Couplehood (11 page)

You just want to be better protected than the guy lying next to you. “What does he have—a 20? I’m going to get a 25.”

It becomes a competition.

“Oh yeah? I see your 25 and raise you a plastic nose guard and a PABA hat.”

W
e once went to a nude beach, the logic being: It’s 140 degrees, why not scorch
everything
?

The thing about being naked in public is—there’s nothing you can think about except how naked you are. And how naked everybody else is. That’s all you see.

You don’t think, “There’s a tall guy.” It’s, “There’s a
naked
guy.” You don’t say, “That woman looks like a lovely person.” You say, “There’s a
naked
lady.”

And you think about your clothes. When you’re dressed, you never think about your clothes. You never walk down the street conscious of your clothes, thinking, “I love my pants. I’m happy to have my pants.” But when you’re naked, you can’t get past, “I have no pants. I’m walking, and I’m very much without trousers.” That’s all you think about: the absence of places to put your hands.

Y
ou know how when you’re in the water, you have very little body weight? This is another gift that nature provides to help keep men and women together. Men love it because with one hand you can lift the entire person you’re married to. And this works out for both of you, because in one shot, you feel strong and she feels thin. While she’s thinking, “I really
am
losing weight,” you’re busy thinking, “I am the Strongest Man in the World.”

You have to appreciate these Little Things in life, because the Big Things may never get here, and then you’ve hung around for nothing.

My personal favorite is when you go swimming, and two hours later, hot water leaks out of your ear. For no reason. Out of nowhere, you just get this little, warm release in your ear, and all of a sudden, you’re hearing better. You didn’t even know you were hearing badly. It’s just a bonus from God. You’re thinking, “Gee, I’m not complaining, it’s good, everything’s good,” and then all of a sudden, “Even better.” You gotta love that.

B
eing near water is supposed to be “calming”; apparently, you can “breathe” your problems out across the ocean.

I keep trying this, but in the middle of breathing out, I always think, “Someone’s going to be breathing this
in.
These problems have to end up
somewhere.”
I envision some poor guy on the coast of Japan, trying to relax, and suddenly he’s got my problems. He doesn’t need that. He’s walking around going, “Gee, I got to send a note to Aunt Essie, thank her for the sweater—I don’t even know who she is.”

And my next thought is, “Forget about that—what about
his
problems? I don’t want them washing back to
me.”
We could each potentially be walking around with
problems neither of us are prepared to handle. Suddenly this whole “breathing and relaxing” thing is not as simple as it’s cracked up to be.

I
t’s not easy to ever truly “get away from it all,” because like they say, “Wherever you go, there you are.” (Again, I couldn’t tell you who They are, but trust me—they said it.)

I mean, I love going for walks in the mountains, but I always feel I kind of look wrong. Like people can tell I’m faking it. I’ve been hiking happily and had people stop me, presuming my car broke down.

I’m not sure what the actual difference is between “hiking” and just “walking.” Is it speed? Intent? It may be related to the type of pants you’re wearing. Shorts that come close to the knees can turn “walking” into “hiking” like
that.

Also to be considered is What You Look At. If you’re just going from Point A to Point B, it’s “walking,” but if you stop and point at a tree, it’s “hiking.” Even a simple “Oh, look—a bird” automatically makes you a “hiker.” So, if that’s not what you had in mind, for God’s sake be careful what you point at.

O
ur friends have this cabin on a lake, and they invited us up fishing.

Now, having grown up in the city, I wasn’t a big “fishing” guy. Didn’t fish on any regular basis. You
can
fish in the city, but you catch things you’re not that happy to have—like a snow tire and a union organizer. Nothing that you would actually heat up with a touch of lemon and serve to company.

So we’re fishing and my wife had a problem with killing the fish.

I wasn’t crazy with that part either, but I figured, “If we just wait for them to die naturally, it could take forever. Certainly till after supper.”

Most people like to distance themselves from the dirty work. Like a Mob hit. “Look, do what you gotta do. I don’t want to know, I don’t want to be involved.… I’ll eat the thing, I just don’t want my name coming up, understand?”

To me, killing fish is not as cruel as the fact that we
tease
them first. We dangle worms and things they like, so they think they’re getting a snack, when in fact what they’re getting is death. It’s not honest.

We advertise worms, then go, “You know what? We’re all out of worms. How would you like a big hook in your mouth instead?” The ultimate Bait and Switch.

And fish, God bless them, are so dumb, they simply do not catch on. How many years have we been fishing? A zillion years? They haven’t figured it out? All it would take is one fish to see the worm and say, “Wait a second.…
Worms don’t just dangle like that.… Something’s going on here.… HEY!”

But they don’t. They line up. They see their friends getting yanked out of the water, and they don’t care. They’re cocky. “Don’t worry, Honey, that won’t happen to me. He didn’t know what he was doing, whereas—OWWWWW! … This one’s got a hook, too!”

They don’t see that whole pattern. Worm/death. Worm/death.
I
would catch on. If I went to a restaurant, and every time I ordered fruit cup, somebody dropped an anvil on my head, I would begin to notice. “Hmm.… Fruit cup/death. Fruit cup/death. You know what? I’m gonna get the soup instead.”

Fish—they’re in schools, but they’re just not learning.

I
tried to convince my wife that fish don’t
feel
the hook.

She says, “How do
you
know?”

I said, “I
don’t
, but that’s what they say.”

She had no argument. “Well, okay then, if you’re sure that’s what they say.…”

Again, why would They lie?

