Strange Car in the Driveway - Dude

"You're wrong, Ver," I reply, holding back my anger. "It was exactly that. I have a lot to think about before I sit down and talk to you. And I did promise, even though I was tricked in a despicable way to do so. I'm not ready for that either. I'm not breaking my promise, but I couldn't possibly say the words right now and mean them." I put the car in gear and slowly start rolling backwards.

Vera seems stunned. She says nothing as I start to leave, but upon the realization that the car is moving, she starts following it and me down the driveway. "I love you, Gary," she claims in a pleading voice.

"Right now, I find that very hard to believe," are my last words, as I put the car in drive and push the accelerator.

I get some more beer, and another salad. Maybe this will be my new life. I hope not.

Two beers in, and nothing on the TV to distract me, it hits me. Hard. I'm a man. I'm a father. I was a husband who gave it my all, but I don't know about that anymore. But what I'm not is a wimp. I won't lie down and take this, but I'm not going to burn everything down, until I get all the facts. I have a month off with pay, so I'll get my information. I'll put in my eight hours every day, like I'm still at work, until I have what I need. In the meantime, I'll prepare my revenge - something that will make Vera feel exactly how she made me feel. When I'm off the clock, so to speak, I'll continue to be a good father to the kids.

All I get from Vera that night are two questions, via text. Neither of them surprises me.

Where's the junker, Gary? We need to take it back to Sal's Towing and Salvage. They aren't being very nice.

The next one's a little meaner, and more desperate.

Gary, did you take a bunch of money out of the account? I meant to ask you when you were here but I forgot. If you did, I need you to put it back. I went grocery shopping today, and my card declined on $248.00. When I checked the balances, I was very upset. That's OUR money, and I need it for the kids' basic care. You shouldn't have done that. Please put it back the way it was tonight."

She tried to sound demanding, but certainly not upset. There were no terms of endearment in either message. Maybe she's starting to get it.

While deciding how to respond, I make a 'to-do' list for tomorrow. With that done, I settle in with my phone and craft my reply.

Vera, I have no idea where the instrument of our destruction is. I was pissed and called the cops to have it towed away. It's probably sitting at Sal's and he's just trying to wring more cash out of you and dipshit. It's not my problem. If I ever see it again, I'll find out where Reg lives, and drive it through his fucking living room. Oh, yeah. He probably lives in an upstairs one-bedroom apartment. As far as the money, I was protecting myself and my family. I'll put in enough so you can get groceries. If you need something else, you'll need to ask my permission and be specific about what it's for, and I'll consider putting the funds in our checking. Sorry Vera, but my trust in you is under a microscope now, as far as I'm concerned. I'm handling all the family bills going forward.

Vera doesn't reply - at least not before I go to bed. It's just as well. The text I sent her was meticulously crafted; I only transmitted about a tenth of the anger I was feeling, and still feel. A more spontaneous exchange would have been... volatile. She's nails on a chalkboard right now. There's nothing she could do or say (or text) that would make me less angry. I need to make my decisions and my plans. I need to find my own way through this.

After doing my morning bathroom routine, I stop for an egg McMuffin and an orange juice. I haven't had one of these in quite some time, and start wondering why. Then I drive to my... the house, and wait at the end of the street for Vera to leave with the kids. It's a school day, after all.

As soon as they're out of sight, I run in and grab the mini-recorder from under our bed. Then I download its contents into my smart phone using the dongle, and return it to its hiding spot. I have a very busy day, so I'll need to listen to it later.

As I drive over to Ray's place, I call a number I looked up last night. A younger-sounding guy answers on the second ring. "Jake Andrews, professional investigations. May I help you?"

I introduce myself, explain a little about my predicament, and ask Jake how he could help me gather some evidence.

"Well, let's see, Gary. I suppose that depends on how you want to proceed in the future. Are you going for divorce, and...custody of your children? Are you looking for some compensation from the school, or do you just want information on this Lothario, Reg?"

"I'm not sure yet." That's the truth. I still have decisions to make. "I'm kinda taking this as I go. I guess I want to know, if this was just an evil trick cooked up by my wife and her friend, or are they having an affair. I also think I've got that covered. I have a voice-activated recorder in our bedroom, because that's where she usually likes to talk on her phone. I could probably use some help recording her everywhere else."

