Double Talk

A few years ago, I wasn't very smart. The list of things I didn't know was endless. I didn't know how to cook a chicken, how to buy a suit, how to shift a Renault into reverse. Nowadays I can do at least two of these, provided I have enough foil.

I also didn't know that when you break up with somebody you should carefully choose your time and place. You shouldn't dump someone, for instance, when you're in some faraway town and they have your plane ticket home.

George was my second husband. He'd been problematic from the beginning, being just slightly more domineering than Castro, and decorated by a wispier beard. But he'd had his good points: a mansion, a car collection, an overwhelming fondness for me. There were definite reasons to stick with him and not quite enough motivation to break up.

One of George's best attributes was that he wanted to show me the world. We'd fly to Miami, sail to the Bahamas, or just cruise up the coast in his Lamborghini. These all balanced out with the unfortunate negative that George was forty pounds overweight but wore Speedos all day long. While swimming, while relaxing, even while driving cross-country. Sitting in the passenger side of that quarter-million dollar sportcar, it was easy to convince myself I was in heaven -- but then George would jump out of the car, to get snacks or gas or go to the bathroom, and I'd plummet straight to hell. If he could have translated his waddle into forward momentum, we wouldn't have needed the turbocharger to hit a hundred and twenty miles per hour.

Every day I'd teeter back and forth on the fence. Every look, every word, every gesture tipped me toward one side or the other.

Now, George didn't make all his money being stupid. He knew exactly what was going on. Somehow he'd sense when I was ready to topple, and he'd be there with a present to keep me upright. One day there'd be a Helmut Lang coat, the next Cutler & Gross sunglasses. One day he surprised me with tickets to Washington D. C. Which wouldn't have been my first choice for a vacation, but I never look a gift Greek in the mouth.

The White House is the perfect symbol for Washington D. C.: a bunch of rich white people hidden away behind an iron fence. The city is totally segregated, and you can wander for hours without see any white residents at all. They live behind gates, drive cars with tinted glass, and eat in restaurants guarded from the hoi polloi by tuxedoed maitre d's. On the streets it's just tourists wearing pastels and poor blacks. You expect to see a sign hanging from the Capitol dome: "America: Talking Equality Since 1776!"

The minute we arrive I'm horrified, and the look never leaves my face. George, of course, loves the place. He lives to network with rich white guys, and here they're corralled in just a few easily-accessible sites. We go to a fancy-ass restaurant followed by an fancy-ass bar, and the natives are drawn to him, scotches in hand, sensing cash on his breath. I suck down my White Russian and fume. He chats and laughs and in another few hours will probably be Ambassador to Somalia.

When I finally drag George away, the difference of opinion continues: he waves for a taxi and I head for the subway. "C'mon, let's mingle with the common people," I goad.

Our train has only gone a couple stops before a black man wearing rags gets on. He reeks of eight or nine bodily functions, and repeats a well-rehearsed speech for money. "I don't want to sleep outside," he declares. "Or on the streets."

George guffaws. He's a veteran of EST and Mindspring, which means aside from being an asshole he's also loud. "'Outside or on the streets'?" he asks. "What, are the streets indoors?"

A couple tourists chuckle, amused by the observation. The beggar shrugs it off and passes a hat. Somebody drops in a quarter, and he bows. "Have a good holiday," he declares, "and a good Thanksgiving!"

George breaks up again. "What, like they're different?" he declares. "Like there's a holiday coming up that isn't Thanksgiving?"

A few more tourists laugh along this time, but I just turn brighter red. "Leave him alone," I say, but George just glares at me. A woman with a couple children gives the beggar some change, prompting more repetitious talk.

"Thank you very much," the beggar says. "Take good care of your little ones, and take good care of your children."

This time George can hardly get the words out. "Her little ones and her children?" he repeats. "Like aside from the kids she's got midgets at home?"

Half the car is laughing when the homeless man skulks off. I'm the rain cloud at this picnic. "You're an asshole," I tell George, "and a bully."

The second the words leave my mouth I realize I've made a horrible mistake. George does too, doubling over in laughter. "Now you're doing it!" he crows. "Stop! It's painful! And it hurts!"

"Here's painful," I say, getting to my feet. "We're over, and we're through. Find a boyfriend who doesn't think you're mean and a jerk."

"Yeah?" he snaps, finally done with laughing. "Okay by me. See if you can find somebody who's got what you want: lots of money and piles of cash."

"You're fucked," I reply. The train is slowing, so I head toward the door. "And you're . . . you're . . . . "

The first word I can think of is "buttfucked," which is problematic. I mean, it's got "fuck" in it, which I already used . . . plus with a guy aren't they essentially the same thing?

I wrack my brain but come up empty. Surely there are other options. I think back to what I've done in the past, but I just get depressed. You're occasionally masturbated by strangers to fruition? You're touching yourself while you watch "Walker Texas Ranger"? Aside from being long-winded, they say more about the insulter than the insultee.

The silence hangs in the air as I realize I've backed myself into a corner. "Fuck," apparently, is like "orange" -- a word with no known relatives. Which means I've got absolutely nothing else to say.

Gradually George's expression alters again. The accusatory glare that's been waiting for the other shoe to drop turns amused. We've broken up, at least in theory, so now he's laughing at me instead of the beggar. The train comes to a stop and I get off, with no clue where we are. George's look moves from surprise to concern. We watch as the doors slide closed between us. He stands as the train starts to pull out, but now there's just resignation on his face. He shrugs his shoulders and waves goodbye.

I look around at the unfamiliar station, all chrome and tile and trash. Shit, I think. Stuck in a city I hate with no hotel room, no plane ticket, and no luggage.

I am so totally screwed.