Dog Training The American Male Read online

  “Sorry, doc. The exam gown didn’t fit over my deltoids.”

  “That’s because they’re made for . . . I mean, no worries, as long as you’re not cold. Would you excuse me for just one moment?”

  Vin ducked out the door and into the corridor where his two nurses were eavesdropping. “Is this a joke? Did Dr. Berkowitz set this up?”

  Nurse Kim shook her head. “So? Does she have the doughnut or the hole?”

  “A hole, obviously, or she’d be seeing Berkowitz. Send Wanda in. And quit congregating.”

  Vin reentered the exam room. “Sorry. Since this is your first visit, I asked one of my nurses to join us—it’s standard procedure. So? What kind of work do you do?”

  “When I’m not competing, I run a moving company with two other female bodybuilders. Pratt, Morrison and Shear . . . PMS Movers.”

  “Cute. Do you have a card? I may need to hire you to move someone in about a month.”

  “Business or domestic?”

  “Domestic. My kid brother. He’s been living in my guest house.”

  “I hear you. My girlfriend’s younger sister moved in with us over a year ago . . .what a pain in the ass. Hey, maybe we should fix them up?”

  The door opened and Wanda entered. “Eww. Smells like somethin’ up and died in here. Mother Mary, will you look at you.”

  “Nurse Wanda, this is Ms. Pratt. Ms. Pratt is a female bodybuilder.”

  “Guess ya’ll needed to have gone to medical school to figure that one out. Hey, Ms. Pratt, go on and flex—let’s see what you look like angry.”

  “Wanda!” Vincent glared from across the room. “My apologies, Ms. Pratt. Nurse Wanda was raised by wolves; we’re still breaking her in domestically.”

  “I don’t mind. And call me Jeanne.”

  Wanda wrapped both hands around the naked woman’s flexed right arm. “Feels like a baseball in there. I bet Dr. Cope wishes he had guns like yours.”

  Vin looked up from working a pair of rubber gloves over his fingers. “For your information, Wanda, I used to have arms like that. I had a choice—keep lifting or maintain the dexterity necessary to perform life-saving surgery.”

  “Right. Cause ya’ll need skinny arms to lance hemorrhoids.” Wanda adjusted the exam table’s stirrups, allowing the patient to rest her bare feet in the supports, the metal housing creaking beneath the weight of her muscular spread legs. “Jeanne, can I hire ya’ll to beat the shit outta my ex-husband?”

  “Hey, Whoopie Goldberg, enough.” Dr. Cope adjusted his mask and leaned in. “Been fermenting a while, I see. Why is it that women who work out think they can remain in their sweaty clothes for hours at a time without risking infection.”

  “Guilty as charged.”

  “I don’t want to use a speculum; the fungus has caused some inflammation around the labia.”

  “It itches bad.”

  Wanda snuck a peek. “Yeech. Looks like bologna and mayo.”

  “I’m going to write you a prescription for pills and an ointment you’ll use three times a day. If you have time, I’d also recommend a Gynnie Gusher.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s a special bidet I invented. It allows for a deep vaginal cleansing using a scented medicated flush. My patients swear by them. The gusher comes in wintergreen, peppermint, midnight cool, and baby’s breath.”

  Wanda nodded. “With all the cheese whiz down there, I’d go with the peppermint.”

  “Set it up. Hey doc, what about that blind date with your brother?”

  Wanda stifled a laugh. “Ya’ll want to set Jacob up with Jeanne? She’ll crush his head like a walnut.”

  “Not Jeanne. Her girlfriend’s sister. Do you have a picture of her?”

  “Wanda, hand me my fanny pack.” Jeanne fished through the leather bag. Pulling out her iPhone, she quickly scrolled through a dozen photos. “Here she is. Nancy Beach. She hosts a radio show in West Palm.”

  Wanda inspected the image of the petite blonde woman in the Santa hat. “She’s cute.”

  Vinnie took a look. “She is cute. Too bad she’s not Asian.”

  “What?”

  “Huh?”

  “Why she gotta be Asian?”

  “I said too bad she’s Caucasian. Jacob’s always had a crush on you, Wanda.”

  “Are we talkin’ about the same brother?”

