I'm sitting in a bar, of all places. I just finished meeting with a prospect that I turned into a platinum customer. I pulled a rabbit out at the last minute - securing a hefty commission and guaranteeing my quarterly bonus for at least the next year. It worked out well that my new client knew of this place and agreed to meet here. I had to be here for everything that was about to happen after the client left.
The cream on top of this sweet deal is that this particular establishment actually serves Guinness 00, the non-alcoholic version of their draught. I'm expecting someone else very shortly. A bunch of someone's - actually. Two seats down sits a woman, who, based on her overall looks, spends a great deal of time here. As I regard her, a balding guy in a slightly wrinkled suit walks up and swivels the stool in between us towards himself.
"Anyone sitting here, Mac?" he asks, as though he's going to sit down regardless.
I only shake my head in the negative. I pull out my phone to check messages and emails, and that all is going to plan. Then I use the calculator to figure out if my first commission check will cover a vacation to Maui. My wife has been after me to go, and she deserves a treat. After all, she treats me right every day, so of course she deserves it.
After five minutes, and with just some froth left in my glass, the fellow next to me begins to talk. "What gives' with the fake beer?" he curiously asks.
"I don't drink," I state flatly.
"You're in a bar. You know that, right?" He chuckles because he thinks he made a funny. I'm not amused. I tip the glass high, draining the foamy remains, and then start to stand.
"Whoa, buddy!" he says very apologetic-like, "Don't leave. Shit, I didn't mean to straighten your pubes. I mean, it is a bar right? Stick around and I'll buy you another."
Acting as though it's against my better judgement, I retake my seat. My acting job is easy to pull off, because I 'm on a mission tonight. Well, okay, hearing the words 'straighten' and 'pubes' did make me reconsider briefly. Jesus, this guy.
My wife has asked me on dozens of occasions, "Why did you spend so much time talking to that guy? Not this guy, of course, just whoever. She complains that I wasted fifteen minutes or a half an hour chatting with a complete stranger about anything and everything, or even nothing at all. I don't agree that it's time wasted, but I still don't have a good answer for her. It's an affliction of sorts. I don't believe anything happens by chance. If I meet somebody in a restaurant, a bar, or even in line at the post office, and they see fit to strike up a conversation, then I'm convinced it's a conversation that I should have.
Sometimes, though, I know for an absolute fact that a meeting isn't random. Sometimes I'm the one pulling the strings to make it happen.
"I'm John, John Baker," he says holding out his right hand.
I reach out and shake. "I'm Devon, but you can call me Mac." His expression goes from confusion to understanding. "Oh, I get it. You rascal!" I half expect him to try to give me a noogie.
John signals the bartender for another round. We start chatting. Surprisingly, the conversation is light and comfortable - that is, until jobs, classic cars, and Detroit sports teams are in the rear view.
"Yeah, those Lions are perpetual losers," he says. "I guess I have no right to talk though."
Ah, here we go.
"Why not?" I ask.
"Ah, nothing. Just thinking out loud, is all."
I can see he's trying to put a genie back in its bottle, but I'm not going to allow it.
"Didn't mean to pry," I say. "You are in a bar, though, talking to a perfect stranger. Might help to get it off your chest."
"It's nothing, really, just some family trouble." I can see it's more. John's mood has soured considerably. He looks like his dog just died. I push just a little more, even though I know far more than I'm letting on. I dial up the concern and empathy. "Trouble with the little woman? Did she leave you?"
John doesn't answer for a minute. He wants to talk about it, but he's scared. He's probably asking himself who else he'd tell, and how long he can go on with it bottled up inside. Like I just told him, a perfect stranger in a bar might be his best bet. How lucky for him.
"Yeah, she left me, the bitch." He pauses, still unsure how much he wants to reveal.
"Wanna talk about it?" I casually ask.
John makes eye contact now. With a deep sigh and a swig of his suds, decides to trust me - or at least the sacred compact of dudes drinking together in a bar.
"She was cheating, fucking slut. Some asshole from her work. She was looking for some strange, and he helped her find it. All those years, such a fucking waste of time."
"How long were you married?" I'm trying to keep him focused so he doesn't go on a tirade.
"Two months shy of fifteen years. She blindsided me. Her and that god damned Ken doll she left me for."
