King Kaufman's Sports Daily - All Salon

The case of the unloved White Sox. Until now: Chicago in 7. Plus: NFL Week 7.

The Chicago White Sox get no love.

Wretcheder than a Red Sock, more unsuccessful than a Cub, able to leap Tigers and Indians in a singular quest to avoid pennants, the White Sox have built up none of the mystique and tragic beauty of some of their fellow losers.

That won’t change with a World Series victory over the Houston Astros. But the White Sox’ll have to live with that: Chicago in seven.

Last year the Red Sox went for and won their first World Series title since 1918 and it was a signal event in Western civilization. Two years ago the Cubs came within five outs of their first pennant since 1945 and it was a calamity on par with the destruction of Pompeii, or at least the cancellation of “My So-Called Life.”

The White Sox haven’t won the Series since 1917, a drought two years longer than Boston’s. They won the American League title in 1959, more recently than the Cubs, but that was the Sox’s only pennant since 1919, a time during which the North Siders won the National League five times.

This all proves an unavoidable fact about American life: You need star power, but what you really need is a good press agent.

By the dawn of the 1920s, when the White Sox, Red Sox and Cubs all started their decades-long cavalcade of futility, they were roughly on par. Boston had won five World Series, the Cubs had won two and lost three, and the White Sox had won two and lost one.

But they’d done it with some flair. Their win in 1906 was — and remains — the greatest upset in Series history, over the cross-town Cubs, no less. Their loss in 1919, well, you know about that. They threw the Series for gamblers’ money.

Since then, forget it. They’ve had their decent teams over the years, some stars and Hall of Famers. Luke Appling, Luis Aparicio, Minnie Minoso, Nellie Fox, Harold Baines, Frank Thomas.

But the Red Sox had the Babe Ruth thing, Ted Williams, Yaz, Fenway Park and the Eastern literary establishment. The Cubs had Hack Wilson and Ernie Banks, Sweet Swingin’ Billy Williams and Ron Santo, Ryne Sanberg and Sammy Sosa. They had the ballpark and the celebrities, they had Harry Caray becoming a national figure on their payroll.

The White Sox had short pants and Disco Demolition Night, a yard that was older than Wrigley but somehow not as mystically charming. They represented the wrong side of the tracks, the economically depressed, heavily ethnic South Side. They were strictly below the fold.

The Red Sox had the Yankees as rivals. The Cubs had the Cardinals. The White Sox had — well, they had the Cubs, whom they didn’t even play in real games between 1906 and 1997. Other than that it seemed like they spent an inordinate amount of time playing the Brewers or Indians on Tuesday nights. The White Sox always seemed to have more Tuesday nights in their weeks than other teams did.

No one ever concocted a curse for the White Sox, even though they had something far more curseworthy in their past than a bad trade of a slugging pitcher-outfielder or some cooked-up story about a billy goat. They have the Black Sox, Shoeless Joe Jackson, Buck Weaver, mean old Boss Comiskey.

Oh, you’ll hear about that stuff for the next week or so, but where are the books about the Curse of Shoeless Joe?

I’m doing that thing. I’ve written 600 words about one World Series team and ignored the other. Damn biased media! The Astros are in the Series too!

Sorry, but expansion teams — the Astros were born in 1962 — don’t get to be long-suffering, even though living Astros fans have been suffering almost as long as White Sox fans. And while the Astros have been a solid playoff team that couldn’t get to the Series for the last decade or so, the less said about their history the better.

Astrodome, sherbet-rainbow uniforms. OK, 67 words. Enough.

So, why White Sox in seven? This series is all about the pitching. Both teams have fair-to-mediocre offenses and stellar arms.

The Astros have more star power in their starting rotation, with Roger Clemens, Andy Pettitte and Roy Oswalt, plus lesser figure Brandon Backe, but the White Sox’s foursome — Jose Contreras, Mark Buehrle, Jon Garland and Freddie Garcia — has been more consistent. And Clemens and Pettitte, for all their reputation, have a way of coming up small in big games, though they’ve also both come up big.

Both teams have solid bullpens. Chicago’s is a little deeper, but the White Sox don’t have anyone as dominating as Brad Lidge when Lidge is at his best. I don’t think the Astros’ closer will be ruined by that home run he gave up to Albert Pujols in the National League Championship Series.

