Hope Idiotic | Part 12
Hope Idiotic is a serialized novel. Catch each new part every week on Monday and Thursday.
WHAT KIND OF A BOYFRIEND WAS HE? What kind of a man lets his girlfriend of two years — a close friend for eight years before that — foot the bill for her big thirtieth birthday trip?
Cabo San Lucas: A Mexican haven for sun, SCUBA and drink. Though he offered to put the entire trip on his credit card, she (thankfully, he thought) didn’t call his bluff and refused to let him do that. So they made another deal. She would pay for the thirtieth birthdays for them, he would pay for forty, she would get fifty, he would take sixty and so on. They were making plans for the future. And that plan included sharing finances in plenty of time for their fortieth birthdays. Finally they had a deal Lou felt was fair. It seemed to him that after two years together, Michelle understood their financial conditions.
They stayed at the only hotel Michelle would stay at when she traveled there. The same place as the first time Lou joined the Kaminskis on their annual Cabo trip a year before, the all-inclusive resort and spa Fiesta Playa. She booked the best suite on the property. The spacious room had a large balcony that overlooked the ocean. While Michelle financed the accommodations, Lou did what he could.
Since they arrived on her birthday, he arranged with the hotel staff to prepare the room with thirty balloons, rose petals leading from the door to the bed, where even more petals were spread upon the bed, and champagne sat on ice on the nightstand. The hotel only charged him for the liquor.
Michelle was floored. When she entered the room, that strange thing happened again—she cried. Lou was behind her with the luggage, and she turned and kissed him. He could taste her tears.
“This is what I always dreamed of,” she said. “This is perfect.”
It was their tradition to have sex in any hotel room they ever shared before doing anything else on vacation, and after that kiss, Michelle couldn’t get either of them out of their clothes fast enough. Then they showered and dressed for her birthday dinner.
“Do you mind if I go to the bar downstairs and have a drink by myself?” she asked him as he pulled his blazer over his shoulders.
“Is everything okay?”
“It is. I just want to take a moment with myself to consider being thirty. Come down in like half an hour.”
Pop’s clock was ticking… The cure looked to be killing him.
He kissed her, and she left. Lou took his jacket off and poured himself a drink from the in-room bar. Johnnie Walker Black Label neat. Because even at Fiesta Playa one shouldn’t trust the Mexican ice. He straightened the sex sheets, sat back on the bed and flipped through the television channels, stopping on the only American show playing, King of Queens.
He’d seen this episode a hundred times. As he watched, his mind wandered.
For the moment, things were perfect with Michelle. She was happy. They hadn’t fought about money or his career since he ruined tree-decorating night. And not a word had been spoken about marriage, outside of her strange jealousy toward Chuck a few days before, something Lou chalked up to her just being a little more drunk than she let on. Yes, it had been a good couple of weeks. And he wondered how long it would last.
Maybe Michelle was downstairs considering what a penniless putz her boyfriend was. Maybe she was devising a plan complete with an ultimatum for him to propose to her, because after all, she was now thirty years old. So many times she said to him that she wanted to begin having kids by thirty-two and that she wanted at least two years of marriage before that. The clock was ticking.
Pop’s clock was ticking, too. The chemo had slowed the cancer but robbed his appetite. It took all of his energy to choke down a single bottle of Ensure each day. He was losing weight and becoming weaker. The cure looked to be killing him.
Lou made another drink and turned off the TV. He hated those characters. They were awful to each other and he no longer found nastiness funny. He could write better television. He considered moving to L.A. and trying his hand at making it there. What was so great about Chicago? Michelle wanted to move anyhow. She wanted to live closer to her parents; she wanted to live in a warm climate. But she wouldn’t move with him unless they were married, he knew that. Maybe he could leave her.
But he couldn’t leave his family. He didn’t want to abandon Pop in his final days. Or Grams for that matter. Or his father. Benjamin was living in a broken home with his bum son right next door to his dying parents. One day, if Aaron ever moved out, Benjamin would be alone. Sarah already felt abandoned and had convinced herself that her eldest son didn’t love her. Moving to L.A. would only solidify that idea in her head.
And what if he moved and couldn’t find a job? At least in Chicago he had Michelle and a nice place to live. What if L.A. was worse than Chicago?
He had to do something. That much was certain. Forty was only ten years away, and he would be responsible for the big birthdays then. He and Michelle would have a couple of kids by then, too. She’d most likely be done working as an attorney like she planned, so the financial responsibility would be all on him.
He stood on the balcony and breathed in the ocean air. The sun was just about to sink into the blackening water. He counted the seconds until it was gone. 1, 2, 3… 30… It’s incredible how quickly it can go from lightness to the dark. And so routinely, so easily without fanfare or violence. The light just sinks down and it’s gone. Another day behind us with another long night to face. But the light would always be back in the morning. At least outside, anyway.