He's still holding back. I consider that. I already know his story. It doesn't really get much worse. All that's left are the details.
"How did it happen? Did you catch them in your bed? Were you having them watched because you suspected? GPS on her car?"
He shakes his head. "No... none of that. She left me a note. Said she just couldn't do it anymore."
"Do what, John?" I immediately ask.
John simply shrugs. "Be married to me. She left another note with my attorney, in the packet with the divorce settlement. Said she loved me... once. Said we made a mistake getting married. Went through a bunch of crap about why. I never listen, I can't communicate, it's like talking to a brick wall, yada yada. Said I was disconnected; a dead fish in bed. Said she tried to talk to me about things plenty. That she waited for me to notice something was wrong for those last six months. Then she just gave up and gave in to him. Said I never noticed or said a thing. Said he's everything I'm not. The last thing she said hurt the worst. She said that I just wasn't the kind of man she'd imagined."
Well, that didn't square with his ex-wife just looking for some strange, as he'd put it. It sounded more planned, at least on her part - like she'd been looking for a while. I knew that she had been.
"So, then," I say, turning towards him. "What kind of man are you?"
"Huh?" He looks at me sourly. "What the fuck kind of question is that?"
"It wasn't meant as a dig," I say, trying to calm him. Recounting his misfortune has obviously taken a toll. "I'm only asking because there are many different types of men. Just because she suddenly went off the rails doesn't call your manhood into question. Maybe she's the one who changed, and you're the same guy you always were."
"I suppose." He looks up now, seeing himself in the smoky mirror behind the bar. Motioning to the barkeep, he asks if I'd like another. I accept. Right now, there's nowhere I'd rather be.
After the drinks are placed in front of us, I turn my stool to face him fully.
"So?" I leave it hanging.
John's resolve stiffens after a brief questioning look. He understands what I'm asking.
"I think I'm the same guy she married. I gave her, and the relationship, everything I had. She never said anything was wrong. I don't know, maybe she's right. Maybe I didn't listen. I thought I did."
"Tell me about the last few years of your marriage John. What did they feel like to you?"
He contemplates his answer. "They were... comfortable. I thought we were good, you know?"
"Yeah." I leave it there. So does he. We nurse our drinks.
A minute later, I break the heavy silence. "Did you ever think about stepping out on her?"
"Never!" he quickly answers.
I see it's time to change the subject.
"What about your life before marrying Tracy?" I ask. Fuck. I said her name. Well, time to see how sharp this sad sack is.
"My life's never been very exciting," He says, settling into his stool more. "I grew up on a small family farm. My father and his brother had to sell it or lose it around the time I was seven. We left Iowa and moved here, to Ohio. Pops got a factory job with an automotive manufacturer. When I graduated, we had no money for college, so Dad helped me get an entry-level job at the plant. I was promoted to foreman a few years after Tracy and I got married."
He's still being evasive, so I try another approach. "Got a family photo?"
He pulls out his wallet. The small pic looks recent enough; it shows a blonde woman, well put together, and a younger blonde girl, who's obviously his daughter and destined to be a real looker. John's wife is no movie star, but she could turn a few heads. His daughter won't fare well without the influence of a father figure. She doesn't have many years left before flying the coop. I hoped the lothario is willing to step up.
"Do you talk to your daughter?" I ask nonchalantly.
"Yeah, I get to have her every other weekend and alternating holidays. She doesn't like mom's new boyfriend. She was almost my whole life...my whole goddamned life, and now I only get to see her part time." He says the last bit almost with a groan, and a few tears trickle down.
I put a hand on John's shoulder. We're silent for a bit. Finally, I make eye contact with the bartender, and point down to John from above his head, signaling for one more round. I also find it a good time to hit the head, and so I leave John with his thoughts.
Going to the restroom also gives me a moment to consider how to proceed. To say John's life was unremarkable and unexciting would be an understatement. Still, I'm starting to get a picture of the man. I wash up, make sure my hands are completely dry, and head back out.
Returning, I put my hand on his shoulder again and ask, "You okay?"
See? Dry hands. Very important.
He nods as he sips his drink.
"So, John, tell me about your daily life. What did that look like when you were with your family?"
"Well, it was pretty ordinary. I worked my eight, and if overtime was available, I usually took it. We always needed the money."
