40 Years of Earth Daysbyandtheend©
Ah, white gloves, yes, of course, she thought. White gloves would leave no powder burns or blood residue on her hands, after she shot and killed him and Christine in bed together. She imagined a bullet piecing his balls, blowing them, along with his little shriveled penis, completely off, actually. She imagined bullets piercing both of Christine's big phony boobs in the nipples, as if they were tiny bulls-eyes, before blowing out both their little, bird brains.
"Then, once the bumper passes through the garage, run around, open the door, and jump on the brake to make it stop, before it bumps the garage wall," he said with a cringe, as if imagining his baby hitting the garage wall. "I have an old, rolled up mattress there, in case it does bump it a little bit. It won't roll fast enough to harm it, if it does bump the mattress. The mattress is rolled up enough and perfectly arranged to stop the tires, before the bumper hits the garage wall."
"Yes, Dear. "Don't worry, Dear."
"Then, set the handbrake and shift it to first gear. Don't forget to shift it to first gear. Don't forget to put the top up and to cover it with the car cover. Don't forget to set the handbrake and don't leave it in neutral," he said rattling off instructions, as if she were one of his students about to take one of his inane tests.
"Yes, Dear. Don't worry, Dear, I'll take care of your precious baby."
"Even though it's a heavy car, it rolls quite easily, once you get it moving, but slowly enough for you to have the time to run around, open the door, and hit the brake before the tires bump the mattress," he said calling to her with his instructions from the opened door of the taxi.
Then he got in the cab and drove off, without so much as giving her a wave good-bye, blowing her a kiss, or wishing her a Happy 40th Wedding Anniversary. She'd have no party, no cake, no balloons, no anniversary card, and no present from him, yet, again. Not this year, not last year, and not for as long as she could remember. Too hurt to complain, not wanting to cause him the heartache that she felt by burdening him with her misery, his lack of attention to her needs grew too weary to tolerate any longer.
At first she thought it endearing that he forgot their anniversaries and her birthdays, when she always remembered his special days. Then, she thought of him being the absent minded professor; surely that must be it. She didn't take his forgetfulness personally. He was a very busy man, after all, and she was just a bored and ungrateful housewife with too much time on her hands and too many foolish thoughts in her head. She let it go. She always let things go.
At least, she thought they were gone, but like cancerous tumors growing inside her and feeding on her loneliness, they festered, until they consumed her with hateful vengeance. Without doubt, had he not left his e-mail account open that fateful day, things would have continued the way they had continued for so long. Perhaps, upon his death, somehow by chance or by design, she would have discovered his infidelities then. After discovering that he had cheated on her with so many women for so many years, she imagined digging up his grave and mutilating his dead body, before cooking it and serving it to all the women that he had sex with and who she'd invite for a farewell meal to celebrate the salacious life of Professor ad nauseum Gordon Gordon Gordon.
She wondered what he spent his money on that he didn't spend any of it on her. If she lived to be one hundred years old, she'd never understand someone, who could be so self-centered and so selfish, to not even think about her and to forget their anniversaries and her birthdays. Yet, what did it matter to be hung up on him missing her anniversaries and birthdays, when he had been cheating on her all these years? That was the bigger issue, wasn't it?
It's obvious to her now that he just doesn't care about her. He never cared about her. He doesn't love her. He never loved her. It's all about him. It was always been about him. Only, back then, blinded by love, she was too much in love with him to see that he didn't love her and to see the real him. Now that she can him and now that she knows him for who he truly is, it's not too late to salvage what life she has left and to live it without him.
She couldn't help but envision driving his car, flooring it, so much like a Thelma and Louise movie remake, when they drove that old Thunderbird convertible off the cliff. She imagined his precious automobile breaking through the rear garage wall and flying airborne through the neighbor's backyard behind them, down the long, steep embankment, and rolling over before exploding into flames. Imagining everyone rushing out of their homes to see what had happened, she could, actually, imagine seeing the column of fire and the plume of smoke filling the air and awakening the entire neighborhood. Wow, what a rush? Only, why would she think about killing herself? He's the one who needs to go, not her.