There's a pause. Jake's winding up with a giant spiel, I sense. Even if my situation is a little unique in substance, "cheating spouses" are these guys' bread and butter.

"So, first, Gary, anything we record, we can't use in court. You just need to know that. On the plus side, if we find that she's been...doing things a married woman shouldn't be, we can use that information as leverage in the divorce or child custody arrangements. It will also give you peace of mind to know for sure. That's what most of my clients are looking for.

"I can provide you with a sweet little device that's disguised as a pen. It's a voice-activated recorder, and anywhere there's a Bluetooth connection, it will upload what it records to the cloud. I can provide you a URL and login to listen to all those recordings. If you can find a way to get it in her purse, or even her car, that will improve your chances of finding out what she's doing, hiding, and thinking, but at the very least we'll hear what she's saying to the people in her circle of influence. What else?"

"Well, I'm not wealthy," I'll admit. "I probably can't afford to pay you to follow people around, but I'd really like to know as much as I can about her paramour, Reg, and if there's any connection to the instructor. I don't know if she's a professor, or just an instructor for this class. It seems diabolical that the assignments could be so extreme."

"I'm glad you said that," Jake says. Suddenly he's more excited. I wonder why. "I don't know for sure if this guy is the same one I investigated about three years ago, but it's possible. A hubby paid me to check out his wife and some slick-talker from one of her classes at the university. Turned out she was sleeping with the guy. I don't recall this professor, but I just went to their website and looked up the English faculty. There's a Professor Strausberg, and she looks like a piece of work. Can you find out who your wife's instructor for the class is?"

"Yeah, I think so, what's it say about her?"

"This is where we talk about fees," he jumps in. "Most of what you are asking, I can do from right here at my desk. I bill by the hour. If it's the same guy as that other case, then you're in luck, because I have plenty on him. I can tell you the guy I looked at wasn't named Reg, but that doesn't necessarily mean anything. As far as a connection to the actual professor or class, here's how I handle it: anything I find, that any other person can easily find on the internet, I'll point you there in my report, and won't charge you beyond the hourly - and stuff like that doesn't take me hours to find, I assure you. In the meantime, I can certainly do a deep dive on her, the department chair's personnel records, and even the board of regents' public records for any previous disciplinary actions. If there's a connection between the two, it won't be difficult to find."

"Okay, how much do you need up front?"

I pay him $2500 with my credit card, and pull up into Ray's yard. When I walk in, I see a very strange-looking car. "Shit, Ray! Is that the same clunker that was parked in my driveway?"

"Yeah," Ray announces proudly. "This baby is a beast. An oil change and a new fuel filter, and this sucker purrs like a kitten."

Then he gets down to business. "Check this out," He says as he clicks a remote in his hand. The car comes to life. I can hear the prerecorded message I sent him loud and clear as it reverberates through his shop. It almost seems the car itself is talking. I can hear the sound from the trunk, under the hood and through the open windows.

"The two Bose are in the front and back," Ray shouts, bringing me out of my reverie. "Inside the vehicle are sixteen... well, normal speakers. They're under the back seats, in the door panels, inside the dash, and watch this..."

Ray pushes another remote, and the LED ad board mounted on the roof of the car starts scrolling a similar message to what's belting out of the speakers.

"And now for the piece de resistance!" Ray picks up his tablet from the worktable. He scrolls through some software, and then I hear both our voices from two minutes ago.

"I pulled the hands-free mics from a 2018 Chevy Malibu and a 2020 Prius out back, and mounted them just inside both doors. When the amplifier is transmitting the message to the speakers, this sweet little program is recording the onlookers' verbal reactions."

"Looks like 'Operation Crush Mrs. Wilkins' is in full swing," I state triumphantly. After Ray asks the obvious question and I explain who Mrs. Wilkins is, we sit for a beer.

"Gary, you do know there are some risks here, don't you? I mean, I want you to know this could backfire on us. It was my idea, but I just have to say it before we get going."

