Two's company and three's a crowd. So what am I doing here sitting with Ken and Barbie in sub-freezing weather watching the Baltimore Ravens and the Pittsburgh Steelers fighting it out for a playoff spot?
Well, if you want to know the truth, they invited me. They had an extra ticket and figured I had nothing better to do on a cold Sunday afternoon and they were right. Actually, their names aren't Ken and Barbie. Our circle of friends calls them that because they fit the mold. You know, all lovey-dovey, the Perfect Couple. They look the part too, Ken with his blond, athletic, all-American good looks; and Barbie, with her blond, girl next-door looks and hourglass figure. "Ken" and "Barbie" are really Keith and Petra Ash, and I'm Doug Raskin, watching these two love birds arguing up a storm.
I should say ex-love birds because it's no secret that these two are having problems in their three-year old marriage. Being sweethearts from high school into college doesn't guarantee matrimonial bliss as these two now know. They might have tied the knot too soon, too young. I'm also in my mid-twenties and there's no way I'm ready to tether myself to one person, presumably for the rest of my life. The same goes for others in our crowd, many of us friends since high school. 'A marriage made in heaven' is the way one of Petra's girlfriends (with a touch of envy) put it at their wedding, some dreamy eyed, naive chick who didn't know better.
Keith and Petra have had me over their apartment several times since then. Sometimes I bring a date; other times I'm alone. Lately, I've come up with excuses not to go, uncomfortable with the tension between them, the sniping and nitpicking. I figured they'd call a truce here, watching football in an open air stadium. I figured wrong.
"You promised we'd go out to eat after the game," Petra insists after Keith says he's looking forward to eating Petra's leftover meatloaf.
"No I didn't," Keith says. "I merely made the suggestion."
She adjusts her black, purple, white and gold Baltimore Ravens knit wool cap. "No! You said we're going out. 'We'll go to Bowman's' is what you said."
Keith smirks and shakes his head. "Don't put words in my mouth, Petra. I know what I said. I mentioned Bowman's as a possibility, not a certainty."
Glancing sideways, I see her lips forming the word "cheapskate." The steam floating from her mouth has taken on a double meaning: hot breath, cold heart.
Her anger notwithstanding, she looks so cute in that cap. Her long, curly blond locks fall out of it and then drop below her shoulders. Even wearing a heavy coat, you can tell she's built just as fine as those Ravens cheerleaders on the sidelines. Look, I'll admit it, Petra turned my engine when I first met her way back in tenth grade. In fact, we even went out a few times, chauffeured by our parents because we were not yet driving age. There was that first date at a bowling alley and then to a swim party at Red Fern, Petra's family's swim and tennis club. I felt important and proud to be with her, this girl that all the boys gawked at as she strode by in her bikini, wowing them with her shapely young teen body. We even necked a little in the cabana area. Then she hooked up with Keith and that was that. In the ensuing years, I managed to stay friends with both of them while never losing my ardor for Petra.
"Come on, guys, you're missing the action," I plead, stomping my feet to keep the circulation going.
It's third down and three and the Steelers are inside the red zone, threatening to add another six points to their nine point lead. My "hosts" take notice and scream with the rest of the fans, trying to drown out Ben Roethlisberger's play calling. When a Ravens defender blocks Big Ben's pass into the end zone, Pittsburgh settles for a field goal.
Keith and Petra sit tight-lipped, not looking at each other as the Steelers prepare to kick off. I hunch my shoulders against the cold, thinking how great a steaming cup of hot chocolate would taste. "Hot chocolate anyone? I'm buying."
Petra nods yes. Then, pointing her heavily gloved thumb over her shoulder toward Keith, she says, "I wouldn't expect this skinflint to buy."
"I'll take one too," Keith says. "And while you're at it, throw an ice cube into Petra's cup. She needs to chill."
Petra glares at her husband before I disappear into the bowels of M&T Bank Stadium. When I return with our drinks, encased in a cardboard holder, I find them bickering, pecking at each other like two angry birds going beak to beak. Meanwhile, the crowd is roaring. The Ravens are now first and ten on Pittsburgh's forty-yard line, but K and P seem more interested in tussling than watching the game. They raise their voice as if they're trying to compete with this enthusiastic crowd, on their feet, cheering the Ravens' drive downfield. "You're a man of principle, my ass," Petra growls, between sips of her drink. "A man of principle doesn't—"
"Shut the fuck up, Petra," Keith snaps. "As usual, you have no idea what you're talking about."
"Guys, come on," I shout against the crowd's roar, "Joe just gained a chunk of yardage on a quarterback sneak."
They manage to cease long enough to watch Joe Flacco complete a fifteen-yard pass, putting the Ravens at first and goal. On the next play, running back Alex Collins takes it in for the score, followed by Justin Tucker's field goal. The third quarter ends with the Steelers 12, the Ravens 9.
The Ravens enjoy a winning record at home, so I'm optimistic for them to go ahead in the fourth quarter. But I'm wondering if I'll even get to see it. K and P are at each other's throats again, with Keith threatening to leave if Petra doesn't shut up. Her problem with Keith's frugal ways segues into her suspicions about an affair, which he vehemently denies. He then goes on the attack about what a slob she is around the house. "I'm tired of being your janitor," he says, "tired of cleaning up after you."
