Sinking the Navy

Brenda Collins had the face to launch a thousand ships and a body to launch an entire navy. So far out of my league she might as well have been in a different solar system. Me, I was, like someone once said, a schmoe who wasn't even named Joe. Bert Stokes is my name. I mean, who names their baby Bert anymore? So I went by Stokey.

In high school I knew of Brenda. Everybody did. As cliché as they come: homecoming queen, prom queen, everything queen. Beauty Queen of Stoddard City back then... you get the picture.

We met, if you can call it that, in our senior year at Smitham College. Back then, laptop computers were 'the next thing' and hers 'broke.' Geeky Stokey got called, showed up, was handed the computer and told to fuck off and don't come back until 'the thing' was fixed. Of course. Not that I was surprised or anything. I knew who I was in the pecking order of the universe, and she knew who she was. Her attitude, though, stank, and pissed me off.

Never piss off a computer geek--or venture into our side of the tracks.

The next day, I returned and knocked on the door. This was before cellphones. She opened, talking on her landline with one of those three-mile curled cords. Without breaking her conversation, which sounded like it involved the salon in the mall using the wrong kind of product, she held out her hand to receive her laptop back.

Looking her in the eye, I held on to the laptop, until she said into the mouthpiece, "Listen, I've got to go. Call me back in five." Evidently she didn't think it would take that long to get rid of the geeky interruption.

"Is it fixed?" she asked me with her disdainful and impatient voice.

"Yes, it is. I had to replace the hypothumic mistufastor, and it works fine now. $350." All I'd done was delete accumulated crap, refrag the drive... and copy the contents of her hard drive onto a spare I had, for a few chuckles next week. I also cleared her browsing history. Lots and lots of porn sites--seemed like she had a fetish for FFM. A ton of those links could slow down a computer, and they did hers. I saved those addresses in a word processor file, emailed it to me (back then, I was still one of the few knew how to use email) deleted them and got her computer back to regular speed. So it didn't cost me anything. Her attitude, though, cost her the aforementioned $350.

"What? I never agreed to so much."

"True. You just stuck it in my hand and said 'fix it.' Like a feudal lord tells a serf. I fixed it as instructed (I emphasized that word with sarcasm) which leaves you with a choice. You either pay me, or I sell the computer to defray my expenses. It's a nice one, and whoever buys it will no doubt find interesting information on it."

With a stamp of her foot and eyes raised to the heavens, she opened the door and waved me in. After writing a check, she held it out to me expecting her laptop back. Rather than hand it back, I took the check, turned and made to leave. Wasn't there a movie about revenge of the nerds? I never saw it, I don't think, but this was my version, one which I rather enjoyed. You have your fun, dollface, and I have mine.

"Hey, I paid you, give me my computer."

"Sure, as soon as the check clears."

The steam building up in her head exploded. "What? You miserable little creep. You think that check's no good?"

"I suspect the check is just fine. For now. Your shitty attitude, though, is not. Who says you won't stop the check once you power up this computer and see it works fine?" I had nothing to lose, and not a shred of motivation to impress her. She already thought I was worm shit, so how much lower could I go? I was not going to put up with her belittling crap, and it would be best all around if she realized that. Not often I had the opportunity to have fun at the expense of her ilk, and I milked it with great amusement.

"Who the hell do you think you are, insulting me like that?"

"Fair question." I did my best to hide the chuckle. "Let me answer it for you. My name is Bert Stokes, and I know a hell of a lot more about computers than you do. Which entitles me to a modicum of respect, because I worked for it. Sure, I'm not rich like you or a looker, but those are not the only things that deserve respect.

"So, that's who I am. On the other hand, who are you? An entitled bitch is what I see. Your money and your looks were given to you. You've not had to work for any of it, yet you dismiss and deride ordinary people. You didn't have the common courtesy to even ask my name, just stuffed your computer in my hand and slammed the door, instructing me to 'fix it.' For which you owe me $350."

While she gasped like a bass on dry ground, I continued in my deadpan voice. "And if you give me any more crap, the price goes to $400."

This was decades ago, and until this day I've never seen a face displaying shock and respect like that day. Maybe the people she interacted with were all eager to grovel for her favor, or were like her. Evidently, nobody had had the guts to push back as quickly and firmly like I did.

