Friday, June 20, 2003
JUMPING THE SHARK, Sex and Lies continued... Sunday, June 08, 2003
Pete was an Olympian but he never really competed, he was a natural. He had the body of a runner and could turn the speed on and off. He would win at tennis and squash without working up a sweat and looked good while doing it. He was loose. He always had a beer in his hand.
We left our M.I.T. Eastgate apartment when Erika was 3. School was looming in her future so we moved to Newton, a city with a reputation for great schools. We had a ground floor apartment in a two family. There was a yard, a driveway on the side and garage in the back. It had three bedrooms. Unbeknownst to the landlord, I turned one into a studio.
Erika was enrolled in nursery school. I had more time to paint. Pete had more time to go fishing on the weekends with his buddies. They were all heavy drinkers. We socialized with them as couples and the wives drank too. The guys all worked in sports, coaches for the most part. Pete was the only one among them who had achieved world class status as an athlete. One of his close friends had lost a teenage son in a drunk driving incident. That seemed to plunge the family deeper into an alcoholic haze. I hated to visit them. Their home was falling apart. They were bathed in despair.
It was hot on a late August Saturday afternoon. I hear the van pull in. Pete had been deep sea fishing off Scituate. There is a commotion in the driveway. There is a small group of neighborhood kids standing around a large gray mass lying on the hot, black asphalt. Pete is laughing. I go out to take a peek. It's a 6 foot shark. I can't believe he hauled it home in the back of the van. The van was just a metal shell inside, no air conditioning. In summer it was like an oven. The smell was not good. I was incredulous. "Why did you do this? We're not going to eat it. Why did you bring this thing home?". Pete was not totally clear about the point of this. Something about showing the kids. He tells me he's going to gut it. This is insane. I go back to the cool quiet of my studio.
Not long after I hear screams. Kids are scattering - I see Erika's babysitter dash across the street to home. The shark is now a gaping putrid, foul mass of guts and stench all over the driveway. The smell assaults me. I run back to the house to get a cloth to put over my mouth and nose - I can hardly breathe. Pete is nowhere to be seen, then, I hear him. Sounds like he is puking his guts out behind the garage.
He spends the rest of the afternoon cleaning up the mess. I don't know how he did it. I was not a witness. Late that evening, he comes in, takes a shower, dresses in a clean, pressed shirt and slacks. We bag his fishing clothes and throw them out. He seems to think the whole thing was pretty funny. I think it was grotesque. I try talking to him about his motivation to do something like that. He has a beer in his hand. How many has he had today? Who counts? We can't seem to carry on a conversation. To an outsider, he looks fine, clean, stands up straight, no stumblebum he. But I can't hold a conversation with him. He can't seem to respond rationally. The room is dark. We have not turned on the lights. I'm petrified. I beg him to stop drinking. I kiss him, I hug him, I plead with him to stop. He laughs, says there's no problem. I'm on my knees clutching his legs, sobbing, begging, please, please, please stop drinking. I snap. I attack him. I beat on him with all my might, everything I have. He does not resist. I take the ends of his shirt in my hands and rip it apart, the buttons go flying. He grabs me and holds me still. He is quiet. I'm exhausted. He goes to the fridge and gets himself a beer.
I've seen my future. What do I do now? I will never again ask him to quit drinking.
The phrase, Jumping the Shark, is defined here:
http://pub79.ezboard.com/fglitzycapefrm1.showMessage?topicID=29.topic
and here:
http://www.jumpingtheshark.com
Pete was an Olympian but he never really competed, he was a natural. He had the body of a runner and could turn the speed on and off. He would win at tennis and squash without working up a sweat and looked good while doing it. He was loose. He always had a beer in his hand.
We left our M.I.T. Eastgate apartment when Erika was 3. School was looming in her future so we moved to Newton, a city with a reputation for great schools. We had a ground floor apartment in a two family. There was a yard, a driveway on the side and garage in the back. It had three bedrooms. Unbeknownst to the landlord, I turned one into a studio.
Erika was enrolled in nursery school. I had more time to paint. Pete had more time to go fishing on the weekends with his buddies. They were all heavy drinkers. We socialized with them as couples and the wives drank too. The guys all worked in sports, coaches for the most part. Pete was the only one among them who had achieved world class status as an athlete. One of his close friends had lost a teenage son in a drunk driving incident. That seemed to plunge the family deeper into an alcoholic haze. I hated to visit them. Their home was falling apart. They were bathed in despair.
It was hot on a late August Saturday afternoon. I hear the van pull in. Pete had been deep sea fishing off Scituate. There is a commotion in the driveway. There is a small group of neighborhood kids standing around a large gray mass lying on the hot, black asphalt. Pete is laughing. I go out to take a peek. It's a 6 foot shark. I can't believe he hauled it home in the back of the van. The van was just a metal shell inside, no air conditioning. In summer it was like an oven. The smell was not good. I was incredulous. "Why did you do this? We're not going to eat it. Why did you bring this thing home?". Pete was not totally clear about the point of this. Something about showing the kids. He tells me he's going to gut it. This is insane. I go back to the cool quiet of my studio.
Not long after I hear screams. Kids are scattering - I see Erika's babysitter dash across the street to home. The shark is now a gaping putrid, foul mass of guts and stench all over the driveway. The smell assaults me. I run back to the house to get a cloth to put over my mouth and nose - I can hardly breathe. Pete is nowhere to be seen, then, I hear him. Sounds like he is puking his guts out behind the garage.
He spends the rest of the afternoon cleaning up the mess. I don't know how he did it. I was not a witness. Late that evening, he comes in, takes a shower, dresses in a clean, pressed shirt and slacks. We bag his fishing clothes and throw them out. He seems to think the whole thing was pretty funny. I think it was grotesque. I try talking to him about his motivation to do something like that. He has a beer in his hand. How many has he had today? Who counts? We can't seem to carry on a conversation. To an outsider, he looks fine, clean, stands up straight, no stumblebum he. But I can't hold a conversation with him. He can't seem to respond rationally. The room is dark. We have not turned on the lights. I'm petrified. I beg him to stop drinking. I kiss him, I hug him, I plead with him to stop. He laughs, says there's no problem. I'm on my knees clutching his legs, sobbing, begging, please, please, please stop drinking. I snap. I attack him. I beat on him with all my might, everything I have. He does not resist. I take the ends of his shirt in my hands and rip it apart, the buttons go flying. He grabs me and holds me still. He is quiet. I'm exhausted. He goes to the fridge and gets himself a beer.
I've seen my future. What do I do now? I will never again ask him to quit drinking.
The phrase, Jumping the Shark, is defined here:
http://pub79.ezboard.com/fglitzycapefrm1.showMessage?topicID=29.topic
and here:
http://www.jumpingtheshark.com
