Dog Training The American Male Read online

  “Jeanne?”

  No response.

  “Jeanne!”

  The athlete-in-training turned, revealing a pair of naked surgically-enhanced breasts—two pale-white silicon grapefruits dangling from the trunk of the wrong tree.

  The female bodybuilder shut off the blender. “Morning, Nance. Did I wake you?”

  “You woke half of Boca.” Nancy attempted to focus on the woman’s chestnut-brown eyes, but the boobs were bobbing and weaving above the six-pack abs like two mutant glands in a bad horror movie. “Jeanne, no offense, but do you think you could sling the twins.”

  “Why? Do my tits make you nervous?”

  “Your camel toe makes me nervous, the rest I don’t want to think about. I mean, you are my sister’s . . . you know.”

  “Come on, you can say it . . . lover.” Jeanne pulled the top of the unitard up over her breasts . “You’ve shared our apartment for over a year now and you still can’t accept that.”

  “I accept it. I just don’t want to see you naked.”

  “See who naked?” The bedroom door across the hall opened and Lana joined them, the thirty-one-year-old brunette wearing only a towel. Nancy’s big sister snuggled in Jeanne’s massive arms, her hands reaching around to grope her lover’s buns of steel.

  “Eww, so hard. Like tortoise shells. Am I the luckiest bitch in Boca?”

  “No, I am.”

  “Unh unh, baby. I am.”

  “No, I am.”

  “Will you two shut-up!”

  Lana winked at Jeanne. “Looks like somebody got up on the wrong side of the bed.”

  “Up? This isn’t up. This is me sleep-walking with menstrual cramps. It’s five-forty in the morning.”

  “Damn, I’m gonna be late for my Sand and Six-Packs at Sunrise class. Gotta run, sweet cakes.” Jeanne poured the blender’s green sludge into a thirty-two ounce cup, and then offered Lana a passionate good-bye kiss from her sun-chapped lips.

  “Baby, don’t forget your doctor’s appointment.”

  “Aw, Lana, you know how I hate visiting the gynecologist. They look at me like I’m some kind of freak.”

  “Please, baby. This one comes highly recommended. Dr. Vincent Cope . . .I texted you his address. Be there by nine-fifteen.”

  “I’ll do it for you.” Jeanne grabbed her car keys from a peg and bounded out the front door of the apartment like Hercules’ twin sister.

  Nancy locked the door behind her. “We need to talk.”

  Lana turned on the coffee maker, filling the glass pot with water. “I told you about Jeanne’s new training schedule, so don’t start complaining.”

  “I’m not complaining. Okay, I am complaining. I’m exhausted, Lana. These walls are paper-thin and the two of you go at it every night like a bad episode of Animal Planet.”

  “Can I help it if we’re back in the honeymoon stage?”

  “It’s not normal.”

  “Who cares about normal? We’re in love. And since when did you become the standard bearer of normal . . . the relationship counselor who no longer believes in relationships.”

  “On that note, I’m going back to bed.” Nancy escaped to her bedroom, Lana in pursuit.

  “Don’t just walk away—hey, what happened to Madonna’s litter box?”

  “I stepped in it . . . again. Can’t you find a better place for it than in my bedroom?”

  “Technically, it’s Madonna’s bedroom, she was here first.”

  “Madonna doesn’t pay a third of the rent, I do. Then again, I’d rather smell cat shit than your girlfriend’s yeast-infected thongs.” Nancy climbed back in bed.

  “Aw, poor little victim. Why don’t we talk about what’s really bugging you.”

  “My ratings will climb. I’ve been working my ass off to build an audience.”

  “I’m not talking about your radio show, Nancy. You have no social life. It’s been fourteen months and three Adele CDs since Sebastian cheated on you.”

  “It’s been fourteen months since I caught Sebastian cheating on me; the little bastard was banging my roommate right up until her second trimester. And leave Adele out of this; the woman’s a saint.”

  “Yeah, the patron saint of misery. Enough with the cry-fests. Get back in the game.”

  “What? Dating? How many times must I tell you, I’m in career-building-mode. I don’t have time to devote to a relationship.”

