February Sucks: Same Old Me (3of4)

"Huh. You know, Linda hasn't said 'I'm Sorry' even once? Not once."

"God. Why the hell not?"

"For one, I haven't been around for her to say it. But more importantly, I think she genuinely believes that she hasn't done anything wrong. I'm the asshole for being a spoilsport."

"Even now?"

"Especially now."

"God, I'm sorry, Jim."

"Thanks. I guess. I... well, that explains a lot."

"So. Um. Are you ready for the worst part?"

"It gets worse?"

"Yeah. Um. The reason you came to my office. You wanted to know what the girls were up to. Well, beyond their usual 'cheating is fun' bullshit. Jane tells me all that stuff now, because that's the agreement we made with our counselor. Anything 'The Boys Aren't Supposed To Know,' she immediately reports to me. If she starts trying to keep shit like that from me, our marriage is broken. She knows that. In return, I'm supposed to keep their deep dark secrets. I'm breaking that rule now, but Linda flaunted it in your face. Hell, they all did, so it's not a secret anymore."

"Shit. Yes. So what's the worst part?"

"The reason the girls picked that club and that hotel. There are rumors that Marc LaValliere, the hometown hero and all-around hunk, likes to go there and steal married women away from their husbands. They wanted this to happen, Jim. They all did. They didn't think it would happen to them, but it was like buying a lottery ticket. Just the idea of it, the thrill of it, was fun for them. That's according to Jane. When it actually happened, they were all super excited, it was just like they'd talked about, just like what they'd dreamed of. They were all too caught up in it to be concerned with how any of the husbands would react. Least of all, you."

***

I didn't remember much after that. I was just stunned. I didn't remember leaving the coffee shop, or driving my car, or going to The Willing Mind. But somehow, that's where I ended up. I understood why when I went in the door and saw Lynn. She smiled and waved me over to the bar.

"Jim! Just you today?"

"Yeah. And I'm not staying long. I wanted... I need... ah."

"Sit. Have you eaten?"

"Not much appetite, I'm afraid."

"How about some loaded potato soup? On the house. You'll want it once you smell it."

"I... all right."

She bustled back to the kitchen and emerged with an iced tea and a crock of soup. The place was far from busy. She was right about how smelling it would activate my hunger.

"Lynn, I wanted to ask you something. Specifically."

"Shoot."

"I didn't tell you where we were when Linda dumped me, did I?"

"No."

"You're pretty well informed about what goes on in this town. When we were here on Sunday, you said that LaValliere was a notorious poon hound. I think that's how you put it. Do you know if he has any specific haunts? Any special hunting grounds? Anywhere that married women LOOKING to get picked up by the local Hunk might go to make that happen?"

"Oh, well there's... Damn. Jim. Do you think this wasn't just a random thing? Do you think your wife put herself out there hoping this would happen?"

"I have reason to suspect as much, yes. Do you know where these places are?"

"There's a bar downtown. It's called 'Cahoots' or something. Oh, and the Irish Pub. Brennagan's. He's been known to show up there. And on Friday nights, he sometimes goes to that dance hall that's got the deal with the hotel. They both start with the letter M."

"Morrison's. The Madison."

"That's them. He rents out the penthouse at the hotel and takes his conquests there. That's the word on the street, anyway."

"Three guesses as to where Linda and her friends decided to take their husbands that Friday night. Go on. Guess."

"Oh, no. Oh, Jim, I'm sorry."

"Don't be. You're corroborating evidence I've heard elsewhere. And you were right about the soup, too. Thank you."

"Hey. Anytime."

"You don't know anybody else that this has happened to? Any names?"

"No. But that shouldn't be too hard to find out. I mean, it's happened more than a few times."

"Keep your ear to the ground about that. Maybe I can start some kind of support group for jilted husbands."

"Not a bad idea. Of course, if you want to find that, you could just show up at any bar."

I snorted. Then I was saddened by the fact that she was almost certainly correct.

***

Next stop, the Bank. I needed cash for bribe money. Then, on to The Madison. It was too early to try Morrison's, I doubted the club would even be open yet, but the hotel surely would be. Fortune was smiling on me as I recognized the desk girl from when I checked out on Friday. Robin. That's right.

"Hello, Robin..." I said as I approached the desk.

"Good afternoon, sir." She'd barely looked at me. Then it flashed on her how I'd known her name from far enough away that I couldn't be expected to read her name tag. She looked up and was plainly startled into the situation. "OH! Oh, my. I'm sorry. It's you. It's... um."

