To Have and Have Not

I wanted to play with the "gottcha" vibe that is so near and dear to the hearts of the Loving Wives set.

It seems to me that the jealousy and outrage that stems from the protagonist discovering that the wife is cheating with her boss/co-worker/his brother/best friend/a neighbor/a biker gang/an infantry platoon/the family dog/or all of the above is the cathartic element for this genre.

That being said, the ensuing retribution, which is usually due to the fact that the protagonist is an ex-Seal/FBI-CIA-NSA/filthy rich/ the meanest motherfucker in the valley/or a holder of black belts in Karate and Kama Sutra, is really just the falling action leading to the final reconciliation or the bitch being buried in the back yard.

That resolution seems to be completely dependent on the author's personal predilections and level of emotional maturity.

Still, the thought that keeps going through my head is, "Is any of this even close to real?"

In my experience NOTHING is ever that clear-cut. And people don't respond to unexpected, life-altering events by concocting intricate plots.

In fact, as far as I've ever experienced it, we just react to things in a semi-unpredictable fashion. And we never have any real situational awareness when we do it.

So everybody's reality is pretty-much in the eye of the beholder. At least that's what I am working with here.

This also lets me tell the story of the last of the Wilson girls. I could have just as easily put this in the supernatural category because of the story segment that involves her. But we know (from the other stories) that she is anything but an angel... Thank you for reading me - DT

*****

I do a lot of public speaking. It's the price you pay to sell books. No, I'm not Papa Hemingway. I write for the professional market. And you don't do that for personal enjoyment. That kind of writing is more like the Bataan Death March without any of the fun.

I have to hustle to get my name out. So, a long time ago I formed a symbiotic relationship with the big Houses.

People need to keep up. And there are a lot of folks writing books. So, my publishers truck me into a conference in East Buttfuck Nebraska and I do my thing.

It's like leveraging your prostitution career by being a stripper. You show the audience enough to get them interested. But if they want to unwrap the goods they have to pay for the whole thing.

And it's free publicity for both of us.

I was painfully shy when I was a kid. The idea of talking to total strangers filled me with horror. The concept of talking to 100 complete strangers would have been about as inconceivable as anti-gravity boots. But I grew up to be an academic. And you get over it, after years of standing up in front of students.

\

That's a special situation though. They HAVE to listen. I hold the whip. The group tonight was another matter entirely. Each and every one was a gimlet-eyed C-Level. You have to be on your game with those guys. Otherwise, they will communicate their displeasure in creative and ego-shattering ways.

I know my stuff. You don't publish six professional books without knowing your stuff. But when you are up there on stage you are entertaining, not informing.

I learned that the hard way when I stepped up to the plate for the first time. I did two hours of serious discussion. The reviews were less than kind. The best they said was that I was boring.

That hurt. So like the Burlesque queen in Gypsy, "I got myself a gimmick."

My attitude the next time up was, "Fuck you audience!" And I unloaded a steaming pile of demagogic shit on them that would have made Chicken Little seem like a starry eyed optimist.

They loved it.

I was educated by the Jesuits and that first experience helped me understand the plight of anybody who tries to sway people with logic. The audience wants adrenaline not message. And rational discourse can't compete with a guy in a mirrored suit telling them that they are going to hell?

So I did my usual fire and brimstone shtick for the assembled multitude. It was full of allusions to digital Pearl Harbors and post-apocalyptic societies. I feel like it was way over-the-top simplistic. Even if most of what I was telling them will probably happen.

And of course they ate it up. Apparently you CAN fool all of the people some of the time.

There are two kinds of players in the public speaking game. One is an attention junkie. They are on stage when they do their talk. And they are even more "ON" afterwards. They hang around the event and grip and grin with all of their adoring fans. They can't get enough public adulation.

The other kind are like me. I am not the guy up there on stage. I never have been. It's an act. The moment that I finish my presentation I shuck THAT persona like a snake sheds its skin.

The guy up there radiates jaunty confidence and communal fellow-feeling. He's Davey Tyler, good-old-boy. The fellow you want to have a beer with. He connects with people from the front row to 50 rows back. Everybody knows that he's their pal.