Whatever the reason, the penny dropped and her attitude changed on a dime. "I am sorry, Bert is it? You are right, and I apologize. My mind was elsewhere and I was wrong. Will you forgive me?"

Amazing what the threat of an extra $50 did. The speed and magnitude of her change caught me off-guard, but not so much I forgot the main agenda. "As soon as I have $350 in cash, I'll consider it."

"Fair enough. How about I get the cash from the bank, you come back this evening, and I take you out to dinner to make up for my rudeness?"

Wow. Her counter-offensive took me by complete surprise. In my defense, I didn't have time to think it through. True logic would have shot that idea down in a ball of flames like the Hindenburg. But a guy is a guy, and deep down we're all hardwired to crave being seen with a beauty queen on our arm. It's primal molecular DNA or something. And she was staring at me, expecting an answer. A positive answer.

I was outmaneuvered and outgunned. Schmoe, not even Joe, remember? My mind spun out of control. I didn't have the clothes for where she and her ilk hung out. I wouldn't be able afford it (the clothes or the meal). And, worst of all, her friends would be there, staring at the morsel of cockroach shit she dragged in. Giggles, stares, finger pointing--been there, felt that. Not just no, but hell, no.

Her eyes, though, looked really sincere.

Then, my brilliant mind came up with a solution. "Only if it's to McDonald's." That would flush out her intentions. There's no way she'd be able to humiliate me at Mickey Dees. That was my home turf; she'd be the out of place one being microscoped by others. This would flush out any plans of hers to get back at me for humiliating her with my impromptu speech.

I had to offer her a face-saving way out so we could end the farce and go our separate ways. "But it's okay if you're a vegetarian or something." I didn't want to say "or be seen with ordinary folk," that would be a step too far.

Without even a nanosecond's hesitation, her face lit up. "Perfect. You want to come pick me up, or should I?"

No way did I want her to see where I lived. Jason, my roommate, was worse than I, and the only discernible difference between our place and a pigsty was the absence of real live porkers. "Hmm, since I know where you live, why don't I come get you? How about six?"

"Will 6:30 work for you? I have a few things I have to take care of. And I will have the cash with me."

I can't recall if I was successful hiding the sigh of relief. That plan gave me time to run my little Toyota pickup through the car wash. Hey, I was going to get $350 for nothing, so I'd be able to afford it for once. And cleaning out a year's worth of dust and debris required professional expertise.

To say dinner was a pleasant surprise would be the grandmother of all understatements. By the end of three hours she was Bren and I was Stoke. 'In love' may be an overstatement, but not by too much. Both of us were giggly, finishing each other's sentences and, well, you know. Not love at first sight, but definitely by second French fry. Surreal, utterly surreal. Las Vegas would have gone out of business if they had taken bets on that happening.

--

Long story short (I can see that smirk on your face, dear reader), we married about a year after graduation, she as a nurse and I as a systems analyst (which is what we were called back in those days). Along came three girls who made us happy and proud. All three went to college on athletic scholarships (softball, volleyball and soccer)--yay, Title IX.

I also started my own company specializing in network security, which, after a slow start, became established and furnished us with a decent living.

I shook my head in amazement way more than once. Between us, we'd launched a loving and successful navy.

--

Then it happened--the dreaded empty nester itch. In hindsight, it was probably just a matter of time. She worked with doctors and was, as pointed out above, the quintessential Everything Queen, and (for me at least) The Reach.

One day I went to the hospital to surprise her for lunch. As I turned into the parking lot, I saw her and a tall, slim guy get into a black 7-series BMW.

Ugh.

My heart dropped into my shoes. You all know the 'too good to be true' thing. The only question had always been not if, but when. I knew it. But I forgot it. Twenty wonderful years had lulled me to sleep.

The happy anticipation on her face as she walked, hand in hand, was unmistakable. I knew my wife, and in an instant I knew what I was looking at. Beautiful people across the world get addicted to adulation, and when it stops, it affects them deeply. When she married me, her love for me, and then her daughters, covered her withdrawals, but the departure of the girls left her with only me, and any husband of more than twenty years becomes like old slippers: comfortable, predictable and... just there. Impossible to shower her with the 'new and exciting' that class of people crave. In my happy bubble of love and complacency, I had forgotten that. But, just like the forgotten taste of vomit, it came back in an instant. In that expensive car she had a rich, young, attractive guy reviving and playing to that addiction she also had forgotten. She, not surprisingly, was jumping on that like a drowning victim on a lifebelt.

