I turn on the light and breathe and what a different kind of world it is with you, Mary Kay. In my old world, I left the mug of urine behind and it drove me to the brink, to Los Angeles. But in our world, I take the mug with me and the mug is made of paper. It will disintegrate. And Bainbridge is showing off today—gray skies turning blue—and I am safe and there is no urine in this cup. There never was. It’s just coffee, and I pour the coffee on the damp ground—always damp, permanently moist—and I recycle the cup and I like our world. I do. I like the squirrel that sits nearby and I like the woman in a North Face jacket and I like her happy black Lab and I am beaming. Smiling ear to ear and this is why people love horror stories: It’s not for the gore. It’s for the moment when the good guy escapes just like you wanted him to because it means that for once on this unjust, dying planet, the good guy wins.
I feel inspired. I text your rat: Hey man, I got a buddy in town. HUGE FAN. We’re up at Dock Street and if THE Phil DiMarco showed up unannounced. Just sayin’…
* * *
Two hours later, I’m sitting on a picnic table in the woods by the dock when your rat’s jalopy comes into view. He gets out of the car, more puffed up than he’s been in a while.
“Jay,” he says. “It’s your lucky day. Where’s your buddy at?”
“Oh shit,” I say. “I should have texted you but my buddy had to go meet up with some chick he met in the airport.”
He is a deflated balloon—the poor fucker just tweeted about how much he loves to surprise his Philistans. He lights a Marlboro Red. “No big whoop,” he says. “Good to get out of the house.” He leans against a tree by my table. That’s Phil. Always leaning. “You been good?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Some shit went down with my mom, but it’s all good.”
Phil feels so sorry for himself right now. He drove here ready to dazzle a fan and now he has to listen to me talk about my mother. Ha. He has no choice but to ask me what happened.
“Oh shit,” I say. “I don’t know where to begin…”
“Women stuff?”
I nod and he snorts. “Try living with one.”
Bingo. “Hard times with the wife?”
“I’m in a fight for my life. It’s the kinda shit you can only understand if you’ve been married for twenty years…” Typical narcissist. “We’re doing it, ya know, we’re in counseling, we’ve both made some mistakes but tonight… tonight my boys are in town.”
“No shit? Where?”
He withholds the details. For now. “Point I’m trying to make… see my boys mean something to me, man. And my wife is acting like she’s my mother… They do that. They get mixed up in their heads.”
“Jesus. She won’t let you go see the guys?”
“She wants me to watch a movie with her. Says I have to. I been a bad boy…”
“Oh come on,” I say. “She married a bad boy.”
He smiles. “This is true.”
“I don’t know shit about marriage…” Yes I fucking do. “But to me, a marriage is kinda like a guitar, right? You need tension in those strings or you can’t make any music.”
Phil blows a smoke ring. “The protégé makes a good point, yes he does.”
I keep going, Mary Kay. I tell him that you want him to fight back, to be more like the rebel she married. He flicks his cigarette in the woods—such a fucking asshole—and the suspense might kill me. He blows a smoke ring.
“So,” he says. “How’d ya like to meet the band?”
* * *
A couple hours later, Phil and I are in the city. Free men. Ready to rage.
He lights a cigarette and I check my inside pocket for my Rachael Ray knife. Of course I brought a weapon. This is the city and as we all know, cities are not Cedar Fucking Cove.
He has to check in with Ready Freddy to make sure I’m good to get in and I check up on you. You’re making an Instagram story about getting ready for #DateNight—the denial is disturbing—and you’re dressing up like Winona Ryder in a flowery sack dress—not your look—and Phil finishes up his call with Ready Freddy and sighs.
“Jesus. She’s still bugging me about this fucking movie night.”
“Did you tell her you’re not going?”
“I told her I’m in a meeting,” he says. “She should know better than to bug me.”
We get into an Uber—I order the car, as if it’s my honor—and he’s lecturing the driver about music—Huh, I’ve never heard of “Drake”—and the driver will be right to give me a shitty rating. I make sure my phone is on mute and watch a new scene in your Instagram story. You changed into a Red Bed red T-shirt and pajama pants. Psychic Hotline Depressed Winona. You look scared. Defeated. You know he’s not coming to play husband. Why don’t you just give up?
Phil groans. “Another text. Jesus, woman, lay off.”
I keep my mouth shut and Phil whistles at the driver. “Hey man,” he says. “We’re gonna jump out right here.”
We’re two blocks away from the bar and we’re on the sidewalk and Phil tells me to stop.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” he says. “I just gotta make a quick call.”
He leans against a building and he can’t call you right now, in front of me. I’ve managed to keep my life with Phil separate from our life and that’s no easy thing in Cedar Fucking Cove. If he puts me on the phone to back up whatever bullshit story he’s got planned, we die. He’s praying—don’t pick up don’t pick up—and I am on his side for once—don’t pick up, don’t pick up—and he bounces in his boots. “Voicemail!”
He lights a cigarette and he’s a hands-free smoker. “Hey, Em, so listen. My sponsor thinks it’s not a good move for me to go on the date night thing. The therapy we’re doing is great, but it’s a lot on me.” He’s not a musician, Mary Kay. He’s an actor. “I’m in the weeds and it’s not about the boys. I just can’t do a big-ass night with book people… I love you, Em. I just… I can’t be your guy. Not tonight.” And then he winks at me. “And come on. You said it. It’s just one night. You know if I’m not sober, I’m nothing. Dresser gets done tomorrow, I swear. Love ya, babe.”
It’s a miracle that I don’t throw up on the sidewalk and we walk to the Tractor Tavern and it’s not what I expected but it’s what I should have expected. The goons at the door are right out of central casting and they need dental surgery and you can feel them hoping they get to bust out the pepper spray. There’s a poster that makes big promises—ALL religions. ALL countries of origin. ALL sexual orientations. ALL genders. We stand by you and YOU ARE SAFE HERE—and I bet these guys piss on that sign every night.
“All right,” Phil says. “Lemme do some business first. You’ll meet the guys after they jam. You don’t wanna meet them now, when they’re all nervous and shit.”
I happily hide by the bar like a shy fan boy and Phil’s boys are not happy to see him. This isn’t even a real concert, it’s a glorified open mic, but the way they suck up the oxygen makes me want to jump on the bar and scream YOU ARE NOT WARREN ZEVON NOT ONE OF YOU. My phone pings. You added to your story and the story is a sad one. Reality Bites is a bust. Only four couples showed up—three Mothballs and one we-just-moved-here newlyweds—and none of them are in costume and there you are in a sleeveless red T-shirt, stuck in the movie without Ben Stiller, without Troy. And you know what? Fuck the fecal-eyed multigenerational family and fuck the knit skullcap couple too because how dare they do this to you?