Halfway There (8 page)

There was a heaviness on my chest. I didn't want to open my eyes, so I rolled over instead. I heard my cat
thud
on the floor beside me. He wasn't happy. I knew he would be coming back to lie on my head in revenge. I turned over again and hid my head beneath my pillow. Plop. I could feel his little kitty paws digging into the fluff just above my eyes. He was in full assault mode and nothing would appease him. I sat up and pushed the cat off. The room began to spin. I reached over to wake Ellen, but found only covers. I lay back down. The cat moseyed back onto my chest.

I closed my eyes, trying to figure out why I felt so bad. With a little work, I determined that it was Saturday. I risked opening my eyes a bit to look out the window. It was late Saturday morning; that meant
something had happened the night before. Friday night. Ah, that was it: Friday night had happened. Ellen had come home unexpectedly, so our neighbors had come around too. Ellen was their magnet. Where she was, they gathered. Beth came over after her husband came home. It was her husband's job to watch their son a couple of evenings a week to give Beth a break. Eric, one of the gay boys next door, had stopped by for a chat. Glenda might even have come by later, but for most of the night it was only Ellen, Beth, and me.

There was wine, scotch, beer, and pizza, lots of pizza. Pizza when you're drinking is almost always better than sex because when you drink, sex is usually unfulfilling, while pizza never fails to please, especially Saint Louis' famous pizza, Imo's.

Imo's is a monument to all that is gooey, crunchy, and delicious. It comes piping hot, thin-crusted, smothered in sweet sauce, and topped in great quantities with Provel cheese. It is an acquired taste, but once you have a taste for it, there's nothing better.

I inched up onto my elbows. Thinking about Imo's pizza was helping my dry mouth and aching head come together to sour my stomach. I couldn't hide my pain in sleep anymore. It was time to put my feet
on the floor and face the day. I looked down at my cat.

“This is all your fault, you know?”

He licked his paw with a self-confidence that dripped with indifference, and closed his eyes. As far as he was concerned his job was finished.

I made my way downstairs into the kitchen.

“Hey there, little one, you don't look so good. Want some hair of the dog?” Ellen came over and slipped her arms around me. I let my head fall on her shoulder. A little moan escaped me. “How about a Bloody Mary?” she continued.

“You're not funny.”

“You thought I was hilarious last night.” She pulled away and went back to making coffee.

“I've also been known to carry on conversations with myself when I'm drunk, so what does that tell you?”

“That you have good taste?”

I groaned and poured myself coffee with lots of sugar. I sat down at the table and tried to gather my thoughts. Other than a dull throbbing between my eyes, my head was empty. There was nothing in there, only pulsing gray matter, a sure sign that today would be a long unremarkable marathon of couch, soda pop,
and television.

“You'd feel better if you had something to eat. Why don't we go to Uncle Bill's?”

Ah, good old Uncle Bill's, known for its heaps of bacon, butter-soaked toast, and eggs any way you liked them. It was the perfect place to recover from hangovers or to satisfy the munchies, depending on your drug of choice. I considered it for a moment. It was better than lying on the couch all day.

“Okay, but you're driving.” I took in a deep breath and willed my body up from the table to get dressed. It was a long trip back up the stairs.

With effort, I dug out a pair of jeans from the dark recesses of the closet. Slowly, very slowly, I slipped one leg in and lost my balance. The floor was hard and unyielding. I pulled my leg back out and sat down on the bed. I tried again. Both legs in. That was good. I stood up and tugged at the waistband. I couldn't get the jeans past my hips. I yanked and wiggled. I walked around the room shifting my hips back and forth to no avail. Fuck it. I went back to the closet pushing the stupid jeans off my legs. Another pair out and another failure. Despite a fleeting hope that the third time might be the charm, I took out a pair of sweatpants. I slid into their cotton softness with ease. It took a few minutes
to tie my tennis shoes, but eventually I was dressed and ready to go. True to her word, Ellen drove while I hung my head out of the open window letting the cool air rush over my sweaty forehead. In a few minutes we were in a booth contemplating a wonderful variety of “greasy-spoon” specials.

