Islands in the Stream

On my part, I was desperately trying to avoid going off too soon. It was touch-and-go with respect to who would finish first. I don't remember what she was doing at the time. I know it involved a lot of prolonged shrieking. And I remember thinking that it was a good thing that the dorm walls were cinder-block. As for me; suffice it to say that there was a short period of irrationality when I thought that they were going to find my balls somewhere in her womb.

We lay there panting for longer than a couple of seconds. Remember, both of us were more aerobically fit than 99.9% of the earth's population and we had still practically blown each others vascular system. She looked at me wonderingly and said, "I have been with a few men but I have NEVER been fucked like that."

I felt a pang of unreasoning jealousy. THAT explained the relative difference in skill level. Then she looked at me lovingly and added, "I am going to make you do that over and over. I could get very used to being fucked by you."

We were inseparable after that. I graduated and picked up a Masters in Engineering while she finished her degree in Education. I had a little off-campus apartment and Heather moved in with me. We were never apart, except when she was at her away meets.

We got married as soon as she graduated and we moved to Chicago. I was employed, almost right away, by one of the Big Four accounting firms. We bought a little fixer-upper in Oak Park and I rode the El into the city every day. Heather taught at Bishop Fenwick. We led an idyllic mid-twenties DINK existence until Tom Jr. came along and Heather became a full-time mom. Without her income we were house-poor. But we pulled the weight together.

Heather was the world's best mom and I was proud of her. She was just contemplating getting back in the classroom when little Suzie arrived. She was a bit of an oops. But we loved her nonetheless and Heather went back to full-time motherhood. There was never a thought of my wife returning to teaching after that. By the time Suzie was ready for school, I was the head of the Firm's security practice. So we didn't lack for money. Heather was completely devoted to me and her children. And thus, the time passed in a golden haze.

The kids grew up and we moved several times, eventually ending up in a little Virginia town south of the Beltway. That town was perfect for me, both up to DC and down to Richmond. I could drive into Richmond in 55 minutes. And the 45-minute trip up 95 to the Springfield Metro stop was relatively stress free compared to making the drive all the way into the rat's nest of traffic around DC.

We finally had our personal freedom and we could do the things that we had always wanted to do; just Heather and me. I thought that we had a perfect life; until Wilkins slithered into it. I am not making excuses for her. But she had spent almost 21 years as a stay at home mom. She did it without protest. But in that period, she went from being an archetype of the woman athlete, to being a chubby and out of shape housewife. At the same time, I was becoming more-and-more successful and perhaps a little too absent. It was something of a perfect storm.

There must have been a lot of pent up resentment festering down there. Because her treachery was totally out of the blue and very hard to accept. Whatever the cause, my life's narrative had come to an end well before the "dying in each others arms" part. That was a fact. Sadly, it also gave me the hollow feeling that I had wasted my presence on this earth. I knew that was a weak and childish way to feel. But, given my situation I couldn't lose the thought.

I was almost 46 years old. I had a great job. I was a Junior Partner in the Firm and head of its Cybersecurity Practice in Richmond. I also had a lot of spending cash thanks to Heather's taking herself off my books. More important, I didn't have to hang around bars to get laid. Women flocked to me without strings attached. Like I said, male fascination with hard 20-year-old bodies is the leading cause of extreme horniness in middle-aged women. But, I just didn't trust any of them. So, I had nobody in my life and no practical idea about a way-forward.

~

A year after the divorce, I bought a little getaway on Capital Bay on the Rappahannock. It was really just a one room, tin-roofed shack. But it was peaceful down there on that big lazy river. The scenery and wildlife could keep you amused for hours. I had a Manatee-10 solo kayak that I paddled around the various inlets and lagoons taking "artsy" pictures of the multitude of flora and fauna in the Virginia river country and just appreciating gorgeous high summer.

It's always humid at night, and my window air conditioner wasn't making much headway. So I dragged the kayak out and paddled into the dusk, and the bullfrog and insect noises. I was floating along letting the current move me south toward Tappahannock and the Downing Bridge. I had three bottles of Aslin Orange Starfish in the built-in cooler of the kayak. I propped my legs up on the coaming, laid back and contemplated the stars.

