Foul Language

Author's Caution: This story contains the frequent use of graphic anglo-saxonisms. I won't apologize for that since it's the essence of the story. However, if you are among the faint of heart or you find these words offensive to you, I suggest you find another story.

*

Chapter One: Mr. Happy

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" I yelled at the meter girl.

"What does it look like? I'm writing you a ticket for overtime parking." she replied calmly without looking up from her pad.

"Jesus H. Fucking Christ ... what do you do ... just wait around out here until the fuckin' meter runs out so you can write me a ticket?" I blasted again.

"Nope, but if I had the time ... I'd give it some serious thought." she snapped back.

"Fuck me. You must be a real fuckin' prize in your household. I snarled.

"Look, Mr. Matheson," she said looking up at me. "I'm tired of your foul mouth and abusive behavior. I've been real tolerant up 'till now, but I've had enough. I'm reporting you to the Police for Harassment.

"You fat pig!" I yelled. "Go ahead. You'll find them down at the donut shop stuffin' Long Johns in their mouth and listening to their fuckin' arteries harden." With that snappy send off, I yanked the door of my Range Rover open and slammed it shut after me. I started it up and peeled away from the curb. I got about a kilometer down the road before I realized I needed gas. It was one of the reasons I had come to town, so I pulled into the Shell Station and filled the tank.

As I pulled out of the Self-Serve, I heard a siren blip and checked the rear view mirror in time to see a RCMP car with light bar ablaze tucked up under my bumper. I pulled over to the first open spot on the curb and I'm sure steam was coming out of my ears. I reached into my jacket for my wallet, pulled out my Drivers License, then reached into the glove box and took out my registration. I pushed the button on the armrest and lowered the driver's side window in anticipation of the arrival of a constable.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Matheson. May I see your license and registration please?" he asked politely.

I handed them over wordlessly, but I was seething inside. The stupid little cunt had turned me in and I was already plotting my revenge.

"Mr. Matheson, I understand you had a conversation with Ms. Wallington a few minutes ago." he said.

"Yah, so what?" I replied with a snarl.

"She says you were abusive and threatening. You realize that is an offence sir?" I'll give him this ... he was maintaining his full load of politeness in spite of my attitude.

"Bullshit! I swore at her and she deserved it. I did not threaten the cunt." I didn't bother to soften my presentation.

"Mr. Matheson, you can't abuse and mistreat public officials. It's against the law. They have protection against people like you." He was still maintaining his cool. I gave him a couple of more ticks in the 'under control' column.

"Look, officer, she's nothing but a fat bureaucrat hired because her old man is on the fuckin' town council. She couldn't fuckin' rake leaves for a living if it wasn't for that." I wasn't giving any quarter at this point.

"Mr. Matheson, is it your mission in life to piss off every single person in this town?" he asked as he started to get a little aggravated.

"Nope ... just the assholes and she's one of them." I spat.

"She's just doing the job she was hired to do." he replied, regaining some of his composure.

"Look Wing Commander ... the last time I was in town I didn't have a Loonie in my pocket and since that's the only thing the meter takes, I had to go get some change. By the time I got back, the fuckin' bitch was writing me a ticket. And you wonder what I think she's a useless cunt?" I was back to full blast again.

"Maybe nobody cuts you any slack because they don't have a very high opinion of you. Have you considered that?" he asked.

"I don't give a fiddler's fuck what anybody in this shithole town thinks. Now are you going to arrest me or write me some ticket or what?"

"Frankly, Mr. Matheson, I wish I could get you into involuntary therapy, but I don't have enough evidence. In the meantime, I suggest you stay out of everyone's way. Right now, you don't have any friends and any more complaints like the one Ms. Wallington filed will get you some detention time and probably more. Do you understand?" he asked forcefully.

"Yah ... yah ... I know ... I got 'till sundown to get outta town. Fuck me. What a bunch of bullshit." I was already running the window up and putting the truck in gear. I stopped for a second to make sure I had my turn signal on and obeying whatever rules of the road my boiling hot brain could remember. I pulled slowly away from the curb and the cruiser pulled out after me and followed me down the street for a couple of blocks before he peeled off and disappeared. Just another lovely fuckin' day in my perfect fuckin' life.

