EENIE MEENIE
Jay Wexler

Eenie Meenie

Over a shared plate of calamari and inky glasses of Barbaresco, Dan and Hannah discuss the details of their proposed affair. They are both attorneys, mid-level associates at the same large downtown firm, so they are quite familiar with the task of negotiating specifics. Dan asks about the location of their trysts; would they happen at a hotel, and if so, one in town or a suburban location?

Hannah wonders about the affair's length and how it might end. She asks Dan whether the affair would be unilaterally terminable without prior notice or instead if some sort of hearing, e.g., an opportunity to respond to the terminator's proposed reasons for termination, would be appropriate. Dan shakes his head and pours more wine. A hearing, of course, he says. Even cheaters have their rights. Hannah is lovely in the dim candlelight of this romantic restaurant that he cannot even imagine visiting with his wife of ten years. Hannah's scent reminds him of high school. Not his own high school, perhaps, but the high school of the nation's collective imagination, something one might find expressed in a song by John Cougar, or a nostalgic television show featuring bright pastel colors, or something of the sort.

Miney Moe

Back at home that night, Dan explains to his wife Maria that he has been working late on merger documents and regrets his tardy return. Maria may or may not have noticed his absence, but she gives him a peck on the cheek before asking him to take out the trash.

Garbage brought to the curb, Dan strolls past Maria, who is sipping something clear over ice and cackling on the phone with her odious mother, and pokes his head into his son's bedroom. There he is, only four, wrapped up in pajamas featuring some second-tier superhero, his face planted so deep into a striped pillow Dan wonders if Andrew can even breathe. Dan thinks back to when Andrew was just home from the hospital, unable even to turn over on his own, sometimes sleeping sitting up in his car seat next to their bed, Dan waking to even the smallest movement, the slightest moan or sound. He tiptoes to Andrew's bed, softly touches his son's feathery hair with outstretched fingertips. Dan's heart flutters. This, he figures, is not something he can do without.

Catch a Tiger

They are in the office together, it is late, and there is a crunch. A response to something or other is due in the morning, so authorities must be assembled, paragraphs drafted. The partner in charge is in Kansas issuing invectives left and right on a separate matter, so the filing is left in the hands of Dan and Hannah. The two work furiously, keying sophisticated searches into expensive databases and ordering spicy Thai noodles from the local Bangkok Express. At one o'clock, Dan finally loosens his tie. He is reading a draft of the document's penultimate section when Hannah barges into his office, throws the conclusion down in front of him, settles into the leather chair on the far side of Dan's desk. He looks up and realizes that Hannah is bare-legged; her opaque stockings, once pulled tautly over slender calves, have been discarded. The realization just about overwhelms him. At this point only his exhaustion (and perhaps the seventeen-inch flat-screen computer monitor between them) keeps him from leaping over the desk into Hannah's lap.

By the Toe

At dinner with Maria's sister and her husband, Dan orders a second Sidecar when the talk turns to Glenn Close. “Creepy,” says Maria, chewing on a maraschino cherry from a quickly slurped whiskey sour. “Ghoulish,” adds her sister Tammy, who pulls her aquamarine silk shirt back over an exposed pink bra strap. The ladies volunteer their favorite Close movies. One mentions The Big Chill, the other Dangerous Liaisons. But those are not the films Dan is thinking of, and he's never really been much of a fan in any event.

If He Hollers

Later that night, Dan drives the babysitter home, pops alkali tablets, realizes he no longer recognizes himself. The fact that every middle-aged man in the history of the universe (save perhaps Trump, a few other idiots) has eventually realized the same thing brings little comfort. Out he goes to the living room. Despite the late hour and her drunken state, Maria sits at the dining-room table staring at an Excel spreadsheet on her laptop. She is entering figures, groaning, recalculating. Dan knows that she wants to build a pool in the backyard with a swim-up bar and is trying to make it happen by manipulating financial accounts, mortgaging the family's future, hypothesizing nonexistent sources of wealth. One column, to Dan's great dismay, is entitled “Potential Craps Winnings.” He approaches her from the back, drapes his arms around her shoulders, smooches her bare neck. “Have you figured it out yet?” he asks. “I've almost got it,” she answers. “What are the odds on a hard six again?” He buries his nose deep in her thick curls, asks her to come to bed. She shakes him off, insists on finishing the present calculations. When he sighs in defeat, she stops what she's doing, turns full circle, takes hold of his hand, gives it a soft kiss. He smiles, but then she turns back to the computer, resumes her analysis. His wife, Dan knows all too well, doles out her affection in teaspoonfuls.

