Today on Midwest Weird: “My Pretend Husbands” by Sara Spry.
Sara Spry is a barista, pet sitter and writer living in Chicago, Illinois. She spends most of her time working and writing, but also enjoys arts and crafts, going to the movies, and relaxing at home with a hot drink and a vintage Saturday Night Live episode.
Midwest Weird is an audio literary magazine from Broads and Books Productions. We’re the home of weird fiction and nonfiction by Midwestern writers.
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Episode Transcript:
This is Midwest Weird, an audio literary magazine from Broads and Books Productions.
We’re the home of weird fiction and nonfiction by Midwestern writers.
Today’s episode: “My Pretend Husbands,” by Sara Spry. Read by the Midwest Weird team.
4 years ago. History, but not so ancient.
It is Sunday night. Actually, it’s Monday morning now. 12:09 A.M. I have to wake up for work in three hours and forty-six minutes, and I can’t sleep. My neck aches, my legs ache and I’ve got a full day ahead of me, but I can’t sleep.
Because I cannot sleep, I am thinking about my pretend husband, Benedict Cumberbatch. He is sweet and kind and has one of the most beautiful voices I’ve ever heard. If here and still awake with me, I’d ask him to tell me a story. Just to be able to hear his voice so close would soothe my nerves. So smooth, so British.
“Now now, enough of this,” he would say, sitting at the foot of my bed. “Calculating your remaining hours of sleep is only keeping you awake longer. Come on, let’s picture something nice instead.” He would scrunch his eyes shut, modeling the action. “I’ve got a nice big field with a litter of puppies pawing at me. What have you got? Don’t tell me you’ve just got a sleep clock ticking away in there.” I would smile and tell him that my picture was the same as his, but with bunnies instead of puppies. “Stunning,” he would say, slightly more relieved than exasperated. “Bunnyrabbits. All the bunnyrabbits you desire, my love, as long as they help you sleep.” I would nod as he leaned over to tuck me in, giving me a front-row view of his cheekbones. His ginger hair is perfectly styled and kempt, and his light eyes are illuminated by the glow of the power strip on my dresser.
Yes, that would be very nice.
But here I am with severe anxiety and a pedestal fan on cool setting two. What a time to be alive. What a time to be passively pondering the alternative.
In a few hours I will be at work, setting up the pastry case and filling the cold case with yogurt and water as quickly as I can before my supervisor unlocks the doors. After that’s done, they’ll disappear into the back room to gather ice for the bins. The first groggy construction worker stumbles through the door, thinking he’s clever as he watches me put down the pre-wrapped sandwich in my hand and asks me, “are you guys open?” Just once, I’d like to look someone dead in the face, say “no” and refuse them service. That action, of course, would lead to me getting fired, getting fired would lead to me losing my apartment, and losing my apartment would put me out on the street. At that point, how would I get back to where I was? How would I live with myself? Would I want to live with myself?
As I turn my back to the register to pour his coffee, I’ll conjure up an image of my second pretend husband, Jared Padalecki. He’ll walk in as the asshole is smirking at his own joke and give me a comforting smile.
“Can you believe that guy?” he’ll ask, jerking a thumb in the asshole’s direction. I’ll laugh it off, but feel my bitter heart warming in my chest. He’ll lean across the counter when the guy isn’t looking and whisper, “You know, I’d have your back if you wanted to fight him.” I’ll tell him no, that’s not necessary. “You sure?” he’ll ask. “Pass me his drink, I’ll spit in it.” I’ll cover my mouth and try not to laugh while telling him ‘no’ again, but that I wouldn’t mind him coming in in character for Supernatural and shooting the guy point blank. Just imagine, the customer standing there with that dumb look on his face when all of a sudden Sam Winchester busts in. 6’4, broad shoulders, almost shoulder-length brown hair, well-muscled, all dressed in denim and plaid. Also toting the scariest rifle you’ve ever seen. Boom. He’ll sigh, almost laughing himself, and say, “Maybe tomorrow.” He’ll order a soy latte and pay with his credit card, standing by long enough for the asshole to make his way out the revolving doors. “You’re doing a great job, babe,” Jared Padalecki says, winking and dropping a $20 bill in the tip jar. Then, I’ll turn back from the coffee urn to the register, only to find that the construction worker has migrated to the condiment bar, no Jared in sight. I’ll call out to the asshole that his coffee is ready, and offer halfhearted wishes for a good day ahead.
