Here’s another outtake, from a near final draft of Happy Hour. My editor pushed me to yank this in favor of a much shorter description because he felt it was a bit too graphic – the sort of imagery that’d linger in a reader’s mind and detract from the story at a critical juncture near the end of the book. I fought him at the time, but looking back… Yeah, he had a pretty good point.
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“Oooh, it’s crowning!” One of the ladies in blue scrubs beamed.
“Crowning?”
“Come here.”
“No.” I wasn’t sure what she was saying, but I knew enough not to do that.
“You don’t want to see?”
How can I pretend to ignore someone in circumstances this severe? “Really. I’m fine.”
If you want to ever sleep with your wife again, you can’t watch The Action. Stay near her head, and never look where the doctor’s working. He’ll tell you to grab her legs and help her push. Everyone in the room will yell empty slogans at her – a soft variety of what you’d hear in a high school football weight room. “Push! Come on… Push! Breath! Push!” This will go on for a while. Then they’ll shove a vacuum in your wife and pull out a bloody, raisin-like alien with a Yarmulka ringed into the top of its skull from the suction. You’ll cut the cord, a flimsy white tube of flesh with the consistency of undercooked calamari. An assistant will take the screaming alien, wipe it down and place in under lamps exactly like the ones you’ve seen warming week old cheeseburgers in Hardees Restaurants along the Turnpike.
Next, the assistant flips out a huge needle and pumps the alien full of Vitamin K. Why, I didn’t know, and still don’t. And between the depth to which she inserts the needle (any further and I’d have to use “impales”) and the disturbing appearance of the child howling, bleated as though it’s being tortured, there’s no choice but to lurch your gaze away… to the window, the ceiling, the floor – anything that isn’t brandishing a spear-like needle or smeared with fluid and blood.
But that move didn’t work out so well. The minute I turned my head, the first thing I saw was the placenta. It was sitting in a steel metal bowl, like a monstrous sack of shad roe, smothered in fresh marinara. Jesus Creeping Christ… It’s bigger than a Wawa ‘Shortie.’ I pondered the bowl for a moment, trying to assess the object – its size and shape and weight. Where in the hell had she kept it? And what did we do with it now? Do nature freaks really eat that?
Yes, I’d heard that somewhere… That back-to-the-basics types – crazy hippie holistics… the kinds of loons who favor “herbal” cures – would cook and eat the placenta.
And for an instant you do get to wondering, What’s the consistency of that broiled? Plump up like Monkfish?
Afterbirth Royale
½ dozen cloves fresh organic garlic
½ lb fresh Alaskan crab meat
2 tablespoons dill-infused sweet cream butter
1 cup white wine
3 teaspoons sea saltBring iron skillet to a robust simmer. Stuff
sac with cloves and crab meat, seal with
umbilical cord using traditional Haggis
knots. Cook at medium until firm, slightly
slightly seared. Serve under drizzled
reduction.Pinot blanc recommended. Foreskin garnish
optional.
But the recipes leave your head quickly… In the corner of my eye I noticed Lisa, now ignored by all the staff in the room, flailing like a fish out of water in what appeared to be a Grand mal seizure… Arms flapping, legs shaking, eyes wide in abject horror, a look between “Tell me this is normal” and “What the fuck is going on now?” frozen on her trembling face.
“Doc, doc. Is she ok?”
The doctor turned to look at her slowly, as though I’d asked him if he had any gum. “The shaking? Yeah. That happens.”
There are a thousand different reasons I’m thrilled to have a penis, but never had they been so clarified in such a persuasive presentation. Everybody likes to offer some “truth” about childbirth. Most of what them tell you is nonsense, as bad, if not worse, than the flawed advice these intrusive, uninvited sages will offer about relationships, therapy, home buying, chic but inexpensive vacations, dog buying, doctors, dentists, dildos, sunscreen, cellphones, brokers, IRAs, environmentally-conscious condoms, twist cap wines, mechanics, driveway sealant, babysitters, bedwetting, bed buying, the best sales at Bed Bath and Beyond, first timer’s anal sex and the everyday existential angst of being sensate in an increasingly commoditized, disconnected and impersonal world that’ll frequently spoil an otherwise excellent sashimi dinner.
The truth is, child birth isn’t life affirming. You don’t feel like you existed up until that point solely to be there. And no, you don’t immediately feel a love you’d never known existed before. But yes, you are amazed, and shocked, and stunned… And struck with a numbing fear you just did something a dozen times more reckless and insane than the dumbest thing you’d done up to then.