"Thanks Ray. I do, and you know what? I decided these past two days that I'm done being shit on. I like my job. I understand that corporations worry more about their bottom line than their people, and I guess I'm okay with that. But I want to work someplace where my performance leads me to climbing the ladder. I've just recently come to realize that my company is probably not the best place for me. What about Sal?"

"All taken care of," Ray replies. "I traded him a thirteen-foot Chris-Craft that's been taking up space on the back lot, and some parts for a hemi. He's still gonna lean on your wife and the asshole for more money though.

"It's kinda what we do!" Ray adds with a heinous snicker. He checks the downloaded file I'd sent to make sure it was set to repeat.

"Well, let's go."

Before we pull away, I call Vera. "What was your instructors' name for this class?"

"Why?" she asks, with a hint of attitude.

"Why do you think?" I say flatly.

"Professor Elena Strausberg. I'm hoping you just want to verify what I told you in my letter. You have every right to do that, but if you're going to start trouble, I advise against that. It would...upset me."

"Really," I chuckle. "Would it upset you enough that you couldn't forgive me?"

I hear a heavy, dejected sigh through the phone. "All I can say is that I'm sorry, Gary. I'll keep saying it, and I'll keep my promise to give you space."

"But, you're not going to like it," I say, filling in the subtext. "Keeping your promise, I mean. And the grace you're offering on both won't last much longer, is what I hear you not saying, Vera. Just remember who made this fucking mess. I'm guessing you really didn't think it through. Remember, too, that that's on you, not me." I disconnect the call.

From the professional building parking lot across the street, I can hear the car broadcasting perfectly. Ray looks very pleased with himself. Some of the employees are coming out to listen, and, since our building houses about a dozen separate businesses, there are plenty of people there I don't personally know.

"My name is Raymond. One of your co-workers, Gary, is my close friend. His supervisor, Mrs. Wilkins, helped his wife play a very hurtful and exceptionally mean trick on him. She also made references to Gary's wife about a promotion that apparently, no one in the organization seems to know about.

"He's been asked to take time off and get his personal life in order. Gary is devastated by this turn of events, and, since he can't speak for himself without risking further retaliation, I'm doing it for him. After being set up and sent home early, this car was parked in his driveway, and was just one of the intentional clues left to make him think his wife was stepping out on him. Supposedly, it was for a class assignment at the local college his wife attends.

"If you think that your workplace should remain separate from your personal life, I urge you to take steps with your employer to ensure this kind of thing never happens to you. Let your HR representative hear your voice and make sure they know this type of behavior is unacceptable."

The LED board on top, reads; ... #FREEGARY.... Stop the oppression... What if this happens to you?...

Twenty minutes of this, and I finally catch sight of Mr. Stevenson, and Mrs. Wilkins standing next to the Buick, trying desperately to figure out how to shut down the broadcast. Then, twenty minutes after that, a local squad car and a tow truck driven by Rolando show up. Satisfied, I treat Ray to lunch.

At two in the afternoon I accept a call from the investigator. "Gary, hey, Jake here. Got a minute?"

Jake tells me what he's learned about the two culprits.

"So the guy is Reginald Smith. He's definitely the same guy I looked into before, except he went by Arnie Smith then. He's taken the playwright class four times in the past three years, using either of those names to register, which means he has at least two ID's. The guy can't hold down a job. He's been let go by four brokerage firms in the past decade, and he's currently self-employed as a day trader."

Jake takes a deep breath. "The professor, as I said before, is a piece of work. She's written a book and several magazine articles, along with her blog. The things she stumps for, make feminism seem like the mainstream. Women should claim their rightful spot in the world as the true leaders, female-led relationships, men put in their place, all that horse-shit. She speaks of pussies like they're the Holy Grail, and not in the birthing sense. Traditional isn't in her vocabulary.

"That said, so far, I haven't found any connection between her and Reginald, except not questioning or reporting him taking her course multiple times. Auditing a class is obviously at the instructor's discretion, but this is clearly overboard. I'll keep looking into a possible connection.

"Here's the best, or worst, part. Reginald's wife, now ex-wife, Penny, divorced and left him two years ago, and took their two children with her to the west coast. She remarried, and the guy adopted the kids, with Reginald's consent. That's what I got so far."

