Dog Training The American Male (4 page)

“Domestic. My kid brother. He’s
been living in my guest house.”

“I hear you. My girlfriend’s
younger sister moved in with us over a year ago . . .what a pain
in the ass. Hey, maybe we should fix them up?”

The door opened and Wanda entered.
“Eww. Smells like somethin’ up and died in here. Mother Mary, will you look at
you.”

“Nurse Wanda, this is Ms. Pratt.
Ms. Pratt is a female bodybuilder.”

“Guess ya’ll needed to have gone
to medical school to figure that one out. Hey, Ms. Pratt, go on and flex—let’s
see what you look like angry.”

“Wanda!” Vincent glared from
across the room. “My apologies, Ms. Pratt. Nurse Wanda was raised by wolves;
we’re still breaking her in domestically.”

“I don’t mind. And call me
Jeanne.”

Wanda wrapped both hands around
the naked woman’s flexed right arm. “Feels like a baseball in there. I bet Dr.
Cope wishes he had guns like yours.”

Vin looked up from working a pair
of rubber gloves over his fingers. “For your information, Wanda, I used to have
arms like that. I had a choice—keep lifting or maintain the dexterity necessary
to perform life-saving surgery.”

“Right. Cause ya’ll need skinny
arms to lance hemorrhoids.” Wanda adjusted the exam table’s stirrups, allowing
the patient to rest her bare feet in the supports, the metal housing creaking beneath
the weight of her muscular spread legs. “Jeanne, can I hire ya’ll to beat the
shit outta my ex-husband?”

“Hey, Whoopie Goldberg, enough.”
Dr. Cope adjusted his mask and leaned in. “Been fermenting a while, I see. Why
is it that women who work out think they can remain in their sweaty clothes for
hours at a time without risking infection.”

“Guilty as charged.”

“I don’t want to use a speculum;
the fungus has caused some inflammation around the labia.”

“It itches bad.”

Wanda snuck a peek. “Yeech. Looks
like bologna and mayo.”

“I’m going to write you a
prescription for pills and an ointment you’ll use three times a day. If you
have time, I’d also recommend a
Gynnie Gusher
.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a special bidet I invented.
It allows for a deep vaginal cleansing using a scented medicated flush. My
patients swear by them. The gusher comes in wintergreen, peppermint, midnight
cool, and baby’s breath.”

Wanda nodded. “With all the
cheese whiz down there, I’d go with the peppermint.”

“Set it up. Hey doc, what about
that blind date with your brother?”

Wanda stifled a laugh. “Ya’ll
want to set Jacob up with Jeanne? She’ll crush his head like a walnut.”

“Not Jeanne. Her girlfriend’s
sister. Do you have a picture of her?”

“Wanda, hand me my fanny pack.”
Jeanne fished through the leather bag. Pulling out her iPhone, she quickly
scrolled through a dozen photos. “Here she is. Nancy Beach. She hosts a radio
show in West Palm.”

Wanda inspected the image of the petite
blonde woman in the Santa hat. “She’s cute.”

Vinnie took a look. “She is cute.
Too bad she’s not Asian.”

“What?”

“Huh?”

“Why she gotta be Asian?”

“I said too bad she’s Caucasian. Jacob’s
always had a crush on you, Wanda.”

“Are we talkin’ about the same
brother?”

“Never mind.”

“The Wall Street hippy?”

“I was kidding. So Nancy’s a
radio host, huh?”

“She’s a
psychologist-turned-relationship-radio-host. She talks the talk but never walks
the walk, if you know what I mean.”

“My brother’s a hypochondriac . . . it’s
a match made in heaven.”

Wanda nudged him. “Go on and show
her his picture. Maybe her girlfriend’s sister would prefer an Asian too?”

“Don’t be a wise ass.” Vinnie
scrolled through his iPhone. “Here’s one we took with the boys at Disneyworld.”

Jeanne looked at the photo. “It’s
hard to tell what he looks like with his face all squished up in Micky Mouse’s
head lock.”

