Nicholson Baker - Traveling Sprinkler

“Well, so I’m having it done tomorrow.”

“You’re kidding. That’s so soon.”

“I know. They had an opening at the hospital and the doctor says one of my ovaries is at risk, and I kind of like my ovaries.”

“Me, too.”

“So, it’s tomorrow.”

“Can I be there — or—”

“Lucy’s driving to the hospital with me, and Harris says he’s going to try to be there as well — so it might be difficult.”

“Oh. Hm. Well, what are you doing right now?”

“Nothing,” Roz said. “I’m not supposed to eat anything, so I’m just sitting here staring at a tub of sesame seeds.”

“That doesn’t sound like much fun.”

“No, and the idea of them feeling around in my innards tomorrow disgusts me. Those gloved groping hands, ugh. I hate surgery.”

“Should I come over and fluff you up?”

“I’m in my pajamas and I’m not going to be much fun. On the other hand, tomorrow’s really impossible, and I don’t want you to think that you’re not part of it, because you are. You really are.”

“Then why don’t I drive over and see you right now? We can watch a movie. I rented the Talking Heads movie, Stop Making Sense . I’ve never seen it. I don’t believe you’ve seen it, have you?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Well then, what do you think? We can have a pre-op viewing of the Talking Heads. I think they wear enormous suits with huge shoulders. It’s directed by Jonathan Demme. It’s supposed to be good. We can watch people in huge business suits singing ‘Take Me to the River’ and forget about our troubles.”

Roz chuckled. “That sounds kind of good. Bring your pajamas and we can have a pajama party. And can you bring the dear dog?”

“He’d love to see you.”

“Good, then come over.”

I SHOWERED OFF the day’s cigar smell and found a fairly clean pair of pajama bottoms, and Smacko and I drove at a good clip to Roz’s condo in Concord, which is easy to spot because on the steps up to her door are many small mossy pots. Roz offered both of us seats on the couch — idly I tweaked the piping on the armrest while she smelled the dog’s paws, as she liked to do. She was wearing a light bathrobe and pajamas and fluffy slippers. She asked me how my music was going.

“Going fine, going well,” I said.

“Can I hear some songs?”

“I’m still fiddling with them. I put some marimba trills in one of the songs. It’s for you. Actually, several of them are for you. I’ll burn you a CD when they’re done.”

“Marimba trills. How nice.”

Roz had popped some popcorn, but she said she couldn’t have any. Then she relented. “Oh, heck, I’ll have two pieces. They won’t kill me, and I’m starving.” She crunched defiantly.

We started the DVD. It was a concert movie and David Byrne looked completely insane. He had no stage patter. He began singing “Psycho Killer” on a bare stage, with his guitar and a drum loop. I didn’t like it much. I glanced at Roz. She looked doubtful.

“Hm,” I said, “shall we skip ahead?”

“Maybe.”

We skipped through several songs. “Slippery People” was a bit of a disappointment — more of the musicians were on the stage, including two backup singers who helped a lot, but it didn’t sound as good as the recorded version, with Tina Weymouth playing her clean thumpity-funk bass. There wasn’t much humanity in what David Byrne was doing. It was all too arty, too knowingly ironic. Maybe at a different time I would have liked it, but it definitely wasn’t the sort of thing to watch if you were with a person who was having a hysterectomy the next morning.

“I really don’t know what to say,” I said. “Let me see if I can find ‘Take Me to the River.’”

“Okay.”

I skipped to the end, where they all did an extended version of “Take Me to the River.” It was good. They were sweating now, and the beat was phenomenal, and a percussionist named Steve Scales was malleting away on an array of gourds, and the audience helped them with the chorus. I looked over at Roz, who was rocking, to my immense relief. The Talking Heads had come alive, and it was pure river-bathing genius. Even David Byrne was smiling, finally.

When it was over the audience went wild and the Talking Heads did an encore, which we fast-forwarded through. The stage crew, in black, filed across the stage, and he thanked them. The credits came on. Fifteen minutes had elapsed for Roz and me.

“Well, well, well,” said Roz. “All you need is one great song.”

“It’s true,” I said.

We were a little at a loss. “This was fun,” said Roz.

I flung a piece of popcorn to Smack, who caught it in his mouth. “No, it wasn’t,” I said. “Shit. I wanted to make you feel better. I don’t want to be a person who plays ‘Psycho Killer’ to his lifelong friend before her operation.”

“That’s okay.”

“What kind of movie would you really like to see right now? What’s your very favorite movie these days?”

Roz said that honestly her favorite film of all time was The Philadelphia Story . “But I know you have a prejudice against black-and-white movies.”

“No, I’m different now. I’m broadening my horizons. I’ve never seen it.”

“It’s a marvelous comedy. Katharine Hepburn is tremendous.”

“If it’s your favorite movie, then we should watch it right now.”

• • •

AND THAT’S what we did. We watched The Philadelphia Story. Roz found it on Netflix. We were transfixed. We laughed and we cried. It was two hours of total delight. Jimmy Stewart and Katharine Hepburn and Cary Grant were all brilliant, and so was the younger sister in her ballet slippers. Halfway through, Roz put her head on my shoulder like the old days.

“Now that’s a movie,” I said.

“It is,” said Roz. “Thank you for watching it with me. Phew! I feel better.”

“I’m glad. I—” I trailed off. “I don’t want to overload you with gobs of raw emotion.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that. I could use some raw emotion. Harris’s bedside manner has been a little lacking. He’s being chilly about all this.”

“He is, is he? Why are you dating this awful man?”

Roz thought about this for a moment. “Because I admire his courage. He says things that make his colleagues very angry at him, but I think he’s right a lot of the time. And he’s funny and smart, and attractive.”

I grunted.

“And he courted me and fussed over me, and that felt really good,” Roz said. “But he’s being strange about the surgery. I think he’s disappointed in me for needing a hysterectomy. There were so many hysterectomies done in the past, unnecessarily — it’s a real scandal — and he’s been such an opponent of that. And now here I am going under the knife.”

“But that’s life,” I said. “That’s the way life is.”

“I guess so. Maybe we shouldn’t talk about Harris.”

“Okay, well — I just want to say I love you very much, whatever my legal status is, ex-boyfriend, jilted lover, picnic partner, future husband, whatever.”

“Husband, whoa, whoa. Philadelphia Story really did a job on you. But I love you, too, Pauly. I’m scared. I don’t like anesthesia. I’m really scared.”

“I know you are, but it’s going to be okay,” I said. “You’re doing what you need to do, and you’re going to be fine.” Roz looked like she was beginning to droop. I said, “Should I go back now so you can get some rest, or should I sleep on the couch?”

“Cary Grant would probably sleep on the couch,” she said. “Lucy’s picking me up at six a.m.”