Strange Car in the Driveway - Dude

This story is a continuation of, Strange Car in the Driveway, by Edrider73, written and published with his permission. Read the original first, if you want this story to make sense.

https://www.literotica.com/s/strange-car-in-the-driveway

This was a challenge for me. When I write a sequel, it's paramount for me to stay true to the original piece - the characters and personalities, in particular. My first impressions, after having read Strange Car, were that Edrider73 purposefully left the characters as sketches and didn't even finish the story.

Although understanding both as conscious choices, I was still unfulfilled. It's not generally how I write, and it obviously makes things more difficult for the next guy down the line. Then again, I did go out of my way to be one of those next guys. Edrider73 owed me less than nothing.

Then I read Edrider73's ending - a letter from wife to husband - to my wife. She said, "Okay. Sounds like the story is complete. She didn't cheat, she got an A+, and now she wants to go to pizza with the kids." I thought that ludicrous, but score one for the wife! It turns out, that that's exactly how the author views the story. You can read more in the author's interview here.

https://www.literotica.com/s/author-interview-edrider73

I got the link from Ed when I contacted him for permission to continue the piece. It was eye-opening, and made me rethink everything I'd already planned out and written for this sequel. You're getting the second attempt, post-enlightenment. Post edit, I read two of the other sequels. George Anderson has some eerily similar situations in his epilogue, regarding the Lothario and the class instructor. Apparently, he and I have nearly the same fondness for college professors! Since Mr. Anderson no longer responds to permission letters, I'll take my licks here publicly, and ask forgiveness. Apropos for this story, I suppose. There are enough differences so as not to cross a line, I believe.

Big thanks to the editor, nueroparenthetical, for dressing up this word salad! He did much more than edit this one.

Relax; it's only a story, people!

Well, this fucking sucks. I'm sitting on my bed staring at this bullshit letter, after enduring this bullshit stunt. My wife, Vera, ends her well-planned, viscous assault by telling me we're all going out for pizza as a family later. Is it possible she's that damned stupid, or is this some kind of cover - some part of her sinister plan to quickly get me back into the fold or, to hide something else she's done? I realize there's so many questions I don't have answers to, but I also know right now I need to react - to cover my ass and do things for my children, just in case. I'll have plenty of time later, when I'm alone, to go through what I know and what I don't, and then formulate my own plan.

The first thing that comes to mind is that fucking piece-of-shit car. It's been sitting there for who knows how long - and I'm sure all the neighbors have been gossiping about it. I want it gone from my fucking driveway, but it may hold some important clues. Two birds. Time for a fucking stone.

I pull out my cell and hit the number for my cousin's best friend. We're all drinking buddies, even though a father of three rarely gets to go out drinking.

"Raymond, Gary here," I greet him. "Lots of things are up. I need a huge favor, and I need it right away. I don't have time to explain, but I will tomorrow morning sometime. Can you send a wrecker to my house, like right now?

"Fifteen minutes? That's fast! Are you sure? Yeah, there's a beat-up heap of shit in my driveway. I need it taken inside one of your stalls for the night. Not left outside, okay? No it's not mine. I seriously doubt it belongs to anyone. Actually, it may be one of yours. When you see it, I think you'll know we don't need any paperwork."

Ray owns one of the two salvage yards in town, plus a lucrative towing business. While I wait for his guy to arrive, I examine Vera's tablet. I discover it doesn't belong to Vera. It's the same color, but that's about it. This one's either a newer model or some kind of specialized tablet. Then it hits me: she said they'd been able to hear me break the door to my own bedroom down. Could they see me too? Fuck.

I take the tablet to the garage, get a roll of duct tape, and then tap on the screen. It comes right back to life on the audio file I'd paused. No sleep mode, no login needed. I cover the camera thoroughly with the tape and then turn down the volume all the way, since I can't get into settings.

Going back inside, I put the device in my backpack, along with my own iPad and my other electronics and chargers. Then I hurry to the bedroom to gather a few days' worth of clothing. By the time I get back downstairs and outside, Rolando, Ray's right-hand man, is hooking the tow chains to the undercarriage. He looks at me funny when our eyes meet, but I know Rolando well, and he's not much for speaking actual words.

