February Sucks - My Sequel

I looked around. Everyone knew. All eight of them knew!

I dropped a few bills on the table, I don't remember how much, and left. I knew I'd been fucked, fucked by my wife, but I didn't know what to do so I went home. Not exactly straight home. We'd rented a room, and we had clothes there. I went there, packed up the clothes, and then I went home. I was seething. I'd never been so mad. My stomach felt like that Spartan kid must have felt when he had that wolf cub hidden under his toga.

See, I'm a history major, real buffoon me. In ancient Sparta the boys had to do things to prove their manhood. One kid grabbed a wolf cub and thought to take it home. I think it was a wolf cub. I think he was taking it home. I was still a little drunk. The kid was stopped by some adult. He hid that cub under his clothes and let the damn thing gnaw right through his flesh and into his belly rather than let on he had something. It probably killed him. That kid; that was me. Maybe I'd die.

I remember I got home, but didn't have a clue about what to do. I called my wife on her cell phone. Ha! It was either turned off, or someplace beyond her hearing. What a sneaky bitch she'd become! I got no answer. I didn't know what to do, but I knew I had to do something.

We'd bought an older home a couple years earlier, something of a fixer upper. I'd redone the cellar. Linda didn't think I could do it, but I did. We had a nice family room with a wood stove set out on a brick hearth I'd built in front. Yeah, I even built the brick hearth. We had a laundry room that doubled as a mud room, and a pretty decent work area for me. It was well stocked with tools. I recalled I got a lot of granddad's tools when he pretended to retire.

I was so depressed. I guess then I had a moment of clarity. I remembered Linda had an application on her cell phone, a G.P.S. thing. I clicked on my phone again, fiddled around a little, and wham! I got a location! It was down further south in one of those areas where they'd been building multi-million dollar mansions. I'd never been there, but I knew about it; it was a section with a lot of the Nuevo Riche and lots of ostentation. That's where Linda was. It was probably where the football player lived. I thought for one stupid blind moment of going down there, but I knew he most certainly had all kinds of electronic monitoring and surveillance shit. If I went down there I'd only make a fool of myself, and end up getting arrested.

What was I going to do?

I was at my rope's end. I was in the cellar. I wished I was dead! At my rope's end! I felt literally at the end of my rope. Why not?

I looked up at the rafters and saw how I could take my drill, bore a hole in a rafter, slip a rope through and hang myself. Why the hell not? I believed my life was over. I'd show her! I would've done it too, but I happened to glance around. There were the kid's toy boxes. I'd made em. The kid's hobby horse, and the special bar I'd fixed up so Emma could practice her ballet moves. I got scared. I just knew if I hanged myself it would be one of the kids who'd find me. I could never let that happen. Just the same; it seemed like a good idea. I could leave, just check out.

I went back upstairs. I called Linda on her cell phone again, and again got no response. I was becoming increasingly nervous. I had to burn off some of this energy. I took off my shoes and trousers, slipped on a pair of tennis shoes. We'd been getting our tenners at Duluth, damn good shoes. I decided to go jogging. It was like twenty degrees out, but I went anyway. It was close to four a.m., and I wasn't wearing shorts, just my tighty whiteys and the blue oxford button down I'd worn to the restaurant. The underpants; that was something I could never get used to. Linda only bought me tighty whiteys; she said they were better because they offered more support. Up until we got married I'd worn boxers. Well fuck it; she always got what she wanted. If I lived I was going back to boxers. Only babies and little kids wore tighty whiteys. I wondered what the football player wore.

I went out and went jogging. Jesus it was cold. Cold and wet! I ran maybe a mile or so, turned around and ran back. I thought, what the hell. Why don't I let myself die of exposure? I sat down on our concrete front porch and decided to let Linda come home and find me frozen on the porch. Gosh, the kid's favorite movie was "Frozen". I sat there a while, shivering and coughing, feeling really sorry for myself, and freezing my balls off on the hard wet concrete when I got another idea. Why kill myself when I could kill her, or at least scare the shit out of her.

I went back inside and back down to the cellar. Now when we got married Linda talked me into giving away all my guns. I'd only had two shotguns and one rifle. I liked to hunt. Bambi, when prepared properly, tasted damn good. I even made deer sausage when I was back home.

