JANEY'S OCTOBER  (No sex, humor)
     

     My husband is impossible.  Well, improbable, anyway.  He
finally ceased totally and without exception to do anything useful
around here at all.  He didn't even take out the garbage, and
everybody knows that's what men are for.  Oh, he'd say he'd do
something--it just never got done.  His brother came to stay with us
for a month, and it got even worse.  Finally, however, I discovered
a perfect, foolproof solution to this distasteful situation. I thought.

     My friend Beth inadvertently got me started thinking along
revolutionary lines. 

     "I mean, he won't even take out the garbage," I told her on
the telephone.

     "Off the top of my head I can produce two tactics," she
said.  "(A) Threaten divorce.  (B) Cut off the sex. Just say no."

     "A and B both would have a serious side effect I don't think
I could tolerate," I said.  "Either would cut off my sex, too."

     "Well, if you can't make a few little sacrifices you'll never
get anywhere," she said.  "Besides, I could lend you my husband,
say once a month."

     "You are *so* generous," I said.  "But once a month
absolutely will not cut it."

     Beth is pretty smart, but she couldn't come up with any
better ideas.  She promised to think about it.

     Forced to shift for myself, I took up serious cogitation.  I
considered hitting him. Bad idea.  I'm nearly six feet tall, and even
if my muscles are starting to atrophy I'm pretty strong, but he's
bigger and stronger than I am.  I thought about going on strike--I
wouldn't do any work, either.  That seemed attractive until I
realized the place would go to hell within a couple of days, and I
hate mess.  Besides, the poor little kids would starve, and I have
this uncontrollable nurturing gene.  And I love doing laundry better
than anything. Almost anything.

     I was still thinking, to no avail, when the mail came
through the slot with the usual thud.  I sauntered over and started
looking at it, throwing three-quarters of it directly into the
wastebasket.  Then one thing caught my attention--a circular full
of coupons for all sorts of junk.   Coupons.  Hmmm.  A glimmer of
a possibility took up residence in my capacious brain.

     If I took one of Beth's ideas and altered it a bit, it just might
work.  Worth a try.  I sat down at the computer and started
composing a list.

     One coupon:  Permission to cop a feel, left boob.

     Two coupons:  Medium strength hug.

     Three coupons:  Good hug, with grind.

     Four coupons:  Wait a minute.  Make green coupons with a
big "One" on them, yellow ones with a "Two," and blue with a
"Five."  What would a blue one be worth? Obviously it would be
take a while to figure out the proportionate value of these things,
but the idea was definitely sound.  I could even use hundreds or
thousands instead, like Italian money, which I just love to spend. 
(I don't think I'm going to like Euros  much.)  Then I got another
great idea.  We have a color printer that I seldom use because my
stories look just about as good in black and white, but with that I
could make those coupons beautiful! 

     Then I would hand them to him as rewards for the
performance of household chores.  Along with a list of the goodies
they would get him.  Heh-heh.

     It took about two hours to make the first coupon, what with
searching for clipart and all that stuff.  I started by scanning a
Belgian 200 franc note, taking off all the pictures and words but
leaving the numbers, and pasting a mermaid on it.  I made a
beautiful set of coupons; in three hours I had printed out enough to
start operations, along with a fairly satisfactory list.
     
     I went and found Bob sitting in the living room reading.

     "Hey," I said. "I've got a proposition."

     "Huh?" he said. 

     "If you'll wash the supper dishes I'll give you a thousand
chore coupons."

     "Huh? What's a chore coupon?"

     I pulled five 200s out of the pocket of my sweatshirt and
handed them to him.  He looked at them. I think he liked the
mermaid.
     
     "Those are," I said.  "That's the thousand you'll get."  I
snatched them back out of his hand. 

     "You nuts?" he said.

     "Nope," I said, "you need them."

     "What for?" he asked.

     "Sex," I said, standing there with my arms folded.

     He looked at me as if I were some sort of peculiar animal
that had invaded his living room.

