Chapter Nine
With my weekends becoming occupied by my new status of item I decided to take Wednesday off to visit my mom. I drove the 115 miles to my Mom’s, deep in thought. Lots of thoughts, as thoughts go. Thoughts seemed to be the one commodity I was currently abundant in. Good thoughts, questionable thoughts, mildly pessimistic thoughts, and checking the age lines in the rearview mirror thoughts. Yes, unlike Donna, I knew I was getting older. But, men relate to age differently than women. Age is relevant; old is ten years older than your present age. When I was fourteen I spent a few days in the hospital; two days in love with an ‘older’ woman. Years later I realized the woman was a twenty-two year old, fresh out of nursing school youngster. But to a fourteen year old she was a woman of infinite worldliness and ‘adulthood.’
At twenty-six I was ‘accosted’ by a forty-six year old woman, whose dog ate my shoe because I closed the bedroom door on the mutt. The fact the dog ate my shoe is not important. Nor is the tidbit that on that particular day the mutt scared the ‘you know what’ out of me by pressing its cold nose against the bottom of my foot which was hanging off the bed.
Ann thought the ‘nose jolt’ was funny and could not understand why I was upset with her Barf; the dog’s name. “At least Barf didn’t smooch your ass, Dave!”
“At least Barf did not lose its nose...Ann!”
So with door closed, Barf ate my shoe.
What does this have to do with the age is relevant law? From the male perspective, the fact Ann was twenty years older than I was did not raise an eyebrow. None of the guys at the Pub seemed to care if I was ‘too young’ for her. But heaven forbid if a forty-six year old man would hit on a twenty-six year old female; for the twenty year difference would cause the place to describe the female as a ‘girl.’ The other side of the age law is simply put, at fifty a man would think twice about a woman ten years, let alone twenty years, older than he.
Why was I remembering all this? Because there was a part of me that wanted to tell Breen things of my past, things that I never told my ex-wife. Not necessarily the Barfing Story, as Donna refers to it, but the parts of my personality that I only hinted at by keeping stories to myself.
My Mom lives in an assisted living facility and has memory loss. Donna lovingly says my checkered past is the cause. Today’s situation is plastic plants. I buy my Mom fresh cut flowers as often as I can, and I tend to them when I visit; cut the stems and re-water. To the detriment of the plants my Mom, like her neighbors, keeps the room thermostat set at scalding. The plants have to fight to maintain moisture. Also, my Mom says she waters the plants, but I can not seem to find the thimble she uses to do this. So, wanting to keep some color in the room I had a choice, either use a bucket for a vase, or buy fake, realistic looking plants (supplemented by fresh flowers). Fake won.
I walk into Mom’s room and immediately notice water on the carpet. My first reaction was Mom had been running the air conditioner and the water was from condensation. That thought lasted a millisecond because the room was at least 134 degrees (and the residents always have a sweater or jacket handy in case the temp suddenly droops below sun surface temperature). Mom tells me in a proud voice, “I have not forgotten to water the plants. I did what you said and used the glass. Don’t they look great?”
“Outstanding Mom, glad you remembered.”
“Dave, something is leaking by the window, because there seems to be water on the carpet every afternoon.”
“You know Mom, I think these flowers have been trimmed enough and they will probably be trash can material by tomorrow. So let me get rid of them now and I’ll get new ones when I come back.”
“But they don’t look dead?”
“That’s because you did a good job watering them. But it’s the stems that are no longer good, even though the petals look fine.”
On my way out of the building, one of the staff congratulates me on the fake flower idea; obviously Nancy had not seen the fountain on Mom’s windowsill.
As I make the long drive home the words ‘Nancy’ and ‘fountain’ trigger more thoughts relating to the Pub.
Years ago, many years ago, I had said that if I ever got married I would have a bluegrass band and a tequila sunrise fountain for the guests to fill their cups from. My eventual wedding was nothing like that, church and a small reception; tequila sun-risers had become passé anyway.
For my friend Riche’s Nancy it was money, lots of money. Her dad’s money, her granddad’s money, and no doubt more money via a collection plate passed amongst the uncles that worked at the family business. Lavish, yes. And even though he had to wait four and a half years, Gaven had no complaints about the food, the bar, nor the tacky gifts that Nancy picked out for the ushers. Well at least the gifts were not as tacky as the bridesmaids’ dresses. Who thinks up that puffy shoulders stuff of lavender, pink, and off the chart yellows women pick out for their so-called friends?
