The Man Who Can't Be Moved

“A Chicago businessman, fed up with rumours of his wife’s lengthy list of infidelities and anxious to capture solid proof of her extra marital affairs, has decided to wage his own war against cheating partners and has invented a pair of women’s panties equipped with a GPS chip,” Em reads aloud from my iPhone as she sits in the front passenger seat of my Range Rover, her boots -a pair of pale pink Uggs that had been her one and only Christmas present request- kicked off and her impossibly tiny feet -clad in a pair of black socks with purple, pink, yellow and aquamarine hearts on them- propped on the dashboard. It’s a forty minute drive to Sewickley on a good traffic day, and considering the state of the icy, snow covered street and the stupidity of the other drivers on the road -who seem to think they can still speed and dart in and out of traffic like they’re taking part in the Indy 500- we’ll be damn lucky it we get to Flower’s within the next hour and a half.

“Is there a picture of them?” I inquire. “Better yet, is there a picture of some hot model wearing them?”

“They look like granny panties,” Em complains, her nose wrinkled in disgust. “And get this; they start at six hundred dollars. US.”

“Six hundred bucks for GPS undies? That’s a steal. Ask me, that is the best invention EVER.”

“But what sense do they really make?” my wife challenges. “Because if a woman is cheating on her husband and she knows that the underwear has this chip in them, why the hell would she wear them? And it’s not like he could buy them and just slip them into her panty drawer. Women know what they own; we know every single pair of underwear in our possession. I think I’d know if you snuck a pair in with my other ones. They’d be completely out of place.”

“Maybe she would wear them so she could prove she’s not cheating,” I suggest, and removing my right hand from the steering wheel, snag the cardboard take out cup from the holder between our seats and swallow a mouthful of now lukewarm coffee. Starbucks is my addiction; I can’t seem to stay away from the place and it’s actually ridiculous how much money I spend throughout the average day. Still, I’m in a stereotypical Canadian boy; I’d gladly dump the expensive, designer beverages for a cup of Tim Horton’s coffee and a box of Timbits any day. “’Cause if she’s not fooling around but he’s always accusing her, she’d get pissed off, non? She’d get pissed off enough to wear the panties to prove him wrong, don’t you think? To clear her name?”

“It just makes absolutely no sense,” Em declares. “I mean, six hundred dollars for a pair of underwear that are that ugly? If he’s smart enough to come up with the whole premise of GPS chips in panties, you’d think he could at least have made them half decent looking. I’m sure he can develop a chip small enough to fit in boy shorts or bikinis or even thongs.”

“Unless it’s your underwear we’re talking about and there’s no actual place to put the GPS chip,” I muse. “Where would you put it, Emmy-Lou? Where would I hide it? ‘Cause you got them little things that tie at the hips and barely anything covering your ass and there’s nothing in the middle…”

“I thought you liked my underwear,” she says. “I thought you liked the fact that I was less Fruit of the Loom and more Fredrick’s of Hollywood.”

“I do like the fact that you’re into the barely there, slutty little things. I just don’t get the whole concept with crotchless underwear. What is the point to them? If they’re not covering what they’re supposed to…”

“Okay…wait a second here…you’re telling me that Maxime Talbot, previous manwhore extraordinaire, doesn’t understand the whole concept of easier access? I wear them because you think they’re sexy; they leave little to the imagination and you don’t have to waste time yanking them off.”

“It would be even easier access if you just wore none at all,” I comment. “And these GPS things…six hundred dollars for just one? Or do you get a set of different coloured ones or something.”

“Six hundred dollars for one,” she confirms. “US.”

“Hmmm…so six hundred dollars per pair equals…” I do the math in my head. “…is there a phone number there? A one hundred one to call? Or does it mention a website you can go to if you want to place an order? ‘Cause I think I’ll get you a pair for every day of the week. That way I can keep track of what’s mine.”

“What is there to keep track of?” she gives a derisive snort. “Do you honestly think the second you leave town I’m going to run around behind your back? I wouldn’t cheat on you. I married you, didn’t I? Wasn’t there something in the wedding vows about ‘forsaking all others’? You really think I’d do something like that?”

“It’s not you I don’t trust,” I stress. “I trust you. A hundred percent. It’s other men I’m worried about. Certain d’entre eux sons des cochons d’enormes. They can’t take no for answer. I don’t want them anywhere around you.”

