Twisted Sisters (19 page)

Seriously, aren’t men seeking competent, professional career women, especially those
who are national celebrities with brilliant educations and own their own homes? How
can anyone find a basement-dwelling hairdresser a more attractive choice?

Geri swoops in for the kill. “That was so hard for you, wasn’t it? Come here.” She
stands up across from me and opens her arms, and Kassel walks directly into them.
I watch in impotent fury as she tenderly cradles him in her arms. Clearly he needs
a friend right now, and if I were to call out Geri,
I’d
look like the jerk.

Geri seems so sincere in offering him solace that I almost don’t notice how she’s
extending her middle finger at me behind his back. Our eyes lock and she mouths,
Eff you,
at me.

Except this time she uses the whole word.

I’m about to yell,
Ma! Geri’s flipping me off!
when Aunt Helen comes to the door.

“Hey, kids, I know we’re all missing Aunt Sophia this year. The good news is I’ve
re-created her Jell-O salad!”

We’re Number One!

“Touchdown by number fifteen, Brandon Marshall!”

I confirm that all the Bears fans are cheering before I raise my giant foam finger
in victory. I suffered a small misstep earlier when Patrick Peterson of the Arizona
Cardinals intercepted a pass and I clapped. I quickly recovered, pretending that I
was simply trying to warm my hands. (Fortunately, the
Push
cameras weren’t on me when this happened.)

Let me ask you this—which genius city father decided that Chicago should build an
undomed stadium right next to the frigid lakefront? Do you have any idea how cold
it is when the wind whips off Lake Michigan? Thanks to the
Push
wardrobe department, I’m clad in what’s essentially a Bears-logo sleeping bag over
my thermal parka with long underwear and warmers in my boots, yet for all my layers,
I’m as chilled as if I were naked.

How is this fun? Why is anyone enjoying hanging out here? At this point, I don’t blame
Bernie for being agoraphobic if spending time on this icy tundra is the alternative.
I used to tell Boyd I’d never live in California permanently, but on days like today,
I question my lifelong devotion to this city.

And if I may, a couple of points to make about this football game itself—first, I
had no idea the Arizona Cardinals were an actual team. I thought they were fictional,
made up exclusively for the movie
Jerry Maguire
. (Side note: Cuba Gooding Jr., what happened?
You
could have been the next Will Smith. What are you doing now? Cell phone commercials?)

Second point? I almost asked the guy next to me whether he was sure the Cardinals
weren’t supposed to be a baseball team, but I caught myself. After all, I’m supposed
to be considered an expert.

Also, why doesn’t everyone on the field just try to run faster? Seems like we could
have this whole thing concluded a lot quicker if the men would show some hustle, like . . .
well, like Cuba Gooding Jr.’s character in
Jerry Maguire
.

Except I suspect he’s selling cell phones now.

Why is there no showboating in this game? The players are moving toward the goals
in three- and four-yard increments. Boring! I can’t say I’m a fan of how the youth
of America are being brainwashed about their own mediocrity by everyone winning a
trophy at youth soccer games, but my God, at least they scurry! You have an entire
field, men—why not use it?

Note to self: Task Ruby and Faye, and to a lesser extent Mindy, with finding an NFL
player who needs
Push
’s help. I would happily pilot one of those behemoth bods down the field at double
time, with a bonus end-zone dance. Come on, gentlemen—football is
entertainment
. Entertain me already.

As there’s zip happening on the field, I take a sip of my beer, which is at least
thirty degrees warmer than the air. Then I sneeze when the foam becomes trapped in
Bernie’s mustache. And BTW, Soldier Field vendors? Would it kill you to sell some
green tea? People are freezing out here, and everyone could up their intake of antioxidants!
At the very least, why aren’t you hawking Eel River certified organic IPA? Not only
do they use all natural ingredients, but the brewery is powered by lumber-mill leftovers,
so it’s clean
and
green. Instead, I’m stuck with Budweiser, which is essentially, what? Bilgewater?
However, since these aren’t my own taste buds, I find the Bud’s actually going down
smoothly. Weird.

So, yes, Deva and I were able to perpetrate another swap. Same deal as before with
the amulets, but this time we had to take an additional precaution, one that’s diametrically
opposed to my beliefs. I hate myself for perpetrating this kind of deception, and
yet, I’m already down this rabbit hole, with no choice but to go deeper if I’m to
come out the other side. (I presume that’s how rabbit holes work.)

