An Enthusiastic Man (fiction)

The fluorescent light from an old Coleman camping lantern silhouetted Jack Paulson and cast his shadow the length of his driveway. A constellation of microscopic sawdust particles swirled in the glow around him. He was studying the finishing touches he added to his oldest son’s Homecoming Float, looking for imperfections. But he could find none. You’ve really outdone yourself this time, he thought. This is your finest creation.

It was just past two-thirty in the morning. Although Jack needed to get some sleep before the big parade in the morning, he continued examining his float until an agitated whisper came from behind him. “Do you have any idea what time it is?” the voice said. Jack flinched. He turned around to see his wife, in her robe, glowering at him. “Are you completely crazy?” she said. “I don’t care if you’re finished or not, you come to bed this instant. Do you understand me?”

“Wow. You scared me half to death,” Jack said. “Just let me put away my tools and I’ll be right there.”

“Ridiculous,” she huffed, shaking her head to herself. “It’s just a stupid, float.” She turned and marched back to the house, muttering obscenities along the way. Jack chuckled as he watched her. “Love you, baby,” he said. She gave no answer and kept on walking.

Jack could’ve stared at his float all night; he was so enamored with it. He was sure that no one else’s would hold a candle to his. Who, in the community, had his knowledge of animatronics? Who had the ability to create remote control effects and wire a professional-grade sound system? He couldn’t wait to see people’s reactions. This is going to blow their minds, he thought. He fantasized about slow-motion high-fives, pats on his back, and being treated like some kind of a hero.

•

Indeed, Jack was amazing with his hands. He could make just about anything when he put his mind to it. And when he really felt inspired, he spared no time, detail or expense.

These habits were exactly what Jack’s son, Scott, was counting on when he asked his father for help with the float, a few weeks earlier. Scott knew that, if his father were carefully primed, he would take the assignment and end up doing it himself; the same way he had with most almost every school project he ‘helped’ Scott with, since kindergarten. Even though Scott was nominated to head-up the Senior Float Committee, and it was his job to oversee the construction, he didn’t want the responsibility. He had a steady girlfriend now and didn’t have time to deal with such trifling matters.

•

Before the theme for the Mercer Island Homecoming Parade was announced, it was, as always, a closely guarded secret. Great importance was placed on this, as to not give anyone the unfair advantage of a head start.

At an early morning ceremony to unveil the theme, hundreds of formally dressed students and parents awaited the news in the high-school gymnasium. The principal, a failed actor with a pot-belly, fierce comb-over, and disproportionate self-confidence, lived for emceeing the annual event. Over the years he had managed to turn it into his own little version of the Oscars, complete with edited clips from previous parades and live music provided by the marching band.

After his video presentation, an assistant in a shimmery gold sequined dress handed the principal a mysterious envelope. He pretended to struggle with it as he opened it. He removed the card inside and read it; taking his sweet time for dramatic affect. Finally, in his best game-show-host delivery, he revealed what everyone had been waiting for: “The theme for 2010’s Mercer Island Homecoming Parade is… Back to the Movies.” The crowd cheered and those who attended the pep-rally that followed agreed it was a great success.

•

Scott’s first official task was to pick the movie his float team would be representing. He tried collaborating with his committee – seven football players from the Varsity squad – but it didn’t go as he had hoped. Instead of focusing on the job at hand, their conversation devolved from “Hey, you know what movie was cool,” to “Did you guys ever see I Spit On Your Grave,” to “You know Corinna Smeltzer? Yeah, I’d like to bone her.” They were like herding cats, Scott thought. After an hour, they were no closer to a decision than they were when they got started. Scott realized he would have to make the decision for them.

•

“What about Friday the 13th?” Scott asked his dad.

“Nah,” too predictable.

“How about Avatar?”

“I think the makeup will give you problems,” his dad said. “Besides, the theme is Back to the Movies. Avatar only goes ‘back’ a few months. I think you want something more classic. More iconic, you know? Tell you what, let’s go figure out a plan over a burger.”