But I’m sure animals say the same things about
us.
Go into the woods and you’ll hear grizzly bears saying, “You know when you bite people’s arms off? They don’t feel it. Believe me, if I thought they felt it, I could never do
it. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. No, you know why they’re screaming and jumping around like that? It’s a dance. It’s the Dance of Joy. They’re saying, ‘Yippee! Thanks for trimming that section off me.’ Every six months, they shed that part of their bodies naturally.… That’s why they have those short-sleeve shirts. It’s part of nature—don’t worry about it.”

A
pparently we only get upset about killing animals if they’re cute. Like dolphins. We get all upset when dolphins get caught in tuna nets, but no one cares about the 10,000 dead tuna on the same boat. Little ugly tunas, one on top of the other, screaming for help, “Hey, someone get this crate off my eye!” No one’s concerned.

Because they’re not
cute.
Dolphins, on the other hand, have that great round, smiling face, the friendly eyes, the bald head—they look like your Uncle Marvin. We can’t slaughter anything that looks like it might show up for the Holidays.

We’re outraged when other cultures eat animals we don’t. “They eat
dogs
? That’s disgusting. They’re savages. How could someone eat a dog?!”

But chickens? Who cares? “Cut it up, put it in a bucket, we’ll eat it in the car.”

They’re not cute. “Boy, look at that chicken! With
the triangle-on-the-head thing—it’s
so
ugly! But you better put that puppy down, buddy!”

Puppies are adorable. But lobsters? “Boil that one alive—it’ll teach him a lesson.… Fix yourself up, like the Labradors.… Make an
effort
!”

It’s like fur. We hate the idea of killing baby seals and foxes and minks—but there’d be no problem if someone showed up in a nice full-length Rat Coat. Or a double-breasted Weasel Jacket. Nobody would care. It’s the same way we treat each other: penalize the unattractive, idolize the cute.

M
y favorite time of year to be outdoors is the Fall. I love that whole Autumn, New England, wear-a-big-sweater-have-hot-chocolate-listen-to-depressing-music-cry-in-your-dorm-with-Ali-MacGraw-
Love-Story
kind of thing. That image was such a part of growing up that I was genuinely surprised to get to college and find Ali MacGraw not already there and crying about something I said. I thought that just came automatically.

But even
without
Ms. MacGraw, I’ve always found Fall to be an achingly romantic time of year. As it turns out, it’s not the location or the weather—it’s Tweed. There’s something about tweed that makes you fall in love. I’m telling you—you put on a tweed jacket or an itchy
sweater, and in half an hour, you’re going to meet someone and get involved. Maybe it’s the itching of the tweed. It could be that as you’re standing there talking, you find yourselves scratching and pulling till one of you says, “Look, why don’t we go somewhere and get out of these clothes.” And in less than half an hour, you’re in a dorm, scantily clad and chatting.

And of course, if you add
crunching leaves
to that, you can knock it down to fifteen, twenty minutes. Crunching leaves is very romantic. “Crunching” and “itching”
together
is almost overpowering. I’m telling you—hot cocoa, a couple of leaves, and tweed—you’re all set. Sometimes even a tight undershirt and a bowl of potato chips will do the trick—as long as you’re itching and crunching.

L
ast Fall, we took a trip back East and drove through some beautiful farm country. Now, as you may know, there happens to be a particular, distinctive aroma around farms, and no matter how many times you’ve experienced it, no matter how old you are or how smart you are, you automatically turn to the other person in the car and casually ask, “Is that you?”

Now, you
know
it’s not, but you always ask.

“Is that you?”

There are very few dumber questions. Because, essentially,
what you’re asking is, “Is that
you
, or 7,000 acres of manure? Which of the two am I contending with here? Is it miles and miles of punishingly nasty steer funk, or just something that happened to you for a second? I can’t distinguish.”

I got news for you: If there’s truly a chance of confusing those two things, get out of the car and live by yourself.

I
’ll tell you what I love about hotels: They can’t do enough for you. They want to make you feel at home, and then they give you things that nobody has at home. Shower caps, shoe horns … and sewing kits? I have never sewn in my life. What makes them think I’m going to start in a Marriott in Cleveland? Has anybody ever made that call? “Honey, I’m in Ohio, and my buttons are flying off like crazy. There’s a sewing kit right here. I have it. Talk me through.”

And I love the little chocolates on the pillow.
There’s
a clever snacking item, because personally, there’s nothing I like better right before I go to bed than a nice diabetic
seizure. A pound and a half of sugar before going to sleep, good idea.

I want to know how they selected chocolate as the appropriate treat. What were the other suggestions? “How about … scallops? Do you think scallops would be good on a pillow? Or maybe kiwi. Several kiwi, thinly sliced …”

When you’re in a hotel without your partner, it’s amazing what you’ll do to entertain yourself. If you’re there long enough, you will actually read the brochure with prices for carriage rides through the Old City. You pick up the phone book to see how many people with your last name live in town. When I was in Dallas, I actually looked to see if there were any Oswalds still living in the area; call them up and settle this thing once and for all.

And you watch TV you would never watch in real life. Those Specially-Selected-After-Hour-Movies? I love the editing decisions these guys make. They’re the sleaziest movies in the world—cheesy looking, overlit, with bad music, pathetic acting, no story, and nothing in them
but
sex—but they still use “discretion” and never let you see
exactly
what’s going on. They leave that final moment to the imagination, like, perhaps, at the last minute, her lips actually went around a cup of coffee she found in bed.

Of course the last indignity about these movies is that they show up on your bill.

“Okay, sir, that’s three long-distance calls, a turkey club sandwich, a Diet Coke, and ‘Melissa Goes to College’—apparently three times.… What a thirst for knowledge
she
must have.”

But even regular TV—it’s amazing what you’ll watch.

Like the Discovery Channel.