"Shit and sap," she said. "Got it. Don't worry about a thing, Dear, my 130 pound, 62-year-old body should have no problem pushing your 3,600 pound behemoth of a car," she said giving the disappearing taxi the one finger salute.
She closed the door on him and returned back in the house. Alone again. She's always alone, so very alone. Even when he's there with her, she's alone.
He talks at her, as if talking to himself. He lectures her, as if lecturing his students, instead of his wife. Never listening to what she has to say, he has no interest in anything she says. He never asks her a question, unless it has to do with what he needs and what he wants. She can't remember the last time he kissed her, held her, and hugged her. He never compliments her. She can't remember the last time he complimented her. They go nowhere and do nothing together. He's always too tired or too busy.
She was lonely and tired of being alone. Maybe she should get a baby of her own, a pet, a nice little doggie. A Staffordshire Bull Terrier, or the good, old, American Pit Bull terrier, or an enormous mean and nasty Rottweiler, or a big, bad German Shepherd or a devil of a dog, a Doberman Pinscher, that only took commands spoken in her native tongue, Italian, and train him to attack buxom blondes and self-absorbed little pricks.
Lunch! Pranzo! Sic 'em. Mitzi. Good boy, Baby. Bella regazzo, Bambino. Good dog. Bella cane, she thought, while petting her imaginary Pit Bull, after the dog tore her husband and husband's whore to shreds. Wanna cookie? Cosa biscotti?
"That's okay," she said gulping down her champagne and picking up his untouched glass. "Don't have a glass of champagne with me. That's just more for me to have. Happy fortieth anniversary, Elizabeth. Happy Earth Day," she said out loud, for no one to hear. "I love you, I love you not. It doesn't matter anymore. It's over. It's finally over."
Quickly, she guzzled his untouched glass of champagne, too. Now already two sheets to the wind, alone with her bad self, she was enjoying her impromptu private anniversary party.
"That's his baby, his prized automobile, a bright red, 1970 Plymouth Barracuda convertible," she said for no one to hear, while staring out the big bay window at the car. "It's so shiny. It looks brand new, doesn't it? It's hard to believe that car is forty fucking years old. Isn't it beautiful? It's every teenager's wet dream machine. They don't make those cars anymore, that's for sure. That car must make his cock hard every time he looks at it."
She stared at the car, while sipping her champagne. She stared at the tree, his gift to her and the symbol of her marriage, while sipping her champagne. Every time she looked at that damn car, she thought of the diamond ring he could have bought her and should have bought her. Every time she looked at that damn tree it reminded her of not only Earth Day and her anniversary, but of him.
With the money that he made back then, as the professor's assistant, she would have thought that he would have bought her a modest diamond ring, something small, but endearing and sparkly, nonetheless, instead of a tree for a wedding gift and instead of him spending all of his money on that car. Instead, he gave her that tree and this gold band that she still wears, even today, especially today, her 40th anniversary.
"Diamonds are tacky and conspicuous," he said. "You don't need a diamond, a piece of carbon, from me to feel loved, wanted, and married."
True, but I do need to feel that you love me, that you're faithful, and that your world revolves around me, instead of a horde of young, blonde, buxom bimbos revolving around you, while on their knees and naked on their backs.
With all the more money that he has now, she would have thought that he would have bought her something special by now, a big rock of a diamond ring, for being married to him for 5 years, 10 years, 25 years and now for 40 years, but he never did. He never thought enough of her, appreciated all that she did for him, or loved her enough to do that, and to surprise her with that and in that way. He doesn't even give her so much as a Hallmark card signed by his secretary.
She wondered if he bought any of his little whores diamonds or gifts or if she was the only one, who was so rewarded, blessed, privileged, and so honored actually, with a tree, her own tree to cherish and care for all of these years. If he was Jewish, she'd understand him buying her a tree and planting it in Israel, but he's not Jewish, he's Scottish, one hundred percent. She wondered how many trees he had planted around the world or if this, the tree that he had given her, was the only one, a beautiful, albeit sad looking Weeping Willow, of all trees.