     "Sex?  What sex?"

     "The sex you're not gonna get if you don't have a fist full of
coupons."

     "You've got to be kidding!"

     "Nope," I said, "not kidding."

     "Is this some sort of extortion racket?"  He was beginning
to smile.

     "I guess some people might call it that," I said,  "but I look
at it as a kind of a game.  Except everybody wins."

     "But what do you need the coupons for? I don't need
coupons to do chores."

     "Oh, yes, you do," I said.  "You may not recall, but I
mentioned last week that you haven't lifted a finger around here for
a month, and you promised to reform.  Things haven't changed a
bit.  I figure if I give you a coupon for doing something, you'll
actually do it, instead of just saying you will and then not doing it."

     "I get distracted," he said.  "I mean to do things, but I just
forget.  I have a lot on my mind."

     "You have a large mind," I said.  "Soon you'll be using part
of it to count coupons."

     "I'm beginning to think you're serious."

     "That means you're beginning to catch on."

     "So what do I get for a coupon?"

     "They start at a hundred.  For two hundred you get a kiss. 
For five hundred you get a real good kiss, complete with hug." 
Then I whipped out my list and handed it to him.  "This is your
catalogue.  You decide what you want and earn enough coupons to
get it.  Nothing is free anymore."

     He started to read the list, but before he finished he looked
up at me and said, "But if I don't get any of this good stuff, you
don't, either."  I don't marry stupid men.

     "I think I can hack it," I said.  "Anyhow, I suspect you're
already considering going out there and doing dishes."

     He looked at me some, shook his head, and stood up. 

     "I could get mad."

     "You could," I said, "but there's no coupons for that."

     This guy has been married to me for twelve years.  He
knows that mostly I just go with the flow.  He also knows that once
in a while I dig in my heels.

     He washed the dishes.  That got him a thousand coupons. 
He spent two hundred of them on a little kiss after he got through,
and saved the rest.

                                      * * *

     Amazing things happened in the next few days. 

     Bob spends a lot of time in his office at the university
talking to students, he goes to committee meetings, he does
research in the library, and he teaches a few classes.  As soon as
the coupon scheme went into effect, I noticed that he got home
earlier, sometimes didn't go in until noon, and generally spent a lot
more time than usual around the house. 

     One day I got home from work at a quarter to one, and he
had lunch ready for me.  He took up setting the table for supper
regularly.  He emptied the dishwasher every morning.  One
afternoon he started cleaning the garage--that was easily a
twenty-thousand coupon job, and he didn't come anywhere near
finishing that day, but I paid by the hour.  He began to amass a
nice collection of coupons.  Occasionally he would part with five
hundred for a quality hug, and I guess he spent maybe a thousand
on feels, but that was all.  I really hadn't reckoned on the fact that
he's a natural born skinflint with money, so he was the same way
with coupons.  I finally had to print a ten thousand note and trade
it for his small change. 

     I began to get some mild urges that usually got satisfied in
the normal course of things before I really noticed that they were
developing.  Finally I mentioned this, gently.

     "What's going on?" I said,  "Are you trying to get to be a
millionaire?"

     "Waste not, want not!" he said with a leer.  "Don't worry,
I'll cash them in some day.  What's the matter, you got a problem?"

     "Oh, no," I said.  "Everything's fine."

                    * * *

     It was right after this that my boy, Alan, who is eleven,
came down the stairs from his room and sloped over to my chair. 
Fortunately, I was writing a letter, not the kind of stuff I write
when he's nowhere around.

     "Mom," he said, "what can I do to help around here? I want
some of those coupons you give Dad all the time."

     "You help enough," I said.  "You're pretty good about it.
You don't need any coupons."

     "But I want some coupons!  When Dad does some work,
you give him coupons, and I want some, too!  They're cool!"

     Yeah, well, I wasn't.  I had to think fast.

     "All right," I said.  "I'll print some special ones up for you
and Judy, and you can save them up and get something you want."

     "Like an action figure or something?"

