BREAD & WATER REVIVAL

Suppose you’re Pete’s client, one of five middle-aged women screaming obscenities at him. You’re bold. You show your friends how bold you are. Charlene admires how you grabbed her wrist just before her turn at the intercom button, how you upped the ante, how you lowered the privacy window and dared her to assault Pete’s tapered graying hair—as if by some tribal instinct the verbal-abuse-scalpel would sever the attached cell phone from his ear. But it is Alice, whom you met two years ago at a N.O.W. Conference, who slashes first: “Hey dickhead, turn right.” Everyone laughs, except for Pete.

Pete has learned patience. He believes in chivalry. He plans on fixing something after work, and for reassurance, before he disconnects, he says, “Why’d you get Ray involved? I told you I’d take care of it.”

Alice screams louder. He ignores her, not her directive, but her insult. Perhaps he already knows where the Quick-Mart is; perhaps traversing three unnecessary blocks demonstrates a willingness to follow orders.

Once inside the store, Pete purchases the following items: Mohawk Vodka, Country Fresh Orange Juice, and a loaf of Spartan Bread. Money exchanges hands (twice). His absence, if only for a brief moment, cools everyone’s hostility.

There’s a clipboard on the front seat—Unicorn Limousine Services—a cartoon horse with a tall, thin party hat. Didn’t Sally request a female driver? How else could you celebrate? The standard form did not have driver preference marked. Did you forget?

Sally’s your neighbor, your confidant. Her husband smacked her around, knocked the estrogen right out of her. He wore greasy tank tops, otherwise known to the male species as wifebeaters. She fought hard. She gashed his forearm with a broken Martha Stewart serving plate, the one he flung at her like a Frisbee. You nursed her back. You helped her burn his porno tapes, fanning the flames with her Rosie magazine. “Look,” you said, “divorce the son of a bitch.” It took time. She did. Her divorce is final.

“Woo—woo! Par—tee!”

Pete reappears, cradling a bag in his right arm with the bread dangling from his right hand. Sally demands Mary’s change. He obliges (receipt included).

Mary figures it’s her turn. You invited her along. She waitresses with you at Ram’s Horn. She’s too nice. Her common-law husband crippled her socially. He’s in Ohio, selling pharmaceuticals. You met him the same night Sylvia died in a fiery car crash. He introduced himself, demanded to see his wife. You told him she wasn’t in. You served him the house special: two eggs sunny side up, wheat toast, and coffee until 2:30 a.m. He peppered his eggs, devoured them, smeared snotty yolks into figure eights, and told you about a new male contraceptive waiting for FDA approval. “The way it works,” he said, “is it coats a man’s sperm in cholesterol, blocking its ability to penetrate the egg.”

“This may be kind of offensive,” Mary apologizes, “but Mr. Peter looks more like ah…” now she’s thinking what to say, “ah—ah pinhead!”

You remember junior high. Little Danny Hampton’s trumpet-blowing cheeks. The pulsating rhythm. The convulsive fits. His hands cupping his Adam’s apple—the universal sign for choking. You had a crush on him. You moved closer, ready to do the Heimlich maneuver. He spat strawberry yogurt all over your arm.

Cruising north on Gratiot, Alice spots the “Just Married” sign taped on a parked Lincoln Town Car. “C’mon, let’s crash a wedding reception,” she says. “Turn, turn,” Charlene adds. Pete swerves into Athena Hall and stops near the entrance. When he gets out, Sally flings her door into his hip. “Move, jerk! You’re in the way.”

Pete watches as you push the marble steps with your Nine West flats like your first and last day on a StairMaster. At the top, there’s a fountain of a goddess wearing a helmet and carrying a spear and shield. Water trickles into a basin where Sally throws Mary’s loose change.

The lobby sign reads: Larson & McCoy’s Wedding Reception. They and their guests are chicken-dancing fools. Hands form mouths … cluck-clucking … thumbs hook under armpits … elbows flapping … legs and thighs at various angles … asses wiggling. Sick birds they are.

Sally carves roast beef from a bone; the heat lamp exposes her callused hands. Charlene and Alice stack desserts on dinner plates. Mary fetches drinks. You rest your feet.

The DJ spins Kool and the Gang’s “Celebration.” The dance floor clears. A young couple approaches. “Is anyone sitting here?” the man asks. You feign a smile. They join you.

Your friends reunite, their presence is overpowering.

“So how long do you think their marriage will last?” Sally asks.

“Pardon me?” the woman replies.