Another advantage the White Sox have on the mound is that their manager, Ozzie Guillen, has proved himself a master at handling the staff, making decisions about pitching changes.

Both struggle to score runs against any pitching and resort to smallball tactics to try to help themselves. The Sox do more of this than the Astros, whose skipper, Phil Garner, plays hunches more than Guillen does. Guillen pretty much always dials up the smallball play.

They can both catch it, the Sox a little better but the Astros just fine.

Two more little things. First, the umpires. They’ve been making news this season with a series of blown or controversial calls. There’s a not-small chance that more of the same will happen in the Series.

It’s just a wild card. A bad call can swing a game, and there just isn’t time in a short series to make up for that bad luck, the way there is in the regular season. This is one of those things that make predicting postseason winners a fool’s game.

Second, the designated hitter. As has been the rule since 1986, it’ll be used in Chicago, the A.L. park, and not in Houston, the N.L. park. Argue all you want about which team that favors.

Last year I did a little study on the matter, and I concluded, I think, that the World Series designated hitter rule either benefits the home team, or it benefits the American League team in its home games. You’ll have to read the article to find out why, but either way, if I was right — a huge if — it favors the White Sox either way, because they have four home games if the Series goes the full seven.

- – - – - – - – - – - -

NFL Week 7 [PERMALINK]

Continuing this column’s October tradition of limiting the blurbs to two sentences per game, we turn to Week 7, with predicted winners in capital letters.

Kansas City (3-2) at MIAMI (2-3): This game was moved up to Friday night to avoid Hurricane Wilma. Speaking of Wilma, and this is really going to be a stretch, but a Dolphins win would put both teams well on their way to standing outside of the playoffs, pounding on the door.

Detroit (2-3) at CLEVELAND (2-3): Lions coach Steve Mariucci seems to be starting to lose confidence in quarterback Joey Harrington. This is a recording.

Indianapolis (6-0) at HOUSTON (0-5): What the Heck™ Pick of the Week. I mean, come on.

NEW ORLEANS (2-4) at St. Louis (2-4): Chaos, meet chaos. And since I have a spare sentence here: Sorry about that Fred Flintstone joke.

San Diego (3-3) at PHILADELPHIA (3-2): The Eagles are coming off a hideous thrashing at the hands of Dallas and then a bye, while the Chargers have won three of four, with solid wins over the Giants, Pats and Raiders and their only loss a tough one to the Steelers. So, of course, Eagles.

GREEN BAY (1-4) at Minnesota (1-4): When reporters at a press conference last week kept asking quarterback Daunte Culpepper about that sex party on the boat, he asked if anyone wanted to talk about the upcoming game against the Bears, and when nobody did, he left. This week, when reporters were asking about the sex party on the boat, Culpepper asked if anybody wanted to talk about the upcoming game against the Packers, and when nobody did, he left. Next week, he’s going to say, “You guys hear about the boat?”

Pittsburgh (3-2) at CINCINNATI (5-1): The Bengals win this one and they can Cadillac it to the division title. The Steelers should have won last week against Jacksonville, and they’ll have Ben Roethlisberger at quarterback rather than disastrous replacement Tommy Maddox, but I think the Bengals will get the huge win.

San Francisco (1-4) at WASHINGTON (3-2): Remember the Tim Rattay era in San Francisco? Good times.

DALLAS (4-2) at Seattle (4-2): Well, here’s a handy little game to start sorting out some of these playoff contenders in the NFC. They’re both playing well, but the Seahawks’ opposition has been a lot more iffy.

BUFFALO (3-3) at Oakland (1-4): Randy Moss is doubtful and the Raiders’ season is spiraling downward, which is all I have to say about this game, so this one-sentence blurb makes up for that third sentence about the Vikings, OK?

Tennessee (2-4) at ARIZONA (1-4): Cardinals coach Denny Green says he knows which quarterback will start, Kurt Warner or Josh McCown, but no announcement will be made until just before kickoff. If it’s Warner, consider this an unofficial What the Heck™ Pick.