So I had no guns; that wasn't exactly true. When granddad retired and gave me some tools he gave me something else too. He knew I'd given away all my guns, but he had an old revolver, a detective's special, a thirty-two caliber something his father had bought back in the 1920's.

I remembered what granddad said, "Now son you've disarmed, and I don't like it so I'm giving you my dad's revolver. I want you to keep it. Hide it someplace where your wife can't find it. You never know."

And that's what I'd done. I'd taken that old revolver and that half a package of bullets, rewrapped it all in that old piece of wax paper granddad gave it to me in, and I hid it back in the back cabinet behind all the solvents. Yes sir, there it sat, hidden right behind the Purple Power I used to clean the lawn mower and wood splitter's carburetors, right behind the bottles of motor oil, the WD40, the half empty container of Round Up, the weed killer, the insect killer, and the chain saw lubricant. There it was, all safe and sound.

I got it out. Took it out of its wax paper sheath, and looked it over. I'd never fired it, and it looked a little fatigued, but I knew how it worked. I checked the cylinder. I flipped it out. Yes sir, six bullets. I put it back on my work bench. Oh boy. Linda comes home, and I blow her to Kingdom Come! I thought, 'A gift from granddad, and vengeance care of great-granddad.' How sweet the sound.

I went back upstairs, but not before I got out my hidden bottle of Jim Beam. Linda was something of a teetotaler, had been since that wonderful night on the old quilt so many years before. We weren't allowed to have any whiskey in the house, a little wine maybe, but that was all.

I thought back on that night, that wonderful night. Linda had been so cuddly, at least for a while. Then she realized what she'd done. She got cool. She pulled away and sat as far away from me in the truck as she could. I remember I took her home. She said goodnight, and without looking back walked straight, I supposed, to her dorm room. We didn't talk again for more than a month. When we did our first talk wasn't a conversation, it was a lecture. She told me she loved me, but we'd never do anything sexual again until after we got married. She held us to it too.

Of course everything had been wonderful ever since. Ever since, well, ever since the football player. He had a name, Marc, Marc something. I remember watching him on TV, tight end I thought; he was good, made a lot of catches, could block too.

Well that was then, and this was now. So she gave that football player the cow eyes, and walked away from me and our children and our marriage. OK, I'd show her. She'd come home, and I'd blow her head off. I loaded a glass with ice, poured it half full with coke, poured in a portion of Jim Beam, and topped the thing off with more coke. Over the next hour or so I had three of them. They tasted good. They didn't mean anything. Nothing meant anything. I knew I wouldn't kill her. I still might kill myself, but not her.

I thought about how I could do it. I'd put the gun in my mouth and simply pull the trigger; one shot and it would all be over. It sort of made sense. Other men did it. At the Battle of the Little Big Horn several soldiers used their pistols on themselves rather than be captured. I could empathize; those Cheyenne and Sioux squaws used to chew a man's balls and penis off before they killed them. In a way wasn't that what Linda was doing? Suicide, it sounded so simple: one shot, one bullet, one dead man, put him in a box, put the box in the ground, and Linda would be free.

I felt like crying. I felt like breaking something. I decided to wait; I could always kill myself later. I could drive away. Put the garden hose in the exhaust pipe, run it through the back of my S-10, close the windows and simply go to sleep, no blood and guts. I'd look good in the box, all pink and rosy and dead.

I spent the next hour maybe two walking like a zombie from room to room, drinking bourbon and looking at the shit we'd accumulated. I looked at the big wedding picture in the dining room. There was that damned set of dolls; that man and woman couple that had been atop our wedding cake sitting in the China closet. I wanted to take it out and stomp it to smithereens, but I knew I couldn't, the kids would see. There were the children's pictures. Those pictures really hurt. I couldn't help it. All the stuff I looked at reminded me of what was gone, like literally gone! All I had was a half empty glass of bourbon and an upset stomach. The damn wolf was still in there, gnawing away.

I guess maybe it was fatigue, maybe the alcohol, perhaps just good old depression, but I started crying and couldn't stop. I cried and cried. I wished I was dead. I just couldn't stop crying. Everything was gone in life. Nothing mattered. I kept whimpering, "Linda why'd you do it?"