"How about at home?" I prod.
"Tracy would usually have dinner ready, and we ate as a family," he recollects. "Unless Gabby had cheer practice."
"And how did you end your day?" Jesus, I have to drag everything out of this guy. At least he told me his daughter's name. Now I don't have to worry about accidentally saying it and triggering the alarm bells. Sure, he missed the wife's name. The daughter? He wouldn't have missed that. It's a dad thing.
"She would go do her thing, you know; TV, or read. I would often go out to the garage and work on a project or something."
Okay, now I have a pretty full picture. "Did you both go to bed together at night?"
"Mostly," he says. "If you're asking about our sex life, it was varied and rewarding."
Rewarding? I didn't buy that.
I signal the bartender for the check. My real tab was sitting on the back bar, along with my debit card. I'd baited the line, and if this is all going to work the way I want, I need to get things moving. It's time to see if I can set the hook.
John looks at me, wondering why I suddenly seem so intent to leave. From his perspective, we'd only just begun our deep dive into his sad, boring life. I open the check presenter.
This is the moment of truth. If John doesn't pick up on the clues, I'll have to go with Plan B. My Plan B is pretty weak, truth be told, so I hope Plan A works. With John on my right, and me being left-handed, he can see what I'm writing.
He watches me sign the three-letter signature. It isn't my real one. John looks back at his reflection behind the bar, and I sigh, knowing it will be plan B.
Then John surprises me.
"I thought you said your name was Devon?" he says, his tone suddenly accusatory.
"I did."
He looks down again at the check and the three letters: F-F-F.
"What's the F stand for, then?" he asks.
"Which one?" I reply, smiling.
John seems bewildered, but he recovers. "Any of them?"
"It's a surname," I say, skirting his real question. "A pen name, actually."
"So... you a writer?" He asks. The suspicion is gone. Now he's excited.
"Yes, maybe, figure it out" I unfurl three fingers in time to the answers.
John looks at the check again. He does indeed figure it out.
"Are you FanaticalFuckFace?" he asks exuberantly.
I nod with a smirk.
Just like that, John shoots up off of his stool and is violently shaking my hand. It's like he just met Tom Cruise or something.
"I can't believe this!" he's saying to no one in particular. "You're one of my favorite authors on that... well, you know where." I'm tickled inside at his sudden embarrassment over reading free erotic stories.
John's embarrassment however, was not unfounded. Due to recent events involving his job, he had good reason. Setting aside the fact that I don't believe in random chance, I'll meet the skeptics halfway and say that I - or my private investigator, more precisely - stumbled upon Sad Sack John in the course of some other business. I became a bit obsessed with him and his tale of woe. My PI didn't get why, but my money was green, so he dug deeper for me. I guess the similarities of our situations drove that obsession. Tonight's the culmination of several hours of planning to help John get his man-card back, and for me to get a last bit of revenge myself.
"This is incredible!" He smiles like the Joker as he says that. "Hey, that's a really bizarre name, by the way. How'd you come up with it?" His mind is no longer on that cheating bitch of a wife... ex-wife now, as I understand it. That's fine. He could use a little break.
"It's a tribute," I begin, "sort of an honor bestowed by a dear, deceased friend of mine. I had a lazy eye as a kid, and took a ton of shit for it. It was one of my best friends, in our little neighborhood gang that really got things started. We were drinking one afternoon; all of us were pretty wasted, and he just blurts out, 'You know, your face is pretty fucked up.' Of course, all the others start laughing their asses off. The way he said it, so did I.
"Anyway, it just kept going and going around the table, like it always does with kids. Finally someone turned fucked-up face into 'Fuck Face.' That became my nickname all through school. Now, if someone, outside our gang called me that, that friend who coined it would deck him. He'd say something like 'don't fuck with our Fuck Face, fuck face!' That's what friends do.
An eye doctor used a pretty common procedure before I left for college to correct it. It's funny how it was such a big deal for a few years, but if I'd just seen a doctor earlier, so many things would have been different - and not all of them for better, necessarily.
"Wow!" John says to himself, "I'm talking to Triple F. And I know his eye story."
Then something dawns on him.
"Hey, you're not planning to use what I just told you in one of your stories, are you? I don't give you permission."
"Relax, John," I reply. "I was truly just trying to get to know about you and what happened." That seems to settle him down just a little.