  “Never mind.”

  “The Wall Street hippy?”

  “I was kidding. So Nancy’s a radio host, huh?”

  “She’s a psychologist-turned-relationship-radio-host. She talks the talk but never walks the walk, if you know what I mean.”

  “My brother’s a hypochondriac . . . it’s a match made in heaven.”

  Wanda nudged him. “Go on and show her his picture. Maybe her girlfriend’s sister would prefer an Asian too?”

  “Don’t be a wise ass.” Vinnie scrolled through his iPhone. “Here’s one we took with the boys at Disneyworld.”

  Jeanne looked at the photo. “It’s hard to tell what he looks like with his face all squished up in Micky Mouse’s head lock.”

  “That was a terrible misunderstanding. At the time, Jacob suffered from musophobia—a fear of rodents. He’s completely over that now.”

  “Nancy’s no gem either; she’s still carrying chips on her shoulders from two bad engagements. Problem is, she’s sort of sworn off dating. She does like to bowl. Maybe if we go as a group—”

  “Perfect. How about we meet you at the alley in East Boca tonight, say around eight. I’ll bring my wife and Jacob, you bring your girlfriend and her sister.”

  “Done deal.” Jeanne held her hand out to shake—her gown falling away, exposing her breasts.

  Wanda’s eyes widened. “Damn. I need to get to the gym.”

  THE SUNSHINE HOUR

  The offices of LIFESTYLE REVOLUTION Inc. occupy the entire mezzanine and first three floors of a high rise office building in downtown West Palm Beach. The facility, designed by Olivia Cabot, eldest daughter of millionaire and retired investment banker Truman Cabot featured a women’s only gym, health spa, vegan restaurant, liposuction clinic, three classroom suites, and the offices and broadcast facilities of A.M. radio station WOWF.

  Olivia’s plan was to use the station’s on-air hosts to bring clients to the facility where their physical, mental, and spiritual needs could be met. Each radio show personality offered workshops and weekly group sessions – the higher their ratings, the better the attendance.

  Nancy called her sessions The Sunshine Hour.

  * * * * *

  AT PRECISELY EIGHTY forty-five, Nancy Beach slid her passkey through the security slot and entered the double glass doors of Lifestyle Revolution. Fifteen minutes early . . .what Dad called Vince Lombardi time. Set your watch to Lombardi time and you’ll never be late.

  Seated before her at the central kiosk was Lynnie Ruffington, a rotund, tough-as-nails transplant from Mountain Home, Arkansas . . . a small town she described as “Mayberry, only with trailer parks and booze.”

  “Good morning, Lynnie. Where’s my Sunshine Hour?”

  “I had to put you in the Hillary Suite.”

  “Lynnie, you know I hate the Hillary Suite, it’s always so cold. What about the Lady Gaga Suite. Better yet, the Liza.”

  “The Liza suite is reserved for Dr. Porter’s menopause class, and Lady Gaga’s back door is still jammed open from those construction workers. By the way, congrats.” Lynnie reached beneath her desk, retrieving a walnut plaque featuring a large brass vulva. “The Vagina Monologues named you one of their Florida Vagina Warriors. Guess all those letters and e-mails finally paid off.”

  Nancy took the award from her and read the inscription. “‘Dr. Nancy Beach: A vagina-friendly person who embodies the spirit of equality and empowerment.’ Vagina friendly? It makes me sound like a lesbian.”

  “You’re not, are you? I’m only asking because I happen to know a young single entrepreneur stud who’d be perfect for you.”

&n
bsp; “Is he rich?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “No, of course not. It’s just the way you made it sound. So he’s a stud, huh?”

  “Put it this way—he’s the Mexican twin of the guy who played Gilligan on Gilligan’s Island. That’s right, sister, he’s quite the looker.”

  “That’s . . . wow.” Nod politely and start walking away . . .

  “Okay, he’s our lawn guy. And believe me, the only reason Arnoldo is still on the market is because he’s an illegal immigrant. Guy’s always smiling -- got a head full of teeth. Can’t understand much English, but hey, with a man that can be a plus, right? Here’s the kicker—if you marry him, me and mom get free lawn care for the next ten years. Of course, you would too. Back in Mountain Home, we call that a perk. Arnoldo’s got lots of perks us ladies fancy.”

