you are viewing archives from 2005

the theory of everything

children

It was 11:30 on a Thursday night. A. and I had a belly full of Mexican food and winnings: I was up about three hundred dollars after an hour of blackjack and A. was up five hundred. Neither of us had ever possessed the lavender five-hundred dollar chip before, and we were gazing at it with delight until a piercing wail broke our stupor. I spun around to see where the cry was coming from.

In front of the cashier’s desk was a family of five: two children in a double stroller and another child barely out of toddler-dom clutching his mommy’s leg.

Just one more second, she said, daddy’s got to cash in his chips.

Shouldn’t they be off saving for their children’s education? I asked A.

It’s not that I’m against parents going out and having a little fun. Hell, I’m not against parents going out and having a lot of fun. But close to midnight in a Vegas casino doesn’t seem the most appropriate place to take your kids.

Vegas is a sometimes place, A. responded.


relationships

Our vacation was going swimmingly until late on Friday when a case of the too-much-rich-food-and-drinking-makes-A.-an-unhappy-boy. One of the hereditary gifts that A.’s family gave him besides being tall and incredibly good-looking is the digestive system of a seventy-year-old man.

I, of course, descend from a long line of people who would have feasted in a vomitorium and then return home and raid the fridge.

We were supposed to go dancing that night. Along with our enormous capacity for food, dancing runs in my family genes. We’re always the first on and the last off the dance floor at any social occasion. We also have no shame. I took one look at A. and realized he wasn’t going to make it. I needed to get him back up to the room, stat.

We’ll bag this, I told him. We can do it another night.

But I promised that I’d take you dancing.

Let’s go upstairs and relax, I responded, we’ve got the rest of our lives to go dancing.

The elevator whisked us skyward. As we changed into cushy bathrobes, A. apologized again.

I’m the boyfriend that never delivers.

I grabbed his hand. You, my love, are the only boyfriend who has ever delivered.

I don’t believe that.

It’s true. Everyone else talked in theory, played out our relationship like some logic puzzle. If we get married at this age, then we can move here. If we start saving for a house in five years, then we can buy in ten. If we start socking away money for retirement, then we can be out of the rat race.

You don’t say anything unless you really mean it, I told him Hell, you wouldn’t even say I love you until you were absolutely, positively sure that you loved me and wanted to pursue a relationship.

This seemed to satisfy him. He took a swig of water and smiled.

One of the things I love about you, he said, is that at any given moment, I can come up with six things I love about you.

Great, I told him, you’ve got five more to go.


luck

Our moments with the lavender chip were short lived. We lost at the MGM, at the Bellagio, and finally, the last of our chips at the Mandalay Bay. I should have known: it’s virtually impossible for us to win at the same time. He wins at roulette, I’m lucky if I can break even. If the blackjack gods are in my favor, they’re certainly not in his.

Saturday morning we sat in the lounge sipping water and calculated our losses.

I’m down four hundred dollars, I told him.

Me too,, he said..

After a bumpy, packed plane ride and a twenty minute wait at the valet, we retrieved my pink car and made our way home. A. retrieved the mail while I greeted the dog.

You’ve got an envelope, he said. He handed it to me. It was large and white and square and had a Walt Disney Corporation address. It looked strangely like the envelope I had gotten the previous week, which had my book royalty payments from Lizzie McGuire. However, I generally only get those once a quarter. I slit the envelope open.

An additional book payment. For four hundred and six dollars.

I guess I came out ahead atfer all.