Getting Over Jack Wagner Read Free Page A

react, I add, “Inc.”
    â€œOh really?” Mrs. Karl says. Her face is relaxing. She sits forward and clasps her hands around her knees like a little girl. “What kinds of things do you copywrite?”
    â€œA little bit of everything. Ads. Brochures. Radio spots. Press releases.” Karl, I notice, has stopped eating to listen, and I wonder if this is the first he’s heard of specifically what I do in the hours we’re not together. “Basically, I write about exotic places people can go on vacation. But I don’t go on them. I just read about them. Then I advertise them. So other people can go.” Spelled out, it is the most depressing job in the world.
    Mrs. Karl looks pleasantly confused. Karl’s expression does not change. When neither of them makes a move to speak, I keep talking to fill the silence. I describe some of Dreams’s vacation spots, then provide a couple of average hotel room rates and amenities. Feeling reckless, I toss out a few of my recent headlines:
    Heavenly Hot Spots!
    Sexy, Sizzlin’ Summer Getaways!
    Escaping The Woe-is-Me Winter Blahs!
    At one point, I’m speaking entirely in adjectives.
    Finally, in a moment that I’m sure feels metaphorical only to me, I inhale and conclude: “I write about fantasies. But here I am, stuck in reality.”
    An ice cube pops, my cue to get offstage. I think a Hummel actually scowls. Mrs. Karl’s smile fades into a look of concern. “Mmm hmm,” she murmurs, passing me the crackers like a consolation prize. Karl is nodding appreciatively.
    Fixing my eyes on a daisy-shaped throw rug, I sit back and nibble on cheese. So far, I must admit, Mrs. Karl hasn’t been that terrible. There have been no childhood stories, no trophies, no bronzed baby shoes. Any minute, though, I am positive she’ll feel a bout of nostalgia coming on. First, she’ll bring out the photo albums. Or she’ll set up the slide projector and start narrating. Or she’ll tell me the play-by-play details of the messy, painful, thirty-seven-hour labor that produced baby Karl.
    When I finally dare to look up, it is even worse than I imagined. Mrs. Karl has defied all rock star–mother precedent by bypassing the childhood/nostalgia phase and going straight for the jugular: personal hygiene. I watch, horrified, as she plucks and pokes at Karl’s rough stubble like it’s a pesky weed that’s invaded her garden. Before I know it, she’s prodding at his gold hoop earrings, scouting his lobes for infection. She’s picking up his hand and examining under his fingernails.
    Karl’s rock star image is fading by the second.
    I know I need to act fast. Glancing around the room, I search for someplace secure to rest my eyes. Porcelain dogs. Porcelain saints. A pinecone bunny. A wreath made of shellacked Oreos. Panicked, I alight on the family portraits lined up on the windowsill. They are airbrushed, framed. I feel, momentarily, safe. But in a matter of seconds, I have identified the true origin of Karl’s blue-eyed, red-haired rocker brawn: Ireland. Karl descends from a long line of pale, plump Irish people who beam at me from 8 x 11s, pink-cheeked great-uncles and great-great-uncles primped and propped and scrubbed clean by their wives, then filled to the brim with tea and sausages. When I turn back to Karl, I could swear his face has bleached a few shades.
    â€œThat sounds like a nice job,” Mrs. Karl is saying, hands refolded innocently around her knees. It’s a few seconds before I realize she’s still referring to me. “I’d love to travel someplace someday. The Bahamas. The Bermuda.” The Bermuda? The Bermuda? My head starts to pound, a small pickax between my eyes. “Someplace nice and sunny,” she says, sighing. She turns back to Karl. “You need to be careful in the sun, you know, honey. Next time I’m out, I’ll pick you up some