“Yeah, right,” says the little demon in my left ear. I haven’t named her, but she has this great talent of throwing her voice. Sometimes she sounds like my mother, and sometimes she sounds like my best friend. Sometimes, like this time, she speaks to me in my own voice.
“As if Benedict Cumberbatch would come anywhere near you. And as for that little fairytale about Jared Padalecki, come on. Supernatural is shot in Canada, and no way in hell he’d be in Chicago just because. That’s the problem with you. You just can’t accept that you’re unworthy of a fairytale.”
I pull my covers up over my head. “I know. I know none of what I think can really happen. I just think it would be nice if it did.”
After work I will come home again to my apartment, and the only thing I will want to do is go back to sleep. I cannot take a nap today. I will not have time. I have an essay due and one-hundred pages left of the assigned reading for my grad class. All part of this program that I worked so hard to be in, that I moved a state away from my family to be in. I will look at the stack of printed pages and the blank document stretching into eternity in front of me and want to cry for hours. I’ll wonder all of a sudden how long it would take for my soul to leave my body as it’s being slowly crushed under the tires of the neighbor’s SUV.
I will not find the motivation in that moment to absorb the written word or to create my own, and I will start to wonder what my third pretend husband, Avi Kaplan, would think of me in this state. He’s been a musician since I was in high school, and had been part of a band that achieved overnight and booming success. He’s been through the wringer as an introvert, and here I am whining about not wanting to do my homework. I’ll picture him standing next to me, looking down at my tear-streaked face. He would look very serious like he does on the album covers, but there would be pain behind his eyes. Compassion.
“You must be so ashamed of me,” I’ll say, feeling even worse that I’ve been caught by someone I respect and admire in a state of weakness. But he’ll shake his head and smile gently, squatting down to put his arm around my shoulders.
“Never,” he’ll assure me then, in his gorgeous, low voice. The voice he sings with. “Never. I know how tough things are. I know how hard you’re trying. I know. But you’ll get through this. I promise you.” I’ll lean into him and he’ll enclose me in both his arms. I’ll imagine that he is holding me and stroking my hair. At last, I’ll pull away and acknowledge that he was just my body pillow all along.
“Big fancy writer, taking artistic liberties on her own life,” my demon chides, still in my voice. “You’re not even touching your body pillow. It’s stuffed in the space between your mattress and bedframe.” She cackles as I squirm. “It’s that fleece pillowcase. The heat is up so high during the night that you won’t even touch it! Some girlfriend you are.” She waits until I’ve gotten comfortable again to deliver another blow. “And don’t forget, Avi Kaplan is a good person. An actual good person. You’re only pretending to be good, and if he ever met you, he would hate you. Wait, no. Good people don’t hate other people. He’d feel bad for you. That’s worse, you know.”
I bite my lip and try not to cry, because I do know.
I’ll force myself to start writing that essay, even though that will still be the last thing I want to do. The drafting process will go smoothly for a few paragraphs but then, undoubtedly, I’ll get stuck. I always get stuck. I’ll wonder what I’m doing in a writing program if I can’t even push through a basic essay. Given that input from my inner demons, I’ll miraculously come up with an idea. One that, in the words of the old films, is so crazy that it just might work. My little demon will, of course, reject that idea as well, and it will be around then that my fourth pretend husband, Link Neal, will appear by my side. More like over my shoulder. If my life were shot like a movie, it would be a shot that just starts out with my face on the left, looking down at my computer screen, and then Link would slowly move his head in from the right, closer and closer to mine until I noticed. He’ll ask me how long I’ve been staring at the blank page, and I’ll tell him.
“Anxiety getting’ ya again?” he’ll ask.
“Yeah,” I’ll say.
He’ll ask me what my idea was that got me stuck, I’ll tell him, and he’ll say that he thinks that sounds great. He’ll say it sounds better than most of his ideas, and most of the Good Mythical Morning crew would agree with him. I’ll tell him that I don’t think it’s that good, and he’ll get all serious and look me in the eyes.
“Look,” he’ll say, “I do things every day that I don’t think are good ideas. I’m legally required to. I drank squid ink and ate a cake made out of dirt! Neither of those things are something you just get over.”
“At least you’re getting money doing what you love,” I’ll say. He’ll give me an uncomfortable look and I’ll say, “okay, okay, other than the squid ink and literal dirt cake.”