"He's spent more time polishing and detailing that car than he ever spent rubbing and kissing me. I hate that fucking car," she said pouring herself another glass of champagne. "His precious Hemi 'Cuda," she said before taking another sip of champagne. The sound of that car at full throttle, pales in comparison to the sound she wanted to make by screaming, while running naked down the street. "He cares more about that fucking inanimate object, his baby, than he does about me."
She looked at the perfect picture the tree made with the car in the background.
"He's right," she mumbled. "He's always right," she said imagining the great picture the photographer would take of the car from the other side of the street, one with the car centered and with the tree in the background, instead of in the foreground. "That would make for such a nice picture."
She stared at the car, while sipping her champagne, hoping someone would steal it. She could only imagine the conversation she'd have with him, after the car was stolen.
"Honey, I have terrible news, just terrible. Are you sitting down? Someone stole your car. Someone stole your baby, your beloved baby," she said imagining handing the keys to some neighborhood car thief, if only she knew of one. "I tried to stop him. I chased him down the street naked, while screaming, but the car was just too fast for me to catch."
"Did they steal it from the street? Didn't you park it in the garage, as I had asked you to do," she imagined him saying.
"Yes, of course, it was parked in the garage with the top up and the car cover over it. I did just as you had instructed me to do. Yes, I engaged first gear, before setting the emergency brake, after I pushed it in the garage, while wearing my white gloves." She paused imagining the thud or a crashing sound of him hitting the floor. "They took it, when I had just emerged from the shower to wash away all the sweat from doing all the chores on the laundry list of things you wanted and needed me to do, while you were off fucking Christine, Dear."
Unable to take his heart medication, after having taken a Viagra, no doubt, she wondered if the good news, of course, she meant the bad news of his baby being stolen would give him cause to have a fatal heart attack, later, while on top of Christine.
When the economy was better a few years back and the value of that antique car soared higher than it ever had before, she was still angry that he turned down the potential $500,000 that he could have gotten at auction for that car. With that amount of money, they could have sold this small house they're living in now, bought a bigger house, and moved to a better neighborhood. Only, he wouldn't sell that car, his baby, for a million dollars, he told the man, a car collector from Connecticut, who said he wanted to sell the car at auction in California for a fee. Why should he? It's not about the money with him. He has more than enough money. It's more about his baby.
She didn't understand the purpose of owning a car for forty years and not even driving it, putting the top down, and enjoying it. The car had less than 5,000 original miles and still wore the original tires. It still had the manufacturer's sticker on the window from when he bought this special ordered car brand new. The car has never seen rain or the inside of a car wash. He hires people who detail it with soft cloths and toothbrushes.
He was never like this, so self-absorbed, selfish, and mean. She met him as a 20-year-old college junior and he was the professor's assistant. He filled in for and taught a geology class, whenever the professor wasn't there. He was so handsome and she was so naive. Now he teaches his own classes and has several assistants, all of them young, blonde, beautiful, and buxom females. Truly, he's such a pig.
She had no idea that she was one of several hundred dreamy eyed students that he'd go through in the course of their lives together, until, that is, he inadvertently left his e-mail open, that fateful day. There they all were, raunchy and explicit e-mails, along with naked photos of so many female students who applied to be his traveling assistant. Like the pack rat that he is, he saved everything. Now she knew that Christine has implants and likes to swallow. She's such a pig, that one. No wonder why he's taken her on more than one trip and has yet to grow tired of her company and replace her with another.
Now she knew her husband kept an apartment on campus. That's so much like him, too cheap to pay for his own place, instead having the university subsidize his sordid, sexual affairs. How convenient for him to have free fuck housing, so close to where he works? Now she knew everything.