Chapter Two: Shit Happens

I haven't always been like this, you know. I used to be a nice guy. I had a nice job and a nice house in the suburbs and a nice wife and two nice kids and two nice cars; all that perfect family shit. I worked in the "Big Smoke", aka Toronto. I had a pretty good office with a window that had a partial view of the lake and a private parking spot. I worked for Primexal, a national electrical hardware manufacturer and I was Product Development Manager. It was decent job that usually required us to find new developments at our competitors and make our own version of them. I think we spent about fifty cents on our own ideas and god knows how many millions on stealing other people's.

My name is Geoffrey Matheson and my wife is, or was, Joyce Matheson. We have two kids. Rick is 28 and has a wife and three kids of his own and last I heard, he was in Europe somewhere working for an engineering outfit in the oil and gas pipeline business. Kirsten is 24 and is still single, but living with some fuckup in a hippy commune somewhere in B.C. I haven't talked to her in about a year. I'm kind of what they call estranged from the kids. But that's not what caused me to become what I am today. What caused that happened on a Sunday afternoon two years and four months ago.

My wife had gone back to work several years ago when the kids were old enough to look after themselves and she wanted something more to do than vacuum and laundry. I couldn't complain. It would bring some more income into the house and we could use it for luxuries like vacations or maybe even a cottage near Georgian Bay. She had done very well with an insurance outfit and had risen to middle management and I was quite impressed with how far she had come in a fairly short period.

One day, she came home from work and said the company was sending her and about a dozen of her other female managers to a retreat for a week. She said it was one of those touchy-feely self actualization things that big companies with too much money do to make sure they look like they are politically correct. A fuckin' waste of time I thought, but I nodded my head and said all the right things and I could tell she was looking forward to it, so what the hell, let 'em spend their money if that's what they think will make them look good.

She left on Monday morning and was due back on Sunday afternoon. She and two of her fellow office friends had taken her car to somewhere north of Barrie to a retreat or resort; I wasn't clear on which. She left a phone number for emergencies, but nothing came up that I couldn't handle, so I never needed it. Sunday afternoon I was in the basement tinkering with an old Sunbeam toaster that I was hoping I could resurrect when I heard the garage door go up. I tidied up the bench, turned off the light and headed upstairs.

When I got there, Joyce wasn't in the kitchen and as I turned up the hall, she came out of the back bedroom, still wearing her sneakers. She never wore sneakers in the house.

"Hi. How was the retreat?" I asked walking toward her to embrace her. Unexpectedly, she held out her hands to ward me off and I noticed she was as white as a sheet.

"Joyce ... what's wrong. You look terrible." I said with a knot in my stomach.

"Geoff ... we have to talk. Let's go into the kitchen. I need a glass of water." she said in a serious voice, but at no time looking right at me.

"Joyce ... are you all right? What's the trouble?" I was getting quite worried because I had never seen her like this before.

Joyce poured herself a glass of water and sat at the kitchen table, still not looking at me. I sat down opposite to her and waited for her to tell me what she obviously wanted to tell me.

"Geoff ... something happened to me this week. Something very important. I'm not sure how to explain it, but it has changed my life." she began slowly.

"Joyce ..." She stopped me before I got started.

"Geoff ... please let me do this. Please don't interrupt. It's hard enough to explain it to myself much less to you." She was speaking in a low and obviously nervous tone. I knew immediately that this wasn't going to be good news.

"Geoff, I learned that I need to change my life if I want to be someone that I'm happy with. If I want to be a whole person. I can't do that the way my life is now. I have to make a complete break from that." She paused and then for the first time, she looked directly at me. "Geoff, I want a divorce. I need a divorce. I have to make a clean break."

"What?" I must have raised my voice because she jumped and he eyes went wide. She looked frightened.

"What the hell are talking about Joyce? A divorce? Why? What possible reason could you have for wanting a divorce?" I said with an intense interest in her answer.

"I don't think you'll understand it, Geoff. I'm sure you won't. It isn't anything you did or didn't do. It's about me. It's about me trying to be a more complete person." At least she was looking at me now.

