January Sucks

For the next couple of hours I continued to get phone calls from friends telling me about the newspaper article, enough that I quit answering the calls and just let them go to voicemail.

So when I got back to my hotel room and sorted through the messages, I was surprised by one that came from Doug Coffee, the host of "Coffee in the Morning", our local sports talk radio station's premier morning drive program.

"Jim," he began, "I saw the article in today's paper and wanted to see if I can get you to call in to our show tomorrow morning. We get our peak audience between 7:30 and 8:30, so if you can call in and speak to our producer at about 7:00, we'll see if we can get you on the air to tell your story." He then gave the name and direct number for the show's producer.

A little before 11:00 I heard my phone make a distinctive "chirp" I hadn't heard before. I picked it up and, after entering the password, I saw a message that simply read "Text". I tapped the message and up popped a messaging-style app. I immediately understood what I was looking at.

"Dear Linda,

I was sorry not to see you at Morrison's last night. I hope you aren't ill. You are a special woman, and I remember dancing with you, and everything that followed, very fondly. I would like to get together again soon. I'll call you.

With sincere affection,

Marc."

The Asshole had texted my wife! That meant that she had given him her phone number. What happened to, "'It's over, one and done'?" Why would a woman give her lover her cellphone number if she didn't expect to keep in touch with him?

Like a terrorist being waterboarded, I kept waiting for my phone to "chirp" and let me know that Linda had responded. But thankfully, it didn't. I sat up browsing web sites for over an hour before I started dozing off and finally decided to go to sleep.

Surprisingly, I fell asleep quickly. All the additional stress and activity seemed to wear me out more than usual. But the dreams had started. During the day I could avoid thinking about what Linda had done by keeping busy and quashing the thoughts whenever they arose. But at night I was defenseless. In my dreams I relived the horrible events at Morrison's, only now everyone there seemed fully aware and even encouraging of what was happening. It was almost as if we were at a wedding and they were guests cheering on the happy couple.

And then, as the Asshole and Linda left the club, my mind re-created the heretofore unseen images of their time together with the detail that Linda provided in her letter. I watched as he seduced her and she willingly gave herself to him in every possible way -- including some she had always denied me. 'The best sex she'd ever imagined, let alone had,' she had said. And that's what I saw that night and every night that followed. Sometimes I would wake up sweating, even crying, only to fall back asleep to begin reliving my nightmare all over again.

And Linda certainly wasn't helping me when I saw her. While she felt badly that she had hurt me and for the damage that she had caused our marriage, it was equally clear that she didn't regret being with the Asshole in the first place. Or that she wouldn't consider doing it again if the opportunity presented itself.

And, thanks to the Asshole's text, I suspected that it would.

How could I trust her? I thought our marriage had been at its strongest that night at the club. We were coming off a great week together and looking forward to a night that we could celebrate for the rest of our lives. And yet, Linda willingly let the Asshole sweep her off her feet with so little regard for my feelings that she wouldn't even tell me about it herself for fear of tainting their magical evening together. And then, standing on his porch, having already given herself to him, she still turned me away and closed the door on me, on our love, on our marriage, on our life.

These thoughts tortured my conscious and semi-conscious moments until I awoke Tuesday morning. Before the sun had a chance to appear and even before the alarm went off I was wide awake, grateful to be free from the pornographic movie my mind had been playing all night. And then I remembered that I had promised to call into the radio station that morning, so I jumped out of bed, and began getting dressed all the while thinking about how I would tell my story.

As with most mornings, I listened to "Coffee in the Morning" on my smartphone as I shaved and showered. As usual, the discussion focused on our team's performance in the game on Sunday with callers giving their opinions on the play of several of the key players and plays that contributed to our disappointing loss. And, while LaValliere's play seemed to have been less than stellar, the host seemed curiously hesitant to drill down on it the way he did for the other skilled players.