The private Davey Tyler is not a fan of the human race in general. So, as soon as the applause dies down THAT guy reasserts his rights. And heads for the nearest alcohol dispensary.

As usual, Bernie was waiting for me with a fresh beer. Bernie is my Development Editor. He's the guy who ACTUALLY PAID ATTENTION during English class.

Most subject-matter-experts, particularly in the technical fields, can't spell "grammar" let alone know how to apply it.

I'm a nerd, not a literarian. So, the big Houses pair me with a DE. That's the normal situation in the book trade.

The responsibility of the DE is to turn whatever I give them into a product, which is not too publically embarrassing.

You interact in virtual space with your DE. The DE for my first two books was a woman. I never met her. For all I knew she was a 300 pound behemoth, or hotter than Scarlett Johansson. In fact she might have actually been a guy literary catfishing me.

All I knew was that she could catch mistakes that no human ought to be able to spot. And she turned my boring shit into really influential contributions to the field.

Bernie took over for my third book. He had the same amazing skill and also a sense of humor.

Producing a 500 page professional tome is roughly equivalent to a woman birthing a rhinoceros. It is exceptional agony over a prolonged period. And you need a sense of humor unless you want to go totally nuts.

Bernie eased the birth pains with the driest Jewish wit ever. And since that time, his services have been rolled into every contract that I sign.

I finally met him at a book party. He knew who I was because I was one of the speakers. But I didn't know HIM.

All I saw was a brown bear in a wrinkled suit and sweat stains descending on me. The guy was massive. And Bernie is as enthusiastic as he is large.

He approached me with a huge grin on his face. I did the man-hug backslapping thing with him, while looking around at the rest of the people trying to get somebody to tell me who the fuck he was.

Now he shows up at most of my gigs. Especially ones in nice cities like San Francisco.

We were at the Fairmont this time. The bar area off the lobby is one of those big open expanses where it feels like you are terribly de rigueur if you are not sipping martinis.

Bernie drinks beer directly from the bottle so he stood out. He also stood out because he is close to 350 pounds, and wears bright aloha shirts that don't quite cover up his hairy chest.

But he mostly stands out because he absolutely radiates not giving a shit what other people think, which is pretty-much my OWN attitude.

He was sitting with two guys.

Those dudes were wearing suits that cost more than my car.

A woman was also sitting with them. She was absolutely stunning in a Xena Warrior Princess way.

She was handsome rather than beautiful. Her facial features were absolutely perfect but the effect was aesthetic rather than sensual. She was Athena, not Aphrodite.

She was tall for a woman, with a body that could only be described as aggressive, muscular and lithe. But it had substance to it, like she could kick your ass without breaking a sweat.

She was almost mannish in her general attitude too. She came off powerful and controlled, not girly in the least. And she radiated a man's sexuality, forceful and omnivorous.

You got the impression she would happily kill you in bed and then feed your carcass to her cubs.

But her main attributes were two of the biggest jugs ever mounted on the species.

Even though she was a substantial woman those things were disproportionately large. They must have weighed fifteen pounds each.

They made me want to grab a tit in each hand, stick my head in between and go "Brrrrrrrrrrr."

Of course serious suffocation would follow, but what a way to die!! I couldn't take my eyes off her.

You didn't need to tell me what Bernie was up to. Bernie looks out for me like a brother.

He had gathered a set of movers and shakers. And he expected me to come along and dazzle them with my footwork.

We run that little bait and switch game at all of my shows. And it frequently leads to consulting engagements and other kinds of stipends that fatten both of our coffers.

It had been a long day, featuring a cross country flight. And I was thinking to myself, "Shit Bernie! I don't need this!"

But a buck is still a buck and Bernie is my best pal. So once more unto the breach.

I donned good old affable Davey Tyler and ambled over to the table with my legendary lopsided grin.

I said, "Howdy pardner" to Bernie

I stuck out my hand to the first guy.

I said, "Davey". He said, "Brad."

Same with the next guy, "Davey", "Doug."

I turned to the woman and offered my hand, "Davey."

