It took a couple days for me to piece it all together.
The first part of the puzzle showed up at breakfast. At nine o'clock on the dot, somebody knocked on the bedroom door, then without waiting for an answer blithely barged in. It was a grizzled, grey-haired woman in a maid's uniform, bearing a tray full of food.
"Thanks, Peaches," Clive yawned without looking, sitting up and arranging a mountain of pillows behind his back.
Totally naked and barely covered with the corner of a sheet, I was more than a little embarrassed. Peaches, though, couldn't have cared less about her boss's bedmate, wondering only where to leave the coffee and croissants.
In that same bed the next morning came the second puzzle piece. I woke up even earlier to a strange sensation below the waist. Dampness. Pressure. Heavy breathing. Pretty much adding up to foreplay in my book. "Clive," I muttered, "it's a little early for -- "
I opened my eyes and saw him scanning the newspaper over on his side of the bed. "Something is sucking on my toes," I announced.
"It's Peaches," he declared. "She likes you. Take it as a compliment: she doesn't like a lot of guys."
Needless to say I sprang out of bed. I mean, it's nice when maids appreciate you, but I'd rather their feelings be expressed by ironed shirts or freshly-dusted furniture than tongues exploring obscure erogenous zones. I've been woken up by thousands of things over the years, from alarm clocks to angry boyfriends to annoyed street sweepers who just
had to clean the spot I was laying on. But a stern-looking woman in orthopedic shoes set a new record in maneuvering me upright.
I leapt out of bed like it was electrified, then glanced over to see a very startled dog. "Hey!" Clive snapped. "You scared Peaches!"
"Wait," I said, before resuming my position in the mattress dent. "I'm confused. I thought Peaches was the
maid."
Clive sipped from his mug of French Roast and shrugged. "She's another Peaches," he said nonchalantly. "But I don't think she likes you that way."
I grabbed a section of the paper and selected a raspberry danish from the tray. I ate until I got it sufficiently pieced together in my head. "Your maid and your dog have the same name? Who got named after who?"
"It's just a coincidence. First the maid showed up, then the dog. They both already had names when I got them."
I didn't want to argue so early into our relationship, having met the previous Thursday at driving school. He'd probably already pegged me as a loose cannon after hearing I'd followed a school bus for eight miles. But nobody, I repeat
nobody, flips me off, even if they're wearing braces and a Hello Kitty smock. Still, I couldn't help myself. "Then change the dog's name!" I insisted. "It's not fair to the maid to have another Peaches around."
"You should never change a dog's name," he said, emanating seriousness. "It can turn them schizophrenic."
"They already spend half their lives licking their genitals," I announced, "so how much worse can it get? C'mon, it's freakin' rude. What happens when you yell 'Peaches'? They both come running?"
Clive took on an embarrassed look. "Maybe," he said. "What's wrong with that?"
"What's wrong with bringing the maid running when you want the
dog? Nothing a Human Rights Tribunal couldn't straighten out."
We didn't speak again for a few hours and eventually I stormed off home. That night Clive called and announced that he'd given in. "You're right," he admitted. "It just isn't fair. From here on in, Peaches will be known as 'Socrates.'"
"Really?" I asked.
"I was already planning on doing something about it. When I can't find her, I hate wandering the neighborhood yelling 'PEACHES!' at the top of my lungs."
I hung up the phone with a contented smile on my face. I'd righted a wrong in the world. I'd fixed an injustice, made somebody's life a little better, just by getting Clive to rename --
Who?
That night I tossed and turned in my bed. He must have meant the dog, right? I mean, nobody in their right mind would think about renaming a woman who had enough wrinkles for four. But rich people live by different rules, as demonstrated by Leona Helmsley and Donald Trump. It's a fact of life that huge piles of money buy huge piles of crazy, so it could easily have gone the other way. Right now, in Manhattan, there could be a maid named "Socrates."
I thought about calling Clive back, but I couldn't figure out what to say. I mean, I couldn't exactly
ask which Peaches he was talking about. The only reasonable scenario was that he changed the dog's name, and anybody with a brain in their head would be insulted if I asked them if they'd renamed a maid.
I'd learned my lesson more than once: I made a small misstep that unleashed years of bottled-up pique. "You don't know me at all!" Walter snapped when I gave him an autographed photo of Katie Couric for his birthday. "Who do you think I am?" Steve screamed when I asked if he'd put Men Without Hats on my iPod. "Have you
met me?" Butch yelled when I politely inquired whether he'd borrowed my purple thong.
So I let the whole thing drop.
The next time I woke up, a different tongue was lapping at my foot. This one was practiced: it went from forceful to playful to passionate all in the course of one lick. I slowly pried my eyes open and gazed over at Clive. He was in his usual position: propped up on pillows, reading the Times and spreading an almond croissant with orange marmalade. "Is it Socrates?" I asked warily. He nodded.
I couldn't look. Elderly maid? Schizophrenic dog? And in the great scheme of things, did it make any difference? "I saw her rubbing her ass on the carpet yesterday," I offered, but Clive just said "Mm" and passed me a brioche.
