I heard Skeeter get up for a late-night snack, last night, jumped off the bed and toddled into the kitchen. He was shoving chips into his mouth (something he does when he is stressed out). I said, "Can I have one?" and he leaned down and gave me a chip (something he only does when he has other things on his mind)."He's a mess, isn't he?" I said.
"If we're going to talk about this, we should go into my bedroom. Is he sleeping?"
"Yeah, after about two hours of tossing and turning," I said, and toddled after him into his bedroom. He closed the door, got in the bed, and turned down the TV; it was "Friends" (which he watches as a kind of mental comfort food and whenever it is on and it's always on some fucking station or another). I jumped up onto the bed and curled up to him.
We were comfy and he was sipping his tea and we were saying nothing. Really, it was hard to put it into words.
Boo-Boo was having some kind of a nervous breakdown cum burn out. He's always been high-strung but when it comes to high-maintenance that's Skeeter's and my territory. But tonight, when Boo-Boo got back from work very late, he was a basket case. First he bounced off the walls for a bit, then he talked in all directions: about how insanely stupid his students were; about how all the other teachers were having their little bitchy wars and trying to put him into the middle of them; about how this left him no time to work on his own business; about how work from his second job (third, if you count his own business) was beginning to fall down on his head; about how, no matter how late it was, he still wasn't finished working for the day. Then he sat down at his computer and answered e-mails. Then he got up and slammed around the kitchen. Then he made mumbled speeches about what a pig sty we all lived in. Then he slammed down to his computer again.
During all of this I was in Skeeter's lap keeping a low profile. Boo-Boo hadn't even said hello to me when he came home and there had not been so much as a pat on the head since. So I hid, on the La-Z-Boy with Skeeter, who was saying very little. But this was sure: Skeeter (who normally is decompressing at this hour, has taken all his meds and is getting ready for bed) was just staring at Boo-Boo as he slammed around. Occasionally he would nod his head at questions Boo yelled into the air, but otherwise he kept his mouth shut. He had paused the program he had been watching, he was not reading, indeed he was not doing anything except watching Boo fly off into about a million pieces.
Finally, Skeeter announced that he was going to bed and I understood why. But Boo flew off the handle and said, "That's it, just leave me here alone to deal with all this!" Skeeter stayed, though there was absolutely nothing he could do. I knew that he, too, had had a bad day at the nurse's and that things, professionally speaking, were not going well for Skeeter either, but he said nothing. He knew...I knew...this was Boo-Boo's moment and we let it play out.
Except it didn't. He was a mess for another hour or so and until it was finally decided that it was really bed time and everyone went off to their separate corners.
Now, much later, in Skeeter's bed, we were both thinking about the blow-out. Finally Skeeter spoke: "He has no hobbies. He has nothing outside of work that gives him true pleasure. So when work goes bad, it's like his whole world is caving in."
I didn't know what to say. I knew humans had their problems, I just had never paid much attention to them until they became my problems. "What are you really worried about?" I asked.
"That he's going to have a massive cardiac—"
"—Lord knows, he's at that age—"
"—shut up. Or that he's just going to crumble. I've seen him like this before and he does make himself sick—"
"—oh fuck," I said, "just what we need in this house: another sick person."
After another long silence he said, "It's not a good time to be self-employed."
I wasn't even thinking, just turning thoughts around in my head as I mumbled, "It's not a good time to be self-employed. It's not a good time to be employed. It's not a good time to be sick. It's not a good time to be out of a job. It's not a good time."
Skeeter sighed, gave me a kiss and said, " Go back to him. See if you can keep him simmered down. You do it better than I can."
"Of course I do," I said, as he opened the door for me to leave his bedroom. I turned back to him before going into the darkness to Boo's room. "It'll be all right."
"Will it?"
"I'm a dog. We know these things." He laughed a little and I snerfed and toddled off to the other bed, jumped on it and cuddled up to Boo who was, indeed (and finally) in deep sleep.
Now I suppose I have to get to work: be cuter, be nicer, be more charming, be more patient. Mother-fuck...why do these things always happen to me!
No comments:
Post a Comment