Fantastic Metropolis

“Let me ask you a question. You like women?”

“In general?”

“It’s a simple question. Do. You. Like. Women?”

“Sure.”

“Really?”

“No, not really. They’re kinda boring.”

“Except in bed.”

“Right.”

“Boy, we gotta major problem here.”

“Well, I kinda like ‘em, I like them sometimes.”

“You can’t take it back.”

“Well, what do I do?”

“There’s no formula. Nobody’s written the book on this stuff.”

“There’s a couple, actually.”

“Yeah?”

“But they don’t work. Or maybe I read them wrong. They’re kinda contradictory. Like one says women want dialogue. And another says gentleness. And then there’s the whole courtship thing.”

“That’s a last resort.”

“Flowers. And phone calls. And something else.”

“Flowers can’t hurt. But they get expensive.”

“Damn, I can’t remember the third thing. Anyway, it didn’t work.”

“That’s what I’m telling you. You can’t formulate these things.”

“Oral sex.”

“What?”

“I just remembered the third thing. Oral sex. And flowers. And phone calls. Not in that order, though.”

“I think we have got to get down to fundamentals, here. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“First off, relax. Don’t look so miserable. You’ve come to the right man.”

“That’s what Bill said.”

“It’s true. It’s a gift I have. Women love me. I bring them joy.”

“That’s what Bill said. Not the joy part but the other thing.”

“It’s true. I make men happy. Hold on. This requires lubrication. DORIS?”

“What?”

“What do you think, beautiful?”

“Hold yer horses, partner. I’ll get to you.”

“Let’s start with your mother. You like her, don’t you?”

“Well.”

“I mean, she fed you. She clothed you; she bathed you; she nursed you…”

“—I don’t remember that.”

“You don’t have to remember it, you just have to appreciate it.”

“Okay.”

“Okay. Now tell me something you like about your mom. The first thing that pops into your mind.”

“She’s clean.”

“Okay. Something else.”

“She’s thoughtful. She never forgets my birthday.”

“You said you were an only child.”

“Right.”

“So that’s not exactly a tax on her memory.”

“I’ll tell you what I don’t like. She’s a worrier. After Dad died it was like she didn’t trust anybody anymore. Like a sniper had her in his sights. And every time I went out the last thing she said to me was, “Be careful.” She was always cutting out newspaper stories about cults and child abductions and hitchhikers and putting them on my pillow.”

“Anything else?”

“She was terrified of germs. She always overcooked everything. Even her fish sticks. For years that’s what I thought fish was.”

“But aside from the fish sticks…”

“Well, that’s about it.”