But you also feel a new appreciation, an admiration and sense of amazement. For your wife, for the astounding process she went through… Hell, for women in general. Because you know you couldn’t do that. Never in a million years. Of all the times you’ve thought, Thank God I was born a guy… Menstruation, growing breasts (or worse, not), having to wear make-up, be ogled and spend your life being judged on the size of your ass… That’s got to be so much fucking work… Well, none of that could ever compare to the madness of the spectacle you just witnessed. Simply, unequivocally, there’s no greater advertisement on the planet for the concept of being Male than watching childbirth up close.
Thank you for encapsulating the horror and wonder that is child berth so eloquently. This entry is exactly the reason I tell every father to be that they should wait in lobby. And while I know they never will, my hope is that I can at least convince them not to look at the miracle of a child exiting your wifes vagina. I made that mistake once before, never again.
ps that recipe made me throw up my Guinness in my mouth a little bit. My wifes placenta had an extra lobe, so everyone crowded around to examine it, they of course wanted to share in the glory with me. Thanks a lot asshole.
Love your work.
PL: First, try some Russian Imperial Stouts. Trust me… Have a few and you’ll never look at Guinness the same again.
Congrats on your “double delivery,” or considering it was dual lobes, plus the child, should I say “triplets”?
That’s my grandmother’s recipe. You should see what she did with the neighborhood cats. God I miss Gertie. Too many years she’s been gone. …Hopefully, one of these days she’ll learn to stop calling the people on the parole board cocksuckers.
One of my buddies is doing his internship in a hospital and according to him, the delivery rotation is the most horrifying thing he’s ever seen.
Also, you’re damn right about Imperial stouts, they make Guinness taste like bland coffee/bog water by comparison. I suggest that you get your hands on a bottle of Abyss or Brooklyn Black Ops, they’re both amazing.
PL: Also, Stone’s, Rogue’s and Bell’s imperial stouts are all phenomenal.
I really have no desire to be in the room when the time comes, and it has nothing to do with not wanting to be involved in the child birth process. It’s because I don’t want to see or be involved in a bloodbath that will kill my horny forever. Why is this insisted upon? My understanding is that making the guy be there originated circa 1970.
How long did it take you to get over it, even though you weren’t privy to the business end of the operation?
PL: I didn’t have to get over it because I didn’t watch. The shock I described abates naturally as you settle into having a new person around all the time.
Never listen to the people who say, “Ohhhh, nothing is ever the same after you have a child.” Tripe. Things are different, obviously, but I’m still the same person I was before. The wife and I just can’t light the engines quite as much as we did before. But there is a quiet, unspoken crowd of people who still behave like they’re 25 out there with kids. You just have to organize your time a little bit better, and be more responsible.
I clicked on the ‘Cook and eat the placenta’ link, read it, and barfed. Holy fuck, I thought that people eating that shit was just some Hollywood hippie urban legend, but man, they actually have chefs who specialize in quasi self-cannibalism? God Damn. Anyways, thanks, it was a great read, because it will encourage adoption. And what’s with the Fibonacci sequence in the title? Have a nice evening.
PL: Nice eye.
“a bloody, raisin-like alien with a Yarmulka ringed into the top of its skull from the suction.” Good God that’s a great description. Images like that are why I’ll never be a father (along with self-centeredness, a need to sleep 12 hours per day and all women recognizing how awful a parent I would be).
PL: Of all the polite but preposterous lies people offer everyday, “Oh, it’s so beautiful” regarding infants has to be the worst.
They’re ugly. Sinfully ugly. Yes, to anyone reading and shaking his or her head, your child, too. It was a hideous creature for at least the first six months of its life. Not “uglier than a bag of assholes” ugly, but damned unattractive. They’re a work in progress. At 1 and 1/2 they get alright looking.
I started reading this during lunch–I’m really glad I stopped and saved it for later.
PL: Lucky I didn’t go with the red sauce recipe.
I’m certainly not arguing that birth is not somewhat gruesome, but I judiciously watched each of my three sons’ births. By that, I mean I glanced down from time to time and because the hospital we chose to have our kids in is pretty intense on medical vigilance, her cooch was smeared liberally with iodine and they used a pretty intense light to keep things visible. The result was surreal in all three instances, with the effect that her skin was dyed an odd brownish orange and the accompanying blood was brilliant reddish black. There was a lot of blood in all instances, certainly more than I ever hope to see again. When I see her equipment now, it looks nothing like it did in the delivery room, thank god. Still very sexy. Smear it with iodine and shine a bright light? Not so much.
