We’ve all been there. The other night it was my turn, again. Waiting in one of the giant Kapahulu Safeway’s hundred checkout lines. It’s an interesting place to read. You learn a lot about other people’s lives, and how life is not so wonderful after all for celebs, what with romance going bad, and Brad having to sleep on the couch and all.
So there I am in line. The shopper ahead of me is having a problem with a debit card, so I have time to listen to the tabloids screaming at me from their racks. I only read two headlines, however, because those two are just about perfect.
“Jennifer Anniston Wants a Baby NOW!” reads the first one, and then, right there on the cover of the tabloid next to it, I see a large photo of Jen with a nice little “bump” and the headline “Jennifer Pregnant at 40!” Fast work, Jen, and I’m thinking that maybe the next headline should read “Jennifer Anniston Wants World Peace NOW!”
My favorite checkout magazine is Cosmo. I have subscribed to this amazing publication three different times in the past ten years, strictly as research. Each article suggests a new character, or a new romantic complication, for my short stories.There’s no end to the romantic complications. Looking for a way to get your character into some romantic trouble? Cosmois there to help you.
When I decided to write a short story about a man who marries a Cosmo girl I didn’t need to invent any of the headlines that appear in the story. In the spirit of the Cosmotitles I called the story “Seven Ways to Tell If You Married a Cosmo Girl.” Here’s an excerpt from the story, which appeared in Bamboo Ridge’s issue #91.
This is way #3, which falls between way #2 (“The Reference Library”) and way #4 (“The Tests Must Be Passed Before Bedroom Secrets Can Be Demonstrated”):
#3: The Cosmo Tests Never End
On Lucy’s night stand, right next to the latest Cosmo, a pocket calculator waits at its post, ready to add up the results of the latest test, and the tests never end. One month it’s “What Kind of Sexy Are You?” (I already know the answer to that one: Lucy is dangerously sexy). The next month it might be “Do You Feel Sexy?” (and if she didn’t feel sexy when she started the test she’s guaranteed to feel sexy by the end of it).
Just last month the test was “Are You Drawn to Drama?” Now I have never thought of Lucy as a drama queen. That’s not her style. She gets enough drama from the two soaps she admits to watching. After taking the Cosmo drama test, however, Lucy must have been intrigued by some of the dramatic possibilities, behaviors she had never tried before. Like the articles that reveal the amazing bedroom secrets, of course, the tests encourage trying new things. So Lucy did. All I know is that the day after she took the drawn-to-drama test I came home to a suddenly more dramatic Lucy.
“Lucy, I’m home,” I called out.
“I’m in the kitchen, Ricky,” came the reply. The kitchen? Not the bedroom? Were we going to have dinner first, preceded by a sophisticated cocktail hour and intellectual conversation? Was my Lucy finally changing?
I strolled toward the kitchen, suave as James Bond, wishing I were wearing a tux, imagining an icy Margarita awaiting me in the kitchen (my drink, not 007’s), Lucy eager to tell me about how she had visited Barnes & Noble that morning and discovered that there were other magazines than Cosmo, and what did I think about this global warning thing, and showing me the real book she had actually bought, and starting to read it to me and … then I reached the kitchen and my fantasy burst.
“We need to talk,” Lucy said. Uh oh. Instead of a Margarita and a book, she was holding … the large kitchen knife? My first thought was that the knife had something to do with salad.But why was it pointed at my heart? I kept my distance, foregoing the usual homecoming kiss.
“Talk?” I said. I looked at her face for clues, then at the knife, then back to her face. Both looked serious. I glanced quickly at the counter. No signs of a salad.
“Yes, I found out something today. Something …” She looked at the ceiling. Was she searching for a word, or was there something wrong with the ceiling? It looked all right to me. No cracks. No leaks. Then she looked back at me.
“Something disturbing,” she finally said. She nodded slowly, waiting for me to react. I looked back up at the ceiling. I wanted to talk about home repair issues, make some silly remark like Tim Allen, but I don’t think the audience was looking for comedy. Instead I began to nod with her. I felt like a bobblehead.
“Disturbing?” I said, still nodding.
