The Dinner

My wife invited a colleague of hers for dinner some time back. We had not socialized in the last few years and frankly that was the way I liked it. I had gotten into the habit of coming home from work, eating dinner, smoking a little weed and losing myself in whatever was on television. I was more than a bit resentful. I walked into the kitchen where my wife was preparing the dinner.

“You could have consulted me instead of dropping this on me at the last minute.” I said

“And your response would have been?”

“No!”

“That my dear, is why I did not consult you.”

Was she purposely trying to start an argument? “My dear,” indeed. I was fuming. She returned my angry look with a bright toothy smile. She was a good-looking woman and her smile could light up the room when she walked in. It was a big, generous, honest smile.

“Besides, I think you will like him,” she said as she set out the good china.

“Him?”

“What’s the matter isn’t a girl allowed to have male friends,” she said teasingly.

“I don’t know, I guess that depends.”

“Depends on what?”

“I don’t know, maybe whether he is a threat to me.”

“We’ve been married for seven years and this is as well as you know me?”

I didn’t say anything - I mean what could I say? She had been a loyal and loving wife for the past seven years. She had watched and put up with my decreased zest for life, along with my increased leanings toward a darker side. So, how could I argue with her? She was perhaps the only person who would love me unconditionally. I just shrugged, turned around, and walked into the family room.

I sat down heavily in my recliner, turned on the television, and lit a joint. I flipped through the channels and settled on The Weather Channel. I turned the volume down to just white noise. I always found The Weather Channel to be a form of sensory deprivation. I sat back and mindlessly took a long pull off the joint. I was then able to find the portal that would allow me to sink back into the deepest recesses of my brain. The part where stories are told and adventures played out. This was the best part of my day. Although I loved my wife dearly, no one could entertain me better than myself. There were so many voices waiting to be heard.
“Will you watch out for our guest?” My wife called out from the kitchen. Her call had hurriedly, almost rudely pulled me away from the alternative world my mind occupied.

“No problem.” I said.

I took another hit off the joint and moved away from the recliner to a place that gave me a good vantage point of the driveway. After a few minutes, a pick up truck pulled into the driveway. I was surprised because I couldn’t imagine someone from her hot shot law firm driving a pick up. I was about to announce his presence when the driver’s side door opened. I saw a man of my age with an exceptionally developed upper body, sitting in the cab. A million voices ran through my brain. They were jumbled and often didn’t make sense but there was no way of denying them.

I looked closely and saw an electronic keypad in his hand. A light went on in the back of his truck. God, he was driving a tow truck. A hoist in the back of the truck began to move and dangling from it was a wheelchair. The crane lifted it over the side and placed in a position that made maneuvering into it easy.

I called out to my wife that her guest had arrived. She quickly moved from the kitchen to the front door and opened it. I saw a smile on the man’s face as he rolled up the walkway in what looked like the type of wheelchair used in athletic competitions. I looked again at the upper body of this man and knew he was in great physical condition. He had done a great job on what he still had to work with.

I saw my wife trying to get the wheelchair up the steps. I felt put out, but decided I needed to offer some help. Going outside, I started lifting the wheelchair from behind while prompting her to lift from the front. The first two steps were awkward but we found a rhythm, making the last three steps bearable.

We safely arrived on the porch and I used my shirtsleeve to wipe off the sweat that was beginning to sop my brow. Looking at the man in the wheelchair again, I realized just how out of shape I had become. I walked around the chair to meet a person I already knew, or at least knew of. I was horrified to see the wizened legs that were meant to carry this man. His pants lay flat against the seat of the wheelchair. In the middle of the neatly placed slacks, were a pair of legs that looked to be no larger than the size of small oak branches. He had shoes on thank God, which covered up whatever was there in the place of his feet.
“It’s all right - you can look all you want. Everybody does.” he said.

I was caught off guard. The resentful feeling I had earlier, was returning. Shit, I could be in front of the television happily dreaming to the tune of Local on the Eights. Where did this guy get off barging into our house on a work night? I settled down and gave into the fact he was an invited guest, with or without my permission.
My wife introduced us, “Mike this is my husband Jack, Jack – Mike.”
“It’s so nice to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.” Mike said. He extended his hand and once again I was again reminded that he did take care of the parts of his body that still took care of him. We shook hands and I was embarrassed by the feebleness of my grip, but he seemed to take no notice.

