The Secret Underwood

Infidelity, language

THE SECRET UNDERWOOD

Ocean waves gently nudge the shoreline and serenade me with their soft melody. I sit here on the balcony of my seaside condominium with the ocean, a peaceful companion, and seriously contemplate a reason to be lazily indolent today. I mean stoned lazy. Order in lazy. You know. You may have been there. The ocean’s wonderful and almighty undulation inspires memories from the past, and at my age often it does. I sit here thoughtfully remembering old friends. I feel the ocean’s soft zephyr fingers scrolling through the hairs on my arms. Those good friends from long ago vividly flicker in my mind like a twenties silent film. I see four of us as we were in our younger days. Vibrant, relevant a few years into our adult life.

This causes me to long for my old Underwood typewriter. I elected to take typing in high school because the girls took typing. That was long ago. I was the only boy in that class and purposely sought to reduce competition. The skill served me well in the Navy and later when I went to college.

Totally relaxed on my chaise lounge, my crooked fingers depress the keys on an imaginary keyboard, and I feel a grin spread rivers of wrinkles on my old face. Can’t remember what happened to the Underwood. But I remember those friends. I do remember pecking a couple damn good stories into that old machine. I think my best story is “Write Me a Lullaby," a play written for a creative writing class. That old Underwood and I finding harmony in the keystrokes. The only reader of that play besides your truly was the professora. After hearing her comments, I went right home and got high and performed enthusiastic cartwheels across the front yard. Anyway, right now I wish I could throw a lasso around the magic of that old Underwood. You want to know why? Sure, you do.

light a cigarette and drag, pulling smoke into my lungs. I can’t imagine what my lungs must look like by now. A couple of burned steaks suspended from the lung root, I suppose. I think of Bob Dylan and then ignore his “heart attack machine” song. The cool Coors beer I guzzle swallows nicely. Now I think of the four friends, counting me, and feel a need to reveal a secret fifty-three years old. What? Really? Well, I am the only one still standing. Why not?

There’s nothing to lose. Me sitting here enjoying a nice blue, blue view, Two blues for sky and ocean. Ain’t it fantastic? I set down my beer and again mimic typing on that old Underwood. I type and notice an alcohol- related lapse in speed: Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their country. But, I type perfectly. Nothing to do but drink beer. I lift the tab on a fresh can, set it on the little table, and light another cigarette, and with the cigarette hanging on my lips I begin seesawing words into the invisible Underwood.

My fingertips feel the little round pads with the white letters encased in a little silver ring. Seventies music plays from my iPAD the volume turned low, motivating my secret-telling mood. So the old Underwood, lighter than a matchstick, needs me to help spill the secret. I throw the carriage after each line like a newsman on a deadline and attack those keys hiding my heretofore attempt at laziness. Before long, I’ll get to the short tale about the secret. I am involved in this secret with my three friends. The husband is Tab, the wife is Babe, and the visitor is Bo. Hopefully this old hand will be able to stay awake to press the keys. It doesn't exactly feel as though I will.

The magnificent ocean forces a drowsiness. I put out my cigarette and finish my beer and lift the metal arms on the chaise and lean back. The imaginary Underwood sits in my lap. My comfort fades, and I feel worried and adrift in sleep’s current, alone and agitated, fretting and bracing for the next wave.

That distant night in an upstairs bedroom of an old, rural farmhouse where I live with a family of four lasted agonizingly long and challenging. Tab works out of town on a job far away. Babe is fast asleep, or so I thought. Babe’s kids were well asleep in their downstairs bedroom. Babe sleeps on a waterbed in the living room. That is just crazy right? The house is old and decaying, so because of the weight, the waterbed cannot be located upstairs. Sleep finds even the crickets and quiet settles, except for an occasional owl hoot. Although the next morning I am scheduled for work, I press more time into the reading of a good book. The Cain Mutiny if you want to know and, I suppose, even if you don’t.

Finally, well after my normal fall asleep time I lay the book down and close my eyes expecting sleep quickly. The summer’s night reaches its peak under a full moon. My eyes close.

I hear the single-cylinder lawnmower sound of a motorcycle cut the air as it passes slowly by the house. My lids open wide and I think how unusual. The old house sits along a narrow, paved road. I wonder a bit why the rider was going so slow. Shortly, I hear the motorcycle return and then slow even more, then stop, and the engine turns off. How unusual it seems. Who is that? It is late. Should I care? Slowly, carefully, I rise from my bed and look out the window facing the street.

