Chapter 6

The night of the party came fast. Jude had ordered catering from one of the trendy new gastro-pubs that had popped up in recent years and enough wine and liquor to intoxicate half the neighborhood. She even hired a local kid to play DJ for the evening. We would have a cocktail hour, eat, mingle and socialize, starting at 8 PM. Then, at 10, the DJ would crank up the music, and our sunken family room would transform into a dancefloor.

Jude started drinking around 6, first wine, then frozen margaritas once the machine was ready. She was loose and happy by the time the first guests began to arrive, just before 8. The Clarks, as usual, were early. Some of her yoga ladies and their plus-ones came after that. I herded everyone inside and got everyone drinks.

By 8:30, Marcel was a no-show, but so was Jude’s best friend Melissa and her husband Dave. I badly wanted to talk with Dave tonight, so I was keeping an eye out for their arrival. Finally, just before 9, I asked Jude about it.

“Hey, honey. It seems like your Yogi, and your best friend stood you up,” I said, as I sat down next to her on the sectional in the family room.

“Oh, he said he’d be here around 10 to skip all the schmoozing,” Jude replied, her words slightly slurred.

“What about Melissa and Dave?” I asked. Her smile dropped, and she sipped her margarita.

“Oh, I didn’t invite them,” she replied.

“You didn’t? I thought she was your BFF?”

Jude shrugged. “Not anymore.”

Suddenly, Jude’s eyes lit up and grew wide. A big smile appeared on her face. “He’s here!” she said as she stood up and walked away, leaving me like last week’s dirty laundry. I watched in a state of near shock as my wife embraced him and they exchanged cheek kisses, once, twice and a third time. I knew they did that in Europe, but dammit, this is America and Judith was MY wife.

I stood and made a beeline for the Yogi. As I approached I checked him out. Tony was right. He didn’t seem anything all that special. Skinny. Ponytail. Rather short. Hell, I was better looking, and I’d had my nose broken three times. I didn’t wait for any introductions. Jude didn’t seem interested in making them anyway. By the time I crossed the room, there were already four other wives surrounding him and clinging to his every word like the Messiah had come back to Earth.

Just before I reached him, I heard Jude giggle and say, “Maybe later, we’ll see how it goes.”

I stood tall, making sure he saw all of my 6 feet, 2 inches, and 275 pounds. I spoke in a loud voice that caused him to jump with a start and Jude to turn to face me, equally surprised.

“Hi,” I boomed, “you must be Marcel,” I said as friendly as a big Texan can, avoiding any form of honorific or title and using his first name. I stuck out my meaty gorilla hand, “I’m Bill, Jude’s husband. Welcome to my home.”

He looked to Jude then back to me and didn’t extend his hand. He seemed a little intimidated.

“Sorry, I only kiss after at least three dates,” I said waving my open hand in front of him, with a big friendly smile on my face, “in Texas, we shake hands.”

That snapped him out of it and Jude out of her frozen, deer-in-the-headlights state, too. He stuck his hand out. I didn’t try to crush it in my bear-paw. That would be rude, and it was unnecessary for me to do it. He already knew I could crush him like a bug. His grip was weak, but I kept mine at a professional level of firmness and shook his hand.

“Oh, Bill,” Jude said, finding her voice, “this is Yogi Marcel. Yogi, this is my husband, Bill.” She seemed nervous. She stepped closer to me and took hold of my arm. I smiled and put my arm around her, sending a signal.

“I just told him that, honey,” I said and kissed Jude on the cheek, sending another signal.

Marcel spoke. His voice was a little on the high-pitched side and slightly nasally. He exuded smugness. I could tell by the way he carried himself, the look on his face, the way he spoke, this asshole had a very high opinion of himself. I thought he was all show. Where I grew up, we had a name for guys like him.

We called them “Slick.” From that moment forward, that was his name in my book. Not Yogi. Not Marcel. He was Slick. As in, “You think you’re a slick mother fucker, but you ain’t as slick as you think you are.”

I still had his hand in mine. He was trying to pull it away. I let him.

“Ahhh, so you are the lucky man who is married to this beautiful creature,” he said with a thick French, or pseudo-French, accent. “I am very envious, Monsieur. I hope one day to enjoy a wife such as her.”