Note: This story is copyrighted in the name of Daghda Jim. This is an adult work of fiction, intended for readers who are at least 50 years of age, unless they have their spouse's permission. In writing. Anyone between the ages of 21 and 49 reading this without spousal permission will be snitched upon to his or her spouse. Anyone below the age of 21 reading this will get permanent acne and may possibly go blind. You have been warned!
I got an email from our daughter Stacy a few days ago. Long time, no hear from. She's just wrappin' up her tests before Spring break.
When she went back to school after Christmas, Stace kind of left us alone and bore down on her studies. Which was prolly just as well. 'Cause while she was away, my life went in the toilet and my wife pulled the chain.
Just like that!
And I was going round and around, circling the bowl for a while, I can tell you that. No point in dragging Stace into the mess while I tried to figure it out. And after I figured it out, I'd have to tell her what I'd figured out.
Which I'm gonna have to explain to the whole world pretty soon, I suppose.
So here's Stacy coming up for air and checkin' back in, and she's frustrated and pissed. Seems she's tried to get hold of Mom and all she gets is the bounce-back notice that Brenda's email account's been cancelled. And she's called my home number, but that don't work no more, either.
So now, she's emailed me.
"How come Mom's Goddamned email account is closed?" she wrote.
"How come our fucking phone line is disconnected?" she wrote.
"Where the fuck are you guys? WTF is going on, Dad?"
Stacy's a lot like me; she uses all the words in the dictionary.
She said Finals would be over in a few days and she was gonna be driving back East with some friends, and she wanted to know what in Hell she was gonna be driving into.
Now that was a good question. And it would take a damned long, involved answer. I took some time to think what I wanted to say to her.
Finally a few days later I emailed her back. I figured she deserved the whole story. Or at least what I thought it was from where I stood. And I had been workin' on it: writin' down what I knew.
Hi, Stacy, honey.
You got a lot of questions and it's gonna take some telling to fill you in on everything.
I hope you're sittin' down, kiddo.
Short version: your Mom don't live with me no more.
Tad longer version: she don't live with me no more because she says that I'm the worst fucking miserable excuse for a husband in the world and she found someone else better to fuck.
Yep, you read that right, sweetie.
I'll give you her new email addy at the end of this note. You can read her bullshit once you read my side of it. Neither of us has a land-line phone anymore. I know, I work for a telephone company, but it don't make no sense for me to have one any more. Mostly the only people who ever called it were salesmen, Brenda's skaggy friends, or my old drinking buddies. I got no use for any of them no more.
I do have a new cell phone, and I'll give you that number, too.
BTW, you can call Brenda, too. She uses Doug Collins's cell phone number now.
Yeah, you read that right, too. I'll give you asshole's number so's you can talk to Mom.
I know that you're driving back with some friends and that you'll be able to get online here and there, so this email is to fill you in about the above stuff and what has happened.
Just to let you know, you ain't the only one who's been bugging me about what the hell is going on. There's some of your Mom's folks and mine, too and a bunch of friends scattered around the country. I guess most people here in town know at least some of it.
Hell, your Mom and me have been the town entertainment for some time now, or so I've been finding out.
I knew I had a lot of people who needed to know the grisly details, and I started to write all the stuff down to keep it straight. Actually I talked it into a little recorder at odd moments, like when I was driving from one service call to the next. You might wonder, why wasn't I writing on nights and weekends? Well, that's because lately I've been busy nights and weekends. But more about that later on.
Anyway, so I'd talk it down and a friend of mine would transcribe it and clean it up a little. But she said she wouldn't touch the language I use for all the tea in China. She said it reads like I talk. Which means it prolly sounds like scenes from the Sopranos. LOL
I'll tell you all about her, too; her name is Betty.
So I'm attaching that to this email as a Word document. Open it up and read it. But you don't have ta weep. LOL!