I flowed along with a full moon overhead in that hot, humid, peaceful night. As I did that, I began to come to grips with my problem. For a change, I was drifting physically, not emotionally. Maybe that was what caused it. But the answer suddenly appeared fully formed in my head. "March or die!!" It might be a totally melodramatic concept. But, I wanted my self-respect back. So I knew that I would have to stop being such a wuss and roll the dice.

It was a scary prospect for a 45-year-old to dump his comfortable life and start over from scratch. Middle aged men don't have the energy and naivety of kids. But the only other option was to keep wandering in the wilderness without a plan. And THAT just seemed so spineless.

I had floated almost a mile and it was getting close to midnight. The stars were as plentiful as ever and the moon had brightened to a new prominence. I could hear the heat sounds from the cicadas on my side of the river and at that point the details of what I was going to do rattled into my brain like coal out of a chute. It would start on Monday.

Paddling back wasn't as easy as floating down. But I was in excellent shape and by 2 AM I was dragging my kayak back on-shore. I got into my Land Rover and drove back to the trailer park... I still smile then I say that. I grabbed a couple of hours of sleep. Put on my businessman's armor and headed for our main office in DC. I wanted to talk to the Managing Partner.

All the way back up the river last night I had been thinking through the details of how to do a complete wipe and reload. I was obviously going to have to adopt a new strategy to guide my life. That was clear, since the old paradigm hadn't worked out so well. In fact, when you think about it, the "American Dream" is soul sucking. You obey a hackneyed set of societal rules; keep the wife and kids happy and please your boss. Of course, all of those things are in service of others.

So, what happens if you do nothing but please yourself? The wife starts fucking around, your kids think you're an asshole and your friends abandon you. Oh yes - right!! - I forgot!! - I played by all of the traditional rules for 22 years and guess what? The wife fucked around, my kids think I'm an asshole, and I HAVE no friends. Even work, which was a place where I continued to be successful, happy and fulfilled, was beginning to look like a lifelong trudge toward a dead-end finale - one in which I ended up with squat.

Moreover, I was already living in a mobile home!! It was just located in the wrong place, - a place that I had to leave if I wanted a clean slate. Last night's epiphany, and it had fallen on me like Paul on the road to Damascus, had showed me ALL of that. So accordingly, I was going to shuffle the deck. Basically, I planned to go feral and that was what I wanted to talk to the Managing Partner about.

Our main Office is located on New York Avenue, in between 11th and 12th. That, not coincidentally, makes it handy to K Street. The building gives the indispensable impression of wealth and success, which is needed to rope in the big-time DC power-players. So the Managing Partner sits in a throne room slightly larger and more opulent than the Taj Mahal.

As one of the Junior Partners I could get a meeting. But it was obvious he didn't know who the fuck I was. I expected to hear Purcell's Trumpet Voluntary as I marched the 50 feet from the door to his desk. The Partner rose and shook my hand. He motioned me to a seat and said, "What can I do for you - errr... Thomas?" Nobody but my mom ever called me "Thomas."

I had thought this through carefully. Essentially, I was going to propose to live in the wild doing penetration testing. We already offered that service. But those pen-tests were the tame variety that really told you nothing. What I was going to propose was the rough sex version, without any safe-words. It would be an aggressor attack on the target system. And it was exactly what it would take to make sure that the customer really was secure.

The Managing Partner was horrified - naturally! He spluttered and said, "That's ridiculous. What would happen if we actually harmed, or brought down one of their systems?" I said, "Wouldn't they want to find that out through us, rather than get the news in the middle of the night thanks to the Chinese or North Koreans? And we would know how to quickly rebuild them since we were the ones who took them down."

He sat back for a second and seemed interested. I added eagerly, "Yes, it could potentially be destructive, and the last thing you would want to do is associate our Firm's good name with a black bag operation on one of our clients, even if it was for their own good." He nodded vigorously in agreement.