“That was a terrible
misunderstanding. At the time, Jacob suffered from musophobia—a fear of
rodents. He’s completely over that now.”

“Nancy’s no gem either; she’s
still carrying chips on her shoulders from two bad engagements. Problem is,
she’s sort of sworn off dating. She does like to bowl. Maybe if we go as a
group—”

“Perfect. How about we meet you
at the alley in East Boca tonight, say around eight. I’ll bring my wife and Jacob,
you bring your girlfriend and her sister.”

“Done deal.” Jeanne held her hand
out to shake—her gown falling away, exposing her breasts.

Wanda’s eyes widened. “Damn. I
need to get to the gym.”

THE
SUNSHINE HOUR

The offices of
LIFESTYLE REVOLUTION Inc. occupy the entire mezzanine and first three floors of
a high rise office building in downtown West Palm Beach. The facility, designed
by Olivia Cabot, eldest daughter of millionaire and retired investment banker
Truman Cabot featured a women’s only gym, health spa, vegan restaurant,
liposuction clinic, three classroom suites, and the offices and broadcast
facilities of A.M. radio station WOWF.

Olivia’s plan was to use the station’s
on-air hosts to bring clients to the facility where their physical, mental, and
spiritual needs could be met. Each radio show personality offered workshops and
weekly group sessions – the higher their ratings, the better the attendance.

Nancy called her sessions
The
Sunshine Hour
.

* * * *
*

At precisely eighty
forty-five, Nancy
Beach slid her passkey through the security slot and entered the double glass
doors of Lifestyle Revolution.
Fifteen minutes early . . .what
Dad called Vince Lombardi time. Set your watch to Lombardi time and you’ll
never be late.

Seated before her at the central
kiosk was Lynnie Ruffington, a rotund, tough-as-nails transplant from Mountain
Home, Arkansas . . . a small town she described as
“Mayberry, only with trailer parks and booze.”

“Good morning, Lynnie. Where’s my
Sunshine Hour?”

“I had to put you in the Hillary
Suite.”

“Lynnie, you know I hate the
Hillary Suite, it’s always so cold. What about the Lady Gaga Suite. Better yet,
the Liza.”

“The Liza suite is reserved for
Dr. Porter’s menopause class, and Lady Gaga’s back door is still jammed open
from those construction workers. By the way, congrats.” Lynnie reached beneath
her desk, retrieving a walnut plaque featuring a large brass vulva. “The Vagina
Monologues named you one of their Florida Vagina Warriors. Guess all those
letters and e-mails finally paid off.”

Nancy took the award from her and
read the inscription. “‘Dr. Nancy Beach: A vagina-friendly person who embodies
the spirit of equality and empowerment.’ Vagina friendly? It makes me sound
like a lesbian.”

“You’re not, are you? I’m only
asking because I happen to know a young single entrepreneur stud who’d be
perfect for you.”

“Is he rich?”

“Does it matter?”

“No, of course not. It’s just the
way you made it sound. So he’s a stud, huh?”

“Put it this way—he’s the Mexican
twin of the guy who played Gilligan on Gilligan’s Island. That’s right, sister,
he’s quite the looker.”

“That’s . . . wow.”
Nod politely and start walking away . . .

“Okay, he’s our lawn guy. And
believe me, the only reason Arnoldo is still on the market is because he’s an
illegal immigrant. Guy’s always smiling -- got a head full of teeth. Can’t
understand much English, but hey, with a man that can be a plus, right? Here’s
the kicker—if you marry him, me and mom get free lawn care for the next ten
years. Of course, you would too. Back in Mountain Home, we call that a perk.
Arnoldo’s got lots of perks us ladies fancy.”

Point to your watch, mumble
something about being late and . . .

“You ever see a lawn guy’s
fingers, Dr. Nancy? They’re thick and calloused from pulling weeds. We’re
talking breakfast-sausage-thick. Back home, we call ‘em Jimmy Deans.” Lynnie
winked. “Yeah, girlfriend, I think we’re on the same page.”

“Okay then. Anything else?”

