Chapter Nine: Eternal Unfulfillment

Eternal Unfulfillment: every single moment is incomplete, and complete (more or less). Accept this simple truth…or shoot me now.

Julie feels rested this morning, and begins her beguine with a touch more spring in her step. As she looks in the mirror, she notices her eyes and smiles. The raccoons have moved. Her morning routine never changes; same twenty-minute shower, same oil, same brand of cigarettes, oh yes, a different magazine, same fifty strokes to the hair, same concentration on mascara, mascara, oh yes, a different Chanel suit, same shoes, same lipstick, same window up and down. She leaves the bathroom without a second glance at precisely seven ten a. m.
Julie’s moving on up – a new job, a big fat office, dust-free silk ferns and a computer programmer at her beck and call. No more standing in line at the copy machine, no more tiny windowless office on the reeking gastrointestinal floor, no more mile trek from the office door to her upgraded and enclosed parking space. All this and I still get to dress up, too, Julie thinks. Julie is a conservative modern woman with a big paycheck. Her biological alarm clock is silent until she compares Rolex watches with her new boss, Doctor Tucker Bush. Tucker is separated from his wife of thirty-four years (but not divorced), incestuously wealthy, and twenty-one years older than Julie. He likes eggs. He’s a fertility specialist cum geneticist to be exact, with four grown children. On Tucker’s door is an enlarged copy of a Gary Larson cartoon entitled How the Human Egg is Often Deceived. Squiggly sperm are dressed in baseball caps, vying for entrance into the faceless egg’s corpus luteum. ‘Excuse me ma’m. Here to read your meter ma’m.’ ‘Phone repairman, may I check your lines?’ Package for you, m’am.’ Julie's favorite sperm is dressed in a tuxedo and bow-tie; he carries a dozen roses and a bottle of champagne.
Julie is GeneLife Planning Corporation’s new Director of Risk Assessment. She's responsible for gathering detailed family histories and developing methodologies to help practitioners understand a patient’s risk for certain genetic conditions, from heart anomalies to juvenile arthritis, from Acromesomelic Dwarfism to Zollinger-Ellison Syndrome. Julie expands her scientific mind, and although she doesn’t wear a white coat – a momentary setback – she is flush with self-importance. Explaining the meaning of Anorchia and its potential lifetime effect on one unlucky newborn is not, thankfully, in Julie’s job description. She provides the message; Doctor Bush is the messenger. “But Doc, he’s a boy, ain’t he? Where’s his little nuts?”
Doctor Bush breaks it to the new dad as gently as possible. “Mr. Smith, they didn’t develop during gestation.”
“Jestashun?” Mr. Smith is confused.
Doctor Bush smiles sympathetically. “The nine months he spent growing inside of your wife’s womb.”
Mr. Smith’s expression changes to recognition as he develops his own scientific theory. “Are they hiding somewhere? Maybe he got cold in there. When I get really cold, mine disappear, too.”
Doctor Tucker picks up the Smith chart, takes a deep breath, and stifles a yawn. “Mr. Smith, with your permission, I’d like to do a series of tests to determine the proper treatment for your son. Who’s your health care provider?”
Mr. Smith reaches for his wallet and extracts a plastic card. “Grandover Benefit Services,” he says, handing the card to Doctor Bush. “Right here it is,” Doctor Bush politely looks at the worthless card and hands it back to Mr. Smith. “Why don’t you step to the front desk and speak with Anne? She’ll process your paperwork, and then we’ll determine how to proceed.”
“Will it help if I keep him warm?” Mr. Smith asks. Doctor Bush politely shows him out the door. “It certainly won’t hurt, Mr. Smith. Good luck, now. We’ll be in touch.”