At 7:00 I placed the call from the phone in my hotel room. A cheery receptionist picked up my call with a well-practiced greeting, placed me on hold, and I listened to the program until the producer picked up. With the noise of an active studio as his background, "Art" began telling me how they would bring me on air and coached me to tell just the facts of my story, stripping out the emotions that had been so all-consuming to me but would be completely lost on the audience.

I was then placed back on hold and listened as Dan Coffee, unbeknownst to the audience, expertly set the stage for my interview, first talking about LaValliere's poor performance in general and then pinpointing each play where he had given the other team a critical first down or breakaway touchdown. I felt my nervousness rise as it became clear that I was being brought on to provide the key piece that would reveal the reason for the loss and just then, with the sound of a change in the connection on my phone, Dan began talking directly to me.

"So, let me bring on someone who can help shed some light into what might have been at least part of the cause for the team's poor performance on Sunday. Let me introduce you to Jim Lewis. Now Jim, you're not a sports analyst or anything, are you?"

"No. I'm just a fan like everyone else."

"But you saw Marc LaValliere on Friday night and you have some insight into what happened last weekend, right? And what followed somehow got into the pages of the Sentinel yesterday, correct?"

"Yes, Dan. You might say that Marc and I had a few words. And, yes, that might have had something to do with him being off his game on Sunday.

With that I launched into a point-by-point recounting of what happened at Morrison's all the way up to my arrest. At first Dan jumped in occasionally to keep my story focused on the facts. But by the time I had finished just ten minutes later, my story had flowed out like I had been practicing it for weeks.

Without comment, Dan quipped, "Well, we've got a full board, so let's grab a few callers."

What followed was an outpouring of emotion that is unheard of on a sports talk show. The very first caller, obviously cued up precisely for this purpose, eviscerated LaValliere for being such a douchebag in his personal life and letting that interfere with the job he was being paid millions to perform. Yes, there were a few loyal LaValliere fans who tried to cast doubts on my story, but the sheer number and intensity of the other callers clearly drowned them out.

Dan kept me on the line for the next 40 minutes, asking an occasional question, but mostly just listening to his audience's comments. As he finished up the set, he announced that, while I was on the air, the team's Vice President of Public Affairs had called and asked that he and the LaValliere's agent be allowed to come on the show the next day to "set the record straight" on my unfounded accusations. Dan said that they had agreed to give them the whole 7:00 hour the following day and asked if I would be willing to call in afterwards and respond. I could tell that Dan saw this as a "win-win" situation for him. If LaValliere's team was successful in casting doubt on my story, it would shore up Dan's status with the team. If my "David versus Goliath" schtick won the day, his audience would love it. Either way, he would be guaranteed two hours of great radio.

I again heard the sound indicating a connection change and I was again speaking with Dan's producer. Where he was professionally distant before, Art now acted like we were best friends. He was equal parts curious and sympathetic. But he was absolutely floored when I told him that I had the interaction recorded. He asked if, instead of calling in the following day, I could come down to the studio so that I could speak with Dan in person.

"You know," he said. "It might be a big help if we could get that recording of yours tonight so we can see if there is something we can use when you're "On Air.'" I agreed and told him that I would send it to Art's cellphone before noon.

I had silenced my cellphone during my call-in and soon was very glad I did. I was riding up the elevator when I remembered to turn the ringer back up and as soon as I did, I saw that Linda had been a participant in a dozen text messages and phone calls already that morning. Until I installed the app on Linda's phone I had no idea how much time she spent on it. While I texted or called less than two or three times an hour, her phone was active almost constantly. I'm not at all sure how she managed to get any work done at all.

The task of reviewing the communications seemed daunting and I was conscious that, before sating my curiosity, I needed to take care of some actual business before it created a problem for me or anyone else. I decided to ignore the mess until lunchtime when I could shut my office door and have an hour to focus on the task.

I had barely made it back to the office and sat down at my desk when I heard the telltale "chirp" once again. The temptation got the best of me and I pulled the message up and was oddly pleased to see that it was the Asshole who had texted again, rather than Linda responding to his late-night outreach.

