What fire? It’s all OK, honey
When you’ve been with the same person for 23 years, you have conversations like this. You know, the kind where only one of you actually talks?
“Look, when I travel without you,” my wife says, “and I call to ask how things are, I would really appreciate it if you don’t paint such a depressing picture.”
I shrug, which married guys are really good at. It still mystifies me that a Neanderthal shrug is how I express the mild irritation, self-hatred and denial that her accurate observation provokes. But, hey -- have you ever read the ingredients that go into a Twinkie? That doesn’t make sense either.
“I mean, we’ve got one 12-year-old kid who’s pretty self-sufficient, we have someone clean the house twice a week, and you don’t even commute to work,” she continues. “So, just try to understand what it’s like for me. I’m trying to have fun, to get a little peace of mind. And every time I call you it sounds like the world is ending.”
After an especially windy night in Malibu, she leaves on Sunday morning. It’s so blustery that the other players in my 8 a.m. tennis game don’t even call one another to check in -- it just ain’t happening. I’d roll over and go back to sleep if that tree branch didn’t insist on tapping out Morse code against the window.
I grab a cup of coffee and pop on the TV. Football is on, but what I’m really looking forward to is Game 7 of the American League Championship series. Over on CNN, they’re covering a fire. It’s in Malibu. Whoa. It’s all over Malibu. Hundreds of firefighters have been dispatched. Pacific Coast Highway is closed.
I grab my son and head for the closest grocery store to stock up. This clearly isn’t an original idea; it’s already slim pickin’s. We pick up five stale blueberry bagels, even though neither of us likes blueberry bagels, because they are the only ones left. A frozen pizza for each of us, a six-pack of Rolling Rock for me, a box of Lucky Charms for . . . well, probably for both of us.
Back at the house, I wonder how things got so messy in half a day. My son blasts a TiVo’d marathon of “Scrubs” from the living room, and for about the one millionth time in my life, I yell for him to turn it down. It’s 5 p.m. finally. I get into bed with a beer and the last two slices of my pizza and hit the remote.
On Fox News, there’s continuing coverage of the fires, which are spreading faster than Tom Cruise rumors. The Weather Channel tells me that winds are more than 60 mph right outside my door. Which the winds have also been telling me, thank you very much. And -- wait a second -- Channel 11 doesn’t come in? That’s the baseball game I’ve waited all day to see.
I call a nearby bar, thinking that I can probably ditch the kid for an hour or so and watch the game there. But the bar isn’t getting the game either. I look around. How did my bedroom get so filthy in one day? My cleaning woman calls. In hysterical Spanish, she apologizes that she can’t come tomorrow. And did I know that the roads in and out of Malibu are closed?
Leaning my head against the wall, I close my eyes. This can’t be real. Maybe it isn’t. Maybe I’m in a really bad movie. It’s not dramatic enough to be exciting, and it’s not clever enough to be funny. I’m Tim Allen, and I’m in a movie that will premiere as an in-flight selection.
I wonder if you can chase three beers with a bowl of Lucky Charms.
The phone rings again. I mute the TV.
It’s my wife. She’s having an incredible time. In fact, the second the plane landed, she and her friends all got massages and mani-pedis.
“And how’s everything there?” she asks.
“No worries,” I say, softly intoning the unofficial Malibu mantra. “It’s all good.”