“Then how about we just skip the GPS underwear and move right to the chastity belt?” Em suggests. “It would be a whole lot easier and cheaper, don’t you think? To just lock things up from the waist down and take the key everywhere with you? Why waste your money on the undies when you can just have me fitted with long lasting stainless that you can remove when the mood strikes?”

“Hmmm…” I consider the suggestion. “Actually, that’s not that bad of an idea…”

Em rolls her eyes.

“...but it’s just a little too barbaric. How about I microchip you?” I tease, and returning the coffee cup to the holder, reach out to lay a hand on the nape of her neck and squeeze and knead gently. “Take you to the vet and get one put right back here. That way, if you wander off, someone will know who to return you to.”

“Is that what you’re worried about? That I’m going to wander off? That I’m suddenly going to get tired of you and decide the grass is greener on the other side? Sorry, Maxime. You’re stuck with me for the long haul. There’s no getting rid of me. I’m still going to be driving you insane when you’re ninety years old.”

“And I’m going to be chasing you around the nursing home in my walker,” I grin. “I’m still going to be talking dirty in French to you and dragging you into empty rooms and janitors’ closets. i]C’est juste la facon dont il est. That’s just how things are going to be for the next fifty, sixty years.”

“By that time you’ll be downing Viagra by the bag full and I’ll pay the nurses off to switch them with some other drug,” she chides.

“Viagra? Etes-vous fou putain? I’m never going to need that shit. Someone like me? The guy they called the Womanizer? Need Viagra?” I scoff. “Never. I’ve been perpetually horny since I hit puberty and I will die that way. Lucky you, huh? Ask me, it’s a win-win situation for both of us. And as for the GPS panties…”

“Baby…” Em sighs heavily and pats me on the knee. “Let it go. That ship has sailed. And really, just how practical could they be? Six hundred dollars? For something you wouldn‘t be able to wash properly? You can‘t tell me you‘d be able to get them wet.”

“I could see that being an issue,” I admit, and then allow a slow, sly grin to spread across my face. “Especially for you. Considering how wet I make you just by giving you 'the look].”

She frowns and clamps her fingers down on the inside of my thigh.

“Fils de pute!” I grimace, and reach between my legs to yank her hand off of me. “You’re a vicious little thing! You need to stop abusing me like that. Or you need to let me pull these SUV over so you can abuse me in a completely different way. Seeing as you didn’t let me finish what we started in the kitchen…”

“I got what I wanted,” she chirps. “I am so relaxed right now. Nothing could possibly ruin my good mood. Well, maybe more talk about the GPS panties.”

“I still think it’s the best invention ever,” I declare. “Is there a telephone number on that article? Or a website address? So I can order you some?”

“How about a get a GPS chip installed up your ass?” she suggests. “Or how about we tuck it in right underneath the top of your…”

“Okay…okay…I’ll be good,” I run a hand over her hair and then lean across the street and press a kiss to her temple. “No more talk about GPS panties or microchips or chastity belts. You know what I’ll get instead? To keep all the strange men away from you? I’ll buy you some pepper spray. And I’ll get myself a shotgun so I can put the fear of God into them.”

“The shotgun might be a good idea,” Em says, as she leans forward to lay my cell phone on the dashboard. “You’re going to need it about twenty years down the road. So you can wait on the front porch waiting for your daughter or daughters to come back from dates.”

“Daughters? What daughters? Who said I’m having daughters? I didn’t tell you about my master to plan to populate the earth with all male Talbots?”

“You honestly think you’re going to escape this life without having any girls?” my wife asks. “You don’t think that God’s going to seek out a little divine retribution for all the females you’ve messed around with? That he’s not going to drop at least one girl on you so you’ll know what it feels like to have a boy like you preying on her?”

“I have repented,” I reply. “I have turned myself around. Changed for the better. Isn’t that enough? Isn’t handing over my little black book to a worthy successor enough of a sacrifice?”

“Face it, Max. You are destined to have girls. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if you had all girls.”

“Ferme ta bouche!” I plead. “Bite your tongue! That’s not even funny! I don’t know the first thing about little girls! I didn’t have any sisters, remember? And I was the kid in school that always pulled on the little girls’ pig tails and made them scream and cry by dropping worms on their heads.”

“And here I was thinking you were the kid that always used to charm girls into letting you take them under the slide so you could play doctor with them,” she teases.

