Stuck in Smallville!!!

CW: Language and sexual suggestions.

STUCK IN SMALLVILLE

Day by day I grow older, fatter, dumpier. I have man boobs and bladder problems. My stomach is too big and my ass, too small. My wife, Brenda, claims I never had a bottom. But she once gave me a naked spanking for my 21st birthday. Nostalgia washes over me these days as I watch middle school sports. And I see a lot of it because my grandson is an elite cross-country runner. I wouldn’t ordinarily make wishes to a genie. Hell, I wouldn’t usually see a genie. Except that my latest ache or pain could signal the beginning of my “final illness.” A lawyer’s words for “the end.” Like a crooked evangelist expecting a miracle--today, I’m receptive to a genie.

Most days I give up on sleeping between 4 and 5 a.m. and head to my office, located upstairs in our suburban Nashville home, to spend quiet time writing. After about 30 minutes, my high fiber diet kicks into gear, and I repose on our electronic, remote-controlled combination bidet/toilet. Then, I write again until precisely 7 a.m. when I go downstairs and continue my daily cycle with granola, All Bran, and yogurt. But today, I change things up. I visit the bidet as soon as I wake up. Even before I’ve brewed the day’s first pot of coffee.

7:00 a.m. arrives and I don’t head downstairs for breakfast. I remain in my chair, typing a word now and then in my latest story. It’s about a guy who meets a genie. I’m absent-mindedly rubbing the “Live Music Since 1892” logo on my Ryman Auditorium coffee mug. As I circle the logo I envision how I’d change things a bit if I started over at puberty.

At 7:02 smoke begins to swirl out of the cup. By 7:03, it’s an inferno of flames and billowing black clouds. I rush outside onto our brick front porch and start to dump the cup’s contents into the rain-soaked flowerbed. As smoke detectors wail in the background, a strange creature appears. Shirtless, bearded, and brandishing a guitar, he looks like Kris Kristopherson in Funny Girl with Barbara Streisand. In between sobs over the movie’s ending, Brenda once told me that Kristopherson was the sexiest guy she’s ever seen.

“Your day dream is my command.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“I’m God’s Gift to Girls. You can call me ‘GG.’ I’ll grant you three wishes. The first wish can be rather detailed, the second, much shorter. And the third, must be only a few words.”

“Welcome to Nashville, GG. Where most country music singers’ dreams don’t come true. First, I want my thirteen-year-old body back…”

“Are you sure you’ve given me complete specifications? You want the changes to your body to end with the nude posing session? That will become your final adult body although you’ll age. I’m not God.”

“Yes; that’s it. My second wish is to make love with Judith Peterson from the 7th grade.”

“You can ask for a bit more. Just don’t push the boundaries too far.”

“No, I’m finished.” What more could any 13-year-old boy want than sex with Judith?

“And your final wish?”

He said it had to be short. There must be a word limit.

“To live happily ever after.”

“Now remember, Adam, all wishes are final. If you think I’ve gotten something terribly wrong, here’s my private phone number. But this encounter was videotaped. If the video shows I granted you precisely what you wanted, I can’t change anything.”

My smoke detectors quit howling. How did Brenda sleep through that racket? A soft, gray fog envelops me. I float into the clouds towards Oklahoma feeling thinner and younger.

***

No longer in Nashville, I gaze out onto Smallville from the windows of the Junior High. Like all Junior Highs back in my day it looks a bit like a state prison. Six inches of freshly fallen snow don’t begin to cover the brown gloom. The town was deceased by the time my parents died. I resolved never to come back.

I toss my 7th grade algebra book into my backpack. Almost sprinting down the hall, I slide into the restroom. I can’t believe what I see in the mirror. There’s not a zit on my 13-year-old face! My auburn hair is perfectly coiffed. I have a deep tan without freckles and no sign that I ever suffered a sunburn. I’m fashionably attired in the latest threads from 1964 and my billfold’s stuffed with cash.

I’m almost late to wrestling practice. After practice, I gaze intently around the shower. I’m the best-looking naked guy in there! My foreskin is intact. My bottom is athletic and full. My waist is tight. My legs are incredibly long. My pecs are starting to develop. My wiener is large, but not intimidating, and doesn’t grow no matter how much I soap it and fondle it. Next, I dry off and weigh myself. A smile lights up my face. I guess I don’t wrestle heavyweight anymore! There’s a device next to the scale that measures your height. I’m already 6’1” tall.

Dressed, I head outside and wait for Randall.

There she is fresh from cheerleader practice. Judith Peterson. Bundled up like a snow bunny against the cold and lingering flurries. She must be 5’10”. What legs! Even taller and honey “blondier” than I remembered. A 13-year-old trophy! Our eyes lock. And although we’ve never shared a word in class, I walk over and say, “Where have you been all my life?”

Shit, she wasn’t even in my honors classes.

