And I find myself wondering once again just what in the mystifying hell an able, well-read, fairly intelligent, sensitive, personable, successful minor organization executive like myself, sound in health (if not in tooth), provocative in wit, still virile and still attractive to many susceptible ladies my own age and much younger, is doing engaged seriously in such a low, directionless argument with two such people (children) as them, my shallow, melancholy, slightly inebriated, self-pitying wife (I often try to figure out what it was I ever saw in her so long ago that made me think I loved her and wanted to spend the rest of my life with her, except her good and willing ass, which is still not so bad and now even more willing. All in all, in fact, in the long run, I think I enjoy fucking my wife more than I do any of the others, although most of the ones I have gone with a second tune or more have been pretty good, too, and full of very surprising surprises, for a while. Jane in the Art Department will be a headache — I sense that already; she is gullible and unsophisticated and she likes to talk; her skin will be so clear and smooth it will almost hum to my touch, but she is still too young and pleasant, or simple-minded, to make much sense to me now. Some girls laugh a bit too loudly at just about everything amusing I say and drive me batty, between erections, once I recognize they laugh so readily and talk too much. That will be young, sweet, pleasant Jane. I know her already. But I also know I will grab for it lecherously at the next company party or sooner; and that I don't think I will want her to keep on working there with me after I do: she is a present I intend to give myself for Christmas this year, or earlier, and I am already in the process of wrapping her up) and my depressing, self-centered, self-pitying daughter, when I would much rather be concentrating on something else, on those two speeches I want to begin outlining (I like to get started on important things well in advance, on a long convention speech in case I am moved up into Kagle's job by then and am nominally in charge of the whole affair, and on my customary, unexciting, three-minute speech about the plans and activities of my department in case I am not moved up into Kagle's job and am still working for Green, who probably won't let me give it this time, either. I hate Green and will never forgive him or forget him for what he did to me at the convention by not letting me speak. I really don't want Andy Kagle's job — I never did want to do that kind of work or have power over so many people — but I will be heartbroken now if they don't give it to me: I will feel betrayed and disgraced, and I will want to slink away alone into someplace dark and weep and never come out. I am too weak to refuse it, and too vain to be indifferent to the honor. I don't even really need the extra money) and on the list of changes I will want to recommend when I am promoted into Ragle's job. (I will want to show Arthur Baron and Horace White that I am ready. There are people in nearly all our offices I will want to be rid of. I wish I could be rid of Green now, although I don't know who could replace him.)
"Tell me," my wife repeats shrilly. "What do I do?"
"You give me," I answer, "a pain in the ass. Both of you!" I add emphatically, with a long, warning look at my daughter to let her know unmistakably that I am including her also this time in my ire, and to deprive her of that pasty, crafty glee she customarily evinces whenever I turn abusive to my wife.
"Don't yell at me," my wife snaps.
"I wasn't yelling," I explain. "I was speaking emphatically."
"I can yell too, you know."
"You are."
"And don't say things like that to me, not in front of the children. Ever again. I don't care how you talk to me when we're alone."
"Like what?"
"What you said."
"Then stop being one."
"You're so clever."
"I know."
"It's no wonder they use such filthy language, when they listen to you. It's no wonder they talk to me the way they do."
"Oh, stop."
"I'm not going to let you talk to me with such disrespect," my wife goes on vehemently. "Not anymore. Not even when we're alone. I'm not going to put up with it. Do you hear me?"
"Fuck off now," I tell her quietly. "Both of you." My wife is stung. Tears spurt into her eyes. (I am sorry immediately. I feel small and shameful already for having said that.)
"I could kill you for that," she tells me softly.
"Then kill me," I taunt.
"I wish there was someplace I could go."
"I'll find one."
"I wish I had money of my own."
"I'll give it to you."
"That's some way," my daughter observes softly in a petulant tone, "for a father to talk to a fifteen-year-old child."
"Go — " I begin (and pause to conceal a smile, for her reproof is humorous and ingratiating, and I am tempted to laugh and congratulate her) "- away to boarding school."
"I wish I could."
"You can."
"You stop me."
"Not anymore. And that's some way," I exclaim, "for a fifteen-year-old child to talk to her father."
"I didn't —»
"Yes, you —»
"I only started —»
"— and you know it. I get — you know something, kid? I bet you'll never guess in a million years what I get from all these frank and honest discussions of yours that you insist on having with me."
"Headaches."
"You guessed!" I declare, hoping that I will be able to make her laugh. "I get piercing headaches," I continue (pompously, after I fail, for I feel myself inflating grandly, and crossly, with a delicious thrill of outrage. I am nearly ecstatic with grievance, and I forge ahead vigorously in joyous pursuit of revenge). "Yes, I get piercing headaches from all those brain tumors and cerebral hemorrhages you keep giving me. And stabbing chest pains from all the heart attacks you keep telling me you wouldn't feel so unhappy about if I got.I would feel unhappy if I got one! In fact, I'm starting to feel pretty damned miserable from having to listen to both of you tell me all the time how miserable you feel." My wife and daughter are silent now and cowering submissively (and a flood of self-righteous gratification begins to permeate and sweeten my throbbing sense of injury. I feel so sorry for myself it is almost unbearably delicious. I also feel mighty: I feel potent and articulate, and part of me wishes that Green or someone else I yearn to impress, like Jane, or Horace White, or perhaps some terribly rich and famous beauty with marvelous tits and glossy hair, were in a position to witness me so fluent and dominating). "I'm sick," I remark misleadingly in a falling voice, just to puzzle them further a moment. "Yes, by now I am sick and tired of having both of you people come barging in here, into my study, whenever you feel like it, just to tell me what a lousy husband and father you think I am."
"You were reading a magazine," my wife remarks.
"You too?" I jeer.
"We're going."
"This is my study," I remind her caustically (and desperately) in a surly, rising voice, as she turns to leave. "Isn't it? And now that I think of it, just what the hell are both of you doing in here right now — in my study — when I've got so many important things I want to get done?"
"Which is more important?" my wife makes the mistake of asking. "Your own wife and daughter, or those other important things?"
"Please get out," I answer. "That's the kind of question I never want to be asked again the rest of my life."
"All right. We'll go."
"So go."
"Come on."
"No, stay!" I blurt out suddenly at both of them.
"We're going."
"You stay!" I demand.
"Aren't we?"
(All at once, it is of obsessive importance to me — more important to me now than anything else in the whole world — that they stay, and thatI be the one who is driven out. Out of my study. My eyes fill with tears; I don't know why; they are tears not of anger but of injured pride. It's a tantrum, and I am obliged to give myself up to it unresistingly.)
"I'll go!" I cry, as both of them stare at me in bafflement. I stride toward the door with tears of martyred grief. "And stop sneaking these extra chairs in," I add, with what sounds like a sniffle.