“Oh yeah,
The TODAY Show
called.
Something about a guest appearance.”

Nancy’s heart raced. “
The
TODAY Show
? Really?”

“Nah, I’m just fucking with you.
But your sister called. She said it was urgent.”

* * * *
*

Nancy strode down
the classroom
corridor, her blood still boiling over the receptionist’s little joke.
How
can I succeed when I’m in an environment surrounded by Neanderthals? I share a
producer with three other hosts and office space with fifteen other radio
personalities, all of us trying to build a following with little to no publicity,
no budget, and a new program director who’s out to change everything around
here just to make a name for himself. We’re like a nest of newborn sea turtles,
everyone struggling to make it across the beach to open water while sea gulls
swoop down from the sky trying to eat us.

She passed a pair of construction
workers replacing the emergency fire exit door of a lecture hall. She paused
outside the door of the Liza Minnelli suite, eavesdropping on a heated conversation
between Dr. Nell Porter and one of her patients.

“. . . so I told the filthy son
of a bitch that if he stuck that thing in my mouth one more time I’d bite it
off and wrap it around his goddam neck!”

“Gertrude, remember the hot flash
exercises we went over last week?”

“Doctor Nell, how am I supposed
to take slow, deep breaths with his thing in my mouth? For Pete’s sake, it was
dripping down my chin!”

“Gertrude, he’s your dentist. The
suction tube removes excess saliva from your mouth so you don’t have to
continuously spit.”

Nancy felt a surge of jealousy.
Dr. Porter handled the menopause crowd. She had found her niche and her
practice—and her ratings were thriving.

I need to find my own niche . . . something
trendy.

 
Remembering Lana, she
speed dialed her sister’s number on her cell phone.

“Hello?”

“Lana? It’s me. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. I just wanted
to make sure you were free tonight.”

“Why?”

“Date night, little sister. You,
me, and Jeanne are going bowling with another couple and the guy’s single
brother.”

“A blind date? That was the
emergency?”

“Yes, and you’re going. There’s
no pressure here. If you like him—great; if not, we’ll kick some ass and go
home.”

“What time?”

“Eight o’clock.”

“Let me think about it.”

“Nancy—”

“I’m late for my seminar; call
you in an hour.” She hung up, mentally searching through her menu of excuses.
I
started having menstrual cramps earlier this morning and you know my first day
is always the heaviest. Nah . . . she’ll know. Wait until
after five, then call and tell her the new programming guy scheduled an
after-hours meeting.

Powering off her cell phone, she
said a quick prayer (please God, let there be standing room only inside) then
entered the Hillary Clinton suite, a small auditorium with theater-style
seating for two-hundred.

Seated in the front row were four
women—three Sunshine Hour regulars and a newbie.

Laticia was a mocha-skin black
woman in her late thirties. The security guard worked nights at a gated
community in Delray Beach and suffered from anger management issues stemming
from an abusive first marriage.

Bonnie was white, single and in
her late twenties—an elementary school cafeteria worker fighting an obesity
problem she blamed on a domineering mother.

Sophia was the youngest—nineteen
years old and Hispanic. The community college student’s arms were covered in tattoos
displaying her eighteen month old daughter’s name and image. She has not seen
the child’s biological father since the night he had impregnated her in the
high school’s boys’ locker room.

The short white woman in her
mid-sixties was new.

Either a recent divorcee or a
widow,
Nancy surmised
. Stay positive. Four is twenty-five percent better
than three
 . . . “Good morning, ladies, and welcome to
The Sunshine Hour, a free weekly seminar for women, sponsored by my radio show,
Life’s a Beach with Nancy Beach
. Before we begin, would everyone stand
please and recite the pledge.”

The three returnees stood,
joining their leader: “I am the keeper of my own fate, emancipating myself from
the self-imposed bonds of my gender.”

“Excellent. I see we have a
newbie. Please, tell us about yourself and describe the Y chromosome in your
life.”

“The Y who?”

“The man in your life . . . assuming
it’s a challenging relationship with the opposite sex that brought you here.”