Good!! I went on with, "So I am proposing that I separate myself entirely from the Firm, essentially go off the books. I will set up shop somewhere a long way away from any of you. And I will conduct all of my operations as if they were not part of the Firm's line of business. Of course you will keep on paying me. But it will be through a shell corporation, in order to give you plausible deniability."

He continued to look skeptical. So I added, "We won't have MANY customers. But a few of the more enlightened ones will want to risk it. That will cover my salary. Otherwise, I am going out on my own anyhow and you will lose a very lucrative niche. I know I can sell it. So I am willing to gamble." He sat back in his chair, steepled his fingers and looked thoughtful. Then he said, "Alright, you convinced me. At least you convinced me enough to take it to the other Senior Partners. I'll let you know tomorrow." I rose and thanked him. We shook and I strode back out into my new life.

I called the Managing Partner the next day. He said, "Thomas, we had a long discussion last night and most of the Governing Board thought your idea was bold and entrepreneurial. So we will back you. We need to get the details of what you are planning. Send those to Art Reynolds as soon as possible and keep me posted. I'm interested and good luck." Art was the Managing Partner's personal macher. If HE had been handed the ball, then they were more interested in my idea then they were letting on.

I had built up a decent cash reserve since the divorce. The trailer wasn't worth much but it was completely paid off and so I peddled it for a little bit more of a stake. I had bought my river shack for cash. In fact, it was so cheap that I was never quite sure that the fellow who sold it to me actually owned it. So, I could walk away from it and not look back.

When I hit the road, I had a middle six figure stake in my pocket. All of my worldly possessions were wedged into my Land Rover LR4. I had two criteria, I wanted to get as far away from my old life as possible and it had to be hot. I had initially considered places like California and the Southwest. But California is too expensive and I hate geezers and snakes, so Arizona and New Mexico were both out. Texas is either oil, or cowboys, and the Deep South is still Dixie. Accordingly, by a process of elimination I was headed down I-95 to the Florida Keys.

I was planning on setting up shop in Key West. I had heard a lot of good things about the atmosphere. And I don't mean the weather. Okay... I admit... the place is gayer than a tree full of chickadees. But the general ambiance for a single guy who is NOT gay is so laid back and party-centric that I couldn't think of any place more opposite my old life. And it IS tropical.

Then, on the way down I stopped for breakfast at a joint in Key Largo. Key Largo is touristy. But it's a red-neck kind of tourist traffic; fishermen and skin divers; not folks who just want to drink, party and pretend that they're Hemingway. And as I looked around the diner its blue collar ambiance kind-of appealed to me. I thought to myself, "This is EXACTLY what I'm looking for. It's a long way from my old life. And it has the feel of a place where I can put down roots."

As I was wandering out I passed one of those bulletin boards that restaurants keep for the local clientele. And they had a place advertised for sale that looked interesting. So I drove back up U.S. 1 and took a look at it. Like every other domicile in that area it had arrived on wheels. But it was a lot nicer than the one I had just sold. And it was dirt cheap. I wrote the local real-estate folks a check and they were more than happy to hand me a key.

When I looked inside I discovered to my delight that it was furnished. Turn-key mobile homes do not feature the same quality of furniture that they put in the Palace of Versailles. But some are higher quality than others. And this one was all stainless steel and leather. The floor was some kind of convincingly authentic wood laminate instead of plush carpet and the view was across a deck and directly onto a canal. It was finished off with a little boat slip.

The neighborhood was mainly people who worked the docks, or in the tourist trade. The people on both sides had kids but they were still babies, and distant crying doesn't affect me. There were some social security types and a few who seemed to be living off of Uncle Sam, or their relatives. But none of my neighbors were the upper-middle class yuppie snobs who I had been cohabiting with for 22 years. I was going to put my stake in the ground right here.

The fishermen probably cared about access to water. I cared about access to 1.54-megabit service, because that was my new stock in trade. Fortunately, the backbone for the Keys went right down U.S. 1 and the main fiber was only about 300 yards away. By the end of the first week I had my lair wired for T1 power.

