Dog Training The American Male (5 page)

“Well . . . my
name is Edna Dombrowski. I’m sixty-three years old, originally from New York.
The Y chromosome in my life is . . . 
was
my
ex-husband, Walter.”

The other women chanted, “Why Y . . . do
you make us cry!”

“Did Walter make you cry, Edna?”

“Sometimes. After all, we were
married thirty-six years. We had good times, some
ehh
, but we stayed
together. Mostly for the kids.”

“What went wrong?” asked Bonnie, the
weight-challenged attendee spewing remnants from her last bite of doughnut.

“The trouble began about a year
ago when we stopped having . . . relations. Walter claimed
he couldn’t get it up because of a swollen prostate. Well, he sure got it up
for his secretary, Claudia.”

Laticia shook her head. “Girlfriend,
if some Y did that to me, I’d have gone Lorena Bobbitt all over the
mother-fucker.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I’d have cut off his pecker.”
Laticia mimed slicing off a man’s penis.

Nancy cringed. “Laticia, we can’t
go around castrating every Y who hurts us. We’re here to help Edna gain a new
perspective about what happened so she can prevent this situation from occurring
in her next relationship.”

Sophia turned to Edna, her words
slightly garbled by her tongue piercing. “Was you there for him sexually?”

“I thought I was. Thirty-six
years . . . I don’t ever recall him complaining.”

“But was you
really
there?
Did you just lie there and stare at the ceiling fan, or did you make him feel
like a Aztec God?”

“Aztec God? Walter? The man laid
down and I climbed on. He had a chronic bad back.”

“I ain’t sayin’ you should’a hurt
him, I just know the guys I been with over the last like ten years go crazy
whenever I talk nasty to them.”

“You’ve been sexually active for
ten years? How old are you?”

“Nineteen. Okay, eight years.
Anyways, next time you is with a man of the opposite sex, try this . . . ‘Oh
God, Walter! Oh God, you are so big. Bury that dagger in my pussy. Sacrifice me
to the gods!’” Sophia hi-fived Laticia. “Trust me, girlfriend—once you go
Hispanic, ain’t no need to be romantic.”

Edna’s complexion paled. “I’m a
sixty-three-year-old Jew from the Bronx. When I was your age, I was still a
virgin. I birthed three kids and had a hysterectomy, and in all those years I
never referred to my personal area as anything but my personal area. If I
moaned like that, Walter would have had a heart attack.”

Nancy held up her hand, cutting
off Sophia’s retort. “Edna, I think Sophia’s point is that we can empower
ourselves by using certain tools that feed our Y’s ego while allowing us to establish
a sense of equality in the relationship.”

“What for? So I can compete with
some young
shiksa
like yourself? See how your husband feels about you in
thirty years when your boobs start sagging and your pubic hair turns gray.”

“Oh, Dr. Beach isn’t married,” said
Bonnie, draining her diet-coke.

Laticia shrugged. “The lady don’t
even got a boyfriend.”

“That’s not true,” Nancy snapped.
“I mean, I was engaged . . . twice. I decided to break
things off for a variety of reasons, some similar to Edna’s.”

“Yeah, but that was like decades
ago.”

Edna’s face flushed pink. “Dr.
Beach, I thought you were a relationship counselor?”

“I am. If you’d like to see my
degrees—”

“Who cares about a degree? When I
read the
Lifestyle Revolution
brochure, I had no idea you were so young.
How could you possibly know what I’m going through. And not to be dating . . . with
your looks? The Puerto Rican slut knows more about relationships than you do.”

“Got dat right.”

“You’re right Edna. When it comes
to relationships, my own personal experiences are somewhat limited. But don’t
discount my education. Tapping into my wealth of knowledge, we can craft the
tools you need to work on you.”

“Know what Dr. Beach . . . maybe
you ought to work on yourself.”

 Nancy watched, feeling helpless
as Edna gathered her belongings and left.
* * * * *

The phone rang
twice before Lana answered.
“Nance?”

“Pick me up at the apartment at
seven-thirty. I’m in.”

ALWAYS
BE POLITE

The Information
Technology company,
I-Guru USA
was located on the first floor of the
building formerly owned by American Media Inc., publisher of
The National
Enquirer
. AMI moved out in the wake of the 2001 anthrax attacks that
contaminated the building and killed one of the tabloid’s photo editors. The
new owners had the property decontaminated, but there was no rush to rent
space.
I-Guru
set up shop three years later under a heavily discounted
long term lease. Despite the savings, the I.T. company’s Boca Raton overhead
remains considerably higher than its corporate offices in Bangalore, India
where ninety-five percent of its customer calls are routed.

The company’s lone U.S. satellite
office (a requirement for certain clientele) is limited to the manager’s
office, a small kitchen, supply room, and the phone room where a dozen
semi-soundproof cubicles house
I-Guru’s
I.T. Techs. Eleven of the
cubicles are manned by graduate or post-graduate students from India. Each man wore
dark slacks, white collared button-down shirts, dress shoes, and matching black
ties. Their work cubicles are organized and kept immaculate. A sign:
Always
Be Polite
is thumb-tacked to their otherwise vacant corkboards. Each man spoke
with a Zen-like calm into a headset:

“I am so sorry you are
experiencing these difficulties, Mr. Hollander.”

“Thank you for your patience,
Mrs. Angsten. If you don’t mind, we will begin to address your problem by
restarting your computer.”

“Again, I apologize, Mr. Gelet.
Since the last attempt did not resolve the problem, we shall try something
else. I am certain this will work.”

