January Sucks

But if my workday had been marinated in compassion, that was the last thing I received when I stopped by the house to have dinner with Linda and the kids.

I could tell something was wrong from the moment I entered the house. Emma and Tommy were in the family room watching "Frozen" for the 4,000^th time and Linda was hovering over the stove making dinner when I came in the door from the garage.

Putting on my most conciliatory face, I said, "Something smells good."

Without looking up, Linda replied, "Dinner will be ready in about 20 minutes." And then added, I'm sure the kids would love to spend some time with you." She was clearly dismissing me, so I decided to play along.

Dinner was an odd affair. Emma and Tommy were clearly competing for my attention. While nothing was said about our new living arrangements, they were obviously aware that something had changed and were struggling to adapt to our new normal.

Linda, on the other hand was quiet; very quiet. Not only did she fail to engage in our conversation she wouldn't even look at me. And every time I tried to engage her; her replies were a marvel of brevity. One word here. A nod there. She was doing everything she could to communicate that she was upset but didn't want whatever it was to come out in front of the kids.

After dinner I offered to do the dishes but I was told to help with the kids' baths and getting them ready for bed. When Tommy was down and Emma was in her room reading, Linda plopped in her chair at the kitchen table and sat with her arms folded -- my signal to sit down and talk.

"I can't believe you did that," she began. "How could you act so callously without regard for my feelings?"

I suspected that she found out about the newspaper article and may have even heard about the radio interview, but I wasn't sure which it was or even what she had heard. I decided to leave it to her to explain.

"What exactly are you talking about?" I asked.

"I know you are still mad at me, but I can't believe that you would say something so mean about Marc in public. You know that it is his career that you are messing with, don't you? And what about our friends? My parents? The people I work with? What do you suppose they think about me now?" Her voice was rising in intensity with each sentence.

"First, if Marc was worried about his career, perhaps he should have thought about that before he started messing around with married women. And as far as everyone else, I gave you the choice to deal with this in private, just between the two of us, and you chose to stay with Marc instead. Our lives are the sum of the choices we make. And when we choose our actions we also choose our consequences. Even someone as egotistical as Marc should know that."

"Marc is so angry with you, Jim." She spouted with real venom. "You have no idea what he is capable of doing to you. Besides being rich, Marc is a very important man in the community. He wants to stay here after he's retired, and his charity work has helped him become friends with some very influential people -- people you've never even met."

"So when did you speak with him, Linda?" I asked. Her expression quickly changed from anger to guilt and then back to anger again in a fraction of a second.

"He called me while I was at work."

"How did he know where you worked?" I asked.

"He didn't. He called my cellphone."

"And how did he get your cellphone number, Linda." Her steam was nearly gone now as she thought about how to answer.

"I gave it to him." Her reply was much quieter.

"And when did you give it to him?" She thought for a minute.

"When he brought me home Saturday morning." She said, quieter still. I'm sure that she now saw where this was heading.

"And why would you give him your cellphone number, Linda. Especially if, as you told me, you were never going to see him again?"

Linda now took a long pause, clearly trying to think through the possible outcomes of different options for her now pending response.

"I wasn't thinking about it at the time. He asked and so I just gave it to him."

"Well, the next time you hear from him, let him know that it will only get worse from here." I rose from my chair. "And, as for your other problems, I guess we'll just have to deal with them as they come up." I grabbed my jacket and slipped it on. "I need to go home now. I'm going to have a busy day tomorrow."

"But this IS your home, Jim." Linda said with some trepidation.

"I'm not so sure, Linda. I guess we'll see about that too."

I grabbed the backpack I left by the living room couch and headed out the door. My visit to Ron was looking smarter and smarter all the time. My laptop was in the backpack and had been downloading the recordings from the phones and cameras while we talked. All I needed was a little time to set everything up and then I could see what they contained. But that would have to wait. It was after midnight when I got to my hotel room. A few hours of sleep and I would be up getting dressed and headed to the station.