Scott was pleased. The burger meant that his father’s interest was starting to grow. This was the pivotal step. It was like activating the firing sequence of a giant nuclear warhead. Scott knew his father’s enthusiasm would only gain momentum and there would be no reversing it.

At Dicks Drive-In, on Seattle’s Capital Hill, the two brainstormed ideas. That is to say, Scott’s father brainstormed. Scott just giggled at the suggestions. After a lengthy exploration of what seemed like every relevant movie of the last fifty years, they both grew discouraged. Nothing was grabbing them, and it looked like they’d never find the right one. They sat in silence.

Scott polished off the last of his chocolate shake, making a hollow slurping sound. His father’s eyes opened wide. “I know,” he said, “The perfect theme for your float… we should do Jaws.” Scott gave his father a blank look.

“What doesn’t it have going for it?” his dad asked. “It’s timeless. Everyone’s familiar with. And it taps into primal fears we all experience. You could have a really effective piece here, Scott. You could make something that people won’t ever forget.”

Scott crammed a few more fries into his mouth and shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe.” He wasn’t sure, but it looked like his father shrank a bit.

“Well, it’s your choice, son,” his father said, gathering up their trash and crumpling it on a red plastic serving tray. “Whatever you want to do.”

Oh no, Scott thought. I’m going to lose him. He had to move fast. “Actually, Dad, maybe you’re right. There is a ‘prival’ quality to Jaws, like you said.”

“It’s pronounced pri–mal, son. Which means it resonates with people on a deep, almost molecular level. And I’d love to help you out with whatever idea you choose. It doesn’t have to be my idea.”

“No, Dad. Really. I like Jaws. I think we should do it for the float. We’d be crazy not to.” His father smiled. He liked how his son referred to them as ‘we.’

“Well in that case, we should get home and do some rough layouts of what this thing might look like, don’t you think?”

“Sounds great, Dad.”

•

The two of them rushed home, where Jack proceeded to do a series of elaborate renderings while Scott played xBox. After an hour of sketching, Jack stood up and began presenting them to his son, for approval, as if the boy were some sort of high-powered marketing executive.

“See, if we make it like this, the jaws could mechanically articulate,” Jack said, projecting his voice to be heard over the sounds of machine-gun fire and teenage smack-talk coming from the video game. Scott glanced at the drawings for a split second and immediately re-fixed his gaze on the action exploding across the television screen.

“You’re not looking, Scott. See, the teeth themselves could actually elongate as the mouth closes. We could make the eyes bulge out simultaneously. Completely terrifying, huh? It’ll be epic.”

“Cool,” Scott said. “If you think that'll work, Dad, let’s do it.” He wanted to be left alone, but something in the sketch caught his eye, “What are those pipe looking things?”

“Oh, those?” his dad said. “They’re just a little something extra I… well, I mean ‘we’… should add if we’ve got the time. I doubt we’ll be able to. But if we can, it’ll really knock people’s socks off. I was thinking we…”

“Aww, man,” Scott shouted at the TV screen. His man was shot in the head by a sniper. “I was doing so well, too.”

Jack Paulson was tired of competing with the game; and he could see his son wasn’t too excited about the float. I’ll just get started without him, Jack thought. He rolled up his papers and went downstairs to the garage.

As Scott turned off the television and put away the game controllers, he wondered: what was that last bit dad said about the pipes? I didn’t quite catch it. Anyway, it’s out of my hands now. He’ll have fun with it and I’ll help out where I can. Pleased with himself about how things were developing, Scott left for his girlfriend’s house.

•

Jack was making an average of two trips to Home Depot a day, gathering materials for the float. Packages from Asian robotics companies started to trickle in. The garage soon filled with supplies, forcing Jack’s wife to park her mini-van outside. One afternoon she returned from the grocery store to find a UPS truck blocking their driveway. “Jack,” she said, getting out of her car. “What’s going on?”