"Okay," he says, warily. "Hey, I have a question. Why do you write all that reconciliation shit? I mean, don't get me wrong, I like some of your stuff, and your style's okay. I just can't understand all the fucking forgiveness. It doesn't jive with some of the shit you have the wife doing."
He pauses, but I don't immediately answer.
"And boy," he says, his voice getting louder, "you really piss off the 'burn-the-bitch' crowd. I have to say, I've ripped you a new one in the comments myself a few times."
"I know," I respond calmly. "I don't like writing that stuff. It's not real. Sure, people want revenge. Sure, love can turn to hate in an instant. But in real life, especially where children are involved, that's all fantasy. A guy can get over on the wife, or the other man, if he really plans it out and commits. In most cases, though, the risk isn't worth the reward. They all have to learn to be civil with one another."
"Your readers disagree, I think," John states confidently.
"Not exactly, John," I say coldly. "Most of those who want a drastic or dramatic outcome just haven't moved on from their own personal hell yet. Those folks disagree. They haven't started to live their lives, in the aftermath. They still have a few stages of grief to get through. Once that happens, and they come out the other side, they won't be reading my stories anymore, or anyone else's, for that matter. They'll be back in the game - back in the human race."
John was quiet for a minute or longer. "You sound like you have some actual experience?"
"You want to listen now for a bit?" I ask gently.
He nods, seemingly more interested now that he knows who I am.
"My first wife was a disaster waiting to happen," I begin. "She was eighteen and I was twenty-one when we met. She was definitely hot and I liked everything I saw.
"Two weeks after we met, I woke up in bed, in my apartment. She was naked, riding me, those itty bitty B-cups bouncing around. As I came to, I pushed her off. I did it instinctively, since I'd gone to bed alone. She'd somehow gotten into my place even though I was damn sure I'd locked the door.
"That should have been the red flag that ended it," I say ruefully. "Of course, I was a young idiot, and I let her sweet talk me. A month later she was living with me; nine months later we were married. A year after that, we moved cross-country to California because I got a job offer that was just too good to pass up. We had a daughter, then a son two years later.
"Then she changed. You know the drill. Always late, never where she said she was going to be. In hindsight, she really didn't even try to hide it. I caught her, and she said 'So what?' It was a challenge, not a question. I told her to fuck right off. She kept dating, trying to force me to kick her out. After a month, I did. I should have done it sooner. She bailed, took off with a long-haired meth dealer, and left me a single dad with a one - and a three-year-old to raise."
"Still, that worked out pretty good for you?" John says it almost as a question, so I answer.
"Not really - being a young guy with two kids that age while working in a restaurant sixty-five hours per week isn't just frightening. It's horrifying."
John rests his jaw into his palms and seems to wrestle with his thoughts. I don't know if he's chewing on my story or not. He listened to it, at least. Still, he's got his own problems.
"What are you thinking about, John?"
John's clearly had enough of this. "Why are you telling me this? I mean it's a shitty tale, and I'm a stranger in a bar - but what does it have to do with me?"
"Glad you asked," I state triumphantly. "I asked earlier what kind of man you are. I just told you what kind I am. We're very different, I suspect, but we've both dealt with similar relationship issues. Tell me, John, what do you want to do about...?"
"Tracy," he finishes. That proves he was too self-absorbed earlier to catch me dropping her name.
"Well? You want to burn her down? Get some kind of revenge? Let her be? Try to get her back?"
John contemplates the big question. "I want revenge, but what's the point? I can't do anything to her. All her friends and relatives are on her side. The laws and the courts are on her side too. What can I do?"
It's clear to me that John is at a crossroads. He just doesn't see it. He thinks he's out of options. He just needs someone to grab his shoulders and point him in the right direction. I feel like giving him the push.
"So if you think revenge is off the table, what's the play?" I ask.
"Probably just forget the bitch and get on with my life," he says, deflating into the stool. "It's not what I really want, but it all just feels so hopeless."
"There's always hope, John," I say with an easy shrug. "Tell you what: give me some more details. Tell me about your life and your family. Let me contemplate."
Out of the corner of my eye, I see John turn his head towards me. I don't need to look. I know his face is all screwed up, and he's wondering if he's talking to an undercover cop. Still, John's angry. He's a sad sack, but he's very, very angry. I sound very, very confident. I sound like someone who could help him plan the perfect murder.