If she were a musician, Julie’s band would be called Julie and the Routine. She spends her first three hours of each day researching genetic birth defects, then two hours painstakingly detailing her findings in both medical and layman’s terms. After a fifteen minute break for lunch (a Slim Fast and an apple at her desk except on Wednesdays when she meets Betsy out, but never Jake) she spends one hour organizing her alphabetized system – she’s up to Dancing Eye Syndrome – then meets for one hour with the computer programmer. The final hour or so of every day is reserved for a status meeting with Doctor Tucker Bush which may include drinks and dinner, depending on Tucker’s social agenda.
Julie loves her new job, and finds security in the unending research. She takes her work home every night, camps on the sofa surrounded by books and files, overflows with desire to learn every physical and mental anomaly caused by a faulty or missing link in the human gene pool – and Jake feels her attention to their relationship wane. Bliss caught a cab to the airport and bought a one-way ticket to Paradise when Jake wasn’t looking.
After a particularly bad day in the ED, Jake walks into the living room - Julie's permanent encampment. The only thing missing is a no trespassing sign. “Julie, please put down your book and talk to me for a minute.” Julie sighs loudly. “I’m working, Jake. Can it wait?”
“No, it can’t. What’s going on with you?”
Unwilling to make eye contact, Julie pretends to read. “What do you mean?”
Jake sits on the sofa beside her, and rubs her leg. “We were soaring, and now we’re back to that old familiar nothing. I don’t mean to be dense, but damn, where are you?”
Julie moves her leg to the floor. “Come on, Jake, not now. I’m busy.” Jake pauses, then, surprising himself, grabs the book from Julie’s petite hand and throws it against the wall. Julie flinches and looks at Jake with contempt, but stays seated. Wow, that felt good, Jake thinks. He grins, but the grin disappears under Julie's intense stare. Jake takes a deep breath and plunges in. “When’s the last time we made love?” he asks.
“God, Jake,” Julie responds, annoyed. “Yesterday, don’t you remember?”
“No, that’s not making love, Julie. That’s two horny people getting off in ten minutes or less.”
Julie moves her body away from Jake and stands up before he can touch her again. “What’s your point?”
Jake rubs his head, looks at his irritated wife, and asks a question that stops his heart. “Have you met somebody?”
Julie walks to the fireplace, picks up a small brass urn and inspects it for dust. “I meet people all the time, Jake, just like you do.”
“Have you met a man, Julie? Are you falling out of love with me?”
“That’s ridiculous,” says Julie, retrieving her book from the floor. Finding her place again, she marks it, places it on the coffee table, and waits. Jake slowly rises from the sofa and faces his wife. “Someone told me that you and Tucker Bush had a drink after work the other night. They saw you and Tucker in the hotel bar across the street from the hospital.”
“Who told you that?” Julie quickly smothers the blaze in her eyes, but Jake records her huffy defense. She sighs impatiently. “Look, Jake, everything I do is work-related. Doctor Bush and I are busy people and on occasion, we both work late, as you know. We have a drink together once or twice a week and finish up the day. That’s it.” Julie wills herself to stay loose.
Jake watches Julie’s effort to control her breath, and turns his head away from his wife’s obvious lie. He's somewhat embarrassed by his lack of assertion, but rather than accusing her outright, he softly says, “Don’t you think it’d be a good idea to tell me these things before I hear them through the gossip network?”
“I will from now on since it bothers you so much,” Julie retorts, discounting Jake's hurt feelings. “Wouldn’t it bother you?” Jake gently asks, and Julie sharpens her claws. “No!" she snaps. "It wouldn’t bother me at all. Tucker and I are business associates, Jake. That’s all. Why don’t you take that cute little head nurse, what’s her name, out for a drink after a hard day at the hospital? It’s okay with me, really.” Julie smiles coldly. “Yeah…why don’t you do that, Jake? It’d be good for you.” Julie’s face contorts into a smirk.
Jake reaches out and gently takes Julie’s hand in his. “No, what would be good for me is to have a wife who loves me. I want to come home after a rough day and be with you, not out having drinks with someone who had a child die in her arms in the ED. We have nothing more to talk about at the end of the day. We need space and light and love from our families when we walk in the door – not another cold body. You seem to have forgotten that.” He drops her hand and wraps his arms around her, hoping for simple reciprocity.
Julie stiffens in response. “Did you walk Molly?”
Jake backs away and stares at his wife in disbelief. “Julie, did you hear what I just said?”
Julie’s nerves, on edge since Jake began this stupid discussion, have short-circuited. The savage cruelty of their marriage surfaces with the speed of a lioness taking down an injured zebra. “Yes I did, Jake, and I want you to listen to me. You knew when you married me that I wanted a career. I’m not Mrs. America and I’m not gonna try. I’m not your personal sex goddess, nor do I want to be. You are looking at the woman you married. I haven’t changed. If you want something different, go for it. I don’t care.”
Jake’s ribcage shreds under Julie’s claws. “Wait a minute. What happened? Didn’t we get back on track a few months ago? Or was that my imagination? Did I imagine being happy?” The prey seeks safety of shelter, and finds only a bare, open landscape as the predator goes for the kill. “Back on track? Jake, we derailed a long time ago. I wanted to take this wedding band off the day after I married you. I just wasn’t brave enough.” Emasculated by his wife’s words, Jake drops his head in defeat. But, his body kicks into survival mode; he watches disconnectedly as his hand grabs the dusted brass urn. He feels his body as it turns toward the foyer, and hears a guttural roar emanate from a distant place as his arm unleashes the connecting blow. Julie screams. “Damn it Jake, not the mirror! Break something of yours, you asshole!” The only pain Julie feels is when she removes a glass shard from her pinkie finger.