I thank Jake and hang up. Well, the plot thickens, I suppose. The plot. I laugh at my own double entendre. Not a half hour later, I receive a call from a number I don't recognize. I won't usually take those, but with everything going on, I answer.

"Hello."

"Mr. Hagelman?" a strange voice asks.

"Yes?"

"This is Jonathan Holt, of Holt Manufacturing. Do you have a minute?" Holt is a direct competitor of my company's so he's immediately piqued my interest.

Mr. Hagelman, Gary - may I call you Gary?" he continues.

"Sure."

"I just got off the phone with Mr. Stevenson. We had a long and interesting conversation about you. Let me get right to it. I'd like to offer you a job."

I'm astounded. How did word about my troubles travel that fast? Then I remember he just mentioned Stevenson.

"Well that's interesting, and certainly a surprise," I say, trying not to seem like an idiot. "What would your offer have to do with Mr. Stevenson?"

"Well," he says chuckling loudly. "Straight to the point, I see. I like you already! Alright, here it is. As you know, our company competes against yours. That's just business. Still, it just so happens that I genuinely dislike most of the people that sign your checks. That said, Bill Stevenson is a friend of mine, though, and he has been for ten years. He called me this morning after the commotion you created with that lit-up junk car. The problem for Bill is two-fold. Your supervisor screwed herself, but also the company, when she conspired with your wife. The way things are structured, he can certainly demote her, but firing her outright is a bit of a problem."

He gives me a moment to process what he'd said before trudging on. "That's why Bill called me. He told me about the old wreck and the message it played. Do you know they have had more management complaints just today than any other week in the company's history?"

"I didn't, no, sir."

"Well, they did. I'm pretty sure you caused that. If you go back to work there, that will be Stevenson's second problem. Seeing you every day will just embolden the staff. I happen to like out-of-the-box thinkers, though, and I don't think any of my employees are familiar with you. Damn, son, you stood them up on their asses. I'm always on the lookout for people like you, and here you are, sending up a big green flare.

"There's one thing I need to know, though. All I know about your marital problems came second - or third - hand from this Mrs. Wilkinson through Bill. Where are you with all that?"

I explain my situation, and where I'm headed - at least as far as I know. Mr. Holt is quiet, seeming to ponder what to say next.

"Son, the way I see it, your wife fucked up pretty good, but it's nothing that can't be fixed. Do you love her?"

"Yes, I do."

"Enough to forgive her if this Lothario hasn't succeeded in bedding her?" he asks.

"Yes," I reply, "as long as she understands the implications, and is repentant."

"Okay, then here's my offer. One hundred-ten thousand, guaranteed for the first two years. Eligible for bonus after twelve months. Healthcare, and a 401k with matching up to five percent. That's a forty thousand dollar per year raise, is that correct?"

I almost collapse. "Um, er... yes, sir. That's correct."

"Do we have a deal then?" he presses. It's more like a demand. It hardly needs to be.

"I uh...I don't know what to...uh, this isn't a joke is it?"

"No joke, son. I'm helping my friend Bill and myself at the same time. Seems like I'm helping you too."

"Deal," I say firmly.

"There you go, Gary. Now, I want you to take four days and try to straighten out, or at least work on your home situation. Then I'm sending you to Denver for three weeks. I have an issue with the plant manager there, and I'd like to see how you approach sorting it out. Can you do that, Gary?"

I'm completely shell-shocked. In my stupid head, I'm trying to work through all the reasons I can't. In those brief milliseconds, it dawns on me that this may be just what Vera and I need, if I do manage to reconcile with her. Then our life together going forward won't have any money-related stress to speak of. The kids might not even have to take out college loans... well, okay, they won't have to take out many.

"I can do that," I say. "You said four days, correct?"

"Yes. Give me your email address so I can send you some new-hire paperwork to fill out."

After disconnecting, I lay on the bed, completely overwhelmed. Stevenson needed me gone, for whatever reason. It didn't really matter why. Wilkins is off the ladder and on the chute. Mission accomplished, in spades. Now, however, I really need to stop letting my anger guide me, and think through my plans with Vera and the asshole.