Dog Training The American Male (3 page)

JACOB

The thirty-one year old man with
the reddish-brown mop of hair, unkempt matching beard, and sleepy hazel eyes rested
naked on his back in the Queen-size sofa bed, staring down at his belly. “I
need to lose weight. From this angle, I can’t even see my dick.”

“Maybe you just need a bigger
dick?”

Jacob Cope turned to the nude
Asian female sharing his bed. “You’re complaining about my dick? Ten minutes
ago you were moaning so loud I was afraid my brother, Vincent could hear us
from his house.”

“You were the one moaning. If you
recall, my mouth was full.”

“Oh yeah.” Jacob sighed. “Part of
me suspects I’m a loser, the other part thinks I’m God Almighty.”

“Go with the loser.”

“Why do you have to be so nasty?”

“You want nasty? Smell my breath.
And enough with the John Lennon quotes. You’re worse than a Trekkie.”

“John Lennon was much more than a
Beatle; he was the voice of a generation. The guy actually helped stop the war
in Vietnam by having a Bed-In for peace.”

“Hey, I was there, remember? You
weren’t even a glint in your father’s eye.”

“Still, I’ve always felt like a
child of the sixties.” Jacob watched the ceiling fan’s revolving wicker blades.
“I’d love to do something great like that. Can you imagine me and you staging a
Bed-In to stop the war in Afghanistan? Better yet, what if we could organize a
nationwide sleep-in to reverse Citizens United . . . get
the money out of politics. You may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one . . .”

“Instead of dreaming, why don’t
you wake up and get a decent job. You’ve been living in your brother’s guest
house for nine months. You haven’t brought home a real paycheck since Lehman
Brothers shit-canned you.”

 “It wasn’t my fault they went
belly-up. Bastards ran the stock down to nothing; I lost millions.”

“You made them millions. It’s
been years since you testified against them. Go back to Wall Street.”

“Forget it. Wall Street’s my
Vietnam, my
Apocalypse Now
. My computer programs and algorithms were
used to hurt people. Now I just want to make people laugh. Practicing my act
with you . . .it’s the best part of my day.”

“You know what the best part of
my day is? The best part of my day is the garden hose in my mouth.”

Jacob’s heart skipped a beat as he
heard footsteps approaching outside on the concrete stoop -- his eyes focusing
on the unbolted front door.“Oh, shit – Vin, don’t come in!”

His older brother keyed in, the
door swinging open. “Jake, we need to . . . holy shit, what
the hell is this?”

“It’s not what you think!” Jacob
leaped off the sofa-bed, rummaging through a pile of fast food garbage for his
Sponge Bob boxer shorts.

“This is what you’ve been doing
every day? In my man cave!”

“It’s completely consensual. Can
you just get out?”

“No, I can’t get out. Helen was
right, you need serious help.” Vin approached the life-size naked Asian rubber
sex doll lying spread-eagle across the bed. “Is that Yoko Ono?”

“It is. I happen to be a big fan
of John Lennon.”

“So you’re paying tribute to him
by screwing a plastic version of his wife?”

“Synthetic rubber. And so what?”

“Jacob, this is just weird. Can
you imagine what Ma would say?”

“Ma hated all of my girlfriends . . . I
fail to see the problem here.”

“Have you given up on real
women?”

“No. But I have urges.”

“And Yoko fills them?”

“You jack-off into a towel, I use
a sexy receptacle. Either way, it’s just an expulsion of bodily fluids.”

“Yeah, but I don’t lie around and
talk to the towel afterward.”

“I was practicing my
ventriloquism.”

“With your dick in her mouth? That’s
one hell of an act. Where do you even get something like this?”

“Celebrity Sex Dolls. I had to
special order her.”

“She does have nice hooters.
Three inputs?”

“It’s standard.”

“Is she shaved down there or is
her bush big and matted like a Zulu warrior?”

“What is it you want, Vincent?”