Pleasantly, senses-dulled by alcohol, we ushers had gathered by the open bar congratulating ourselves that we had made it to the wedding after one hell of a bachelor party. I had kept my promise with Nancy, on penalty of death mind you, by bringing Rich to the church on time and in one piece. No one said that Rich would arrive sober. The ceremony was beautiful. Rich kissed Nancy and all seemed at peace. However, the reception would be strange.
It started with the toast by Nancy’s brother who was pissed that he was not invited to the party, “May Nancy find joy and Rich find happiness in their marriage and may the other women weep of their children’s loss.”
“What the hell kind of toast was that?” says Daddy.
Nancy’s bridesmaids found it amusing, but not Daddy by the look on his face as he stood up.
In situations such as this silence is not the answer, so I did the best thing I could do on short notice, I tipped over a small table on which was a large stack of champagne glasses. The resounding crash distracted the guests and rewarded me with my new best friend, Donna, Nancy’s third or fourth cousin from New York; who was at the affair simply because their uncle was too old to drive.
Laughter filled the hall, the music flowed again, the food and drinks became like rain to thirsting flowers, and Donna gave me her phone number. Nancy and Rich danced their first dance. Daddy danced with his princess. While Gaven grabbed mom, literally, and received a resounding slap across the face.
That said, the best part of the evening was being with Donna. She had a way of taking the opposite view no matter what I said and yet still made me want to talk to her. Donna never visited the Pub on Trinity Street, never spent any time with Rich and Nancy, Gaven, the others, and we did not talk about this part of my history until much later.
After years of having experienced weddings from both sides of the aisle, and even from the front, I am still amazed at the process of weddings. Donna and I both had weddings that were low-key affairs. Oddly, in respect to our closeness, we really did not get to know the others eventual spouse prior to getting married. To this day I feel bad that I missed the boat on her husband Cal. However, if Donna’s wedding was sedate, the separation moment from Cal was primera clase.
It was a windswept, damp March afternoon. Mere moments after a large tandem semi had started to pull out - and with just enough of the damp, fogged diner window clear enough for Cal to see into the world outside - Donna’s blue BMW did a sharp right from the highway into the parking lot. She braked hard to avoid the semi, the tires squealed like a siren, grabbing the attention of everyone in the diner, too include Cal’s girlfriend. Outside, Donna had gunned the BMW, wheels spun for grip, then come to sudden rest in a parking slot. Cal’s girlfriend had looked up at the sound of the hard breaking, saw a new BMW and started to frame ‘that’s what I want Cal’ in her mind. But Cal’s reaction exiled her dream from the realm of possibilities. Cal was in shock, his mouth working the words that silently shattered the moment as his girlfriend read Cal’s lips reflected i
n the diner’s window, his lips saying “my wife!” And, they both instantly knew there was no place in the world to hide.
Cal never regained his composure, only slack jaw dismay as he watched Donna get out of her car and head towards his. Cal watched as Donna removed a fob from her coat pocket, watched the lights of his car signal the doors were being unlocked, watched as Donna took a large plastic bag, open it and dump the contents on his front seat, passenger seat, and on the floor; and then watched as she flicked the empty bag into the car as if the cream leather seated, bright yellow Porsche was nothing more than just another garbage receptacle. No one needed to tell Cal what was in the bag. Donna had forewarned him, “you shit on me Cal and I find out, you’ll be swimming in shit!”
“Cal honey, call the police...”
“SHUT UP!”
“Good idea.” Cal turned to look behind him; I was standing there with a cell phone in one hand and folded papers in the other. “But you should be more respectful to the lady.”
“Cal...”
“Not NOW,” looking at me and trying to gage what to do.
“If you’re wondering Cal...We called her,” holding the cell phone slightly higher, “she was waiting about a half mile up the road...and if you’re wondering Cal, you’re served,” tossing folded papers on the table.
Cal said nothing, just stared at the papers.
“Cal, what’s that?”
“Geeze, will you shut the F'up!”
“Cute Cal, you have such a way with words. Oh, and don’t bother going back for your clothes and nick-knacks...the items have already been moved to Jill here’s apartment. Anyway you get the picture.”
Cal’s girlfriend was scared and Cal, he was dumbfounded, mad, and still looking at the papers, not me. “Jill, I know we have never been properly introduced, but I want you to know your apartment door was relocked so no one will steal Cal’s CD collection.”
Jill was now petrified.
I smiled and turned back to Cal, “If you’re thinking of going back to make sure the guys did not forgot anything, here,” tossing another folded paper on the table, “it says something about not being within five hundred feet of Donna, her residence, her office, and, between the lines, her life!”