"What the hell does that mean? Have you got a boyfriend or some guy on the side? Have you?" I demanded.

"How could you think such a thing? I have never cheated on you and I never would! This is about my ... needs." She was beginning to sound a bit indignant and a bit more forceful.

"Your needs?" I said in a raised voice. "Your needs? What about my needs? What about thirty one years of marriage? What about our children? Do your needs mean more than that?" I could tell I was getting louder and more aggressive as this continued. I tried to get a better hold on myself. I needed to get to the root of this

"I knew you wouldn't understand. It doesn't change anything, Geoff. I will file for divorce tomorrow. I'll get my things and leave now. I'll be gone in a couple of hours. I'll have my lawyer contact your lawyer. I assume you'll use Scott Olsen?" she asked in an almost conversational tone.

"Just like that. You're going to walk out of here and piss away a thirty one year marriage just like that for no good reason. Are you on drugs, Joyce? Have you been drinking?" I was getting angry now and I was losing control of my temper and my ability to think rationally.

"You wouldn't understand? I won't waste my time trying to explain it." she said in a dismissive tone.

"Well you fuckin' well better explain it Joyce. If you think I'm going to go quietly while you just prance out the door you've got another think coming." Now I was really steamed.

"There's no need for that kind of language, Geoff." She lectured.

"Fuck you, Joyce. I'm just getting started. What the fuck did you and that pack of broads do at that camp?" I demanded. "You're not leaving here until I get a complete, unvarnished version of just what the fuck you did for six days that would bring this idiot idea about!"

"I refuse to discuss this with you when you are in this state. I will not be talked to like that. It won't change anything. If you want to talk to me, talk to my lawyer, Claire LaPointe." she stated in an imperious tone.

"Since when did you have your own lawyer, Joyce ... or have you been planning this for some time?" I shouted.

"That's none of your concern and no I haven't been planning this at all. It just happened this week." she stated more calmly.

"So that's it then. You throw a thirty one year marriage out the window after some Swami in corduroys gives you a little feel-good speech? You must be out of your mind. No one with any sense would believe any of this. What the hell did you do up there that would make you want to commit suicide with our marriage?" I was speaking as calmly but as forcefully as I could manage.

"You wouldn't understand, but he was able to get in touch with the real me. He got me to see that I could be so much more, but I had to break away from all the things that were holding me back." she said calmly.

I'd never heard such utter horseshit in all my days, but I still needed to keep this conversation going if I was going to get to the bottom of this mystery.

"And just how did he do that? How did he get in touch with the real you? Hypnotism? Drugs? There must have been something he used to have something this enormous take place." I continued.

Joyce didn't say anything for a moment. Finally: "We did a bit of hash to get to our inner selves." she said in a meek voice.

"Well isn't that just ducky! He drugs you and you think the world has changed. Tell me Joyce, how many of the others came back today and told their husbands they were divorcing them?"

"I don't know." She was still in a quiet, defensive tone.

"Bullshit! You women talk to each other about everything. Don't try and kid me." I stated forcefully.

"Possibly one other." she finally admitted.

"Well, well, isn't that fascinating. How come the other ten didn't go along with the deal, Joyce? Maybe the hash didn't turn their brains into Cream of Wheat like it did to yours." I snapped.

"There's no need to talk like that. I was completely aware of what was going on. I just accepted the reality of his beliefs more completely that the others did."

"God Joyce, I never thought you were that stupid, but I guess I was wrong." I said getting up and going to the fridge for a beer.

"I'm not stupid! I'm smarter than any of the others! I could see what he was getting at I knew what it could mean to me." she said in an angry voice.

I just shook my head in wonder and I stood by the counter and looked down at her. The beer tasted shitty and I put it on the counter. I was in turmoil and I couldn't think straight. I couldn't think of what I could say that would save our marriage and so I said just that to her.

"Is there nothing I can say that will save our marriage?" I asked quietly.

She looked up at me and I could see tears forming in her eyes. "I'm sorry, Geoff. I've made up my mind."