She took my hand like a guy would. It was definitely NOT genteel. And THEN she proceeded to crush it. She was ONE seriously strong woman.

She said "Marigold, but everybody calls me Mary. My parents foisted their bizarre sense of humor off on their children."

They all looked me over. I am nowhere near as impressive up close, as I am walking around on the stage. The lighting and elevation change the perspective.

Their disappointment in my lack of awesomeness showed.

I looked THEM over.

Mary was stunning in a tucked in preppie princess kind of way. Plain black skirt, patent leather heels and very expensive looking silk blouse with some kind of industrial strength thing-a-ma-jig underneath, hoisting her girls to epic proportions.

Her auburn hair, was very thick and cut into a hip quasi-Cleopatra hairdo. The bangs made her huge yellow cat eyes look absolutely feral.

She had a $20,000 Rolex Yachtmaster on her wrist and enough gold to stock a pagan temple. But everything was displayed in a tastefully discreet manner.

The term "slick lounge lizard" came to mind when I looked at Doug. I wasn't sure whether he walked or skittered. He was clearly NOT the brains of the operation. But he was probably the money.

His companion Brad was radiating human attack dog. You know THAT type. Got popular in college playing middle linebacker and that's his approach to everything in life now; including his wife, kids, colleagues, and whatever friends he can scare up.

In fact, he was so much the alpha-male I expected him to lift one leg when he peed.

Mary had obviously just come to socialize. She was a senior Partner with Deloitte in Chicago and since I have done some consulting with them I directed most of my initial conversation toward her.

She kept cutting me looks like, "Can you believe these two?"

The two guys were totally oblivious to HER presence. Mary being a "broad" and all.

Bernie said, "Doug and Brad were impressed by what you had to say and they wanted to talk some more about it."

I instantly KNEW what those two wanted. THEY wanted to shove their snouts into the Federal trough up to their eyeballs.

I had been talking about a national security matter. It has the Feds freaked-out and when a bureaucrat gets antsy he throws your tax money at the problem.

My ideas were mostly theoretical. But Doug and Brad wanted to hear all about it.

They ALSO clearly thought that we were ripe for the plucking, because I was an academic and Bernie was a book guy.

I have had to deal with that particularly loathsome species of varmint my whole career. And I learned long ago that life is way too short to spend your time getting blatantly ripped off.

I WAS having fun messing with them, keeping the conversation at a level where they couldn't QUITE get anything useful.

That was until I discovered that they were ALSO the kind of insufferable pussy-hounds that I avoid like the Black Death.

The problem with that sort of simple minded critter is that they just assume that every guy is as horny as they are. So they have this wink-wink attitude among just us boys in the treehouse.

Neither of them understood that women were actually living breathing creatures with her own hopes, dreams, aspirations and personal sense of values. And the concept that a woman might actually have thoughts other than, "fuck me baby "just never crosses their mind.

All women were prey to them, just a piece of meat with a few conveniently warm orifices. I know a surprising number of guys who hved that attitude. Including one in particular. But more about him later.

It was beyond me how a dude could grow up with mothers and sisters and still think that every woman they meet is only there to get fucked. But they were what they were.

These two were classic examples of the breed. And they were self-centered to a degree that would have been close to delusional. IF it weren't for the fact that the women they considered fair game were obviously THAT stupid.

There are always loads of unattached females at big conferences. And those two seemed to view every one of them with the same attitude that the Indians took to the Happy Hunting Ground.

The operative word here is "unattached". Those women might be happily married in real-life but there is nothing like a conference to make everybody forget that kind of thing.

Conferences always create a sense of unreality.

You fly in and all of the encumbrances of your day-to-day life are left at the gate. The mental separation and the unreal world of airline travel make it easy to buy into the idea that you have stepped out of your life and into Never-Never Land.

And like one of the Lost Boys, you regress to an age when you don't have commitments, obligations, or responsibilities.

That's why I don't hang around the places where I do my gigs. The evening parties and mixers are all part of professional networking and the booze flows.

And the sight of all those people racing toward their own perdition is just too heart rending.

