don't feel like going
to work today, I tell David in the car this morning.
about if we play
hooky?" I suggest hopefully. It's not too late: we're not even halfway
to my office yet. I've got my cell phone in my purse. We could pull off
the freeway, right now, and call in 'sick' (or 'busy,' or 'horny,' or
'not interested in wasting the next nine hours of our lives on a bunch
of stoopid demeaning mind-numbing crap that we'll just have to do all
over again tomorrow'). Then we could go home and load the bikes into
the back of the Subaru, and we could pick up some energy bars and some
Gatorade at Walgreen's, and we could spend the morning riding from
Crockett to Martinez and back. Afterwards we could stop for lunch at
The Dead Fish ... maybe come back to the apartment, after that, and
indulge in a long drooling afternoon nap.
we could even
squeeze in a game of 'Yahtzee,'" I say, winking suggestively. If sex
doesn't sell the idea, nothing will.
David isn't buying.
He feels my pain, he says. He doesn't want to work today any more than
*I* do. (If my current dissatisfaction with my job feels like the end
the honeymoon, his is like the middle-third of the bitter bloody
protracted Divorce War.) Unfortunately, he points out, fulltime
employment is one of the grim realities of our lives as a married
couple right now. "We have to work," he reminds me, "so that one day we
have to work."
we're pulling into
the Dirt Company parking lot, even as we speak. So it's all sort of a
moot point anyway.
parking lot is
weirdly deserted for a Wednesday morning. Obviously a lot of other
people have not only thought about playing hooky today (thereby jumping
the gun on the upcoming Fourth of July weekend), they've actually
through on the impulse. With a sigh, I reach into the back seat and
begin gathering up my purse, my laptop, my library book, my little
Tupperware container of cottage cheese and fruit.
parking," I tell David. "You can just let me out at the back
pulls the Subaru up to the end of the row, next to the rear entrance,
and idles there for a moment while I take a last peek in the mirror.
When I'm ready to go, I reach over and give him a perfunctory kiss
goodbye. "See you tonight," I say, and I grab the door handle and
prepare to jump out of the car.
he's not satisfied.
"Give me a better kiss than that," he growls, laying a hand on my
thigh. "We're not going to see each other for nine whole hours."
I lean into him
and offer up my lips for a nice, prolonged smoochfest. Maybe this
morning isn't going to be a complete wash-out, after all. But just as
our lips meet -- just as things start to get the littlest bit
interesting -- there is a sudden horrific blast of noise behind us ...
the sonic equivalent of the bucket of cold water on our ardor.
Astonished, we whirl
around and look out the rear view window. There is an SUV on our
bumper: one of those ridiculous, bloated monoliths the size of Mount
Tamalpais. I recognize the driver: he works in the office next door to
The Dirt Company. He's the guy I always see pounding on the elevator
button, swearing at the water fountain, kicking the vending
machine because it isn't dispensing his box of Milk Duds fast enough.
Now he's got this entire vast deserted expanse of parking lot at his
disposal ... and he's honking at us because we're blocking the parking
spot he wants.
guess I've got to
go," I sigh. And I give David the Readers Digest Condensed Version of
the goodbye kiss. (He'll have to wait till tonight to get the expanded
version.) As I climb out of the Subaru -- "I love you," I say to him,
with tender regret -- the SUV driver guns his engine impatiently a
couple of times. The moment David pulls away, the SUV roars around me
in a blaze of noisy/smelly/pissy glory and slides into the parking spot
nearest the door. As he passes, I shoot him a look of unvarnished
disgust. Why don't you just
us, you ridiculous little fudkwit?
I want to say to him.
about your tiny penis, I want to
say to him.
it be great if this is the worst thing that happens to you today?
I want to say to him: if
you're forced to wait an extra four and a half seconds to dock your oil
tanker while a husband kisses his wife goodbye?
I don't say any such
thing, of course. I don't say anything at all. Instead, I wave to David
as he drives away ... I run my key card through the security scanner
and let myself into the building ... and I head upstairs to forfeit
another nine hours of my life to a bunch of stoopid demeaning
mind-numbing crap that I'll just have to do all over again tomorrow.
to throw a rock?