  Point to your watch, mumble something about being late and . . .

  “You ever see a lawn guy’s fingers, Dr. Nancy? They’re thick and calloused from pulling weeds. We’re talking breakfast-sausage-thick. Back home, we call ‘em Jimmy Deans.” Lynnie winked. “Yeah, girlfriend, I think we’re on the same page.”

  “Okay then. Anything else?”

  “Oh yeah, The TODAY Show called. Something about a guest appearance.”

  Nancy’s heart raced. “The TODAY Show? Really?”

  “Nah, I’m just fucking with you. But your sister called. She said it was urgent.”

  * * * * *

  NANCY STRODE DOWN the classroom corridor, her blood still boiling over the receptionist’s little joke. How can I succeed when I’m in an environment surrounded by Neanderthals? I share a producer with three other hosts and office space with fifteen other radio personalities, all of us trying to build a following with little to no publicity, no budget, and a new program director who’s out to change everything around here just to make a name for himself. We’re like a nest of newborn sea turtles, everyone struggling to make it across the beach to open water while sea gulls swoop down from the sky trying to eat us.

  She passed a pair of construction workers replacing the emergency fire exit door of a lecture hall. She paused outside the door of the Liza Minnelli suite, eavesdropping on a heated conversation between Dr. Nell Porter and one of her patients.

  “. . . so I told the filthy son of a bitch that if he stuck that thing in my mouth one more time I’d bite it off and wrap it around his goddam neck!”

  “Gertrude, remember the hot flash exercises we went over last week?”

  “Doctor Nell, how am I supposed to take slow, deep breaths with his thing in my mouth? For Pete’s sake, it was dripping down my chin!”

  “Gertrude, he’s your dentist. The suction tube removes excess saliva from your mouth so you don’t have to continuously spit.”

  Nancy felt a surge of jealousy. Dr. Porter handled the menopause crowd. She had found her niche and her practice—and her ratings were thriving.

  I need to find my own niche . . . something trendy.

  Remembering Lana, she speed dialed her sister’s number on her cell phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Lana? It’s me. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong. I just wanted to make sure you were free tonight.”

  “Why?”

  “Date night, little sister. You, me, and Jeanne are going bowling with another couple and the guy’s single brother.”

  “A blind date? That was the emergency?”

  “Yes, and you’re going. There’s no pressure here. If you like him—great; if not, we’ll kick some ass and go home.”

  “What time?”

  “Eight o’clock.”

  “Let me think about it.”

  “Nancy—”

  “I’m late for my seminar; call you in an hour.” She hung up, mentally searching through her menu of excuses. I started having menstrual cramps earlier this morning and you know my first day is always the heaviest. Nah . . . she’ll know. Wait until after five, then call and tell her the new programming guy scheduled an after-hours meeting.

  Powering off her cell phone, she said a quick prayer (please God, let there be standing room only inside) then entered the Hillary Clinton suite, a small auditorium with theater-style seating for two-hundred.

  Seated in the front row were four women—three Sunshine Hour regulars and a newbie.

  Laticia was a mocha-skin black woman in her late thirties. The security guard worked nights at a gated community in Delray Beach and suffered from anger management issues stemming from an abusive first marriage.

  Bonnie was white, single and in her late twenties—an elementary school cafeteria worker fighting an obesity problem she blamed on a domineering mother.

  Sophia was the youngest—nineteen years old and Hispanic. The community college student’s arms were covered in tattoos displaying her eighteen month old daughter’s name and image. She has not seen the child’s biological father since the night he had impregnated her in the high school’s boys’ locker room.

  The short white woman in her mid-sixties was new.

  Either a recent divorcee or a widow, Nancy surmised. Stay positive. Four is twenty-five percent better than three . . . “Good morning, ladies, and welcome to The Sunshine Hour, a free weekly seminar for women, sponsored by my radio show, Life’s a Beach with Nancy Beach. Before we begin, would everyone stand please and recite the pledge.”

  The three returnees stood, joining their leader: “I am the keeper of my own fate, emancipating myself from the self-imposed bonds of my gender.”