I hand him a twenty dollar bill and bid him farewell. One more time through our bedroom - perhaps former bedroom - I do a quick search through Vera's personal items. Her nightstand, the dresser, and her half of the closet yield nothing new or significant. I go back to my car, grab my voice-activated recorder, then run up and place it under our bed, between one of the posts and the baseboard. Three minutes later, Rolando and I are pulling out together, driving away from a locked and dark house.

I need to eat. What a fucking night so far. What I really want to do is get drunk, but there's no time to wallow. This is war. My wife - and at least three other people - had declared it on me, and now I need a battle plan. I pull into my favorite pub and grill. We rarely come here because it's on the complete opposite side of town. Parking, I pull out my tablet and log in to our electronic banking app. I move everything, except two hundred dollars into a savings account we've set up for the kid's college tuition. It's nearly twenty-five thousand. Then I lock it and change the app's password. I can always move things back later.

My mushroom-Swiss burger is delicious. They put the mushrooms under the cheese so everything doesn't fall off when you take a bite, smart operators that they are. The fries are just okay. I order a Maker's Mark, light rocks and a hoppy IPA. That's all for me, and just intended to dull the pain. Who am I kidding? An entire six-pack and a bottle wouldn't help my pain tonight. The Quality Inn across the street has a 2.5 rating, but it's cheap. Just before settling my tab, I add a six-pack of their 'beer of the month', just in case I change my mind and decide to get shit-faced.

After a long, hot cathartic shower, I get to work. Making a few lists, I decide to handle the easy stuff first -the things that can be done quickly and will help me most in the short term.

Re-reading my wife's manifesto, I study the part about my boss. I know Mrs. Wilkins has a family. She also - undeservedly in my humble opinion - makes a great deal more money than some of the more qualified middle-managers, like me. Diversity my ass; this bitch helped my wife do this to me. Sure, it says that she made Vera swear on a Bible and all that other crap, but she still went through with it. The bullshit about my promotion didn't carry water either. Our company has shareholders. We don't operate that way. Withholding information from an employee about a promotion is not within company guidelines, and my last three performance evaluations - conducted and written by no other than Wilkins herself - had me pegged as an associate that wasn't being considered for one.

Now I have to decide. Should I go into HR in the morning, resign, and start an avalanche? Should I just report her? Should I take personal time, simply alluding to stress-driven issues with my direct supervisor and let them schedule me into what they call 'mediation?' The latter would certainly give me more time to get to the bottom of this.

I suddenly realize I'm overthinking things. I'm not going to let Vera do that to me. Wilkins is tangential, and I've got the goods on her. I'll report her. Odds are she'll be clearing out her desk in a day or two. Hell, they might give me her job. I'm certainly qualified for it.

It's now seven o'clock. I'd expected my phone to blow up, but to my utter surprise, nothing. Surely they had already been out to dinner and returned. Maybe she never took them for pizza at all.

At 7:45, a text came in. It's from Vera, and it's a wall.

Honey, I want to say how sorry I am again. I know you read my letter, and hopefully the play too. I see you took some things and you're probably planning to stay away tonight. Totally understandable and I don't blame you. Take the time you need. I just ask that you let me know you're okay, and to call the kids to tuck them in. I told them you had a special project and may be away for a day or two. But I'd feel better if you called them. They aren't part of this, so...

I love you! Me

Jesus! Who is this woman? The kids aren't part of this? Just, fucking wow!

Not tonight, I text back. I'm not in a place to talk with them. Tell them I love them.

Alright. U Okay?

Fine. Leave me alone.

The next morning, eight fifty-five, I'm sitting in the HR waiting room. Wilma Burns walks in and says hello.

"Good morning, Ms. Burns." She likes people who use the 'mizz.'

"How can I assist you, Gary?" she asks. What a nice lady. She's always bubbly. More importantly, she's always available - even at this early hour.

"I need to talk about a leave of absence. I have a... problem." I leave it there.

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that Gary. Is it a family issue? Do you need assistance setting up Family Leave Act time?"

"No, this is more... of a personal nature." I stop for effect. "Actually, personal and professional, now that I think about it."

Ms. Burns face sours considerably. "Professional? As in, on the job, Gary?" She's quite good at her work.

"Well, yes. I mean, well, it's embarrassing."