And that was the end of it. I picked up my car keys and walked out of the house without a word.

Chapter Three: More Shit, Different Day

The next months were the worst of my life and they turned me into what I am today; a very angry, uncompromising middle-aged man. I no longer gave a damn what anyone thought or wanted or anything else. I showed up for work and did my eight hours and went home to an empty house. I put the house up for sale the same week Joyce filed for divorce and sold it within the first three weeks. My lawyer, Scotty Olson, told me to put the money in a separate account and then helped me minimize the damage Joyce might do to me. It was the usual divorce stuff; cut off the credit cards and bank cards, move my stuff out of the safety deposit box and protect my RRSP's.

When Scotty found out who Joyce's lawyer was, he called me right away.

"Geoff, this woman is a vulture with no morals. She will try and grab everything you have and still want half the remains. She is one vicious bitch with a very bad reputation from a male point of view. I can't represent you against her; she'll eat me alive. I suggest you get a hold of Mark Moskovitch and have him represent you. At least he will help minimize the bleeding." he said with regret. "Good luck, Geoff ... you'll need it." he finished.

Truer words were never spoken. Claire LaPointe came after me like I was Jack the Ripper and had beaten Joyce every day of our marriage. I don't think vicious was quite strong enough to describe the attitude she took toward me and Mark. I had thought of contesting the divorce just to fuck Joyce around, but Mark talked me out of it and I'm glad he did. We got the settlement worked out on paper and I finally surrendered. I'm sure Joyce got more than 50%, but I didn't have the stomach for a fight, despite my anger.

I ended up with a fat legal bill and my share of the house did little more that get me a cheap condo in Guelph. The only smart thing I did was Mark's insistence that I get Joyce to sign off that the settlement was final and irrevocable. She couldn't come after me for any more later on. She had a good paying job and since she had no cause for the divorce, at least I didn't have any support payments. I had disclosed everything I thought, but no matter, it was over and done. I had not seen Joyce once during the divorce proceedings and in fact I hadn't seen her since the Sunday I walked out of our house.

Chapter Four: Cashing In and Moving On

Strange things can happen at strange times. Just before the divorce was final, I was contacted by a big American company whose name everyone would recognize. Some years ago, on my own time, I had invented and actually built a prototype of a little electrical device that would sense subtle changes in temperature and actuate other electric systems in response. It didn't sound like much, but on a hunch, I patented it on my own. I had not used any company resources or worked on it during company time, so I had no compunction about registering the patent in my own name. I got my patent and then completely forgot about it. It had not been declared as part of my assets when the divorce was in process because the paperwork wasn't in my safety deposit box, it was in a shoebox in my bedroom cupboard. I can only assume Joyce had forgotten about it too.

It turned out the American company had developed a new device for some completely different application, but when they went to patent their invention, they ran into my design and it was a roadblock they couldn't get around. They contacted me and asked if they could negotiate a purchase and I said sure, but talk to Scotty Olson, my lawyer and we would work out a deal. Scotty loved "cuttin' deals" and he was good at it. I had hoped I could sell for at least a hundred grand but Scotty had other ideas. When all was said and done, Scotty got me $5.5 Million paid out over ten years. Scotty's cut was 10% and the rest was mine. We agreed not to sign any formal paperwork until the divorce was final, but the first day of my return to single status was the day I was set for life.

I would never have to work another day if I didn't want to and considering how I felt about things those days, it was probably just as well. I quit my job and went back to my apartment-condo for some contemplation on my future. I was pretty sure I was going to leave the province and I had a sense that I wanted to be in the west. Two months later, I sold the condo in Guelph, making a small profit and headed to the West Coast in my brand new Range Rover; The Prince Philip edition. I took more than a week driving to B.C. because I wanted to see some of the country and I didn't want to be rushed. I wasn't feeling great, but I was a little more in control of my emotions. I had resolved my marriage and it was now part of my history. I was still angry, but I couldn't pin down exactly what or who I was angry with. Joyce? Her stupid employer who thought up that encounter session? Ransid Bagashit or whatever that Swami's name was? Claire LaPointe? Ontario Divorce Law? The answer was probably all of the above.