The Writers Voice
The World's
Favourite Literary Website
Living Without Volume 19
by
Harry Buschman
"Look at me," Hughie said, "our kids are grown, only Steve is living with us.
Phyllis has all the appliances she'll ever need, the mortgage is paid, and I
retire next year. Why can't I watch the Giants/Packers game Sunday?"
Why did he ask me? I've been a widower so long I've forgotten what drives
women to do the things they do. I look at Hughie and I don't like what I see.
He's stretched tight and vulnerable, thirty four years in Savings and Loan is
enough for any man. He'll be stretched out a little more this weekend because
Phyllis is having a garage sale.
A woman can not accept a lethargic husband. The lawn will need mowing, the
sump pump won't pump sump, the cat's got another hairball. I think Phyllis's
grievances are as deeply rooted as their cat's hairball, (probably with good
reason). On the opposite side of the coin, men have no one to blame but
themselves, all of them are guilty of male inertia. It's something they think
their
family owes them. After a week at the office there's nothing more comforting to
a
man than knowing the liquor cabinet will see him through the weekend and the
television set is in working order. Any woman worth her salt, will not stand
for such idleness. In a nutshell, there you have the bloody battle of suburbia.
A wife, not a husband is the protector of the home and children. She protects
it by keeping her husband on his toes. She will send him off on wild goose
chases by telling him she hears strange noises in the middle of the night. She
will complain shrilly if the larder is bare, and she will make him regret any
conjugal digressions he may consider. This is her duty. This is what holds the
nest together. Without Phyllis to keep Hughie on his toes, I have no doubt
that he would be wandering the streets looking for five cent deposit bottles.
Husbands often read, and when they do, wives must interrupt them. Reading is
a form of idleness, it indicates a certain insulation from the family unit and
an interest in something outside the family circle. The children will not be
fed and the lady of the house may have to be content with last year's coat if
the husband is allowed to read.
Hughie went on ... "So I'm lying there reading the Lewinsky tapes, right?
Phyllis comes in and says did I hear how the school bus budget got turned down."
I hated to admit that I had read the Lewinsky tapes from beginning to end,
but at the same time, I had no idea that the school budget for buses was turned
down. "Gee, Hughie I didn't know that either ... that's going to be tough on
the kids who have to walk two blocks to school."
"No, you don't get it," he went on, "she's always doing that. The minute I
put my feet up, she's onto me about something, y'know what I mean?"
He went on to tell me that he tried to mumble responses to Phyllis, things
like, "You don't say", or "NO", uttered in a disbelieving tone of voice, while
still devoting most of his attention to Monica Lewinsky. That's when Phyllis
dropped the garage sale bomb.
"We're having a garage sale next week, Hughie. This house is getting on my
nerves ... look at that sofa you're stretched out on! That ratty rug! I want all
new! I want to redecorate!"
Hughie wondered what had gotten into her. He thought maybe he'd done
something wrong, really wrong, and maybe this was her way of striking back. He
didn't
have much time to wonder, however, Phyllis handed him 100 copies of a circular
she had made up on the computer.
"Here's your staple gun and a new box of staples -- move it Hughie, I can't
do everything." For the next week Hughie stapled a circular to every telephone
pole in Westlake Village.
That was two weeks ago; tomorrow and Sunday is the garage sale. I had nothing
better to do so I helped Hughie drag some of the heavier furniture outside.
There's something very mournful about indoor furniture when it's brought
outdoors into the daylight, even the light of a gray and somber day. We just
about
got the sofa out there when it began to drizzle, so we dragged it back in
again.
"The weather's going to be nice tomorrow," Hughie said plaintively, "Would
you mind coming over early and helping me drag out the sofa and roll up the rug
again?"
I reminded Hughie that his strapping teen age son might be pressed into
service to make the work a little lighter. No sooner had I spoken when the
tentative trumpet strains of Sousa's "Comrades of the Legion" could be heard
from
under my feet. It was Steve in the basement practicing for tomorrow's half time
festivities.
"It doesn't sound right on a trumpet," I told Hughie.
"He's playing the trombone part. The trombone section is grounded."
"Monkey business, huh?"
"They caught them smoking pot in the music room."
"How can you play a trombone's part on a trumpet?"
"Well, you can't exactly," Hughie explained. "That's why it sounds like it
does." We listened a moment longer and Hughie lowered his voice ... "sort of
strangulated, isn't it? Like somebody had the trombone by the balls." He sighed.
"Wish I could go, it's a home game,"
"I know," I answered, "Tony and I are going -- you won't be able to get away,
I suppose."
"You kidding? Phyllis'd kill me. I gotta be here until the bitter end
Saturday and be ready to go all day Sunday too."
When a man is caught in this situation, his male friends usually desert him.
They fear a similar fate -- the "dominant wife syndrome" may spread, and they
may find themselves rousted from their favorite chairs. Those that are not
married are loath to be hampered by their bound and shackled brethren. I was not
about to spend much time in Hughie's driveway that weekend, but I did help him
drag the sofa out again in the morning.
Tony and I had a great time at the game. It was a lovely warm October day --
just right for a homecoming football game, or a garage sale for that matter I
suppose. Hughie's son, Steve, the trumpeter, seemed to enjoy himself too, we
found him after the half time ceremonies were over, smoking pot with the rest
of the band under the stands.
We stopped at Hughie's house on our way home and it appeared very little had
been sold. The sofa was still there and in the late afternoon light you could
see the negative impression of Hughie himself on the cushions. Hughie and
Phyllis were haggling with an elderly bearded gentleman who seemed interested in
an almost complete set of National Geographic magazines beginning with January
1958. They settled on what I thought was a ridiculously low figure. It took
Hughie four trips to carry them out to the man's car.
After the Giants/Packers game on Sunday I dropped over to see Hughie again.
He was now in a sullen mood and the fact that the Giants won by a field goal in
the last 30 seconds didn't make it any easier for him. The sofa was still
there and so was an Encyclopedia Americana, vintage 1956. I've always been a
sucker for encyclopedias regardless of their age. If you're on the trail of
Greek
or Roman trivia, there isn't much difference between an encyclopedia published
in 1956 and one published today.
"How much do you want for the Americana, Hughie?"
"Well I'll tell you, volume 19 is missing ... here, I wrote it down, that's
MAYA to NAVAL RANK. I don't know what the hell happened to it, I think Stevie
left it out in the rain. You can have the rest of the set for five dollars, and
I'll throw in my rusty wheelbarrow to roll it home in."
Aside from medicine, merchandizing and metaphysics I couldn't think of
anything between Maya and Naval Rank that was of vital interest to me, and I
could
really use the wheelbarrow. It seemed to me that I was getting the better of
the bargain, so I offered to help him back in the house with the sofa again.
An old man trundling a wheelbarrow full of the Encyclopedia Americana,
(except for volume 19) is a grave and somber sight. If I had a shovel with me, I
might have been mistaken for Ludwig Bemelman's fourth class funeral, in which
the deceased is required to bury himself.
To spend eternity with the Encyclopedia Americana! It's not a bad deal when
you look at some of the other alternatives, even if volume 19 is missing.
©Harry Buschman 1998
(1480)
Critique this work
Click on the book to leave a comment about this work
