Dog Training The American Male Part 4

"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 s.l.u.t knows more about relations.h.i.+ps than you do."

"Got dat right."

"You're right Edna. When it comes to relations.h.i.+ps, 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.

The Information Technology company, I-Guru USA was located on the first floor of the building formerly owned by American Media Inc., publisher of The National Enquirer. AMI moved out in the wake of the 2001 anthrax attacks that contaminated the building and killed one of the tabloid's photo editors. The new owners had the property decontaminated, but there was no rush to rent s.p.a.ce. I-Guru set up shop three years later under a heavily discounted long term lease. Despite the savings, the I.T. company's Boca Raton overhead remains considerably higher than its corporate offices in Bangalore, India where ninety-five percent of its customer calls are routed.

The company's lone U.S. satellite office (a requirement for certain clientele) is limited to the manager's office, a small kitchen, supply room, and the phone room where a dozen semi-soundproof cubicles house I-Guru'sI.T. Techs. Eleven of the cubicles are manned by graduate or post-graduate students from India. Each man wore dark slacks, white collared b.u.t.ton-down s.h.i.+rts, dress shoes, and matching black ties. Their work cubicles are organized and kept immaculate. A sign: Always Be Polite is thumb-tacked to their otherwise vacant corkboards. Each man spoke with a Zen-like calm into a headset: "I am so sorry you are experiencing these difficulties, Mr. Hollander."

"Thank you for your patience, Mrs. Angsten. If you don't mind, we will begin to address your problem by restarting your computer."

"Again, I apologize, Mr. Gelet. Since the last attempt did not resolve the problem, we shall try something else. I am certain this will work."

The twelfth man, occupying the last booth, was wearing a soda-stained Miami Dolphins tee-s.h.i.+rt, Bermuda shorts, sungla.s.ses, and thongs. His bare feet are propped up on the desk. A Miami Dolphins Cheerleader calendar hung crooked from his corkboard, along with a variety of pictures that include John Lennon, the Three Stooges, and Pamela Anderson from her glory years on Baywatch. His desk is littered with files; the floor beneath his cubicle with fast food wrappers.

Jacob Cope scratched his auburn beard, then let out a carbonated burp. "Sorry, it's these d.a.m.n Big Gulps. Let's try this again, Mrs. Badc.o.c.k, only this time click on the right side of the gerbil. Yes, I know it's called a mouse, but when you abuse it like you have . . . No, ma'am, that's the left side again. Honestly, I have no clue why your husband told you that . . . Well, you married him, dear."

Sanjay Patel, the floor manager whose cubicle is located to the left of Jacob's workplace leaned back into his neighbor's sight-line and desperately signaled him to be polite.

Jacob Cope offered Sanjay a thumbs-up. "My apologies, Mrs. Badc.o.c.k, I'm sure your husband is . . ." He listened to her gruff reply. "No, ma'am, I said Babc.o.c.k." He lowered the volume on his headphones as the woman's rants grew louder. "Ma'am . . .excuse me . . . I understand, it was an honest mistake. But seriously, either way, there's still a c.o.c.k in your name-- that's not my doing. h.e.l.lo? h.e.l.lo? Geez, some people get so touchy."

Sanjay stared at him, slack-jawed. "Jacob, these are paying clients. You cannot treat them in this manner."

"It was an honest mistake. Some people, no matter what you do . . . they're gonna hate you. And another thing -- all this apologizing . . . it's un-American. Believe me, my people don't like it. It makes us feel uneasy. We're calling to get our computer running again and some foreign guy I don't even know keeps apologizing . . . for what? True story: Back in Manhattan some chick gave me crabs and she never apologized, and I had to shave my b.a.l.l.s. First time you do that it's scary as s.h.i.+t. I still dated her, though . . . d.a.m.n, she was hot."

"Jacob, being polite is simply a means of showing respect to our-"

"Hold that thought." Jacob's cell phone vibrated in his pants pocket. He waited until the second tingle before answering it. "What's up, big brother?"

"Listen carefully and tonight you could be b.a.l.l.s-deep inside something with a pulse. Her name's Nancy and she's the sister of one of my patients . . . I mean, she's the girlfriend's sister-anyway, she's very cute and we're all going bowling tonight at eight. Go home, shower, trim the bird's nest you've got growing on your face, then pick me up at my office at seven-thirty in your van and we'll ride over to the bowling alley together."

"Vin, you hate my van. You won't even let me park it in the driveway."

"Shut up and pay attention. Helen's meeting us at the bowling alley in her car. If things go well, I'll drive home with Helen and you can give Nancy a ride back to her place in the s...o...b..-Doo van. Get it?"

"Got it. Wait . . . who's Nancy?"

"Your date."

"I don't know, Vin. It sounds great and all, but according to my horoscope, the timing's not good. Plus, my on-line therapist just diagnosed me with cainophobia."

"What are you afraid of now? The bible? "

"Cainophobia is a fear of newness. Maybe if we waited a few more weeks?"

"No way, Sigmund Freud, it's gotta be tonight."

"Can I at least bring Dubuya?"

"Dubuya?"

"My George Bush dummy. I could practice my act."

"No! No puppets, no s.e.x dolls, just you. See you at seven-thirty."

FIRST IMPRESSIONS.

Vincent Cope paced beneath the green and white awning of his medical center, his eyes focused on the parking lot entrance from State Road 7. Seven-forty-three . . . where the h.e.l.l is he?

