"Demolition Woman" by Anthony Rosato

2008 City Paper Fiction Contest Runner Up

by Anthony Rosato

I'm a walking nightmare, an arsenal of doom
I kill conversation as I walk into the room
I'm a three line whip, I'm the sort of thing they ban.
I'm a walking disaster, I'm a demolition man

—The Police, "Demolition Man"

My girlfriends complain that this restaurant is so loud you can't have a conversation without shouting, but I'm here to tell you it can get quiet: very, very quiet.

Why is it at moments like these I find myself not appalled or humiliated, but comfortable and, in a weird way, in my element? The whispers and stifled laughs don't bother me, nor do the stains I will surely find on my dress — hell, I'm not even stressing about where in God's name my left shoe went.

Instead, I just lie here and think, "What a nice restaurant! This sure is one beautiful, soft carpet they have. And it smells so clean!"

I feel two pairs of hands slide underneath my shoulders and softly lift me to my feet. I turn around and see a waiter on each side of me, their faces a mix of concern and shock. The dessert cart lies toppled 10 feet away. Pies, tortes, cakes and other goodies are mashed together onto the floor in a delicious Pollackesque pattern.

The taller waiter with the monobrow whispers to me, "Miss, are you OK?"

I smile and run a hand through my hair, which seems to have picked up some key lime pie.

"Oh, I'm fine," I say. "Just stumbled a bit." If only this poor bastard had seen me on the escalator at the mall two days ago. Tonight's fall doesn't even rate in the top 10.

I look around the restaurant and (of course) everyone is staring at the crazy woman who just tripped and leveled a three-tier dessert cart. I move my eyes around the room, meeting each individual's gaze until they look away. God, that feels good.

"Rubino," I say. "Reservation for two. I'm meeting someone."

"Yes ma'am," Monobrow replies, "Right this way."

I began losing my balance shortly after my husband died. My mother talked me into seeing a neurologist, who made no attempt to hide his disappointment when he didn't find anything wrong. Mom remains unconvinced. See, I'm past my prime, and while this tripping and falling thing I've got going would be sort of goofily endearing for a girl of 22, it is decidedly disturbing for a widow of 43. The neurologist says it's probably psychological, and is related to Rob's death.

Well, duh.

Tonight's date — OK, all my dates — have been set up by my well-meaning, but I'm beginning to think intellectually challenged, girlfriends. I believe they secretly envy me. I get to go out, meet new men and knock over dessert carts. Of course, they don't want their husbands to die — well they do, but just for a little while — then they want them back to mow the lawn.

My dates have fallen into two categories. The first use good old-fashioned male bravado to deal with the "tragedy," as my mom likes to whisper (she's whispered it so many times that I finally proposed we save time and strained vocal cords and just call it "Big T"). These men act like my husband's death is a sore ankle, better to be taped up and run upon, than babied.

My favorite of this ilk was the diminutive fellow who, after we ordered wine and appetizers, leaned back in his chair, made a loud yawning noise and said, "So, Crystal told me your husband bought it in a car wreck, what, two years ago? Flattened on the highway is what she said." He shook his head as if just learning the Phillies had lost a close one in the ninth. "Tough, tough break. I mean, that's a real ball-buster, you know?"

"Yes," I said. "That's a good way to put it."

"Let me tell you something," he continued, though God knows why, "Growing up we had this dog. Big ugly black lab. Called him McGee. We had him for 15 years. Then one day (he slapped his hand on the table for emphasis) — boom! Hit by a station wagon. And that was the end of McGee." Again he shook his head, and I swear his eyes welled up. "Poor ol' McGee."

"Well," I said, "It sure is nice to meet someone who knows how I feel."

The other type, and maybe this proves that men are becoming more in touch with their feelings after all, are completely freaked out to be on a date with a widow. Once we exhaust the standard topics of jobs, movies and the weather, these men stay silent, staring at their menu, other people in the restaurant, their water glass, anything but me. If Big T does come up — and for some reason, it's always just after dessert is ordered — there will be a quiver in their voice as they say, "You know, I ... well, it's just that I ... am s-so sorry to hear about your loss. ... " Sometimes they'll excuse themselves to go to the restroom. I imagine they're still upset when they return, since they rarely notice I've eaten half their dessert.

A month before the accident, Rob and I agreed to a divorce. The first two years of our marriage were good, the next five not so good, and from there things went straight to hell. My sister and friends never liked Rob in the first place, and encouraged me to leave him while I was still "relatively" young. After he lost his job, and the three months of sullenness and hypersensitivity that followed, I took their advice.

Ten years together, and so much of it was spent at each other's throats. We fought about everything from life's biggest challenges and disappointments to the most mundane minutiae. And I'm not like that; I'm really not.

