Why Men Are Afraid of Women

Miami

Miami M y wife Marge is lying on the bed with her sweater pulled up around her neck and her pants rolled down to her ankles. Her belly rises, tight as a beach ball. "Touch it," she says. What was God thinking about when he made us like this? She's a good person, but all this love, all this touching we seem to need. I've got on my new white suit I bought yesterday, and I feel like a fool. I'm not rational this morning, and it's getting worse by the minute . I don't know how to tell her. "You don't believe I could do something terrible," Marge says. "But if you don't touch me now, you might find out." I bought a white-on-white silk tie to go with the suit, because the salesman said it made me look like a famous person. "You better get sincere," Marge says, "or it's all over between us." "I should have been at the store an hour ago." "You don't care about me and the baby," she says. I do, but I don't know how to explain. She wants Muzak love, with hundreds of violins, and I won't give it to her, and so it goes. I also don't understand myself. I used to be a rational man and now all of a sudden it's 2 Why Men Are Afraid of Women white suits and wanting deep down inside to look like a famous person. Any famous person. And also there's Candy. Where will it end? Marge is crying big transparent tears, looking me in the eye without forgiveness. Something is going on here which I don't understand. "Put your ear down there just once," she says. "Tell me what it sounds like." What it sounds like is a Dixieland band. Trombones, screechy trumpets, feet stomping. If there is truly a child of mine in there he must be going out of his mind with the noise. I can hear snare drums rolling. I can feel things move. "Want me to make you breakfast?" Marge says. "There's some fresh fruit in the icebox." I wonder what the kid will think about this world when he gets out. If he's under the impression it's dark in there, wait till he gets a look at the place where I have to live every day. The worst part of living is the uncertainty . It's what makes us all do funny things, like waiting until we're forty-one years old to buy a white suit. "I'll get a cup of coffee at the store," I tell Marge. She looks at me like she's been betrayed again. "I hope it tastes good," she says nastily. Out there in the sunshiny streets the Cubans are making dope deals and shooting each other. The cops are going berserk in Miami. If you get a traffic ticket it's vital to keep both hands in plain sight, or the officer could get twitchy and blow your head off before you might say hello. I probably look like a dope dealer anyway . Did I mention I bought armadillo boots with three-inch heels to go with the suit? "Listen to it again," Marge says. "Just one more time and then you can go to the damn store." I put my ear down to her stomach. I still hear music. Miami 3 This time it sounds like "Won't You Come Home, Bill Bailey." This child's going to come out crazy for sure. "Sweetheart," I say, "I can stay home for a while if you want to talk about this." But her eyes have become dreamy and distant and I can see she's listening to something more interesting than her husband. "Honey," I say. "Marge." "Go on to the store," she says. On my way out the front door I get a glimpse of myself in the big mirror. Besides the suit, etc., my hair is too long and my face looks desiccated; it's starting to crack here and there. As if reason, which has been holding it together for all these years, has decided to give up and go fishing. The heat at ten in the morning is already like stepping into a phone booth full of fat people. It takesfive minutes for...