Stacy, I know you won't mind my language, but if you let your friends read it over your shoulder, which is perfectly fine with me, I got nothin' to hide, well, I hope they ain't too old-maidenish. I still talk the way I always have. I may have been an English major in high school, but that was for the reading. It never changed the way I talk.
To whoever, but mainly Stacy:
It's gonna be hard to tell my story. I'm not normally a talk it out, wordy kind of guy, leastways not about real life. I wish I had some of those great writers I loved from high school here, to write for me.
Let me set things up for you. And I apologize in advance because I'll be jumpin' around as I think of stuff I forgot or that I think you need to know. Maybe some time we'll go back and organize this better.
[Editor's note: Fat chance. I love the way Rollie's mind works.]
Ok. Well, so much for THAT!
My wife Brenda always used to complain that I don't talk to her. She called it "Communicating."
"Rollie," she's said a hundred thousand times, "Oprah and Doctor Phil and everyone else says married people have gotta make an effort to communicate more. And you don't."
And I'm scratching my head at that. Hell, I think I communicate. I tell her when I'm gonna be out with Doug and the other guys.
Like: "Hey Brenda, don't wait dinner on me; I'll be eating mucho baby tacos at the Happy Hour at Briscoe's."
Or, "Honey, tonight's the first big interleague game between the Cubbies and the Sox. Me and Doug'll be heading there right after work."
Now, ain't that communicating? Well, I'm kidding a little bit, obviously. But it seems to me, looking back, that I was trying to communicate early in the marriage. I had my things I liked, and Brenda had hers. But I tried to show some interest in hers. I can't tell you how many times, I'd say somethin' like, hey, honey, you got that book club thing tonight, right? How about I catch a quick shower and I'll go along with you.
But she never went for it. She'd make some excuse, but it always came down to her thing was for her alone. And forget about her doing any of the things I liked. She always dismissed it all as guy stuff. Well, sure, if none of our wives would ever come along.
We bowled. We spent time drowning golf balls. I'd see women out there with their husbands doing those things. But not mine.
I asked her lots of times why we couldn't do more stuff together. And she'd look at me like I had two heads. And she did not want to talk about it.
After a while, I just got tired of trying, and just went out with the guys. But again, looking back all through our marriage, Missus Great Communicator, aka, Brenda, sure as hell wasn't!
Oh. I forgot to tell whoever is reading this besides Stacy; my name is Roland Clementi, but everyone calls me Rollie.
And Doug that I mentioned? Doug was my best fucking friend. As in "WAS."
The first thing I gotta say is: They're gone. Brenda and Doug. Together.
I didn't know that right away.
They took off together during the day on the Monday following the last Bears regular season game in the first week in January which Doug and me had both gone to. Later on I'll tell you something about that to show the kind of selfish prick Doug is.
Oh, yeah, well, I gotta tell you something about Doug and me. See, we've sorta been best buddies for years and years. At least I thought so. What it is with the Bears tickets, I own rights to two seats. So every year, we'd split the cost. Money was tight sometimes, and those tickets are too expensive for a working man like me.
So we'd go to the fucking games together. When we won, we'd drink to Brian Uhrlacher, the best fucking Middle Linebacker ever! When we lost, we'd curse out that fucking retard Rex Grossman. Then we'd get shitfaced at Jilly's bar afterwards, and pass out after we staggered home. I mean I did. I don't know what Doug did, but all season long he was in no better shape than me by the end of the day, so I guess so.
When there was an away game, we'd just go to Jilly's and get an early start on getting shitfaced. It all wound up the same whether Da Bears was home or away.
The big difference was I came home to a pissed off Brenda and he went home to an empty rented room.
Next day I'd drag my ass into work at TELCO and spend the day nodding over people's broken phones or back in their telephone junction box closets. It was hell getting my trouble calls done. But I always could grit my way through. Hell, I know the repair stuff cold. Drunk or sober, hung over or feeling great, they always get my best effort. Best effort just takes a while longer when I'm hung over.
.... There is more of this story ...