NEGOTIATION
by Joseph Woodard
"Oh, she's always like that." Draper slammed the phone down.
"Who?" her husband asked, folding the newspaper he was reading. "Who are you talking about?"
"Shaneen, that's who," she said, not moving her lips. She stomped over to the large television that occupied a rentable portion of their living room and turned it on. She dragged an old aluminum chair unholstered in torn green coffee-shop vinyl in front of the screen and turned the chair back to the TV. She straddled the chair the wrong way, clamping her hands on the top edge of the backrest and parking her chin on it. She muttered at the man who was selling her a used car. "Worthington," she warned the enthusiastic salesman, "you don't know shit about that car. It's a piece of crap. Why don't you give it to my Sister-in-law? She deserves it." The television set was Draper's confessor. When she was really angry she went nose-to-nose with the shopping channel and admitted to thoughts of murder.
"Dray," her husband called, a sense of futility in the tone of his voice. "What happened? What did she say to you?"
"She's pissed I won't lend Charlie more money," Draper answered, clamping the words in her teeth. "My brother needs it for their vacation. I saved money so they can play." She dug her fingernails into the vinyl.
"Well, don't do it then. That's that. No more." Her husband retreated behind his paper. The television was her refuge and the chair her surrogate victim. The sofa was his lair and the paper his shield. On opposite sides of their unkempt living room each allowed the other to drift out into space. It was their way of compromising with the irreconcilable.
He scanned the war news and congratulated himself that he had always agreed with Nelson Mandela and still did.
She stared at the man on TV and practiced shooting him with her index finger. "Psheww, psheww," she whistled between her teeth as she fired.
Suddenly she sat up, and grabbled the top edge of the seat back, her elbows locked. "She doesn't want to come to dinner Saturday night."
"What?" her husband called from behind Nelson Mandela.
"She's afraid she'll catch the cold I had last week. I told her I was all over that, but she's afraid. Just because she's a big shot singer and has all them shiny dresses and gets to go to big cities and spend my money in hotel bars while she smiles at cigar smoking drunks. I told her I was all over that. But no. She can't come to dinner."
"Is she working?" he called from behind the U.S. Ambassador to the United Nations. "At least she's working. That better than us."
"Yeah. So what? If I put on dresses like that, I could rake in the dough. I got boobs way bigger than hers." Draper continued to stare at the screen. Two women were demonstrating a little machine that ate cheese and defecated cheese sauce.
"Yes, dear. But you can't carry a note," her husband risked a critical comment from behind Ariel Sharon. "Besides, she'll pay you back, won't she?" His voice trailed off as he realized he'd pressed a red button by asking that question.
"Oh, sure," Draper struck the chair pad with one fist. "Like that last time. I bet she thinks she'll never have to pay that one back now that she's introduced us to the man who produced her record. She kept hanging on his shoulder. And my brother kept pouring wine in his glass. God." She tore a new hole in the vinyl with her thumbnail.
"Did we meet the plumber who finally fixed our toilet that night?" her husband tried to put a positive spin on things from behind the Iraqi ambassador.
"Oh. Yeah." She unlocked her elbows and reflected. "That's right." She leaned forward, entranced by the two women who were pouring cheese sauce on plates of steaming pasta. "You know, that's neat. We ought to get one of those."
"What's that, dear?" her husband ventured, peeking over the shoulder of Tony Blair.
"That cheese pooper thing. That's cool."
"You should buy one," he offered from behind Yasser Arafat.
Draper beamed. "I'm gonna order one right now. God, I love TV." She jumped up and ran to the phone. The number of the shopping channel ordering center was taped to the receiver. He heard her talking cheerily. "Yes, yes, I call all the time," he heard her say. "Have we talked before? Oh, hello. How are you?"
He took a deep breath, turned the page to the business section, and relaxed with Glenn Tilton, the chairman and chief executive of bankrupt United Airlines.
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