To prepare for the swap, I had to do the unthinkable: suck up to Dr. Karen.

“How’s it going, Dr. Karen?” I asked, sidling into her dressing room. I fought the
urge to whip out a measuring tape, even though I’m almost sure her space is larger
than mine. But clearly she deserves it, for all the groundbreaking work she’s done
with the phobic who aren’t actually phobic.

I’d have definitely said something about the disparity in the size of our respective
rooms, but I needed to win her over to my side. Plus, after Thanksgiving, I was tired
of fighting.

“What brings you to my corner of the world, Reagan?” she asked.

Naturally she refused to call me “Doctor.” With her, it’s all MD or nothing at all.

“Oh, I was passing by and thought I’d tell you what a wonderful job you’ve done so
far this season.” The lies felt like ash in my mouth.

She preened and nodded, encouraging me to continue. “What have you been learning from
me?”

She patted her couch (she has a couch in her dressing room?) with her bony, spotty
claw. The hands are always the ultimate giveaway. I don’t care how much poison anyone
shoots into their faces to look young, their hands are always their personal portraits
of Dorian Gray.

She watched me imploringly, waiting for my answer. Let’s see . . . what have I learned
from Dr. Karen? Well, now I know how to coach a soap star into acting like she has
an actual disorder for the PR bump, how to drug a teen with anger-management problems
into oblivion without ever once inquiring as to the root of what was making her mad
in the first place, how to exploit former patients for financial gain, and also how
to apply lipstick far, far outside my lip line. “So much!” I brightly confirmed.

“I’ve been meaning to discuss Tabitha Baylee with you,” she said. “I felt your approach
with her lacked finesse, and frankly when she was on that ledge, she seemed coached.
The whole ordeal seemed a bit . . . showy.”

I had to ask myself if this was even worth it. But, with my end goal in mind, I proceeded
anyway.

“You don’t say,” I responded mildly.

“Yes, and the equestrian? Did you instruct her to leap over that bar after she mounted
her horse? A little pedestrian, don’t you think?”

Oh, really? I’d like to see you do better, bi—
Ahem. “How might you have approached the interaction differently?”

“Reagan, my dear, I wish I had the time to share the secrets of all my years of experience.”

It was all I could do not to issue a smug-storm warning, cautioning local residents
to stock up on driveway salt and eggs, milk, and bread.

“So . . . how’s your book going?”

“Brilliantly, of course.”

Of course. “I look forward to reading it.”

“Our entire
nation
looks forward to reading it.”

Oh, no! The Homeland Smug-curity level has been raised to red! Take cover!

I had no choice but to proceed. “You’ve been such a tireless advocate for Thanwell
that I’ve completely rearranged my way of thinking. Obviously, I’m under a lot of
stress with the show and I’m struggling with insomnia, so I’m wondering if this drug
might help me.”

Words cannot even describe the smug-alanche that followed. I was afraid I’d be buried
underneath it for days until the ski patrol dug me out.

Suffice it to say, I received not only a Thanwell prescription, but also a boatload
of free samples and a couple of Thanwell pens and a handy tote bag. (Sure, Thanwell
loves how much she prescribes their drug now, but just wait ’til her stupid book comes
out. We’ll see who’s doling out notepads then.) Much like a street-drug dealer, Dr.
Karen wanted to guarantee I had enough supplies to become good and hooked. I had to
assure myself that this was a perfectly reasonable way for a television psychologist
to behave, even if it violated everything a psychologist who happened to be on television
would do.

As soon as Deva, Bernie, and I started to meditate pregame, I swallowed half a Thanwell,
and within ten minutes, I was sedated to the point of sleep. That’s when Deva placed
the amulets around our necks. My body was out seconds after the swap, so the actual
Bernie in his Reagan vessel was down for the count in the supply closet we’d appropriated
as a dressing room. I ran a comb through my new mustache, threw on my cold-weather
gear, and went out to greet the camera crews.

And now I’m in the stands, freezing my brand-new testicles off.

Which brings me to my next point: I may have a small problem.

Rather, Bernie may have a small problem. At no point did it occur to me that having
a tiny bladder might be one of Bernie’s myriad issues. Yet here we are. There’s at
least an hour to go in the game and there’s no way I can hold it that long.

Why did Bernie/I drink so many beers? I despise beer.

I try to distract myself with the action on the field, except there is no action on
the field. Come on, guys, I’ve run farther for a taxi. Faster, too.