“I’ve heard a lot about you too. You are two offices down from Arlene. She always has stories of your cavorting at work. It would seem for an attorney, you have a hell of a lot of fun.” I said, not knowing what else to say to this stranger.
Arlene motioned us into the house and we followed in silence. She said she had more to do in the kitchen and we should make ourselves comfortable in the family room. I offered him a drink and he said water would be fine. “By the way I understand you are an architect of some prominence.” he said.

“I used to be, but it seems my workload has been dwindling over the past few years.”

We went it into the family room and I offered him Arlene’s seat. Immediately I realized what I had done and tried to weasel out of it. Mike looked at me, a big gap tooth smile on his face and said, “No worries, I get that all the time.” I tried to gain some composure, but was not successful.

Mike looked at the television and smiled again. “Ah, The Weather Channel,” he said, “I do my best thinking with it droning in the background.”

I smiled for the first time all evening - a demonic smile that I could not control and said, “Really?”

“Yeah,” he said, “but it has to be quiet, just as it is now. It sets my alpha waves to humming. It’s better than meditation.”

I looked at him, smiled, and then turned my attention back to the television. Mike did not seem offended by this. He turned his face back towards the television too, and for a brief moment, I could have sworn he was chanting the same mantra as me. Our attention was locked on the set. I glanced over at Mike and saw that he was lost to the high and low temperatures of the nation. I wondered if he harbored some of the same thoughts and desires as me.

Arlene came in to let us know that dinner was ready. We moved into the dining room and immediately, I noticed a chair was sitting off to the side of the table. I was about to ask why, when I suddenly came out of my stupor. I realized just how insensitive that would have sounded, and closed my mouth. Mike quickly found his spot at the table as I took my place at the head of the table. Arlene was to my right, and Mike was to my left. They were able to look directly at one another, while I was left to sit point. How cozy.

Arlene served meat loaf, mashed potatoes, and green beans picked from her own garden. I used to wonder how she found the time to plant a garden with her hectic schedule. It took a while for the answer to dawn on me. She lived-in the here and now, while my life occupied a fantasyland of my own making. I would conjure up my own worlds. I had done that all of my life, but over the last few years, this preoccupation with the voices streaming through my head had occupied most of my waking hours.

I heard laughter swirling around me, and tore myself away from the voices long enough to hear them talking about work. They never knew I was missing. The laughter stopped when they began talking about the cases they were working on. I guess the attorney client privilege ends when it is only a husband sitting at the end of the table. I found it rather rude being left out of the conversation, even though I had missed most it, because of my own musings. Before I could stop the words from coming out, I asked, “So Mike, how long have you been a cripple?” My face reddened immediately when I recognized I had used such an archaic term.
Their conversation ended in a deathly silence as they both turned to look at me. Arlene had an exasperated look on her face, while Mike just smiled and said, “We prefer the word handicapped.”

“Right, I’m sorry,” I said.

“Pretty much all of my life,” he said. “Around the time I turned nine I knew my legs weren’t working the way they should. My mother took me to the doctor and we were told I suffered from a congenital condition that would in time, cause my lower extremities to atrophy. I will always remember walking out of the office, my mother with her head high, suddenly bursting into tears. There was no consoling her. By the time I was twelve, I was in a wheelchair and I haven’t walked since.”

“I’m sorry.” I said again.

“Don’t be, I’ve led a happy, productive life since I was twenty.”

“What happened from twelve to twenty?” Arlene asked.

“Depression – withdrawal.” he said.

There was a long silence at the table as we continued to eat. We looked down at our plates – afraid to gaze at one another. It was Mike who broke the silence. “You know, there are two types of handicaps on this Earth?” more a question than a statement.

“How can that be possible?” I asked.

“Think about it.” Mike said, “You are either physically or mentally handicapped. The variations are numerous from there, but any handicap stems from one of the two. I was trapped in both worlds for eight years. One I could, and ultimately did escape from, and one I obviously didn’t.”