Ten minutes pa.s.sed before the 1976 Volkswagen van with the two-tone white and tangerine-orange paint turned into the medical center parking lot, its rotting dual tail pipes belching fumes.

Vin yanked open the pa.s.senger door, the rusted hinges squealing in protest. Stepping on an empty McDonald's cup, he climbed up into the vehicle, situating himself on the torn plastic upholstered seat. "You're late."

"Sorry. I was at the retirement home, visiting our mother. Ma's very upset with you, Vincent."

"Ma's been upset at me since my second year at Med School when I decided to become a gynecologist instead of a brain surgeon."

"She says you haven't visited her since April."

"We had her over for Thanksgiving. Doesn't that count?"

"She said it's not the same thing."

"Listen, little brother, I visit our mother and the dentist twice a year. That's all the pain one man can endure. Anyway, forget Ma, I need you focused on Nancy."

"Who's Nancy?"

"Your date for this evening!"

"The Hooter's waitress?"

"She's not a Hooter's waitress, she's a psychologist. I may have texted she has nice hooters. Jesus, try to stay focused."

"Please don't call me Jesus. I may be a miracle of creation, but I can't perform miracles."

"You can move out of my guest house; that would be a miracle." Vin winced as the heel of his right shoe caught something beneath the seat. Reaching between his legs, he dragged out a Jet Blue Airline inflatable life-jacket. "Expecting turbulence?"

"You know I suffer from severe hydrophobia."

"Don't tell me this hunk of rust you're driving is amphibious?"

"Don't you ever read the news? People die in ca.n.a.ls every day. Florida's a virtual death trap."

"Jacob, you're my kid brother and I love you, but you need serious help."

"Is that why you set me up with a shrink?"

"She's cute and my patient a.s.sures me she's nice. Why don't you give her a chance."

"If she's so nice, how come she's not married?"

"As a matter of fact, she was engaged twice."

Jacob jammed on the brakes-sending Vinnie's forehead slamming into the glove box.

"Ow, f.u.c.k! Are you crazy?" Vin leaned over and punched his brother in the arm.

"Ow."

"Drive the car, you lunatic."

"Two broken engagements are a red flag. My Spidey sense detects a severe case of Androphobia."

"What the h.e.l.l are you talking about?"

"The Hooter's waitress has trust issues."

"Psychologist!"

"Take it from an expert-trust issues are nearly as difficult to overcome as Apotemnophobia, and that took me three years."

"What's that? A fear of being normal?"

"It happens to be a fear of amputees. Some doctor you are."

NANCY BEACH FOLLOWED her sister and Jeanne through the east entrance of the bowling alley, her ears a.s.saulted by the echoes of rolling b.a.l.l.s and cras.h.i.+ng pins, her nose by the overpowering scent of industrial cleaner mixed with cheap b.u.t.tered popcorn and overcooked pizza. "I can't believe I actually let you talk me into this."

Lana reached back and pulled her sister by the crook of her elbow so she was walking between herself and Jeanne. "Don't even think of running. And try to smile, it's not an execution."

"There they are." Jeanne waved in the direction of the west entrance where Vincent and Jacob Cope were making their way across the worn scarlet and violet carpet, the taller brother intercepted by a perky brunette in a black and rose colored bowling s.h.i.+rt and matching skirt.

"He's too tall for me."

"That's his brother, my new goolie doctor. Jacob's the guy in the beard."

"He's sort of cute, in a Danny Devito meets Woodstock kind of way."

Across the room, Jacob eyes the three women. "I thought you said she was cute? She looks like The Rock with t.i.ts."

"That's my patient. Nancy's the blonde in the middle."

"Oh. Hey . . . she really is cute." Jacob checked his breath. "d.a.m.n burritos. Quick, I need gum!"

Helen fished through her purse, locating a breath mint. "Here, suck on this."

Jacob popped the white tablet in his mouth as the two trios met at center court.

Jeanne handled the introductions. "Dr. Cope, this is my sweetheart, Lana Beach-"

Jacob laughed-launching the breath mint from his mouth, striking Nancy in the face. "Oh, G.o.d, I'm sorry."

Vin rolled his eyes. "And this is my little brother, Jacob."

Jacob shot him a look.

"Sorry. I meant younger. He's not little. None of the Cope men are little."

Helen smirked. "Guess you must have been adopted. Hi, I'm Helen, Vinnie's wife."

"Looks like the missus bowls a little, Doc" Jeanne said. "What do you say . . . shall we make things interesting?"

Vinnie switched to his poker face. "I don't know, Jeanne. What do you have in mind?"

"Three couples, three games. The winning couple collects twenty dollars apiece from the losers . . . forty bucks a game."

"You're on."

VIN RETRIEVED HIS bowling ball, waiting for the pins to reset. Jeanne and Lana had won the first match by nine pins over him and his wife-thirty-one pins over Jacob and Nancy's combined score. Going into this-the tenth and final frame of the second match, he and Helen held a slim six pin lead.

Okay, V.C., you let Conannie and her lover steal game one; game two is yours.

Eyes focused, back muscles taut, Vincent Cope moved like a cat as he strode into his approach and released the ball.

The bowling ball rolled straight and true-striking the head pin and setting off an avalanche of ivory . . . leaving in its wake the infamous seven-ten split.

"Suck b.a.l.l.s, not again!"

Jeanne hi-fived Lana.

Helen shook her head. "How many times must I tell you-don't aim for the head pin."

"I didn't aim for the d.a.m.n head pin. I hit the head pin, I didn't aim for it."

"You never listen. I carry a one-eighty-four league average and you never listen."