Richard Lange - Sweet Nothing

IM PUSHING THE CART out of the supermarket, rolling through the automatic doors, when I decide I want a cigarette. Need a cigarette. Ive been a good boy for six months, ever since Claires EPT came up positive. If she couldnt drink or smoke, I wouldnt either. The deal seemed like one a husband should make when his wife is carrying their baby, but suddenly, here in the Vons parking lot, Im all, Forget that, got to get me one of those coffin nails.

The problem is, no one smokes in L.A. Im there five minutes waiting for somebody to come out of the store and light up so I can bum one, and I finally end up paying a homeless guy fifty cents for a generic. He strikes a match with his filthy hands, and we talk about spy satellites as I lean on my cart, puffing away. He tells me they have this technology now that allows them to look inside your mailbox and peek into your windows from way out in space, and Im wondering, Should I care about this? Because I dont.

The cigarette gives me a headache, and the weather makes it worse. The kind of hot were having sucks the sweat out of you even if youre only going to the mailbox. Walk down the hill to 7-Eleven, and youre risking dehydration and death.

Also, Claires parents are coming. David and Marjorie. For the weekend. Thats why Claire sent me here in the first place, to buy all sorts of expensive stuff that we never spring for when its just us. Lox, shrimp, organic blueberries, fancy coffee. I didnt put up a fight. I could see how nervous she was when I helped her spread clean sheets on the foldout couch this morning. And shes so big these days, so unsteady on her feet with all that added girth. She always looks like shes about to cry, like shes shocked at how gravity has turned against her.

Because of this I find myself agreeing to things wed definitely have gone toe to toe over before she got pregnant, even though a buddy of mine warned me against such retrenchments. He said that once you give up ground, getting it back is a bitch. But Im not sure I trust his advice. He and his wife divorced three months after their baby was born, and everything is war to him now.

I smoke the cigarette to the filter, drop it to the pavement, and twist it out. Then, reaching into one of the grocery bags, I grab whatever comes to hand first.

You like pt? I ask the homeless guy.

He grimaces. Pt?

Its good, I say, here, and give him the can.

Dont you have any beer? he says.

DONT YOU HAVE any beer?

This is from David, Claires dad, a couple of hours later. He and Marjorie have just arrived, and Ive walked them out of the sweltering apartment and onto our little deck overlooking Echo Park. Claire has brought champagne for the two of them and sparkling cider for us. Truthfully, Im with Dad. Id kill for a beer right now, and another cigarette, but I laugh with Claire when Marjorie whispers, David! and I lift my glass of cider and smile when David makes a toast to family.

We sit at the table on the deck and dig into the imported crackers and twenty-dollar cheese that Claire has arranged ever so carefully on a silver serving platter that we argued about for three days when I happened upon the receipt. The conversation goes pretty smoothly, considering that this is only the second time Ive met David and Marjorie, the first being at our wedding, a year ago. I dont know much about them except that theyre rich and constantly on the move. Paris, New York, Singapore. Right now theyre en route to Hong Kong.

So how are you feeling? Marjorie asks Claire, reaching over to brush aside a lock of hair that has fallen across her daughters forehead.

Fat. Ugly. Stupid, Claire replies.

What a thing to say, David snaps. Dont you know how blessed you are? He turns to me. What a thing for her to say.

I shrug and try to make a joke. Well, she sure is hungry. A whole pint of Ben and Jerrys in one sitting. This kids going to come out looking like a sumo wrestler.

David ignores me, turns back to Claire.

Youre not fat, and youre not ugly, he says. Youre blessed.

Back when Claire and I were first going out, I asked her what her dad did, and she said, Something with diamonds, some kind of broker. How he put it at the rehearsal dinner was Im a middleman, a person who knows lots of people. If you have a gem you want to sell, you come to me. If you want to buy a gem, I can also help you there. Nothing too exciting.

This seemed sketchy to me, but then so do half the jobs our friends have: consultant, aggregator, brander. Not that I have any room to talk. I still tell people I work in production when all I ever did was PA on a couple of commercials right after I got out of film school. What I really am is a part-time substitute teacher. And Claire, for the record, is not in wardrobe; she owns a little thrift store on Sunset that would have gone out of business ages ago if David didnt send a check every month.

What are you going to do when the baby comes? David says.

What do you mean? Claire replies.

He gestures toward the apartment. Theres only one bedroom. You need a nursery.

The baby will sleep in our room. Itll be fine.

David turns to me and raises a wise finger. Buy yourself some earplugs, he says. You dont even know.

My dad cut out before I was walking, moved to Dallas, halfway across the country. I saw him maybe five or six times growing up a day here, a weekend there and not at all in the past ten years. And my stepfather, he was the quiet type, let my mom do the raising. What Im saying is, if this is an example of fatherly wisdom buy earplugs I guess I didnt miss out on much. I dont even like his tone. How does he know what I know? And talking about the size of a persons home right in front of him there must be a rule against that somewhere.

LUCIFER, CLAIRES CAT, wont leave me alone. Im on my iPad in the living room, playing this game Im hooked on, where you maneuver a soap bubble through a narrow cavern studded with stalactites and stalagmites, and the goddamned kitty keeps butting me with his big black head and purring so loudly that he seems to be doing it just to be annoying.

The bubble pops again, and I give up and lie down on the couch. Lucifer sits on my chest and does that strange kneading thing with his paws. Claire and her mom are at Ikea, and David is napping in the bedroom. I can hear his snores over the noise of the fan Ive got trained on me.

Okay, so this place is kind of a dump. The plaster walls are cracked, the floor feels spongy beneath your feet, and when the guy in the next unit takes a leak, he sounds like hes using our toilet. But weve got the hills. Weve got the trees and the lake and the park. I tried to explain this to David earlier, and he laughed and said, And the gangs and the graffiti and the midnight gunshots. That made me wonder what Claire had been telling him behind my back. I mean, having a baby was her idea, and so was the idea to have it here.

But I dont want to be that kind of person anymore blamers, Claire calls them so I push the cat off and go into the kitchen. Maybe some dishes need washing. Sometimes giving myself over to ritual is helpful.

Im up to my elbows in soapy water when David strolls in wearing boxers and a wife-beater and carrying a joint.

Do you get stoned? he says.

I back away from the sink, confused. I could answer his question in a couple of ways, and I want to choose the right one.

Not in a while, I say as I grope for a towel to dry my hands.

Ive got a prescription. Migraines, he says. But I hate to smoke alone. Come have a puff.