Vacation Shoes

"David, my man, my man! What up?! What up?!!"

Dontravious slapped him on the back, laughing loudly. The man sitting near David at the bar in Steel Danny's Grille looked around, and saw a smiling, dark-skinned Dontravious standing at 6-foot 3 with his sculpted chest, shaved head, a muscle shirt, and his cargo shorts hanging down below his ass. The man promptly got up and left after dropping cash on the bar. He had not needed to do that. There was plenty of room. He could have just moved. David and Dontravious were the only patrons in the place before Happy Hour started in a bit. It was five o'clock somewhere, but not in Steel Danny's yet.

David chuckled. Don, who had a PhD in classical Greek literature, who was fluent in German, and who grew up outside of New Canaan, Connecticut, turned on the Black thing when he wanted to scare white people. He pulled up his pants and sat down on an empty bar stool next to David.

David shrugged and kept quiet.

"Oh, for Christ's sake. You're the one who called me and left the message. Am I going to have to fight to get it out of you now?" Don asked.

Then, as the bartender appeared, Don ordered a screwdriver.

"Randi and I broke up," David announced.

"What?! How? When? You two were supposed to be getting married in a couple of weeks."

David shrugged again.

"We had a big fight. I think that's it. It's over."

"Well, thank God is all I can say. That bitch has a screw loose somewhere. You dodged a real bullet there."

He looked at David.

"Oops. You're really upset by it. Sorry. 'Extracts foot from mouth...,'" he said, trying to mime the motions of extracting an errant foot from a mouth, but looking instead like he was pantomiming a reverse blowjob.

The bartender delivered the drink. Don promptly drank half.

With a sigh, he said, "OK. Tell Dr. Don the story."

Dr. Don had been born Donald Thirman Butler, Jr. His neurosurgeon father's and his lawyer mother's professional backgrounds, Dr. Don's Jesuit high school education, where he excelled, and the family's ability to pay the tuition in cash certainly helped to get him into Harvard for his undergraduate years, where he also excelled. He then went to Yale for his master's and doctorate. He excelled there, too.

But, as Dr. Don had explained to David some time ago, when it came time to getting a tenured assistant professor position at a university, he could not simply rest on his Ivy laurels. He had decided early on that he needed to "pimp his ride" professionally and had changed his name to Dontravious. He waited until after his father had died to do so. He didn't tell his mother. He wore a dashiki shirt to his job interview at the university, put on a big Afro wig, and thought the old white guys in the classics department were going to cream their shorts at the diversity cred that they would get by hiring him. Maybe the university chancellor would get off their backs finally about his "sparkle pony" equal opportunity hiring initiative, which required all hiring decisions to be informed to a certain degree by the gender/race/ethnic "sparkle" that each candidate brought.

It helped that the hiring committee did not like the other leading candidate either. He was Greek, after all. Impeccable credentials, of course, but if Greek was his mother tongue to begin with, wasn't he really just phoning it in with knowing ancient Greek? It would be like hiring a Chaucer expert from England. Not really much of a stretch.

"And do we really want someone who is just going to rest on his laurels at Northern Florida University?" they wondered.

Thus, they hired Dr. Don, who took to teaching like a fish to water because he was a natural performer. They still made Don teach introductory courses and, through some staff vacancies and the belief in the registrar's office that knowing literature in one language was as just good as knowing it in another, Don had wound up teaching David's first-year college English survey class. That semester, David asked for feedback on a story he was writing in a composition class. Don saw promise in David's writing, encouraged him, critiqued writing samples, and became a mentor and friend. As a result, David was one of the few people who knew that Don was gay.

Yeah, Don pulled a fast one on the hiring committee, but the fast one he pulled had not actually been about his racial bona fides. Growing up as a Black Catholic in buttoned-down Connecticut, he had learned early on that, while white folks could put up with a Black man who cleaned up nicely and spoke proper English, what they did not like at all were fags. Being gay was fine hypothetically, maybe, but not if the fag lived next door.