I know it's sick, but I think we found strength and satisfaction in being cruel. Our sweet split-level colonial with the lemon shutters, instead of being a place of solace and escape, became a boxing ring where the day's frustrations and disappointments were alleviated by yelling. Over the years the occasional spat grew into the frequent screaming match, and finally, raised voices and bitchy tones became our only means of discourse.

And then, just as I was about to move out, when I was clearly ahead on points in what turned out to be the final round, Rob connected with the ultimate knockout punch, the one that finished the fight once and for all: The bastard died.

I did cry, a lot actually, but mostly I was furious. Furious because I wanted to keep fighting him but instead I was left throwing punches in the air.

His death transformed Rob the pompous jerk into Saint Robert of Martyrdom. Even my sister, who used to refer to him as Mr. Prick, now genuflects at the mere mention of his name.

"You know what's really sad," she said a few months after he died, "You can tell he would've been a good father."

I did one of those double-takes normally only seen in cartoons. "What?"

"Oh yes, Katie," she said and grasped my hands, "a good, strong father."

I looked at her, certain she was kidding. "April," I said, "You said he was the moodiest bastard you ever met. You said that if he wasn't so good-looking, no one would have anything to do with him. Remember?"

"People change," she said, her voice breaking, "I think deep inside Rob knew that having children would soften him, would make him the man he wanted to be. I think that was why he kept pushing you to get pregnant."

I looked around the apartment for something to hit her with. "Are you crazy?" I said. "Our marriage was crumbling. It was over. You — you — had bought me moving boxes as a third wedding anniversary gift 'just in case.' A child would have been the answer? That's ridiculous."

April stood up. "Stop it, Kate. Just stop it." She rubbed her eyes. "I'm sorry but I just can't hear this." She picked my coat up off the couch and handed it to me. "I know you had tough times, but c'mon, show some respect. He was your husband. You're my sister and all but ... but I can't allow that talk under my roof. It's so ... sinful."

I stared in disbelief at this chaste puritan. This was my sister, the girl who lived on marijuana in college, and who would call me once a month to brag about all the three-ways she was having.

The funny thing is that everyone feels the way April does. History was rewritten, and Saint Robert has taken a throne among the great men of the new millennium.

When I left my house for my date tonight I saw Jacob, my neighbor across the street. I waved and he dropped his newspaper and half-walked, half-ran back inside his house.

In August, Jacob and his wife Joanne hosted a neighborhood cookout, and before I could muster an excuse, Joanne had me cornered. Joanne is sugar-cane sweet and unbearably peppy. She thinks all the problems of the world could be fixed if people like me would just turn our gosh-darn frowns upside down. In her mind, she's the Miracle Worker, I'm Hellen Keller, and we're out by the water pump, but I'm not trying hard enough to feel the water running over my hand.

And Jacob ... oh, poor Jacob. What a mess.

I don't know what it is about him. Honestly, the man's a dork; the clichéd married suburban male — a boring engineering job no one understands, a wardrobe that would make a blind person shudder, even the obligatory minivan.

But then there's something else. A comfort in his own skin. Not a cockiness, but a peace that's nice to be around. I can see it when he's listening to his wife prattle on. The smile on his face is not mean or mocking, but kind and understanding, as if he's really interested in what this crazy woman he married will say next.

On the day of the cookout I showed up early to help Joanne. We were in the kitchen and she dashed around, her face flushed and her speech frenetic. "Don't you miss The Sopranos?" she asked, followed immediately with, "You don't think it will rain today, do you?" and "Will we ever get out of Iraq?"

I tried to keep up as best I could while I sliced limes for the drinks.

When Joanne asked if I thought the Reed's landscaping was too bourgeois, I rolled my eyes. I heard a cough and turned to see Jacob watching me in the doorway.

He raised an eyebrow at me. I mouthed, "Oops."

And he smiled. Nothing earth-shattering; just a regular, genuine smile — the first one I received in so long that didn't contain pity.

"There you are," Joanne said. "Run into the bedroom and get the leaf for the kitchen table."

"Right," he said. He came back a few seconds later. "What the hell is the leaf for the kitchen table?"

I laughed. Joanne sighed. "The thingy, the board you put in the table to make it bigger."

"Is that what it's called?" he said and smiled again. "All this time I thought it was called the table board thingy."

"Just go get it. It's under our bed."

"Of course, where else would you put something you use in the kitchen?"

The doorbell rang. "People are here!" Joanne sang out with excitement and fear. "Katie, honey, help this poor man before I strangle him. It's under the bed."

I followed Jacob into the bedroom. He stooped down and began reaching under the bed, sliding out boxes of clothes, a dusty pair of dumbbells and photo albums.

"Aha," he said. "Gotcha."

When I moved closer to help, my foot caught on the leg of the dresser, and I fell flat on my face.