Placentas… imagine Alien meets football. Not pretty, but I’m from the school of don’t like, don’t look. A quick glance told me more than I wanted to know. I think I only ever saw it the first time and studiously avoided her lower half for the younger 2 kids’ births. Not that I’d have yacked, but… Of course, I’m a guy who’s watched intently as my bones have been reset, as I’ve been stitched up, and as surgery has been performed under local anesthetic… Take my opinion for what it’s worth, but I’m glad I watched my sons emerge and take their first breaths. Wouldn’t trade it for anything.
Recently, I’ve become a fan of Sierra Nevada’s Glissade, which is probably the best thing to come out of Chico’s favorite brewery since their original Pale Ale in the 80s.
PL: I favor SN’s Torpedo extra pale ale. Great citrusy bite.
I prefer recalling the wife’s privates solely for their non-utility purposes. Hence, in addition to not looking at childbirth, I was also not one of those foolish sorts who said things like, “Oh, when she was pregnant, she was at her most beautiful.” I understand why guys say that to their wives, but why say it to other people? It’s such a silly lie, and everyone knows it. She’s fat, she looks like hell and no… Unless you’ve some demented fetish, pregnancy is not sexy. And the guy who spouts that silliness is always the same ass who says, “We’re pregnant” when his wife’s expecting. No. She’s pregnant. You’re a simp. And a cheesy, embarrassing one at that.
Jesus fucking christ I’m scarred for life just reading about it. I’ve never personally partaken but I hear watching a c-section is even worse. I know a guy who guts deer and what-not by the dozen and he damn near passed out watching it. The chord cutting business I’ve never understood. Shouldn’t somebody’s who’s actually been to medical school or something be in charge of that?
PL: A buddy of mine walked in on an emergency C-section. Shocked the shit out of him. “Here’s your wife sir, and in this bowl are her innards.”
That was absolutely hilarious.
I just realized how sick I sound. Fuck it, no use hiding that.
In other news, I was just given The Ginger Man, Modern Manners, In Defense of Elitism, and The Great Derangement as a present (I asked for any one of them, got all. some people are very nice). Started The Ginger Man, its great. The writing is artful.
PL: Donleavy wrote that so well he was never able to put out anything else even approaching it. Screwed himself but good there. And the total disregard for all accepted structures (jumping from 1st to 3d person, obliterating the concept of tense in several passages and refusing to differentiate between internal dialogue and quotes) makes it all the more unique and impossible to copy.
If you want a laugh, read the reviews of the book. The people who loathe it are amusing as hell trying to articulate why. The frustration’s palpable – “I know this thing is brilliant, but all this talent, this brilliant text, devoted to such a repugnant and unapologetic story of such a lout… I want to see some existential changes in the narrator. I want to have him reinforce what I believe… How can a writer of such immense talent spend it like this?” How Donleavy did that, I don’t know, but if you read his interviews, he did it all quite happily, and with as much regret for his actions as the protagonist.
I’ve had a few imperial beers, and I have to say I’m not impressed. I will drink virtually anything (my friends call me Goat for a reason), but most imperial beers I’ve had are too over done. I don’t mind a full-flavored beer, but there’s a difference in packing in a lot of flavor, and packing in good flavor.
Also, the placenta stuff made me literally laugh out loud. I think it was some of your best writing, and can’t see why it was left out. I didn’t think it was overly graphic, you talk about placentas in pretty general, unspecific terms. Maybe it was the dildos/anal sex part?
PL: I take a page from Bob Weir on this issue: “Too much of everything is just enough.” If I’m drinking, I intend to get drunk, so the 8-12% abv on Imperials is perfect for me. And I’m vain. If I’m going to ingest a boatload of empty calories I’ll have to run off later, I want maximum flavor and buzz for the effort. Finally, I like a buzz to stomp in the front door and punch me in the face. The flat, bloated, oafish buzz one acquires from regular beer has never interested me. Two stiff bourbons and a couple imperials and you’re There. Six Pilsner Urquells and you’ve merely dyspeptic and tired.
On the placenta thing, the problem was the imagery being too intense for the beginning of the chapter. I have a problem with loading up too many crazy images in tight spaces. This can fuck up the flow of book – cause the reader to forget the story being told. We had the same problem with the epic discussion of pussy in “Hat Trick.” The shit’s really funny, and I have no problem stopping a narrative and doing standup, but you have to get the right balance. I think my editor here made the right call.