The sun came up a little after seven; that's when it really got bad. I hadn't slept. I was a nervous wreck. My clothes were damp. I spent maybe ten minutes just pounding on the dining room table. I broke a finger and wrapped it against the others with scotch tape. I spent some time pounding my head against the living room wall. I dented the dry wall pretty good. Like a damn dog I kept going from window to window. I was wondering when she was going to get home. I was so nervous. I kept shaking. It was like those scattering, smattering nervous shaky withering feelings; the debilitating kind of shakes I heard people with the D.T.s had. Was I delirious? It felt like, I felt like... I was going to die. Actually I believed that would be a blessing. I thought about the cellar...again.

I got a better idea. Let's say I had a car accident and was killed. What would Linda do? Oh she'd cry and lament my passing, but after a while she'd get through it, she's find another man, she'd remarry and move on. Maybe she'd marry a football player? The kids would cry, but they're young, they'd get over it too. Think of the things a rich football player could offer them. Actually, if I was dead they'd all be better off. I thought why don't I take my car now and go ram into a wall? Oh stop it! I couldn't let myself think about those kind of things. I did though.

I imagined where I'd be buried, probably in one of the newer cemeteries where they had little plaques on the ground. Nobody would see it. In the winter it would be covered in snow. God damn it! I wanted a stone!

I was going crazy!

When was she coming home? What was I supposed to say or do? Maybe I should just run away. No couldn't I do that. I'd never just run off. I was a lot of things, I was a skinny 180 lbs. skinny, short at 5'11", weak, and absolutely bereft of any athletic talent. I couldn't even play ping pong and win. I had a stance in my left eye, missed every time. When I was a kid I was always, I mean always, the last one picked. It was always, "You take Jim. No you take Jim we had him last time."

My single claim to fame had become my wife. What a joke that was. Now she was where she belonged; she was with a great big handsome, athletic N.F.L. football star. Me? I was nothing, but I knew I wasn't a coward. I knew that because I'd proved it. I'd proved it at least twice, no three times.

Back when I was in high school I had a good friend named Sam who was a fighter. He loved to fight. He lifted weights, he sparred around at the Y.M.C.A., he had a punching bag, and he practiced on us guys. He loved to fight, and he always won. There was another guy from another high school named Humpy who was like that too. One night I was down by the local public swimming hole when a friend of Humpy's saw me. He said I was a friend of Sam's, the fighter. Humpy came up and asked if I was. I said I was. I knew I was about to get my ass kicked, but I didn't run. I stood my ground, and he beat the living shit out of me. One great thing happened though. While he was turning my face into spaghetti sauce I got in one good lucky punch. I heard the crack! I broke that sucker's jaw. He stood there and yelled at me, "I kicked your ass! I kcikedk your ass! I kii. yo ash! I g9xwp yo afashpt!" Yes he did, and I had the black eyes to prove it as everyone watched his face swell up. But come Monday I was back at school, I heard he had to have his jaw reset and wired up. It isn't always about winning; it's about not being afraid to lose.

There was another time when a husband came into our warehouse. He was high on something, probably crack, and he was carrying a baseball bat. He swore some one of our guys had been fucking his wife, and he was going to beat the bastard's head in. Everybody was scared shitless. I was scared shitless too, but it was me who tackled the son of a bitch and got the bat away from him. He was a big guy. I bet he was as big as that football player. You can't turn away from trouble.

Then there was the third thing I remembered. We were at one of our state's parks. It was late summer, and it was hot. Tommy and I were walking ahead when he reached down to pick up a rock. I saw it right away, a copperhead. It was big, maybe three feet long. Without a thought I reached down and snatched the damn thing by the head and threw it as far as I could. My wife was aghast. She screamed or yelled something. She came running up and hugged me, screeching something like, "You saved our son's life." That was one of my proudest moments. I was like "Mr. Someone Special" all day after that. Yeah, someone special... me. Whether you know them or not you have to stand up and try to protect those who are smaller and weaker.

I also knew I wasn't someone special, not anymore, not in Linda's eyes, but I knew I wasn't a coward, that I'd never run away. My life still had meaning, I had principles, but I still wanted to kill her.