But I DID have to admit that tonight's two assholes had a real eye for the easy ones.

They were now excitedly calling out targets like B17 gunners over Schweinfurt. You know the routine, "Hottie at twelve o'clock high! Big boobs at four o'clock low! Check out that ass at six o'clock level!" That sort of thing.

While THAT was going on Marigold was sitting with a look of total disbelief on her face. I was probably broadcasting horrified.

I glanced anxiously at Bernie and he read it. He knows my history. He rose and said, "Thank you for the drinks gentlemen, we'll be in touch." I smiled at the boys, not too kindly, and exited in his wake. Bernie leaves a very big wake.

I never stay at the conference venues. It's too painful. Tonight I was staying at the Hotel Del Sol, which is a beautiful little boutique place over in the Marina.

As we walked down the broad marble steps toward the cab rank Bernie said, "Sorry about that Davey. They seemed legitimate when they approached me." I knew what he was actually saying.

I said, "No problem buddy. No way that you could tell in advance what they were like. Brad even looks a lot like HIM."

The "him" I was referring to was Marlon Ruffing, Lothario extraordinaire. He was a corporate superstar, elegantly tall, stunningly handsome, and as relentless as a honey badger.

And he was never more remorselessly driven than when he was in pursuit of my wife Sarah.

---

Sarah and I met cute. We were both new to the Madison area. I had just taken an Associate Professor position at a university there. It had a nice salary and research stipend, which was what lured me to the frozen tundra of Wisconsin.

Prior to that I had worked at a small, technical college in Florida. But the allure of the Big Ten was too seductive.

I was dating a woman who was a secretary in one of the little campus research shops.

In my slightly more immature days we used to call a girl like Linda a "double bagger." Meaning she had an A+ body and a C- face.

So the bag was for her head and the other bag was for yours in case hers fell off during sex.

I know it is incredibly shallow to talk about a woman that way. But what can I say? I was young and arrogant and life hadn't taught me any lessons yet.

Linda was a nice woman, not particularly bright or refined. But she had an incredible supple body, huge pillow tits and she loved to fuck, over-and-over-and-over.

We didn't have as much of a romance as it was a series of lustful adventures in odd places, like woods and parks and back seats and even once on a mattress in one of those big storage lockers.

That was an all-day event. Fortunately the walls of those things are solid cinder block. Otherwise the people at the storage place would have probably called the cops. Since Linda made it sound like I was killing her in there.

I could never understand why she wouldn't come to my place or take me to hers. That is, until I discovered to my dismay that she was married.

I never would have figured it out. She didn't act married. Nor did she wear any rings when she was around me.

She just dropped it on me in the post-coital afterglow. Maybe she felt like she had me hooked.

I dropped HER on the spot. I had no intention of violating the tenth commandment, unless that's the one about coveting my neighbor's sheep in which case it is the seventh.

Fortunately that little incident took place the week AFTER I met Sarah.

Several days previously, Linda had told me that she had a hot friend who worked in her lab as a research associate. She said that the woman had just come to town for a post-doctoral fellowship and she didn't know anybody.

So she wanted me to fix her up with one of my colleagues.

I got it. She wanted to play the alpha female for one of her nerd friends.

A blind date was easy enough to set up since I hung out with the other unmarried faculty.

I had a guy who was not particularly attractive. But using Linda as the measuring stick I didn't figure her friend would be any prize either. So I made the eventual arrangements.

The second I saw Sarah Jones I knew that I had found my soul mate. I actually came to that conclusion the instant I laid eyes on her. No talking. Just immediate kismet. Go figure?

I have no idea why I was so sure. I am usually a level headed sort of fellow. And I don't normally jump into relationships without testing the water. But I had to have this woman.

Apparently you go through life carrying a checklist of the characteristics you want in a mate. I wasn't aware that I had one. That is, until Sarah and Linda started walking toward me.

THEN it was like I was surrounded by a heavenly choir. And some celestial hand reached down and ticked every box on that list.

Her face was spectacular, a perfect oval, all high cheekbones, huge blue eyes and thick black hair. I couldn't take my eyes off those sculptured lips.