"Are you OK?" I heard him ask. I pushed myself up to my knees and looked at him. He was trying not to laugh. "Here," he said, offering me his hand.

I'm still not sure what happened, but when he touched me, all the loneliness, that need to be touched — or let's face it, maybe it was just two years of pent-up sexual energy — came coursing out of me. I left my feet like a cat and pounced on him. We fell into the corner, and I was kissing him before we hit the ground.

"Whoa Kate, whoa," he said. I pulled his shirt out of his pants and kissed and bit his neck.

He pushed me away and I fell again, this time knocking over a stack of folded laundry on a chair. Clothes rained down on top of me. I crawled over, pushed his arms away and climbed on top of him, straddling his hips.

My hair was over his face and between our mouths as I kissed him.

"Kate, stop. Stop," he said, but he was beginning to kiss me back and his hand slipped under my blouse.

"You're right," I gasped, "we should stop." I grabbed his other hand and guided it under my skirt. He lay back on the floor and I began rubbing myself against him.

Then I heard him say, "Oh boy ... oh shit."

I brushed my hair back and looked at him. He was looking past me. I turned around and there was Joanne and next to her, Nancy, our neighbor from up the street. I can't remember the expression on Nancy's face, but I remember she was holding a giant bowl of her famous German potato salad. She uses stone ground mustard instead of mayo; it's fantastic.

"So Kate," Joanne said. "Are you done dry-humping my husband?"

I got up off Jacob, smoothed my skirt down, and retrieved my left shoe (why is it always the left one that goes flying?).

I stared back at both women, taking turns locking my eyes onto theirs. Even when Jacob fake coughed, I didn't look away.

Finally I said, "Limes are on the counter." Then I stuck my hand deep in Nancy's bowl, grabbed a fistful of potato salad and walked out the front door.

As I follow Monobrow through the restaurant, I realize that life is indeed a journey. My journey has taken me through the town of Slight Discontentment, past the suburbs of Sad and Hopeless, and into the boondocks of Pathetic.

My dates are one disaster after another. Some days I can't walk across a room without falling. I have a sister I can't talk to, and my neighbors have put a well-deserved scarlet letter on me.

I am stuck. I can't go forward and I can't go back. I can't become an un-widow and I can't go on with things the way they are.

Monobrow leads me toward a table in the back, and I see my date. I look around, hoping that maybe there is someone else who it could be, but no. Sandi described him as boyishly handsome, and he is, but there is also something sinister about him. He has the look of a once frat boy-jerk now investment banker-jerk.

I approach the table and see three empty glasses lined up in front of him. Our eyes meet and he's got a stupid smile on his sweaty face. He rises and hits the table with his legs, knocking over two glasses.

"Hey, it's the black widow," he says, and laughs. He's off his rocker drunk. I look into his eyes and he stops laughing.

"Maybe I'll go," I say.

"No, no, wait," he says and comes around the table. He puts his arm around me. "Geez, lighten up. It was just a joke. Sandi told me you have a great sense of humor." He takes his arm off me, picks up an empty glass and jiggles it at the waitress. Then his arm comes back and he pulls me close to him in a half-hug, half-headlock. "You never know," he slurs into my ear, "You and I could hit it off."

I am going to fucking kill Sandi.

I feel like crying, but I refuse to waste tears on this creep. On any other night I would tell him to fuck off, or even throw a drink at him, but tonight I'm too disappointed and tired.

God, I'm so tired.

I turn around, slide my purse over my shoulder and walk away. Ten steps later I trip and plow into a table, ricocheting into another three tables like a pinball before I get my bearings back and head toward the hostess stand.

HALF OFF DEPOT

Why live life at full price?

As I near the front door, I can hear the rain pelting against the windows. I've learned God does have a sense of humor, but it's a sick one. I look outside, and it's pouring so hard that my tiny umbrella will be useless. I look across the rain-swept parking lot, my eyes focusing on the puddles filling up. I wonder which one will claim me when I fall.

All around me couples are running either to the restaurant or the parking lot, cursing the foul weather. They've been probably been together so long that they forget what it's like to be an individual in a world full of couples. I know it's illogical and unfair, but tonight I hate these people. I'm allowed to be upset at things like rain; they're not.

Standing in the doorway, looking through the windows and then back toward the restaurant, I turn around and around like a lost child.

I have no idea what to do. I don't want to get soaked and I sure as hell don't want to fall, but I have to get out of here.

I feel a hand on my shoulder. I turn around once more and standing in front of me, with a gentle smile on his face, is Monobrow the waiter.

"I'm sorry, Miss," he says, "but you can't just stand here."

He's right. I'm blocking people. Whether I want to or not, I have to move.

I take a deep breath and step into the rain, unsure of what will happen next.