Now Wilma directs me to the conference room next to her office. The admin is just arriving, and Ms. Burns tells her to hold her nine o'clock appointment if necessary. She leaves me there while she hurries to her office to retrieve her iPad and some forms.

"Okay, Gary, can you please tell me the nature of this issue? The professional part, as you put it."

"Like I said, it's embarrassing, and it's both personal and professional."

Wilma stops typing and looks up to make eye contact with me. I've destroyed her wonderful mood and wiped that smile right off her lovely face. She silently urges me to either shit or get off the pot. Believe it or not, it makes me like her even more.

"Mrs. Wilkins, my... boss, she well, she and my wife... I'm sorry, this all happened within the last twenty-four hours, so it's a little raw. Let me start again.

"My wife, she conspired with one of her classmates... a man...,to pull this cruel trick on me. The cruelty involved...oh god!" I put my face in my hands, playing pretty hard for sympathy.

Sniffling, I look up again. "She's in a play-writing class, and she... with this man came up with a realistic one-act play of infidelity. They made me believe it was taking place in our own bed, as they lay in wait to ambush me. My wife... she... she told Mrs. Wilkins all about it yesterday, and got her to go along. She wanted Mrs. Wilkins to send me home early, and to pretend like I'd done something requiring discipline." That isn't true, but too bad.

"That was to distract me, so they could set me up, and spring their trap, when I arrived home. They needed me home at a time that would sync up with their class, where, I guess, they performed it live."

Ms. Burns looks on, stunned.

"I've always liked my boss," I brazenly lie. "I don't know if I can recover from this. I don't know if I can stay married to such a cruel and callous person, and I don't yet know if I can continue on here." I bend forward into a semi-fetal position, again hiding my face in my hands.

Ms. Burns actually goes to the other end of the conference table to retrieve a box of tissues, and then brings them to me. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Hagelman. Here, take a moment while I make some notes."

A few minutes later, I'm feeling better, much better.

Ms. Burns continues. "So let me see if I have this right. Your wife..." she checks her notes, "... Vera, she met with your superior outside of work to discuss this...deception?"

"No," I reply. "My wife came here to discuss it with her. I don't know if it was yesterday, or before that. Mrs. Wilkins came to me about one o'clock yesterday and told me to go home, and that she wanted to see me in her office first thing the next morning - today. I've known her a long time, and I can tell when she's uncomfortable. It usually has to do with disciplinary action. She doesn't deal with conflict well. So I thought I did something wrong - from the look on her face, something maybe even job-threatening. I was distracted all the way home. That's when my wife and her boyf... classmate ambushed me. Mrs. Wilkins knew all about what was going to happen. Here, see for yourself. I took this part of a letter my wife left for me. I'm sorry, but I just can't have anybody read the whole thing. She spells out everything, and it's just..."

Ms. Burns studies the hand-written message I'd torn from the bottom of her letter. She reads it twice, and then goes to a different screen on her iPad, clicking and pushing away. "It states here that Mrs. Wilkins told your wife she planned on promoting you the next morning. As far as you know, was that part of the... joke?"

"I don't know," I say, sighing. "I've thought about that since... last night when this happened. I know company policy, though, and it seems a little strange, don't you think?"

Wilma didn't answer. "I'm going to have to meet with upper management about all this. I'd like you to take today off, and I'll call you as soon as I have more information about how you are to proceed. This is a... predicament."

I leave the building, avoiding my department and my boss. Vera had left a message while I was in the meeting, asking if I was coming home, and if I was taking our daughter to soccer practice. I know I'm not going to be able to hide from my family long, or shirk my responsibilities, but I still have plenty to do.

I text, Please take her to practice and I'll bring her home. Hopefully that'll keep Vera from asking me about my return.

Then Ray calls. "Gary, hey, you got some time today?"

"How about now?" I reply.

"You're not working?" he asks. "If you can, yeah, come over, I want to talk about this car, and a few ideas I have."

Ray hands me a beer. It's only ten in the morning, but hey, I'm on a vacation of sorts. We walk around the heap of a vehicle.

"1978 Buick Riviera," Ray says absentmindedly. "Hot fucking ride back in the day. A real pussy wagon."