“Bad news. Helen’s mother’s
visiting in January and will be with us through Passover. I’ve been ordered to
deliver your thirty day eviction notice.”

“It’s a big guest house, I don’t
see a problem. Why do I need to leave?”

“Are you mental?”

“I happen to like Helen’s
mother.”

“Listen, space cadet . . . you,
Yoko, and my mother-in-law playing
Three’s Company
in my guest house—it
ain’t gonna happen. And don’t you have to be at work?”

“I’m on the twelve-to-six shift.
Don’t
you
have to be at work?”

“I’m a gynecologist and my own
boss. I don’t punch a clock, I am the clock.”

“I am the walrus, coo coo
g’joob.”

“You’re an idiot. Clean this
place up, it looks like a crime scene. And hide that stupid doll; I don’t want
my sons seeing it. Wade’s just hitting puberty, it could ruin him. Back in my
day, all I had to get off with was dad’s old
National Geographics
.”

VINNIE

The black 2002
Ford Explorer headed south on State Road 7, its driver handling the wheel with
her left hand while her right thumb dug into her neoprene shorts, desperate to
scratch the incessant itch originating from her crotch.
Lana was right; I
should have taken care of this long ago.

Glancing out the passenger
window, Jeanne Pratt searched the odd numbered addresses, locating the South
Florida Gynecology Center on the southwest corner of Palmetto Park Road,
directly across from a Hooters restaurant.

Hooters and cooters . . . cute.

Jeanne parked the vehicle and climbed
out, checking the leather seat for stains.

* * * *
*

Bypassing his reserved
spot, Dr. Vincent
Cope parked his Lexus in back of the one-story brick building two spaces from
the trash dumpster. For several minutes, the forty-one year old father of three
closed his eyes, listening to
Howard Stern
on his Sirius radio.

Helen was right; Jacob had become
a squatter in their guest home, but what his wife refused to understand was
that his kid brother had been through hell.

Helen had put him through hell
over breakfast.

“We’ve been married what? Seventeen
years? And in those seventeen years, Vincent, how many times have you allowed
one of my relatives to use our guest house?”

“Our guest house? If you
recall, it was supposed to be my office—my man cave—until you put up curtains
and added a sofa bed.”

“When my Aunt Milly’s condo
was being fumigated for roaches and she needed a place to stay for seventy-two
hours, do you remember what you told her? I’ll tell you what you told her—you
told her the local YWCA had cots, served a great lentil soup, and if she wanted
you’d be happy to arrange free water aerobic classes.”

“The woman told me she likes a
good lentil soup.”

“Shut up. Last year, when my
mother wanted to visit during the Christmas holidays, you decided to renovate the
guest house bathroom. Wade’s Bar Mitzvah—new wallpaper. My sister’s wedding?
You had to have wood floors put in. But when your mother demands you take in
your younger brother, suddenly my guest house becomes the home for wayward
derelicts!”

 “Helen, Jake’s not a
derelict, he’s gifted.”

“He’s a mental patient!”

“True, but he’s a gifted
mental patient. I mean, come on, the guy was recruited by Lehman Brothers when
he was nineteen. Six figure bonuses . . . the 401K—it was
all tied up in stock. It’s not his fault the company went bankrupt.”

“We’re going bankrupt
supporting him!”

“Not true. Jacob’s working
now.”

“Yeah . . . part-time.
What does he do all day alone out there, other than order fast food delivery on
your credit card?”

Vincent powered off the Lexus. He
had opened his gynecology practice fifteen years ago when real estate was worth
something and the mortgage rates were low. Then the economy had tanked and it
seemed as if the insurance companies fought every patient claim. Many of his
colleagues had dropped their medical malpractice insurance, getting patients to
sign waiver forms; others were strictly a cash business. Vin had fought going
that route, taking on extra hours to run weight-loss clinics two nights a week,
but the new schedule was exhausting. Plus he coached Wade’s little league
baseball team, and Helen had to drive Dylan to hockey practice, and Austin had
Taekwondo. By the time he got home and crawled into bed, Helen was asleep.