     "I guess," I said.  "Or maybe a surprise.  You save `em up,
and I'll think of something."

     "Wow!" he said.  "That's cool!  What's Dad gonna get?"

     Gulp!  "He's going to get a surprise, too," I finally said.

     This project was getting out of hand.  Fortunately, my
daughter Judy thought the whole thing was silly and refused to
have anything to do with it.

                    * * *

     Bob's brother, who is a lieutenant colonel in the paratroops,
is even bigger than my husband--he looks like some pro team's
right tackle. He was taking a special course at a place in Waltham;
that's why  he was staying with us for a month. Usually I didn't see
him much, but I liked him. Bob said he stayed away because he
didn't want to wear out his welcome. 

     One morning Bob had gone off early to the university. It
was my day off, so I planned to spend the day writing. Then John
came in and sat down at the kitchen table, where I was finishing
the tea that fuels my writing and about everything else I do. He
was wearing a polo shirt and jeans.

     "Hi, Janey, how's it going?" he said.

     "Absolutely wonderful," I said.  "It's my day off, the kids
are in school,  I'm working on a really great story and I get to write
for maybe four hours."

     "It's my day off, too," he said, "and I want to do something
to help around here.  I owe you big."

     "Forget it," I said.  "It looks to me like the Army works you
hard enough.  Why don't you just do whatever you like to do?"

     "No, really, I want to help," he said.  "All I've been doing
for three weeks is sitting at a goddam desk.  I'm turning to jelly. 
So I want to do something physical--some hard work that'll make
me sweat."

     "Oh, John, you're sweet," I said, "but I don't even know
anything that hard that needs doing around here."

     "Well," he said,  "I noticed that old maple tree in your
backyard that the lightning split a while back.  Bob wrote me about
it--big noise, he said.  It's gonna cost you a fortune to get
somebody to take it down, and it needs to go.  So, if it's OK with
you, I'll do it.  Ought to take four or five hours if you have a chain
saw."

     I'd already had an estimate, and $900 is big money around
here.  Here was this dear man offering to do it free.  As Beth
would say, (a) this guy really did owe us, and (b) I am as cheap as
Bob is about spending money.

     "OK," I said,  "You don't have to do this, but if you really
want to, the chain saw is in the garage.  Bob's starting to get the
place cleaned up, so you probably can even find it."

     "Will you give me lunch?"

     "Indeed.  Lunch, supper, and a midnight snack," I said. 
"Just holler when you want it."
     
     "It's a deal," he said.  He got up from the table and headed
out toward the back yard.  It looked like maybe part of the wall
was moving outside.
     
     So I spent the morning happily beating on the computer
keyboard with great background music--the noise of a chain saw
out there saving us money.  Better than that Mozart they play
practically all the time on our classical station.  More modern
sounding, too.  I made us a delicious lunch, rather better than the
leftovers I usually eat, and then we both went back to work.  About
two-thirty, just as Alan came home from school, I heard John
come in the back door.  I figured I ought to see how he was doing.
Alan came along.

     John was standing at the sink drinking a glass of water. 
Alan went to the back door and gasped.

     "Wow!" he said.  "Who cut down the tree? It's awesome!"

     Practically everything is, according to Alan, but I thought
I'd better take a look.  The tree was gone.  The yard was cleaner
that it had been earlier.  A nice stack of firewood was sitting by the
fence. 

     "Your uncle did," I said.  "You're right, it's awesome."

     "Man, I bet he gets a lot of coupons," Alan said, sagely.

     "He doesn't want coupons, Alan," I said quickly.

     John looked puzzled.  "What kind of coupons?"

     "Oh, when Dad or I do something useful around here,"
Alan said, "Mom gives us coupons.  Then, when we get enough,
we get a surprise.  It's neat. And I bet you get a couple of
thousand!"

     "Well, hell," said John,  "I guess I want my coupons, Janey. 
I'm a member of the family, after all!"

     Oh, my.  That was just the trouble.