Let Him Go

Their boss is back from the Midwest, and he's fucking pissed at Dan and Hannah. In his office, the two potential lovers slouch in leather chairs and absorb the scolding like schoolchildren. The document they worked on all night is not up to snuff, not even close to what is expected from lawyers of their caliber. The partner yells at them for forgetting important legal authorities, misphrasing critical arguments, violating grammar rules “that any mildly retarded four-year-old could follow.” When he's not screaming or burying his face in his oversized hands, the partner shakes the flawed document at Dan and Hannah like each is half of a two-headed puppy that has just soiled an expensive handmade carpet. They both apologize, but that doesn't seem to do the trick. The main problem is in the second-to-last section, the one entitled “The Bank Holding Act of 1948 Provides Few, If Any, Restraints on Credit Reporting Corporations Under the Third Restatement’s Principle of Restorative Justice, and Whatnot.” “But the Bank Holding Act wasn't promulgated until 1954!” blurts the partner. “And Third Restatement of what? ” Dan knows that he is responsible for these particular blunders, but he is still surprised when he hears Hannah volunteer this information to their boss. “That was Dan's section of the document,” she says. The boss turns his fiery gaze in Dan's direction, and Dan in turn spins and stares at Hannah. What the hell is the matter with you, his eyes ask, but her attention is focused on a complicated paperweight that holds down the boss's bonus recommendations, due in the managing partner's office by Tuesday COB.

Out Goes Y-O . . .

A fortnight later, differences behind them, Dan and Hannah sit at a hotel bar in suburban Indianapolis, downing classic American lagers one after the other to celebrate their hard-fought victory. Apparently the judge ignored the minor mistakes, saw through to the merits of the summary judgment motion.

Back on the West Coast, Andrew misses his dad, now out of town for nearly a week. The boy begs his mom to let him call Dan, but Maria is upset that Andrew hasn't finished his entire serving of broccoli. When a tear drips down Andrew's cheek, Maria finally relinquishes and makes him a deal: if he finishes every last piece of broccoli, he can call his father. Andrew isn't entirely happy with the proposal but figures he doesn't have much choice. His mom does not generally renegotiate. Maria retires to the living room to watch the local news and play a little solitaire. After she leaves, Andrew stares hopelessly at his plate. He pops a stalk into his mouth and chews. And chews and chews and chews. It takes him maybe three minutes to finish the entire floret; since there are ten left and he needs a three minute break between each one, it takes him about an hour to finish the plateful. The sour taste remains in his throat, countless grassy stubs stick stubbornly between his tiny teeth. As soon as the last piece is gone, though, he yells eagerly to his mom, who says she'll be in to place the call just as soon as her game is done.

At that very moment, Dan and Hannah, having settled up with the barkeep for the nine beers now sloshing around in their bladders, step into the elevator that will take them to their rooms on the fourth floor. A Muzak version of Purple Haze plays too loudly in the tiny space. Even though it is late on a winter night and they've been smoking, Dan finds Hannah's scent enthralling. She smells like autumn, the homecoming dance, a crisp Thanksgiving morning football game against the cross-town rivals. He has no idea what he's doing, or what he plans to do.

When they alight from the elevator, there is an awkward moment or two before they decide to go together to Dan's room. There, he has a bottle of scotch they will use for a nightcap. Dan has trouble opening the door with his keycard that in his nervous drunken state he keeps inserting in the wrong direction. Hannah giggles, touches Dan's arm tenderly, shows him the correct method of insertion. The light turns green at the same time that Andrew screams for his mother to hurry up and call his dad in Indiana. Maria tells him she'll be right there, that her game is almost over. She flips the cards, one two three, looking for something that will help her get the last ace out, free up the five of clubs. Flip, flip, flip. At the table, Andrew sighs, then pours himself another tall glass of water. Though time is the only cure for the nasty taste that lingers on his tongue, he drinks the water down quickly, in one gulp, hoping that maybe, just maybe, it will wash the bitterness away.

© Jay Wexler

Jay Wexler teaches law at Boston University. His work has appeared (or will soon appear) in Bullfight, Cellar Door, Ink Pot, and Snow Monkey, and in many places online, such as Hobart, McSweeney's, and Word Riot. His website is http://www.jaywex.com.

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