“Cal, call the police!”
“Will you for the last time, shut up! Those two standing at the counter, are the police!”
Donna divorced Cal and moved on with her life. I, sarcastically, told her the dog poop routine was real classy, but the cool as ice determination she exhibited as she trashed Cal’s car was really primo. The local police loved the squealing tires, even if she almost hit the semi.
As for Donna, she knew the stunt was immature, but she felt good. “You owe me one Dave for cleaning-up Dog’s yard work.” Dog and his neighborhood buddies received special boxes of treats from Donna.
Cal? He moved to Ohio to sell insurance to farmers, and Donna did not have to be reminded of her mistake by seeing him around town.
Jill? She recovered, installed a deadbolt; but we’re not sure about her motivation in life. Jill dated a doctor who eventually dropped her when she was named in the papers his wife filed. After his divorce, the doctor moved on to Mandy, who thankfully liked his new Z4 BMW better than the possibility of sharing me with a waitress. 'Small world, in slumberville,' as Donna so eloquently likes to refer to the stories that germinate in our bedroom community.
I never liked Cal enough to become friends with him; I tolerated Donna’s husband is the best way sum up our mutual dealings. Cal was just not the type of guy I could be friends with. I remember two occasions that best described the view I had of Cal. One day Cal and I were shopping, and Cal wanted to look at watches. The jewelry store we stopped in had a nice selection of reconditioned high-end watches and the salesman offered to show the watches to Cal. Now Cal acts offended and berates the salesman for thinking that he, Cal, was too poor to buy a new watch. I am talking ‘loud, obnoxious, embarrassing rude.’ I walked out and waited for him out of sight of the people in the store. A few minutes later Cal comes out and tells me that the salesman had some nerve to suggest that a second-hand watch was a good buy, “No way, why should I buy someone else’s bad f'ing luck.”
“Cal, I believe that phrase deals with used cars, not reconditioned watches.”
“I’m not talking about the shit thing running; I mean luck, as in good and bad f''ing luck!”
Cal was hot, and when Cal was hot, the “F'en” word flew; my mind is doing calculations of how many times will Cal creatively use the word before we get back in the car and out of public earshot. He tells me – placing a form of the word in front of every other word – about a man where he works who went to a jeweler and the salesman talked him into buying a used watch. The previous customer’s wife had returned the watch – minus a small fee - to the jeweler because the husband had died the first day he wore it. Cal felt an educated man like his co-worker would be able to read the tea leaves. But no, Cal says the fool buys the watch and wears it to work two days later. “The asshole shows off the shit watch and, you know f'er-ing what?”
“He died?”
“Damn f-it-to-ya right. He dropped dead on the way home; two f-it-to-ya days after he started wearing it.”
"Cal, I wonder if the next owner died in three days; the jeweler is on to something.”
Cal did not laugh, the man was serious; he was serious about the story.
Using the F word so readily in public was Cal’s way of being macho. At least Cal knew to keep the language un-peppered when he was around Linda; because Linda complained enough about me using the word to express exasperation with lost items and to denote situations that were steps above ‘ooops’ and ‘oh shit.’
When you think about it, Cal did not like me either. It was shortly after Cal married Donna that he asked me to do him a favor and I refused. Well, I more than refused. Cal wanted to join the Wednesday night poker game; a really low stakes neighborhood get-together and the guys are always receptive of new players.
The first night Cal losses about $20 and he asks me not to tell Donna; like I am going to keep tabs on him. At the next game Cal loses about $30, and again asks me not to tell Donna. Week three it’s $40 and the same don’t tell Donna request; but this time he also wants to barrow some money so Donna won't know he’s broke.
“At this rate Cal you should be down $1,350 by summer recess.”
Cal was not pleased, “Just don’t tell Donna, right? You going to lend me some money so she doesn’t know I lost my shirt?”
“No, but I have an old shirt in the trunk of the car you can have.”
Cal does not like me.
While I knew Cal was a jerk, I had missed reading Cal the cheat; not sure why. A psychologist friend said a ‘Cal’ is hard to spot by acquaintances. It is only over time his true colors manifest themselves, and by the time an acquaintance reads them, it’s too late. Donna at least had the courage to seek professional help in dealing with their marriage problems and seek legal recourse the moment Cal crossed over the line. Thankfully Cal was not physically abusive; but nevertheless egotistical, unloving, and, eventually, cheating mental abusive.
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