Alan was about to opine his distaste for that expression but let it pass. Let Ellen keep her clichés, both conversational and comedic. He slipped the silvery disk back onto its spindle and put his prized SCTV box set back on the shelf. He was tearing through pack after pack of batteries, watching them over and over again, but the laughter justified the waste. Too bad Ellen couldn’t enjoy them. Sure, she thought they were sort of amusing, but that kind of faint praise just irritated him. He’d never met a woman who recognized that SCTV was infinitely superior to SNL. He’d never even met one that liked it all that much. Was this a gender thing, like The Three Stooges? Alan thought that kind of stereotypical men-versus-women stuff was bunk. He didn’t like The Three Stooges, either. Ellen wasn’t stupid, but she was a tad conventional. Maybe more than conventional. Pedestrian. More people liked SNL, it was as simple as that. It didn’t matter. He could enjoy the Second City episodes with headphones on.
“I said can’t we agree to disagree?” Ellen repeated, impatience straining her lovely features.
“Of course.” They hugged and retreated to their corners, he to watch another episode, she to do another crossword puzzle. As he plucked another disk from the case Ellen cleared her throat theatrically and gave him a hard stare. “What?” he asked, hoping to avoid further turpitude.
“You haven’t painted lately. Or done any drawing.”
“I’m taking a breather, okay? Maybe I haven’t been touched by the muse. Maybe I just want to chill and catch up with a little video. Am I allowed?”
“Of course you’re allowed,” Ellen said, attempting to keep her voice neutral. “It’s just you were such a dynamo before you got that DVD thingy. I’m not saying you’re not entitled to a little downtime, but…” Alan raised an eyebrow. “Never mind. Watch your shows. Enjoy.”
“Thank you.”
Ellen watched Alan slip on the headphones, the gesture eerily evocative of Mona and her ever-present earbuds. As he lapsed into a state of televisual bliss, Ellen felt a virulent wave of disconsolation. Alan’s posture seemed to mimic Mike’s, the way he slouched on the sofa, legs up on the ottoman, ankles crossed. The way his toes flexed when he laughed. Alan’s face relaxed as the vintage comedy soothed him, but Ellen’s expression began to collapse. This couldn’t be over an argument about their preferences in comedy. The wave of disconsolation turned into a wave of nausea. She got up from the dining table and bolted into the bedroom, reaching the window just as the rise in her gorge crested. A torrent of partially digested food spewed out, dousing the zombies below, none of whom seemed to mind.
How long had it been since she’d vomited? It almost seemed decadent. But maybe some of the food was tainted-lack of refrigeration and all. Ellen gagged up a few more blasts, then slumped down and let her head drop between her knees. For a few long unhappy months in high school Ellen had had a flirtation with bulimia. Alan reliving happier times in the living room; Ellen reliving unhappier times in the bedroom. Her puke splattered all over where Mike had been slaughtered, consumed, possibly digested by those filthy, hateful, unnatural things.
Mike.
Her husband.
Former.
Father of her child.
Former.
Former husband. Former child.
Former everything.
Her sobs drowned out by Alan’s headphones, Ellen’s body drew in on itself, convulsed in sorrow.
Eddie wiped spooge off his hand with a paper napkin, his right bicep burning from exertion. Ever since he’d liberated his cache of DVDs from his old boudoir he’d been Stroker Ace squared. Dave sat on the couch and thumbed through an old issue of Time, the cover story of which was rampant obesity in America. Ah, for the good old days. Dave wasn’t really reading, though. He feigned indifference to Eddie’s incessant onanism but inside he was seething. And hurting. How Eddie could prefer servicing himself over having actual sex with an actual human being was beyond Dave. It was like what they’d developed together was an accident, a phase. Dave kept offering to facilitate Eddie’s pleasure, even if it meant Eddie’s eyes being glued to the seven-inch monitor. But Eddie wasn’t having it. Now that he’d scored his porn, Dave was out of the loop.
“How many times can you watch the same scene?” Dave asked.
“You know what you sound like? You sound like a fuckin’ woman,” Eddie scowled. “Anyone ever tell you that?”
“Just you.”
“So maybe you should let it penetrate that thick skull of yours.”
Dave chose not to take the opportunity to return an obvious smutty riposte. Instead he slid off the futon and left the apartment, garnering nary a peep of protest from Mr. Tommasi. Fine. Let him indulge in his pathetic backslide. Then he’d come crawling back to Dave and maybe, just maybe Dave would have him back. Who was he kidding? Of course he’d allow him back in.
Out in the hall Dave pressed his face against the cool stucco and sighed. When had his life devolved into a same-sex soap opera? Were all the girls he’d banged throughout high school and college just a smoke screen? His attraction to them had felt real at the time, but then again, he never bonded emotionally with any of them. Real bonds had only been forged with male companions, especially Eddie. He let out a deep breath and walked up the flight of stairs to the roof. Dabney would be up there. Could he fake conviviality? It didn’t matter. Dabney wasn’t the type to natter on unless you expressly sought that kind of interaction. Let him sit with his pile of bricks and play “stone the zombie.” Dave took another deep breath and pushed open the door.
Though the sun was lost in a gauzy white haze, the light was intense to Dave, especially after having been indoors. He shielded his eyes and fished his Giants baseball cap out of his back pocket. Instead of lying belly down on his tarp, Dabney was seated at an aluminum folding card table doing something Dave couldn’t quite discern. A conversational opener presented itself-something to distract from his current romantic woe-so Dave, attempting to affect insouciance, strolled over and took it.
“Whatcha doing?” he asked as he approached. Dabney was hunched over and wearing thick magnifying glasses, something Dave had never witnessed before on the older man. He neared the table and saw many small parts, some loose, some still connected to plastic sprues. Dabney was building a model kit. How adorable. Wait a minute. Did Dave really think that? Was he being ironic or facetious or patronizing? No, it was adorable, this middle-aged man using a pair of eyebrow tweezers to delicately assemble parts from this, what was it, model airplane, maybe?
“Makin’ a North American P-51D Mustang. Good way to pass time, plus the glue gets you a little high.” Dabney looked up and smiled. “Just kidding. Takes more than a little glue for me. Speaking of which, you want a beer? You look like you could use one.”
“Uh, sure. Thanks.” Dave hadn’t even thought to ask Mona for suds. Stupid. Dabney handed him a bottle of Heineken and Dave held back the urge to weep with gratitude.
“All these little parts and pieces. Been a while since I put one of these together. My boys used to be wild for these things. They liked doing the hot rods and whatnot, but I prefer planes.” Dabney looked up at the sky, scanning for nothing. “I used to complain about the roar of jet planes, ’specially during TV shows. Used to have to turn the volume up to compete with them. Now I’d give my left nut for a plane to go zipping by up there. Even if it wasn’t meant for me, least it would be a sign of something going on out there. Some sign that maybe there were others. Before Mona showed, last sign we had of life was that crash, and that was snuffed out before it even made an impression. I asked Mona if she’s encountered any others on her errands and she said no. There’s gotta be others. Just maybe not around here.”