Curing the Uncommon Man-Cold (11 page)

“Uh, I think it’s still broken, Amanda. Don’t believe he fixed it.” Jason fanned his face.

“Couldn’t. The part he needed is on back order.” Her voice sounded funny.

“You’re kidding! This is the middle of August! I can’t survive oppressive summer heat with no air conditioning.”

“You should check the unit at your own apartment. Maybe the controller thingy works just fine on yours.”

If that was a hint, it went over Jason’s head. He just groused a bit more.

“When it gets really hot, just open a few windows.”

“It’s real hot already.” Jason switched back to whining. “And if I open the windows, that lets even hotter air come inside. Plus, I have to listen to constant yodeling from next door. Creepin’ crud!”

“Look, Jason, I’ve got to get back to work.”

“Wait. One more thing. Do you have a cat?”

“You know I don’t own a cat.”

“I’ve been hearing something meowing off and on today.” He paused to check again. Nothing at the moment. “Earlier, it sounded like a giant cat.”

“It’s probably your imagination. Or maybe Missus Yodel is practicing some different nuance in her competition routine.”

“Never heard anybody meow while yodeling. Not sure it’s even possible, Amanda. Different throat muscles, I think.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re becoming such an expert. It’ll broaden your horizons. Now I’m resuming my work. Bye.”

* * * *

Amanda ate lunch with Christine near Amanda’s office downtown.

“You should have told me the A/C guy was coming today. Jason called and squalled and I had to make up some convincing lies out of thin air.”

Christine did not look the least bit apologetic. “Did he accept your explanation?”

“Surprisingly, yes. He bought it completely.”

“Good lying just takes a lot of practice.” Christine nodded. “Before you know it, you’ll be running for political office.”

“So who deactivated my air conditioner this morning?”

“I did.” Christine looked distinctly proud. “Drove over about 10:00.”

“What did you do to it?”

Christine tore a page from her small notepad. “Here’s a diagram. It shows what to do and where it is on the unit. Oh, when you get home tonight, be sure to close the A/C vent in the guestroom.”

Amanda turned the crude drawing upside down. Then back again. “Blistered butt-rash! You know, this project could get out of hand.”

Christine’s hand waved slowly and apparently erased all of her own concern, though it didn’t delete much of Amanda’s worry.

“Jason also said he heard a big cat meowing.”

“Excellent!” Christine clapped briefly. “So the cat food I put out is keeping Diabla nearby?”

“Apparently. But I still don’t understand the next step.”

“We’ve got to get that cat into his room. I’ll explain on the way out. Don’t want to tip off anyone here who might be listening.” Christine looked around suspiciously.

There were only three other diners in the sandwich shop and none within hearing distance.

As they continued eating, Amanda whined a bit about her job — a daily ritual. Then she shifted slightly. “I’m completely flagged out by the time I get off work, and I don’t even have a weekend to look forward to. During my Hell Weeks, which is looking like nearly three this year, I’ll be working all the Saturdays and Sundays on grant reviews.” She sighed heavily. “Why all these evening activities scheduled for my apartment?”

“I already covered this. Two very distinct reasons to have evening
girl
events at your place while Jason’s camping in. One.” Christine held up a finger. “Men hate having their turf invaded by a hen party.”

“It’s not even his turf, it’s mine!”

“Exactly. And this is another way to subliminally convey our core message to him:
go home
.”

“What’s the other reason?”

“To keep him from seducing you.”

“Ha! Like I’d jump in the sack with a guy in his getup! No appreciable grooming or hygiene, and all that additional mucous. No way!”

“But you already admitted you’ve fallen for it before. And you know most men have some little trick to melt a woman.” Christine looked around the restaurant and lowered her voice. “There’s a special school where men go to learn how to counter any objections about sex. They learn how to keep at it until the woman just says,
Whatever
… figuring ten minutes of sex will be less exhausting than thirty minutes of argument.”

Amanda rolled her eyes and then looked at the time on her cell phone. “Time flies when you’re talking about sex.”

“Sex flies when you’re talking about time.”

“What does that mean?”

Christine shrugged. “Saw it on a billboard or somewhere.” She paused to let that sink in. “This sure beats whatever Jason is having for lunch.” Christine smiled as she chewed. “Speaking of… what is he having?”

