“Wiping feet.”
“Uh, yeah. When I mentioned not tracking stuff in, that really isn’t number one.”
“You must tell,” said Serge. “The knowledge that is the source of all truth…” He got up and bent into a Karate Kid pose.
“Number one is actually peeing.”
“Hold that thought.” Serge stuck a finger in his ear and wiggled it around. “Must have wax buildup. I thought I heard you say peeing.”
“I did,” said Jim. “There are all kinds of guidebooks to educate the genders about each other’s sexual physiology. But the real ignorance zone is how we urinate.”
“Jim,” asked Serge, “are you on some kind of medication where you’re not allowed to drink alcohol?”
“Hear me out. You ever wander into the ladies’ room by mistake, like at a restaurant?”
“Who hasn’t?”
“What did you notice?”
“It was clean,” said Serge. “Like an operating room.”
“And men’s restrooms?”
“A disgrace,” said Serge. “Especially when it’s a busy place like a sports arena, and all the urinals are taken and they have to use the toilets to pee. Might as well set a pack of chimpanzees loose in there.”
“Exactly,” said Jim. “Men were built for urinals, not toilets. But homes only have toilets. Even the most careful guy can’t prevent a certain amount of sprinkle and ambient mist, not to mention a little splashing from the bowl if your stream’s strong enough.”
“I follow,” said Serge. “Women don’t realize we really are trying as hard as we can, but it’s a curse. They think we’re not aiming at all.” Serge looked across the table. “Country?”
She raised her mouth from the chimney. “You aren’t aiming. You just go in hosing wherever you like.”
“Yeah,” said City. “We’re tired of cleaning that nastiness up.”
Serge looked back at Jim. “Pray tell, what can we possibly do? We’re only men.”
“If you really love a woman,” said Jim, “then right at the beginning of the relationship, you have to get your arms around the urine issue. After every use, wipe the place down like you’re leaving a crime scene because, in a way, you are.”
“Brilliant!” said Serge. “Any other gems? Like earlier when I saw Martha outside yelling like a banshee, and you were trying to explain yourself. Explaining goes against everything I’ve ever heard, centuries of men comparing notes. Have you made some kind of breakthrough that hasn’t hit the news yet?”
“No.” Jim looked down at the table. “Trying to explain was a mistake. It’s the toilet thing again.”
Serge sat back in surprise. “But after all you just said. I thought you were the master.”
“I did, too,” said Jim. “But that’s another thing: You’re always learning. Like tonight I was in the living room watching a football game, and we have this bathroom off to the side. Actually, a half bath because it doesn’t have a tub, which some claim might cost you on the resale, but others believe new kitchen countertops-”
“Jim!” begged Serge. “We’re grasping for knowledge! In God’s name, focus!”
“… But anyway, I leave the bathroom door open so I can still hear the play-by-play, and right in the middle of doing my business, I hear the announcer go nuts, the halfback is in the open, racing down the right side for the tying score. So naturally I look over my shoulder to see the touchdown. And wouldn’t you know it? Martha picks that exact moment to walk by, and she yells, ‘Jim!’ And I say, ‘What?’ And she detonates, but I still don’t know what I’ve done.”
“What did you do?”
“What did he do?” said City. “He wasn’t paying attention!”
“But it was a touchdown,” said Serge.
“So football’s more important than his wife?” said Country.
“But it was the tying score,” said Coleman.
“It’s just a stupid game,” said City. “He needs to keep his eyes on the bowl at all times.”
Serge scoffed. “It’s not like he’s capturing a rattlesnake.”
“It’s worse!” said City. “It’s symbolic of his disrespect for her contributions to their union.”
Jim sagged against the table. “That’s what Martha said.”
“What about the explaining?” asked Serge.
“She said if I really wanted to see the touchdown, I could have stopped going.”
“But you can’t stop the stream,” said Serge.
“Yes he could have,” said City.
“It’s impossible,” said Coleman.
“No it’s not,” said Country. “Men just don’t want to make the commitment.”
Serge shook his head and turned back to Jim. “You were saying?”
“So then I tried explaining that it was no big deal, meaning if there were any drops, I could quickly wipe them up, but she took it to mean that all her hard work keeping the house nice was no big deal.”
“That’s an easy one,” said Serge. “With women, you don’t get to pick the meaning of what you mean. They do. All men understand this.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” said Country.
“It means that when you’re arguing, you have to watch your words carefully.”
“You just don’t respect women,” said City.
“That’s not what I meant,” said Serge.
“Don’t try to take back what you said!”
Serge sighed. “I think we’ve made a breakthrough. Up to now, the division between the sexes was this: liking and not liking the Three Stooges. Who would have thought it was actually touchdowns and peeing?”
Country offered the whiskey bottle. “Another round, Jim?”
He shook his head. “Better not on an empty stomach.”
Serge slapped his forehead. “Where’s our hospitality? The first guest to our new family castle and we haven’t offered him anything
… Coleman, get him something to eat.”
“Like what?”
“Anything.” Serge stood. “Country, come with me. I want to show you something. I’m taking Christmas big!”
They left the table and walked around the corner.
A half hour passed.
“Serge?…” said Coleman. “Serge, where are you?” He walked through the kitchen. “Serge?…”
He turned down the hall and stopped. There they were beneath the mistletoe. Serge and Country, buck naked on the hardwood floor humping their brains out.
“… Yes!.. Faster!..” Country’s teeth gnashed. “… Harder! Fuck it harder!..”
“Serge,” said Coleman, “I thought you were just supposed to kiss beneath the mistletoe.”
Serge looked up and smiled. “I’m taking Christmas big!.. Why are you interrupting us?”
“It’s Jim,” said Coleman. “I think we might have a problem.”
Chapter Nine
Serge jumped up. “What’s the matter with Jim? What kind of problem?”
Coleman pointed back in the general direction of the living room. “You need to come see.”
Serge zipped up some shorts. “Country, don’t move. I’ll be right back.”
Coleman led the way. “He’s in here.”
The pair approached the living room. “What’s that music?” said Serge. “It isn’t the Christmas tunes I had on the stereo.”
They turned the corner. Jim sat cross-legged on the floor.
“What’s he doing?” asked Serge.
“Going through your Led Zeppelin CDs.”
“… Hey, hey, mama, said the way you move…”
Jim looked up. “This is the most excellent music I’ve heard in my entire life.”
“Jim?” Serge took a step forward. “Are you okay?”
“Listen to that time signature, man!” Jim slowly curved his arms apart in the air. “Drums go one way and the guitar blasts off in another, and then every few measures they meet up perfectly, like it was always meant to be-” Jim stopped and became racked with uncontrollable giggles.
“Coleman,” said Serge. “His eyes are all bloodshot. What did you do to him?”
“Nothing. We were all just sitting around the table, and he suddenly started acting weird.”
Serge looked over at the table. In front of Jim’s chair was a serving plate full of gingerbread crumbs. “Coleman, please tell me you didn’t give him the gingerbread house. It’s got pot in the walls.”