©2000 Bonnie Wren
All Rights Reserved

Prozac Summer

It'd been a bad day.

"Didi," I said, holding my head in my hands, "I think I need to go on Prozac."

"You? On Prozac?" She snorted, wiping a speck of dust from her spotless kitchen island. "Honey, if anybody needs Prozac, it's me."

She pointed her thumb at her chest and then used it to scrape something microscopic off the counter.

"Hell," she added, flicking the mote into the trash, "even my mother tells me I need Prozac."

Didi is a very good friend. There's absolutely no situation so bad she won't insist on having one that's worse. I appreciate that kind of effort in a relationship.

"We'll go on it together," she said soothingly. "We'll be the Prozac twins."

As I thought this prospect over, Didi's husband Carl walked into the kitchen.

"Your mother is right," he told her as he opened a cupboard and pulled out a glass. Didi closed the cupboard door and polished the knob. When he took a beer out of the refrigerator, she wiped the handle down before he could close the door.

Carl twisted the top off the Sam Adams. "Didi's a little too high-strung," he mused. "We both know she needs Prozac. The question is, why do you need it?"

"Carl!" I scolded, hoping his wife was ignoring him as usual. Didi may be wound a little too tight sometimes, but Carl can be totally tactless, and Eli Lilly hasn't developed anything for that yet.

Didi watched Carl pour the beer into the glass. Then she whisked the bottle and its cap into the trash and wiped up the wet ring left on the countertop.

Carl took a couple gulps of his beer. "Come on," he said, looking me over as he politely suppressed a belch. "Tell us why you think you need Prozac."

Suddenly what Carl said finally worked its way into Didi's brain--and let's just say Hell hath no fury like the woman whose husband tells her to do what she was thinking of doing anyway.

Her dishcloth stopped in mid-stroke. "I don't need Prozac," she shook it at him indignantly, "and neither does she! If anybody needs Prozac, it's you, you... you moron!"

My exit cue. As they snarled and snapped at each other I got up to leave. "Maybe all of us need to go on Prozac," I muttered.

Unfortunately, Carl has ears like a bat. He shifted his attention to my direction. "And why, may I ask," he demanded, "do you think I need to go on Prozac?"

And how, I wondered, was I going to answer with my foot stuck in my mouth? "Uh--uh," I stammered, Carl glaring at me. "Uh, what I really--what I meant was..."

Then inspiration shoved past the flop sweat.

"Because," I said quickly, "you two push each other's buttons without even realizing it. You get mad over nothing--over perceived slights. What I should've said was if Prozac can help you stop being so trigger happy, then you should both go on it." I paused for dramatic effect. "After all, deep down you love each other, right?"

There was no answer.

"Well, don't you?"

They were quiet.

Wow, I thought, maybe I've hit a nerve. Maybe I just gave them an insight that will improve their marriage. I stood a little straighter.

Didi stared into space, absentmindedly plucking at the dishcloth. Carl leaned back against the kitchen island and took another swig. He swished it around in his mouth.

Then Didi's eyes came back into focus and she looked at me.

"That reminds me! Do you know how to prune rose bushes?"

"Dammit!" shouted Carl, leaping away from the kitchen island. I leapt, too. "I keep telling you we don't need to prune those goddamn rose bushes!"

They didn't even notice I was gone. Safe at home, I could still hear the strains of their argument floating over the cul-de-sac.

I decided I didn't need Prozac.

A muzzle, maybe, but not Prozac.

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