The Trials and Tribulations of - Mike Resnick, ebook
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THE TRIALS AND TRIBULATIONS OF MYRONBLUMBERG, DRAGONby Mike ResnickSylvia's always after me.#"It's a skin condition," she says."It's a wart," I say."It's a skin condition and you're going to the doctor anddon't touch me until he gives you something for it."So I go to the doctor, and he gives me something for it, andshe makes me sleep in the guest room anyway.#"Myron, you're green," she says."You mean like I don't know the ropes, or you mean like I gotptomaine poisoning from your tuna salad?" I ask."I mean like you're the same color as the grass," she says."Maybe it's the lotion the doctor gave me," I say."It doesn't come off on your shirts," she says."So maybe it all dried up," I say."Maybe," she says, "but stay in your room when I have thegirls over for mah jong."#"I told you not to smoke in bed," she says."I know," I says."Well, then?" she says."Well then, _what_?" I say."Well then why are you smoking in bed?" she says."I'm not," I say."Then how did your pillow get scorched?" she says."Not from the passion of your love-making, that's for sure,"I say."Don't be disgusting," she says.Then I belch, and out comes all this smoke and fire, and shesays if I ever lie to her again she's going to give me a rollingpin upside my head, and then she walks out of the house before Ican tell her I haven't lit up a cigarette in four days.#"It looks like a cancerous growth," she says."It's just a swelling," I say. "There must be a busted springin the chair.""You should see a doctor," she says."Last time you sent me to a doctor I turned green," I say."This time you'll see a specialist," she says."A specialist in swellings?" I ask."A specialist in tails," she says.#"Well?" she asks."Well what?""What did he say?""He says it looks like a tail," I say."Hah!" she says. "I _knew_ it!""I wonder if our insurance covers tails," I say."Is he going to amputate it?" she asks."I don't think so," I say. "Why?""Because even if our insurance covers getting rid of tails,it doesn't cover growing them," she says. "What am I going to dowith you, Myron? We've got a bar mitzvah to attend this Saturday,and you're green and all covered with scales and you keep belchingsmoke and fire and now you're growing a tail. What would peoplesay?""They'd say, 'There goes a well-matched couple'," I answer."That is _not_ funny," she says. "What am I going to do withyou? I mean, it was bad enough when you just sat around the housewatching football and reading _Playboy_.""You might fix some dinner while you're thinking about it," Isay."What do you want?" she asks. "Saint George?"I am about to lose my temper and tell her to stop teasing meabout my condition, when it occurs to me that Saint George wouldgo very well with pickles and relish between a couple of pieces ofrye bread.#It is when my arms turn into an extra set of legs that shereally hits the roof."This is just too much!" she says. "It's bad enough that Ican't let any of my friends see you and that we had to redecoratethe house with asbestos wallpaper" -- it's mauve, and she _hates_mauve -- "but now you can't even button your own shirts or tieyour shoes.""They don't fit anyway," I point out."See?" she says, and then repeats it: "See? Now we'll have toget you a whole new wardrobe! Why are you doing this to me,Myron?""To _you_?" I say."God hates me," she says. "I could have married Nate Sobelthe banker, or Harold Yingleman who's become a Wall Street bigshot, and instead I married you, and now God is punishing me, asif watching you spill gravy onto your shirt for 43 years wasn'tpunishment enough.""You act like _you're_ the one who's turning into a dragon,"I complain."Oh, shut up and stop feeling sorry for yourself," she says.She holds out the roast. "It's a bit rare. Blow on it and makeyourself useful." She pauses. "And if you breathe on me, I'll giveyou such a slap."That's my Sylvia. One little cockroach can send her screamingfrom the house. She sees a spider, she calls five differentexterminators. God forbid a mouse should come into the garagelooking for a snack.But show her a dragon, and suddenly she's Joan of Arc andWonder Woman and Golda Meier, all rolled into one steel-eyed_yenta_ with blue hair and a double chin.