Baltimore (2-3) at CHICAGO (2-3): Not only did the Ravens get crushed by Detroit a few weeks ago, but they got all banged up beating Cleveland. The Bears could all but clinch the NFC Central by guaranteeing no worse than a 3-13 record.

DENVER (5-1) at N.Y. Giants (3-2): Believing in the Broncos paid off last week, so I’ll try again. I can’t quite figure out the Giants.

N.Y. Jets (2-4) at ATLANTA (4-2): The almost loss to the Saints should prove to anyone who didn’t already believe it that the Falcons have big problems. But the Jets’ problems are bigger, especially now that they’ve lost center Kevin Mawae, which takes their offensive line situation from bad to worse.

Season record: 60-28
Last week: 11-3
What the Heck™ Picks: 3-3
Chance that I wasn’t going to mention that Vikings sex party on the boat again this week: 0

Previous column: Astros win the pennant

- – - – - – - – - – - -

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Demi’s last night out

When did Demi Moore know she and Ashton were done? Maybe when she tried and tried, but still couldn't rise from bed

By Alix Ohlin

(Credit: AP/Salon)

Topics:Valentine's Day Fiction, Fiction, Demi Moore

The party is in the Hollywood Hills, at someone’s house that looks familiar, or maybe all these houses look alike to me at this point. We’re outside by the pool and the air smells of citronella and night-blooming jasmine. I’m drinking a Red Bull and watching a couple of girls in sundresses leap into the shimmering water, the thin fabric revealing their underwear, both of them shrieking loudly to make sure everybody pays attention.

They are lovely, those girls.

The music is so loud it pulses inside my chest, as if it’s replacing my heart, which would be fine with me. Two guys come up and start dancing. They look exactly the same, androgynous and pretty, with floppy hair. It’s a look I like, feel strong against, and we all three sway together.

When the music pauses I order one of them to get me another Red Bull. He nods and bows; he likes being ordered around.

“Chivalry is not dead,” he says.

“Good to know,” I say.

The other one tells me I’m beautiful and I can see he means it. Then he gets that look in his eye — soft, sweet — and asks if I’m OK. Every person I’ve talked to in the past two months has looked at me like that and asked if I’m OK. It is driving me insane.

“Never better,” I say, and I mean it to sound bright but it comes out sarcastic.

This good-looking boy, maybe 23, tells me not to give up on love. “Just … don’t stop believing.”

I laugh. “Like Journey.”

“Exactly,” he says earnestly. “We’re all on a journey.”

I could tell him that believing in love is not my problem. If anything, I believe in it more than ever. I understand its strangeness, its tender bloodthirstiness, how it’s large enough to contain hate and humiliation inside it and still exist. Love is every kind of emotion at the same time. It’s more complicated and terrible than I ever knew, and it has filled me, fractured me.

But seriously, why would I say that to him?

So instead I smile and nod without speaking. It seems fine with both of us. I’ve spent the last few weeks doing nothing but talking. I’ve negotiated and discussed and confessed and processed and prayed. None of it has made much difference. The next time I fall in love, I decide, I will do it all in silence.

Then somehow it’s a couple of hours later and I’ve lost track of my two handsome boys and even worse I’m out of Red Bull. There’s more dancing and a lot of people pressing up against me and in a moment when the crowd shifts I think I see you on the other side of the pool, your white shirt reflected in the turquoise water, and my chest lurches but it’s somebody else and I feel both empty and relieved.

The day I knew it was over, we were camping. It was my idea to go out into nature, into a place that felt simpler, where we’d talk and just be ourselves with nobody watching. We hiked up to a bluff where we could see the ocean, and the air smelled of spicy juniper and warm earth. We held hands and were gentle with each other, as if we might shatter, and looked at the view.

For a little while it was really nice, and I thought maybe we can do this. And then I felt everything around me sinking. I understood: It was the gentleness that told me it was over. We were wrung out. We’d reached the point where all we wanted was not to wake up each day and face the wreck of it.

Now it’s 2 in the morning and we’re in a private room at a club on Sunset and the music is muffled and electric and a beautiful girl with a squeaky voice tells me my hair looks great and I say thank you.

“The best thing about L.A.,” she adds, leaning in like she’s sharing a secret, “is that there’s no humidity. Everybody’s hair looks so perfect.”