  “Then how about a few one-night stands, just to keep the vag from sealing up? Just make sure he wears a rubber, and don’t give him the password to your computer.”

  “I never gave Dan my password. Okay, I sort of gave it to him when his computer went down; I never thought he’d access my on-line banking and steal Dad’s inheritance.”

  “Maybe you’re just sick of the male form. Don’t look at me like that, it happens. Being bi-curious was the best thing to happen to me.”

  “I’m not into women, Lana. And seriously, Jeanne’s got more testosterone in her than half the Miami Dolphins.”

  “Don’t let those muscles fool you. Jeanne’s all woman where it counts. She thinks like a woman, she loves like a woman—”

  “And she screws like a teamster.”

  “Listen to you, you are so angry. Jeanne makes me happy. Remember happy? You haven’t smiled since Dad died.”

  “Don’t go there.”

  Lana sat on the edge of Nancy’s bed, brushing her sister’s blonde hair using her fingertips. “I miss him, too. As for your two loser fiancés, learn from your mistakes and move on. Next time around, don’t lose your emotional compass. You did the same thing with Fred.”

  “Fred?” Nancy rolled over to face her sister. “Fred was our dog. All he ever did was bite me.”

  “That’s because you used to hug him so tight around his neck he couldn’t breathe. You may be a relationship therapist, but you know dick about men. Guys are like dogs, Nancy. They need to learn the rules when they’re puppies. You went from zero to sixty with Dan; you practically put Sea-Bass through law school. Next time you fall for a guy, instead of jumping up and down on Oprah’s sofa like Tom Cruise trying to convince the world he’s not gay, teach that dog not to get up on the sofa. Set some boundaries; house train the little prick.”

  JACOB

  The thirty-one year old man with the reddish-brown mop of hair, unkempt matching beard, and sleepy hazel eyes rested naked on his back in the Queen-size sofa bed, staring down at his belly. “I need to lose weight. From this angle, I can’t even see my dick.”

  “Maybe you just need a bigger dick?”

  Jacob Cope turned to the nude Asian female sharing his bed. “You’re complaining about my dick? Ten minutes ago you were moaning so loud I was afraid my brother, Vincent could hear us from his house.”

  “You were the one moaning. If you recall, my mouth was full.”

  “Oh yeah.” Jacob sighed. “Part of me suspects I’m a loser, the other part thinks I’m God Almighty.”

  “Go with the loser.”

  “Why do you have to be so nasty?”

  “You want nasty? Smell my breath. And enough with the John Lennon quotes. You’re worse than a Trekkie.”

  “John Lennon was much more than a Beatle; he was the voice of a generation. The guy actually helped stop the war in Vietnam by having a Bed-In for peace.”

  “Hey, I was there, remember? You weren’t even a glint in your father’s eye.”

  “Still, I’ve always felt like a child of the sixties.” Jacob watched the ceiling fan’s revolving wicker blades. “I’d love to do something great like that. Can you imagine me and you staging a Bed-In to stop the war in Afghanistan? Better yet, what if we could organize a nationwide sleep-in to reverse Citizens United . . . get the money out of politics. You may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one . . .”

  “Instead of dreaming, why don’t you wake up and get a decent job. You’ve been living in your brother’s guest house for nine months. You haven’t brought home a real paycheck since Lehm
an Brothers shit-canned you.”

  “It wasn’t my fault they went belly-up. Bastards ran the stock down to nothing; I lost millions.”

  “You made them millions. It’s been years since you testified against them. Go back to Wall Street.”

  “Forget it. Wall Street’s my Vietnam, my Apocalypse Now. My computer programs and algorithms were used to hurt people. Now I just want to make people laugh. Practicing my act with you . . .it’s the best part of my day.”

  “You know what the best part of my day is? The best part of my day is the garden hose in my mouth.”

  Jacob’s heart skipped a beat as he heard footsteps approaching outside on the concrete stoop -- his eyes focusing on the unbolted front door.“Oh, shit – Vin, don’t come in!”

  His older brother keyed in, the door swinging open. “Jake, we need to . . . holy shit, what the hell is this?”

