OFF! OFF!

‘Turn it off, Paul. I’ve seen Lucy shows dozens of times. Change the channel or I’m going to go to bed.’ ‘So go.’ Paul stays put in his lounge chair, his naked feet on the ottoman. Next to him is his usual giant bag of marshmallows. I go into the den to take away his sugar fix. Gently he slaps my hand away and glowers at me. The factory packing belt moves faster and faster. Lucy stuffs another and another chocolate in her mouth. Paul stuffs marshmallows in his and guffaws until tears run down his cheeks. I cannot control myself and let a chuckle escape and then indignantly, do what I said I would do. I leave him looking like a happy chipmunk.

Sleep almost enfolds me. CNN is repeating the day’s news when the ceiling light glares in my face. My drooping eyes come to attention. ‘Damn, it Paul, turn off that light!’ He pays no attention. I put my blanket over my head yet hear thru it. The toilet flushes, stops, flushes again. Paul moans. Without getting out of bed I can see my foolish husband sitting on the bathroom floor. The toilet seat is up. His head is over the bowl and he’s gagging. Let him suffer, I think even as I wet a wash cloth and put it on his forehead. Paul takes his hand from his growling belly and pats mine in thanks.

Knowing that he will survive, I leave him, turn off the bedroom ceiling light, switch on a low lamp, and crawl into bed, curl up facing the window. Sleep is on the way and so is Paul. The bed shakes as he sits on his side of it, lies down, turns and spoons my back, whispering softly, ‘I’m sorry, Darling. Goodnite.’

In the morning, in the middle of the kitchen table, is a clean waste basket, holding last night’s ½ eaten bag of marshmallows and two not yet opened bags. It all goes directly into the garbage can in the garage. I fix our breakfast. Not a word is said about last night’s ugliness. The day is ordinary. The world is falling to pieces. Ice fields are melting. The stock market is see-sawing, flip-flopping, ending almost where it started. I fix a crisp salad, lamb chops, yams and string beans for dinner. Paul rewards me, apologizes with a lovely bunch of mixed flowers from our supermarket. The price is still on the cellophane wrapping. The stems are long so I cut them and make a center piece for the table. My anger and wish to get revenge for last night evaporate, go swirling down the drain as I rinse the dishes.

Done. I look in the den for Paul. He isn’t there. The garage door to the kitchen opens and there he is, holding two large bags of groceries. One holds only 12 rolls of toilet tissue. The 2nd has canned goods and 4 large jars of nuts, 2 of peanuts, one each shelled pistachios and almonds. He puts everything on the panty shelves for me, except the peanuts. That jar he empties into a large glass bowl and sits it on the table next to his chair.

The t.v. lights up, set to his favorite channel, ‘Comedy Oldies.’ Instead of Lucy, Sid Cesar and Imogene Coca are at each other again. Sid is talking jibberish and Imogene understands him. Paul is roaring with laughter. I’ve seen these shows too often and ask Paul to change the channel. Between his involvement and the crunching of the peanuts on his molars, he doesn’t hear me. I just take my bow, go upstairs, hoping he doesn’t choke, but visualize the possibility. My bed and the quiet welcome me. Robert Taylor in Waterloo Bridge, in amazing black and white, fills the screen.

It’s an oldie but I love it, don’t see the end. That doesn’t matter I know what happens.