Wednesday night is Gospel night at The Phoenix. Upstairs in the restaurant, Sam and Jarrod serve fried catfish, hushpuppies and homemade cole slaw for $8.95 a heaping plateful. The joint is jumping up and down; God is in the house in the form of a small contingent from the Union Baptist Church choir. They’re covering Donnie McClurkin’s That’s What I Believe when Jake walks in the door. The driving bass goes right through Jake and he is off the ground, elevated by the spirit, and he is hungry. The aroma of fried catfish lures him to a seat at the kitchen bar. Sam greets him, slaps a hot platter in front of him, and pulls a non-alcoholic beer from his private stash. “On the house, my friend,” a grinning Sam says, “I’m feeling charitable.” Jake feels the beat of the bass through the floor, feels it with every bite, but the goodness in his stomach doesn’t ease the pain in his chest. He’s thinking about leaving when he feels a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, man! ‘Bout time you came around on a Wednesday night. Listen, after you eat, will you spell me on keys while I grab some of this fine fish while the grabbin’s good?”
This is the savior Jake needs. He turns to his friend and smiles. “It’ll be my pleasure, Tinker.”
Tinker leans in closer. “You alright tonight?” He sees the worry in Jake’s eyes.
“I am now that I’m here,” Jake says. “It’s been a rough day. Lost a kid.”
“God bless you, man.” Tinker shakes his head. “You ever think about becoming a full time musician? It’s painful, but in a different way, know what I mean?”
“I think about it every day, man.”
“Make it happen, and God will watch over you. You’re the most righteous player I’ve ever met. Tyner has nothing on you, Jake. So, you’ll start the next set for me?”
Jake nods. “When’s the break over?”
“Fifteen minutes, man. Be on time, or suffer Dee’s wrath.”
“I’ll be down in ten.” Jake smiles at Tinker, and catches Mimi’s eye as she carries a load of empty plates to the dish room. She drops the stack and stops for a quick chat. “How you doing, friend? Glad to see you made it out. This is my favorite night of the week – gets everybody in a good mood except the bar staff. They hate making virgin daiquiris and the tips, well, you know how it is.”
Jake chuckles. “Tell them it’s community service, Mimi. Tell them it adds much good juju to their karmic account.” Mimi looks more closely at Jake. “Rough day at the hospital? You look tired.”
Jake’s face crumbles. “Mimi, I just need a hug.”
“That’s why God gave us arms, Jake.”
“Amen, sister.”
Jake leaves five dollars on the bar, thanks Sam, stops by the bathroom, and washes his hands. The face staring back from the mirror shocks him. He sees the grieving father of the dead child. Jake closes his eyes and looks again. He sees the mother of the child. Then the tormented grandmother. And he feels as if he’s falling but he’s standing, and wings carry him to the stage and he spreads his lovely hands across the keys and the choir sings We Fall Down. Jake cries as he plays; he cries for the family of the dead child and for the heartbroken nurse who held the child in her arms and for the love of his beloved wife, Julie.

But Sam is on another plane, and the engines roar as he grabs Mimi by the arm and takes her outside. “Mimi, do you have to touch everyone who walks into this restaurant? Can’t you keep your hands to yourself?” Mimi is flabbergasted as Sam continues his rant. “Some people don’t like to be touched. Like that girl with the tag sticking out of the back of her shirt – I doubt she appreciates you fixing it for her.”
Mimi is incredulous. “I think she very much appreciated me doing that, Sam. I know I’d appreciate it.”
“Yeah, but that’s you. One of these days, you’re gonna get shot.”
“Why? For fixing somebody’s tag?”
Sam is belligerent. “For touching the wrong person!” His tone becomes hateful. “Like Jake; why did you hug Jake?”
Mimi is exasperated. “Because he needed a hug, Sam. Sometimes people just need hugs. Don’t you feel better when I hug you?”
Sam ignores the question and shrugs. “You’re too touchy-feely. It gives people the creeps.”
“You’re the only person I know who gets the creeps from a touch.” Mimi bites her tongue and pauses. “But you’re right. I’ll tone it down some. I sure don’t want to creep anybody out. You’ve just pointed out a character flaw, one I’ve never considered. I’ll be more aware of touching people. Point taken.”
Mimi immediately goes downstairs to The Phoenix and hugs no fewer than twenty people. They hug her back. She touches their shoulders and their hands. They reach for her. Mimi softens her heart. She reaches into her own chest and touches it; now, she opens her heart’s door, and gently, very gently, gathers and releases a bright hot spark from its innermost chamber and sends it through the holy people where it grows and ignites Jake’s dull ember. God is asking for a tithe.
Mimi smiles and knows, for tonight at least, nobody plans to shoot her.