“Very,” Lucy said, chopping the air with the big knife. One quick chop. Vegetables and husbands kept their distance. Actually the veggies were better off than I was at the moment, safe in their cool bin in the Amana.
“What’s wrong, darling?” I asked. The concerned husband.Clueless as usual, but showing concern. The “darling” part was good to throw in at such moments, of course. I saved my “darlings” for special occasions, and this seemed like one of them.
Lucy moved closer. I backed up a step, but was stopped by the counter. She moved closer. She lowered the knife, away from my heart, but now it was pointed at a delicate spot, just below my belt. I began to feel less like James Bond and more like a zucchini. Still handsome, but green and vulnerable. Lucy leaned in and whispered in my ear. “I found out that someone ischeating.” Then she moved her face in front of mine, staring into my eyes, waiting for my response. I stole a quick look downward and saw the point of the knife no more than an inch from my fly.
Think fast, I told myself. Let’s review. Someone is cheating.That’s not good. Normally I try to agree with Lucy whenever I can, to keep things smooth and calm. But what now? Was I supposed to confess? I had nothing to confess. I wasn’t cheating. Maybe with my eyes, but don’t all guys do that?Okay, I flirted a little with Danielle at the office, but that was completely innocent. Cheating? Not me. Think, dammit, think! What would 007 do now?
“Well?” She was still waiting. Then she raised her eyebrows.“Ricky, you’re sweating.” It’s true. I was.
“It’s the knife,” I said. It was burning a hole in my pants.
She ignored me. A drop of sweat dripped off my chin and onto the knife blade. I thought about zucchini again, how it looks all sliced up and ready for the pan, its length no longer so proud, reduced to a supporting role in a meal that nobody will remember for long.
“Don’t you want to know who’s cheating?” Lucy said. When she said the words “who’s cheating” she got this deliciously wicked look, like one of her bedroom looks, although the bedroom, at this point, seemed miles away.
“Of course, darling,” I said. I was using up my “darlings” fast.Soon I would have to switch to “sweetheart.”
Lucy turned sideways, showing me her profile. She held up the knife and studied its edge. I thought of Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction. I was no longer James Bond; now I was Michael Douglas. Except that I was innocent, damn it! Lucy paused, then raised the knife. She had my full attention. Then she lowered it … onto the counter. She smiled, an evil little smile. I felt sweat stinging my eyes. I looked quickly around the kitchen to see what other weapons were available to my darling. Ice pick? Blender? Nutcracker?!
Lucy moved in closer now. “It’s Craig,” she said.
“What’s Craig?”
“Craig is the one who’s cheating. Keep up.”
“Oh, it’s Craig.” Phew. God help Craig. Was there a nutcracker in his future?
“Who’s Craig?” I said.
“The dreamy guy. I told you about him.”
“I don’t know any Craig. Who’s he cheating with?” I didn’t care what Craig did, or who he did it with, as long as he was the one in trouble and not me.
“Jennifer. Craig’s cheating with Jennifer. And Madison just found out.”
“Jennifer? Madison?” Who were these people?
“Ricky, don’t you listen to anything I say? I told you aboutMadison just last week. Well, today she found out about the cheating. And tomorrow she’s going to do something about it, but she ran out of time today.”
“Ran out of time?” The sweat was slowing down, but now my head was spinning. Lucy had placed it in the blender and pushed the slow speed button.
“Sure,” Lucy said. “They only get sixty minutes a day. She’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”
“Oh,” I said. The blender stopped, mercifully, but my head felt grated. “One of your soaps then.”
“Of course, silly. What did you think I was talking about?” She didn’t wait for an answer. For the next half hour I listened to, and watched, Lucy’s dramatic retelling of Days of Our Hospital,or The Young and the Horny, or whatever it was. The ice pick and nutcracker stayed in the kitchen drawer. The zucchini lay peacefully in the fridge, in one piece, at least for now. The only ones who had to tremble now were Craig and Jennifer.Madison could do what she liked with those two cheaters. I was off the hook, although technically I had never been on it. I looked forward to the rest of the evening with my Lucy. Maybe we would have Margaritas before long. Isn’t that why God gave us the blenders?
