"Lookit me," Hughie said, "our kids are grown, only Steve is living with us. Phyllis's got all the appliances she'll ever need, the mortgage is paid, and I retire next year. Why can't I watch the Giants-Packers game Sunday?"
Why did he ask me? I've been a widower so long, I no longer know from practical experience what drives women to do the things they do. I look at Hughie and I don't like what I see. He's stretched out and vulnerable, thirty four years in Savings and Loan is enough for any man. He'll be stretched out a little more this weekend because Phyllis is having a garage sale.
A woman can not accept an lethargic husband. The lawn will need mowing, the sump pump won't pump sump, the cat's got another hairball. I think a wife's grievances are deeply rooted, much deeper than the cat's hairball. Men have no one but themselves to blame, all of them are guilty of male inertia. It's something they think their family owes them. After a week at the office there's nothing more comforting to a man than knowing the liquor cabinet is full and the television set is in working order, and any woman, worth her salt, will not stand for such idleness.
A wife, not a husband is the protector of the home and children, and she protects it by keeping her husband on his toes. She will send him off on wild goose chases by telling him she hears strange noises in the middle of the night. She will complain shrilly if the larder is bare, and she will make him regret any conjugal digressions he may consider. This is her duty. This is what holds the home together. Without Phyllis to guide and goad Hughie, I have no doubt that he would be wandering the streets looking for five cent deposit bottles.
Husbands often read, and when they do, wives must interrupt them. Reading is a form of idleness, it indicates a certain insulation from the family unit. The children will not be fed and the lady of the house may have to be content with last year's coat if the husband is allowed to read.
"So I'm layin' there readin' the Lewinsky tapes, right? Phyllis comes in and says did I hear how the school bus budget got turned down."
I hated to admit that I had read the Lewinsky tapes from beginning to end, but at the same time, I had no idea that the school budget for buses was turned down. "Gee, Hughie I didn't know that either .... that's going to be tough on the kids two blocks from school."
"No, you don't get it," he went on, "she's always doin' that. The minute I put my feet up, she's onto me about somethin', y'know what I mean?"
He went on to tell me that he tried to mumble responses to Phyllis, things like "y'don't say", or "no", uttered in a disbelieving tone of voice, while still devoting much of his attention to Monica Lewinsky. That's when Phyllis dropped the garage sale bomb.
"We're having a garage sale next week, Hughie. This house is getting on my nerves .... look at that sofa you're stretched out on! That ratty rug! I want to redecorate!"
Hughie wondered what had gotten into her. He thought maybe he'd done something wrong, really wrong, and maybe this was her way of striking back. He didn't have much time to wonder, however, Phyllis handed him 100 copies of a circular she had made up on the computer.
"Here's your staple gun and a new box of staples -- move it Hughie, I can't do everything."
That was two weeks ago; tomorrow and Sunday is the garage sale. I had nothing better to do so I helped Hughie drag some of the heavier furniture outside. There's something very mournful about furniture when it's brought outdoors in the light, even the light of a gray and somber day. We just about got the sofa out there when it began to drizzle, so we dragged it back in again.
"It's gonna be nice tomorrow," Hughie said plaintively, "would you mind coming over early and helping me drag out the sofa again?"
I reminded Hughie that his strapping teen age son might be pressed into service to make the work a little lighter. No sooner had I spoken when the tentative trumpet strains of Sousa's "Comrades of the Legion" could be heard from beneath my feet. It was Stevie in the basement practicing for tomorrow's half time activities.
"It's a home game," Hughie said.
"I know," I answered, "Tony and I are going -- you won't be able to get away, I suppose."
"You kiddin'? Phyllis'd kill me. I gotta be here 'til the bitter end Saturday and be ready to go all day Sunday too."
When a man is caught in this situation, his male friends usually desert him. Those that are married fear a similar fate -- the "dominant wife disease" may spread, and they may find themselves rousted from their favorite chair. Those that are not married are loath to be hampered by their bound and shackled brethren. I was not about to spend much time in Hughie's driveway that weekend, but I did help him drag the sofa out again in the morning.
Tony and I had a great time at the game. It was a lovely warm October day -- just right for a homecoming football game, or a garage sale for that matter. Hughie's son, Steve, the trumpeter, seemed to enjoy himself too, we found him after the half time ceremonies smoking pot with the rest of the band behind the stands. We stopped at Hughie's house on our way home and it appeared very little had been sold. The sofa was still there and in the late afternoon light you could see the negative impression of Hughie himself on the cushions. But at the moment Hughie and Phyllis were haggling with an elderly bearded gentleman who seemed interested in an almost complete set of National Geographic magazines beginning with 1958. They settled on what I thought was a ridiculously low figure. It took Hughie four trips to carry them out to the man's car.
After the Giants-Packers game on Sunday I dropped over to see Hughie. He was in a sullen mood and the fact that the Giants won by a field goal in the last 30 seconds didn't make it any easier. The sofa was still there and so was an Encylopedia Americana, vintage 1956. I've always been a sucker for encyclopedias regardless of their age. If you're on the trail of Greek or Roman history, there isn't much difference between an encyclopedia published in 1956 and one published today.
"How much you want for the Americana, Hughie?"
"Well I'll tell you, volume 19 is missing .... here, I wrote it down, that's MAYA to NAVAL RANK. I don't know what the hell happened to it, I think Stevie left it out in the rain. You can have it for five dollars, and I'll throw in my rusty wheelbarrow to roll it home in."
I couldn't think of anything between Maya and Naval Rank that would be of interest to me, and I could really use the wheelbarrow. It seemed to me that I was getting the better of the bargain, so I offered to help him back in the house with the sofa again.
An old man trundling a wheelbarrow full of the Encyclopedia Americana, (except for volume 19) is a solemn sight. If I'd had a shovel with me, I might have been mistaken for Ludwig Bemelman's fourth class funeral, in which the bereaved are required to bury themselves.
