The moment we got back to the house, the television went on as if nothing had happened. Monica was splayed out on the sofa and I was pedaling furiously on the bike. We'd gotten home just in time for "Sixty Minutes II," which Monica claimed to prefer to "Sixty Minutes." Monica's legs were covered with broken blood vessels and her thighs and ass were thickened with cellulite. She wore dark orthopedic stockings that she rolled up above her knees. Yet I still felt pangs, having tasted the old life (to be precise it was Monica who'd done the actual tasting). Our encounters had been like the seismic shifts of an earthquake that leave a path of open cracks begging to be filled. I wanted her. I jumped off the bike, edged into the little space left on the couch next to her, and threw my arms around her. Monica looked at me as if 1 were crazy. "You're sweaty" was the only thing she said.
Whenever I'm upset, I've learned to go down for twenty, which in work-out lingo means twenty pushups. In this case, 1 did twenty pushups, fifty jack knives (because you need to strengthen your central core at times of emotional turmoil), and another twenty pushups on my knuckles with my fists together, which is an excellent way to strengthen the triceps-a muscle that had fallen into disuse since we'd stopped fucking. 1 wanted to say to Monica get off the couch, shake it up, do some lunges, do some squats. 1 wanted to pass on what I'd learned, but it was too late. Monica had a hard enough time getting up off the couch when she took one of her infrequent breaks from eating and watching television. Even if she could have joined me, I wouldn't have been totally free to enjoy it because of the emissions of gas that came out of her both before and after arising and the horrendous odors that emanated from her when she attempted to move her body. When she got up, she sounded like a car whose distributor cap was broken. There was a little sputtering, like minor sniper fire, followed by an explosion that was remarkably similar to the blast from a twelve-gauge shotgun.
But things had never been perfect, had they? As someone in the program once put it, there's always a fly in the ointment. From the day 1 first laid eyes on Monica-an event which didn't occur until quite a while after we'd begun sexual relations-1 didn't remember a time when I hadn't felt something was missing. What 1 had learnt was that having a relationship requires give and take. Sometimes this giving and taking involved the basics of everyday life. I gave Monica the Swanson's Boneless White Meat Fried Chicken Hungry-Man after I pulled it piping hot from the microwave, and she took it. This giving and taking could involve even simpler activities. In the morning when Monica was finally able to pull herself out of bed after a long night of eating and television-watching, she'd belch, let out couple of loud farts, and then call out from the bathroom, "Where's the toothpaste?" She never remembered where the toothpaste was and 1 often found myself welling up with anger. I felt put upon. Wly do I have to constantly tell her where the toothpaste is? Why do I have to do everything? Then a calm came over me when I realized that the joy of a relationship came from being able to give unconditionally. 1 profited in the act of giving. 1 was not always able to calculate my reward-especially when I saw Monica glued to the television set with the discarded box from a twelvepack of Dunkin Donuts sitting by her side-yet, nevertheless, I felt assured it would come. Part of having faith, I'd learned after all the months of recovery, had to do with realizing that though you may not be getting what you want, you are ending up with what you need.
After all the turmoil we had been through, we had finally settled into a routine, but God, if he exists, likes to play tricks. Just at the point when Monica and I achieved the kind of predictable existence that both of us desired-at least in one part of our beings-something came along to upset the apple cart. We were watching television while Monica ate and 1 rode the stationary bike. We'd been in a state of effortless contentment when Monica swallowed a bone. Whether it's a penis or a piece of food, Monica has always had to have something in her mouth. 1 had warned her time and time again eat slowly, chew your food carefully, but you can't control another person. As they say in the program, were powerless over people, places, and things. And speaking of things, she never listened to a thing I said. In all fairness, the accident might not have occurred if I hadn't mistakenly bought the regular Swanson's Fried Chicken dinner instead of the Boneless White Meat Fried Chicken Hungry-Man which Monica was more accustomed to. I've watched Monica enough to realize she doesn't think when she eats. She probably didn't even notice the difference. A normal person takes note of bones, gristle, and other impediments, but Monica was not likely to pay attention. Her mouth was like a garbage compactor grinding up anything that's put into it-except that unlike a garbage compactor, it was also attached to a human body. A bone was lodged in her trachea and she was gasping for air. I knew both of our lives were on the line. She was the one who looked as if she would die, and I knew I couldn't live without her.
I tried to pick her up so that I could apply the Heimlich maneuver, but she wouldn't budge. She was like a panicked drowning person who becomes a threat to the rescuer. Even as she was gagging, she was choking me to death with her big arms. Finally, I threw her off and came behind her back, but when I got there I realized my arms wouldn't fit around her. In desperation I began to shake her and pound her chest with my fists. She was turning purple. I gave her one final punch in the stomach. I knew I wasn't hurting her. Her stomach was like one of those fluffy but firm hotel pillows.
The punch had its desired effect. She heaved an enormous sigh that reminded me of King Kong. Then there was a rumbling reminiscent of the sound of waves building up on the eastern end of Long Island during hurricane season, and all of a sudden, a terrific recoil. I don't know what it sounds like when a volcano begins to spew lava, but I'll wager the rolling, undulating roar that emanated from Monica's stomach wasn't very far off, if only from the harmonic point of view. The bone cascaded out of her mouth along with what at first was a steady flow of vomit. The vomit looked like the cement that rolls down the chute of one of those big trucks with the rotating barrels. This initial even-handed outflow, which created a puddle in front of our television, then turned into a more violent spewing that covered the screen and all my exercise equipment. I was both aghast and relieved.
Finally, like all natural eruptions, the disturbance subsidedbut not without one final blast of fury that landed right in my face, dripping down to soil my clothes. At first I'd held my arms out to her and exclaimed, "Thank God you're alive." When, however, her vomit hit me right in the face like a gale-force wind, my instinctive disgust overcame the feelings of gratitude and 1 began a violent heaving all my own. I vomited right back in her face, but considering my superior mobility, I was able to propel myself to the bathroom to prevent an even further mess. 1 must have thrown up for a half an hour. I won't say I felt cleansed. It's hard to feel cleansed when, after having had your head stuck in a filthy toilet bowl, you walk out to see an almost 300-pound woman sitting prostrate, marooned in the remains of your regurgitated life together.
We looked at each other. Monica still had vomit all over the flowery smock dress that she perpetually wore, and I thought to myself what is she going to do? She loves that old smock dress, and I don't think they sell that style at Wal-Mart anymore. I myself was no fashion plate. When I gazed at myself in the plastic heart-shaped mirror that hung on our living room wall, in which we used to see the image of our writhing naked bodies, I noticed that vomit had caked into my hair. I walked closer to Monica, navigating my way to avoid the especially slippery areas. If she hadn't been sitting in her own puddle of vomit, I might have plunked myself right down next to her. I actually contemplated the possibility until the fumes got to me and I started to gag. I couldn't afford to start up once more. I'd already had the dry heaves. There was nothing left inside of me. So, like Romeo calling to his beloved as he stood on the street below her balcony, I sang my praises at arms length. I told Monica I loved her. I told her that the stinking mess in our living room only reminded me how much I cared about her and valued our life together. I also mentioned that we were going to need to call a professional cleaning service.