“What'll you two girls have?” our waitress asked.

“I'll have a couple of eggs over easy, bacon, toast, and a side of biscuits and gravy.”

“And you?” the waitress looked over at me.

“Two poached eggs, sausage, wheat toast, and a large tomato juice with lemon, please.”

“All right, thanks.” She tucked her pencil behind her ear and was gone.

“You know what I want after this?” Ellen asked. I shook my head. “I want a big fat chocolate shake from Steak 'n Shake.”

“God, don't say ‘fat'.”

“We're not going to talk about losing weight while we're eating, are we?”

“I tried on two pairs of jeans this morning. I couldn't get into either of them.”

“Maybe they were the old jeans I told you to throw away. You look fine to me.”

“You always say that.”

“You've trained me well.”

“I'm serious, though. We only have ‘old' jeans because, well, because we've outgrown them.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“I am!”

The waitress came with our order. I watched Ellen dig into her biscuits. They looked really good. The gravy was white and thick with little dark specks of sausage sprinkled liberally throughout. I would have poured ketchup all over it, but then my tastes are a bit different. I poked the eggs and dipped my buttery toast into their golden juiciness. A bite of sausage completed the experience. One forkful led to another and all too quickly my plate was empty. I leaned back in my chair. The elastic in my pants was beginning to itch.

“Why is it that the clothes you want to wear when you're the most relaxed are the very same ones you're supposed to wear to work out?”

“Freedom to move around? Jeans are never as comfortable as sweats.”

I scratched my stomach. By that definition, I would need to buy new sweat pants not because I wanted to sweat in them, but because I wanted to be more comfortable when I ate.

“How fat have you ever been?” I asked.

“That is beyond a doubt the worst question asked at the worst time I could possibly imagine. I'm not telling you.”

“More than you weigh now?”

Ellen raised an eyebrow. I was entering territory that was obviously off-limits.

“I am not going to talk about this with you. Come on; let's go home.”

It was a long drive. Ellen wasn't speaking to me. I leaned my head against the window and let the bright sunlight warm my face. I closed my eyes and drifted.

“Do you want your own milkshake or do you want to share one?” I heard from a long distance, across a vast room where people lounged about on couches, sipping cocktails. They were laughing at a joke I hadn't heard.

“What? Uh, no; I'm good.” I sat up. I tried to keep a neutral face as Ellen ordered a large chocolate shake. I watched as she took it from the cashier's hand. I watched her push in the straw. I watched as she sucked the thick, dark liquid up the straw and through her lips. My tongue tingled. I think my mouth actually watered. I reached over to take the frosty drink from her.

“Hey! Get your own. I asked if you wanted one.” Ellen yanked it back.

“I didn't want a whole one.”

“Well, I want a whole one.”

“I bet you could be convinced.” I leaned over and brushed my fingers up her thigh.

“Don't start something you're not in the mood to finish,” she answered through a mouthful of sweet chocolate gooeyness.

“Just give me a sip, would you?” I pleaded.

She handed over the cup. It was cool, sweet, and satisfying. “Oh, that's good,” I said and took another sip, deeper this time. I sucked the creamy, rich, icy liquid into my mouth and let it linger on my tongue. Yeah, it was good. With great reluctance, I handed the nectar back and let Ellen finish up.

When we got home, I lumbered up the stairs. I hesitated as I reached the top. To the right was our bedroom, and to the left was the den where the couch and television were waiting. It wasn't difficult to decide which way to turn. There was no way I was getting naked today, so sex was out of the question.

I quickly gathered up the pillows from our bed and went into the den. Before you could say “what's on?” I was comfortably ensconced atop my fluffy
pillows and beneath a warm comforter. I switched on the television. This had to be a slice of heaven.

“I thought you had something else in mind,” Ellen said from the doorway.