I want to laugh at her but I can’t, because every woman wants to be perfect. She notices my lips twisting in this almost-laugh and says sweetly, softly, “Are you OK?”

I reach out to wring her neck. Mistaking this gesture for something else, she grabs my hands and holds them warmly and we sway together for a while. Then somebody offers her some ecstasy and she promises she’ll be right back. As she disappears into a churn of bodies my gaze follows her across the room and I know you’re not even in the country but I see you on a platform dancing with a blond girl in a silver skirt and gleaming skin.

If you were here, these are the things I would say to you:

You have the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen.

That show you’re on is terrible.

I know we’re both to blame. Every day we devised new ways to rub each other raw, scraping the vulnerable spots we’d always known about but left untouched. We were experts at it, geniuses of punishment. And yet, if you offered me the choice, I wouldn’t go back, I wouldn’t give up any of it, because it made me something different, broken but bigger, than I had been before.

Which is another way of saying that I will love you forever, even if that love has no path forward in this world. No journey.

And somehow it’s dawn and we’re in the car with the windows rolled down and the air smells of car exhaust and fried food and my chest is burning in a way that’s not totally unpleasant and my breath is full of diamonds. The sky is beginning to lighten and I know the sun is on its way up even though I can’t see it yet. You’re in the seat next to me, holding my hand, and I’m not sure if this is now or then, a wish or a memory, and I don’t really care, because your smile is bright and there are splashes of neon across your cheek, pink then red, and I’m laughing at something you just said and the car’s going so fast it feels like flying and for a moment, everything is beautiful and so, so perfect.

: Alix Ohlin is the author of the novel "The Missing Person" and the collection "Babylon and Other Stories." A new novel, "Inside," and a story collection, "Signs and Wonders," are forthcoming from Knopf this spring. More Alix Ohlin

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One day you’re in

When Seal and Heidi Klum split, no one survives on the "Project Runway" set unless they get a little crazy

By Caitlin Horrocks

(Credit: AP/Salon)

Topics:Valentine's Day Fiction, Fiction

The old crew was back to work for the first time since Season 9 ended, and the new hires were cracking the “Make it work” jokes that the rest of us had gotten sick of five years ago. Even Tim seemed a little apologetic when he said it these days. He’d gotten too much sun the day before and was pinker than usual. “Just … make it work, I guess,” he told the makeup artist.

The casting episodes were always awkward, no proper sets or dressing rooms in the hotels and a desperate mass of humanity clutching garment bags in the hallways. And now everyone tiptoeing around Heidi, looking to see if she’d changed since the news broke, peering for bags under her eyes, or deepened lines around her mouth. If she looked older, she must be unhappy. If she didn’t, maybe the entire thing was a stunt to sell more albums. Women in this business are never just sad, they’re one step closer to the grave.

Some new intern had memorized Seal’s entire song catalog, and lobbed titles like little grenades. “‘Love Don’t Live Here Anymore,’” Raoul hissed to me, when Heidi got into a disagreement with Nina about a swimsuit with epaulets. “‘Back Stabbers,’” he said, when a PA told him to get off his ass and do some work. “‘I’ll Be Around,’” he whispered as he left, which turned out to be a track off “Soul 2,” but I just thought he was telling me I could sneak out for a smoke break. I hadn’t listened to much Seal before I’d gotten this job. I hadn’t read Marie Claire, either. But I adapted.

Once Heidi was dressed, it was just hair and makeup that had to hover, who sleeked down her hair or redid eyeliner between takes. But today I didn’t want to leave. I stood around with my hands worrying the insides of my pockets, then invented a scuff on Tim’s left shoe, just to buff it away. He asked me what I’d been up to, during the hiatus. “You’re not wearing your necklace,” he said.

“Just time for a change. Besides, what kind of wardrobe stylist gets away with wearing the same necklace every day? I’m surprised Nina hasn’t had me fired, just for that.”

“I’d stand up for you,” he said. I straightened his tie. We both knew it was already straight.

“I’m fine,” I said.