“Hold on a second, babe. Let me just finish this.” Jack signed for the refrigerator-sized box next to him and handed the deliveryman back his clipboard. “Thanks so much,” Jack said. “This is the crown jewel in my project.” The deliveryman said it was no problem, got back into his van and waved as he drove off.

“Jack,” his wife said. “What’s in this thing?”

“Just a little something for the float.”

“How much more stuff do you need? You’ve got the garage crammed full already. I mean, seriously. Who’s paying for all of this?”

“We are. Well, more specifically, me.”

“With what?”

“With the money I kiss ass and demean myself for.”

“Jack, do you think it’s a good idea to be spending so much when there’s nothing coming in right now? You haven’t had any work for months.”

Jack knew she had a point. As a freelance advertising producer he was used to being essentially unemployed between jobs, but his latest dry-spell felt different. The economy was in the toilet. Ad agencies across the country were shrinking. Most of his long-time contacts were out of work. When a good friend emailed him, asking how he was doing, Jack wrote back that a page from his daytimer – if he had one – would look like this:

MONDAY
8 AM – 9 AM: Worry uncontrollably. Check e-mail.
9 AM – 10 AM: Regret having chosen advertising as a career path.
10AM – 12PM: Make pointless resume submissions to jobs no sane man would even remotely consider under normal circumstances.
12PM – 1PM: Break for lunch / write some emails
1PM – 2PM: More pointless resume submissions. Make a few calls.
2PM – 3PM: Wallow in hopelessness and despair.
3PM – 4PM: Shamelessly leg-hump the three or four people in advertising agencies who still have jobs.
4PM – 5PM: More pointless resume submissions.

“I haven’t spent that much money,” Jack said to his wife. “Besides, it’ll be worth it. Trust me. Scott and his friends will think it’s amazing.”

“Oh, please. Don’t bring Scott into it. This is your project and you know it. You’ve taken it all upon yourself and he hasn’t even touched the thing. Has he?”

Jack reflected for a moment. “No,” he said. “Not really. Look, I just want it to be special, that’s all. He’ll be gone off to college next year and this’ll be the last big thing we get to do together.”

“But you’re not doing it together, Jack. And ‘special’ – who are you trying to fool. This is The Sickness is what it is. This is the treehouse all over again. You could just help Scott make a normal float, like the other fathers. But, you’ve got to try and one-up everyone else while you’re at it. It’s like you’ve got this pathological need for approval or recognition and you’ll do anything to get it. It reeks of desperation, Jack. You’re a talented man, okay? We all get it. You don’t have to go around trying so hard to prove it all the time.”

It wasn’t so much the psychoanalysis that stung Jack: he was a self-professed attention whore and frequently joked about it. What made him clench up was the mention of the treehouse. Won’t she ever let it lie, he thought. That was twelve years ago. Jack got the feeling his wife took some sort of pleasure in reminding him about the time he started building what was meant to be a simple tree-platform for their son, but he scrapped the initial plan and escalated it into a years-long project that strained the marriage and almost ruined them financially. The result was a magnificent three-story structure, fit to be lived in, with double-pane windows, separate bedrooms, plumbing and electricity. After several profiles on local news channels, the treehouse attracted the attention of building regulators who subsequently cited it for so many safety violations it was deemed hazardous. Eventually, Jack was forced to tear it down.

“First off, this is nothing like the treehouse,” Jack said. “And I’m not trying to prove anything except that when I make something, I don’t make junk. Nine out of ten people would just slap this float together and call it done, right? But, if I’m going to spend time on a project – no matter how small or insignificant it may seem – I want to be proud of it in the end. Is that so wrong? Is it crazy to think we’re surrounded by enough half-assed stuff in this world, and I don’t want to be responsible for pumping anymore of it out there? I swear, sometimes it sounds like you want me to be mediocre.”

His wife sighed. “I don’t want you to be mediocre, Jack. You’re as far from it as any man I know and that’s one of the things I love about you. Listen, I know you’ve been depressed without the work coming in, but I’m worried your going overboard with this float isn’t the healthiest way to handle it.”