The scene unfurling in front of me begins to both scare and irritate. I feel the wrong and my face grimaces as I peer out the window. Tab is not at home. Moonlight colors the front yard with soft muted light. I feel like I’m in a nasty storm. Oh my, it’s Bo walking the short distance through a small gate towards the front door. I can see well and even know the bike. Bo and I dirt bike together often. I know him and the moonlight surely reveals his identity that a detective would appreciate. Now, I feel anger. I don’t want to know this. How will I manage my thoughts next time we were all together? I spent a lot of time with Tab, Bab, and Bo. I’m thinking that will suck, that’s what I think.

I picture Bo and me rocking in front of the fireplace, listening to The Flying Burrito Brothers and their song “Colorado” in a house we had shared. We would play rock, paper, scissors to see who would go pick up the tonearm and reset the song. And here he is, and it disappoints me.

Something in me wants to stop him, and I desperately try to sort it out. Bab is an attractive woman. Am I jealous? No. I reject that. Bab is my friend, Bo is my friend, and Tab, about to be cuckolded, is my friend. Goddamn.

The front door hinges creak as it opens. Bab greets Bo in whispers that creep through cracks in the sparsely insulated house like fish smell. I’m never going to Harvard, but here I knew what was happening or was going to happen. A human sexual encounter, and I expect, a major romantic entanglement. The moment could not possibly be worse, except suddenly I had to pee, as they say, like a racehorse. And here I am at this sad moment.

I slowly and lightly step to avoid the floor creak propensity and return to my bed and began searching for something to pee in, because I didn’t want to risk going down the creaky stairs to the bathroom. Surely there was something up here. A cup, glass, carton. Something. After searching the room I fail to find a container. I consider alternatives but find none I think suitable. Whatever I think of seems certain to give away that I was awake and listening. Walking in the freezing nighttime dark field with my grandmother from the barn to her house after milking Bambi was distressing. It’s like I’m there. Just a different monster.

Listening to their sex making sounds I can tell when the petting begins. Rising passion follows as water roils in the bed. The floor croaks and the bed frame seems to groan, blending with Bab’s groans and Bo’s grunts. I can see them, but I cannot see them. I hear whispers, the words faint, muffled, the moans and groans seem to linger and I want to leave, run, get the hell out of Dodge. Sleep avoids me as though I swallowed a coffee can of speed. Finally, a merciful relief. I know when Bab and Bo cross into the end zone.

My kidney, ureter, bladder and urethra are all at max capacity and will soon fail. Fuck it. I’m going silent like an Indian brave sneaking up on sleeping cowboys down those stairs and pee. I feel I have no choice. I’d pee out the damn window. You can see through it okay, but nails hold it tightly closed. So, I go slowly through the dark, one step at a time, down those stairs. The toilet is near the bottom of the stairs. I pee as quiet as possible. I aim at porcelain just above the waterline in the dark and end up receiving the unwanted splash back but at the moment consider it a small price to pay. Never so relieved to finish peeing. No flushing.

I turn around and, surprise, standing there nude in the muted light is Bab. Now, I know Bab knows I know, and Bab will ensure Bo knows that I know. Tab must never know. Not from me, Tab will not learn from me. I swear on my dog Freely’s grave. The moment feels desperate; I’m caught with an empty bladder in their sexual entanglement.

Bab says, “Is everything all right?”

You are shitting me, I think, but I say, “I woke you.” I keep my eyes on hers, fighting valiantly to ignore the lovely, recently tasked figure showing in my peripheral vision. "I’m really sorry” I hear myself say. “I had to pee. Back to bed I go.”

After a short time, I hear Bab and Bo at the door saying their goodbyes. Bo departs and pushes the motorcycle a considerable distance down the road. When he finally starts the engine, I can barely hear, but hear I did, and now I feel unwell and unable to complain.

"Old man, old man," someone is shouting, and I hear, sort of, and feel like I’ve passed out. The faces of Tab, Bab, and Bo float in a loose circle above me, smiling and laughing and clapping. Goddamn, what is going on? A shout's voice sounds nearby. I realize the words pass between balconies. “Wake up, old man. You okay? "Your hands are boogying in front of you, it’s like you’re typing or playing the piano, maybe?”

“You mean me?" I ask.

“No, I’m asking some shitbird down on the beach. Of course I’m asking you.”

“Gradually, I see my neighbor’s figure forming on the next-door balcony. “Miss Fran, is that you?”

“Yes, genius, it’s me.”

I stop my typing. Oh, dear God, I think. I tell Miss Fran, “I’m okay, I must’ve spaced out, you know, getting it all down. Drank too much beer,” and then I deliver across balconies a pitifully weak smile.

“Getting all what down?"

"Me and that old Underwood telling a story, a secret story."

“Old man, I’ve heard of walking in your sleep, but typing a story? Where’s the old Underwood then? I watched you return that carriage pretty regular.”

“Damn if I know. Sitting in me noggin with everything else?”

“Okay, cracker. For sure that secret is safe then. You rest, go back to sleep, that’s best, I expect.”

The End