"Then get yourself a fucking maid," she snarls. She holds her hot chocolate against her chest, swinging her arm back and forth as if she's about to douse his face with it. "And speaking of messes," she adds, "you ought to clean up your own before you start in on mine."
"You're paranoid," Keith barks, confirming my guess that Petra had referred to his alleged affair. "You know, Petra, your allegations make me think that you're the one who's cheating." He turns toward me. "Sorry, Doug, you shouldn't have to be dragged into the middle of all this."
Petra looks at me sympathetically. "Aren't you glad you're not married?"
I shrug, tell her that being single has its issues, too. What I don't say is that being single also gives one the freedom to hightail it out of these kinds of contretemps. Speaking of escapes, I can't help but regret them picking me up—I should have taken my own car.
They manage to stay civil through Pittsburgh's first fourth quarter possession, one that forces them to punt on fourth down. Then things flare up again. Petra once again starts needling Keith about his so-called extracurricular activities. "Why shouldn't I be suspicious? You haven't fucked me in a month." At least she has the presence of mind to utter that second part in a near whisper.
Still, Keith looks around, checking for eavesdroppers. Then, in subdued voice, he says, "Well, maybe it's because you're not very fuckable."
He can't mean in a physical sense, because she's still damn hot. Keeps herself that way through Brick Bodies, I've heard. Obviously, he means her attitude, though I can't put all the blame on Petra. I've been in enough romantic liaisons to know it takes two.
She fires back. "Oh, is that right? Well, I'd think you'd find yourself in the minority there, pal. Most men find me extremely fuckable."
When she looks at me, I throw my hands up, my sign to leave me out of it. Not that I disagree.
Meanwhile, cool Joe is moving the Ravens downfield. So far, they've converted on two third downs during this possession. The crowd, sensing a score, roars.
Keith's roar has nothing to do with this game. "Most men wouldn't put up with your shit, no matter what you look like. You might find yourself a very lonely woman some day."
Petra gets in his face. "And just what is THAT supposed to mean, jerk-off? You're threatening to leave the marriage? Is that what you mean?"
I shake my head and take another sip of hot chocolate just as Flacco hits Breshad Perriman in the end zone to pull the Ravens ahead by three. A field goal makes it six, and the crowd is on its feet, yelling and screaming, stamping their feet, waving team banners.
Keith looks too distraught to care. Turning to me, he says, "Take her off my hands, I've had it."
Despite the crowd noise, Petra hears every word. "Really, well I've had it, too, you big loser."
The next thing I know, we're heading for the exits, with the game deep into the fourth quarter. Petra refuses to walk beside her husband, and that seems okay with Keith. He's storming ahead, taking long strides, widening the distance even more. Being around his height of six-foot two, with long legs, I can keep up with him. However, that will drop the five-foot four Petra entirely, so I stay with her. It only seems right. She takes my hand and squeezes it, then apologizes. "This wasn't fair to you, I'm sorry."
Abruptly, she stops on the spiral exit ramp, hides her face and begins to cry. Keith is yards ahead now, mingling with the few others that decided to leave before the game ends. I wrap my arms around her, offering words of comfort.
She looks up, chokes back sobs and wipes her eyes. "Doug, I don't want to go home with that man. He told you to take me off his hands. So, can you, at least for tonight?"
This is a first for me, comforting a distraught, married woman on the ramp of a football stadium, pleading with me to take her away from her hubby. I begin to rub her back. "Petra, I can't do that. Look, I'm sure you and Keith will work things out once you get home."
When she shakes her head and begins to cry once more, I move us over to the railing. "I don't think so, Doug," she sobs. "We've tried to work things out over the past year, tried to get along, tried to recapture what we had back in the day, with little success. We even tried family therapy a couple times. Didn't work. The truth is, we're starting to hate each other."
Lost for words, I put my arm around her and lead her down the ramp toward the exit and parking lot. I can't help but notice that the crowd has gone strangely quiet—not a good sign if you're a Ravens fan. Approaching their aging black Honda Accord, we decouple. Keith is already behind the wheel, with the car idling, the heat on full blast, the radio tuned to the game. We climb in, Petra in the front seat, me in back.
Keith slaps the steering wheel. "Shit, they blew it," he says, shaking his head at the injustice of a Steelers last minute touchdown and field goal. "What is it with this Ravens team? Against Pittsburgh, they always seem to unravel late in the fourth quarter."
"Flacco's good but he's no Big Ben," I offer.
"That's for sure," Keith says. "Maybe it's time for Ozzie to search for another QB."
Petra, now silent, sits with her head down. I can't help but wonder if she, like me, is thinking about something else that appears to be unraveling.
Silent tension fills the car as we creep along through the bumper-to-bumper maw of downtown Baltimore. Then, as we exit onto the ramp of I-83, conduit to the suburbs, Petra turns to Keith and says, "I don't want to go home with you, not tonight."
Keith nods. "And I'm not crazy about being around you either."