I offer to carry her books home. She tells me her address. Judith lives in the house across the street from me. The genie has replaced my childhood crush, Victoria. That knowledge erases the last vestiges of memory of our little kisses under the elm tree. Randall comes up to walk home with us. I tell him to “fuck off!” as Judith and I pelt him with snowballs. He won’t steal her this time around.

On the walk home with Judith, the “snow comes down like silver salt and seasons the winter’s day.” But I can’t credit my 9th grade classmate with that haiku. I’ve forgotten her name. But not her legs. We all dropped pencils so we could look up her miniskirts.

When I get home, my parents ask me about my day. I tell them about Judith. Daddy gives me a package of condoms gift wrapped in Playboy Bunny paper. Mother says, “have fun!”

That night in my room, I confirm that my wiener still works the same when erect and has bed-shaking orgasms when fondled. He just looks a lot better in a shower! I give GG an “A.”

***

A few years pass. I’m nude in a life drawing class at a major university. Brenda once suggested I would have fun doing this. I guess she overlooked my flat butt. But where’s the skinny hippy from my college and law school days? I’m more ripped than I was when I found myself back in Smallville at 13. I’m at least 6’3” tall with a total body tan and barely any body hair. No matter how much the women and a couple random gay guys ogle me, I don’t get an erection. The skinny hippy would’ve needed a towel! My posing session ends. I’m wearing a wedding ring; I get dressed expecting to find Brenda waiting for me. Maybe we’ll make love at the golf course tonight! But there’s Judith. My face falls and it feels like my athletic ass shrinks a bit.

Brenda gave me The Joy of Sex on Valentine’s. Judith only likes the missionary position.

***

I walk out the door of my office to drive home. The name plate reads, “ABC Insurance Brokers.” What happened to my legal career? Don’t I have a big lawsuit set for trial on Monday? And why am I driving a sports car? I need my F150 for Alaska. I drive home expecting Sugar to greet me at the door only to find “boob job” Judith and two boys that look like my 13-year-old self—the one created by GG. Where the hell are my sons? These guys look like they only care about their hair and how they look in a shower. There’s not even any baseball or backpacking gear in my closet. Damn, I don’t have any running shoes, either. How will I ever run a half marathon without any? They’re ripped, but I bet neither of those boys could run 1,000 meters, let alone 3,200!!! My grandson almost always outruns ripped guys like these. Very few ever catch him. Where’s Brenda? Judith just preens in front of the mirror and raves about her next spa treatment. She doesn’t discuss politics, movies or books with me. And what did GG do with my favorite dog? The walls in the basement stairwell are blank. Where’s the family pictures, especially the one of the boys and me skiing?

I open the safe in our master bedroom closet. It’s full of handguns but contains no passports! It doesn’t even contain an envelope of leftover Euros. Or Costa Rican Colonias.

I decide to go outside to work in the lawn and garden. But I find only broken-down equipment. The mower won’t start. Didn’t Jim Beam, my small engine mechanic, tune it up recently? The lawn looks like shit. Weeds sprouting. Strips of grass left where the lawnmower has turned. Ragged edging and trees which haven’t been trimmed. Have I been out of town on business? Who’s “doing” the lawn? Those muscle boys with the fluffy teenage hair?

I’m still tall, athletic and tan with plenty of hair on my head and very little on my body. At least there’s that! But then the panic hits. I do have a big case set for trial on Monday!!! It’s imperative that I get my legal career back…I can’t be a “no show” at the trial. Judge Frumpert will dismiss the case. And what if I get my career back, lose the fucking case and come home to Judith instead of Brenda? If I win, I can stomach having a beer with Judith. But if I lose without Brenda to come home to… I cherish how she treated me after that fucking case that only involved a bounced check. The one I tried for a month. I begin dialing GG’s private number.

***

The panic passes. I must not have reached GG. Or maybe I didn’t call him at all? I hope I didn’t miss that trial. I’m in the backyard digging a grave for my little sheltie, Molly. The dog I had before Sugar who is still not here. And I know that my father’s dying in a hospice without me there, while Mother holds his hand. Tears are streaming down my face, mingling with the sweat and dirt from digging Molly’s grave.

“Hey Brenda, can you come out here? I really need you.”

“Adam, keep your shirt on!” Judith screams at the top of her voice.

“Or maybe put it on first and then keep it on! You do look hot without a shirt. But I’m trying to figure out how to start the microwave. Do I push ‘start’ or ‘stop’? And you know how much I hate it when you call me Brenda!”

***

I’m watching the Super Bowl. But it’s not like the other day. My sons Trey and Dylan aren’t there. The “new sons” aren’t even there. It’s just a grandchildren’s event. Judith is older and mostly plastic with Botox highlights. No sign of Brenda; she knew the names of the teams and even some of the players in this year’s game. All my grandsons look like me when I was in the life drawing class. I don’t have any granddaughters at all. I hope I didn’t tell GG they were “high maintenance.” Nor do I have my cute young grandsons who are 9 and 11. Where’s my 13-year-old grandson? The one that runs cross country. And he plays fantasy football with me. He said I looked lonely during the Super Bowl and asked me to sit by him. I look outside. I’m still in fucking Smallville!