“Compared to what? This is the first time in months I’ve felt normal. Would you prefer I just walk around the house sulking and worrying all day. I’m getting tired of feeling like the fat girl at the prom who nobody wants to dance with. At least working on this thing keeps my mind off how my career is tanking. Think of this as paying for therapy.”

“Your career isn’t tanking, Jack. We’re going to be fine. The work thing will turn around. It always does.”

“Now I’m confused. You sounded worried about the money and now you’re sure we’ll be fine. Which is it?”

“I’m saying we’ll be fine, but I just don’t want this to get out of hand. Okay?”

Jack took a deep breath and let out a long exhale. “Alright, babe. I hear you. I promise it won’t get out of hand. I’ve got all the pieces I need now anyway. Let me have some fun with this thing. It’s going to be epic.”

Jack’s wife hated being a wet blanket. She could see how eager her man was to get at his project, so she resigned to let him. Maybe he’s right, she thought. The busy and productive version of him is much easier to live with than the depressed one. If building a stupid float gets him out of his funk, then it’s for the best. And what’s the harm anyways? It’s not like he’s hurting anyone.

•

The morning of the parade, Scott woke to the engine roar of a Ford F-250 that was being backed up into the driveway by one of his father’s friends. He heard his dad’s loud voice, “Keep her coming, Jim. I’ll tell you to stop. A little bit more. Hold it right there. Perfect.” Metal chains clanked. There were muffled conversations and giggles coming from teenage boys. Scott tried to ignore the noise and stuck his head back under his blanket. He heard the front door open.“Scott get down here,” his father shouted. “Everyone’s waiting on you.” Scott didn’t answer.

“Scott, we can do this the easy way or the hard way,” his dad tried again.

“Alright. I’ll be right there.”

Five minutes later, Scott stumbled out the front door to face the ritual male abuse he’d come to expect from his friends.

“Thanks for joining us Princess.”

“Aw, what’s wrong? Didn’t she get enough sleep last night?”

“Thanks for making us wait, douche-bag.”

The boys laughed. Scott shrugged it all off and hopped onto the float, which was successfully hitched to the truck and ready to go. Scott’s dad handed him a small radio headset and motioned for him to put it on.

“Check. Check one-two,” Scott’s dad said into the microphone of his walkie-talkie. “Can you hear me?”

“Yeah, I can hear you.”

“Here. You’re going to take this controller and do exactly as I say. Understand me? Don’t hit any of the buttons until I tell you. Got it?”

“Yeah.”

“Tell me you’ll do exactly as I say.”

“Okay. I’ll do exactly as you say. Jeez.” Scott studied the controller. There were three big plastic buttons. “What’s it do?”

“Well the white one controls the music. Go ahead, you can hit that one right now.”

Scott pressed the button and the staccato strings from John Williams’s Jaws theme song came blaring from some hidden, but powerful, speakers. The boys all stood, frozen, before erupting into a cacophony of That Is So Cool and Awesome and Wicked.

Scott’s dad stood, beaming. “All right. That’s enough for now,” he said. His son obeyed and hit the white button again, turning off the music. “I’ll tell you when it’s time, okay? Remember, don’t touch any buttons until I say so.”

The front door to the house opened. Out came Scott’s ten year old brother, Josh, running and shouting, “Wait for me.”

“What’s he doing?” Scott asked.

“He wants to be part of the show,” his father said, lifting his youngest son onto the float. “And he will be. A very important part.” He winked at the boy and tousled his hair. His son grinned back at him.

Scott hated how Josh liked to horn in on the action and try to be the center of attention. Not today, Scott thought. This is supposed to be my day. The little brown-noser isn’t going to ruin it for me if I can help it. But before Scott could protest, he studied how close his dad and brother were. What good would it do to argue about it, he thought. Just look at the two of them. The brat’s practically a carbon copy of the old man.