     "Well," I said, "Alan estimated a little low, I think. I'll give
you four thousand."  I hauled the requisite sum out of my pocket
and handed it over.  Gotta be fair.

     Oh, my.  I believe I told you, didn't I, that I try to avoid
thinking because it always gets me in trouble?  Now you know
what I mean.

                    * * *
     
     The next evening, after supper, Bob hauled John out to the
garage and they worked together on cleaning it up until nearly
midnight.   Every once in while I walked into the kitchen and
peered out the back door.  Twice I heard loud laughter.  I figured
they must be telling stupid man jokes or discussing their joint
childhood idiocies; it was nice to hear Bob laugh like that, because
he's one of these serious guys--typical workaholic oldest
child--who's usually hard put to it to manage a chuckle.

     They came in just as I was closing down the computer,
having almost finished the greatest story in the history of literature. 
It was terribly pretentious, so I was feeling great.

     Bob stuck his head through the study door.  "Hey, we're
having milk and cookies--want to join us?"

     I only drink milk when it has eggs and bourbon in it, but
you never can tell what these Yankees will do.  Anyhow, they were
into second childhood.  So I went out, poured myself a nice glass
of wine, dug out some Polish sausage and corn chips, and sat down
at the table.

     John had this goofy smile on his face.  He's the youngest,
like me, so something's always funny. 

     "Well, Janey," he said.  "I timed this work detail we just
finished.   It'll cost you twenty-five hundred coupons.  For each of
us."  Whereupon Bob, who obviously was playing big brother, not
husband, that night, donned a sneaky little grin I recognized from
years of so-called humorous situations. 

     Let's just say that made me a little uncomfortable.  What
was everybody smiling about?

     "OK," I said, "I'll go get them."  After all, John wore a
watch the size of a dinner plate with forty dials on it--I wasn't
going to argue about his hourly pay figures.  I got the five thousand
out of my purse in the study, came back and paid them off.  John
counted his cut carefully.

     "So how about those Vikings?" he said. 

     As an avid supporter of Buffalo, I had no choice but to
wade into a sea of argument.  Bob backed the Patriots, of
course--he would.

     We finally went to bed, thank God.  Too much milk really
revs these guys up.

                    * * * 

     Three days later, on a Thursday, I got home from work, ate
a bowl of vichyssoise, some buttered toast and a stick of celery  for
lunch, and was about to answer some of my e-mail when John
came through the front door.

     "Hey, Janey," he said,  "How's it going?"

     "I'm fine, thank you." I said.  "You're home early!  If you
want some tea, I think the water's still hot.  Have you had lunch?"

     "Yeah, I ate at the school," he said.  He went off to the
kitchen, came back with a mug in his hand, and flopped down on
the little couch next to my desk.

     "Well," he said, "you know, I'm gonna miss you guys.  Back
to the grind next week."

     "I'm sorry you're going," I said, swiveling around to talk to
him.  "Alan's going to be crushed, and I'll miss your smiling face.  I
think, by the way, you've been tremendously good for Bob--he
needs a shot of younger brother now and then to keep from
ossifying."

     John laughed.  "Oh, he's a little square, but I've always been
able to loosen him up.  For some reason he thinks I'm funny.  I
always got away with doing the things he was scared to try."

     "I know," I said,  "I have an older brother, too.  And a bossy
sister who thinks she's Queen Elizabeth."  Then we both laughed. 
There's nothing like having parents who are too tired to bother
bringing you up.

     "By the way," he said, producing a sneaky grin that was
amazingly like the one Bob gets when he's about to pull something
inexcusable,  "I have all these gorgeous coupons I earned by the
sweat of my brow.  I think maybe it's time I started cashing them
in."

     "You're right," I said.   "I've given some thought to your
surprise already."  All right, I was a little behind the curve. 
Nothing new.

     "Me, too," he said.  His smile widened so that he looked
like a pumpkin--a big pumpkin.  "If you'll just be kind enough to
get out of that chair, I think I'll start with a nice, warm 500-coupon
hug and kiss."  Then he was standing there like a Doric column or
something, leering down at me.  Oh, my.

