He Said...She Said...(He/She #43) ©

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"You're getting home at 11 o'clock. Ain't I the lucky husband."

"It's 11AM, would you rather I stayed out until 11PM?
  You might remember I walked out the door at 8:30
  after somebody smothered me with kisses, 
  then yawned audibly."

"Guilty as charged, your honor,  and I thank you 
  for  the double latte."

"I wanted a quiet morning at Ground Zero
  but suffice it to say, I was horse-collared.
  The coffee is a gift from Marcy."

"Marcy?"

"Marcel DuTramp. He had me calling him Marcy
  because he needed a shoulder to cry on."

"Is it safe to assume that is the only body part
  of my wife he touched?"

"Let your imagination run wild with that assumption,
  you brown-eyed handsome man."

"Humor and flattery. What a winning combination!
 What did the  Poet Laureate of the Long Beach Jetty
  do this time?"

"Well, I was immersed in reading the Wall Street Journal
  but he sat down across from me and said
  Carol, I need to talk to someone and I'm glad it's you."

"You, as opposed to me?"

"Sorry, sweetheart but he didn't even mention your name.
  All he talked about was his mother. It was her birthday
  but she died forty-five years ago."

"I'm sorry for sounding selfish. Go on."

"He specifically talked about the day his mother carried
  a rake and a pair of oars to the beach where he grew up
  in Newport, Rhode Island. His Mother called him Marcy.
  He said it was the day he rowed to work.
  He had a landscaping job for a waterfront neighbor
  who felt very sorry for him."

"Why did they feel sorry for him?"

"Because, in his words, Wealthy white kids in the Sixties
  were a very sorry breed."

"What did he mean by that?"

"As if you didn't know. He and all his friends were
  stoned-out hippies but he was the only one
  who could occasionally impersonate an adult."

"I occasionally impersonate an adult, much to the delight
  of this storyteller."

"Anyway, his mother was in her nightgown looking
  sexier than hell. It was 6AM on a summer morning.
  The sun had barely risen. No one else was in sight 
  but she went into a crazy religious rant.

"Marcy, nobody knows your sins better than me.
  I have seen them all. So has everyone else in this
  god-forsaken paradise..."

"So you are quoting Marcy quoting his half-naked mother
  forty-five years after the fact–in a local coffee house."

"I know what you're thinking: was anyone else listening
  to his telling the 'story' that led to my re-telling?
  The answer is NO. We were outside for a cigaret...
  The two other tables had single-occupants
  plugged into their iPods."

"Okay, Carol. Take me back to the god-forsaken paradise."

"Paul, thank you for slowing me down. I'll paraphrase the rest."

"No. No paraphrase: you were being sexier than hell and heaven combined."

"Stop. In short, what his mother said was that none of her son's
  sins–without Marcy ever itemizing what those transgressions 
  were–were any different from the sins of other teenagers.
  They were only louder and more obvious."

"In other words, the boy's cry for help was louder than most.
  Marcel took two and a half hours to explain all this?"

"Well, Marcel–the man–actually cried while vividly quoting
  his mother. The tears seem most genuine but every fifteen minutes,
  he had to go pee-pee but only after–as he demanded–I said
  You may now go to the bathroom, Marcy.
  He ultimately gave me the impression that what most disturbed him
  about the memory was that his mother did not think of her son
  as being unique."

"Sounds pretty sad."

"But it was unique when you consider his bravado persona
  and wit and poetry and cynicism that we both know and love 
  and occasionally need to avoid."

"Maybe that explains why this latte tastes better than it usually does.
  Maybe that also explains why you still look sexier
  than hell and heaven and everywhere in between."

"Hold that thought, handsome. 
  Let's take a walk to the jetty."

"Yes, dear."

"Here's your walking shoes."

"Thank you, dear." 

 
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