I Don't Mind, It Don't Matter

Back home, there wasn't a soul over the age of five in the four counties that got the paper who didn't know all the details of Sarah's sordid betrayal of the man who did nothing wrong but love his wife.

The mayor and city council even made a public apology for the wrongs done to me by the people of the town. My local software clients got a real kick out of that. I didn't much care.

I did hear that my ex's ankles got run into from behind more than once by little old ladies with those deadly steel-framed shopping carts. "Oh, I'm sorry dearie, I didn't see your lyin' cheatin' ass blocking the aisle."

Never mind that the aisle was eight feet wide, or that the gym-shoed granny had yelled out "Take us to warp nine, Scotty" just before she hit.

A great TV star, movie actor, and pool player once said, "How sweet it is." I couldn't have said it better. I sent my attorney a 60 year-old bottle of rare Scotch for his efforts. I cost me a week's pay, but boy was it worth it.

Her entire family disowned her; and her co-workers avoided her like the plague (not wanting her near their own husbands). Sarah was passed over for promotions, then demoted and eventually had to quit her job or get fired, because her presence was causing problems for the company.

Maybe the worst of it was that she'd turned herself into a social pariah who couldn't get a date with a back-alley wino with a cash bribe, a bottle of Thunderbird, and a box of condoms.

The tellers at the bank and the checkout clerks in the grocery all seemed to have other important duties to attend to when she got to the front of the line. Not even the needle junkies would touch her with a ten-foot pole, as she attracted cops like flies.

Me? I was living the life of Riley and continued to do so for the next three years. That's when I got the phone call about a client of mine that was having some serious problems with some software I'd designed for them.

I knew that 95% of the problems with software are traced to people and not the programming, but I had no choice other than to go to their office and fix whatever was wrong. That in itself was no issue.

The real problem was that it was in my old home town and this was one of my oldest clients, a very lucrative one at that. So, like it or not, I flew home.

Of course, it took less than an hour to figure out the problem; a day to fix the data that got messed up; and then a week to re-train their staff to not make that mistake again by trying to skirt the procedures.

Management was happy and once again fully-confident in my abilities; so happy, they insisted I accept my flight home on their corporate jet. I didn't refuse.

I hadn't been a monk since the day I received my divorce papers in the mail and while I was back in town, I went out for a couple of hours each night, visiting old haunts and getting re-acquainted with the few of my old friends who hadn't slept with my ex.

It was my last night in town, and a few of us were kicking back in one of the pubs watching a ballgame on the giant screen. I'd gotten my first beer from a day-time bartender I didn't recognize. When I carried our empties to the bar to get the next round, you can guess who the evening bartender was.

The funny thing was that she didn't recognize me. I guess a deep seaside tan; a rebuilt twenty-something engine and body on a thirty-something frame; a different and sun-bleached hair style; and fashionable clothes probably put her off some. That and I knew she wasn't expecting to see me any more than I was her.

Not wanting to say anything and give my voice away, I let her replace the empties with full ones, paid for the round and carried the new drinks back to our table.

I didn't mention anything to the guys about the encounter, but everybody at the table had funny, quizzical expressions on their faces. All I said was "Forget it." Nothing else was said that wasn't game-related.

I could see from the various mirrors around the place that my ex kept her eyes on me when she wasn't mixing drinks or pouring beers. I didn't know if she was trying to figure out if she knew me from somewhere, or if she was interested in me as "fresh meat" from out-of-town. In neither case was I buying.

During the afternoons, you had to get your own drinks from the bar, but in the evenings they had a waitress, so we got our next few rounds from her and none of us had to go back to the bar again.

When the game was all but over, I pulled the waitress aside and asked her the name of the bartender and she told me, Sarah Henderson.

My divorce settlement had included the provision that she had to cease the use of my last name in order to claim 100% of all our family assets. At least she'd held to that.

Here I was, apparently incognito and as happy as a clam. The evening drew to an end and, as I tipped our waitress 50% of what we had spent through the evening, I also handed her a ten-spot and told her to give it to the bartender, for popping the caps on our beers.

The waitress asked my name so she could tell the bartender who the tip came from and I told her. Her eyes got huge, and I could see that she knew the whole story.

As she scampered back to the bar, frantically waving at the bartender, we all got up from the table and said our goodbyes. The TV had been turned down after the game, and we could be heard anywhere in the bar.

"Guys, it's been great to see you again. I'm sure you understand why I can't give out my contact information; but I still have several clients in this neck of the woods, so there is a good possibility we'll see each other again before long."

"I really do have to go. I have a private jet warming up and standing by and can't keep it waiting. The fuel is more expensive than the pilots. "Hasta la vista, mio muchachos."

I flipped my jacket over my shoulder and strolled toward the front door. When her reflection appeared in the glass exit door and I saw she was watching my back, I stopped and turned around to see a tear in her eye. She knew, and I wasn't moved.

"You had me, my love, and you threw me away. What's that adage about lying in the bed you made? Oh, well. I don't mind, and it don't matter anymore."

I smiled at her then turned to get into the waiting limo, taking one last look at her as the chauffer closed my door. It would be nice to get back to the coast and the sweet life.

I had that Tahiti list narrowed down to three, and I was anxious to work it down to one. Care to guess how I was planning on doing that?

I only wish my old dog, Coon, could be home waiting for me as he'd always been. Wherever he may be, rest his soul, I can only hope he gets the chance to just once bite her in the ass on her way to hell.

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There's actually a bit more to this tale. I always liked "Paul Harvey"; and for many years, I looked forward to hearing him on my old AM radio every afternoon.

The point is, if what I've done here receives supportive votes and constructive comments and/or feedback (pos or neg, fine), I would be glad to tell you the "rest of the story".