Special Occasions
When they go out together every Friday night, she takes forty-five minutes to get ready, which is pretty convenient because she gets off of work at five and he gets home by five-thirty so he only has to wait upwards of fifteen minutes. By minute thirteen or so both his feet are tapping and he’s wringing his hands. He sometimes considers cleaning the entire house but because he has never bothered trying to clean he doesn’t know that you can’t clean an entire house in fifteen minutes.
She gets home at five o’clock every day and runs her bath, then, on the nights that they go out, she argues with herself over what to wear. She often has to give up and slump down in the bathtub. She tries to collect her thoughts and prepare herself for the night. When she figures she’ll start pruning soon, she forces herself out and watches the swirls of shampoo in her water slowly snake down the drain.
She always wears his favorite perfume when they go out; a bottle of Chanel No. 5 that she spent an entire paycheck on last year. She likes to put it on directly out of the bath to keep up the illusion, which neither of them believe, that she naturally smells like commercialized flowers. When she is sure the scent is strong enough, she begins to paint her face with neutrals that the Macy’s lady suggested for her skintone. She hates wearing so much makeup but he spent a whole paycheck on cosmetics for her last year, so she pretends to love it when they go out.
By this time, he has been home for five minutes before he pops his head in their bedroom just to see if she is ready.
“Welcome home, darling.”
“Will you be done soon? I’ve been waiting.”
“Sorry, I’ll hurry up. Which dress should I wear?”
“I don’t care.”
He walks away to go tap his foot in the living room and complain to himself about how dusty it is in there. Sometimes he tries to sigh loud enough for her to hear down the hall, but by now she has learned how to block out the noise.
Tonight, she chooses a long, black number and a black coat to go over it. After she slips the dress on, she tiptoes into the living room to find him pacing in time to the tune on the radio. He walks out the door ahead of her without saying anything and she rushes to turn off the radio and trail after him. She finds him waiting on the sidewalk outside of their apartment where he takes her by the arm in the direction of their favorite restaurant. While they walk the two blocks that take them to Tony’s Italian Bistro, she thinks about how beautiful New York is in the winter, with the barren, brown fingers of trees hanging over the cool asphalt of the streets. The couple is still silent.
After two plates of lasagna and a whole bottle of wine, both of which she barely tasted, they make their way down the block to the movie theater. He trips and stumbles over the inconsistencies on the sidewalk and she, in her five-inch heels, tries to stay stable for him, but more than once, she has to stop and grip a railing on the side of the walk to keep herself from letting him fall over.
By the time they arrive at the theater, he is more accustomed to the feeling of bumpy ground beneath his feet and walks normally, mumbling something about how the city is always changing, how nothing’s as good as it was when they first moved there. As they walk up to the ticket booth, they uphold the unspoken deal they made many months ago: he gets out his wallet, she counts his bills, and he slides the money under the glass to the man on the other side. He chooses to see a film called “Drunkards in Georgetown” and she doesn’t dare oppose him at this point in the evening. He leads the way to the bar on the left side of the concession stand.
“I’ll have a scotch on the rocks,” he says to the bartender.
“That’ll be five dollars sir,” the bartender replies as he begins to make the drink.
“Five dollars!” He screams and bangs the counter, “You know, last week it was $4.75, how could you raise it 25 cents in just one week?”
She grabs his arm and whispers “Darling, please calm down.” She feels some tension release under her hands and begins rubbing his back.
“My apologies, sir, but the management has been changing all the prices lately, you know the economy these days, always going up and down, I threw in some extra scotch for the trouble.” The bartender places the glass on the counter as she hands him the five dollars and a generous tip. She mouths a thank you to the bartender as her husband walks off in the direction of the sign for Drunkards in Georgetown.
As they sit in their red velvet seats, he leans over to her, drags his rough fingertips across her cheek and tries to whisper, “You know, I love that perfume you have on. That one’s my favorite.” His attempt at whispering is loud enough for those sitting around them to hear, so they turn and stare at the couple. Her cheeks flush under his fingertips as she nervously glances at the people sitting next to them and pushes his hands back to his lap.