What kept Vincent Cope up late at
night was not the two mortgages or his ever-increasing overhead, or chasing
after insurance companies, it was the expenses looming ahead. Wade was fourteen,
Dylan thirteen, Austin eleven. When the boys’ hit the adolescent years there’d
be drivers’ licenses and auto insurance premiums that added up to another three
to four thousand dollars a year per teen driver . . .not to
mention college tuitions.

Vincent Cope laid his head back
on the leather upholstery.
God help me if they get into an Ivy League school . . . I
wonder if I can charge Helen’s mother to rent out the guest house?

 Dismissing the idea, the
gynecologist exited the car as a black cat scurried by and leapt into the open steel
receptacle, its actions igniting a chorus of angry hisses and feline protests
from within.

“Stupid cats. Quit digging
through my trash – that’s not fish you smell!” He kicked the side of the bin
then headed for the employee entrance located on the south side of the
building.

His nurse practitioner, Wanda
Jackson greeted him with his white lab coat and a sarcastic, “Afternoon, Dr.
Cope.”

“Don’t exaggerate. It’s only
nine-twenty.”

“Your first appointment was at
eight.”

“Mrs. Kleinhenz . . . What’d
you tell her?”

“Same thing I told all the
patients you blew off—that you had emergency surgery. I rescheduled Mrs.
Wishnov and Mrs. Goldfarb for this afternoon during your lunch break.”

“Wanda, I need my lunch break.”

“Well, too bad.”

“Wanda, I’m a forty-year-old man
and your employer; if I say I need my lunch break then I need my lunch break.”

“And I’m a forty-three-year-old
divorced black woman with two kids and bunions and I say have a protein bar and
an orange juice and watch your damn Internet porn later.”

“All right . . . just
keep your voice down. So how are little Trixie and Dixie?”

“Trevor’s a junior in high school
and Danielle just got the lead in her sixth grade musical.”

“I’m sure you’re very proud.”

“Oh, yeah. Now I get to lay out
sixty bucks a week for private singing lessons, and ya’ll know my ex ain’t
gonna help. You and me seriously need to discuss my raise.”

“Sure thing. Let’s do it today
during lunch.” Vincent patted her on the shoulder and headed to the nurse’s
station. “Okay ladies, the muffin king is here, where’s my first patient?”

Nurse Kim and Nurse Dawn look at
one another, covering up their giggles.

“What?”

“Room Two. A new patient. Chart’s
on the door.”

“Oh . . . kay.”
Vin walked down the hall to the exam room, casually checking his pants’ zipper.

Removing the chart from the bin
outside the door, he scanned the information.
Jeanne Pratt, age thirty-two.
Yeast infection.
He knocked and entered. “Ms. Pratt, I’m Dr. Cope . . . holy
Lou Ferrigno—”

The naked bodybuilder with the
deep tan and florescent-pink toe nails was sitting up on the exam table, the
dressing gown draped over his . . . 
her
chest.

“Sorry, doc. The exam gown didn’t
fit over my deltoids.”

“That’s because they’re made for . . . I
mean, no worries, as long as you’re not cold. Would you excuse me for just one
moment?”

Vin ducked out the door and into
the corridor where his two nurses were eavesdropping. “Is this a joke? Did Dr.
Berkowitz set this up?”

Nurse Kim shook her head. “So?
Does she have the doughnut or the hole?”

“A hole, obviously, or she’d be
seeing Berkowitz. Send Wanda in. And quit congregating.”

Vin reentered the exam room.
“Sorry. Since this is your first visit, I asked one of my nurses to join
us—it’s standard procedure. So? What kind of work do you do?”

“When I’m not competing, I run a
moving company with two other female bodybuilders. Pratt, Morrison and Shear . . . PMS
Movers.”

“Cute. Do you have a card? I may
need to hire you to move someone in about a month.”

“Business or domestic?”