#"Where are you going?" she says."Out," I say."Out where?" she says."Just _out_," I say. "I have been cooped up in this house foralmost two months, and I have to get some fresh air.""So you think you're just going to walk down the street likeany normal person?" she says. "That maybe you'll trade jokes withBernie Goldberg and flirt with Mrs. Noodleman like you always do?""Why not?" I say."Well, I won't hear of it," she says. "I'm not going to havethe whole neighborhood talking about how Sylvia Blumberg married a_dragon_, for God's sakes!"I figure it is time to make a stand, so I say, "I am goingout, and that's that!""Don't you speak to me in that tone of voice, Myron!" shesays, and I stop just before she reaches for the rolling pin. Shepauses for a moment, then looks up. "If you absolutely _must_ gofor a walk," she says, "I will put a leash on you and telleveryone you are my new dog.""I don't look very much like a dog," I say."You look even less like Myron Blumberg," she answers. "Justdon't talk to anyone while we're out. I couldn't bear thehumiliation."So we go out, and when Mrs. Noodleman passes by Sylvia tellsme to hold my breath and not exhale any fire, and then we come toBernie Goldberg, who is just coming home from shopping at thedelicatessan, and Sylvia tells him I am her new dog, and he askswhat breed I am, and she says she's not sure, and he says hethinks maybe I am imported from Ireland, and then Sylvia yanks onthe leash and we walk to the corner."He's still looking at you," she whispers."So?" I say."I don't think he believes you're a dog.""There's nothing we can do about that," I say."Yes there is," she says, leading me over to a fire hydrant."Lift your leg on this. That will convince him.""I don't think dragons lift their legs, Sylvia," I say."Why do you persist in embarrassing me?" she says. "Lift yourleg!""I can't," I say."Whoever heard of a dragon that couldn't lift its leg?" sheinsists. "You don't have to do anything disgusting. It's just toshow that know-it-all Bernie Goldberg."I try, and I fall over on my side."What good are you?" demands Sylvia, as Bernie stares at me,blinking his eyes furiously behind his thick bifocals."Help me up," I says. "I'm not used to having all theselegs.""Myron," she says as she drags me to my feet, "the situationis becoming intolerable. Something's got to be done before youmake me the laughing-stock of the entire neighborhood."#"This is the last straw!" she says, ripping open theenvelope."What is?" I ask."The state has refused to extend your unemployment benefits.They don't care that you're a dragon, as long as you're an able-bodied one." She glares at me. "And you're going through twentypounds of meat a day. Do you know how much that costs?"I shrug. "What can I say? Dragons get hungry.""Why are you always so selfish, Myron?" she says. "Why can'tyou graze in the back yard like a horse or something?""I don't think dragons like grass," I say."And that's it?" she demands. "You won't even try?""I'll try, I'll try," I say with a sigh, and go out to theback yard. It doesn't look like Caesar salad, but I close my eyes,lean down, and open my mouth.Sylvia hides me in the basement just before the firedepartment comes to save what's left of the garage.#"You did that on purpose!" she says accusingly after thefiremen have left."I didn't," I say. "It's just that my flame seems to begetting bigger every day.""While our bank account is getting smaller," she says."Either you get a job, or you'll have ask your brother Sidney fora loan."It is an easy choice, because when Sidney dies they will needa crowbar to pry his fingers off the first dollar he ever made,and every subsequent one as well, so I go out to look for work.#You would be surprised at how difficult it is for an honest,industrious dragon to find work in our neighborhood. StuartKominsky puts me on as a sand-blaster, but when I melt the stonehe fires me after only half a day on the job. Herbert Baumann saysmaybe I could give kids rides on my back when he reopens thecarnival, but it is closed until next spring. Phil Rosenheim,who has never struck me as a bigot before, says he won't hireanyone with green skin. Muriel Weinstein tells me she'd be happyto take me on just in case some out-of-town dragons come by tolook at some of her real estate listings, and she'll call me themoment that happens, but somehow...
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