"I'm forty-four, and we have one daughter," He says cautiously. He still has no idea why I need to know any of this stuff - or that I already do. "She's fourteen and lives with her mother. I'm also paying child support. My interests WERE my family, so now I don't know what they are. This, I guess. I've never lived anywhere else but here - not as an adult, anyway. Not with any responsibilities."
I signal the bartender for our free sober-up round - a Pepsi for me and coffee for John.
"So let me shift gears here, John," I say. "What did you do last Valentine's Day?"
"I was here," he says, as if that's perfectly normal.
That draws out another sigh from me that cannot be concealed. "Okay, the Valentine's before that?"
"I can't remember. I think we went to dinner, Tracy and I." I can see he's being honest. That's something. Sad Sack John doesn't lie much - not even to himself, really. That's not his thing. His thing is that he's myopic and dense. He doesn't look past his own nose. He doesn't contemplate.
"And what would you do, or how would you feel, if Tracy forgot you on Christmas?" I ask, glaring at him.
"Fan...Mac, I mean Devon...fuck! What are you getting at?" he almost yells, exasperated.
"I'm trying to get you to think about the next time you're up to bat, John," I say. "My grandfather told me when I was a teen that in order to resolve conflicts, I should always take fifty-one percent of the blame, no - of the fault - unless I was sure the other party was one hundred percent culpable."
I let that sink in while checking the front entrance.
"Somewhere along the line, you and Tracy became incompatible - at least partially. Now, I don't think she handled it right. She made herself the victim to end all victims, and used that as an excuse to stop communicating and start cheating. But I'm pretty sure she wasn't a criminal mastermind, John, or an Oscar-winning actress. She was unhappy, she was detaching from the relationship, she was falling for some other guy, and you didn't have a clue.
"At the very least, heaven forbid something like that happens again, you'll have a clue. Why? Because you'll be a better person. You'll be more aware of yourself and your surroundings. It might surprise you how drastically that'll lower the odds of something like this happening again."
"I see what you're saying," he admits. "It's just that she never talked to me about our troubles. But, I suppose, I could have at least been looking."
"There you go!" I exclaim. "Now you're getting it."
John does not answer now. He's deep in thought again, and right where I want him.
"John, do you mind if I tell you about the rest of my life? Some of the better parts, actually?"
He shrugs looking straight ahead. Having him where I want him is one thing. Losing him to a dark place in his head is another.
"My current wife is was also my high school sweetheart. We met at thirteen and dated until eighteen. We talked marriage and growing old together. Circumstances separated us, but thirty-two years later we found our way back. The best part of those early years was - I knew her at her core - her innocent, childhood core - and that's important for me at least, because, while people can change on the outside, there's never been a person alive who could change who they are at their core. We're now reunited and deeply in love. Knowing each other so deeply allows trust and respect to flourish.
"But it took me a long time to get over my second wife. I should clarify, well to get over exacting revenge on her and that son-of-a-bitch she went off with. But I should probably tell it in the correct order."
"I thought you just lectured me about how revenge didn't happen in real life?" he states belligerently.
"I said it requires planning and commitment, and a willingness to accept the risks and costs"
That shuts him up for another moment. I'm really leaning into that whole 'guy who can help you commit the perfect murder' angle.
"Wife number two," I continue, "was a wonderful woman in her own right. She helped me raise my kids in a warm, loving environment. We had one of our own not long after we wed. Life was perfect. At least that's what it looked like to the outside world. We were a power couple; the envy of our friends and neighbors. We were great parents; the children thrived, played sports, did well in school, and were perfectly well-adjusted. I coached all of them in pretty much every sport - volunteer work, no pay. We volunteered for pretty much everything. We were so involved that some people wondered if we even had jobs.
"Like the song goes, 'everything runs right on time; spit and polished til it shines.' The work parts of the relationship were great. Unfortunately, we discovered shortly after getting married that we were not romantically or intimately compatible at all. That led to an almost dead sex life. I was trapped, and so was she. We made it work for almost fifteen years, like two successful business partners. Then I started to suspect."
John is listening intently. I've got him back.
