Exit Strategy Missing

A simple little tale as I dip my quill into the LW cesspool again after some time off.

Carly Simon: "But you gave away the things you loved, and one of them was me."

= = = =

A silver Mercedes sedan pulled into my driveway. Exiting from the driver's seat was a well-dressed man with what looked to be a Rolex watch on his wrist. I spotted a diamond stud on only his left ear as I answered the doorbell.

"I ain't buying. What do you want?"

"I'm here to pick up Irene."

"She's not here. She left with her boyfriend about thirty minutes ago. He has a much sportier car than you do. Some kind of red convertible."

His smug look faded fast.

"Maybe I have the wrong address. I'm looking for Irene Irving."

"Yeah, she's my roommate. Oh wait! Are you Grant Ricardo?"

"It's Brett. She's your roommate? I thought she was married."

"Well Brad you really did take the bait. She told me to tell you, wait for it, wait for it, 'SUCKER!' She pulls this stunt every couple of years. Gets a high ranking putz to fall for her bullshit and then sues the pants off of him and his company. Hope you don't have a family as she loves to destroy them."

To say he'd lost his swagger would be putting it mildly. His face was turning redder ever second.

"Oh and Bart, she said to tell you that she's not coming in on Monday. Hostile work environment, you know."

It wasn't long before Mercedes tire marks decorated the street in front of my house.

Finishing the beer in my hand I decided to spend the night in a hotel by the airport. Today's flight had been cancelled and I really didn't want to fight the traffic in the morning.

Locking up, I made my way across town and had dinner in the hotel dining room. When you travel a lot for business this all gets written off anyway.

+ + + +

Staring at the hotel ceiling, unable to get to sleep, I realized I had no exit strategy. That usually happens when you make rash decisions on the spur of the moment.

My name is Jerry Irving and I've been married to Irene for coming up on ten years now. She's been employed at her current job for about two years. I have a temper which normally stays out of sight. Sadly it didn't Sunday night.

Due to some butterfly flapping its wings halfway across the globe, my Sunday evening plane never made it to the city it was stopping at before coming to pick me up. Since there were only about a dozen of us on this flight, we got the shaft. Now I leave at 8 Am, which if the bedside clock is right, is about seven hours from now.

On my drive home from the airport yesterday I was able to reschedule my meetings until this afternoon. When I set my bag down in the kitchen I failed to see Irene plopped down watching her soaps, like she told me was going to be doing. Instead I could smell the perfume she loves to wear when we go out. Entering our bedroom Irene shrieked as she danced the dance of the half-dressed guilty.

"What are you doing home? You scared the shit out of me!"

"A better question is 'Where the hell do you think you're going?'"

"Well this is awkward, but I'm going out to dinner with Brett Ricardo, the district manager."

"Looks like another lie as your little travel bag on the bed seems to be packed. I suspect more than dinner is involved."

"It could turn out that way. A girl's got to be prepared. Now if you'll excuse me I need to finish getting ready. He'll be here in a few."

That temper I mentioned was bubbling to the surface. I entered the kitchen and stared at the knife rack. Tempting, but that'll be for another day. Instead I took the milk and juice cartons out of the fridge. Down the hall towards our bedroom is a linen closet. Opening said closet I put the milk and juice in with the linens. Our bookcase was just about the right size for what I needed so I pushed it close to the linen closet. Then I waited. Irene had to pass by me to leave. I didn't have to wait long.

Irene growled "What are you doing? Get out of my way?"

"Why is the milk and juice in this closet?"

"I have no " as I grabbed her and stuffed her and her slutty outfit into the closet. Surprise is an effective tool of war. Before she could mount a battle the door behind her had been closed. I was trying to pull the bookcase into place while keeping her from opening the door. Not my smoothest bit of handiwork but if you tilt that bookcase just right it wedges under the handle and pinches the wall leaving about an inch gap between the wall and the door.

Once secured I informed Irene of her predicament as she screamed 'LET ME OUT!"

"The juice and milk are there for you to drink until I get back on Friday. You're on your own for food" as I chuckled at my own humor. How the hell else are you supposed to handle adversity?

