J. Lennon - See You in Paradise

Nevertheless, he did it. He clicked that button, signed off on the exorbitant shipping charge, and let out a long, light-headed breath.

The following week, a DHL truck pulled into the driveway and a slim, large-headed, babyish man with gangly, flopping arms hand-trucked several enormous cardboard cartons onto the front stoop. The man was sweating and panting and stared unabashedly at Philip’s strapped-down legs as he handed over the plump electronic signature tablet.

While Philip signed his name, the man asked, “So what happened to you?”

Being asked this was so unusual that Philip stared, briefly, in incomprehension before answering, “I got run over.”

“You got somebody to unpack this for you, right?”

“No,” Philip said, handing back the tablet.

“What is it, like a grill?”

“Sort of.”

The guy stood there, nodding. It dawned on Philip that the man’s arm-flopping was actually a kind of tic. The unoccupied arm was twitching and flexing, the hand pale and dead-looking at its end. He couldn’t have been thirty, but his chin was underslung with loose flesh, which was misted over by a few days’ beard stubble, gray like a mold. He glanced at his watch.

“Can you help me, maybe?” Philip asked him.

“Whaa, with this?”

“I can’t open it. I can’t even stand up.”

The man looked at his watch again, and suddenly began to chew a nonexistent stick of gum. “Hunh,” he said. And then, unexpectedly, “Yeah hell sure.”

No UPS driver would ever have even bothered stopping to chat, let alone open packages, but that’s what this guy did. He hung around for a good hour and a half, unboxing and assembling the hibachi set as Philip looked on in wonder. All the while he chewed his lack of gum (wasn’t this supposed to be the purview of very, very old men?) and maintained a steady stream of random chatter, touching upon barbecuing (good eatin’ but not worth the effort), neighbors (annoying), dogs (indispensable, but annoying), cats (not worth a shit), women (can’t live with ’em etc.), alcoholic beverages (a curve-ball here—“a real destroyer of families”), fathers (all bastards), and finally (via a story about his own father stealing the cushions off his neighbor’s porch furniture as a practical joke, and the neighbor calling the cops, and his father actually spending the night in jail) back to neighbors. And as it happened, both the man’s arms, though equally floppy, were entirely functional, brilliant in fact, assembling the hibachi in a blur of flesh and metal, while the instruction manual lay untouched on the counter.

It was even more impressive in person than on the web site. It filled the kitchen like a car someone had parked there. The dully gleaming brushed-steel cooking surface, outlined by a grease channel and then by a six-inch expanse of waxed hardwood; the attached stainless accessory trays, with their cargo of squeeze bottles and seasoning shakers and cleaning and cooking implements; the galvanized tent overhead, suspended upon four sturdy posts, which housed the state-of-the-art whisper-quiet exhaust system, as efficacious at the displacement of air as (so said the manual) “a small aircraft engine”—all of it gave the impression of power, efficiency, professionalism. It looked like the real thing. Philip hoped to hell Evangeline liked it.

To the DHL delivery man he offered his profound thanks and a fifty-dollar tip. The former was accepted, the latter refused. “Nah, nah, I could get in hot water over that.”

“You won’t get in hot water for being two hours behind schedule?”

A squint, a nod. “Yeh, that’s true,” he said, taking the fifty bucks. He turned to leave. “Yeh, so, sorry about the legs! Hope you get better.”

“I won’t, I’m afraid.”

This seemed to anger the man. “Hey. Miracles happen.” And he was gone.

Philip wheeled himself across the house and into the kitchen. It was strange and slightly frightening, being alone with the hibachi — the thing seemed faintly, subtly alive, like a killer robot from space. He took stock of the transformed room: the gleaming refrigerator, humming in the corner; the oven and dishwasher; the coffeemaker and toaster and bread machine and all the other useful stuff he could only reach and operate with great and humiliating effort — they now seemed to be in collusion with the hibachi, in a concerted effort to make him feel very small and weak and soft. But he was thirsty, so he attempted to wheel himself carefully around the hibachi in order to reach the sink. There was perhaps half an inch of clearance on either side of his chair, and his knuckles aligned perfectly with the sharp flange of aluminum that supported the hibachi’s oaken rail. But then he had to avoid a cabinet knob on his left, overcompensated, and felt the skin flaying off two of his right knuckles. For crap’s sake. Well, he’d develop calluses. He finally reached the sink, where he filled a glass with water and left the tap running gently and pinkly over his bleeding hand.

It was there that Evangeline found him. He hadn’t heard her footsteps, only the little gasp that escaped her as she entered the room. He turned off the water, wrapped a dish towel around his fingers, and backed out to sit beside her. Her hand fell to his shoulder. She was standing very straight and tall, gazing with preternatural alertness through her thick glasses, her eyes roaming over the hibachi, taking in its stunning alien solidity. “Oh,” she said. She stepped forward, ran her hands over the wood, the steel. She lifted each utensil out of its holder, opened the drawers, found the utility belt and hat. These she removed and put on, adjusting the belt around her waist, smoothing out her dress underneath it. She slipped the utensils — the long two-tined fork, the chef’s knife, the oil and teriyaki sauce — into the belt and let her hand travel over them, not quite touching, as though testing their aura.

She looked very sexy. The belt accentuated her hips, and with her hair bundled underneath the ivory chimney of a hat, years had dropped from her face. Already tall, she now appeared, from his vantage point, to be some kind of giant, some impossible avenging force. She was smiling at him, a smile simultaneously of pity and gratitude, and he smiled back.

“I hope you like it.”

Her only response was a nod.

“Happy birthday.”

But already she was trying to figure out how to operate the thing, opening the double doors underneath and adjusting the valve on the propane tank. Philip tied the dishrag fast around his hand and wheeled out carefully, trying not to make any noise. He closed the kitchen door behind him and went to the living room to read.

For much of a week he saw little of her. She went to work, returned from work, and headed straight for the kitchen, and from behind the closed door he heard all manner of scraping, clanking, hissing, and sizzling. The house smelled wonderful at six, when he was hungry, and the food she placed before him at the table was fresh and flavorful, every bit as good as what they’d eaten at the restaurant. But at ten, eleven, twelve midnight, burning onions were the last thing he wanted to be smelling, and he wished that she would shut the thing down and come to bed.

When she finally did, however, his patience was rewarded — at least this is how he chose to see it — by a strange new phenomenon. She strode into the dark bedroom, shucked off her clothes, showered, and then crawled into bed beside him, naked. She had never used to sleep naked. Philip had, in fact, never been in bed with a woman who slept naked. In any event, her nakedness was, for three days, otherwise uneventful; but starting on the fourth she began, and there was no way around recognizing that this was what she was doing, masturbating. Not the furtive sort that an unsatisfied spouse might wish to keep from his or her mate: no, she levered herself against him, then reached down and touched herself, emitting into his ear noises of pleasure he had not heard from her for a long time, if ever.