The twelfth man, occupying the
last booth, was wearing a soda-stained Miami Dolphins tee-shirt, Bermuda
shorts, sunglasses, and thongs. His bare feet are propped up on the desk. A
Miami Dolphins Cheerleader calendar hung crooked from his corkboard, along with
a variety of pictures that include John Lennon, the Three Stooges, and Pamela
Anderson from her glory years on Baywatch. His desk is littered with files; the
floor beneath his cubicle with fast food wrappers.

Jacob Cope scratched his auburn
beard, then let out a carbonated burp. “Sorry, it’s these damn Big Gulps. Let’s
try this again, Mrs. Badcock, only this time click on the right side of the
gerbil. Yes, I know it’s called a mouse, but when you abuse it like you have . . . No,
ma’am, that’s the left side again. Honestly, I have no clue why your husband
told you that . . . Well, you married him, dear.”

Sanjay Patel, the floor manager
whose cubicle is located to the left of Jacob’s workplace leaned back into his
neighbor’s sight-line and desperately signaled him to be polite.

Jacob Cope offered Sanjay a
thumbs-up. “My apologies, Mrs. Badcock, I’m sure your husband is . . .”
He listened to her gruff reply. “No, ma’am, I said Babcock.” He lowered the
volume on his headphones as the woman’s rants grew louder. “Ma’am . . .excuse
me . . . I understand, it was an honest mistake. But
seriously, either way, there’s still a cock in your name-- that’s not my doing.
Hello? Hello? Geez, some people get so touchy.”

Sanjay stared at him,
slack-jawed. “Jacob, these are paying clients. You cannot treat them in this
manner.”

“It was an honest mistake. Some
people, no matter what you do . . . they’re gonna hate you.
And another thing -- all this apologizing . . . it’s
un-American. Believe me, my people don’t like it. It makes us feel uneasy.
We’re calling to get our computer running again and some foreign guy I don’t
even know keeps apologizing . . . for what? True story:
Back in Manhattan some chick gave me crabs and she never apologized, and I had
to shave my balls. First time you do that – it’s scary as shit. I still dated
her, though . . . damn, she was hot.”

“Jacob, being polite is simply a
means of showing respect to our—”

“Hold that thought.” Jacob’s cell
phone vibrated in his pants pocket. He waited until the second tingle before
answering it. “What’s up, big brother?”

“Listen carefully and tonight you
could be balls-deep inside something with a pulse. Her name’s Nancy and she’s
the sister of one of my patients . . . I mean, she’s the
girlfriend’s sister—anyway, she’s very cute and we’re all going bowling tonight
at eight. Go home, shower, trim the bird’s nest you’ve got growing on your
face, then pick me up at my office at seven-thirty in your van and we’ll ride
over to the bowling alley together.”

“Vin, you hate my van. You won’t
even let me park it in the driveway.”

“Shut up and pay attention.
Helen’s meeting us at the bowling alley in her car. If things go well, I’ll
drive home with Helen and you can give Nancy a ride back to her place in the
Scooby-Doo van. Get it?”

“Got it. Wait . . . who’s
Nancy?”

“Your date.”

“I don’t know, Vin. It sounds
great and all, but according to my horoscope, the timing’s not good. Plus, my
on-line therapist just diagnosed me with cainophobia.”

“What are you afraid of now? The
bible? ”

“Cainophobia is a fear of
newness. Maybe if we waited a few more weeks?”

“No way, Sigmund Freud, it’s
gotta be tonight.”

“Can I at least bring Dubuya?”

“Dubuya?”

“My George Bush dummy. I could
practice my act.”

“No! No puppets, no sex dolls,
just you. See you at seven-thirty.”

FIRST
IMPRESSIONS

Vincent Cope paced
beneath the green and white awning of his medical center, his eyes focused on
the parking lot entrance from State Road 7.
Seven-forty-three . . . where
the hell is he?

Ten minutes passed before the
1976 Volkswagen van with the two-tone white and tangerine-orange paint turned
into the medical center parking lot, its rotting dual tail pipes belching
fumes.

Vin yanked open the passenger door,
the rusted hinges squealing in protest. Stepping on an empty McDonald’s cup, he
climbed up into the vehicle, situating himself on the torn plastic upholstered
seat. “You’re late.”

“Sorry. I was at the retirement
home, visiting our mother. Ma’s very upset with you, Vincent.”

“Ma’s been upset at me since my
second year at Med School when I decided to become a gynecologist instead of a
brain surgeon.”

“She says you haven’t visited her
since April.”

“We had her over for
Thanksgiving. Doesn’t that count?”

“She said it’s not the same
thing.”

“Listen, little brother, I visit
our mother and the dentist twice a year. That’s all the pain one man can
endure. Anyway, forget Ma, I need you focused on Nancy.”

“Who’s Nancy?”

“Your date for this evening!”

“The Hooter’s waitress?”

“She’s not a Hooter’s waitress,
she’s a psychologist. I may have texted she has nice hooters. Jesus, try to
stay focused.”

“Please don’t call me Jesus. I
may be a miracle of creation, but I can’t perform miracles.”

“You can move out of my guest house;
that would be a miracle.” Vin winced as the heel of his right shoe caught something
beneath the seat. Reaching between his legs, he dragged out a
Jet Blue
Airline
inflatable life-jacket. “Expecting turbulence?”

“You know I suffer from severe
hydrophobia.”

“Don’t tell me this hunk of rust
you’re driving is amphibious?”

“Don’t you ever read the news?
People die in canals every day. Florida’s a virtual death trap.”