     "Come on," he said.  "I've got a friend in the JAG
department.  He told me this is a valid contract."  He pulled one of
those nasty-looking pieces of paper out of his pocket. "See?"  He
waved it around in the air, smiling all the while.

     I stared at him, frozen.
     
     "Up with ye, lass!" he said, putting on the exaggerated
Scots accent he uses to tell those awful jokes.   "It's payoff time!"

     I finally got back the power of speech.  "John Urquhart,
you are an unmitigated shit!  And my husband is worse!  He told
you all about this, didn't he?"

     "Sure, he did," John said, his smile changing to a
full-blown laugh.  "What did you think we were laughing so hard
about the other night?  He could never keep a secret from me!  He
lent me that catalogue, too, and I've been poring over it ever since,
deciding how to spend my coupons!"

     "An unmitigated shit!" I said again.

     "I've got it memorized," he said.  "Fellatio, five thousand
coupons.  Opportunity to perform cunnilingus, fifteen hundred.
Missionary--"

     "SHUT UP!" I shouted.

     He bent nearly double, laughing. 

     "Come on," he said,  "Stand up.  Give me my kiss and I'll
tell you something you want to know."

     I was so utterly flummoxed I had no idea what to do.  So I
stood up.  A vision of a knee in the balls zipped through my mind. 
Then I was getting kissed by this mountainous asshole like I hadn't
been kissed in years.  He bent me over backwards as if I were one
of these sweet little five-foot-two-inch brown-haired wrens.  That
kiss went on so long I was beginning to like it. Oh, my!

     Then he pushed back, still holding me in his arms.  And
started grinning again.

     "Now I'll tell you what you want to know," he said.  "Since
I didn't have enough to collect the special package I'd get for a
hundred thousand, I sold the rest of my coupons to Bob." 

     "You didn't!" I said.  Then I blushed.  Then I got curious. 
"How much did he pay?"

     "Plenty," he said. "I could go to one of those whorehouses
around Fort Benning and spend two whole days on what he paid!"

     Wait a minute!  Why did that make me feel better?  But I
began to smile.

     "I bet you could have gotten more on the open market," I
said.  Then we both started laughing like Republicans reading the
Starr report.
                    
                    * * *

     Later that afternoon my husband called me up from his
office.

     "I'm ready to cash in some coupons," he said.  "Just wanted
to let you know.  You have anything scheduled for tomorrow
night?" 

     I looked at my little black book.  "No," I said.

     "No PTA, no church meeting, no nothing?"

     "Nope," I said,  "I'm at your service."

     "Good," he said.  "OK, take the kids to Grandma's
tomorrow when they get home from school.  That's already
arranged.  I'm making plans.  I'm looking forward to this."

     When he rang off, I began to worry.  What the hell did he
mean, "making plans"? We have a bed at home.  I assumed that
was where the payoffs would take place.  I am a conventional sort
of person.  All right, I obviously had paid too many coupons for
every little thing he did.  Was it my fault he'd finally decided to
*paint* the damn garage?  I felt like that poor guy in Singapore
who found he'd bought too many options.  The fact was, however,
that Bob had enough coupons to keep me awake all night and well
into the next day--I hadn't actually kept count.   Then I stopped
worrying.  What the hell, I thought, he's no young stud--I can
handle it.  He'll pass out before I do.  Then I began to look forward
to it.

     Nevertheless, this thing had to stop.  I went out and bought
a doll, I mean an action figure,  for Alan--somebody named Yoda. 
Looked like a Chihuahua to me, but that's what he'd said he wanted
for his coupons.

     That evening, while we watched the 11 o'clock news, Bob
sat next to me on the couch, held my hand, and gently stroked my
forearm.  That was so nice.  And it wasn't even in the coupon
catalogue.  Some little senator who looked like a frog was droning
on about impeachment when he snuggled up to me.