•

By ten o’clock, a countless throng of people lined 78th Avenue – Mercer Island’s main drag. They were a fidgety group; eager for the festivities to get underway. Jack Paulson squeezed his way to the farthest end of the street, where he knew the parade would end. This offered, in his opinion, a superior vantage point from which to call the shots to his son. While he was still getting situated, he heard cheering in the distance. Oh, good, he thought, they’re coming.

He lifted his binoculars and could see the first float making its way down the road. Its theme was Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. He saw boys dressed as dwarfs walking ahead of their float. They looked bored and demoralized. They waved half-heartedly. The girls on top of the float, however, wore beautiful dresses and offered bright smiles to the crowd. Here and there, the girls threw candy to the audience, who met the treats with great applause. So that’s the best they’ve got, thought Jack. Amateurs.

The next float was Star Wars. When Scott’s dad could make out the third float to be Gone With the Wind, he raised the walkie-talkie to his lips and said, “Push the white button now.” Even at the distance he was from his float, he could tell that his son had followed directions. The ominous Jaws theme-song was muffled, but it could still be heard above the din. It grew louder as the procession crept its way down the avenue.

With the shark float finally in plain view, Scott’s father raised his walkie-talkie again, this time whispering, “The green button. Hit the green button now.” The great big shark-head began to slowly rise up and open it’s mouth wider, bearing ever lengthening, ferocious looking teeth. That’s it, Scott’s father thought. Yes, that’s it. He felt like laughing maniacally, but he managed to restrain himself.

The shark was breathtaking. The menacing eyes bulged until the mouth reached it’s widest point, then a small grey flap of fabric covered them for a second before the mouth began to close again. Scott’s father puffed out his chest with gratification.

It really is all about the little details, he thought. Mechanically, his monster Shark-O-Saurus was working perfectly. The added sound effects – a blend of gnawing, bones crushing and pre-recorded screams – were a touch he was particularly fond of.

As the float approached, Jack noticed that the crowd was starting to look uneasy. At the loud groaning sounds, several small children began to cry. Their mothers picked them up, trying to comfort them. This didn’t bother Jack. He didn’t expect everyone would get it. He was comforted by the fact that greatness is frequently misunderstood.

•

When the shark’s jaws started opening again, this time you could see Scott’s little brother, Josh, screaming from inside. He stuck his arms and head out of the mouth, and continued to lean forward until half his body was hanging from it. “Help me,” he screamed. The teenage boys, walking next to the float and dressed like beachgoers, began to scream, “Shark! Shark! Quick, somebody help him!”

There were nervous laughs from a few people. Most watched in silence. Jack interpreted this as appreciation for his craftsmanship. He couldn’t blame them. He knew they had never seen a high-school float like this before, nor would they again.

The fearsome mechanical jaws began inching together again. The crowd stared, motionless. The jaws kept closing and Scott’s little brother kept shouting the lines he rehearsed, “Help Me. Somebody please help me.” The music and sound effects were so noisy that the boy couldn’t hear his big brother’s warnings. He couldn’t hear Scott yelling, “Josh, get back in the mouth! Get in before you get crushed!”

The jaws of the shark didn’t stop. As they closed around the little boy he let out a loud shriek. He flailed and struggled in vain against their crushing force. Blood gurgled from his mouth. The crowd was stunned. Was this part of the act? They were horrified, but not enough to risk looking foolish. No one dared to rush the float and aid the child. Scott frantically punched the green button on his remote control. “It’s not stopping,” he yelled into his microphone.

“The red button,” his father called out. “For God’s sake punch the red button.”

Scott mashed on the red button. It had no effect. His little brother continued to scream and writhe in pain. Blood sprayed out of the shark’s mouth, splattering the aghast faces of those nearby.

Jack’s friend in front of the pickup truck, towing the float, continued his leisurely pace up the Avenue. All he could hear was the deafening Jaws theme song. When he saw Jack step out into the path of the truck, he gave him a big thumbs up.

Scott saw his father too. His eyes were wild. “Do something,” Scott yelled into his microphone. He grew hysterical and started to cry. “Dad, make it stop.”