That’s what Heidi had been saying, to the few people brave enough to ask. We didn’t want to embarrass ourselves by presuming any closeness. But if she wanted a shoulder to cry on, we all wanted it to be our shoulder. Women and men, gay and straight, we’d all watched her give kiss after kiss to the departing contestants and wondered if there were a way to make her notice us short of getting fired.

The overall feel of the room was as tense as the day Tim came back to work after announcing on his other makeover show that he hadn’t had sex in 29 years. I’d felt like I’d accidentally walked in on my parents, seen something that was natural enough but that you really didn’t want to think about. Something I didn’t feel I had any business knowing. It was a surprise and it wasn’t. A surprise, I guess, that he said it on television.

You don’t have to live this way, I wanted to tell them, but I guess some of them do. It wasn’t like Heidi could have taken off her ring and hoped no one noticed. I wondered if Tim ever missed his old life, writing curriculum proposals at Parsons. I wondered if Heidi ever imagined not entering that high school modeling competition in Germany. I wondered about how things would have been different if I’d never left Indiana.

Everyone has to decide. Models all decide early. They have to give it a go before anything else about themselves is formed, before their bodies are even settled. The ones who make it onto “Project Runway,” whatever else they do later, they’ve done this, been on national television in some muslin and macaroni or hot pants made of pet store moss. Their boyfriends will come and go and when they watch Lifetime with some other woman, years from now, they’ll say, “I used to date that girl. The one in the sexy mailman uniform.”

I thought of Sam watching TV with his new wife in West Lafayette and telling her that the girl he was once engaged to left for New York to try and make it big. She never got in front of the camera, but she ended up holding some decent jobs behind it. In West Lafayette, that would count for something. “Oh my god,” she’d say. “Someone chooses those ridiculous outfits?”

I returned the ring, when I called it off. We didn’t have wedding bands yet. Didn’t even have a date set or a venue. Sam should have guessed, and I’d kept wishing he would. He hadn’t even looked for a job in New York, still waiting for me to fail so totally I’d come back, feel settled and satisfied in Indiana. We each thought we could wait the other out, but even when I couldn’t book modeling jobs, I couldn’t imagine going back home.

A rejected contestant was kneeling on the table, crying with his hands clutched in supplication, like Heidi was a merciful god. Security was circling, but they didn’t want to get too close and ruin the shot. Finally the poor guy left on his own, and an AD called a break. Heidi just sat back, didn’t get up and stretch. I tried to remember which shoes she was wearing, whether they were extremely uncomfortable or just moderately uncomfortable.

Raoul came back with a stack of cookies wrapped in a napkin from craft services. He offered me one, humming the chorus of “Kiss From a Rose.” I shook my head, and walked over to Heidi. I pretended to find a thread on her shoulder, pretended to pick it off.

“Don’t tell me that’s been there all morning,” she said.

“Nothing showed up on camera.” I stared at the part in her hair. “I have this,” I said. “You left it on the makeup counter. I didn’t want to leave it sitting out.”

I took her wedding band from my pocket and held it on my opened palm. All the previous seasons, she’d worn it to work and kept it on all day, whatever her outfit. I’d known without explanation that it was my job to accessorize around the ring.

She shifted in her seat. “I forgot about it,” she said. “I’ve been wearing it but then … I was just sitting in the makeup chair and I thought I should take it off. And then I was late to the set.”

A PA was gesturing me away from the table. The next round of auditions was about to start.

“What do you want me to do with it?” I asked.

“I don’t have any pockets,” she said, looking down at her short aquamarine dress. She wasn’t accusatory, but of course I felt responsible. All the things I could not do for her, and I’d denied her even pockets. That, at least, I could have arranged. She had a broken heart and now no pockets even to stow it in.

“I’m so sorry,” I said.

“That’s OK.”

“But I’m sorry.”

“OK.”

“I have pockets.” I gestured down at my own outfit, plain jeans and flats.

Sam mailed the ring straight back. I want you to have it (and I can’t return it), he wrote. We were playing some game of hot potato, but I didn’t see any way to win. I put the ring on a gold necklace chain, and when people asked I said my fiancé had died. I didn’t get anything good this way. No jobs or dates or even free drinks — it just made people sad and uncomfortable. Tim had put his hands on my shoulders and pulled me close for a hug. But I’d kept saying it. It steeled my resolve. I’d told myself my life had to work out because I’d already given up so much. It just had to.