The dreams plagued me all night. Always revisiting the night of my humiliation, the night of my cuckolding. Wednesday morning I was awake at 4:30 and just lay awake staring at the ceiling. It wasn't that I couldn't get back to sleep as much as that I didn't want to go back to sleep and face the nightmares again. I eventually decided that I was just wasting time and got up to shave and shower.

At 5:30 I was dressed, called Art at K-Sport, and was at the studio an hour later.

Art explained that he and Dan had planned out the morning, deciding to set up LaValliere's agent and the public affairs rep in the main studio with Dan but during the interview he wanted me to sit in an adjacent studio separated from the main studio by a large glass window. I could see Dan. He could see me. And, because I was a nobody, I could watch the entire interview without being noticed.

I could also see two young men in the Control Room sitting at a big console with dozens of switches and dials in front of them. As soon as I walked in, they pulled my audio file up on a giant display screen and had me run through the recording giving them a play-by-play of the events as they were unfolding. They had already marked many of the key interactions and even pulled clips of the most significant ones. I've seen a lot of commercials, and heard even more on the radio, but I'd never imagined what went into making them. Now, watching Art at work with these "techs," I could see that it wasn't much different than musicians arranging a symphony.

At about ten minutes to 7:00 I watched as two good looking middle-aged men walked into the studio behind Dan, each with a couple of young "helpers" as their entourage. My guess turned out to be correct, that the shorter more athletic looking man was LaValliere's agent while the taller more cultured looking man was the team's V.P. of Public Affairs. The two men and Dan were seated around a desk facing large black microphones fitted with pop filters and mounted on boom arms. Both men managed to look simultaneously pleasant, sincere, and serenely confident. If credibility were established on appearance alone, I knew I was in deep trouble.

At 6:55 I received a text from Linda. It read: "Jim. I know where you are and what you are doing. Please don't do this. Think of me. Think of your family. Just let it go. Please." Well, that was a gut punch. One guess who told her -- because it sure wasn't me. And how did she find out so early in the morning? When could that call have possibly taken place? I shook my head.

After reading the message, I turned off my phone, both so that it didn't distract me or attract unnecessary attention.

At 7:00 the station did five minutes of news, a minute of commercials, a minute of weather, 30 seconds of traffic, and finally a final minute of commercials. Then the studio filled with Dan's pre-recorded intro package and finally his introduction.

"Everyone that was listening yesterday was treated to some amazing radio. A sports show with the tragedy of a soap opera, the conflict of a daytime talk show, and even a little actual sports thrown in. Our guest, Jim Lewis, told the story of an average Joe whose wife was stolen away by a sports superstar, Marc LaValliere, leaving him humiliated, in emotional pain, and alone in a jail cell. A tragic story, for sure. But was it true? Our next guests say, "No." It's just the musings of a disgruntled fan who is mentally unhealthy and in the middle of a contentious divorce."

"Shit!" I said out loud. These guys were supposed to be my friends and this is what I get? Had they set me up?

I looked from my studio into the Control Room. Art was looking at me with a slight smile on his face making the universal "take it down" gesture with the palm of his hand facing down, almost like he was bouncing a basketball. It was the look on his face more than the gesture that reassured me, so I sat back and began taking in the scene before me.

The interview went as if it were scripted -- and perhaps it had been -- with all the usual diversions. Yes, Marc did dance with my wife. No, he didn't know she was married. Yes, he left with her, but only to make sure that she got home safely. Yes, he was at home when I arrived, but he was alone. I was crazy; screaming and yelling. I destroyed his car. Took a lug wrench to it. Slashed all his tires. Broke out all the windows. They said Marc felt badly that I misunderstood what went on and even felt sorry for me when the police took me away. He told both of them that, while he had done nothing wrong, he felt that he was somehow responsible and even offered to help get me the help that I needed to get my life together.

Their discussion took up most of the hour, largely talking about how badly Marc felt for what had happened. They did have enough time to fit in a couple of calls from listeners who must have been officeholders in the Marc LaValliere Fan Club.

