Michael J. Solender
One Chunky Elvis - To Go
Of course I knew blue didn’t go with black, I just wanted to incite the fifth argument of the day, which in my case was only one hour old given that it was Saturday and she actually let me sleep all the way to six as a “big favor.”
I didn’t know shit from blue or black. Dark was dark and I was giving up my entire Saturday spending two painful hours each way trapped in the car with Helene. This would be punctuated by a marathon Orthodox Bar Mitzvah and atrocious Kosher food. Add my in-laws into the mix and it was going to be a Saturday to remember.
“You are absolutely not wearing that blazer with those pants, Honey. Put on your gray suit for Chrissakes! C’mon didn’t your mother teach you anything about fashion? We are absolutely gonna be late, C’mon!!”
My wife was nothing if not punctual. My mother had the same disease to a fault.
It drove my father crazy. He often told secretly to marry a shiksa. “It will add ten years to your life, believe me Michela!” He called me Mi-che-la, with the emphasis on the middle syllable. It sounded like he had a hairball in his throat. “You should be late once in a while, you won’t miss a thing!” I should have taken his advice.
“Honey, what about my brown suit?” I was hoping to blend into the woodwork.
The Spanish had nothing on my in-laws as far as inquisition went. “Are you STILL driving the Buick?” My father in-law would ask followed by a series of tuts like a constipated two year-old.
Even my nephew would get his digs in wondering how I could possibly remain satisfied with 2% returns in my IRA when he could practically GURANTEE 5% if I were to transfer my retirement portfolio to him. He doesn’t seem to understand that I make it a point to never let those whose diapers I’ve changed manage my money. I don’t care if he was broker of the month two months running at Shapiro & Finklebaum.
“No honey, the brown suit makes you look like an executive turd, wear the gray one. Please!”
Honest to God, I’m just going to go back to having her lay out my clothes. The only thing preventing me from that is I’d miss the sport that this ritual affords me. What is it with a woman who, even when she’s not going to be seen with me, gives a shit about what I’m wearing?
I go golfing every Sunday with the boys during the summer and every time I do, I get the: “You’re not wearing that are you?”
Why yes thank you, I am wearing this and no I don’t think the boys give a flying fuck if stripes and checks don’t work well together. It’s a man’s God given right to look foolish, particularly on the golf course. The whole thing starts to work me up and I begin to get defiant.
“Honey, I’m not wearing the gray suit, it is too high in the rise and pushes my nuts up into my throat. It’s my brown suit or this blue blazer.”
Now, heaven help the man who doesn’t bow to a Semite woman from the tribe of Esther. No sir, death is never an option with them because it would put a premature end to the suffering. Skilled in the art of prolonged torment, passed on by generations of Princesses back to the days of Moses and his crossing of the Sinai, these women can rail on a man to where his ears will bleed the blood of a thousand dying warriors, his head will rattle like a desert snake with one too many maracas and his privates will shrivel to no more than the size of hors d'ouvres at a Baptist wedding.
I’d cast my lot.
“Honey,” she came into the kitchen where I was fixing a sandwich for the road, “Wear your GRAY suit, Please. Do it for me. What are you making?”
Everything I did every waking moment was “for her.” Now she was going to rag at me for bringing my Chunky Elvis along to Greensboro.
“Chunky Elvis to go.”
“What?” She hung on the “t” as if she were a concert pianist holding a note. “Honey they are going to feed you up there, my sister is not cheap, they’ll have the best caterers and you’re making a peanut butter sandwich? What is it with you?”
“Honey, it’s a Chunky Elvis, chunky peanut butter and banana on whole wheat. For the road. I get hungry and there is only so much gifilte fish and pickled herring a man can eat. If you drop it, I’ll wear the gray suit, alright?”
“Fine.” She stormed off.
There it was - my life in a microcosm.
My wife had my balls tied up in knots, and I’d pretend to ignore it as long as I could eat what I wanted. All in all, a pretty fair trade for a Momma’s boy.
All the Way to the Top
My chaperon, one step below, whispered into my ear, “Is this how you pictured it would be?”
“Actually, no. I don’t know that I ever gave it that much consideration. I mean I went to Sunday school and everything but that was hokey. Even as a kid I knew it wasn’t like they made it out to be, all ornate with the horns and cherubs. But, this! No. This is not how I pictured it at all.”
She giggled. I tried to turn my head to face her, but she insisted I train my eyes on what was coming up. We continued our ascent and the light became slightly more diffuse and I could swear I smelled orchids.
“Most people I escort are a bit surprised by the technology, not that they should be. None of his projects have ever lasted more than a week. I gotta hand it to him, he’s really got it down, and no skimping on material cost either, he’s really a sport. It won’t be long now, we’re almost there. Do you have the documents I gave you?”
I felt my breast pocket. This all seemed so formal. I kicked myself for an entire lifetime of doubt. It was real. Here I was - testament to that.
“Yep, right here,” I flashed my passport so she could see it.
“OK great, we’re approaching the first gate now,” she said as we slid past the mother-of-pearl arch, “There’s Saint Peter. He’ll take over from here.”