Living Vicariously

There are a lot of stories here where the author writes about writing stories. Well, it's an interesting theme, so I thought I'd give it a try.

This is a story about a predator and a wife who lets her guard down for just an evening. It is neither a BTB nor a RAAC story.

I did set out to make this a 750-word story, but I quickly failed badly and gave up.

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It was nearly six in the evening, and it had been a hell of a day. Work was okay, but my life was another matter. I had a lot of questions where life was concerned.

I walked into the bar and seconds later I saw him sitting on a stool. Bastard!

I took the seat next to him and extended my hand. "George Baker, it's been a while!"

He pretended not to recognize me. The bastard was as transparent as glass.

"It's Bill Johnson. My wife works with you? We met at the Christmas party last year."

"Oh yeah, Bill! Good to see you again." The prick shook my hand. His grip was clammy.

"How you been, Bill?"

As if he didn't know... I ordered a beer. "Oh, you know, the same old same old." I thanked the bartender and took a deep swallow. It felt good, and it was exactly what I needed after the news I got today.

"I hear you're a big reader! Your wife is always talking about your latest story."

He says it like the ability to read is some great accomplishment. I wanted to tell him they teach it in grade school, but I didn't. "Well, I do read a lot, but she was probably talking about the stories I write." I took another mouthful of the amber gold.

"Really? Have you written anything I might have read?"

A hundred snarky responses ran through my mind at once. Instead, I shrugged. "Probably not. I mostly write short stories and publish them online. I get some interesting feedback. Sometimes it's like taking a master class in writing and other times it's like fighting off a pack of rabid dogs."

He was laughing, but I'm not sure why. It was probably his unhidden sense of superiority. "So, what do you write about, Shakespeare?"

"This and that. I see what's going on around me. I hear people talk. You can learn a lot just by listening."

"Then you report your findings?" The bastard was still laughing.

"Not exactly. I think about what I hear, and I turn it over in my mind. I try to understand what makes people tick and why they do the things they do. Then writing becomes a vehicle for exploring those thoughts."

"I'd rather watch football."

I'm not surprised. I bet he's never played a game of football in his life.

"So how do you write these little stories of yours?"

Condescension seems to be his strong suit. "If you think about the characters in a story, they take on a life of their own. You start them off and they sort of steer the story in their own direction. For me, it's a form of meditation that helps me understand the kind of people that elude me normally."

"Maybe you just need to get out more. The real world is more interesting."

"That's the thing about writing - you can live vicariously in the words on the page and do the things you can't do in the real world."

"Like what?" he asked.

I took another gulp of my beer and looked in the mirror behind the bar. I felt no need to stare in his face until I was ready. "Like you catch your wife with some lousy coward, and you hit him in the face and break his nose. You hit him hard, so you hear that satisfying snap as his nose breaks and see the splatter of blood as he falls. Then you divorce the slut and leave her with just the clothes on her back. You can't do that in real life. They still arrest you despite your motivation, or at least they do in most states. Here in Texas they tend to congratulate you for showing restraint. And the wife gets half."

The arrogant prick was laughing. I guess he thought the joke was on me.

It was time I drew my story to a close. "Yeah, writing is a great distraction from life. You can do just about anything on the page and always have a happy ending." That was his last warning.

I finished my beer and dropped the money on the bar. I slapped both hands on the edge of the bar and said to nobody in particular, "That was good!" I stood turning toward the door, but seemingly as an afterthought I turned partly and said, "Oh, one more thing..." and then I sucker punched him with everything I had. I balled up my fist with all the anger and the pain inside me, drew every ounce of strength I had from my toes to my shoulders, and gave him a roundhouse sucker punch square in his nose. I heard that satisfying snap as his nose broke, and I saw the splatter of blood as he fell back off his stool. I stood over him looking down as he tried to protect himself from the beating that he knew was coming, and then I turned and walked out of the bar. I'd made my point and I wasn't going to jail for some lowlife coward who hits on married women.

I walked into the house late for dinner and my wife gave me an earful. "You're late! Dinner's cold! Where have you been? Why haven't you called?" She went on as I ignored her and silently climbed the stairs to change. My hand would need ice and my face needed a cold washcloth, but I felt good.

While I was changing, I heard the phone ring and a muffled conversation I could not make out ensued. Refreshed, I walked back down the stairs to find a greatly chastened wife with a vastly different tone.

She looked scared like there might be a divorce in her future. There were tears in her eyes. "I'm sorry. It wasn't what you think. I never slept with him. It was only dancing and a little fooling around."

"And how would you feel if I was only fooling around with Jenny Smyth?" Jenny had a figure that made grown men weep and I knew my wife was more than a little jealous of the attention Jenny got from men everywhere she went.

She just hung her head and whimpered. The tears were falling now.

"Care to define 'fooling around'?" They say that confession is good for the soul, and I wasn't letting her off the hook tonight.

She was breaking down. Her pain was undeniable. "We kissed a little. He caught a feel, but only over my blouse. He never got into my clothes." Her confession matched what I'd been told, and I was inclined to believe her.

"And where was this relationship headed?"

"I swear, that was it! I was feeling guilty. It was never going anywhere further, I swear!" She was gulping air and barely able to speak.

"You know I'm not happy, right? You know this is going to be with us for a long time, right?"

She nodded. She knew.

"I might as well tell you that you were seen. I have friends in this town. If your story didn't match what they told me, you'd be out on the street right now. You know that, right?"

"Yes. I'm sorry." She was panicked. "I let him get to me, but he never got far. I swear it!"

I thought to myself, "You let him get a damn sight farther than you should have!" I would leave that for another time.

People are complicated. That's another thing about stories. In a story, the characters can be simple, but in life people are complicated. She flirted with another man and with her wedding vows, but I know that in her heart she has always been someone who takes a swear seriously. When she says "I swear..." she literally means "As God is my witness..." You don't ask God to be your witness lightly and then lie, or at least she didn't.

There's another thing about characters in stories vs people in real life - characters can be perfectly imperfect, but in reality, good people make mistakes. Real people are flawed, even the best of them, and they have insecurities, self-doubts, and the need to be accepted. The hard question you need to ask is, "Have they learned from this, or will they do it again?" To answer that, you need to know why, and the why is a difficult question to answer.

"Okay, let's warm up some dinner and then I think we have some serious conversations ahead of us."

She was nodding furiously. "Yes, Dear. I know. I really am sorry."

I could see she was thinking and what she was worrying. "James? Are we sleeping together tonight?"

"Yes, Maggie, but we have a lot of work ahead of us before I'm going to feel like celebrating. You know that, right?"

That got me a hug and a passionate kiss as she rubbed her tears on my cheek.

"Yes, Dear. I love you! I really do. I don't know how he got to me, but it will never happen again."

"I love you, too, but my trust in you took a big hit. You know that, right?"

She nodded. I could see the tears in her eyes.

I took a deep breath and suppressed what I wanted to say. "Now, let's heat up some of those leftovers and try to salvage the evening."

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I may be letting her off the hook, but I figure this story has one predator and one foolish woman who made a forgivable mistake. The predator was prepared to take it further, but she ended it before it got out of hand. That's what the witnesses said. So the predator was dealt with, and the wife will earn her forgiveness. That's what people do in real life - they find a measured response that is appropriate to the offense. I was in the mood for a happy ending, and I wanted to leave open the possibility of hope.