Dog Training The American Male (6 page)

“Jacob, you’re my kid brother and
I love you, but you need serious help.”

“Is that why you set me up with a
shrink?”

“She’s cute and my patient
assures me she’s nice. Why don’t you give her a chance.”

“If she’s so nice, how come she’s
not married?”

“As a matter of fact, she was
engaged twice.”

Jacob jammed on the
brakes—sending Vinnie’s forehead slamming into the glove box.

“Ow, fuck! Are you crazy?” Vin
leaned over and punched his brother in the arm.

“Ow.”

“Drive the car, you lunatic.”

“Two broken engagements are a red
flag. My Spidey sense detects a severe case of Androphobia.”

“What the hell are you talking
about?”

“The Hooter’s waitress has trust
issues.”

“Psychologist!”

“Take it from an expert—trust
issues are nearly as difficult to overcome as Apotemnophobia, and that took me
three years.”

“What’s that? A fear of being
normal?”

“It happens to be a fear of
amputees. Some doctor you are.”

* * * *
*

Nancy Beach followed
her sister and
Jeanne through the east entrance of the bowling alley, her ears assaulted by
the echoes of rolling balls and crashing pins, her nose by the overpowering
scent of industrial cleaner mixed with cheap buttered popcorn and overcooked
pizza. “I can’t believe I actually let you talk me into this.”

Lana reached back and pulled her
sister by the crook of her elbow so she was walking between herself and Jeanne.
“Don’t even think of running. And try to smile, it’s not an execution.”

“There they are.” Jeanne waved in
the direction of the west entrance where Vincent and Jacob Cope were making
their way across the worn scarlet and violet carpet, the taller brother intercepted
by a perky brunette in a black and rose colored bowling shirt and matching
skirt.

“He’s too tall for me.”

“That’s his brother, my new
goolie doctor. Jacob’s the guy in the beard.”

“He’s sort of cute, in a Danny
Devito meets Woodstock kind of way.”

Across the room, Jacob eyes the
three women. “I thought you said she was cute? She looks like
The Rock
with tits.”

“That’s my patient. Nancy’s the
blonde in the middle.”

“Oh. Hey . . . she
really is cute.” Jacob checked his breath. “Damn burritos. Quick, I need gum!”

Helen fished through her purse,
locating a breath mint. “Here, suck on this.”

Jacob popped the white tablet in
his mouth as the two trios met at center court.

Jeanne handled the introductions.
“Dr. Cope, this is my sweetheart, Lana Beach—”

Jacob laughed—launching the
breath mint from his mouth, striking Nancy in the face. “Oh, God, I’m sorry.”

Vin rolled his eyes. “And this is
my little brother, Jacob.”

Jacob shot him a look.

“Sorry. I meant younger. He’s not
little. None of the Cope men are little.”

Helen smirked. “Guess you must
have been adopted. Hi, I’m Helen, Vinnie’s wife.”

“Looks like the missus bowls a
little, Doc” Jeanne said. “What do you say . . . shall we
make things interesting?”

Vinnie switched to his poker
face. “I don’t know, Jeanne. What do you have in mind?”

“Three couples, three games. The
winning couple collects twenty dollars apiece from the losers . . . forty
bucks a game.”

“You’re on.”

* * * *
*

Vin retrieved his
bowling ball, waiting
for the pins to reset. Jeanne and Lana had won the first match by nine pins
over him and his wife—thirty-one pins over Jacob and Nancy’s combined score.
Going into this—the tenth and final frame of the second match, he and Helen held
a slim six pin lead.

Okay, V.C., you let Conannie
and her lover steal game one; game two is yours.

 
Eyes focused, back
muscles taut, Vincent Cope moved like a cat as he strode into his approach and
released the ball.

The bowling ball rolled straight
and true—striking the head pin and setting off an avalanche of ivory . . . leaving
in its wake the infamous seven-ten split.

“Suck balls, not again!”

Jeanne hi-fived Lana.

Helen shook her head. “How many
times must I tell you—don’t aim for the head pin.”

“I didn’t aim for the damn head
pin. I hit the head pin, I didn’t aim for it.”

“You never listen. I carry a one-eighty-four
league average and you never listen.”

“You also carry a lower center of
gravity and child-bearing hips to keep you balanced. I’m lanky. Plus I’m
fighting the effects of a devastating football injury that ended my collegiate
career.”