“Not certain. He threatened to steal some dog food from the back porch of the duplex next door, but I think that was for exaggeration.” Amanda adjusted the grip on her BLT. “He’s still limping along with consommé and those horrid rice-based wafer thingies. Have you actually tried those?”

“Indigestible. He’d be better off with the dog food.” Christine poked at her chicken salad. “I’ll have to tell you, I’m a bit surprised your Jason has stuck it out this far. In my original premise, the shock of not getting his munchies, booze, porn — and none of the TLC from you, of course — would get him out the door pretty durn quick. This is Day Five and he shows no signs of giving up.”

“Yeah, kind of surprises me, too. Of course, I didn’t truly comprehend all the horrors you’d planned for him. But he’s pretty much just rolled with the punches. I’d halfway expected him to show a little initiative — like stealing a box of cookies from a passing student salesman or something. But he just mopes around my apartment, sucking on a toothpaste tube.” Amanda took another small bite of her sandwich and chewed thoughtfully. “Once we took away all Jason’s creature comforts, it’s been a bit like
Gulliver’s Travels
: he’s out of the male-centered universe as he knows it. He’s not able to grapple with the enormity of this upheaval, so the smaller manifestations simply waft by him and he just watches like a stoned hippie.”

“Can you write that last part down? I’d like to put that on the blog.” Christine handed her the notepad. “I think you’ve hit on the key to this case. Normally a man would bristle at any
one
of the setbacks Jason has experienced. But facing all of them at one time, with our unified front, he’s just as disoriented as a dazed bird, trapped inside a greenhouse, that keeps bumping into windows.”

“Put that on your blog also.” Amanda slid the pad back over.

Christine made a note. “Oh, does Jason speak any Spanish?”

“You must be kidding. He can barely order his own meal at the Mexican restaurant.”

“Good. I’ve got a surprise for him tomorrow. Want to hear about it?”

“Probably better if I don’t know.” Amanda sighed. “I’ll just read about it on the blog like everybody else.”

“Suit yourself.”

“Remember, no physical harm.”

“Not a hair on his body.” Christine smiled.

Amanda checked the time again. “Only have a few more minutes. I wanted to ask you more about that handbook, or whatever you talked about publishing. Were you serious about that?”

“Sure. Think about it. Our core group is 15 million American males who have about one man-cold a year. Right?”

“Yeah, but that just came out of your own head, Christine… it’s not a real number.”

“No matter. My brain is plugged into this.”

“Your brain’s plugged with something.”

Christine seemed to dismiss the comment. “So we figure these sickies have 15 million females tending to them, and they’re all desperate, frazzled, overwrought. Like you were.”

Amanda nodded. “Still am.”

“Well, cut off a third who probably can’t read. That leaves 10 million. Then knock off another third who never buy a book — they just borrow somebody else’s copy and never bother to return it.”

“That leaves the final five million desperate women who can read and are willing to buy a book.” Amanda helped move the arithmetic forward.

“Exactly. We’ve practically already sold five million copies. Bestseller — top of the Amazon rankings. There’ll be interviews, maybe a makeover… for at least one of us. They’ll probably fly us to New York for a nighttime talk show.”

Amanda shook her head. “Don’t buy your interview dress just yet. You haven’t even written the dang book.”

“It’s writing itself on our blog. We’re getting feedback from all over the globe.”

“Now that’s a scary thought.” Amanda had already seen some of the posted comments. “Absolutely terrifying.”

“Don’t chicken out about our book. Like I said, it’s already a guaranteed bestseller. We’ve got practically automatic sales to five million women who are slaves to these once-a-year man-cold perpetrators.”

“Perpetrators? You make it sound like a crime.”

“It ought to be criminalized. But I project that to be addressed in the fourth or fifth tier. You can’t get new legislation just because the grassroots demand it. You need lobbyists and celebrities on your side, pumping up your message.”

“Hold on. Grassroots? Lobbyists? Celebrities?” Amanda’s eyes grew large. “What celebrity is going to be a spokesperson for the women combating man-cold perpetrators?”

“Hey, those are some of the words we might use, but it’s got to be a flashy acronym.” Christine thought for a minute. “What about D.A.M.P.? Defense Against Man-cold Perpetrators. D.A.M.P. I love it!”