"Jim Johnson. You'll remember me from Friday night. My wife, Linda, ran out on me with Marc LaValliere."

"Right. Oh, gosh, I'm so sorry about that. It was... you didn't say..."

"Marc LaValliere."

"Right."

"You don't seem surprised it was him."

"Ah. No."

"He does this kind of thing a lot, doesn't he?"

"I, um, I really shouldn't say."

"Because he's an important client and an important man, and I'm sure he tips well." I produced a hundred-dollar bill that I'd withdrawn from the bank, took her wrist, and placed it into her hand. "Word on the street is that he rents out the Penthouse here and uses it for his flings with married women. Listen. What you should or should not say is up to you. I get it. This is a hotel. People Cheat. Cheaters are an important part of your business. Celebrities are, too, it's good marketing, and there's plenty of gossip and word of mouth about this kind of thing. Marc LaValliere has a lot of charisma and pulls a lot of influence. I'm sure that your bosses don't want you to rock the boat, so it's an unspoken part of your job to look the other way. I understand. Don't worry. I'm not going to raise a fuss and I'm certainly not going to involve you. All I want... ALL I want, is just a little bit of information, so I'm not operating completely in the dark during the divorce proceedings."

"Divorce? I... I'm sorry to hear that, sir."

"Yes. She abandoned me and our kids for him. Emma is six. Tommy is four. Here, look." I held up my phone with a picture of all of us together, hugging each other. "Our family is breaking up because that man's made a hobby of stealing other men's wives. Apparently, he's famous for it. I didn't know that on Friday. He must have a really good PR team. And a lot of people are enabling it."

I hadn't been planning to cry, certainly not as part of an effort to be manipulative, but I couldn't stop myself. I couldn't hide it. I'm not that good of an actor.

"Oh. Oh, sir. Oh, Mister Johnson."

"Just Jim."

"Jim."

"I just need to know... he was here, wasn't he? He took her to the penthouse that night. He must have. The whole deal between this place and Morrison's, that's part of it, isn't it?"

"I, um."

"You shouldn't say. Yeah. How often does this kind of thing happen? How many marriages has he broken up? How many families has he destroyed?"

"I really don't know, Jim. I'm sorry."

"More than just mine, I'm sure."

"I... ah. Ah. Yes. Look, you're right, okay? I'll get in trouble if I say anything more."

"Then don't. You don't need to say a thing. Just tell me if I'm wrong."

"I... hang on." She scribbled something on a little square of paper and handed it to me. She spoke quickly and softly. "There's an app called 'Smokesignal.' It's for secure messaging. The communications permanently vanish after you see them, and you can't take screenshots. I wrote my username down for you. I can't be on my phone at work, but I will get back to you if you message me. I can't do this in person. I can't say anything out loud. It would mean my job. Okay?"

"Okay, Robin. Thank you."

"Thank me later. Have a Good Day, Sir!" she said in an elevated voice, for the benefit of anyone who might be listening.

***

Next stop, Morrison's. It was still early, but maybe I'd get lucky and see someone who was working there on Friday night. On the plus side, there probably wouldn't be any bouncers. If the bouncers were here, they'd kick me out before I could say Jiminy Cricket. I doubted I'd have any better luck with the manager. He or she had to be in on it, too.

No luck. That bartender who looked at me funny was not there. None of the staff looked familiar. It was so early, they were probably only half staffed up. Only one of the busboys looked at me with any curiosity. Maybe it was because I was wandering around looking lost. Or, maybe not.

I palmed a bill from my wallet in a way he'd be sure not to miss and went up to him.

"You're that guy," he said, "Friday night. You tossed a drink on that lady's boobs."

"Guilty." I shook his hand and he took the bill.

"Not here," he whispered. "I have a break in twenty minutes. Meet me out back around the corner from where the guys are smoking."

"Thank you." I left before anyone else noticed me.

Thirty minutes later, he showed up. "Sorry," he said, "Got hung up. Didn't want to look too eager to leave."

"I get it. Look, my wife took off with Marc LaValliere that night. That's why I was so upset."

"Yeah, I know. He does that a lot. Friday... she had dark hair, wearing a slinky blue dress, right?"

"That's her."

"I saw them going towards the Madison. I hear that's where he takes them."

"Yeah. I figured that out already. Look. What I need to know is, do you know anybody else that he's done this to? Any names?"

"No. I don't even know your name, mister."

"Jim Johnson."

"I'm Jeremy. So... I guess you're wondering why he went after your wife, specifically."