"Hi, Linda, this is Marc. I'd really like to see you again. Is this a good number to call you on? Call me back and let's set something up. See you soon!"

Then, twenty minutes later, a second "chirp."

"Hi, Linda, Marc again. Sorry to call you twice, but I really do want to see you again. I think back to that night and the next morning, and I really feel we might have something special. I loved what we did together last time, and I'd like to do all of that again and then some. Please call me."

In mere seconds my heart was racing and I was breathing like I had run around the block. Rather than feeling relieved, as I had before, I now felt like I was under attack and my "fight or flight response" had been triggered.

Then, to make things worse, I was shocked back to reality when my assistant Karen appeared in my doorway with the message that my boss wanted to see me as soon as I got to the office. Because I had spent so much time at the radio station I was over an hour late so, thinking the worst, I poked my head around his office door expecting to see his usual stern face. Instead, what I saw was more of a smirk than a scowl.

"Come in, Jim. Sit down. I want to talk to you." So I sat.

"I heard you on K-Sport while I was driving to work this morning. Hell, half the company seems to have heard you. I just want you to know how sorry I am for what happened. I just wish you'd have told me what was going on when you first got in on Monday."

"Well, Paul." I began. "I think that I was still in shock and, to be honest, having your wife do something like that with a celebrity was humiliating. I don't think I've recovered even now."

"Well, I know that you'll keep doing the great job that you've been doing for us and I want you to know that, if you need time off to take care of anything, just let me know and I'll run interference for you." I was surprised at his football metaphor; I had no idea my boss was such a fan.

I thanked him and went back to my office, noticing the staring eyes that seemed to follow my every step. And for the rest of the day, the atmosphere around the office brightened. The women all seemed to smile more warmly at me and every time I grabbed a cup of coffee, used the copier, or even went to the restroom, one of the guys had to tell me that he had heard me on the radio and was sorry that I'd been screwed over. I guess sympathy is nice, in whatever form it comes.

Before Friday, my life could best be described as "steady." There weren't a lot of ups or downs. I was never one who craved excitement or courted danger. Perhaps that explained why Linda thought that she was free to do what she did. She knew that she could tear up my life and feel safe in the knowledge that I would exhaust myself trying to restore it back to "normal." But I now knew that my "normal" had been an illusion, and that bringing it back was just as undesirable as it was impossible.

As lunchtime rolled around, I steeled myself to the task of sorting through the new material with organizational magnificence. I suppose that everyone would attack the task of reviewing these in their own order. I started with the texts and, in the process, learned a lot about how much women communicate with each other. I discovered that most of the texts with her fellow workers were essentially gossip: who did what the night before, who wore that hideous dress for the second time in two weeks, and on and on. I decided that these could be largely ignored or saved to read late at night with a beer in hand. Texts from friends were usually more interesting, littered with gossip, but often sharing deeper thoughts. But for really communicating, you need to do it live, and that was the task that got the best use of the device. So, I began listening to the calls.

The first call had been a voicemail message from our friend Jane, one half of one of the couples who had been with us at Morrison's the night my world fell apart. Her message was brief, just asking if Linda could call her back, but it sounded like Jane had been more of a confidant than I knew. Just as I was deleting Jane's call, I heard the "chirp" again and the phone screen automatically jumped to the text feature. This time it was Linda. She had just sent a text to LaValliere.

"Hi, Marc. Thanks for the texts. I'm in a meeting with my boss right now but can I call you in about 30 minutes?"

"I'm so glad you texted. I was worried that you were going to ignore me. Sure, call back whenever."

"Great. TTYS."

I hadn't noticed, but I realized that I had been holding my breath as I read their text exchange. Praying that it was nothing. This certainly wasn't "nothing," but it wasn't earthshattering either. But that might come in half an hour. Or perhaps she was just going to tell him not to bother her anymore, as she had told me she would do in her letter. Either way, I was going to be listening as soon as that call hit my phone.