“I can hold onto it for you,” I said. “Would that help?”

“Or give it to my assistant. She’ll put it in my room. She has the key.”

“OK. I can do that.” I wondered how long Heidi and Seal had tried to make things work just because they felt things had to. Because everyone would be talking about how they’d failed, and leaving notes on her website about how she should just have tried a little harder.

“Thanks,” Heidi said.

“No problem.”

Michael Kors had to push past me to sit back down and he gave me the stink eye. I backed away as the cameras started taping. Raoul had finished the cookies and collected a handful of cheese cubes on toothpicks. He held them like a bouquet, offering me a blossom. “‘Let’s Stay Together,’” he sang.

I shook my head.

“‘Crazy,’” he whispered.

I rolled the ring between my fingers, slipping it on and off the tips of my fingers.

“‘Future Love Paradise.’”

I didn’t say anything. Heidi’s engagement ring had been a rock, but the wedding band was delicate, even thinner than it had looked on her long fingers.

“Debut album. Second single.”

“I know.”

“Which is weird. If it’s future, how are we ever supposed to get there? It’s a totally depressing song.”

During the hiatus I’d gone on vacation with one of the sound mixers. It was getting serious and I could tell the necklace creeped him out, so I’d left it at home. It was easier than I’d thought. I think I’d stopped wanting my life to be one specific thing. I wanted to write Sam to tell him this, that I was happy, that I hoped we both were, that I didn’t think we had anything to regret. I wished there was a way to share this with Heidi.

I figured I could at least say it to Raoul, give him some piece of wisdom he could take away from this job along with all the cheese he could fit in his maw. I tried to think of an appropriate Seal cover to sum up the situation, but “‘A Change Is Gonna Come’” was as close as I could get, and it just seemed obvious.

“What’s the ring?” he asked.

“Auf wiedersehen,” I said. “I need to find Heidi’s assistant.”

“Don’t let her hear you say that. I’m sure she’s got it copyrighted or something.”

“You can’t copyright ‘goodbye,’” I told him, which really could have been a song title of its own.

: Caitlin Horrocks is the author of the story collection "This Is Not Your City" (Sarabande). Her fiction has been published by the New Yorker and in the 2011 edition of Best American Short Stories. More Caitlin Horrocks

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Pitch and catch

It must've been awkward for Tom Brady and Gisele Bundchen after she blamed his teammates for losing the Super Bowl

By Ben Greenman

(Credit: AP/Salon)

Topics:Valentine's Day Fiction, Fiction

“You shouldn’t have said it.”

“Yes.”

“I wish you wouldn’t have.”

“I did.”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know. I’m not mad.”

“You shouldn’t be.”

“I’m not.”

“It’s just that the man wouldn’t stop.”

“You shouldn’t start with people who won’t stop.”

“I know. I’m mad at myself.”

“You shouldn’t be. Be mad at him.”

“I am mad at him, too.”

“Right. You should be.”

“He started talking about you and he wouldn’t stop.”

“That’s what they do.”

“He was saying horrible things.”

“Right. That’s also what they do.”

“If you had been there he would have stopped.”

“I couldn’t be there.”

“Or maybe he never would have started.”

“I couldn’t be there.”

“I’m just saying I wish you were there.”

“I couldn’t be.”

- – - – - -

“I have a question.”

“Yes.”

“How can you answer? You don’t even know what the question is.”

“I wasn’t answering. I was just saying yes.”

“OK.”

“What’s your question?”

“You said that he said horrible things.”

“Yes.”

“That’s not my question.”

“I know. Go on.”

“OK. What were they?”

“What were what?”

“The horrible things.”

“You heard them.”

“The things I heard weren’t so horrible.”

“They were.”

“They weren’t so nice but were they so horrible?”

“Yes. I saw his eyes.”

“You did?”

“You should have seen them. How they looked.”

“How did they look?”

“It’s not easy to say.”

“The things he said mean nothing.”

“They mean something. Something horrible.”

“What do they mean?”

“You know.”

“He said I was owned.”

“Yes.”

“Does he mean outplayed?”

“I don’t know.”