I was in my chair looking down at my shoes. They were muddy and I was wondering whether I should take them off and put them out on the back porch, but then I remembered thinking, 'Why? Hell, I probably wouldn't be there that much longer. Let the bitch clean up after me.' That's when I think I heard a car door slam. She was here. I sat still and waited.

I heard my supposed wife come through the front door.

I didn't move.

She walked through the living room. She hadn't seen me yet. Then she did, I remember what she said, "Jim, I'm home. It's still me, just the same old me, like always, nothing's changed."

I remember I was stunned. How could she say that? Everything had changed. Our life together was over. She killed it. She'd killed me. I looked her over. She looked, well she looked marvelous. Beautiful, every hair in place, her dress, that blue dress looked like it had just been pressed. Makeup looked perfect. I couldn't stand it. I got up and walked back in the kitchen.

She followed.

I went to the refrigerator and got out another coke. I got another glass. I opened the freezer door, I put in several cubes. I poured in some soda, and then I poured in some Jim Beam. I looked around.

She was staring at me in disbelief, "Jim, you've brought whiskey into our house."

I smiled, "So what."

From there on I kind of remembered what she said and didn't say. She said something like, "Jim honey, I... blah, blah blah."

I'd already had it. I couldn't stand the sight of her. I'd been up all night frantic with worry, torn and bleeding, and all she could say was, "Jim I love you. I'm just the same. Nothing's changed, blah, blah, blah." Give me a break!

I told her, "Go upstairs and take a shower."

She said, "I already had a shower."

She didn't get it. I wasn't talking to her knowing she'd just come from "what's his name's" house. She was probably still smelly from his semen, it was probably still leaking out of her cunt. I just stared at her. I think I told her to go take another one. I don't think she got it, but she did go upstairs.

I heard the shower in the upstairs bathroom. I waited. I had no idea what to say or do. I knew my life was over, and she wanted to pretend nothing happened. Was this fucked up, or what? Who was the bigger fool, me or her?

She came back downstairs acting like everything was all right. She'd even put on sweat clothes, like hey, it's just another Saturday, no big deal. But it was a big deal, it was the only deal.

I supposed that was when she started into the usual spiel every faithless woman comes up with; the customary flattery, smiles, and foolish looks. I remembered some of it, "Oh honey thank you for putting my clothes away, blah, blah, blah."

That was her, everything is normal line. Then she slapped me with the "big stupid", "I haven't forgotten you". That was when she said, "I couldn't find the lingerie I bought. That was for you honey."

I told her I threw the shit out. Then I watched her go into what I'd call her contrition mode, "Oh Jim that lingerie was for you. It was supposed to for our blah, blah, blah..."

Bull shit! I stopped listening. I remember I kept wondering, 'Did she really think I was that stupid?'

I don't remember what I said, but I'm sure it made about as much sense as what she was saying. Anyway I think that was when she changed course again and went into what I'd call her "reasoned, let's be practical" mode. She said something like, "Jim, I love you, blah, blah, blah. I know you have questions, blah, blah. I know we need to blah blah, talk. I'll tell you whatever you want to know blah, blah, blah."

'What,' I remembered thinking, 'We were going to talk about the weather? What Easter candy should we buy the kids? Was she crazy, or was she just trying to figure out what lie might work?'

I recall thinking, 'Was I supposed to actually sit here and listen to this bullshit?' I didn't say any of that. I think I said something just as nonsensical like, "Did you have a good time. Was he everything you hoped for?" I really didn't remember.

That was when she delivered her best lie of the day, "I'd tell you honey, but I don't want to hurt you."

What the fuck! My mind exploded at that! She didn't want to hurt me? Jesus H. Christ! She'd gone out the night before and killed me, and now she doesn't want to hurt me? I thought, 'That was good,' but then she delivered her "piece de resistance". She said something like, "Let's think about the future. We can't let just one night ruin our lives together."

I recall I was in total disbelief! She just didn't get it. One night she said. Like one measly night! Was that all it was? Our lives had no future. Her one night of lust and sex, and love with her football player had indeed ruined everything we had and everything we were ever going to have. There was no more together!

I wondered, 'How could I get this through her stupid, addled, deceitful brain? What could I possibly say or do that would deliver the message she needed to hear. That's when it hit me!' I stood up and told her, "Just sit down. Sit there and don't move. I'll be right back."