Sam Lipsyte - The Ask

We jumped from pundit to pundit, then on to basketball, Albanian cooking, endangered voles, America's Top Topiary Designers,America's Toughest Back-up Generators,The Amazing Class Struggle , the catfish channel, a show called, simply, Airstrikes!

We watched television in the old way and it was good.

Maybe the animator could just scram. No fester, no rot. Maybe we didn't have to talk about it. Maybe that was the problem. We yapped too much. We weren't equipped.

"I love you, Maura," I said. "I don't know what's going on, but I'm also fine with never knowing. If you can end it, come back to me."

"How can you be fine with never knowing?"

"What is there to know?"

"What do you want to know?"

"I want to know what's happening between you and Paul. But I'm saying I can live without knowing if whatever it is stops happening."

"Paul's gay."

"Really?"

"The only person I've ever fucked from the office is Candace. And that was a few years ago."

"Are you gay?"

"Once in a while. Not really. You knew that."

"Well, yeah, in that sense. I mean, like, in Greenpoint, I was gay, too."

"You were a spaz."

"I'm a sensualist."

"Okay, Milo."

"Have there been others?" I said.

"Others?"

"Besides Candace."

"I thought you were fine never knowing."

"I didn't realize how much there was not to know."

"What do you want, Milo? A signed confession? A show trial?"

"What happened?" I said. "I was out there pounding the pave-o-mento! What the hell happened to us?"

"The pave-o-what?"

"Forget it."

"What do you want, Milo? What are you asking for?"

"Asking?"

"What's the give?" said Maura. "A divorce? A stale but stable marriage? A poison one? What about Bernie? Do we stay together for the sake of Bernie? Do we split up for the sake of Bernie? Different websites advise differently."

"You're way ahead of me," I said. "I just love you."

"That's a cop-out, Milo."

"How can that be a cop-out?"

"God," said Maura, "we're arguing like a bunch of pussies."

"Do you love me, Maura?"

"Fine, forget it."

"Forget what?"

"This crisis. It's not worth it."

"What do you mean?"

"I'll stop fucking Paul."

"I thought it was just Candace. I thought you said Paul was gay."

"You're like from another century. Nobody cares what anybody is."

"You're from the same century I am."

"Poor Milo. What are you asking for?"

"From you?"

"From all of it."

"I don't know," I said. "I guess what I really-"

"Look," said Maura. "Look there."

It was Caller I Do . This was no surprise. It was on heavy rotation these days, a new classic. The male lead scrunched in a steel-domed turret in a sandbox in Central Park, wept. He'd just seen the woman he loved kiss a much younger man on her office softball team. His cell phone blinked the name and number of the woman, who was calling to tell him the younger man was not a rival lover but the office mailboy, a virgin soon headed to the hospice to die of leukemia. The kiss had been an innocent goodbye gift, but the man was too blinded by tears to see his cell phone display.

"I love this part," said Maura. "I mean, I hate it."

"We used to hate this together," I said.

"Maybe we can get back to that place," said Maura.

"Let's have an appointment," I said.

"I'm touched out."

"I thought you were in."

"I'm out again."

"Oh."

"We'll get there, baby," said Maura. "Not yet. Soon."

"I want to show you something," I said. "A part of my life. I want to share it with you."

I fetched my laptop, found Spreadsheet Spreaders . Maura peered over at the screen.

"Is that what you like?"

"I like you."

"Take out your cock," she said.

I unzipped my fly, tugged myself out.

"Do your business while I watch the end of the movie."

I scuttled over to the other end of the sofa, propped the laptop on a pillow. I did what she said, but she never looked over. I wanted her to look over. I tried to keep everything on my hand.

"Done?" she said.

"Yes."

"Okay," said Maura. "I love you, Milo. We are changing, our lives are changing. I don't know if we are finished or not. But we need a little break. Go to your mother's tomorrow."

"But what about Bernie?"

"It's just for a few days. So I can think. So you can think. Figure out what the hell you are doing with your life. With Purdy."

"What does this have to do with Purdy?"

"I need you to figure that out. Now go to the kitchen and wipe your hand."

I slept on the sofa that night. It was noisy out here in the room near the street. There were car alarms and the shouting of names. Somebody named Garza was going to get it. Somebody was going to bust a cap in Garza's ass. Somebody, maybe Garza, knocked over a garbage pail. The sound recalled the metal canoes my bunk once had to portage over rocks on a summer camp trip. We caught trout from a stream, ate nuts and berries and M&Ms. Our counselor talked incessantly about the "truth of the land." He did not mention the home heating potential of trout. I saw the side of Wendy Leed's tit, heard an owl hoot. I thought I heard an owl hoot now.

My phone glowed again.

"Did I wake you?" said Purdy.

"No," I said.

"But you're the sleeper. Why doth the sleeper not sleep? Melinda's conked. She sleeps and she hurls. First trimester is an ass-kicker. Who knew about any of this shit? Morning sickness always sounded so dainty to me. A little tummy ache before breakfast. But then you think of what's growing in her. Our heads are too big, you know. I've been reading up on this."

"I know all about it," I said, bent away from the sofa's crevasse. Maybe I would have to exile myself to Claudia's just for the sake of my spine.

"It's because our brains evolved too rapidly," said Purdy. "One minute we're doofuses in trees, the next we're outfoxing mastodons on the savannah, and we have these huge-ass pumpkin heads. Can you outfox a mastodon? Did foxes exist? Were there mastodons on the savannah?"

"I don't know, Purdy."

"They had those midget horses, I think. But anyway, think about it, big baby skulls ripping through the birth canal. It's criminal. It's rape, really. Reverse rape. Nature should do time for it. Melinda says I'm an idiot. She says the female body is designed for childbirth. Have you ever heard of the pelvic floor?"

"Purdy," I said, "how much candy have you eaten?"

"A lot. I'll have to do another ten miles on the treadmill tomorrow. You work out?"

"Not at all."

"You should."

"Why?"

"You'll live longer, better. Don't you want that?"

"I'm not sure, given my present circumstances."

"You'll definitely look better."

"Better than what?"

"Better than a half-melted block of Muenster cheese."

"That's a nice image."

"I rarely employ them. Anyway. . yumm. . ginger crystals."

"I'm actually hitting a bit of a rough patch with Maura."

"Rough patch. That's kind of a dead image, no? I'm trying to cut down on stock phrases myself. But I'm sorry to hear about your marital woes. Anyway, listen. Melinda wants to do a natural childbirth, but not at that place you met me, the Best Place. She's decided to do it here at home. No epidural, nothing. Fine by me. If she's a glutton for agony, that's her business. I'll be right there, stroking her brow, telling her what a great job she's doing, rah rah. I'll cut the cord. We're banking the cord blood. For bone marrow transplants, stuff like that."

"Do you need a bone marrow transplant?"

"I don't know. Do you?"

"I don't think so."