bathroom and slam the door shut. For her part, Mazie merely sat without breathing, the words echoing over and over in her mind. Silently, she waited for the firestorm yet to come, scenes of their life together flickering like a silent movie through her mind. Highlights of the vacation at Carmel, Emily’s first precarious toddler steps, the ridiculous Daisy Mae Halloween costume that foreshadowed her nickname… one after another the snippets lingered then passed, only to be replaced by others, the same innocuous memories she’d been unable to recall a few seconds earlier. The sound of the flushing toilet brought them to an end, forcing her back into the here and now. Soon, he’d walk back into the room and the battle would resume, but this time she’d refuse to accept an inferior position, this time if she had to go down, she’d go down with ‘guns ‘ablazin’, a phrase that she recalled Lee Marvin or John Wayne or Glenn Ford or some other cowboy use in one of the many shoot-em-up westerns she’d endured during the last twenty-two years while trying to spend some ‘quality time’ with her hubby.

But wait… was that water she heard running? Was he actually washing his hands after using the facilities? Surely not… her mind must be playing tricks. However, the door wasn’t opening, and there’d be no reason for him to waste any more time in the bathroom unless he were drying his hands, so it must be true. He was doing something that he knew would astonish and please her, in hopes of softening her position. Good God! Am I winning?

All of Jack’s attention focused on Mazie as he walked back across the room and settled back down on the couch, his eyes projecting a mixture of venom and concern, with a hint of shock and bewilderment thrown in for good measure. He said nothing at first, surveying her like a pitcher looking for the exact right spot to throw his nasty curveball past the league’s best hitter. Then, the words emerged, calmly and resolutely, as if their delivery had been rehearsed, test-marketed and perfected for maximum impact.

“Why Trevor?”

“Thank you.” Mazie’s words lingered, flat as a pancake. Emotionless.

“What?”

“Well, you washed your hands before leaving the bathroom. I’d given up hope.”

Obviously confounded, Jack looked away, then paused to take another sip of his beer, this time not making eye contact.

“Okay, I’ll play your silly-ass little games, Mazie.” Jack angrily slammed the bottle down onto the coffee table surface. “Why Trevor, I asked you!”

“Yes, you did, Jack.” Mazie responded, once again crossing her legs defiantly. “But the more important question might become, ‘Why not Trevor?’ He’s sweet, good-looking, well-built…”

“…and black!” Jack roared, “Isn’t that really what this is all about? You think you’d like to experiment with some hot black meat injections and find out if all the stereotypes are true?”

Not to be bullied, Mazie offered, “Sure… that’s probably part of it. If I’m going to finally get the opportunity to make a fantasy come true, why should I settle for ground chuck when T-bone is on the menu? Actually, of all your friends, I think Trevor is the perfect choice.”

Again, her husband sat silent… stunned… as much by her willingness to discuss forbidden topics as by her less-than-ladylike language and combativeness, or so she hoped.

“Where’s this all coming from, Mazie? Why do this on a Sunday afternoon?”

“Oh, that’s right, I forgot… I’m not supposed to bother you while football is on.”

“Come on, Mazie, you know that’s not what I mean. You have to admit, you’ve never said anything like this before. It just… it just caught me unaware, I guess.”

No eye contact muddied their waters as Jack spoke. Instead, he picked at the label of his beer bottle—and Mazie recalled the innumerable occasions that she’d heard Jack belittle one of his friends for doing the same thing, stating that anyone who unconsciously picked at his label suffered from the fear of sexual inadequacy.

“Yea, well, honestly, that’s not hard to do, Jack. You’ve been unaware about everything not involving your own orgasms for a long time. You think I don’t have fantasies, too? Just because I don’t spend time with my friends scoping out peter packages at the Hunk-O-Mania Revue, doesn’t mean that I don’t think about it. Don’t try to tell me that you aren’t mind-fucking just about every woman you meet, see or in any way come into contact, either, because I know you better than that! If you intend to keep living with me, your high-and-mighty double standard ends today. I’m forty-two years old, Jack Grizzard, and I aim to find out how much lovin’ there is locked inside this package before it’s too late!”

Jack Grizzard sighed audibly and scratched his head, as though he didn’t totally understand the honesty. “I guess I didn’t realize what an asshole I am.”

Mazie covered her mouth with her hand, stifling the laugh that tried to emerge. “Sorry…” she apologized, “this must be terribly threatening to your manhood. Leave it to me to forget how sensitive you are. I hope I haven’t short-circuited any of your precious sperm production.”

“Are you doing this because you mistakenly heard me yell out ‘Mollie’ last night when I blew my load?”

“Actually, I didn’t hear you yell out anything, Jack; I was too busy blocking out the entire episode from my mind, but I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt since you were kind enough to bring up the subject.”

“So, you’d fuck a nigger.”

“So it's come to this? After twenty-two years, you're supposed to shock me with a racial slur? 'Fuck a nigger?' Is that the best you can come up with, Jack? You sound like a pathetic thirteen-year-old trying to convince one of his buddies that he’s cool.”

Emboldened with a sense of self-righteousness she’d always been afraid to express, Mazie leaned forward and attacked.

“Why not? You pretend he’s your friend so that he’ll take it easy on you and not beat your balls off when you play hoops with him… I figure any respect I could give him by letting him fuck me might be good for your relationship with him. Think of it as my humble attempt to improve the fiber of your regard for each other. Also, please note my disappointment upon finding out how quickly your friend becomes a ‘nigger’ when he’s not actually standing in the same room. Shame on you, Jack, I thought you were bigger than that. Just so you’ll know, it’s a little disquieting to realize that I’ve been sleeping with a closet racist all these years. No wonder you watch sports so much, you suffer from race envy. You wish your cock was as big as his, don’t you?”

“How would you know how big his cock is?”

“Actually, I don’t. But you do, after taking showers with him at the YMCA all these years. That’s why you’re resorting to any tactic to dissuade me. You're intimidated by him, aren't you? Come on, Jack, give me a little credit for not being a total idiot.”

For reasons known only to him, this caused Jack to laugh, starting slowly and silently before erupting into a full-blown, body-shaking horselaugh. Mazie waited silently for his manic behavior to subside. At some point, his face flip-flopping between smirks and pained expressions of displeasure, the laughter faded into small salvos of watered-down grins, finally disappearing completely.

“I’m sorry, Mazie… for a lot of things, actually, not the least of which being that we didn’t had this conversation about ten years ago.”

Not to be dissuaded, Mazie trudged onward. “I’m sure you are, Honeybun, but it’s a little late for soft soap, in case that’s your strategy at this point. It’s going to be pretty difficult to put the toothpaste back into the tube.”

A quiet mood of non-proliferation filled the room for the next few minutes as both Jack and Mazie allowed the heat of the moment to cool in the frosty vacuum of their den, the combatants retreating to bivouac positions where a new offensive could be planned and contemplated before once again resuming hostilities.

Finally, Jack stepped out onto the ice, picking up the TV remote and waving it. “Are we about finished here?”

Without pausing to think, Mazie parried with, “Apparently so”, and walked out of the room.

********