She still had no idea why he married her. She guessed he needed someone to take care of him, to pick up his dry cleaning, wash and iron his clothes, cook his meals, and pack his suitcases for him to leave her weekends and each year to have his worldwide Earth Day affairs. Feeling a bit drunk and very angry in the way that Elizabeth Taylor was, when she played Martha in Who's Afraid Of Virginia Woolf, alongside her husband in real life, Richard Burton, who played the part of George, ironically, a college professor, she had been such a fool to have put up with all of this for so long, too long.
Working on her fifth flute of champagne, she called the drycleaner to have her husband's suits delivered. She was in no condition to drive to go and get them. She spent the rest of her day being the dutiful and obedient housewife, doing his laundry, ironing and folding his clothes, and packing his suitcases. Only, while ironing his shirts, instead of spraying them with water, she spit on them to wet them enough to iron a better crease. Then, once his suits were delivered and packed away in the garment bag, and his bags all packed with clean and freshly ironed clothes, she put the garment bag, along with his suitcases in the fire pit in the backyard, poured lighter fluid on them, and set them ablaze. She watched the imported, Italian leather of his suitcases, an anniversary gift from her last year, and the matching garment bag melt, so much like his skin that she imagined would burn, after his plane crashed.
Then, after the car magazine photographer had come, photographed her husband's car, and gone, she went out to protect his car, his baby, from the shit and the sap. As instructed, she checked to see that the handbrake was set and the transmission was shifted in first gear. It was. Something she'd have to remember to do, putting the top up and, after moving his precious car, leaving the car in first gear and setting the handbrake again, before covering it with the car cover.
She couldn't believe he was giving her permission to touch his precious car, his baby, even if only pushing it from the street to the driveway and in the garage. She was so nervous. As she was putting on her white gloves, she thought, there was just no way she could push this heavy car from the street to the driveway and, then, run around to open the door and step on the brake in time to park it in the garage, before the tires hit the mattress and the bumper bumped the wall. It was just too big, too cumbersome, and too heavy and she was too small, too old, and too weak.
Did she dare drive it? She hadn't driven a car with a manual transmission in years, since her days of owning her '69 Volkswagen Karmann Ghia. She didn't want to risk damaging his clutch. Besides, she was too drunk to drive. Oh, Dear, what to do? What to do?
Fortunately, the champagne she had consumed helped her to think of a better solution to the problem, one that not only protected the car from the bird shit and the tree sap but also one that necessitated that she wouldn't have to put the top up, the car cover on, or even bother driving, pushing or moving his car ever again. She'd just move the tree, is all. Yeah, that's it, that's what she'd do. She'd move the tree. That was the perfect solution to a puzzling problem.
Guzzling the last gulp of champagne, she polished off the bottle to give her the strength for what she needed to do. Then, as if christening a ship bon voyage, she smashed the empty bottle against his windshield. Broken in a million pieces, the bottle resembled their empty marriage. The hurt that echoed through her mind, along with the sound of all that smashed glass, caused a momentary lapse in her sanity that fortified what she was about to do next.
With the childhood singsong playing in her head of Lizzie Borden, who took an axe and gave her mother 40 whacks and when the job was surely done she gave her father 41, Lizzie Gordon grabbed an axe from the garage. In celebration of her 40th wedding anniversary, in total dishonor of Earth Day, and in memory of her husband that she was kicking out of their house, as of today, she gave the tree 40 whacks with an extra one for good luck. Every whack was a release of the frustration she's had to endure for so long being married to him.
Forty-one whacks was all the sturdy bough needed to topple over that big tree right on Gordon Gordon Gordon's beloved bright red, 1970 Plymouth Barracuda convertible. Funny, but it doesn't look so much like a Hemi 'Cuda now, as it more looks like a crushed Mini Cooper.
Her attorney served him notice and although his life, as comfortable and as free, as he had known it to be, was over, her new life was just beginning. Now, after finally receiving half the money that she helped him to earn, she celebrates every Earth Day and holiday with her new, young, and well endowed boyfriends by taking trips to the South Pacific. Bali is her particular favorite place to vacation.