I wanted to blend into my new setting. So, I started hanging out at a couple of the local taverns. The LR4 is a burly beast, closer to the legendary Land Rover Defender in looks and functionality, than its more elegant relatives. The locals, who were more of the ratty F150 set didn't know what to make of it. But it is muscular enough that it sent the right message. As a result, I was beginning to be accepted as a resident, not a tourist.

~

The Keys are a special place when you are NOT a visitor. The air is heavy with tropical humidity and the sun is in the climatic zone of Cuba, not Orlando. Every day features intense blue morning sky followed by a lot of building cumulus on the horizon as things began to heat up. There is always traffic up and down U.S. 1, even at night, and when you get closer to the highway the smell of exhaust and diesel begins to replace the tropical vegetation, crushed coral and waterfront smells.

It had been two and a half years since the infamous trip to Paris and I was beginning to feel more settled. I don't know how other people might respond to life-extinguishing betrayal. But in my case I had become an island fortress; totally remote from my feelings and crouched behind thick walls of anger. It wasn't the kind of attitude that would get you into bar fights. It was more like, a thick miasma of unapproachable cynicism. It made other people back off. And that was exactly what I wanted.

I was just dead inside. There was no rage, no pining for a lost love. I even KNEW that it was a defense mechanism. But I had no intention of changing my behavior. I was NEVER going to put my trust in any other creature but myself. Actually, there was one exception to that dictum. I DID get myself a dog. In my opinion, canines are the only creatures a man can truly trust. Mine was mostly Labrador and Shar-Pei, big, wrinkled and smelly; full of unconditional love and gentle kindness. And he was the best companion a man could ask for.

We talked constantly. Well actually I talked and he listened. He was a good listener. I confided all of my sense of hopelessness and ennui in him. He would cock his head back and forth and prick up his floppy battle scarred ears, as if he was saying, "I get it boss. I've been mistreated myself." That dog contributed more to my healing process than a brace of psychologists and he charged a whole lot less for his services, just a few heaping bowls of dog chow a day.

I was actually beginning to feel better about myself. My business idea had turned into a much bigger deal then I had ever imagined. And that was a decided boost to my shattered confidence. The Firm had lined up a raft of customers. This was all done strictly by word of mouth, since they had to keep a Chinese-wall between me and their legitimate lines of business. But both of us were making money hand-over-fist.

All of my customers wanted the full dungeon experience. Most of them were military. Those guys had the most to lose if they were hackasackable. But there were also a few commercial concerns that really wanted to get fireproofed. I gave them my usual speech about what would happen, once I released my flying monkeys and they STILL begged for the ball gag and restraints. My services might be a little harsh and very risky, but it was the only way that a CEO could sleep well in the information age.

I had crawled the Dark Web, which is one very creepy and dystopian place, looking for people who could deliver a true extermination hack. It wasn't easy because the real masters are an anonymous, faceless group. And most of those people would give the Antichrist a bad name. In fact, they all seemed to be about one white Persian cat short of being a James Bond villain. But they were also total anarchists, without any specific political agenda. So, they were relatively easy to recruit once you found them; if enough money was involved.

I paid them in bitcoins. Nobody in their right mind would deal with those guys on anything but an anonymous basis. They ALL had an over-inflated sense of self-worth and a complete lack of conscience. If that describes a sociopath, then so be it. I was playing at the very top of the mountain now and that required the best-of-the-best.

They lock up people for actually sabotaging government systems, which is what I was doing. And I was off the books with my employer. So, my aim was to keep each of my minions in iron-clad compartments. The partitioning ensured that none of them saw enough of the big picture to perpetrate any society-ending harm. Seriously!! Anybody who'd trust a sociopath, to do the right thing is either an idiot, or as nutty as they are.

My business proceeded smoothly for a year and a half and I made a lot of money; millions as the case may be. I had to stay on top of every engagement, just to ensure that none of my minions colored outside the lines. But in the end, it was nothing more than a job. It wasn't personal; except in one notable case...

I am not a vindictive person.

Oh!! I'm sorry!! Did I just say that!!??? What I MEANT to say is that I'm a HORRIBLY vindictive person!! So I lovingly tossed Charlie Wilkins and my ex-wife to my personal set of piranhas. That was ENTIRELY personal.