“I know nothing about girls,” I remain firm. “I don’t want to know anything about them. Having a wife is enough female hormones running rampant. I don’t want to have to worry about things like boys calling the house at all hours and them getting pregnant and…”

“But having sons would be just as stressful, don’t you think? I mean, you have to worry about them getting some poor innocent little girl pregnant.”

“I will teach my sons everything they need to know about sex,” I declare.

“Oh wonderful…” she rolls her eyes. “…a whole bunch of little players running around.”

“Not like that! I’m going to teach them the right things. How to treat women properly. How to make sure they don’t get them or the girls in trouble. I don’t mind talking about stuff like that with boys. My dad did it with me and my brothers and I can do it with my sons. But girls?” I shudder at the thought. “Girls with makeup and training bras and periods…”

“Aren’t you getting a little ahead of yourself?” Em asks. “Worrying about things that are way, way far ahead? I mean, that kind of thing doesn’t happen until they’re at least eleven. Not to mention it’s way too soon to be talking about little girls or little boys. We actually have to get pregnant first. And considering you never really said anything about the whole operation thing…”

“What did you want me to say?” I inquire. “You already know the idea of you having surgery freaks me the fuck out. It’s a good thing in some respects that it’s going to happen sooner rather than later, I guess. I mean, I know it has to be done but…”

“Apparently it’s fairly routine,” she says cheerfully. “Lots of women have cysts and fibroids removed and they don’t have any complications. And if it’s going to make all the difference in the world when it comes to us having babies…”

“It just scares me,” I admit. “The thought of you going into the hospital and having an operation. It just spooks me. I’m not a hospital guy, you know? I don’t do well with the smell and all the equipment.”

“You did fine the night you stayed with me back in September,” she points out. “You didn’t seem uncomfortable or spooked that night. You stayed on your own free will. No one held a gun to your head and forced you to be there.”

“I wasn’t going to leave you all by yourself,” I say. “I wasn’t going to leave you there alone after what happened. What kind of person would do that?”

“And you probably had some kind of ulterior motive,” Em chides. “I’m sure deep down you saw it as an opportunity to…”

“I just wanted you to know that I was actually a really nice guy. That not everything you’d been hearing about me was true. I wasn’t thinking anything at that point; I wasn’t thinking in the back of my head that I was going to make a good impression and convince you to leave Sid for me. I just wanted to show you that I wasn’t some egoistical jerk. You needed someone and I was there. Simple as that. And if Sid couldn’t be there…”

“He was just having a hard time,” she quickly defends him. “Nothing like that had ever happened to him before and it was a mortal shock and he just reacted.”

“Badly,” I stress. “He reacted badly. What kind of guy does that?”

“He just didn’t know how else to deal with it,” she says with a shrug. “I can’t hate him for taking off like he did. He’d lost something important to him; it was his baby, too. And just because he didn’t react the way everyone else wanted him to…”

“He never should have left you there alone,” I interject. “I don’t care how upset he was. You deal with shit like that together. And he should have been a man about things and…”

“Bad mouthing Sid isn’t getting us anywhere,” she sighs. “It’s been six months, Max. Half a year. I’ve dealt with it and I’ve moved on. Maybe he shouldn’t have done it, but he did. That was just his way of dealing with things. Everyone handles things differently. And I don’t see why you have to dwell on what Sid did or didn’t do when I was with him. Why do we even have to talk about him? Why can’t we just go on with our lives? I’m sure he’s gone on with his, right? I’m sure he’s not losing any sleep over us not being together anymore. I’m with you. I married you. He’s part of my past. Can’t we just leave him there?”

“How can we just leave him there when I see him every day?” I ask. “And you’re going to run into him at some point. What are you going to do then? What are you going to say to him?”

“I’m going to pull up my big girl pants and tell him that I’m sorry for what I did to him,” she replies. “I’m going to tell him I’m sorry and that…”

“You don’t owe him a fucking thing,” I grumble. “Everyone’s so busy kissing his ass and he’s so busy playing the victim.”

“…and that I shouldn’t have handled things the way I did,” Em ignores me completely. “He deserves that, don’t you think? He deserves at least some kind of apology; some kind of explanation. This is something I need to do. This is something I have to deal to heal properly. The therapist said to make amends with all of the people I’ve ever wronged and…”

“C’est une charge de merde,” I growl. “A huge ass chunk of shit. I’ve apologized a million times to him.”