  “Excellent. I see we have a newbie. Please, tell us about yourself and describe the Y chromosome in your life.”

  “The Y who?”

  “The man in your life . . . assuming it’s a challenging relationship with the opposite sex that brought you here.”

  “Well . . . my name is Edna Dombrowski. I’m sixty-three years old, originally from New York. The Y chromosome in my life is . . . was my ex-husband, Walter.”

  The other women chanted, “Why Y . . . do you make us cry!”

  “Did Walter make you cry, Edna?”

  “Sometimes. After all, we were married thirty-six years. We had good times, some ehh, but we stayed together. Mostly for the kids.”

  “What went wrong?” asked Bonnie, the weight-challenged attendee spewing remnants from her last bite of doughnut.

  “The trouble began about a year ago when we stopped having . . . relations. Walter claimed he couldn’t get it up because of a swollen prostate. Well, he sure got it up for his secretary, Claudia.”

  Laticia shook her head. “Girlfriend, if some Y did that to me, I’d have gone Lorena Bobbitt all over the mother-fucker.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I’d have cut off his pecker.” Laticia mimed slicing off a man’s penis.

  Nancy cringed. “Laticia, we can’t go around castrating every Y who hurts us. We’re here to help Edna gain a new perspective about what happened so she can prevent this situation from occurring in her next relationship.”

  Sophia turned to Edna, her words slightly garbled by her tongue piercing. “Was you there for him sexually?”

  “I thought I was. Thirty-six years . . . I don’t ever recall him complaining.”

  “But was you really there? Did you just lie there and stare at the ceiling fan, or did you make him feel like a Aztec God?”

  “Aztec God? Walter? The man laid down and I climbed on. He had a chronic bad back.”

  “I ain’t sayin’ you should’a hurt him, I just know the guys I been with over the last like ten years go crazy whenever I talk nasty to them.”

  “You’ve been sexually active for ten years? How old are you?”

  “Nineteen. Okay, eight years. Anyways, next time you is with a man of the opposite sex, try this . . . ‘Oh God, Walter! Oh God, you are so big. Bury that dagger in my pussy. Sacrifice me to the gods!’” Sophia hi-fived Laticia. “Trust me, girlfriend—once you go Hispanic, ain’t no need to be romantic.”

 
Edna’s complexion paled. “I’m a sixty-three-year-old Jew from the Bronx. When I was your age, I was still a virgin. I birthed three kids and had a hysterectomy, and in all those years I never referred to my personal area as anything but my personal area. If I moaned like that, Walter would have had a heart attack.”

  Nancy held up her hand, cutting off Sophia’s retort. “Edna, I think Sophia’s point is that we can empower ourselves by using certain tools that feed our Y’s ego while allowing us to establish a sense of equality in the relationship.”

  “What for? So I can compete with some young shiksa like yourself? See how your husband feels about you in thirty years when your boobs start sagging and your pubic hair turns gray.”

  “Oh, Dr. Beach isn’t married,” said Bonnie, draining her diet-coke.

  Laticia shrugged. “The lady don’t even got a boyfriend.”

  “That’s not true,” Nancy snapped. “I mean, I was engaged . . . twice. I decided to break things off for a variety of reasons, some similar to Edna’s.”

  “Yeah, but that was like decades ago.”

  Edna’s face flushed pink. “Dr. Beach, I thought you were a relationship counselor?”

  “I am. If you’d like to see my degrees—”

  “Who cares about a degree? When I read the Lifestyle Revolution brochure, I had no idea you were so young. How could you possibly know what I’m going through. And not to be dating . . . with your looks? The Puerto Rican slut knows more about relationships than you do.”

  “Got dat right.”

  “You’re right Edna. When it comes to relationships, my own personal experiences are somewhat limited. But don’t discount my education. Tapping into my wealth of knowledge, we can craft the tools you need to work on you.”

  “Know what Dr. Beach . . . maybe you ought to work on yourself.”

  Nancy watched, feeling helpless as Edna gathered her belongings and left. * * * * *

  THE PHONE RANG twice before Lana answered. “Nance?”

  “Pick me up at the apartment at seven-thirty. I’m in.”

  ALWAYS BE POLITE