Since I had no business at the hospital anymore, I turned around. At the next stoplight I ended up right behind the black Beemer. Was she taking him to our house? Son of a biscuit eating bullfrog, she was. Her douchebag boyfriend didn't know me or my truck, but I still kept a good distance between us as I followed them, and parked a few houses before ours.

He turned in and, surprise, the garage door opened, and they pulled into her space. She must have taken her clicker before leaving the hospital. This definitely didn't look like a spontaneous first-time tryst. The door closed immediately, I guess before any neighbor could spot the strange car in our garage.

What was I going to do? Any confrontation with the asshole in my bed would put me (not him) in jail. My heart felt like a whirring garbage disposal, ripping our love to shreds and flushing it down the drain.

Without a plan, I drove further into our development and parked my truck. After taking out my garage clicker, I walked back to our house. By now, the two cheaters would have shed their clothes and gotten down to the pleasant business of adulterous fornication.

I opened the front door as quietly as I could, took out my phone and softly climbed the stairs to our bedroom. I almost fell over something--his pants. The slimy snake couldn't even wait until he got to the bedroom.

The door was half-open and the squishy sounds of lust left no doubt that they were in full swing. Only it wasn't swinging... you know what I mean.

At the doorway, I turned on my phone's video recording app and stuck it around the half-open door. The image showed a side view of her riding her new (latest?) boyfriend cowgirl-style.

If that wasn't bad enough, he was a trash-talker, in full throat, deriding my tiny mouse dick, and him cuckolding me in my bed. She egged him on. "Fuck me with your big dick, show me who's boss in this bed, lover."

It took every morsel of self-control to retreat with my evidence. On a whim, I picked up his pants, hoping to find his wallet to get his ID.

Fuming, I retreated into the garage, took a pair of surgical gloves from the shelf, put them on and opened the door of his BMW. The keys were still in it. I hit the button to open the garage door. Between the distance and the low-noise mechanism, they wouldn't hear it, especially not the way he carried on like a politician on the stump, singing his own praises.

After backing out, I left our subdivision in his lovely Beemer. What a nice car--I could see why idiots would pay big bucks for one--and headed straight to the wrong side of the tracks. Surely inhabitants of that neck of the woods would appreciate this overpriced marvel of German engineering. I opened all the windows, and parked close to an open lot where guys played pick-up basketball. I fished in the asshole's pants and removed his wallet. I took a picture with my phone of his drivers license. Dr. Richard Brannon. The wallet also had a few hundred in cash. Convenient. I took the hundreds and fifties, leaving the small denominations for the hyenas to get gas or whatever took their fancy. Then I left the wallet on the dashboard, in plain view, and rifled through his pants pockets. Imagine my surprise when his left pocket disgorged a thick money clip with five thousand dollars in it. Guy must like high-stakes poker games or high-priced escorts. Was he paying Brenda? I shook my head. The good doctor--no, make that the bad doctor--was probably doing backflips that she, pretty as she was, gave it up for free.

Pocketing my inadequate compensation for a stolen wife, I removed the car key, left it in the car, and walked away with all his other keys, dropping the gloves into a garbage can along the way.

After walking a considerable distance, I got a taxi back to my truck, paid for with Doctor Douchebag's cash, and I returned to work.

To my surprise, I'd received no distressed phone calls from Brenda. So, just after two, I called the hospital again, and asked to speak to her. She apparently hadn't returned from lunch yet.

So I told my assistant I was leaving early and headed home. My curiosity was killing me. What did the fuckers do when they discovered his car missing? How did he get back with his pants missing?

When I got home, Brenda was in a state.

Acting surprised, I asked, "What are you doing here?" putting as much concern on my face as I could muster.

"At work I got sick. One of the doctors brought me home. After checking to see that I was okay, he left. Only to find someone stole his car, right out of our garage. Out of our garage, Stokey! This is not supposed to happen. We can't stay here, we need to move. I keep expecting a burglar to jump out of a closet and rape me."