     "You know, your coupon thing wasn't really such a bad
idea," he said.  "I even got a kick out of being useful sometimes.  I
think I might be able to keep up the habit without coupons."

     "Well," I said, "it would have been better if you'd spent a
few as you went along--you weren't supposed to hoard the damn
things!"

     "Don't worry," he said,  "I'm going to use them all up
tomorrow night."
     
     He then informed me that I was to meet him at Davio's on
Newbury Street at 6 p.m. the next evening.  Dressed up.

     "Be sexy looking," he said.

     I ask you.  I'm a 34-year-old mother of two with messy hair
and "A" cups--and no wardrobe, either. Look sexy? Oh, well. I
would do the best I could. Maybe a clean sweatshirt?  Actually, I
could do better than that, at least.

     That next afternoon, after I took the kids to Grandma's, I
went through the clothes in my closet.  (Males can skip this
paragraph--they aren't interested in what I have to wear, only what
I take off.)  It was way past sun dress weather, which is too bad,
because I do have a couple of nice ones.  You know, the light
cotton kind that don't amount to much.  Three cashmere
turtlenecks--beige, gray and black--but they'd make me too hot. 
My gray jersey dress?  It was about right for the weather, and
somebody told me gray was fashionable.  That's me, fashionable.  I
have a heavy fake gold necklace from the Museum of Fine Arts
shop--some kind of Babylonian thing.  It would look nice with the
dress, I thought.  Maybe a dark red kerchief.  I don't know what
sexy is, exactly, but this was beginning to sound awfully formal. 
Then I found a dress I'd forgotten I had---my mother made me buy
it when she was up here in early May.  "What?" she'd said,  "no
little black dress?  You have to have a little black dress."  So I put
on the little black dress.  Kind of a short skirt if you ask me, but
maybe that was sexy, and, anyhow, my mom knows about clothes. 
It has a funny collar that stands up, sort of, and when you look at
it, it looks almost closed, but when I move, it opens up a little, and
it goes down a *long* way.  She gave me a special bra to wear
with it.   No necklace with that except a really thin gold chain with
a locket.  The gold pin that came with the Babylonian thing was
OK.  Heels, ugh.  I used some moisturizer on my face and some
lipstick that was redder than what I usually wear, when I wear any
at all.  Everything looked all right in the mirror.  I wasn't sure
about sexy.

     I took the train into the city and got a cab from Back Bay
Station to Davio's.  Not far, but if the guy wanted me to look sexy
he didn't want me to walk six blocks in heels. He was standing out
in front when I got there.  He was the one who looked sexy.  At
least to me.

     Inside the restaurant I took off my black cloth coat, and he
finally got a look.

     He smiled.

     "You look sexy," he said.  Probably the main reason I
married him in the first place was that he said so many nice things. 
He hadn't lost the knack.

     He took my hand and led me to the table as we followed
the waiter, which probably looked a little silly, but it felt good.

     By this time I was beginning to get a little excited.  A fancy
restaurant, sexy clothes, a nice man--what more could a woman
want?  We ate some good things--I don't exactly remember what
the main course was except that it had good cheese on it--and
drank uncommonly good red wine, which is usually an excellent
idea no matter what else you're planning to do.  Finally, while I
was eating a very nice creme brulee, my curiosity got the better of
me.

     "What's next?" I said.

     "Coupons," he answered.  "We're going to the Park Plaza."

     We did, in a cab, again.  I didn't even have to suggest it. 
Then the elevator to the sixth floor--he'd already checked in, the
clever boy!   He unlocked the door of room 607, and we went in. 
A big bouquet of flowers was standing on the bureau.

     "This, Madam," he said, sweeping his arm toward the big,
king-size bed, "you may consider the coupon trading floor."

     "Oh, my!" I said.  I am so articulate!

     Then he simply took me in his arms and kissed me. I don't
mean your ordinary 500-coupon kiss.  This was a man with
coupons to burn.  And I got a distinct impression that he meant to
get the maximum value out of every single one.