Despite being full to bursting, I find myself taking another generous swig of beer.
Stop it, Bernie’s body! Don’t do this to yourself! Or myself! Or whichever one of
us is actually wearing these pants right now.

Someone in a dark shirt (a Bear, yes?) catches the ball and he actually begins to
book down the field. Well, all right! This is what I’m talking about! You! In the
white pants! Go! Run very fast! That’s it! The whole crowd is on their feet, cheering,
and I’m swept up with them.

Touchdown!

Everyone who isn’t high-fiving one another is hugging. I never wanted to touch a stranger
before, yet here I am, liberally doling out backslaps and fist bumps. Funny, but I
sense a bond with the community of fans here, despite the weather and the terrible
beverages.

Okay, this football thing is beginning to make some sense. I can see how people might
enjoy gathering and observing the spectacle that is an enormous man finally, finally
putting some grass between himself and the other players. There’s real joy to be had.
More so if there were a dome over the field, but still. Maybe if Pepperdine had a
football team, I’d have experienced this sooner. (FYI, I didn’t even realize U of
C had a team until I was a junior.) Granted, my family members are huge football fans,
but they also eat at Wieners Circle and vacation in Florida, so it’s not like I’ve
ever considered them paragons of judgment.

But this? I could get used to this.

As I sit here, surrounded by a crowd of strangers all rallying together to root for
the same goal, I wish it were Bernie who was experiencing this rush. He deserves this
epiphany, not me. Yet I’m also acutely aware of how hard this would actually have
been for him if he were really here. Suddenly, I want to mourn the fact that this
really isn’t his accomplishment. After the cameras are put away and the crowd returns
home, Bernie won’t have conquered anything, and come next season, he’ll still be sitting
alone in his apartment while all his buddies are at the game. That’s not fair.

I pledge to help him any way that I can after the fact.

But for now, I shall chug this beer.

(It’s possible, Bernie’s body, that we may need to have a chat about your predilection
for alcohol consumption.)

When the crew notices I’ve drained my glass, Faye sends Mindy down with yet another
Budweiser. Ladies, enabling? Really? And yet Bernie’s hand grasps the glass like a
life preserver, much to the chagrin of Bernie’s bladder. Because clearly I’m not running
this show.

We’re reaching critical mass here, at least in terms of Bernie’s urethra.

I try to envision warm, arid places, in the hopes that I could possibly reabsorb this
excess beer. Isn’t that what long-haul truckers do? No, wait, I just read an article
on Salon.com about how big-rig drivers have a higher incidence of kidney problems.
Damn. I already usurped Bernie of this magical experience called professional football—I
don’t want to impinge his fluid and electrolyte regulation as well.

I have no choice but to void.

With much trepidation, I shimmy out of my sleeping bag and set down my beer; then
I climb the stands until I can exit under the seats. I spot a ladies’ room first and
begin to queue up until I notice a bunch of women who look like Geri giving me the
evil eye. Whoops, my bad, ladies!

The men’s room is down a few paces and the line’s not nearly as long. For the first
time in my life, I’m cheered by this inequity. As I snake my way into the bathroom,
I notice there are two options—urinals and stalls. Clearly I want privacy because
I’ve not exactly operated Bernie’s equipment before.

I wait for a stall to open. A couple of the toilets are out of order, and the rest
of the options appear to be occupied for the long haul. Through the seam of the doors,
I can see little glimpses of the men on their thrones, and it would appear that they’re
all busy on some sort of personal electronic device. Men! Now is not the time to play
Tetris!

A hefty guy in an Urlacher jersey with a neck like a honey-baked ham gives me a slight
shove. “Shit or go blind, pal,” he says, nudging me not so gently toward the urinals.
I have no choice but to comply, as I don’t want poor Bernie to take a punch. With
his agoraphobia and this unfortunate mustache, I feel he’s suffered enough.

I position myself in front of the urinal and then I . . . I . . . Huh. I’m unsure
what comes next. How does this work? Do I unzip or do I just pull everything up and
over my waistband? Does that include the berries as well as the twig? Is it like an
udder—is milking required?

From the corner of my eye, I try to observe the moderately intoxicated man on my right.
Aha, unzipping is the way to go, followed by a simple grip. Noted.

My goodness, he just goes and goes and goes, doesn’t he?

The guy spots me observing his
business
. “Take a picture, jag-off, it lasts longer,” he barks, flushing and exiting, without
benefit of hand washing.

I’d judge him, except I fear I may have inadvertently eye-raped him.