A few in the crowd, seeing Scott’s terror, started to understand that something was wrong. A woman screamed, “Somebody help that boy.” A few others did the same.

Scott’s eyes locked on his father’s, who remained frozen in the street. Scott knew there wasn’t a moment to spare. He knew that it was up to him to save his brother. He sprang up the float to try and pry the giant shark’s jaws open. Tears and blood streamed down his cheeks. “I’ll save you, Josh,” he yelled, “I’ll save you.”

When he reached Josh, Scott was taken aback by his gruesome appearance. Then something else made him hesitate: a certain strangeness about the boy’s face. Scott wasn’t sure, but it looked like his little brother was trying not to laugh.

Scott didn’t understand. He moved closer, still. Josh continued wailing in agony, but in between the shouts, he glared at Scott like he was about to ruin everything. The little boy motioned with his head for his big brother to back off. Now that he could get a better look, Scott could see the shark’s teeth were made out of spongy rubber.

Scott was still confused when his attention focused on two groups of pipes protruding from both sides of the float. A thought began percolating up from his subconscious. He remembered something his father had mentioned while he was playing xBox a few weeks ago: something about an ‘extra touch.’

Scott whirled back around to see his dad, still standing in the street, looking like he was about to cry, he was so proud. Wait for it, Scott’s father thought. Wait for it.

An explosion of great force rocked the crowd. A shower of blood and little bits of meat shot from the pipes; pelting the multitude, sending everyone scurrying and ducking for cover in panic. The only one not running was Jack Paulson. He was in the middle of the street with his arms open wide and a rapturous expression across his face, waltzing in the red downpour.

•

Scott and his mother were talking the kitchen, doing their best to ignore the telephone that was ringing; Josh wandered in and went to answer it.

“Don’t,” his mother said. “I’m sure it’s someone else who wants to let me know what a jackass my husband is. It’s been a month; you’d think people would’ve gotten over it by now.”

“Daddy’s not a jack-ass,” the little boy replied.

“You’re right, Sweety,” his mom said. “He’s not a jack-ass. Your father is what you call insane. And Scott, don’t you go defending him. He’s a grown man and he should’ve know better.”

“I’m just saying, I don’t think it’s all his fault. I didn’t feel like working on the float, so I just let him do his thing. If I did what I was supposed to do, none of this would’ve happened. I should’ve known he was up to something. He had that look in his eyes – like when he worked on the treehouse. Remember?”

The phone stopped ringing. Scott’s mother heaved a sigh. Ever since the parade, she hadn’t once so much as cracked a smile about any of it. The last thing she wanted was to create an impression that what her husband did was a laughing matter – especially not in front of her boys. But now, for the first time in weeks, and despite her best efforts, the corners of her mouth started to crinkle up and she chuckled to herself.

“Yes, I saw the gleam in his eyes, too,” she said. “It’s the same way he looked when you were in third grade and they had Pirate Day at your school. Your teacher needed some parents to help out, and your father volunteered. The only other dad there thought he was hot stuff with an eye-patch on. Then your dad shows up looking like he just stepped off a 17th century Galleon with this outfit he rented from a theatre supply company. He paid a few hundred dollars for it. He had a sword, knee-high boots, matching red velvet pants and jacket, a frilly shirt open to his waist and a huge hat with a feather in it. His hair was long, back then, down to his shoulders. One of the moms said he looked like a stripper. She couldn’t keep her eyes off him, either, waving his sword around.”

“Or like when he helped me with the Pine Box Derby,” Scott chimed in. “Dad snuck in a smoke machine and rigged a pyrotechnics display to go off when I came into the room. He told me, ‘When you hear Highway To Hell start playing on the boom-box, that’s when you come through the doors. Got it?’ I told him not to say ‘Hell’ but he said it wasn’t bad because it was ACDC. He said it would be epic.”

“And wasn’t it?” The sound of Jack Paulson’s voice surprised them all. They hadn’t been expecting him home so soon. “Wasn’t it epic?”