I wanted to be prepared so I decided to visit the restroom. And the copier. And finally, the breakroom for some coffee. All told, that took up less than 20 minutes, so I went back to my desk and began deleting calls Linda had received from vendors, coworkers, salesmen. There were a few "chirps", but they turned out to be nothing. Finally, one call that stuck out.

"Hello?

"Marc. Is that you."

"Of course, Linda. It's great to hear from you. I miss you, Babe."

"I know, Marc. I miss you, too. I can't get you out of my mind. But you need to be careful. Jim can't find out I'm talking to you."

"Don't worry, Babe. It's not you he's after. It's me. He wasn't satisfied getting himself arrested, he had to go to the newspaper and he even did a call-in on a radio show this morning. He told everyone the story trying to make me look like a douchebag -- and make you look like a whore."

"No, Jim would never do that. He was just here last night, having dinner with us. He would have said something to me about it, I'm sure of it."

"Well, he did. And he's not just pissing me off, he's getting folks at the club upset. We're a team and we stick together, you know. If you go after one of us, you get all of us. You need to talk to him and tell him to back off before he gets into something he can't get himself out of."

"I'll talk to him, Marc. He's coming by again tonight. You know, this isn't turning out like we discussed. I don't know what made me think that Jim would just accept what happened. I just thought he'd be mad for a few weeks and then we would make up and get back to normal, just like we always have. But this time it's different."

"I don't know why you're making this so hard on yourself, Linda. We had a special connection. You said so yourself. You said that I made you feel like no one had ever made you feel before, even him. How I captured you, heart and soul. You couldn't imagine a life without me. You said all that, remember Linda?"

"Of course, Marc. I feel all those things with you. But now I'm not sure. Jim has been a good husband and he's an amazing father. I feel secure with him. With you it's like magic but you yourself said that you've never been faithful to any woman. How can I give up Jim if I can't be sure that you'll be there for me?"

"But isn't it worth the risk for a chance at something really great?"

"That's no kind of life, Marc -- especially for my kids? They love their father and I can't live without them. I love you, but I can't spend my life with a man who I can't trust is devoted to me."

"Linda, don't overthink things, Baby. I'm sure there's an answer. We just need more time to find it. Can you at least give me that?"

"Of course, Marc. I just can't lose Jim in the process."

"And, for God's sake Linda, do whatever you have to do to get him to back off. I'm in the middle of re-negotiating my contract and my agent says this is the last thing I need. I've got a lot invested in this city and I don't want to give it up just because of an angry little man like your husband."

"I know, Marc. I'll try. Why don't you call me tomorrow at work and I'll tell you how things go with Jim tonight."

"Sure, Babe. But remember, I love you."

"Me too." She answered softly.

And with those two words I felt all hope for my marriage slip from my body. I pulled the earphones out of my ears and sat staring at the computer. I don't know what I expected, exactly, but this sure wasn't it. Diane was right, "Trust but verify." But she didn't say what to do when your worst fears have been justified.

After that, the "chirp" that had been unknown less than 24 hours before became nearly as constant for me as the ringing phone was to our receptionist. The rest of my day was like a bipolar sufferer's nightmare; extreme highs from nearly all interactions with my workmates followed by extreme lows whenever Linda's call to the Asshole came to mind. And it did; often. I might have appeared schizophrenic if anyone had looked closely at me. I carried on an argument with myself all afternoon. When it came time for the staff to leave, Karen, my administrative assistant, came in and sat down in one of my side chairs with a concerned look on her face.

"Hey Boss, you seem to have been off today. Anything I can do to help?"

A very simple question with a very un-simple answer. So, rather than confide, I took the chicken's way out.

"Thanks, but no. The best thing that you can do for me is just keep doing the great job you've been doing. I'll work myself through this. But I appreciate you caring about me."

"It's not just me, Jim. People around here have noticed and everybody feels the same way."

I thanked her and told her that I appreciated her kindness more than she knew. But suggested that her energy might be better focused on her husband and two teenage sons. She nodded and left the room, mollified but unconvinced.