“Does it mean defeated?”

“I don’t know.”

“Those things aren’t great, it’s true.”

“They’re horrible.”

“But they’re true.”

“They’re not.”

“They happened.”

“Does that make them true?”

“Yes.”

“I agree with you. But I don’t agree with him.”

“I think we’re saying the same thing.”

“Me and you?”

“Me and him.”

“You’re not being horrible.”

“I don’t think he was, either, even if you saw his eyes.”

“What?”

“Isn’t he just saying what happened?”

“No.”

“What is he doing, then?”

“I have no answer.”

- – - – - -

“I’m asleep.”

“What?”

“I’m sleeping.”

“Wake up.”

“I’m awake.”

“I dreamed that I said something.”

“I have that dream all the time.”

“I dreamed that I said something to him.”

“To who?”

“To the man.”

“What man?”

“The man who said horrible things.”

“You’re still thinking about him?”

“No.”

“You’re dreaming about it.”

“Yes.”

“That seems worse.”

“It felt better.”

“What was the dream?”

“I told you.”

“I was sleeping.”

“I dreamed that I said something.”

“That’s not a dream.”

“What?”

“You did say something.”

“I did.”

“That’s how this all started.”

“I said that same thing I said in real life.”

“Is that a dream? It might just be a memory.”

“But when I said it in real life it felt wrong.”

“It was wrong.”

“In my dream it felt right.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you mean accurate?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you mean justified?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, both of those things are untrue.”

“Oh.”

“How is it accurate? How is it justified?”

“Because you can only do so much.”

“You shouldn’t say that.”

“In my dream? It felt right.”

“I mean in real life.”

“I feel better now that I said it.”

“I thought you felt worse.”

“I feel better that I said it in my dream.”

“I can’t sleep.”

“I’m wide awake.”

- – - – - -

“You can only do so much.”

“I thought we had stopped with this.”

“Others have to do the rest.”

“We need to not start with this.”

“I didn’t think before I said it.”

“I know.”

“But now that I have thought about it I know I was right.”

“What?”

“You can only do so much. Others have to do the rest.”

“Don’t say that.”

“I may never stop saying it.”

“You have to stop.”

“You don’t own me.”

“You should see yourself.”

“What do you mean?”

“You should see how you look.”

“How do I look?”

“Your eyes are really something.”

“Isn’t it great?”

“I don’t think we’re saying the same thing.”

“You should have been there.”

“I couldn’t be there.”

“I wish you would have.”

“You shouldn’t have said it.”

“No?”

: Ben Greenman is an editor at the New Yorker and the author of several acclaimed books of fiction, including "Superbad," "What He's Poised To Do" and "Celebrity Chekhov." His fiction, essays and journalism have appeared in numerous publications, including the New York Times, the Washington Post, the Paris Review, Zoetrope: All Story, McSweeney's and Opium. More Ben Greenman

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Whip-it

It's the final phone conversation of Demi and Ashton's marriage and, wait, is that Rupert Murdoch listening in?

By Belle Boggs and Richard D. Allen

(Credit: Reuters/Salon)

Topics:Valentine's Day Fiction

Kutcher-Moore Residence, Los Angeles, Jan. 26

Demi Moore sits, distraught, on her living room floor. The house is in upheaval, every flat surface covered with boxes halfway packed, then abandoned; it seems her husband will never be done with moving out. A large bottle of Zyrtec is at her side. A dozen thin, high-strung dogs wander in and out of the room. Her cellphone rings.

“It’s me,” he says. “Don’t hang up.”

“What do you want?”

“I want the truth.”

Demi grabs one of the dogs with her free hand — it hardly struggles — and holds it closely, rubbing its silky fur against her cheek. How she loves these dogs: their dark, smooth coats, their effortlessly thin flanks. No matter how much she feeds them, she can still feel their ribs through their skin. Wonderful!

The dog nuzzles at her cardigan pocket, where she has taken to keeping treats for them: sinewy pieces of bison jerky, tiny sausage links, sliced-up organic hot dogs. The maid, shaking her head over the grease stains on her sweaters, suggested dog biscuits instead, but Demi has a horror of carbs. Besides, there is something strangely appealing about cutting up hot dogs. She holds out a nub, and the dog takes the treat delicately between its teeth.

