Tertium Quid Megan Staffel (bio) Meredith was a good person. She had been young once, but now she had entered the age of entropy, and the great media machine of American culture gunned past her, its probes searching out juveniles. Movies, music, TV shows, like bathing suits and bras, were not created for a person like her. Sixty and beyond, it was the age no one wanted to be reminded of, except of course the other women who had reached it also. They were an army that is no longer needed yet still wanders the countryside, doing all of the things they were taught to do despite the fact that no one was watching. Why wasn’t it a celebration? Birth control, pregnancy scares: relics of a bygone era! The always lovely nipples, once so eager, poking through the blouse at the cry of an infant, any infant—they were no longer on call! No more blood, no more babies, no more milk! No guilt for staying home with sick children. No sick children fending for themselves while mommy worked. The whole megillah, come to an end, and now a different mixture of hormones that required a tweezers to the chin every once in awhile, extracting the male whisker. What was going to happen next? It seemed to Meredith that, in the end, goodness put her on the wrong path; it was time to say what she desired. And she was lucky. She had a husband, also aged, and the two of them had Dr. Zoot. Dr. Zoot was the only one at the frontier who welcomed the troops. Women in their waning years: he liked them. “Yes indeedy,” Dr. Zoot murmured, perched high on a limb of a tree, licking his chops as he watched the troops clanking across the field with their heavy, outdated equipment. Gregory, the husband, was a few years older than Meredith, but he had a head of hair that was still just as thick and deeply black as it had been when he was young. At least his hairline had receded, and those two fresh scoops, Meredith thought, had a certain je ne sais quoi. Well, they were paths to the interior. Scoops of transport. Tomorrow they were going to the Dexlers for a dinner party, but tonight, why, there was nothing on the calendar. “Hey,” Meredith said, draping her arm over Gregory’s shoulder, fitting her palm on his nice plump bottom. “Wanna mess around?” “I’m tired,” he said. “I’m going to bed.” “How about I come up and we see what happens?” [End Page 154] Forget it. A thought not voiced. The husband had been trained. “I’d really look forward to doing that with you some time, but tonight I’m really tired. I have to get horizontal. My back aches.” “You’re sure? I can’t do a little convincing? Maybe the doctor is interested.” “The doctor is not interested.” “How do you know? Sometimes he surprises us.” “Not this time. Trust me, nothing’s going to happen.” Dr. Zoot had grown older too, but he hadn’t noticed. It seemed the male ego was indestructible, while the female ego, those sad, tired soldiers marching through the hot, deserted fields, grew dispirited. Of course, Dr. Zoot was not the actual phallus. He was chief of staff, spokesperson. The phallus itself . . . well, it was one of the mysteries. Beyond reason, definition, understanding, its inscrutability was perhaps what she liked the most. Women were more predictable, and, as far as Dr. Zoot was concerned, the naughtier the better. But any age, any type, was entertaining. He whirled, he danced, he imagined. In the mornings he peed off the porch in full view of the road and wandered around without trousers, his air-cooled parts still pink and bouncy though some of those hairs were gray. In reality—but what was that? And whose? Meredith’s sophomore year roommate, an aspiring fashion designer named Carmen, had created Dr. Zoot in her sketchbook and he’d become the model for her line of gangster-era clothing. She’d given him a sinister look. She’d posed him against crime-scene backdrops: on...