The Talk

"Well, I guess she didn't want to stay for dinner after all. More Chinese for us!" I slur when Arnold returns from the front stoop.

"Gee, I wonder WHY Helga. Could it have anything to do with you staring her down?"Arnold walks up to me with crossed arms, clearly unhappy. Criminy.

"Me! She was the one ogling you like some prize what was I supposed to do? Slap a bow on you and shout 'Congratulations you've won!'"

"NO! But you could have at LEAST been nice enough to make her feel welcome!"

"OH! Like the way you welcomed her in our room? Real classy Bucko! Maybe next time I should walk in with olives and Hors d'oeuvre so ALL your patients can feel JUST as welcome as she did! Or better yet, why don't I clean the glasses too! Can't have you falling off those twelve steps with dirty glasses can't we! And hey, while I'm at it, why don't I bring in fresh sheets and condoms! Ya know, in case you decide the girls need some physical therapy to REALLY uproot those father issues."

"Helga, I would nev-are you drunk?"

"That's it, we're OUT OF here!" Gerald gathers his son and diaper bag, not even waiting for Phoebe to follow before he breaks for the door. My best friend tries to do something but knows it's useless. So instead she walks up to Arnold, patting his shoulder.
"Good luck with that one. She's...well...you know. Call us if you need anything!" she smiles faintly and exits, leaving me with the Romancer of Red.

"Answer me Helga. Are you DRUNK!"

"Like I'm the only one!"

"I only had ONE DRINK and you KNOW it!"

"Oh ya!" I shout, pointing to his Scotch neat glass. He sighs some, his aggressive shoulders relaxing. I can't tell if it's the booze, or him, but his body suddenly appears shrunken in size-stripped to his emotional studs. Phil's cries envelop the long pause and soon it's all we can hear.

"You're right," he sighs, hoisting our son on his hip, "I'll put Phil to bed and then we can talk more about this." Criminy! Another talk!? The last time we "talked" I was sent to rehab and Arnold started his path there. A path that almost ended with his guts splattered on the sidewalk. What more can happen here? What else can he say? That he's sorry? That he didn't mean to hug her? That he didn't mean to drool all over the red-devil woman as he invited her to dinner? Not likely. If Arnold is the man I married, he'll never truly understand how much his kindness can hurt.

"Boy Scout," I mumble, walking to his drink. I know...I know...I'm upset that HE'S drinking and I say nothing of myself. Welcome to hypocrisy kids. Population: Me, Helga G. Shortman Commander in Chief.

"What are you doing?" Arnold asks as he descends the stairs.

"Knitting." I smile, downing the glass, "Might make you a sweater." He sighs and walks to me.

"Helga you know how I hate that. Why do you ALWAYS use humor to avoid our issues?"

"Why are you ALWAYS so hospitable to every slut that walks by?" I slam down the glass, glaring at him. A simmer builds inside me, my eyes firing up with hurt. How can HE be pissed at ME? How can HE stand there and ask me about the most basic awesomeness that is Helga? Criminy! So what if I use humor? At least I'm not trying to fuck every sad boy in town.

"Look, I was ONLY helping Claire because she's new to town. She knows no one!"

"Well she sure knows SOMEONE now"

"Oh, so I should go through life like you Helga? Is that it? Hiding behind crass jokes and booze, tending to our son whenever you "feel" like it, and using the only friend you have like a personal slave?" He turns and walks off to the kitchen, me fighting for words in tow. He reaches for the toaster, his shaky hands poking and prodding around the back. When he can't find what he's after, he starts feeling up the counter, fruitlessly turning over everything on it.

"God DAMMIT Helga!" Arnold shouts, making fists, "I should have guessed you drank it all."

"Better than you drinking it." I add.

"Why? Because I tried to kill myself? Ya know, you're pretty stupid to think you're not doing the same thing! It may be a slow death, but it's still death!"

"Well what was I supposed to do? Let you keep lazily hiding bottles around the house?"

"Better than you hiding it!"Arnold mocks.

"Hey Bucko, if I didn't drink them then you would have!" He slams his clenched fists onto the table, grumbling something I can't hear. The quiet hangs over us like a guillotine, its sharpness pressing on our necks as time eeks forward. I can tell by his shaking hands and wobbling arms that he's where I was two-years ago: nervous and begging to consume anything to calm him, to still his perpetually ballistic limbs. The more I watched him the more I see him try to arm himself for a fight that he can't win. That WE can't win. And, as his trembling sobs break through the deathlike silence I realize how damaged we both are. Me: A 28 year-old childish drunk and him: a renowned psychologist who can cure everyone but himself.

"I probably would have, wouldn't I?" he lets out, turning to me, "I probably would have snuck into the bathroom to clean my teeth using rum instead of Listerine. I would probably would have gone to the kitchen to make myself eggs, adding a few shots to my omelet. I probably would have even hidden a bottle or two behind my psych books, numbing myself when the descriptions sounded too familiar. And I probably would have invited an innocent woman to dinner to hide the fact that I finally get it. I finally understand why you need to drink, and it kills me that I'm right there with you. Because suddenly...being indifferent to the world seems a whole lot better than making a difference in the world."