“But I haven’t,” she points out. “I haven’t told him I was sorry for hurting him. I need to do this, Max. I need to talk to him and I need to get out everything I need to say. Because he didn’t deserve what I did to him. He didn’t deserve to be hurt like that. It’s just something I need to do. And I need you to respect that. I need you to respect it and support it.”

“Fine…” I sigh heavily. “Fine. I accept it and I support it. I accept and support anything you chose to do. But you’re not going alone to talk to him. I don’t want you…”

“What do you think is going to happen?” she laughs. “Do you think if I’m alone with him I’m going to suddenly regret choosing you? That I’m going to run off with him? That he’s going to make a move on me or something? He’s moved on. He’s got a girlfriend now and…”

“And what? And you think that automatically means he’s over you? That he doesn’t want you back?”

“It doesn’t matter if he’s not over me or if he wants me back. I don’t want to be with him. I chose you. I married you. I’m going to spend the rest of my life with you and have a family with you. Why are you being like this? Why are you so self conscious? I mean, come on…” she lays a hand on the back of my head and tousles my hair -what little I have left- affectionately. “…you’re Max Talbot. You don’t get threatened by other men. You’re the guy that all the other guys are threatened by. Don’t be like this, okay? Don’t get all bent out of shape over Sid. There’s just no reason to be. You’re my husband. And…” she leans across the seat and presses a kiss to my cheek. “…I happen to quite like having you around.”

I manage to crack a smile.

“It’s just something I need to do,” she repeats. “And it’ll be easier for me to do it and I’ll feel better about it knowing I have your blessing.”

“Je l’ai dit amende,” I say. “Didn’t I already say that it was fine? And as far as this whole baby thing goes, I thought we were going to wait a few years. I thought we were going to wait until you graduated from school and…”

“I never agreed to the going back to school thing,” Em interjects. “You mentioned that you wanted me to go back. I never said I would and I never said I wouldn’t. Why are you being so pushy about it? Why is it such a huge deal to you?”

“You wanted to get your schooling before you met me,” I remind her. “You’ve always wanted to get a degree. And I want that for you. I want you to be happy, Emmy-Lou. I want you to achieve great things and I want you to be proud of yourself. And I know you won’t be if you don’t go back to school. You’ll never be the type that’s okay with being a stay-at-home. That’s just not you.”

“I can have babies first,” she suggests. “I can have kids first and when they’re all old enough to go to school, then I can go back too.”

“You won’t do it if you wait,” I argue. “You won’t want to go back if you wait that long.”

“Why are you so damn bossy?” she mutters. “Why do you get this whole ‘alpha male, I make the decisions and I wear the pants in the family’ attitude about certain things? You get into this mode where it’s your way or the highway and you…”

“Because sometimes you need someone to be that way,” I inform her. “Sometimes you need someone to take the reigns and make the decisions.”

“You’re not my father,” she grumbles.

“No, I’m not. And I’m glad about that. ‘Cause he’s a fucking bastard and he deserves to be shot and pissed on for what he let go on. And you want to know the real reason why I think you should go back to school? Why I think we should wait to have kids? Why I don’t think having them this soon is a good idea?”

She crosses her arms over her chest like a petulant child and stares at me expectantly.

“Because I think you want a baby for all the wrong reasons,” I bravely admit. “I think you want to have a baby to replace the one you lost. You think that us having a baby erases what happened the first time around. That it’s just going to make all the pain and all the hurt go away. We should be having a baby for all the right reasons, Em. Not because you need to fill some hole in your heart. It’s a horrible thing that happened and the longer you keep denying it and pretending it never happened…”

“I want a baby with you because I love you,” she argues. “Because you’re my husband and I want to have your children.”

“And you’re not going to love me and want to have my kids four years from now?” I ask. “It’s not a good idea. Right now isn’t the right time for us. You’ve got all that grief still hanging over your head and you’ve finally got a handle on your illness and we’re still getting used to the whole married thing. Having a baby won’t do you any good, Em. Can’t we just enjoy ourselves? Can’t we just have some time where it’s just the two of us? Can’t we just…”

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” she announces, and then turns away from me and stares out her window at the passing scenery and the snow that continues to fall steadily. She’s closing herself off; a coping technique that she’s spent years perfecting.

And I’m terrified that one day, she’ll shut down for good.