I laugh and spit my beer across the hood. "Pussy wagon? You've got to be shitting me, Ray! Next you're going to tell me about all your fucking exploits in an AMC Gremlin. Look at this pile of shit."

"You're just pissed because your wife and her new boy... sorry, Gary, because they left it in your driveway. Sorry, man."

"What did you want to talk about?" I need to change the subject. It's still too raw.

"Well, for starters, I called Sal. He's my competition across town, you know? Anyway, he sold them, well, loaned them the car for $200. That greasy fucker that was with your wife tried talking him into letting them 'borrow' the car for what they called a prank. Sal did exactly what I would have. He told them if they really didn't want the vehicle, they could put down a $200 deposit, and then bring it back the next day. Of course, Sal had no intention of giving them their money back, but that's what they did." Ray snickered. Anyway, after chatting with Sal, he's gonna call and e-mail them, that he has a buyer for the car, and that the meter's running, so they need to bring back the car they "rented" ASAP."

"You mean this fucking thing runs?" I ask incredulously. "They actually drove it to my house?"

"Yeah, it's all fucked up, the body and interior, but it runs. Listen, they don't know where the car is, and Sal's upping the price as we speak. We could keep it here, so they have to pay out the ass, or we could do something more diabolical." Ray has a shit-eating grin and looks awfully proud.

"Tell me about the something more," I reply evilly.

Ray points to a large metal utility shelf against one wall of his shop. "See all that?"

I study the junk. It's fairly well organized, for, well, junk.

"What if we take some of those old speakers and mount them all over, inside the car, then drive all around town playing some message about your wife and that asshole?" Ray says confidently. "That should embarrass them as much as they did you."

Okay, his idea sucks, and I hadn't gotten into the details of the humiliation they had heaped onto me yesterday, but it gets me to thinking. "How many speakers are we talking?"

"As many as you want! Well I have about nineteen or twenty in decent shape. I also have two Bose, almost brand new from a totaled Lamborghini. And I have that." Ray points at one of those LED advertising bars, the ones you see in a liquor store window, where the red letters scroll from right to left.

"We can mount that sucker on top, you know, for the hearing impaired!" Ray laughs pretty hard at his own joke, and so do I. It feels good.

"Let me think about it, Ray. I'm not sure how far I want to go, here. I've got three small kids to be concerned about." We go back to drinking our beers.

An hour later, Ms. Burns calls. "Gary, its Wilma."

Informal, I think to myself. That's a good sign.

"I spoke with Mr. Stevenson. He's granted a twenty-eight day leave of absence, with full pay. He wants you to take some time to deal with your... personal situation. He's also going to be disciplining Mrs. Wilkins."

Disciplining how, exactly?" I ask, pissed. "And what about my promotion?"

"I'm not at liberty to discuss that, Gary," Wilma responds, much more robotically. "Just know we take this allegation very seriously, and everything will be done according to our policies."

"So the promotion wasn't real?" I press.

"We're not that far into our investigation yet."

This isn't what I want to hear. I hang up and call Ray. "Do it. Hide the speakers as best you can. I have a place for a test run. If things work out, we can repeat it. Do you have the ability to make one or more of those speakers a two-way so we can listen to the people listening to the car's message?"

"I think we can do that!" Ray says, elated.

"Perfect!" I reply. "I'll be by tomorrow to help with the messages. I'll record some stuff tonight and send you the file."

I drive over to the soccer field, deep in thought. My test run for the car, will be Mrs. Wilkins, Mr. Stevenson, and, to an extent, all the big-wigs at my company. If they think they can sweep this under the rug and that I'll just come back to work for that bitch, they have another thing coming.

As I drop Marissa off at home, Vera comes out to the car. I don't get out, and her expression sours immediately.

"You're not staying?" she half-says, half-asks.

"No," I answer flatly.

"Gary, I'm sorry, really sorry," Vera sighs, "but I don't see how staying away from your family is helping. We need to talk; maybe you need to yell at me. Get it all out, you know? Ask me the questions that must be going through your head. I can see I've really hurt you. We've always told each other everything, honestly, remember? Plus, you promised to forgive me. I need that, and I also need to start making up for what I did. It wasn't done with malicious or cruel intent, although I understand if you feel that way." She seems to want to say more, but stops and waits for me to respond.