Immediately, I went to the bathroom and returned with a thermometer. Before she could react, I stuck it into her mouth. "Let's quickly check to see if you're still running a fever."

Must have been my forcefulness, but she waited a few minutes before I took it out. "98.6," I said, "totally normal. What were your symptoms again?"

"What? What are you talking about? We've been--"

"You said you felt so ill you couldn't drive yourself home, so someone had to bring you home. That means you had to run a fever. But now you have none. Nobody gets healed from such a bad sickness this fast. So, you couldn't have had a fever. What exactly were your symptoms?"

A major frown covered her face. "Are you not listening to me? We had--"

"I'm listening to you far better than you realize. You work in a hospital, with hundreds of doctors and nurses, instruments and medications. If you felt unwell, the most logical thing would have been to ask a coworker to take a quick look at you. Taking you OUT of a hospital is the most illogical thing I can imagine. So, again, what were your symptoms?"

Her frown turned from anger to confusion. "I... I... don't remember," she stammered.

"Next question. You said someone stole his car out of our garage. How did his car get INTO our garage... and why? Any normal person bringing you home would simply drop you off on the driveway and take off. Are you telling me you had time to go to your car and take out your garage clicker? Why would you want to do that? Which makes me wonder: why couldn't you drive home? You look totally okay to me, and it's only been, what, an hour, maybe two? So, whatever ailed you couldn't have been THAT bad." I kept the pressure on her, forcing her to think up more lies without time.

"I, I--"

"Furthermore," I interrupted, "Why the need to park his car in our garage?"

Brenda, as I expected, decided to attack her way out of her guilt. "What's with the interrogation? Don't you care that someone's car had been stolen here?"

Just like with the laptop all those years ago, I stood firm. "Maybe, but I care much more about why that car got INTO the garage. Why are you avoiding THAT question?

"I also care that I have a wife I suddenly don't trust anymore, who tells me a cockamamie story about feeling sick, but there's absolutely nothing wrong with her. She leaves the best possible place to address her supposed sickness, with another man, who mysteriously parks INSIDE our garage. Who does that? Can you see why my bullshit meter is pegging in the red zone? Oh, and where is the doctor hero who rushed you home?"

"He had to take an Uber to get back to the hospital."

"Which raises another question: why didn't YOU simply take an Uber to come home if you were so debilitated you couldn't drive?"

Under my harsh glare, she lowered her eyes. "I have a migraine, I have to lie down."

I walked up the stairs to our bedroom with her clutching her purse. Ordinarily, she left it downstairs in her kitchen administration nook, but for some reason (her 'sickness?') she felt she needed it close by. I figured I needed to stay close to it, lest she remove her phone and call her hot Dr. Brennan to sync up their lies.

In the bedroom, I told her to change into her pajamas. When she turned her back, I quickly removed her phone and slipped it into my pocket. When I opened the sheets for her to get back into bed, I stopped. "Brenda, these aren't the sheets I got out of this morning. What did you do, change the bed linens? And, if you're so sick, why aren't you still in them?"

A bright red blush shot up from under her collar. "I, uh, I... threw up on the old ones, so I had to put on fresh linens."

Good catch. This woman could lie for a spot on the American team if lying had been an Olympic sport.

I kept up the pressure. "Where are the old sheets?"

"I tossed them down the laundry chute."

"Okay, let me go put them in the wash real quick before they stink up the place."

Frantically, she scrambled in front of me. "Uh... no need. I already put them in the wash. There's no rush. I can put them in the dryer tomorrow, or tonight if I'm feeling better."

"Nonsense. You're under the weather, and it's the least a concerned husband can do for his wife. Get in bed now. Want me to make you a cup of tea, or do you want something stronger to kill those bacteria?"

"Thanks, but water would be good enough."

I left, but waited at the stairs to see what she'd do when she discovered her phone missing. Imagine my surprise when I heard her talking, like on a phone. We'd given up our landline long ago, so I turned around and entered our bedroom quietly.

She sat on her side of the bed, facing the wall, with another phone to her ear. "I'm not sure," she said in a loud whisper. "He sounds like he suspects something, but I think I managed to placate him. Have you found your car? Oh, a rental? That sounds like it'll work. Listen, I have to hang up, he'll be back any minute."