“Yes, sir,” Scott said. “It was totally awesome.”

At Jack’s entrance, his wife turned her back to him and busied herself with the dishes. Jack went to the refrigerator and pulled out some orange juice. He walked towards the cabinet where his wife was, and reached past her to get a glass. She didn’t pull away from him the way she had for the last few weeks.

“Daddy,” his youngest son said. “Can I have a pyrotechnics display when I do the Pinewood Derby?”

“I don’t know, little man. I don’t think people would appreciate that from me. Not for a while, anyhow. Maybe if we move. Your daddy made a lot of people angry at him this time. It was my Chum Cannon that did it. My Chum Cannon crossed the line.”

“Ya think?” his wife said, turning to him. “We’re still getting hate mail, Jack. This wasn’t some harmless joke. A man ended up in the hospital with a heart attack because of you.”

“I know, I know. I made a mess. I’m so sorry baby. I didn’t mean for all that to happen. I never wanted to hurt anyone. Especially not you.”

“Thousands of dollars worth of dry-cleaning bills, Jack. Endless apologies. And now someone’s threatening to sue us. You call it a mess, but it’s more like a catastrophe.”

Jack felt like saying that the Titanic was a catastrophe and this was really more like a mishap, but he kept it to himself. “You’re right,” he said. “I went too far, baby. I totally made a mistake. I’m so sorry for putting you through all this. Please forgive me.”

His wife was silent. Jack poured his juice, took a few gulps and waited for her to say something. The two boys, feeling uncomfortable, left their parents alone.

Jack watched his wife start up again with the dishes. He meant his apology and wanted a response. She wasn’t quick to give one. There was part of her that didn’t want to let him off the hook. So selfish, she thought. She had never met anyone as infuriating as he was. At the same time, she couldn’t help but miss the man. And here he was being so vulnerable: a quality she found so attractive in him. “How was community service?” she asked. Jack could feel the effort she was making. Beyond her thin veneer of indifference, he sensed a new softness in her.

“It was good.” Jack said. He moved closer to his wife. She acted like he wasn’t there. “I met this guy today who’s doing community service for a DUI. He’s some big-deal creative director with Special Forces.”

“Who are they?”

“They’re a cool little boutique agency I’ve been trying to get a meeting with. This guy was at the parade and said the shark float was the craziest thing he’d ever seen. He went on and on about it and how it’s gotten over 700,000 views on YouTube already. He asked me to send him my portfolio.”

Jack’s wife heard the hint of pride in his voice. She believed he was sorry, but she also suspected that, deep down, her husband was secretly thrilled by what was going on. Everyone in town was talking about what happened. Sure, there were plenty of detractors; but the majority of people were having fun with it – replaying it, adding details and stretching the truth. The event was taking on a life of it’s own and had all the potential to become a local legend. She worried that all the attention would only embolden her husband and thereby guarantee more future stupidity. She searched for a neutral response that was loving but not supportive of anymore recklessness. “That’s good news he wants to see your work, babe,” Jack’s wife said. “I’m sure he’ll think it’s great.”

“Who knows,” Jack said. “Nothing may come of it. We’ll see.”

“How much more service do you have to do?”

“Only seventy-seven hours left to go. Then my debt to society will be repaid. Legally anyway. I guess my debt to you might take a little longer.” Jack took put his arm over his wife’s shoulder. To his surprise she leaned into him and then wrapped her arms around him. It had been so long since she’d returned any of his advances. He kissed her on her head. She nuzzled into his neck, enjoying how their bodies always seemed to fit together like puzzle pieces.

“Jack,” his wife said.

“Yeah?”

“No more projects.”

Jack paused. He didn’t want to make his wife another empty promise. Just reassure her, he thought, she’s not looking for a contractual agreement. Before he could answer her, the phone started ringing again. Jack’s wife rolled her eyes. “Let me go ahead and answer this,” she said. Picking up the receiver, she shouted, “Get over it already,” and hung up. Then, turning back to her husband, she opened up her arms and asked, “Where were we?”