“Oh, come on. Lie down here with me awhile. We'll watch a little TV and relax.”

“You're not in the mood, are you?”

“Why is it when I have a hangover, you think it's an invitation to sex?”

“Maybe it's because you seemed interested when there was a milkshake involved.” Ellen pulled back the comforter and sat down at the opposite end of the couch. She pulled my feet onto her lap.

“What do you want to watch?”

“I don't care.” I tossed the channel changer over to her.

“Now I know you don't feel well. You never let me have the channel changer.”

“Really, I don't care. I'm just going to lie here and relax.” I closed my eyes.

I listened to Ellen flip through the channels. A talk show. A drama. A sitcom. The usuals for a Saturday. In a sad sort of way, it reminded me of when I was a little girl.

When I was young, Saturday mornings were the
best. I got up early while everyone was still asleep and went into the kitchen. Mom always kept the cereal in the bottom cabinet. I looked over the selections and pulled out one of the boxes. As I recall, “Count Chocula” was my favorite.

With breakfast in hand, I scurried into the living room for a morning filled with
Bugs Bunny, Scooby-Doo
, and
Speed Racer
, all my favorites. Whatever happened to all those shows, anyway? Back then, there was something to watch from about seven in the morning until noon. Of course, my mother would usually turn off the “trash” long before then.

She never understood how I could sit in front of the television for hours at a time. To her, and therefore for me, good weather meant an afternoon riding my bike through the neighborhood and hanging out with other kids whose mothers also had turned their televisions off. Bad weather meant going into the playroom where, I have to admit, I had an obnoxious number of toys. The bike riding was the best though, even if it meant turning off the TV.

I rode for hours with friends or on my own. Every street held a different treasure. There were endless sidewalks to discover and endless people to annoy. My favorite thing was to try to get lost and then
find my way home again. One time, I was gone so long my parents called the police. I was grounded for the better part of a month, but it had been worth it. When it came right down to it, I think my mother was right. The world is a whole lot more interesting than television.

I opened my eyes.

“You know what I think we ought to do today?”

“Finish the yard work?”

“No. God, no. I think we ought to find something to explore.”

“Like what?”

“Why not go camping?”

“Does everything need to be a big event?”

“How does camping qualify as a big event?”

“For one, there's packing. For another, there's driving. Then, there's the unpacking—”

“You're a real pain in the ass. How about hiking? Let's go to a conservation area.”

“You find the place, and I'll think about it. But I mean it about the yard work. Have you actually looked at the back yard?”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“Because it's ours, maybe?”

“Yeah, but really, why do we have to do anything
about it? Can't you just hire some kid trying to work her way through college?”

“Gee, I wonder why we don't do that. Maybe because you'd be a little too interested in the yard, then?”

“You have a point.”

“Besides, I think one of the joys of owning a house is the yard work.”

“Oh really, why is that?”

“Because it feels good to take care of something you value.”

“God. Do you know how sappy you sound?”

“Whatever. It's how I feel.”

“You really want to go outside in the hot sun and work on the yard?”

“It might make you feel better.”

“How about we compromise?” I had to ask. This ploy usually worked well for me.

“With you, compromise means we do what you want first, then, if there's time, we argue about what I want to do.”

“Have some faith, will you? Let's go to Forest Park and walk one of the trails, then come back and do the yard work.”

“See? I told you. Your stuff first. I can see it now. There will be a sprained ankle, or we'll get lost, or—”

“All right, already. Let's do the yard.” I had been hoping to avoid any real work. Cutting the grass was not my idea of communing with nature. Communing with nature meant hearing the birds, smelling the earth, and feeling cool, fresh air across my skin. Ellen wanted me to listen to the lawn mower roar, smell gas, and let sweat drip from my armpits. It wasn't the “back to nature” I had in mind.

“You know why you want to go camping, don't you?”

“Enlighten me.”

“You got all worked up because you're feeling old and fat.”