Midtale
, Victor refills Henry
’
s martini glass and Gerard gets him another beer (
Hefeweisen
, Germany). Moving back and forth through time, pausing for dramatic effect, and occasionally standing to pantomime an event, Henry tells them that after two miserable entry-level jobs in sales he fell into a job at his current company. And though it was better than sales, he never did like it. He tells them that he probably would have left the job long ago if he had had the slightest clue about what he
’
d like to do, about what gives him satisfaction or pleasure. He tells them that he
’
s probably being transferred, or
expatrio
-sourced, the name he invents on the spot, to what he
’
s being told is a customer-service satellite for the newly acquired Water Division, even though he has little call-center knowledge and none of the bottled water industry, and that he
’
ll probably have to travel quite a bit, probably to a third-world-type place—India, China, South America—and that it troubles him deeply, because, as they know, he hates flying and has a bit of a germ phobia.
When he
’
s done he feels spent, but in some ways better for having told them, for having told anyone, and they certainly seemed to be eating it up, to be moved by his story, the tale of a man with whom they are sort of familiar, in actual conflict. Indeed, here is a chance for all of them to know Henry better—to know any human being better—and it seems, Henry thinks, to have registered with them on some deeper, more visceral and purely emotional level, to have transformed the banal dynamic, to have brought all of them a little closer to having more meaningful, truer relationships. To signal to them
that his tale is now done, that he
’
s ready for a little Q&A session if they
’
re
interested, Henry pushes aside the martini and takes a long drink of the
Hefeweisen
.
Gerard (of course it would be Gerard, Henry thinks—Gerard the wise, Gerard the caring) steps forward. He has a dripping piece of ostrich meat on a barbecue fork in one hand, a Trappist ale in the other. Gerard the shaman.
“
Tell me,
”
Gerard says with the warmth of an uncle, the gravitas of a trusted adviser.
“
Tell me more about this porn-whore secretary of yours.
”
“
Yeah,
”
says Marcus.
“
Exactly how big are that chick
’
s fun-bags?
”
~ * ~
There is a condition that occurs among a small number of men known as post-vasectomy pain syndrome (PVPS). Symptoms include a dull ache in the testicles beginning immediately or months or even years after the procedure. It may resolve on its own or require another surgery. In some cases the patient experiences psychological depression seemingly unrelated to the vasectomy.
—
Snipped.com
~ * ~
The meat is paraded across the patio like May Day missiles past a Kremlin reviewing stand. Kielbasa, Italian sausage, veal chops, ostrich strips, T-bone steak, Gerard
’
s tender brisket, and Henry
’
s Kobe beef hot dogs. Henry takes some of everything and a second helping of the ostrich—not because he likes the way it tastes, but because it
’
s giving him a rarely experienced sort of primal pleasure, eating ostrich.
“
I never liked ostriches anyway,
”
he announces, spearing another piece off the main platter.
“
Better get used to eating weirdness, the places you
’
re going,
”
says Osborne the Second, and his brother laughs for a moment before catching himself.
“
That
’
s the thing, and I told you guys this,
”
Henry says, gesturing with his martini glass, which is impossible to do sober, let alone
buzzed, without spillage.
“
I am not going to goddamn China, India, anywhere that requires the administering of shots or the crossing of an ocean, dateline, or border.
”
“
So you
’
re not ruling out Mexico, then,
”
says conservative Osborne, winking at his soft-on-immigration brother.
“
No way. I
’
d rather take a job in the mailroom of another soulless mega-conglomerate. I like my life right here, in quiet, vanilla American suburbia with
easy access to New York City restaurants and the occasional
Disneyfied
theatrical production, just fine.
”
“
So what does Rachel make of all this?
”
asks Marcus, but the way they all lean forward to hear the answer, it
’
s clearly a group question.
“
What does she think of the ultimatum, of them wanting you to drop everything and relocate to the other side of the world?
”
Henry rubs his face and drags his fingers through his hair.
“
Well, that
’
s the thing.
W
hen I got home this afternoon she was on the phone, a conference call, and I had to get the meat, the beef—
five le boeuf
!
—no, le veal! So, you know, it had to wait.
”
“
You
’
re gonna tell her when you get home, then?
”
Gerard asks on behalf of the group. Gerard the snoop. Gerard the girly man. Gerard the cuckold.
Henry raises his glass, finishes the final half of his third martini. Or is it his fourth? Something buzzes in his head and he feels a little sick. The dull ache in his groin has spread up into his abdomen, his chest, his brain.
“
Tonight? I think not,
”
he says, before unleashing a magnificent belch.
“
For a light-drinking semi-vegetarian, I
’
m not doing bad tonight, eh, fellas?
”
Victor Chan leans back and shakes his head. Marcus LeBlanc folds his arms. One Osborne gives him a thumbs-up, the other a thumbs-down. Gerard Fundle stands and whistles the universal melody of
“
Oh boy, are you in some deep shit.