Amanda pinched her friend’s forearm. “Forget D.A.M.P. Just name me one celebrity who’ll help us with this. And it’s got to be a female celebrity who’s married to, or living with, some schmuck who acts like a baby when he gets the sniffles.”

Christine closed her eyes briefly. “Well, I’m drawing a blank at the moment, but I’ll come up with somebody. Like I said, the political action committee aspects of this would be way down the line.”

“Wait. Maybe we’re looking at the wrong gender. How about a male celebrity? You know, some washed-up actor who can’t get any decent roles.” Amanda might already have a short list of names. “We’ll get him to say he used to be a man-cold perpetrator, but now he’s reformed. Saw the error of his ways, et cetera.”

“Great idea, Amanda! But we still need a name. Know any male actors with a troubled past of man-cold perpetration?”

“Irrelevant. Actors are paid to say the lines provided in the script and make it look convincing. Take an out-of-work actor and pay him the S.A.G. scale, and we’ve got our celebrity endorsement. Our mouthpiece, our poster male for the legislation.”

Christine squinted. “A few days ago you told me that you don’t know when I’m kidding and when I’m serious. I think I’ve just reached that point with you. Are you serious about all this stuff you just blurted out? Or are you just humoring me?”

Amanda took another quick look at her cell phone clock and jumped up. “Oops. Gotta run. Later.”

* * * *

Shortly after lunch, one of the other workers entered Amanda’s office with two additional grant applications.

“Just got these apps from King Louie,” Joan said, whispering the boss’s name. “He told me to bring them in.” She handed them to Amanda. “Sorry.”

Amanda glanced over the top document. “Any idea how long he’s been sitting on these?”

Joan shrugged. “I didn’t see them come in, but he just now made a point of telling me that they did beat the deadline.”

“Deadline was Friday a week ago.” Amanda double-checked her calendar.

“Don’t kill the messenger.” Joan rolled her eyes.

“Sorry. My frustration quotient is through the roof.” Amanda sighed heavily. “Not aimed at you.”

Joan nodded and departed.

* * * *

During late afternoon, Jason called his buddy Kevin Haywood at the electric co-op. A year older and already divorced twice, Kevin’s sole avocation was to cruise the numerous conventions, conferences, and other events which gravitated to the Nashville area. About half of these had women attendees, and about a quarter of the events were mostly aimed at females. Women visiting Nashville without their usual male partners were juicy targets, and Kevin almost always got a hit.

At the apartment, Jason finally realized he’d had enough deprivation and was eager for rescue. “Kevin, you got to come get me. I’m at Amanda’s on Melrose. I’m sick and I’m starving! No TV, no Internet, nothing! The most exciting thing around here is watching some kid with no neck who keeps banging a tennis ball against the side of the community laundry house. And after the first hour, even that excitement wears off. I’m a prisoner! When can you get here?”

“Are you kidding? You’ve got it made. A foxy nurse like Amanda and you’re off work all week. What’s to rescue? Has she given you a full body massage yet?”

“No, I’m serious, Kevin. Everything’s upside down. Amanda’s hardly here at all and these other women keep coming over.”

“Other women. Hmm. How many? This sounds interesting. Who are they? Nice looking?” Kevin theatrically faked a cough. “Maybe I’m feeling a little sick, too.”

“No, no. It’s horrible. They’re killing me over here. Starving me!”

“Jase! If you’re hungry, just order a pizza delivery.”

“Yeah, good idea.” It had not even occurred to him. But his friend was missing the big picture of punishment and isolation. Jason tried to explain.

Kevin just sounded bored.

“You don’t seem to realize how serious this is.” Jason sputtered. “Here’s just one example. Yesterday, a kid came to the door selling magazine subscriptions. So I say I don’t live here, but ask if he’s got any food on him. He acts like he doesn’t understand the concept. So I say, ‘Anything at all to eat. I’m starving. I’ll pay.’ So he digs down in his pocket and comes up with two gummy bears and an old piece of butterscotch.”

“Uh, don’t tell me you bought them.”

“It was a bargain at a dollar apiece, even if I did have to scrape his pocket lint off the bears. Fortunately the butterscotch morsel was still wrapped, but it was dried up and stuck to the wrapper, so it took me nine minutes to peel it.” Jason sighed heavily. “Where are all those kids who sell boxes of candy bars to raise money for schools? I used to see them by the busloads before I was imprisoned.”