“Wow.” I said turning the idea of mentally handicapped over in my head. I wondered if it in someway applied to me. With the constant diversions and the voices that rang in my head. But I enjoyed them. How could this be a handicap? Then a simple truth dawned on me. I was trying to escape reality. But why? I have a loving wife, an enviable career, and a beautiful home. Why? Is it boredom? Am I expecting more out of life than it has to give? Have I lost the battle I never knew I was fighting? Am I forced to listen to the voices that sometimes bring contentment, sometime sorrow, and sometimes anger? How could being able to plug into the creations of my imagination be anything but a gift? But maybe it isn’t a gift at all. My wife, although she loves me, has been acting differently lately. Maybe it is me. My workload has fallen off, and I spend my evenings engrossed in The Weather Channel.

“Ah hah.” I said involuntarily as if I had just found the prime clue in a murder case. They both looked at me and I smiled meekly. My mind started moving faster and faster, spinning out of control as it never had before and just as suddenly as it started, it stopped. It seemed as though I didn’t have a thought in my head. All was silent except for the voices at the table.

Finally, a thought came into my head. It was, ‘free.’ Then another voice came in, and another, and another. A cacophony of voices ganged up on me, each one competing for time. It was at that point I realized what I had loved most and lived for the last few years was a form of torture. I thought back to the word free. There must be someway to free myself from this torment. I had done it for a few seconds earlier, there must be someway of making this permanent.

“Hon.” I heard Arlene say for perhaps the third time. I looked at her and she said, “We lost you for a couple of minutes. I apologized and looked over at Mike who was sporting his gap tooth smile not sure what to make of my lapse into silence.

Suddenly, a single voice came to me. It came with such clarity and authority there was no denying it. It said simply, “KILL THEM.” It was then I knew what I had to do, to find the freedom I was looking for.

Arlene said, “Why don’t you two make yourselves comfortable in the family room and I will bring in dessert and coffee.”

Mike started to move away from the table and I said,”Both of you wait here, I’ll be back in a minute.” They remained at the table and I got up, walked into the kitchen and picked up a carving knife. It was still covered with bits of meat loaf and grease. I walked back into the dining room – the knife hidden behind my back. I could feel a broad smile on my face and I could see they were returning it. Just a minute more and I would find the freedom I was searching for.

I walked up behind Arlene and grabbed at her hair to pull her head back. It gave great exposure to her neck. I looked down and saw a look of terror, a look that said she was not able to comprehend what was about to happen. I brought the knife out from behind my backside and laid it to rest on the side of Arlene’s neck. The look of terror left her eyes, and the only thing left was a look of sadness and betrayal. I dug the knife in and cut from one side to the other.

I stood there for a few seconds and then looked over at the other side of the table and saw Mike, frozen. He was uttering words I did not understand. As I charged over towards Mike, I slipped in the pool of blood that gushed from Arlene’s throat. I grabbed at the table and regained my footing, but cut my left hand to the bone in the process. There was a feeling of elation as the knife dug into my hand. It was the feel of freedom I was searching for only I was still not exactly sure what I was trying to free myself from. I heard Mike shouting, “Please don’t,” but I was almost there. Both arms were extended to protect his front side. I moved to his right, and was able to broach his arms and bury the knife deep in his chest. He looked at me for a few moments and then his head slouched forward.

I walked into the kitchen and dialed 9-1-1. I told the operator that I had killed my wife and her friend. I gave them the address and told them the door would be unlocked. Hanging up the phone, I retreated to the family room, plopped down in my recliner, lit up the joint that was sitting in the ashtray, and continued to watch The Weather Channel.

My attorney pleaded not guilty due to insanity. I didn’t much care for him but there was nothing I could do. I had no money to hire a real attorney and for a public defender he was doing a pretty good job. But for all of the arguments going back and forth between the prosecutor and the public defender the jury returned a verdict within forty five minutes.

I was found guilty and sentenced to life in the maximum security ward of a state mental hospital. I am rarely allowed out of my cell, and they keep me ramped up with plenty of good drugs. Stuff like Thorazine and Haldol. They keep the voices to a minimum, which I find I sometimes miss.

They keep small televisions outside the cells, well out of reach of the inmates. Mine is always tuned to The Weather Channel with sound brought in by a speaker buried in the wall of the cell. I always make sure it is at a very low volume. I find myself laughing maniacally at times when the voices breakthrough, however infrequently. I honestly don’t know whether I am happy or sad. I’ll leave that for the voices to decide the next time they come for a visit.