"I, ah. Well, yeah, now that you mention it."

"That's easy. You were the happiest couple there. The way you were with each other. The way you looked at each other. The way you were touching each other with your hands. Your friends all obviously admired your relationship. That's what got his attention. He went after you both, as a couple, even more than he went after her. He likes to fuck things like that up. It's like a power thing for him. Like, it's his fetish."

Fuck. That fit.

"So, Mister Johnson. Anything else I can help you with?"

"Actually, yes. Um. I need to know when this happens again. With Linda, or with anybody. If I give you my number... or, no, wait, do you use something called Smoke Signal?"

He looked surprised. Maybe I was too old for that app's demographic or something.

"Yeah. I'm DeezNutz5624. What's your username?"

"I don't have one yet. How about JiltedJim-something?"

"That'll work. It happens on Friday nights, usually. I'll ping you when I see anything. I take it that you'll, ah, express your appreciation?"

"Yeah. I'm not rich, but I'll take care of you. Spread the word, but don't let your bosses know. I'm pretty sure he's greasing their palms."

"No problem. Most of the people who work here hate the management anyway. Just don't make any trouble I might get tangled up in."

"You bet."

"I gotta get back. I see anything, anybody sees anything, I'll ping you."

"Nice meeting you, Jeremy."

***

I wasn't hopeful about Brennagan's, but after two pints of stout I didn't particularly want, I earned the notice of a sympathetic bartender named Sean, who got a fifty dollar tip for a promise to give me a heads-up about the Asshole, and a cocktail waitress at Cahoots named Kelly got a similar deal. Everybody got pictures of Linda and Dee to pass around to their friends, too.

I couldn't tell you what I had for dinner, if I even had any. I checked into the airport hotel, downloaded the SmokeSignal app and created the username 'JiltedJim2681.' I sent a message to DeezNutz5624 and RockinRobin2558 to say Hi and get in their contact lists. 1234GoodForYou was Sean and KillYaKwik7777 was Kelly. I got brief acknowledgements from everybody and the messages later vanished without a trace, as promised. I couldn't use anything they sent to me as evidence, but at least I had something I didn't have before.

I also saw that Linda had been sending me messages again. I deleted them all without reading any of them. I knew what she'd only be saying whatever the fuck she thought she needed to say to somehow fix this unfortunate mess, which is somehow not her fault. Followed by Promises, Promises, Promises. Finally, she'd desperately try to persuade me to get over my shit and accept my fate as her stupid cuck of a husband whose feelings don't matter. Again.

I also knew what she would NOT be saying: "I'm sorry. I really fucked up. This is the worst thing I ever did. I regret what I did not only because I hurt you, but because it was wrong for me to do, and I really wish I hadn't done it. I can't imagine what you're going through, and it's killing me that I caused it. I'm a terrible wife and a terrible person. I completely understand why you have to divorce my lying, cheating, selfish ass." Yeah, nothing even close to any of that was ever going to come from her.

I lay back in the bed and stared at the ceiling. I was on top of the covers, fully dressed but with my shoes kicked off, knowing that no sleep would come to me that night before I'd have to fly to Atlanta.

I was blessedly wrong, and almost missed my plane.

***

Removing myself from the city, and from the whole situation, was perhaps the smartest thing I did at the time. All of a sudden, my problems were literally a thousand miles away, and I had something to concentrate on besides the flaming vortex of negativity that had consumed me for the past week. I spent most of Friday and Saturday going over the files Larry had given me and I thought I saw where most of the problem areas were. Also, the hotel had a small gym, and I remembered Pete's advice. I had nothing else to do, so I walked on the treadmill and tried some of the exercises described in little pictures on the machines. There was a rack of free weights, too, but I didn't really know how to use them. I just kind of did what I thought you'd do, got tired and sore, then stopped.

On Sunday, I called L.W. He asked how things went with the counselor, and I laid out the whole interaction, more or less, right up to the point where she'd called the Asshole "Chivalrous."

"Chivalrous, you say?" I could hear the old man's eyes twinkling.

"That's what she said. At that point, my brain melted and I couldn't even be on the same planet as her. I had to get out of that room."

