Duke in Love

I heard Duke was back in town from a mutual acquaintance. I hadn’t seen or heard a peep from Duke for eight months, not since he abandoned his quixotic run for a seat on the local school board.

“I would have assaulted one of the incumbents ten minutes into the first meeting,” he explained during a 3:00 a.m. phone call. “And I guarantee you I wouldn’t have suffered for more than two minutes some of the crackpots who speak to the board at every meeting. Rights are one thing, but repeated public displays of stupidity are another. I’ll be out of touch for a while. Keep your sentences short and your bowels open”

The first thing I noticed when I pulled into Duke’s driveway was the new, dark blue Toyota Prius parked there. Had Duke finally given up on the American automobile industry? Over the years I’d known him Duke had always driven American cars: an Impala, an LTD, a Caddy, a Malibu, a cherry GTO and a Lincoln Continental, among them.

When I stepped into his kitchen Duke was doing bong hits that made Michael Phelps look like an amateur. He tossed me a bottle of Rolling Rock and waved me to a stool.

“My Mexican supplier was murdered a week ago by a rival cartel,” he said. “This is the last of the shit I bought from him, may he rest in peace. Mexico is on the verge of imploding. What’s Obama going to do when that action spills across the border?”

“Where’ve you been?”

“All over the fuckin’ place. Vanua Levu. Machu Pichu. Mexico City. Lisbon. Amsterdam. Moscow. I even spent a couple of days in Vatican City. I find the very idea of a Pope unsettling. Do you know who said, ‘A man in love is a fool?’”

“Shakespeare?”

“Maybe. You still writing the blog?”

“Yeah.”

“Anyone read it?”

“Beats me.”

“No feedback?”

“Rarely.”

“Of course you wish for that. Every writer wants to be read, and all writers are insecure.”

“Excepting Philip Roth, I suppose that’s true. All I can do is put the stuff out there.”

Duke took another hit from the bong. “I’m into some very weird, very heavy doings. Sixty-two fucking years old and I’m stone in love – with two women. Never been more miserable in my entire life. It’s like being trampled by elephants. I can’t get these women out of my brain. I go to sleep thinking of them, wake up thinking of them, can’t wait to see them, and can’t bear to say goodbye. I’m experiencing all the classic symptoms: food tastes better, music sounds better, and life feels sweeter. It’s a disaster. It’s the end of my life as I’ve fashioned it. I’m no longer the sovereign of my emotions.”

“Not to be indelicate,” I said, “but how many years your junior are these women?”

“The Swede is twenty-four; the Fijian is twenty-two. It makes no fucking sense. It runs counter to the laws of Nature; the beautiful, vibrant butterfly isn’t supposed to settle on the withered flower. The Swede doesn’t want babies; the Fijian wants a brood. I’m considering Viagra. Or Cialis. Which is better?”

“You’re only comfortable when you’re in dire straits. Ever considered therapy?”

“Fuck you. I’ve got all the therapy I need right here. What’re your thoughts on polygamy? In the ancient world, princes and kings had multiple wives and begat dozens of offspring. That arrangement seems more realistic than life-long monogamy. I wonder if the Swede and the Fijian would go for it.”

“That sort of thing worked better when women had no rights and zero options,” I said. “We’re living in a different age, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

Duke applied a lighter to the bong, drew in a long hit, held it, and exhaled slowly. He looked at me with profound sadness in his eyes. “Time,” he said, “ruins everything.”