"That's not right, actually," I recall. "I was already gratifying myself online, since we had a sexless marriage. We probably should have just given each other permission to step out, but neither of us had been raised that way. That's a part of my fifty-one percent.
"Anyway," I say, "I was reading all these online stories, like the ones I now write. That's actually why I started to suspect her. It's also where I got the idea to plant a voice-activated recorder in her home office.
"I'll be damned if she wasn't talking about screwing one of our top sales guys - a guy I work with." My voice rises several decibels. "Right there on the god dammed tape recorder. I confronted, she denied. Then I started going through her emails. She'd cleared her history and inbox, but, just like in the stories, she never touched her sent file. There it was."
I take a moment to regroup. Time is running short, and I've been a little long-winded. I guess you never really get over the hurt. Oh well.
"By that time, we were already in marriage counseling over the salesman. This other guy, from her emails, was a regional director for the manufacturer, who was a client of my wife's food brokerage. They rode around once a month together selling shit. Jack was his name - Jack the manufacturer's rep."
John perks up. "That's weird. My wife took up with a guy named Jack. He's in food too."
Here's the part where I hope John doesn't experience too much personal growth all at once. I'm not sure our potential partnership will survive him realizing that I've been stalking him.
Jack had led my investigator to his new main squeeze, one Mrs. Tracy Baker. That had led him, and me, to John. John's actions had inspired me to put together a plan for tonight's festivities.
Like many people, John was a creature of habit. Even after living on his own for several months, John still surfed the net late at night, even though he could have done so naked at five-thirty in the afternoon. Another one of John's habits was dozing off during his nightly activities.
One morning, not long after Tracy left him, John showed up bright and early for a staff meeting. His team consisted of thirteen men and women. That day, John was giving a presentation on the bonus structure for the new quarter. When he opens his laptop, there's a bunch of banner ads from his favorite adult erotic story website still there on the screen. If he had only opened his computer before plugging in the HDMI cable to the big-screen TV, John might be on his way to VP by now. That's why John is now a clerk instead of a foreman at the company he worked for; something, he left out. That's also how my current plan A was born.
I ignore his comment. "It was all too easy. In one email, my wife said: "I had a great time selling with you on Tuesday!
"He replied: Yes! Me too! Next time try to keep your shirt on! LOL
"She answered: As I recall, it wasn't me who took their shirt off, but I guess you can remember it however you choose. Either way, I had soooo much fun!
"He comes back with: Me too. I hope you don't do that with all your male ride-withs! I'll be very jealous.
Then the dagger that ended it all from my fucking ex-wife: Do you ever wonder why I keep a tape measure in my console?
"That was it. I read most of the rest, but she was already dead to me. She swooned over his suggestions about mountain hiking, camping on Mt. Ranier - a bunch of stuff she'd never shown any interest in, in the sixteen years I'd know her. I printed everything using almost a ream of paper. Made an extra copy of that recording on a mini cassette, and then stopped at Home Depot on my way to our next counseling session. I was going to burn that bitch to the ground, just like I'd read about.
"The counselor started by asking me how my week had been. Of course I started my soliloquy, about how certain things had come to light, and so on and so forth. I dropped the ream of paper and the tape measure I'd purchased from under my coat onto the table in front of us, and then set the cassette and my wedding ring on top and said, 'I'll leave you two to talk about my soon-to-be-ex-wife's inability to keep her fucking legs closed, considering she rarely spreads them for me.'"
"Holy shit!" John exclaims, "I bet that felt fucking amazing!"
"Yeah," I sigh. "It did... for about a day, maybe two." I pause for effect. "Who the hell am I kidding? It did feel AMAZING! I get all warm inside and my blood pressure is almost popping out this fake eye of mine, just recounting it to you!"
John looks horrified. "It's a joke, John. No fake eye."
While finishing my story, I'd noticed a group of four hot women had entered and taken a booth against the far wall. Now I'm noticing one of them looking my way.
"Seriously, though." I continue. "My first two wives, like yours, totally screwed me over. But I take the blame on the second one at least, for not confronting the elephant in the room. I don't know if we could have found a solution - well, short of a divorce - that would have worked for both of us, but I didn't even try."
John being John, I decide to make the connection explicit. "You said that Tracy's letter stated that she 'couldn't do it anymore,' but she never said what, and you didn't ask. That's your fifty-one percent, John, own it and learn from it, so you can be better next time.