As he stood there with the drink in his hand considering his position, Lou realized there was no guarantee that light would ever return to him. The poverty and unemployment and self-doubt and accountability imposed on him and the evading ideal future and the dying loved ones and the loneliness all made Lou certain that the only sure thing in his life was that darkness was coming.
“Christ,” he said to himself. “How am I going to get out of this?”
✶
MICHELLE WAS SITTING AT A TABLE IN THE LOBBY BAR BY HERSELF NURSING A GLASS OF CHAMPAGNE. She was wearing the strappy, short purple cotton dress she bought in Vegas for that very evening. Her highlighted blonde hair rested on her shoulders. Her bright green eyes were wide. She was staring off toward the ocean — The Darkness. He walked up behind her, ran his hands along her shoulders and kissed her head. “Ready?”
Slightly startled by being pulled from her reverie, she looked up, slugged the rest of her champagne and said, “Yes.”
They had dinner at her favorite restaurant in town. Mexican-Italian fare. She had met the owner when she worked summers down there during college as a youth advisor for high-schoolers on a summer-break vacation program. Essentially, her job was to prevent teenagers from dying of alcohol poisoning or drowning in the ocean. She greeted the owner, a middle-aged man named Pablo, with warmth. It was clear to Lou, however, that he didn’t remember her. It was the same thing when they came down the time before. But Pablo was a people person and played it off well.
“Oh, please, you must come to the best table of the night,” he said. “I save it just for you. So beautiful, and a handsome man on your arm, eh?”
Yep, same bullshit as last time. And Michelle ate it up.
“How was your drink? Everything okay?” Lou asked.
“Everything’s fine.” She reached across the table and took his hands in hers.
“Well, happy birthday, sweetheart.”
“I just… I just didn’t see myself here at thirty.”
“What do you mean?”
“I thought I’d be married. Or at least that we’d be engaged. I thought I’d be well on my way to having kids and not having to work so hard because I had a strong, supportive, confidant husband who could take care of his family. I didn’t think I’d be paying for me and my boyfriend for my thirtieth birthday vacation. At the very least, I thought I’d be in a relationship with someone who had it more together, like I do. At least someone who was at the same stage in their life as I am.”
Lou looked at their hands. “I am at the same stage in life as you are.”
“Lou, honey, you don’t have a job.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m not trying to get one. You know it’s not easy for anyone out there now.”
“You’re the only person in my life who is unemployed. Sure, you pick up a freelance job every now and again, but that’s not paying anything, really. All of my other friends have boyfriends or husbands with real jobs. They themselves have jobs. And they’re all doctors and lawyers and marketing directors.”
“I’m not a doctor or lawyer. You knew that.”
“You’re a great writer, but you also know marketing. Why don’t you try doing that?”
“I have tried. No one is hiring. Even your marketing-director friends, who, by the way, haven’t done much in the way of pushing my résumé through, have said they’re worried about their jobs.”
“That’s probably why they haven’t done anything with your résumé.”
“Exactly.”
“Exactly.”
“Look, Michelle, I don’t know why were fighting here.”
“We’re not fighting, we’re just talking.”
“You’re dumping a lot of shit on me right now.”
“This isn’t about you, Lou. It’s about me. It’s about me turning thirty.”
“But everything you just said was about how—”
“How I’m not where I wanted to be or who I wanted to be with.”
“You don’t want to be with me?” He pulled his hands away. The waiter came by and delivered their drinks. Lou drank his scotch immediately.
“Of course I do. I just want you to get your life together so we can build our life already. I want to have kids in two years.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it a million times. I get it.”
“Don’t get snippy with me.”
“I’m not getting snippy. I’m going to the bathroom.”
Things stayed tense through the rest of the night and into their whale-watching excursion the following day, New Year’s Eve. After a midday nap, they woke, had sex and were back to good because sex between Lou and Michelle was always an emotional reboot. No matter how good or bad things were between them, a little sex always made everything better. It was never acrobatic or what anyone else might consider exciting, but it was good, real good.
When they first started dating, Lou was thrilled he’d found a girl who waxed and was quick to come. And she gave him the most incredible blowjobs. So incredible that his appendages would tingle and numb while she seemingly unhinged her jaw and delicately made out with his cock the way a bar slut would fellate a lollipop for attention. And when Michelle revealed that she loved a bit of a finger in her ass, Lou was happy to oblige, even if it left his finger stinking of shit. Because to Lou, that was the stench of love.
The plan that night was to join the party at the resort. Michelle wore her best little black dress that showed off just enough cleavage to make things interesting; Lou donned his tuxedo, which was a sexual trigger for Michelle. But the party was a bust. Everyone left the resort to celebrate in town. Michelle was mortified. She never made planning errors. She was sure the resort party would be the best option. The resort’s club was always a happening scene.