Well, maybe I can kill some time on my phone until this nightmare ends. Shit! My phone doesn’t have apps for Alaska Air, United Airlines or Aer Lingus. Not even Southwest and American. I don’t see any emails about our upcoming trips to Italy and Ireland. Where’s our reservation for Costa Rica in June? I thought I just booked a walking tour of Cork, Ireland a few minutes ago. Damn, I'll laugh like hell when Brenda kisses the Blarney Stone. And I'll miss that Italy trip with the Italian restaurant owner from East Nashville. Nashville just got a nonstop flight to Dublin. So I told Brenda we had to go. Shit and shit again!

Oh, snap! Brenda and I can play Dominion while I sort out this mess. And then we’ll watch Survivor 50. Fucking Judith only watches The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. But the Dominion app isn’t on my phone, and I’m not following Survivor 50 on Facebook and X!

In a renewed panic, I rush into the den and turn on the TV. It’s not even set up to record Survivor 50. I’ll fix that. But the notice on the screen reads: Due to an ongoing conflict in negotiating our new contract with Paramount, CBS is temporarily unavailable. Please send an email to complaints@cbs.com to register your displeasure.

I can surely read my latest book. But An Unfinished Love Story by Doris Kearns Goodwin isn’t on my phone! I pick up the hard copy on the coffee table. The one that my friend, Blaine, gave me for my birthday. The cover almost looks the same. But inside, the book has only photos of the hair styles of trophy wives and thirteen-year-old boys. The title of the book is now: Hairstyles of the Rich and Vapid. Fuck! Brenda wanted to read Goodwin’s book after I finish. Judith only reads People Magazine.

I hope to hell Brenda can see well enough to read a book one day. In May, I’ll drive her over to Murfreesboro to see the doc about her next eye operation. The doc that keeps saying, “I know what I’m doing.” Afterwards we’ll have fried chicken in the place with mostly hot waitresses, take home leftovers, and I’ll drink too much Coke Zero despite Brenda’s warnings. Then I’ll be up all night peeing. And smiling about the chicken place and praying for Brenda’s surgeon.

I do have a stacks of hardbound books in my bedroom. All gone!

I must be in my mid 70’s. But I’m skinny and still have all my hair. And I’m not wearing Depends. At least there’s that.

***

Judith is microwaving some frozen shit for dinner. Not even making a big mess for me to complain about cleaning up. Not overlooking two or three crucial steps or ingredients in the recipe. But worst of all, she’s not singing off key. I once told a marriage counselor while separated that I missed Brenda’s off-key singing. Judith barely knows the words to Happy Birthday.

And how I wish Brenda and I could play gin rummy or canasta although she kicks my ass. Judith doesn’t even know how to play Old Maid.

Perhaps I could listen to some music. But Gord’s Gold by Gordon Lightfoot, Willie Nelson’s Greatest Hits and Simon & Garfunkel Live at Central Park must’ve been deleted from my phone. My SiriusXM app is missing.

Judith only likes Bruno Marrs and Taylor Swift.

The end of my penis quits dripping immediately after I pee. At least there’s that.

***

I want my sperm and Brenda’s egg to “make” Trey…and I want almost everything that happens in my life before and after the birth of our first child (except that “incident” with the stripper)…especially sex on the golf course in the moonlight with Brenda and the RV trip to Alaska. We’ll ride horses in Grand Teton National Park, watch whales in Juneau. And then we’ll go to Spain, Costa Rica, Paris and London, and take lots of cruises. I’ll figure out what went wrong with our bookings for Italy and Ireland. I hadn’t yet booked Iceland, another new nonstop service from Nash Vegas that I wrongly assume uses state of the art Air Bus A321lxr planes like Aer Lingus. Fucking Judith wouldn’t know an Air Bus from a biplane. To be fair, Brenda wouldn't know either. She’s just happy the flights are nonstop. I’ll gladly fly to Reykjavik on an Iceland Air 737 Max 8 instead of an Air Bus, if I can just get back to Tennessee.

When I lose the last lawsuit I ever try, Brenda will be waiting.

I must go home now!!! I’m late to feed the little kitty, Willow, next door. Her “parents” are out of town. I’m her Uncle Adam. I just bought her a new toy after a lot of research about what kinds of toys cats like. She crouches at one end of her cat tunnel while I dangle its tempting yellow feather at the other end. Then, she rushes down and attacks it!

I vow never to visit the bidet too early or eat breakfast too late again if only the genie will fix this.

I dial GG’s private number. “You’ve reached a genie that’s no longer working.”

***

Another soft fog lifts. It’s 2001, not long after 9/11. I’m on a bench outside a luxury sleeping car on the overnight train from Paris to Venice. Our car had a private concierge. He knows I’m waiting for Brenda. “Always, we wait for the women,” he says in either a French or Italian accent, pronouncing the word as “vemen.” I hope I’m back on track. At least I’m in Venice and not in Smallville.