  “It’s not what you think!” Jacob leaped off the sofa-bed, rummaging through a pile of fast food garbage for his Sponge Bob boxer shorts.

  “This is what you’ve been doing every day? In my man cave!”

  “It’s completely consensual. Can you just get out?”

  “No, I can’t get out. Helen was right, you need serious help.” Vin approached the life-size naked Asian rubber sex doll lying spread-eagle across the bed. “Is that Yoko Ono?”

  “It is. I happen to be a big fan of John Lennon.”

  “So you’re paying tribute to him by screwing a plastic version of his wife?”

  “Synthetic rubber. And so what?”

  “Jacob, this is just weird. Can you imagine what Ma would say?”

  “Ma hated all of my girlfriends . . . I fail to see the problem here.”

  “Have you given up on real women?”

  “No. But I have urges.”

  “And Yoko fills them?”

  “You jack-off into a towel, I use a sexy receptacle. Either way, it’s just an expulsion of bodily fluids.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t lie around and talk to the towel afterward.”

  “I was practicing my ventriloquism.”

  “With your dick in her mouth? That’s one hell of an act. Where do you even get something like this?”

  “Celebrity Sex Dolls. I had to special order her.”

  “She does have nice hooters. Three inputs?”

  “It’s standard.”

  “Is she shaved down there or is her bush big and matted like a Zulu warrior?”

  “What is it you want, Vincent?”

  “Bad news. Helen’s mother’s visiting in January and will be with us through Passover. I’ve been ordered to deliver your thirty day eviction notice.”

  “It’s a big guest house, I don’t see a problem. Why do I need to leave?”

  “Are you mental?”

  “I happen to like Helen’s mother.”

  “Listen, space cadet . . . you, Yoko, and my mother-in-law playing Three’s Company in my guest house—it ain’t gonna happen. And don’t you have to be at work?”

  “I’m on the twelve-to-six shift. Don’t you have to be at work?”

  “I’m a gynecologist and my own boss. I don’t punch a clock, I am the clock.”

  “I am the walrus, coo coo g’joob.”

  “You’re an idiot. Clean this place up, it looks like a crime scene. And hide that stupid doll; I don’t want my sons seeing it. Wade’s just hitting puberty, it could ruin him. Back in my day, all I had to get off with was dad’s old National Geographics.”

  VINNIE

  The black 2002 Ford Explorer headed south on State Road 7, its driver handling the wheel with her left hand while her right thumb dug into her neoprene shorts, desperate to scratch the incessant itch originating from her crotch. Lana was right; I should have taken care of this long ago.

  Glancing out the passenger window, Jeanne Pratt searched the odd numbered addresses, locating the South Florida Gynecology Center on the southwest corner of Palmetto Park Road, directly across from a Hooters restaurant.

  Hooters and cooters . . . cute.

  Jeanne parked the vehicle and climbed out, checking the leather seat for stains.

  * * * * *

  BYPASSING HIS RESERVED spot, Dr. Vincent Cope parked his Lexus in back of the one-story brick building two spaces from the trash dumpster. For several minutes, the forty-one year old father of three closed his eyes, listening to Howard Stern on his Sirius radio.

  Helen was right; Jacob had become a squatter in their guest home, but what his wife refused to understand was that his kid brother had been through hell.

  Helen had put him through hell over breakfast.

  “We’ve been married what? Seventeen years? And in those seventeen years, Vincent, how many times have you allowed one of my relatives to use our guest house?”

  “Our guest house? If you recall, it was supposed to be my office—my man cave—until you put up curtains and added a sofa bed.”

  “When my Aunt Milly’s condo was being fumigated for roaches and she needed a place to stay for seventy-two hours, do you remember what you told her? I’ll tell you what you told her—you told her the local YWCA had cots, served a great lentil soup, and if she wanted you’d be happy to arrange free water aerobic classes.”

  “The woman told me she likes a good lentil soup.”

  “Shut up. Last year, when my mother wanted to visit during the Christmas holidays, you decided to renovate the guest house bathroom. Wade’s Bar Mitzvah—new wallpaper. My sister’s wedding? You had to have wood floors put in. But when your mother demands you take in your younger brother, suddenly my guest house becomes the home for wayward derelicts!”