”
~ * ~
Come on Down
As directed by his urologist, he stopped taking aspirin two weeks prior to the procedure date because it thins the blood, increases the risk of bleeding. For three nights before the date he thoroughly scrubbed his scrotum with an antibacterial wash to reduce the probability of infection. Although not essential, it was recommended that he shave from the base of the penis down to the front of the scrotum. Just to be sure, Henry shaved everything from his navel to his inner thighs. In those final weeks he made a point of keeping Rachel apprised of everything, to demonstrate that he was on board with the idea, that he had embraced it.
In those final weeks he also started to masturbate more often. Much more often. With urgency. With abandon. Indiscriminately. At first maybe once a day in the shower, or in bed during a middle-of-the-night anxiety attack fused with an erotic dream. Sometimes he
’
d do it to downloaded porn on his home computer or retro-style with a discreetly archived
Playboy
or Victoria
’
s Secret catalog. But with each passing day he stepped up the intensity and frequency of his self-pleasuring, while conversely broadening the standards of what he found arousing enough to make him reach for the
Nivea
.
In the final days this included not just the conjuring of fantasies traditional and kinky or the watching of porn downloaded or purchased, but also the absorption of whatever sexual nutrients he could extract from sources as diverse as late-night basic cable erotica to a Scarlett
Johannson
appearance on
Conan
to a scantily clad
cartoon heroine in a graphic novel to, disturbingly, on more than one occasion, the late-morning giggles and cleavage of the prize girls on Game Show Network reruns of
The Price Is Right.
Come on down.
The way Henry had begun to see it, he and his penis had been given six weeks to live, and short of committing adultery, having sex with his wife, or fantasizing about Meredith, aka
EEEEva
EEEEnormous
(which for some reason he had always declared off-limits), they were going to make the most of every remaining sperm-laden salvo.
~ * ~
Henry thinks he hears children, but he
’
s still sober enough to remember that Gerard
’
s children are not home. Now he hears a splash, followed by more youthful laughter. Must be the neighbor
’
s kids in their crystal-clear, perfectly balanced pool, he thinks, and not a malevolent hallucination. A few months ago he might have let himself slip into sentimentality about children, or his and Rachel
’
s lack of them, but as he listens he feels nothing of the kind. Rather than coveting children, or resenting them, or, if Rachel had been around, trying to pretend they
’
re not there, he feels only happiness for them, and instead of wishing they
’
d be quiet, he finds himself wishing that he was one of them again, splashing about in midweek, midsummer, preadolescent twilight with nothing on the agenda for tomorrow except a lot more of the same. Of course, he realizes, the primary reason that he feels this way is that he
’
s drunk, his formerly pure system churning with the chemicals of four or more 100-proof vodka martinis, five different kinds of imported beer, and the flesh of six different animals.
The tiki torches are lighted. Gerard is in the kitchen Saran-wrapping the
undevoured
meat. Victor, Marcus, and Henry are talking music, but though he recognizes the names—Springsteen, Clapton, even Kiss, for Christ
’
s sake—the
others
’
taste seems to Henry as if it comes from not just another generation but another galaxy. As they continue to talk his mind wanders again, this time to the Upper West Side. To images of people his age doing the exact opposite of what he
’
s doing now. People who would rather be on the
menu at Meat Night than attend it. It
’
s gotten to the point where even the sorriest New Yorkers with whom he works seem to have more exciting lives than his. They tell him about the Hal Hartley movie they saw the night before at the Angelika, the installation at Emergency Arts in Chelsea, or the next killer band he
’
s never heard of in Williamsburg. Up here the
cineplexes
are filled with talking animals and incendiary spectacle. White-haired women in museums that close at five champion the arts. And the music scene is a guy with a guitar named Joey doing covers for the after-dinner crowd at the Lakeside Bar & Grill.
In the city, even people with kids seem to lead much more interesting lives. Henry lowers his face and rubs his eyes, as if his fingertips are erasers. But before the scene around him can be wiped away he hears one Osborne tell the other that he
’
s
“
an
effin
’
A-hole.
”
Then Henry hears the antiwar, pacifist Osborne
’
s martini splash against the
prowar
Osborne
’
s face. By the time Henry opens his eyes they
’
re lunging out of their chairs, bull-rushing each other. Henry is knocked back against the table. A beer bottle (Magic Hat #9, Vermont) smashes on the bluestone. The others quickly descend on them and begin prying the pacifist
’
s hands from his brother
’
s neck.
Everyone except Henry. Still seated, all that he can manage is to say,
“
Hey. Guys. Not cool. Not effing
”
—when did I start saying
effing
?
—
”
cool.
”
Which he does not say with a great deal of emphasis, because part of him wouldn
’
t mind seeing the brothers fight to the death with steak knives and shish kebab spears. Once separated, they quickly give up the fight, and within seconds they start feeling foolish. They apologize to Gerard and the group, and then to each other. After they clean up the broken glass together, the fighting Osborne brothers apologize all over again and then say their goodbyes and leave together, because they have to. Tonight is John
’
s turn to be Eric
’
s designated driver.