Irene was a loud little critter so I turned the entertainment system on to some country and western station. Irene has a serious dislike for that kind of music. I cranked it up to drown out her pleas for release.

Exhausted, I grabbed a beer and sat looking out my front window. Grabbing her purse, I found and then turned her cell phone off.

Here's her date now. There was never a red convertible. Nor are we roommates. And this is the first time she's pulled this shit, that I'm aware of.

+ + + +

Not sure how, but I not only fell asleep but woke up in time to make my flight. I still had no exit plan. Hopefully she won't die while I'm gone. I'm sure I'll get into some kind of trouble for ruining her plans. My guess is that her employment situation isn't as secure as when she left the office on Friday. Probably screwed myself there as well.

I did the husbandly thing and left messages morning and evening all week long. Each got a little more concerned than the last one. Hell, I even called her parents asking if they'd heard from her.

Problem with all of this is how am I going to get her from the urine and feces soiled linen closet and into my non-existent exit plan?

Every day I worked on it and every day I failed. Using the hotel's business center I researched divorce in my state. I also spent time reading up on crimes and punishment. We have no kids so pretty straight forward on the divorce but the crimes segment wasn't nearly so rosy. Unlawful restraint was almost a certainty for me.

My flight home was uneventful. Thank you butterflies. When I entered the house it was quiet until Irene heard me scooting the bookcase away. She was a bit hoarse and lacking the veracity of her earlier tirades. The door flew open and I got the most hateful look I'd ever seen. On her wobbly legs she rushed towards the stairs and tumbled down them face planting into the coat tree. Out cold.

Finally a plan came into place. Irene had done a respectable job of using the lines to piss and shit into. Very smelly but easily gathered. I'd have to apply lots of cleaning solutions to the carpet. Stuffing everything into a couple of trash bags. I also made sure to find the empty milk and juice containers. After hurrying into the garage to put the trash sacks into my trunk, I called 911 to report Irene out cold at the bottom of the stairs.

The paramedics started her on an IV as she was dehydrated then scurried off to our nearest emergency room.

My story was simple. I came home to find Irene at the bottom of the stairs. She had a concussion and was dehydrated. As is normal, they induced a coma to keep their bills escalating? Beats me. They seemed skeptical about my story, but it was somewhat close to the truth.

On my ride home that night I dropped the trash sacks into one of those squatter clothes drop-off containers. Those are the ones in parking lots when the owners of the parking lots didn't agree to let them be there. Serves them right.

Down in my basement I found a box of 'place and press' carpet squares. We'd tried that once and ended up with too many tiles. After removing the soiled carpet and padding I had more than enough tiles to finish the linen closet. With the enclosed threshold in place you could hardly tell that Irene had vacationed there for five days.

I visited Irene daily, after work of course, until she finally awoke. Did she ever have a story to tell! I was not welcome in her hospital room.

Now unlike some people, I know better than to bullshit the police. But, I can lawyer-up. Which I did.

+ + + +

Epilogue:

There just wasn't enough evidence to prove that Irene had spent a few days in the linen closet. That made her look a bit crazy. There was evidence that I'd sent Brett away from the house that Sunday night which made me look pretty guilty. I sat stoned-faced through my trial. Irene was called to the stand and her friends and parents all got to hear about her planned party night with Brett. It wasn't me who broke up Brett's marriage. Being called as a witness under these circumstances will do that to your marriage.

Yes, I was found guilty. However, thirty days lockup and a year of probation was worth it. The divorce went smoothly but I am forced to pay maintenance for two years or until she remarries. She's just pissed off enough to take all twenty four payments.

Irene did lose her job but sued and got it back. I didn't lose mine. Her company said to 'Fuck off' when approached about Irene and Brett's relationship. They've learned to protect themselves from horny employees by allowing fornication whenever employees get the urge.

We sold the house to some people who thought it was weird that we had 'place and press' carpet in the linen closet. Deal with it.

Lit requires a final sit down talk before the wife will sign the divorce documents. I forget what she said. As Hamlet said 'words, words, words'. We're officially divorced which is all that matters.