“What collegiate career? You
played one year on the practice squad.”

“Exactly. We battled the ones
everyday! You saw
Rudy
. You saw what that poor kid had to endure. There
are pieces of me scattered across every inch of turf at Wellington Business
School. Thank God I was blessed with a mind as well as athletic talent. Thank
God.”

Helen rolled her eyes.

Jeanne called out, “Hey, doc,
I’ll give you three to one odds on one of those mint cleansings of yours if you
nail the split.”

“You’re on!”

* * * *
*

Having forfeited from
the competition, Jacob
and Nancy were seated next to each other at the end of the wrap-around bench,
engrossed in conversation.

 “Is Jeanne always this
competitive?”

“Always,” Nancy said.

“Vince, too. It gets obnoxious
after a while.”

“I suppose everyone has their
baggage to carry.” Glancing at Jacob’s wrist watch, she noticed it was dive
watch. “Are you certified?”

“Did Vince tell you that? Sure, I
have a few phobias, but I’ve never been committed.”

“No . . . no,
not certifiable—
certified
. As in diving.” She pointed to his wrist.
“That is a dive watch, right?”

“Oh, yeah, I guess it is.”

“How often do you dive?”

“Oh, I’ve never been diving. The
watch was a gift from one of the managers at Lehman Brothers.”

“The investment firm?”

“Yeah. I designed a lot of their
software. I had no idea they were using my programming to camouflage their
accounting gimmicks. Bastards went bankrupt owing me millions in stock options
and bonuses.”

“That’s terrible.”

“Tell me about it. I had to
testify before a Congressional committee. It was around that time when a lot of
my phobias started coming out.” Jacob looked up as Vinnie yelled, “Suck balls!”
his brother missing the spare.

“Jacob, have you ever had
therapy?”

“Mostly just on-line chat-rooms.
It helps.”

“What about therapy from a real
professional?”

“When I was younger. My mother
sort of screwed me up at an early age.”

“What happened?”

“It’s a little embarrassing.”

“I’m a psychologist. I seriously
doubt you could shock me.”

“My father was in the Armed
Forces; he committed suicide when I was six.”

“I’m sorry. Post traumatic
stress?”

“Yeah. Anyway, Ma was pretty upset
by the whole thing, so she made up this convoluted story about Dad being killed
in a horrible accident. It really screwed with my head.”

“What did she tell you?”

Jacob blushed. “I can’t. It’s too
embarrassing.”

Nancy smiled. “Oh, come on—how
bad can it be?”

“Pretty damn bad.”

Nancy hesitated, then leaned in
and kissed him, her tongue swirling around his before slowly pulling out.

Jacob opened his eyes. “Wow.”

“I have trust issues, Jacob. Men
who are vulnerable are easier for me to trust.”

“I’m your man . . . that’s
definitely me.”

“Then take a chance and trust me.
Tell me what your mother told you about your father’s death that screwed you up
so badly.”

Jacob hesitated, then smirked. “She
told me our last name had been Riesfeldt—she changed it to Cope after Dad’s
death so that we could cope with the accident that killed him. She said my father—Friedrich
Riesfeldt was a famous zookeeper and that he was needed in Germany to help a
very sick elephant that was constipated. She said Dad got drunk on the plane
ride over and ended up giving the elephant too much animal laxative. Dad passed
out and the animal let loose, burying my father beneath two hundred pounds of
pachyderm poop.”

“Oh my.” Nancy covered her mouth,
hiding her grin. “And you believed her?”

“I was young, plus the story was
all over the Internet—she showed me the picture.” Jacob took out his iPhone and
did a quick search for zookeeper Friedrich Riesfeldt.

Sure enough, dozens of reference
articles appeared, several under the “Darwin Awards,” a spoof award presented
to those suffering the dumbest deaths imaginable.

(Paderborn Germany)
Overzealous zookeeper Friedrich Riesfeldt fed his constipated elephant Stefan
22 doses of animal laxative and more than a bushel of berries, figs and prunes
before the plugged-up pachyderm finally let fly -- and suffocated the keeper
under 200 pounds of poop! Investigators say ill-fated Friedrich, 46, was
attempting to give the ailing elephant an olive oil enema when the relieved
beast unloaded on him like a dump truck full of mud. "The sheer force of
the elephant's unexpected defecation knocked Mr. Riesfeldt to the ground, where
he struck his head on a rock and lay unconscious as the elephant continued to
evacuate his bowels on top of him," said flabbergasted Paderborn police
detective Erik Dern. "With no one there to help him, he lay under all that
dung for at least an hour before a watchman came along, and during that time he
suffocated."It seems to be just one of those freak accidents that
happen."

