The Shrew’s Tale by Simon Nadel

Adam likes to trade celebrities. He says it makes him feel a little better after someone he particularly revered has died.

It all started with Heath Ledger. “It should have been Matthew McConaughey,” he said at the time. I said that was mean, but yes, it would have been better. Everytime I think about the last scene in “Brokeback Mountain” my eyes fill with tears. Heath was amazing. #gonetoosoon

But now it’s not comforting or clever anymore. Like so much in a long marriage, what once was charming is now just annoying. At their most malignant, these formerly endearing quirks can make you study the blade of a kitchen knife. This wasn’t that bad. Yet.

I knew it was coming. I heard about Ray Liotta on the way home. Adam’s watched “Goodfellas” far too many times. He knows every scene, line-by-line. Again, not throat-cutting bad but definitely less appealing than it was 25 years ago.

I brace myself as he sits in his leather chair with a drink next to him. He’ll say it’s his first but he knows I won’t believe him. Just like he’ll say he looked at the job boards. We’ve silently agreed to let his bullshit go uncommented on. The Cold War phase.

“Why couldn’t it have been Mel Gibson?” he says.

At least it’s a reasonable trade. Same occupation, similar age. But lately it’s always Mel Gibson. When Adam Schlesinger died, it was Mel Gibson. When Christina Applegate got MS, it was Mel Gibson. When Stephen Strasburg got thoracic outlet syndrome, it was Mel Gibson.

“You’ve gotta find somebody new,” I say. “It can’t always be Mel Gibson.”

Adam raises his glass. “Fuck that racist, misogynistic, antisemite,” he says. “He deserves all of it.” He takes a sip. “I can make you one. It’s Friday after all.”

I sigh. It’s always Friday for you. “I’m gonna get on the Peloton,” I say. “Are they downstairs?”

Adam smiles. This is the one thing that unites us. That we don’t want them in our basement and that neither of us has a clue how to get them out. “Where else would they be?” he says.

Opening the basement door unleashes a fog of cat piss and weed. It could be just one or the other–I can’t tell them apart anymore–but it’s most likely both. They never change the litter and they smoke a ton of weed. It’s definitely both.

A former co-worker, April, had her grown son and his girlfriend living in her basement. Neither worked. The girlfriend would steal all of April’s prescription medications. I wondered why she didn’t just kick them out. I pitied April and I knew I’d never be in that situation.

“Hey sweetie,” I yell from the top of the stairs. I’m not going down there. I can’t face it after a long day.

 “Hey mom,” Max yells up at me. “How was work?”

“It was good. How was your day?”

“It was good.” Her voice is cheerful. I love my little girl. Even though she’s no longer little. And dropped out of college. And amazingly found a boyfriend just as aimless as she is.

“Hi Javier,” I say.

“Hi,” he says. His voice is flat, monotone. He’s okay. He could be worse.

“Barry says hi also,” Max yells. Barry provides the vital cat piss component. He was named by a woman at the animal shelter who was really fond of our former mayor.

“Hi Barry.”

I can hear Max giggle. “Love you, mom,” she yells.

“Love you too, sweetie.”

I close the door, sealing the three of them in their malodorous lair. At least they’re not stealing any of my medications. Why would they? They’ve got plenty of their own.

Adam’s in the kitchen. I hear ice cubes clinking. Is that his third? Fourth? At this point it hardly matters. He looks guilty when I enter the kitchen. “They want to go to Florida,” he says, as if trying to distract me.

“What? Why do they want to go to Florida?”

“There’s some new roller coaster they want to go on, I think.” Some bourbon splashes on the counter and Adam fumbles around to quickly wipe it up. Is he slurring?

I fill up a water bottle. I’m not going to engage in the Florida nonsense. “Is there a reason they never stay at his parents’ house?” I ask.

Adam slips the bourbon back into the cabinet. Why bother when we both know you’re not done with it? “I guess they just feel more comfortable here,” he says.

“Yeah,” I say, the disapproval in my voice impossible to hide, “because you let them smoke pot all day.”

Adam shrugs. “They don’t smoke pot all day. They also play video games.”

A few months ago I might have laughed. “Has she done anything more with her application?”

He shrugs again. “You’d have to ask her.”

“You’re her father,” I say. “I’m asking you.”

“Maybe we can talk to her about it tomorrow.”

And tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. Mr. Pretend Writer should appreciate that. “Did you at least write today?” I ask.

He’s already almost done with drink number-whatever. “I didn’t feel inspired,” he says. “I can’t create anything worthwhile unless inspiration comes my way.”

I reach into the knife drawer and pull out the one with the sharpest blade. Then I walk toward Adam. “Excuse me,” I say as I reach around him and open the refrigerator. I grab a lemon, cut off a slice, and squeeze it into my water bottle.

Upstairs in the bedroom I put on leggings. I take my blouse off and look at the hickey on my left breast. Younger men, I think, they definitely have their benefits, but also their drawbacks. The hickey, well, that could go in either column. I put on a tank top and get on the bike.

Adam writes stories about a middle-aged Jewish writer. They’re pretty good but they’re essentially all the same. The character’s wife is either a nag or they’re divorced or she’s dead. It can make a gal wonder. If she’s dead it gives fictional Adam the chance to have a cathartic moment at the end where he finally breaks down and it’s so sad and he’s so sensitive and there’s a chance I just might throw up. In the less saccharine stories, pretend Adam usually flirts with a much younger woman. She’s a bartender or a barista. He seems to fetishize women who prepare and serve drinks. In the end the fictionalized version of my husband is too virtuous to sleep with the all-too-willing twenty-something. It’s all a little too chaste for me.

Maybe Adam should try to write something from the wife’s perspective. Her husband doesn’t work but he also doesn’t cook, clean, or do any yard work or home repairs. It’s like he still has a job but the job has absolutely zero requirements, and pays a commensurate salary. She worries about her daughter, who seems to have let one little setback completely derail her. So she supports these two ne’er-do-wells and is rewarded for it by being treated like an overbearing third grade teacher. It doesn’t sound like the most uplifting tale, but I bet Adam could liven it up, maybe with a racy bit where the wife gives herself a brief pick-me-up by fucking a junior associate in the break room. That story sounds like it could be pretty damn good. Maybe he’ll write it, if inspiration ever comes his way again.

Simon Nadel 

Image: Pixabay.com – glass of whisky on a dark background