“Most marriages end in divorce,” Alice says.

The couple glance at one another for reassurance, then the man speaks, “So—do you know Bob—or Judy?”

“Each of us slept with Bob,” Charlene says. “How about YOU?”

The man pushes himself away from the table. The woman says, “I don’t know what you’re trying to prove, but it’s not funny.”

“I didn’t sleep with Bob,” Mary says, “I slept with”—and the next word rolls so effortlessly off her tongue it surprises even you—“Judylicious.”

“I slept with both,” Sally says as the couple turns and parts.

You grab the disposable camera, the one next to the flower arrangement. “The ladies room,” you say. In the last stall, you gather up your dress, a Fashion Bug Plus (wrinkle proof), and squench your pantyhose down to your ankles and scratch at your underwire bra. One. Two. After your private moment—and before you flush—you use up the roll of film. Wedding pictures.

A man in a canary-yellow cummerbund and matching bow tie follows you back to your table. He gets by you, sits in your chair. “My daughter and son-in-law say they don’t recognize any of you.” He reaches over, dismantles Charlene’s drinking-glass pyramid, and counts plates. He’s demanding payment.

Sally claims his estimate is way too high. He nods toward the entrance where Pete’s standing next to the men in uniform. You hadn’t seen them in the lobby.

After foraging through purses, Sally, Charlene, and Alice start singing, “We are fa-mi-ly. I got all my sisters and me …” You join in, “We are fa-mi-ly …” Mary too, “…I got all my sisters and me.” He shuffles the money—one bill at a time—like he’s playing solitaire. You give him the camera.

Pete brings the limousine around. Everyone piles in except for Sally. Pete scrambles to open her door. “What took you so long!” she yells. The privacy window remains down. Pete listens for more directions, driving aimlessly into the night while the vodka is depleted. Charlene and Alice claim early morning work schedules cashiering at Wal-Mart. Sally’s tired, very tired, so tired she can’t make it home. She invites herself over to Mary’s apartment. “Why the charade?” you think. “Some divorce party.”

Before you know it, you’re the last one remaining. The buzz-saw silence is killing you. You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Can I come up front?” you ask. Pete pulls into an unlit parking lot. He opens and closes the doors for you. He knows you’re intoxicated. He pushes a small propane torch farther beneath his seat. You think it’s a fire extinguisher. “Funny, shouldn’t its outer shell be fire engine red?” You lie on your back, your head resting on Pete’s lap. He reminds you that you’re still on the clock. He tells you you need something in your stomach. He feeds you bread.

“Is that why you bought the bread?” you ask.

“No,” Pete says, adjusting the papers on his clipboard. He tells you his daughter closed on a 1940’s brick bungalow—“signed the paperwork yesterday”—and that she’s moving to Harper Woods. He says, “I need the bread to soak up water, so I can solder a copper pipe.”

Although you don’t understand his reply, you are comfortable and ready to talk. You tell Pete everything. You tell him about Sylvia—how her ex-husband carried her casket through the same church they were married in, the same church her children were baptized in. You want to know why the pallbearers were ALL MEN; you want to know why you had to sit in the last pew; you want to know why you couldn’t get closer to him (“Are you enjoying this? She hated your guts!”), why you couldn’t help carry her dead body from the altar. “Why Pete? Why?” But you know the answers. You do. You really do. You eat more bread.

“Sleep it off,” Pete says.

The key is under the flowerpot. Pete unlocks the heavy oak door. Light pours out. Pete pulls your body from the car, sliding his left arm under your back, sitting you up, wrapping your arms around his neck, and bringing your knees to your stomach. He carries you across the threshold to the living room and eases you onto a plastic drop cloth. He fashions a pillow from his daughter’s oversized polyester paint shirt. Then he goes back outside and gets the propane torch and bread. When he returns, he goes straight to the basement where he crams a piece of bread into a copper pipe. Next, he reaches in his shirt pocket for his lighter. He ignites the propane torch. He takes the small spool of solder on the washing machine and beads it across the sanded copper and reattached coupling; a blue-flamed tongue melts two smooth silvery bands around the circumference of the pipe. He shuts off the propane and turns on the water to the house and opens the shut-off valve to the laundry tub. Trapped air gurgles. Breadcrumbs wash through the pipe, violently spitting from the faucet, then swirl down the drain with a steady flow of water. All of this, while you drift further into a deep, deep sleep knowing that tomorrow you will be awakened and driven home—at no charge, no charge whatsoever.