"Well, for what it's worth, she might be more correct than she knows. That's not a good thing, mind you. Did you know that the word 'Chivalry' comes from the French 'Chevalier,' which literally means 'horseman,' from 'cheval,' the word for 'horse'? Of course, it specifically means 'Knight,' and it is in fact a title of nobility- an armored man upon a warhorse, with the powers and privileges enjoyed by agents of the King or the local Lord. We could also be talking about a Knight-Errant, who simply wandered around EVERYWHERE, doing whatever they pleased, whenever they pleased, TO whomever they encountered, with free license to do so. They even staged Crusades, you know, to 'reclaim' the Holy Lands for Christendom- lands that they had no legitimate claim on whatsoever. They rampaged across what we now know as the Middle East, killing and raping everyone they found in their way, and stealing everything that wasn't nailed down. They believed they had God's Favor, while the wretched souls at the points of their swords were filthy heathens who'd committed the unpardonable sin of practicing the wrong religion. They did what they did because they Could. Because they were convinced of their own superiority, and fie upon anybody who wasn't them.

"Of course, these knights almost always WERE noble blood by birth, owners of vast estates of land, because let's face it- in the twelfth through fifteenth centuries, armor was ridiculously expensive. Only the super wealthy could afford such stuff. And a warhorse? One specifically bred and trained for battle, and would never pull a plow? Unattainable. Consider the size of the retinue required to maintain an operation like that. There had to be squires, and groomsmen, and armorers, and masters of horse, camp attendants, cooks, maids, and all the like. A Knight out on the roads had to have an entire caravan of carriages behind him. It was completely ostentatious. This was the exclusive provenance of the Aristocracy. An awful lot of the power and privilege of knighthood simply came from being rich and important anyway. The only thing added was the expensive armor, a lot of specialized training in warfare and violence, and a license to kill.

"That's another important word. 'Privilege.' Literally, 'Private Law.' That means the normal rules don't apply to you. You're special, above such stuff, unconcerned with the restrictions that civil society places upon the little people. You can do what you please, because you're powerful, important, and strong. If anybody gets in your way, or if you simply feel like it, you can kill anybody, rape their women, and claim their belongings, and all the proper authorities will back you up. That hasn't changed, actually, rich people and wealthy companies still do that all the time.

"So, yes, Knights In Shining Armor, Les Chevaliers, were a bunch of rich, powerful bullies and thieves. Murderers. Tyrants. If rules got in the way of what they wanted, they changed the rules. That was their Divine Right, by virtue of their noble blood, in accordance with their role as Stewards of the lands and people they controlled. All in all, they were a real pack of Assholes, as you say.

"Is Marc LaValliere 'Chivalrous?' Of course! He arrogantly stole Linda away as if she was his due. That's very knightly. Completely in line with the tradition of Courtly Love, going all the way back to the rape of Persephone in the Eleusinian traditions. Hades was, of course, another armored Lord on Horseback. However, Jim, you are also quite Chivalrous, in the sense of one particular knight, but not a French one. Are you familiar with the tale of Tristan and Yseult?"

"Um. No."

"I'll give you the quick version. Tristan, a young Knight, was charged by his uncle, the King of Cornwall, to go to Ireland and bring back the fair maiden Yseult to be his Queen. Tristan collects her, and on the way back, the two of them accidentally ingest a love potion. Oops! They fall madly in love, but that love is doomed, because Yseult is betrothed to the King. In some versions, they remain chaste, but are tortured by their feelings, and in others, they sneakily act upon it, and are tortured by guilt. Tristan grew up admiring his uncle the King, he worshiped the man. The King, in turn, had always treated Tristan more like a son, which made everything even more awkward and horrible. The King became jealous and somehow savvy to what was going on between the two, but he lacked proof, so everyone was all torn up about the whole thing.

"A famous scene, consistent through most tellings, is that Tristan and Yseult enter the Lovers' Cave or Cottage- a place that can only be entered by a couple stricken with True Love, where they were observed by the King's courtiers. However, the couple remained fully clothed, lying on their backs on the bed, apart from each other and not touching. Between them lay Tristan's unsheathed sword, sharp to the degree that if either one reaches for the other, they will be cut. Whether the sword represents Tristan's penis, or the authority of the King, or sexuality itself, or the code of chivalry, or some combination of all of that, well, that's up for interpretation. In any case, Yseult marries the King, and all three of them are unhappy for the rest of their tragic lives, caught in a desperate love triangle. In some versions, Tristan and the King kill each other, or one or the other of them are mortally wounded with poisoned lances. There's a metaphor for you, eh? In other versions, Tristan gets exiled from Cornwall, slouches back to Ireland and marries Yseult's doppelganger, Yseult of the White Hands. She has the same name and everything. The King and Queen never have any children, and the crown eventually passes to a rival."