Interestingly, throughout all of it Art's expression didn't change. And most unusual of all, he didn't really move much from where he was standing in the center of the Control Room, except that from time to time he would speak briefly with one or the other of the two techs who were busy punching buttons, throwing switches, and taking out and putting back their earpieces. Their activity seemed incongruous to the lack of activity everywhere else I could see.

Finally, the hour ended. The segment was reintroduced -- in case late arriving listeners didn't understand what they had been hearing. Thanks were extended and my upcoming segment was teased with Dan saying, "And, if you thought that was interesting, we have invited Jim Lewis to appear in our studio to comment on our interview this past hour."

As soon as Dan said that, the men looked around until both sets of eyes were trained on me. Now, however, instead of 'pleasant, sincere, and serenely confident' their faces bore the masks of annoyance and anger. But just at that moment, Art walked into the studio, shook each man's hand, and walked them back through the broadcast block and through the doors into the lobby.

At just about the same time one of the young techs popped into my studio and sat at a board opposite me. I looked through the glass and saw the other tech take the same position in Dan's Master Studio. Almost as if choreographed, both men began pointing at buttons on our consoles and my tech began explaining.

"Hi. I'm Ray. While the interview was going on, my buddy Rick was pulling clips of their statements so that we could play them on the air. At the same time, I was pulling clips from your recording, adding them to the ones that I extracted last night. Now, the consoles in both studios are programmable and we have loaded the same clips, in pairs, on both consoles. Dan is going to start out by asking you what you thought of the interview you just listened to. Feel free to express yourself but remember not to use words that we'll have to dump. Think you can do that?" I nodded.

"Don't worry about the buttons. I'll be here to work them for you. They are marked so that Dan can take them out of order if he wants. But he'll probably just follow our sequence. We don't really have to do much from our end unless there is a problem on his console or he gets himself mixed up. Just focus on speaking clearly and make sure that you sound reasonable."

Then, the otherwise frenetic Ray stopped and looked me in the eye.

"Look, I stayed up all night pulling clips for you because I think you were screwed. At some time in our lives, most guys are afraid the same thing will happen to them. But this is real. I have my job, but I'll make sure you don't get screwed again by a couple of assholes in expensive suits."

Just then Dan's intro package kicked in and we were on our way.

I don't need to go through my hour of the show but I can tell you that the choreography was better than the Bolshoi.

Dan played a clip of the assholes saying that LaValliere didn't know Linda was married. I explained why that wasn't true, followed by a clip of LaValliere on the porch talking about my wife, Linda.

Dan played a clip of the assholes saying that Linda wasn't at LaValliere's house when I arrived followed. Again, I gave the context of what actually happened, followed by a clip of me talking to him and my conversation with my wife on his doorstep.

Dan played a clip of the assholes accusing me of "destroying" LaValliere's car. I explained what I had I had done, which was followed by a clip of me talking through disabling his car with the least amount of damage possible.

Was it embarrassing? Sure. But it made the point that both LaValliere and his representatives were lying through their teeth and couldn't be trusted.

All of that took less than 30 minutes, so we had the rest of the hour to take calls from the listening audience. While many were supportive of me, most were fixated on the two assholes. Sports fans are optimists by nature and will overlook a dump truck full of mistakes if they think you're honest and doing your best. But these are mostly simple straightforward guys who hate to be 'played,' and they were certainly just played.

Dan took me all the way up to 9:00 and by the end of the program, I felt like I had packed a full workweek into a few short hours. Dan was removing his earpieces as Art motioned me into the Control Room. For a moment all of us were quiet and then Ray let out a "whoop" and everyone began clapping and cheering -- me most of all.

I shook hands and thanked everyone. I had listened to this program every morning for at least five years and never had a clue that there were guys like these behind the scenes making things work. Ray hugged me; I suspect that there was something in his past that made my story special for him. Dan asked if I would call in from time to time to let everyone know how I was doing and of course I agreed. And as Art walked me out to the lobby, he stopped for just a moment.

