Free Love Monkey by Kyle Smith Page A

one. Immaculate maintenance, double-hung windows, extreme gardening, the works. Her kids were grown, she didn’t havea job or any job skills. She was getting old and life was turning out to be a major bummer. She made us soup and we chatted for a while. I was on my best behavior, trying to be cheery. I nodded a lot. Complimented her cooking. Complimented her daughter. Asked about her garden. Didn’t mention dad’s mistress. In short, I scored the max. I was ideal.
    Couple weeks later Maggie is giving me the rundown on her family’s troubles.
    â€œMy sister didn’t get that understudy part,” she says.
    Her big sister, Stephanie. Actress. Her claim to fame: she once auditioned for The View . She didn’t get it. Scuttlebutt was that they were “going ethnic.” She’s cute, but not actress cute, and she’s thirty-five. It would be rude of me to point out that no woman ever started suddenly getting prettier at that point.
    â€œThat’s too bad,” I say. “What’s she doing now?”
    â€œShe’s looking for a waitressing job,” she says. “She’s talking to a sushi place.”
    â€œHow’s your mom?” I say.
    â€œDad’s being such a jerk,” she says. “She’s going to have to hire a lawyer.”
    I wait for a polite moment to get to the point.
    â€œWhat did she say about me?”
    â€œShe said you seemed sad .”
    Sad. From a woman whose life was falling apart. Those three letters ricocheted around my brain for weeks. “Depressed” implies it’s not your fault: those pesky chemical imbalances. “Sad” means, Buddy, you’re just not trying . And after a while I made Maggie sad too.
    Before Maggie there was my Besty. Besty who loved cats. Besty who got me interested in Audrey Hepburn movies. Besty who was so quick and lively and lovely and serene that I had to break up with her.
    We’d make up fairy tales after sex.
    â€œTell me a story!” This from somewhere in the $139 futon that was my bed for three years.
    â€œOnce there was a fair princess named Besty,” I began.
    â€œOnly fair?”
    â€œOnce there was a slightly above-average princess named Besty,” I said. “Ow. And she was heralded throughout the land for her ability to fell evil beasts by poking them in the most sensitive part of their tummies.”
    â€œDid she have a boyfriend?”
    â€œHer only boyfriend was a gecko lizard named Tom,” I said. “Tom met her in the amphibian singles bar.”
    â€œBecause she was used to dating guys who were basically reptiles.”
    â€œExactly. And Tom the gecko told Besty, ‘If you do tequila shots with me and give me a kiss, you will see a magical change come over me and also you will get a commemorative Jose Cuervo T-shirt.’ ”
    â€œAnd did she?”
    â€œShe had a few shots to steel herself for the challenge.”
    â€œDid she kiss him?”
    â€œShe looked at him. She saw that he was a kind, quirky, friendly, harmless creature, and then she decided. She closed her eyes. She leaned over. And she asked the bartender for some more tequila.”
    â€œAnd then did she kiss him?”
    â€œAfter enough liquor to knock down Robert Downey Jr., she finally puckered up.”
    â€œDid he turn into a handsome prince?”
    â€œNo, he turned into a gila monster. But she did get the T-shirt.”
    She moved even closer. We braided our arms and legs together.
    â€œHey,” she said.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œNothin’.”
    â€œOh.”
    A minute passed expectantly.
    â€œHey,” she said.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œNothin’.”
    Uh-oh. Paging Mr. Sandman. Carry me away.
    â€œHey,” she said.
    â€œYeah?”
    Pause.
    â€œI love you,” she said.
    Something twanged deep down within me and for a few seconds I forgot to breathe. I carefully considered the situation, ran through the