  “Helen, Jake’s not a derelict, he’s gifted.”

  “He’s a mental patient!”

  “True, but he’s a gifted mental patient. I mean, come on, the guy was recruited by Lehman Brothers when he was nineteen. Six figure bonuses . . . the 401K—it was all tied up in stock. It’s not his fault the company went bankrupt.”

  “We’re going bankrupt supporting him!”

  “Not true. Jacob’s working now.”

  “Yeah . . . part-time. What does he do all day alone out there, other than order fast food delivery on your credit card?”

  Vincent powered off the Lexus. He had opened his gynecology practice fifteen years ago when real estate was worth something and the mortgage rates were low. Then the economy had tanked and it seemed as if the insurance companies fought every patient claim. Many of his colleagues had dropped their medical malpractice insurance, getting patients to sign waiver forms; others were strictly a cash business. Vin had fought going that route, taking on extra hours to run weight-loss clinics two nights a week, but the new schedule was exhausting. Plus he coached Wade’s little league baseball team, and Helen had to drive Dylan to hockey practice, and Austin had Taekwondo. By the time he got home and crawled into bed, Helen was asleep.

  What kept Vincent Cope up late at night was not the two mortgages or his ever-increasing overhead, or chasing after insurance companies, it was the expenses looming ahead. Wade was fourteen, Dylan thirteen, Austin eleven. When the boys’ hit the adolescent years there’d be drivers’ licenses and auto insurance premiums that added up to another three to four thousand dollars a year per teen driver . . .not to mention college tuitions.

  Vincent Cope laid his head back on the leather upholstery. God help me if they get into an Ivy League school . . . I wonder if I can charge Helen’s mother to rent out the guest house?

  Dismissing the idea, the gynecologist exited the car as a black cat scurried by and leapt into the open steel receptacle, its actions igniting a chorus of angry hisses and feline protests from within.

  “Stupid cats. Quit digging through my trash – that’s not fish you smell!” He kicked the side of the bin then headed for the employee entrance located on the south side of the building.

  His nurse practitioner, Wanda Jackson greeted him with his white lab coat and a sarcastic, “Afternoon, Dr. Cope.”


  “Don’t exaggerate. It’s only nine-twenty.”

  “Your first appointment was at eight.”

  “Mrs. Kleinhenz . . . What’d you tell her?”

  “Same thing I told all the patients you blew off—that you had emergency surgery. I rescheduled Mrs. Wishnov and Mrs. Goldfarb for this afternoon during your lunch break.”

  “Wanda, I need my lunch break.”

  “Well, too bad.”

  “Wanda, I’m a forty-year-old man and your employer; if I say I need my lunch break then I need my lunch break.”

  “And I’m a forty-three-year-old divorced black woman with two kids and bunions and I say have a protein bar and an orange juice and watch your damn Internet porn later.”

  “All right . . . just keep your voice down. So how are little Trixie and Dixie?”

  “Trevor’s a junior in high school and Danielle just got the lead in her sixth grade musical.”

  “I’m sure you’re very proud.”

  “Oh, yeah. Now I get to lay out sixty bucks a week for private singing lessons, and ya’ll know my ex ain’t gonna help. You and me seriously need to discuss my raise.”

  “Sure thing. Let’s do it today during lunch.” Vincent patted her on the shoulder and headed to the nurse’s station. “Okay ladies, the muffin king is here, where’s my first patient?”

  Nurse Kim and Nurse Dawn look at one another, covering up their giggles.

  “What?”

  “Room Two. A new patient. Chart’s on the door.”

  “Oh . . . kay.” Vin walked down the hall to the exam room, casually checking his pants’ zipper.

  Removing the chart from the bin outside the door, he scanned the information. Jeanne Pratt, age thirty-two. Yeast infection. He knocked and entered. “Ms. Pratt, I’m Dr. Cope . . . holy Lou Ferrigno—”

  The naked bodybuilder with the deep tan and florescent-pink toe nails was sitting up on the exam table, the dressing gown draped over his . . . her chest.