“Oh my God, the woman’s
diabolical. But Jacob, you do know the story’s not real.”

“I was a kid. You see the name
and the photo and your father’s gone and what was I supposed to believe? Vin
waited two years before letting me know my mother had made the whole thing up.
Of course, by that time you can imagine how screwed up I was. To this day, I
still can’t go to the circus or zoo. I only started voting Democrat two
presidential elections ago.”

“Because of the elephant symbol?”

“Because of Sarah Palin. The
woman’s bat-shit crazy.”

“Palin or your mother? Sorry, I
shouldn’t judge.”

“Ma was hurting. I found out years
later that my father had been having an affair. I guess she wanted to taint my
memory of him. Hell hath no fury like a pissed-off Jewish mother.”

Nancy reached out and held Jacob’s
hand. “Thank you for sharing your story with me. One day, if I get over my own
fears, I may share my own father’s story with you.”

“Did he molest you or something?”

“Nothing like that.”

“Was he a zoo keeper?”

“No, and stop guessing. After you
lost your job with Lehman Brothers, what did you do?”

 Jacob exhaled. “Boy, that’s a
long story. Right now, I’m working as an I.T. tech in Boca. It’s just a filler
job. I’ve been training for a far more lucrative career.”

“Programming analyst for the
C.I.A.?”

“Close. Ventriloquist.”

Nancy laughed. “I’m sorry. I’ve
never actually met a ventriloquist before. Show me some ventriloquism.”

“I can’t. Not without my dummy.”

“I’ll be your dummy.” She scooted
next to him, resting her legs over his thighs. “There. Now slide your hand
behind my neck and I’ll mouth your words.”

Jacob slipped his right hand
beneath her blonde hair, his eyes focused on her tight jeans and exposed thong
panties. “Normally I’d have my George Bush dummy on my lap, so pretend you’re
President Bush. So, President Bush, can you tell us any personal details about
your two terms in office?”

Jacob maneuvered Nancy’s jaw as
he threw his voice, imitating the former president. “Heck yeah, Jacob. One
time, me, Vice, and Rummy got snowed in on a hunting trip and had to sleep
together in the same tent. Naturally, as the Decider, I decided to take the
middle where it was warmest. Anyway, about three in the morning Rummy and Vice
start moaning, waking me up. So I said, ‘hey Cheney, what gives?’ Dick says,
‘Mr. President, I just had a wet dream . . . I dreamt I was
getting a hand job from a beautiful psychologist.’ Rummy says, ‘That’s amazing,
Mr. President, I just had the same wet dream.’ Then I said, ‘Heck, fellas, you
two sure are lucky. All I dreamed about was skiing.’ See, he was gripping the
poles . . .”

Nancy laughed, hysterical.
“You’re really good. A beautiful psychologist, huh?”

“Yes. And no amputees. All four
limbs intact.”

“My four limbs are intact.”
Reaching between her legs, she rubbed his inner thigh. “So, how did you know I
like skiing?”

* * * *
*

Vin watched nervously
as Jeanne prepared
to take her approach. “Money shot, Jeanne. Try to focus. By the way, how’s the
yeast infection holding up? Hope you’re not chafing.”

“Thanks to you, she’s
minty-fresh,” Lana answered.

Jeanne unleashed her shot like a
Greek god hurtling hail at a cluster of frightened mortals, the ball skimming
the slick wood surface before blasting the pins into an orifice of fallen
ivory.

“Game, strike, and match. Let’s
see if I can bake this turkey in the oven.”

“Hey, Vin, we’re going to go.”

The two couples turned to find Jacob
and Nancy wearing their street shoes, ready to leave.

“Jacob’s going to drive me home,”
Nancy announced.

“You go, girl.” Lana hugged her
sister.

Vince exchanged a knuckle-punch
with his younger brother. “Whatever gets you through the night, John Lennon.”

Jacob nodded, then led his date
outside where his chariot awaited.