Joshua Mohr - Fight Song

“My bad,” he says.

“Let’s go for it,” she says. “Just a few sips.”

“That a girl,” says Schumann.

There are certain things that the blue-ribbon douche might have mastered. And romantic drinks in the park are one, because honestly, this is an idea that never would have occurred to Coffen. Yet look at Jane now, reclining on a blanket in the grassy area as Schumann stands pouring both of them glasses of champagne.

It’s dusk. No other people in the small park, which is located inside the subdivision’s electric fence. The park is built between the two streets that fork to form the top half of the capital Y. Both Bob and Jane look around, though there’s not much to see. Playground far away. Grass and more grass. A couple barbecue pits. A concrete path wending through in great slaloms. There’s nothing in the way of distraction — no kids or bills or household maintenance or any other miscellaneous topics that keep Bob’s and Jane’s minds away from the distance between them. In a sick way, Coffen is happy Schumann is here, drawing so much attention to himself that Bob can bleed into the background a bit, not fixate on the fact he feels uncomfortable.

“Will you be requiring anything else, Monsieur and Madame?” Schumann asks, still showing off with his French accent. He has an oversized backpack slung over one shoulder from which he had produced the champagne and requisite glasses.

“This is splendid,” Jane says and smiles. “Thanks for orchestrating all this.”

“For a woman of your beauty, this is nothing,” he says.

Leave it to Schumann to show Bob up even when he’s supposedly his chauffeur. Apparently, even chauffeuring has fine print that Coffen knows nothing about, a mysterious clause in which the driver gets to make the lord of the manor look like a neutered stooge. In the long run, though, Coffen knows that if the smile on Jane’s face is any indication, this evening is going really well. Looking like a neutered stooge never felt better.

“And for the cherry on top,” says Schumann, futzing with his backpack and ripping out his bagpipes. “Ta-da!”

“Wow,” says Jane.

Coffen can’t tell whether his wife is being sincere. Bagpipes in the park seems like the kind of thing she would normally mock, but all evidence points to the contrary.

“I’d like to play one of my favorite songs to set the mood,” he says.

The last thing on earth Bob wants to hear is Schumann bagpiping a romantic song to set the mood — he’s already stealing the spotlight from Bob — yet Coffen knows not to show his true feelings because it’s obvious how much Jane wants to hear Schumann perform.

“This song is an oldie but a goody,” Schumann says. “I think it accurately captures the sensuous essence of the occasion.” He winks at Jane, then looks at Coffen with this face that’s saying, Ahoy, amigo, not sure if you’re totally noticing what’s going down right now but I’m still 100 percent cooler and better than you, so suck it!

He shuts his eyes and puffs into the bagpipes’ mouthpiece, getting the big squawks going.

Imagine a fantastically drab ballroom. Seven square tables have been set up in front of a large stage, each table seating two couples, including Bob and Jane Coffen. Imagine everybody has finished gumming their salmon and parsnip purée and now the overhead lights go out.

Darkness.

Intrigue.

The sound of a recorded heartbeat thumps from the speakers. Loudly at first. It fades until only faintly playing in the background.

The lights go back up, and there are two people standing on the stage, a man and a woman. The man wears a sign on his chest that says SPUTTERING HUSBAND. The woman’s sign says ZOMBIE WIFE. They both stagger around the carpeted stage, weaving wildly, like blind people doped on booze without canes or dogs or good Samaritans.

“Who are you?” says Zombie Wife.

“Don’t you remember me?” Sputtering Husband asks.

“Oh, yeah, you’re that man I’ve been married to for all these years. You think I’m only a dishwasher and a Laundromat and a baby-making factory.”

“And you’re the woman who thinks all I do is fart and play fantasy football and you never appreciate the little things I do to help out around the house when I’m not slaving at the office … ”

“I’m tired of going through the motions,” she says.

“I wish there was a way to recapture the magic we once possessed,” says Sputtering Husband.

They’re still staggering around, clomping on the carpeted stage, though now they’re both quiet, and in one far corner there’s suddenly a puff of smoke that grows in diameter and from it emerges Björn the Bereft. He’s wearing a black cape, a black top hat. He is mustachioed.

“Did somebody say ‘ recapture the magic ’?” Björn says.

“We did! We did!” say Sputtering Husband and Zombie Wife.

“And what about you fine people?” Björn asks the audience. “Are you also here to recapture the magic ?”

“We’re here to recapture the magic !” everyone regurgitates in unison.

“I didn’t hear that. Why are you here?”

“We’re here to recapture the magic !”

Coffen looks at Jane while everybody shouts the baited answer back at Björn. She seems to be sincerely participating. Much like the bagpipes back in the park, Bob never would have imagined his wife liking this, and he wonders what it means. If she’s changing and he’s not, isn’t that going to lead to divorce, her fleeing to Gotthorm and his bulge?

“Stand up, please,” Björn says, walking toward center stage.

The whole audience does as it’s told.

Sputtering Husband and Zombie Wife come close to him, a few feet away. Björn says, “Would any of you like to guess what this stage is made out of?”

Coffen and his tenuously married comrades peek around with puzzled faces, shrugging shoulders. Most people seem to be eating up the proceedings, but Bob’s leaning toward his primordial impulses — to deride this magic show as a cult-in-training: married adults congregating in a ballroom in the hopes a magician will make their marriages better; however, he tries to shrug off this instinct to disparage. He tries to assimilate, to take part, to be open-minded. Boy, does he try, but so far it’s not working.

“You,” says Björn to a woman near the front.

“Me?” she says.

“Yes, will you please come up and inspect the stage? Please walk around it and let everyone know what it’s made out of.”

The woman gets busy walking around the stage, stomping on it in places, doing a fine, thorough job. Then she says into Björn’s mic, “The whole stage is carpeted and it feels like thin wood underneath it.”

“And you are confident that the entire stage is carpeted with thin wood underneath it?”

She nods enthusiastically. “Absolutely, I’m confident of that.”

“Thanks. You can go back to your seat. Let’s give her a hand.”

They give her a hand.

Then Björn pulls a wand out of thin air. He leans down at the feet of Sputtering Husband and Zombie Wife and taps several times on the carpeted stage. Now there’s smoke wafting around their ankles, climbing up, encasing them in fog. Björn moves away and says, “Ladies and gentlemen, once the smoke clears, I think you’ll find that my associates here are actually standing on thin ice .”

The smoke clears and everyone struggles to see, jockeys for a better view. Björn’s associates are indeed standing on a small circle of thin ice. They shift from side to side, steadying their sneakers on the slick surface.