Northern Florida, of course, was far worse on that point back in the 1980s, but Don thought he would kill himself if he had to put up with one more winter up in the North. And Miami's South Beach was too in-your-face for his tastes. So, he made some compromises and, using the skills he had learned as a wannabe magician from his teen years, merely misdirected everyone's attention. Now, in the mid-90s, things were a little more accepting, but not that much. After all, Congress had passed the Defense of Marriage Act just the year before. Don looked at his life now like his own version of "Don't Ask; Don't Tell."

"We were fighting about money, Don," David said finally.

"Something most marriages break down about, so they say," Don replied as he nodded his understanding.

David said nothing. Don looked at him and then sighed. He was going to have to dig after all.

"What exactly were you fighting about that had to do with money?"

David waved his hand in a gesture of resignation.

"I think I told you about her mother before, right?"

"The nutjob that hates men, right?"

David nodded. He had told Don before about how Randi's dad had cheated on her mom and cleaned out the money when he went off to live with his much younger stripper mistress. As a result, mom had drilled it into Randi's head that, for a marriage to be successful, the wife had to control the family money, especially if she was making more money than the man. Otherwise, she was setting herself up for disaster.

"We've talked about how things will go when we get married. She's been insisting on separate bank accounts and says her money is hers, and my money is ours. I'm the man, so I am supposed to be the provider, even if my wife makes more than I do. So, I'll have to pay all the bills. Her money is for whatever she wants. She doesn't want to be "owned." And her mother got one of the lawyers at the firm where she works to do a pre-nuptial agreement. Randi just got that high-paying real estate job, so her mom says that income needs to be protected. The pre-nup says that that if we split up for any reason, I can't get any part of what she has saved or invested during the marriage and can't claim alimony, but she gets 60% of anything I saved or invested."

Don nodded.

"I wouldn't worry about that pre-nup much."

"No? Why not?"

"You still working at Erol's Video?"

"Yeah."

"Then you are never going to have any savings or investments for her to take."

"Ouch."

"Frankly," Dr. Don said after draining his glass, "I don't understand how you're not writing a brilliant novel by now. You've got enough imagination that you convinced yourself this selfish, silly twat actually loves you and that you could have a successful marriage with her, even though she treats you like shit. Plus, you also think that people are going to want to rent VHS videos in the next millennium. Shit. They've just come out with these Digital Video Discs I've been reading about."

"Erol's Video has been good to me," David protested. "I'm like a pioneer! Video rental is the future. We are dominating the video rental battlespace in Washington, DC, Baltimore, Philadelphia, and Norfolk, Virginia and, now that we are in Jacksonville, we are expanding all through Florida. We are going to totally transform the movie-viewing paradigm. I'll bet we'll be renting those Digital Video Discs before you know it! Movie theaters are doomed. You'll see!"

"Oh, for God's sake. Have you seen the quality of porn on the Internet? That's all digital. It's only going to get better, especially when we move to fiber optic or cable and everyone gets off dial-up Internet service."

"It's going to take a while for that to catch on. We're going to ride the transition profits pony in the meantime."

They ordered another round of drinks. Don sighed and looked at David with the sort of sympathy a doctor puts on when he is going to give an end-of-life prognosis.

"Look, David. I have to say it. You're a great friend, and I've never thought of you as anything else, but if you make up with and marry Randi, I am going to have to butt-fuck you just on principle because marrying that deranged woman would mean that you have become a complete bitch, in the men's prison sense of the word. Hell, I don't even know a lesbian that would put up with that kind of crap from another woman with double the estrogen flowing. In fact, if you told your story to Melissa Etheridge, she would ask me if she could butt-fuck you with a gigantic, studded dildo after I was done with you."

Don drank from the screwdriver the bartender just delivered.

"Hell, who am I kidding? I'd probably let her go first. I like her music," Don said.

