"Yes, you're not as sexual. You're experiencing your limits. You can't have everything. If you want to become real people you have to experience boundaries. That's reality, James. Before, you were living in a state of polymorphous perversity, but you didn't have any selves. Now you have well-defined personalities. You have likes and dislikes. You argue over what foods you like and what to watch on the tube. That's what marriage is for most people. That's love. From my perspective, you folks love each other very much."
Shapiro crossed his arms after gently running his fingers through his phantom hair. We had a half an hour to go in our session, but he looked like a man who didn't need to say another word. I kept thinking about the hunting metaphor and the stuffed heads on the walls. If he was going to be truthful, he'd have to be our taxidermist rather than our couples counselor; then he'd have true renderings of the creatures he'd subdued. There was no doubt he was satisfied with his work.
We'd always driven or called for a taxi to take us back and forth from Shapiro's office, but since Monica was no longer compelled to run home to roll in paint and play Eliza Doolittle to my latterday Henry Higgins, Helen Frankenthaler to my bullying Clement Greenberg in abstractionist terms, we had started to walk. Our town is full of little bits of late Victoriana-many of the old mansions have turrets-that were fun to study and talk about on the way home. But after that penultimate session, Monica insisted we call a cab, and once we were in the cab, she was sullen and unforthcoming.
"I thought you would want to celebrate."
"You don't get it, do you? He wants to give our hour away to someone else."
"We pay our bills."
"He realizes we're on the way out and he spotted some new prey on the horizon. If he doesn't snare them quickly…."
"Hold on a second. General Shapiro made it very clear he wanted to help us."
"He wanted to help us, and now that he's helped us, he wants to get rid of us. Love indeed!"
"You don't think we love each other?"
"Well, what's your opinion, James?"
"I asked you."
"I don't call it love when you refuse to even watch one episode of `Survivor' with me."
"Lots of couples watch different television programs."
"Okay, fine. Let's buy two TVs. You go in the bedroom, and I'll watch in the living room." Our changing interests clearly dictated new design options. The bedroom would be decorated with a "Sixty Minutes" news magazine decor while the living room would be the more lived-in reality-television environment.
C99
Our last session with General Shapiro was devoted almost entirely to our problems watching television. Monica wanted me to be something 1 wasn't-a lover of reality television. Again the problem of limits was coming up. Monica's inability to accept the imperfection of the universe was causing her unhappiness. But General Shapiro was distracted, even bored. He kept looking at his door, as if anticipating some new arrival-some inchoate bit of matter, the unformed clay of the maladaptive relationship that he could mold into a new trophy, a new testament to his talents as a healer.
Monica grudgingly began to accept that Sunday night was a special time for me. I'd come to cherish "Sixty Minutes," which is the grandfather of all the great television-magazine programs. She came to understand I would be a little more distracted, a little less attentive to her interests because I had just watched "Sixty Minutes." We were both learning to accommodate our likes and dislikes. After "Sixty Minutes" was over, I generally experienced some degree of depression and she left me alone. There had been some rough Sundays when she watched something after "Sixty Minutes" and sought validation for her feelings of excitement about the program. But she came to understand she didn't need me to affirm her. She'd made a choice and that was enough. Constantly asking me, "What do you think, isn't such and such exciting, romantic, suspenseful?" — when I was depressed about having to wait another week until the next "Sixty Minutes"-had caused several spats. We were growing. And there were moments when Monica paused from her own excitement to exhibit sympathy for the loss I was feeling. That was also progress.
We both realized there was no need for the bunker. When we'd first found the concrete cinderblock structure in the deserted factory area of town, it felt like an oasis. We were able to fuck without causing structural damage to the edifice we occupied. It was probably the way people prone to grand mal seizures feel after waking up to find themselves in a safe, padded cell. But with our life changing, we had new requirements when it came to real estate, one of which was our enduring interest in ordering in Chinese food. Now that we weren't fucking our brains out, Ting looked bored, and we were back to square one when it came to calling for deliveries. It took hours for him to come, and he'd often send replacements who couldn't find our address. When they did, they could be surly, uncooperative, and perpetually argumentative about the tip. We needed to move to a place that was closer to the major Chinese restaurants so we could get our food delivered in a timely manner. On Sundays, with everyone in town ordering in Chinese food, we were never going to get what we wanted in time to watch our programs. Of course we could order hours in advance to insure we'd get it in time for say, "Sixty Minutes," but then the food would be traveling around on some delivery boy's bicycle and it would arrive cold.
1 was also getting tired. It's hard enough trying to communicate with the Chinese people taking the orders; every time I gave my address, there would be a long silence. In the background, 1'd hear urgent voices talking the Mandarin dialect. I don't know too many Chinese restaurants that turn down customers. So they'd reluctantly take the order, but there was much irritation, especially when we tried to confirm the number of rices that came with the main dishes or we asked for an extra bag of noodles with the wonton soup.
We had been fucking our brains out at the time we rented the bunker, so naturally neither of us remembered signing any leases but apparently we had. We made an appointment with our landlord, John, who turned out to be a recovering sex addict himself. When we explained to him that when we had moved in six months before, we had been young and inexperienced, but were now trying to build decent lives in which we could watch television together, he was fully understanding of our plight. He admitted he was aware we were going to be a handful from the moment his property manager described the shenanigans that went on in the rental office. On the other hand he knew the concrete bunker was the safest structure in town when it came to turbulence within the psyche or without. The bunker had also had a sobering effect on the previous tenants, a couple so enamored of each other that paramedics had to be called on several occasions to pry them apart. He said he was glad that letting ourselves play out our tumultuous love, without the interruption of neighbors complaining about broken beams or chipping plaster, had brought us back to our senses. He happily cancelled our lease. We had a week to move out and find a new place. During that week, several real estate brokers came by with prospective tenants-including a pair of lesbians who were leaders of our town's only female motorcycle gang, a dominatrix who wanted to turn the place into a dungeon, and a married couple who hated each other, but couldn't imagine what life would be like without their constant fighting.
We left our waterbed. We told each other it was leaking and about to burst, but neither of us wanted to admit we no longer needed it. Waterbeds are great when you spend most of your time fucking, but they're terrible when you're tired and need to simply fall asleep. They never stop undulating and you can actually get motion sickness if you're the type of person who needs to read before sleeping. We were lucky we were able to get our old apartment back. In addition, Bill was looking for an excuse to break away from his aerobics teacher, who'd become too possessive. He was happy to cook us a welcome-home dinner. Bill was still in love with me, but he was no longer jealous of my relationship with Monica, and that first night back we all noted how well we got along.