He’ll ask me something along the lines of, “But don’t you love to write?” and I’ll tell him that I do, but I’m still afraid that whatever I do won’t be good enough.
“Try doing it anyway first,” Link will suggest. “That first idea you told me, just try it out. If it doesn’t work, you can do something else.”
I’ll remind him that I don’t have time to try out and ditch new ideas any more, and he’ll remind me that I’m talking to an imaginary man in my bedroom instead of writing my essay. In a moment of pure lucidity, he will fade out of my imagination, leaving me no choice but to actually do my assignment. Well, maybe there will be a choice. The neighbor might be out in their SUV. But doing the assignment would be the better option.
“Wow. Fucking wow,” says the demon incredulously. “Link? From Rhett and Link? Married with two children and a dog and old enough to be your father? Link???”
I let her talk. I play along, in fact. Yes, he is old enough to be my father. No, I don’t have a daddy kink. My demon gets frustrated that she can’t get me. She gets very quiet. She is thinking. So am I.
“What is wrong with you?” she chides. You think just because you acknowledge all of this as a fantasy, you can get away with it?”
“Yes,” I tell her. “I know none of what I daydream would actually happen, and I don’t hold any illusions that I deserve the treatment I get during my daydreams. So yes. That’s exactly what I think.”
“Well, you can’t,” she snaps. “Not as a functioning member of society. Not as a person who wants to be respected by normal people. You’re a freak, you know that right? And not in a good way.”
I sniffle. She swells.
“Just wait until you can’t hold in the flaws anymore,” she crows. “Then they’ll see.”
“Um, excuse me, who is ‘they’?” asks Link.
“Hey, I have a question too,” says Jared. “Why are you such a bitch?”
“You’re figments of her imagination!” shrieks the demon. “She called you here to defend her because she can’t do it herself!”
“Yes, but she’s pretending,” Benedict points out. “And sometimes, that’s just as good as the real thing.”
“Ha! Even he said it!” The demon laughs unnervingly, making me remember the last time I listened to a recording of myself singing.” “Your precious pretend husbands aren’t afraid to call you out any more.”
“I was complimenting the power of her imagination,” Benedict protests. “Jared is right, you really are a bitch.”
“The real Benedict doesn’t use that word.”
“Yes, well, as you so readily pointed out, I’m not him. Bitch.”
“Ugh.” She pauses. “I notice Avi hasn’t said anything this whole time. Isn’t he your favorite?”
“There’s no favorites,” Benedict protests. “She only ranks us chronologically, don’t you darling?”
“Say something!” she challenges him. “Can’t you speak, you overgrown hobbit?”
“Only Smaug gets to make fun of the hobbits,” Benedict mutters.
“Leave,” Avi says.
“Apologies, bad joke,” says Benedict.
“Not you, her. Leave.”
“Why should I leave?”
“Because you get your happiness making us fight, and we should all be on the same team.”
“What? Fuck you. Teams are stupid. I’m on my own team.”
“And what team is that? Team Beat-the-Girl-to-Death-with-her-Insecurities?” Jared snaps. “She’s got depression, you mistake!”
“Mistake. That’s new. Creative. Nice to know that this version of you has a few extra brain cells.”
“Look, the man asked you to leave.” Link is a bit less meek than usual. “Just find some other part of the brain to be in for a while.”
The demon sighs. “Oh, well. I guess I will, but only because you asked nicely. See you at our next appointment, sweetie.”
She leaves, and I am suddenly, beautifully, finally feeling sleepy.
It is now 12:30 A.M. I imagine four distinct male voices saying good night to me in turn. At approximately 12:31, I fall asleep.
I wake up with a jolt two hours later. I sit up and check my phone to see if I still have time to sleep before my alarm goes off.
“Glad you could make it,” says my demon. “For a while there, I thought you were going to sleep right through our special time.” She giggles. “It’s just you and me now. No Benedict, no Jared, no Avi, no Link. None of them stay up this late. They’re functioning human beings. Something you’ll never-”
I smile as I drift off. I see Jared coming with a baseball bat.
Sara Spry is a barista, pet sitter and writer living in Chicago, Illinois. She spends most of her time working and writing, but also enjoys arts and crafts, going to the movies, and relaxing at home with a hot drink and a vintage Saturday Night Live episode.
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