"Me, too. That Similar Features song... I remember when that came out. It's got that double-edged aspect to it, that you don't know the gender of the other person. You don't even think to ask. Heck, I didn't even know she was gay back then. Now that I do, it's like there are so many layers in those songs."

"Like an onion."

"That's right. A big, musical, lesbian onion."

David stared for a moment.

"Don, you don't understand. Randi and I have fought before. The makeup sex is really good. And when we aren't fighting, it's the best sex I've ever had. And I've comforted her through lots of nights when her parents' squabbling brings her down. So, we have a deep emotional connection, too."

"David, you might 'connect,' but certainly not as equal partners. If the idea of being equal partners is not already there instinctively in her head before you get married, it's never going to be there in any meaningful way later, after you're married and have kids. I don't care if she learned a whole bunch of esoteric, mind-blowing, erotic tricks in a Shanghai brothel during the 1930s. This is about pride. And I tell you this as an unrepentant but still discreet gay man, this is about being a man. Hell, the Spartans would never put up with even a bit of the shit you have. They would have thrown that bitch down a pit months ago."

Don paused and drank some more.

"Besides that, David, the technology is really getting much better for the sex thing, too. Just go down to that Hard-to-Cum-By sex shop right outside of town on US-1 and take a look. You'll be pleasantly surprised with the wide inventory. I say this as a satisfied customer. It'll help you get by until you meet some sweet young lady who is not fucking crazy."

"I dunno..."

"Shit!" Dr. Don said.

"What?"

"I just realized that I am seeing into the future!" Don said, his face transfixed and rigid as he stared at the mirror over the bartender's head.

The bartender looked behind himself to see if he could see the future, too, found he could not, rolled his eyes, and went back to checking the liquor inventory.

"The future?" David said with a smile.

"Yes! I'm Black, and I'm in the South. We all know how to do that Magical Negro thing. You wouldn't understand. It's your future I'm seeing. I see that you get back together with Randi and, the next thing you know, she's going to be earning tons more than you do while she ain't paying for shit, even though you're busting your ass to pay the mortgage, all the utilities, and whatever it takes to keep your rat-trap piece-of-shit car running. She, on the other hand, will be driving the latest, most expensive, Japanese or German car and wearing designer fashions. Then, she's going to put on her vacation shoes and take your kids with her when she goes on an expensive trip to Tahiti or the Mediterranean or Hawaii or somewhere else exotic like that, leaving you back here to work yourself to death for a comparative pittance. You'll find out that she happens to be there with some guy with a big dick that she can't stop fondling every time she turns around, even though she tells you she's not fucking him. Yet. And, when you finally get the backbone to divorce her for her blatant disrespect, she'll be crowing in midnight calls to you about how the guy with the big dick is fucking her so good, just like you knew he would, and that he really knows how to use that dick in her, unlike you with your pathetic little wiener, and it's the best sex she's ever had, and you just listen to those calls and don't block her number or unplug the phone because you're pathetic. And suddenly, before you know it, after your life has finally spiraled down into the abyss, you realize that you're a short, fat, bald Assistant State Attorney in the Nassau County State Attorney's Office, fapping to the idea of your own nobility."

Don paused for a moment and then his face changed expressions into a twisted leer.

"'Ooooh! Yes! Yes!'" Don squeaked in an extra-exaggerated falsetto, his right hand miming vigorous masturbation all the while. "'I caught my bitch wife cheating, or just about to, or referring to our marriage in the past tense, but I am going to be extra generous in the divorce settlement and won't ask for any money from her, which is in the millions in this case, because--God!--I still love her. And the way she treats me like her bitch! Ooooh! Yeah! Fap, fap, fap!'"

He stopped, finished the rest of his drink, and glared at David.

David though for a moment.

"So, to summarize, if I stay broken up from Randi, I won't wind up as a short, fat, bald lawyer?"

"Correct."

"You're making a pretty good argument."