"Jim, be careful." He said softly. "I'm not saying that these guys are like the Mafia or anything like that. But Big Sports is made up of millionaires and even billionaires, rich powerful men like LaValliere, and you just screwed up their lives something fierce. Keep your wits about you and stay out of dark alleys, okay?"

I smiled and said, "Of course, Art. And thanks again for everything." And then I walked through the doors and out into the sunlight.

If my arrival at work was surreal after my first radio appearance, this time I felt like a victorious conqueror returning to Rome. I think everyone in the company heard me on the radio. And, from the receptionist to Paul, my boss, everyone was beaming. They even applauded when I went into the breakroom for coffee.

And then reality struck. I made it to my office and found four messages from the receptionist on my desk telling me that Linda had called. This reminded me that I had turned off my cellphone while I was at the station and, when I turned it on, I had another half dozen voicemail messages from her. It was clear that she had listened to the program so all the messages followed the same theme: How could I do this to her? How could I do this to our children? How could I do this to Marc? Okay, I was feeling a little guilty until I got to that last one. She was upset because I wasn't being considerate of Marc? Really?

As I was listening to the last call another call came in, this time from Derek.

"Jim, Jim, Jim, Jim, Jim." He began with a chuckle in his voice. "I can't leave you alone for a minute, can I?"

"I promise Derek, today is the last time I'll do that for a long time."

"Well it will have to be, Bud. Because you've got an arraignment set for next Monday at 9:00 in Judge Roberts court. You do remember that you've been charged with vandalizing LaValliere's car, don't you?"

"Of course, Derek. It takes more than three days of freedom to make someone forget spending a night in jail. So, what's the hearing about?" I asked.

"Well, it's usually a simple matter of entering your plea and setting a date for the trial; that starts the ball rolling. But in this case, I don't know. They've got you dead to rights since you admitted vandalizing the car on your 9-1-1 call. The D.A. might want to make an example out of you because you acted so intentionally and against a celebrity."

"Okay," I responded. "Since time is not really going to improve our position, what if I just plead guilty with an explanation and leave it to the judge to decide? I mean, the recording works against me on guilt, so wouldn't it be more effective as mitigation?"

"Pretty good, Jim. Technically the judge doesn't have to let you explain but, if it will save a jury trial, they usually agree. I'll meet with the Assistant D.A. and tell her that we're ready to go to trial. Since "state of mind" will be an issue in mitigation, I'll ask her to make the arresting officers available so we can use them for corroboration. I could subpoena them so we're sure that they'll show up but if she agrees to produce them, she'll produce them, and we'll look good just because we asked her."

"Let's meet at my office at 8:00 and we can walk to the courthouse from there. And, by the way," he continued, "pretty clever with that recording. You sure creamed LaValliere's pals with it this morning. Next time, though, you should talk to me before you pull another stunt like that."

"So you can charge me for another consultation, counselor?" I joked.

"No. So I can keep your butt out of jail. And send me a copy of that recording as soon as you can -- and anything else you've got that I don't already know about."

"Sure boss." I said. "See you on Monday."

I worked through lunch. Okay, I didn't actually work. I spent the time accessing the recordings from my house that had been recorded the day before.

I looked at the video first. Aside from taking some time to watch Linda shower and get ready for work, I fast forwarded through the rest and just watched the interactions when Emma got home from school and Tommy from Daycare. It reminded me how much I loved my kids.

The audio software worked even better. Although the taps had recorded hours of tape, most of it blank, the software skipped through blank spots and automatically cued up each conversation in succession.

The house phone had the most traffic. A conversation with a neighbor. Another with Linda's mother. One with Dee -- which turned out to be mostly a bitch session about why I was living in a motel and why I was still being such an asshole.

According to Dee, our problem was that Linda was using too much carrot and not enough stick. To get me to come around more quickly, all Linda needed to do was sit me down and explain all the possible bad results of choosing a path other than extreme reconciliation.