“Maybe it’ll pick up after midnight, when people start coming back,” Lou suggested.
“We’ll be in bed, drinking champagne in our clothes like every year,” she said pouting. “This is fucking bullshit!”
Unable to find a restaurant that would take them for dinner, they bought two cans of Pringles and a bag of Twizzlers from the gift shop, and retired to the room, where they ordered two bottles of champagne from room service. They ate and drank on the balcony.
“God! I swear, you are such a baby sometimes. Just man up!”
They both drank fast. Michelle polished the first bottle of bubbly off in an hour. This was fine by Lou because she became less cranky with each glass, and she always liked him more when soused. When he popped the cork on the second bottle, it was clear to him that she would likely kill that bottle even quicker. It was barely past ten o’clock, and Lou needed his buzz to catch up. He moved to the Black Label in the room’s bar.
They searched the TV for a channel playing any kind of music so they could dance. Nothing was on. And the alarm-clock/radio on the nightstand picked up no reception. So they just sang and danced drunkenly to their own voices.
“Hey, Darling Michelle.”
“Yes, Darling Lou.”
“You think Pop considers that he may never go dancing with Grams again?”
She stopped dancing. “Why are you talking about that now?”
“I’ve been thinking about it.”
“But we’re having fun. Why do you always have to ruin a good time?” She plopped herself down on the bed, finished what was in her glass, pulled the champagne bottle out of the ice bucket and brought it to her lips.
“I’m not ruining a good time. It was just a question. They have to worry about those sorts of things, don’t they? I do.”
“Why don’t you ask them then?”
“How?”
“I don’t know. Just fucking ask them. God! I swear, you are such a baby sometimes. Just man up!”
“Don’t say that to me! Don’t tell me to man up! You know how insulting that is? I’m not sorry that I’m thinking about my grandfather right now. It’s New Year’s Eve, and he might die this year. Do you understand that? My fucking grandfather is probably going to be fucking dead in a few months! And then what? Then Grams, then Dad and Mom. And they’ll all be dead before I can get a job and get on with my life and show them I’m not a complete piece of shit!” He pulled at his bowtie and yanked it from his shirt collar then threw it past Michelle’s head. He kicked his shoes off with such force that they flew across the room to the door. “I mean, what the fuck am I going to do? No one’s helping me and I am afraid to even help myself because no matter what I do, you give me shit for it!”
He ripped his tuxedo jacket off and threw it onto the balcony where it draped itself over the railing. They both stared at it. Michelle turned back to the lunatic standing before her. Her eyes were wide, her mouth agape.
“What. The. Fuck.”
A breeze blew across the balcony lifting the jacket off of the railing and onto the pool deck seven stories below.
“And then there’s that,” Lou said as he threw his half-full glass of scotch out after the jacket. He grabbed another glass from the bar, made another drink and walked to the door.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Michelle asked.
“I have a tuxedo jacket to find.” He stumbled through the door and tried to slam it, but hotel doors are on pressured hinges so it slowly closed comfortably. He took his socks off and tied them together then tied them around the door handle. “Do not disturb!” he shouted at his handiwork.
He found his jacket on the edge of the pool with one arm submerged. He picked it up, wrung it out and looked up toward his balcony. He could see Michelle looking down on him. “Got it!” he said. She turned away and went back into the room.
“Well, fine with me if she’s not going to kiss me at midnight,” he said as he stumbled around the stacked-up lounge chairs and out onto the beach, where he waded in the water. Fireworks began shooting off a few miles down the shoreline. The colors rippled on the dark ocean canvas. Lou raised his glass. “Here’s to the goddamn New Year. Maybe I’ll die first.”
✶
SHE FINALLY SPOKE TO HIM ONCE THEY MADE IT ONTO THE PLANE THE NEXT MORNING. “Where did you sleep?”
“Woke up on the beach. Lost my watch somewhere.”
“Too bad.”
Nothing was said again until they were in the air headed back to Chicago. “Please don’t leave me,” he said as she pulled her head away from his attempt at kissing her forehead—her favorite place to be kissed. “You’re all I’ve got.”
“You need help, Lou. You should have seen yourself last night. I know things are hard for you and all, but you have got to pull it together. Because I’m done. I can’t keep letting you ruin everything and hold me back.”
“Are you breaking up with me?”
“Let’s just get home without me killing you and we’ll see.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t even think killing you would help. You need therapy. Like, some serious therapy. Shock treatment. Maybe a lobotomy. Something.”
“But we’re not breaking up?”
“We’ll have to see. Because I can’t do this anymore.”
The seatbelt sign dinged off, and Lou bolted to the bathroom where he threw up. When he finished, he snaked two mini bottles of Dewar’s scotch from the unattended bar cart just outside of the bathroom. He slugged back one and put the other in his pocket, then returned to his seat where Michelle was stoically, coldly, reading an issue of Us Weekly.