"But wait! I haven't gotten to the best part yet. Years later, after you're all fapped out, but still thinking about your own nobility, you'll come to the point when you've finally sold your Great American Novel, which will come with a movie deal that will star some drop-dead-gorgeous actress who has a secret crush on you and your brilliant mind because your novel speaks straight to her heart. And this actress decides that she just has to know how you are in bed. And she will be satisfied with what she learns. Very much so. And she'll want to explore a relationship. Somehow then, however, right at your moment of glorious triumph, Randi will slither back into your life, just when you think you are finally over her. And you'll let her do it because--as we have already established--you are pathetic. And suddenly, on your birthday or when you have a new blockbuster book out, and you're having some huge party with all your new, glittering friends to celebrate, Randi will be there, waving a.38 revolver around, talking shit about how she's ready to change and will kill herself if you don't go back to her, or else kill you, even if that threat is only implied. And you will go back to her because you're a pussy. And even worse, you'll go back to her without any kind of pre-nuptial agreement, even though you are the one with the money by this point, and you'll do that because you're an idiot besides being a pussy."

David allowed himself a smile.

"Should I change your wedding RSVP to a 'no' then, Don?"

Don just fixed David with a stare and then smiled thinly.

"No way. If you do go through with it, I'm gonna be there. I fully intend to stand up before God and man at that part in the ceremony where they do the bit about anyone knowing any reason not to join the couple in marriage, and I'm gonna do this whole speech all over again. I'm talk to the videographer before to make sure she gets the whole thing on tape so there is evidence for future generations, even if they cut the power and try to silence me. I will be heard! The Spirit compels me to speak my truth!"

David nodded.

"At least the wedding is one of the things that I have somehow not had to pay for."

They both chuckled.

"Thank God for small mercies," Don said.

More drinks came, then burgers and more drinks so by 7:00, the bar then full and quite loud, David and Dr. Don were both pretty messed up.

Randi chose that minute to appear to try to talk to David.

When David's unfocused eyes locked on her after she put her hand on his shoulder, his sudden burst of anger turned quickly to glee. The alcohol had released his Super-Id.

"Hey, everyone! It's my psychotic ex-fiancée, Randi the Bitch!"

All the guests around them hooted and hollered and banged their hands and glasses on the bar. David had told the story at least ten times. As Happy Hour progressed, every time someone new had sat nearby, Don had made introductions, said that they were there to cheer up David about his disastrous love life, and made David tell the story, which Don embellished with his commentary. David finally had a moment of clarity. The whole scenario really sounded stupid when you heard it out loud. Hell, it was such a dumb premise that it would not even make good fiction. The only thing stupider, David realized, would be the idea of staying married to a cheating slut instead of getting a divorce just because you thought it would save some money to do it.

Randi was shocked, especially when a fat, middle-aged man came up alongside her, put his arm around her, and through a cloud of beer breath said, "Hey, darlin', want to hang out with me? Your ex says you're a great fuck and that you like money. I'm in banking, and I like to fuck, so we can have a beautiful future together. Gonna need a pre-nup first though!"

He hooted with laughter as Randi pulled away and ran out the door in tears. Good riddance, David thought. Don exhaled with relief behind David's back and, when David turned back, tried not to look too relieved. Seriously, that girl was not a writer's wife. An ex-wife, sure, but David did not deserve to go through that kind of nightmare to get there.

Later that night, lying on Don's living room couch alone as the room spun around him, a trash can near his head for when the inevitable vomitus maximus finally came, David finally felt at peace with the idea of leaving Randi behind and cauterizing that bit of his life away. After all, the last thing he wanted in life was to be a short, fat, bald Assistant State Attorney in the Nassau County State Attorney's Office, fapping to the idea of his own nobility. Tomorrow, would be another day. And a perfect one to go to that sex shop and check out the new technology to tide him over as his heart healed. The first step after he got through the hangover would be cranking up his Melissa Etheridge CDs as he packed up Randi's stuff in his apartment.

To be on the safe side though, maybe he would drop a résumé off at Blockbuster. Now that was a company with a future.