“They say you’re holed up with whippets again.”

“Don’t you have some strippers to …” She sneezes three times, violently. “Some cameras to sell?”

“How many this time?”

“I don’t know,” she says, looking around the roomful of dogs. “One or two. Maybe six.”

“Look, I know haven’t exactly been a model of responsible behavior …”

“It’s true,” she says. “You have not. You also have some packing up still to do. Your free weights … your grooming products … your glassware.”

Demi hates the word “bong.”

“… but I think you might have a problem.”

Demi sets the phone in her lap and extends two thin, tawny arms. The dogs run to her, tumbling over each other just to lick her greasy fingers. She feels a pang in her chest. “When it’s just me and the whippets,” she murmurs, “there’s no more pain.”

“This is front-page stuff!”

Demi picks up her phone again and holds it to her ear. “What did you say?”

“I didn’t say anything,” says Ashton.

“MENTAL LASS, DENTAL GAS,” the voice mutters again. “Bugger it, I’ve dropped my Mont Blanc in the loo.”

“Someone with an Australian accent,” Demi says. “Is Hugh Jackman there with you?”

“No,” says Ashton.

“Eric Bana?”

“Nope. Look, we may not be together anymore, but I care about you and your well-being.”

She hears this kind of talk every time he comes by to retrieve a stray video game or a favorite T-shirt; it never stops him from leaving just as quickly as he arrived. But the dogs, every one of them younger and more handsome than Ashton, never leave her side.

“I have something to tell you,” she says.

“Good. I’d like to hear it.” He sounds hopeful.

“If you want to take digital photos these days, you can just use your phone. Everyone knows that.”

She gathers another dog in her arms and rubs her face on its fur, inhaling. Her lungs constrict. With her free hand, she scrabbles for the Zyrtec bottle.

“You’re huffing one of those whippets right now!”

“I can handle it!” she wheezes. “I know my limits!”

“If you keep doing that, you’re going to wind up in the emergency room!”

“You have your tech start-ups and your hot-tub whores and your four-megapixel paperweights. These whippets are all I’ve got!”

The dogs gather around her, first one at a time, then in a pack, whining, wagging their wiry tails. She realizes there is frying-pan grease in her hair. The dogs begin to lick her head.

“Aaah!”

“What? What?”

“These whippets are messing with my head.”

“So you admit it!”

The speedy dogs dart back and forth, licking Demi’s hair, her face, her cellphone.

“The whippets are going to my head so fast!”

“What? You’re breaking up!”

On the business end of an illegal wiretap, Rupert Murdoch is scribbling frantically. “Wendi!” he hisses. “Are you getting this?”

“I need a dog … walk … er…” Demi moans.

“Hold on, baby! I’m calling the doctor right now!” cries Ashton.

“This could be the scoop that causes the Daily to stop hemorrhaging money!”

“Wait,” says Demi, sitting up. “Rupert Murdoch?”

“Wrong number!” Murdoch says, and hangs up.

Ashton is confused. “Is the Daily the same thing as the Daily Beast?”

The dogs close in again, yipping, licking, panting: an ecstasy of devotion. Soon the line goes silent.

“Oh man,” says Ashton. “Wow.” He pauses before dialing 911. “Dude.”

: Belle Boggs is the author of the story collection "Mattaponi Queen," which won the Bakeless Prize and the Library of Virginia Award. More Belle Boggs
: Richard D. Allen is a poet and humorist. More Richard D. Allen

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Love’s fumbles

How did three celebrity fights go down? Belle Boggs, Ben Greenman, Caitlin Horrocks & Alix Ohlin imagine the scenes

By Salon Staff

(Credit: AP/Salon)

Topics:Valentine's Day Fiction, Fiction

It’s Valentine’s Day, perhaps the sappiest day of the year for couples. But it’s also a good day to remember that being part of a couple is hard — and that no one other than those two people truly understands what goes on or why it works.

So Salon asked four top novelists to look at celebrity couples in the news recently either for a split or a disagreement and imagine the back story. What went wrong? What was really said?

Just click on the links below to read the stories:

Whip-It by Belle Boggs and Richard D. Allen