Lance Olsen: Calendar of Regrets

Me either, said Ron. What a great lunch.

This dental attack business, by the way, Jean said, fingering the spoon beside her plate distractedly, is exactly why Dan and I don't trust doctors anymore. At some point in the not-too-distant past, some shady organization kidnapped them all, extracted their hearts, and filled the resultant cavities with Snapple.

I think they refer to those organizations as HMOs, Robert said, don't they?

Doctors used to sit down and shoot the breeze with you, Naomi said. Ask how your mother was. Talk about the latest exhibit at the Guggenheim. Now you open your mouth and, bang, they're bored. Mine has his technician explain to me what pills to take because he doesn't want to be bothered. When did that happen?

When I was a kid, mine used to give me lollipops if I was a good little girl, Estelle said, pushing back, rising, beginning to clear the dishes. Jean and Naomi rose to help. Actually, he gave me lollipops if I was a bad little girl, too. I couldn't wait to see him.

They jabber on and on about the evils of socialized medicine, said Robert, then turn around and treat you like you might as well be living in France. Quelle horreur .

They're holding our cholesterol hostage, Jean said.

To be perfectly fair, Estelle said as she rounded the corner into the kitchen, they do have children to put through golf school.

You should have seen the way they treated Dan after his mugging, said Jean. It was inexcusable.

Mugging? Ron said.

Good lord, Robert said. So you're the sole member of our species who hasn't heard about that. Our poor Dan here was mugged — what? — five or six years ago on his way home from dinner with us.

Eight, Dan said.

No! Naomi called from the kitchen. Eight ?

Glasses and utensils clinked and jangled through the doorway. The refrigerator thumped shut with a rattle, opened, thumped shut again. Dan could hear the women strike up their own conversation.

A minute later, Jean appeared carrying two bowls of blueberries and cream.

Ta-da, she said.

Wow, Ron said. Mmmmmmm.

Dan was just back from doing a piece on Chernobyl, Jean explained. Right, honey? She set down the first bowl in front of Robert, the second in front of Ron. I couldn't go along that evening because I had this cold from hell. I stayed home gorging on Dristan.

Yeah, said Dan. I decided to walk. It was a beautiful evening. I didn't think twice. Somebody jumped me on Park Avenue, knocked me down, roughed me up a little.

That's awful, Ron said.

And the weird part is, Estelle said, emerging with Naomi and the rest of the desserts, the guy didn't take anything. Not a thing.

It's like they say in disaster pieces, said Dan: everything happened so fast. I was just walking along, minding my own business, and all of a sudden wham . Next thing I knew, it was over and I was in the emergency room.

Tell Ron what he wanted, Jean said. The guy. She took her first mouthful, closed her eyes, relished. If I've been good and go to heaven when I die, this is what I'll get to eat every day.

There I was, Dan said, down on the sidewalk, covering my head, trying not to get beat up too bad, right? And this guy? He keeps calling me Kenneth and demanding to know what the frequency is. How creepy is that ?

What frequency? Ron asked. Who's Kenneth?

Welcome to New York, said Robert.

Looking back, Dan said, it somehow doesn't seem like that big a deal. He chewed a while, swallowed. People get assaulted in New York all the time, don't they?

Yeah, Estelle said. Only most don't get songs written about it.

Songs? said Ron.

This band called Game Theory did something in… oh, I guess it was 1987. R.E.M. has a track about it on their new album. I've heard it. It's pretty catchy.

And , Estelle said, get this . Letterman asked Mr. Modest here to sing backup with them when they perform it on The Late Show .

You're kidding , Ron said. You know Michael Stipes?

I don't know him know him, said Dan, but I've bumped into him a couple times. He seems like a nice enough guy. Talks as if words are hundred-dollar bills and he doesn't have much in the bank. As opposed to, say, Letterman. Letterman uses this weird frivolous inflection saturated with irony when he's talking to you. You never know if he means what he's saying, or means the opposite of what he's saying, or doesn't mean anything at all.

Wow, Ron said.

Anyway, two weeks ago, out of the blue, I get this call from a guy named Dietz. Park Dietz. Great name, huh? He's a psychiatrist, and he says he's interviewing that lunatic who shot the NBC stagehand outside Rockefeller Center last summer.

Oh yeah, Naomi said. What was all that about?

The guy thought the TV networks were beaming messages into his head. During his interview with Dietz, he confessed he was also the one who mugged me. Evidently, I'd been tormenting his brainwaves, too. The police sent over a couple of mug shots. It was him, all right. At least, I'm pretty sure. I mean, I saw his face for like a couple of seconds nearly a decade ago, right?

Talking, Dan reached over and rubbed the back of Jean's neck. She leaned into his palm. It appeared to be a spontaneous act of affection, but was in fact their private sign for wanting to leave. They lingered a little longer and then, patting Dan on the knee, Jean announced they should be taking off because they still had some errands to run this afternoon.

In the foyer, everyone air-kissed and hugged. Robert stepped up behind Dan and patted him on the back, letting his hand loiter on his shoulder as they all agreed jovially that they had to do this again soon.

On their way down in the elevator, Jean and Dan chatted amiably with Naomi and Ron about their plans for the rest of the autumn. Pushing through the revolving doors onto the sidewalk, the damp stagnant heat took away Dan's breath. During lunch he had forgotten about what it was like outside, and now the day arrived as a blow.

Naomi and Ron took the first cab. The air conditioning in the second was so weak Dan had trouble telling if it was really air conditioning or just the fan set on high. Jean recited their address to the Pakistani driver wearing a light blue turban. The driver, who struck Dan as sullen and angry, replied in an accent so viscous that Jean had to ask him to say what he had said twice before it became clear he was just repeating the address she had given him to make sure he had gotten it right.

The taxi accelerated away from the curb and swerved into traffic, fishing among the other cars. Settling back, Dan took a deep breath and pressed shut his eyes. He felt wobbly in the close air and became aware of himself beginning to perspire.

Well, that wasn't so bad, Jean asked, was it?

Dan exhaled and opened his eyes. He reached down and stroked her hand absentmindedly. Up front, the driver honked at something and started talking to himself. The cab jerked abruptly left, then right.

It was tedious as hell, Dan said. Hey, is it hot in here? Then to the driver: Excuse me. Excuse me . Could you please turn up the AC a little?

Can't do, can't do, the driver said over his shoulder without looking back.

That Ron guy was insufferable, Dan said. And the Robert and Estelle Show is starting to get really, really old. Have you ever noticed that if the topic isn't about them, they don't find it interesting?

They never ask anyone else a single question, you mean.

They just bide their time until someone finishes speaking so they can continue being witty.

Jean focused her attention out the side window.

They used to be so funny, she said. Remember how they used to make us just… oh, I don't know. Feel good. Like we were all part of some goofy little club?