“Well,” I say, and I laugh giddily, “I guess we’re just gonna have to find out.”
CHAPTER 4
I WAS DRIVING AROUND THE packed Costco parking lot
looking for a space and listening to some guy
on NPR talk about America’s growing suburban poor
when I saw this woman with four kids-
little stepladders, two-four-six-eight-
waiting to climb in the car while Mom
loaded a cask of peanut butter and
pallets of swimsuits into the back
of this all-wheel drive vehicle
and the kids were so cute I waved
and that’s when I saw the most amazing thing
as the woman bent over
to pick up a barrel
of grape juice:
her low-rise pants rose low and right there
in the small of her large back
stretched a single strained string,
a thin strap of fabric, yes,
the Devil’s floss, I shit you not
a thong, I swear to God, a thong,
now me, I’m okay with the thong
politically and aesthetically, I’m fine
with it being up there or out there,
or wherever it happens to be.
My only question is:
when did Moms start wearing them?
I remember my mom’s underwear
(Laundry was one of our chores:
we folded those things awkwardly,
like fitted sheets. We snapped them
like tablecloths. Thwap.
My sister stood on one end,
me on the other
and we walked toward each other
twice.
We folded those things
like big American flags,
hats off, respectful
careful not to let them
brush the ground.)
Now I know there are people out there
who constantly fret about
the Fabric of America:
gay couples getting married, violent videos, nasty TV,
that sort of thing.
But it seems to me
the Fabric of America
would be just fine
if there was a little bit more of it
in our mothers’ underpants.
And that is the issue I will run on
when I eventually run:
Getting our moms out of thongs
and back into hammocks
with leg holes
the way God
intended.
CHAPTER 5
BANDED STACKS OF BLOND boards
sit out back of the lumber store
and if you squint they look
a little like leftover cakes.
God, the end of a party
is always so sad
“This economy must be killing you guys,” I say at the lumber warehouse store where I’m pretending to shop for materials to make a tree fort for my boys. I hope I don’t sound too hopeful about the economy killing this particular business.
“Things have certainly slowed,” says Chuck as he flips through a catalogue for the kind of metal brace he is certain would be perfect for the imaginary tree fort I’m supposed to be building. “Luckily, the last few years were busy enough that a slowdown won’t be the worst thing in the world.”
It is cold inside this big warehouse store; the ceilings must be thirty feet high. Each narrow aisle is stacked nearly to the rafters with boards and posts and dowels and bags of concrete and plywood and doors and window sashes. The effect of all this scale is to shrink the people in here and I feel like a leprechaun, a tiny sprite come to this mystical woodland to shop among giants for a place to store my magic beans for the winter.
I have lived in this city most of my life and yet I’d never ventured into this lumber store until I found out-from Lisa’s chat last night-that her ex-boyfriend Chuck worked here. Setting aside what my never-going-to-a-lumber-store says about my manly bona fides, the important thing is that I’m here now, confronting my enemy, or at least seeing the infamous Chuck for myself. I am totally undercover. Chuck has no idea who I am. He hasn’t asked my name, and I don’t know why he would, but if he does, I’ve decided to go with the nom de guerre Jamie Skeet.
And here is my lightning quick assessment of my enemy’s strengths, relative to mine: (1) Chuck is taller. (2) Chuck is a few years younger and clearly in better shape. (3) Chuck really does have dreamy eyes. (I heard Lisa make this claim to a friend of ours once, when we were out with another couple, talking about why we fell for our first loves and Lisa said, “His eyes. Chuck had dreamy eyes.” Sadly, it’s true-a couple of dreamy blue orbs jut from that Cro-Magnon skull.) (4) Chuck looks good in his Carhartt work pants and does not seem to have the middle-aged disappearing-ass issue I’ve been battling the last few years (just being coldly objective about this). (5) Chuck is-I have to admit it-heartily handsome, those eyes astride carved cheeks over a square jaw. (6) Chuck is employed.
Another list-this one offered in my defense-of the reasons I may have underestimated my opponent for so many years, this
strapping and friendly man’s man who, I was well aware, had slept with my wife back in her nubile, flexible, childless years: (I) Whenever she mentioned this old boyfriend Chuck she would smile slightly, which I misinterpreted as an expression of disbelief that she’d ever dated such a monumental tool before finding true love with the man of her dreams. (II) Complacency led me to believe that Lisa and I had such a strong relationship that it didn’t matter who she’d dated before; her ex-boyfriends could’ve been George Clooney, Kobe Bryant and Abraham Lincoln and I wouldn’t have been smart enough to be intimidated. (III) I made the classic arrogant white-collar mistake of thinking that because I used my brain to support my family (back when I supported my family) I was superior to some dude who stacks lumber for a living. (IV) Dude who stacks lumber for a living is not the same as dude who works for hugely profitable family business, which he stands to inherit. (V) Whenever Lisa mentioned her ex-boyfriend Chuck Stehne I always spelled it in my mind Chuck Stain and, honestly, who could ever worry about a guy named Stain?
“Top ten rejected attractions at Disneyworld,” I say. “Number ten: Lumberland.”
Prince Chuck of Lumberland smiles politely and spins a photo of the steel double-reinforced brace, or whatever it is, so I can see it for myself. “This one.”
“Nope, all wrong,” I say. “That’s not what I’m looking for. Not even close.”
Chuck spins the catalogue so that he can see it again. “No, I really think this is what you’re looking for. I built a fort for my kids and this worked great. See, it stabilizes the posts here and here and-”
“You have kids?”
“Three.”
I glance at his ring-less left hand. “Married?”
“Divorced.” But he looks a little confused by this line of questioning, as if he can’t imagine what it has to do with fake tree fort construction.
I pretend to look back at the brace. “I don’t know. That looks pretty dangerous. I have two boys that I love more than anything. Love my boys and my wife. Their mother.”
“Sure,” Chuck says, looking at the catalogue. “Well, maybe a different style. We have some books.” He walks toward an aisle, and after a moment, I follow. We walk past all sorts of weapons that could be used on Chuck’s back, hammers and nail guns and pry bars-
Divorced. Shit. How do I fight divorced? Means he probably has his own house somewhere (probably not about to go into foreclosure); I was hoping the logistics of sneaking around might at least be difficult for them, but if he’s got his own place…shit, shit, shit.
Lisa is not someone who would stray from a marriage lightly but I see why now, because I know exactly what she’s attracted to-confidence, security, strength, stability-all of which Chuck has, none of which is exactly seeping from my pores these days.