“Thank you, darling." She makes sure to whisper quietly, as to not draw more attention to herself.
As the credits begin to roll, the crowd shifts their attention to the flickering screen and the patrons surrounding the couple begin to notice the scents wafting around their red velvet seats. Hints of buttered popcorn and scotch on the rocks and subtle, floral Chanel No. 5 twist together to assault the senses of the theater and its inhabitants.
The film turns out to be a sort of romance in which the comedic relief comes on too strong and takes up most of the screen time. The town drunk tries to mend an old relationship with a B-list starlet, but finds himself in bizarre, slightly funny situations. She finds that the post-Vaudeville canned jokes are trying too hard, while he laughs, too loudly, at the drunkard’s charades and again, draws the attention of the surrounding crowd to the couple each time he guffaws at the movie.
As the man on the screen trips over the curb, his laugh echoes in her ears. She can feel her throat constrict as the drunkard lands in a fountain and her husband almost spits out his scotch. When the drunk man laughs at his own foolishness, her stomach drops and the couple in front of them turns and stares at her husband, who is cackling as if the drunkard has just told him a joke that nobody else seems to understand. The screen blurs and her head begins to spin, but he is too caught up in laughing to notice her squirm as the man takes another hit.
She silently excuses herself and her legs carry her out of the theater. This time, she grips the railing to stabilize herself before she finds herself in the bright light of the lobby. She can still hear the muffled voices of Drunkards in Georgetown and the laugh of her husband. Her heavy head turns from side to side as she looks around the lobby in search of whatever she left the movie for. The bartender places a gentle hand on her shoulder.
“Excuse me Miss, are you looking for the powder room?”
She isn’t but she nods at him anyway, and he directs her to the corner of the lobby. He asks if she is okay, but her ears are still ringing from the deafening sound of her husband’s laugh. She mutters a “thank you” to the bartender and her legs move in the direction of the restrooms.
Approaching the sink as if its an oasis, she stumbles and clutches the edge of the counter. Her knuckles turn white but her head is spinning too quickly for her to focus hard enough to notice. When she looks up, she is surprised to see that her reflection appears to be in tears. She loosens her hold to turn on the faucet and begins to wash her hands. Quickly she finds that she’s moved onto her forearms and then up to the edge of her sleeves, scrubbing with her palms until the skin rubs red. With dripping arms, she splashes cold water on her face and rubs the makeup off, taking a towel from the corner of the counter to ensure that every bit of artificial color was washed away. Satisfied with the barrenness of her face, she then massages soapy water onto her neck. The scent of Chanel No. 5 is instantly covered with that of pungent hand soap.
Her heart is racing so fast that it replaces the echoing laugh in her ears. She stares at her reflection in the mirror, takes two deep breaths and wipes the excess water off her arms. She makes her way to the lobby in the direction of the exit but realizes that her purse is still in the theater, so pauses outside the doors. When she has built up the courage to re-enter the theater, the current scene of Drunkards in Georgetown catches her by surprise and she pauses again to listen to the film.
“Honey, please don’t leave again,” says the drunkard from the screen.
“You can’t stop me this time; I’m sick of being embarrassed by you and I’m tired of smelling like your liquor,” the girlfriend screams back.
“Please, honey, you know I’m nothing without you; I ain’t got nothing without you. All I gots is this dirty house and my booze. You’re what gets me through it all, honey, you can’t just leave me like this. I’ll just fall apart. Please stay. Help me change. I can stop drinking so much if you’ll just stay.”
The words are deafening to her. The drunkard’s pleas sit in her ears in a way she can not scrub off like she did with her perfume and her makeup and his touch. She is surrounded by the booming words from the movie and by the faint scent of her husband’s scotch floating around the theater.
Reluctantly, she finds her way back to her seat, where she sits next to him. She feels naked in the company of her husband and the crowd without her Chanel or her makeup. She vapidly stares at the large screen in front of her until he spills his drink on her lap. He laughs, covers his mouth, and apologizes loudly. She smiles at him and holds back her tears.