"Listen though - I need to get going. And you, my friend, need to get back on your horse." The abrupt end to our talk stuns him.
"Tell you what," I say, "John, take a glance over your left shoulder. That table with the four hot women. You go over there, and chat them up a bit, and I'm buying the first round."
John suddenly looks apprehensive. "No - no, I don't think I can do that. I'm not really ready to - you know - get back in the game."
"Sure you are!" I state confidently. "If I can do it, so can you. Besides maybe it just ends up talk. I'll sweeten the pot. If you score tonight, with any of them - hell, with anybody you find attractive, then you let me know..." I lay a blank card on the bar with my personal email written on it, then continue.
"... then I'll treat you to a steak and lobster dinner so you can regale me with the tale of your conquest. If it's a sad tale, we go Dutch okay?"
I know I'm pushing him hard. I've done all I can do, now, though.
"Nice to meet you, John," I say patting him on his back. "Let me know how it goes. Maybe I'll write something about your wild evening and put it in the 'romance' category."
I stay where I am long enough to make sure John doesn't switch direction, mid-stride, and head for the exit. It's a good thing he doesn't, because just a few moments after the women invite him to sit down, John Baker's bitch of an ex-wife, Tracy, comes strolling in with my nemesis, Jack. A man at the far end of the bar looks my way, and I nod. He stands and goes for the front door, clumsily bumping into Jack on his way out.
"Hey, watch where the fuck you're going!" I hear him grumble to Jack, already showing him his back.
With a quick glance back at the booth, I see that Chantal, Ivory and their two friends have the situation well in hand - or at least they will very shortly. I chuckle at the thought.
John Baker, 'lucky' bastard.
I get my debit card back from the barkeep. The check I signed earlier was a ruse; I'd worked out with him before tonight. I stroll right past Jack on my way out. The arrogant prick doesn't even notice me. When I get to the parking lot, Huey is waiting for me.
"Your keys, sir," he states formally, while doing a mock bow and handing me Jack's car keys. Huey was one of the kids allowed to call me 'Fuck Face.' We'd reconnected two years ago at our class reunion. We've since helped each other, let's just say - get a little back for ourselves - with our exes and their wife-stealing boyfriends. I'm the big-picture and logistics guy. It didn't hurt that Huey had picked up a certain skillset - and lots of wallets and keys - during his hippie days on the wharfs of San Francisco.
"This is the last time, right Devon?" Huey asks suspiciously. "We made a deal, remember?"
"Yeah, I know," I reply, pretending to sound defeated. "I'm not even going to fuck up his car tonight. After three times, I'm already pressing my luck. I made bigger plans with Jack's date's ex-husband. "Somehow, I think the two lovers are going to have a very shitty night.
"Hey, can you do me one more favor?" I ask, raising my eyebrows. "I'm gonna park his shit over there on the end, so other cars can't get around. Can you call the tow company, and tell them you're the bartender requesting a pick-up for an illegally parked vehicle?"
Huey smiles evilly. Damn, you're cold."
"No," I say smiling right back, even though I guess I am. "I just want John Baker's ex to have to sit and watch, as my two escorts work their magic, all while dick-wad is outside, trying to convince the salvage company to unhook his car."
Huey's still smiling, "And you paid the girls too, didn't you? Fuck Devon, you went all out for this one." Then he considers something else. "He'll know - if they slip and say something - He'll know what you did."
"Who cares?" I say. "By then, he's John fucking Wayne, and he's gonna feel like he just defended the Alamo, single-handedly."
Huey laughs, and we turn away from each other to finish the gig.
I'll be sitting in my car watching and enjoying the action for a while, of course. I've paid a lot of time and money to set this up, after all. I was being honest with Huey, though. This really is my final act of revenge. I'd made them pay many times over, and at this point, the good feelings are being eclipsed by the nagging sense that I am - or ought to be - a better person. Jack had left my ex, high and dry, after my abuse became all too much for him. He'd gone to the cops, but could never prove it was me. I was always somewhere else, in a crowd. My ex, it seems grew tired of his whining about me. He started putting the moves on Tracy Baker, not even two weeks after he bailed.
Later, I'll go home and give my current wife some loving while telling her all about closing my big deal today, and of course our trip. That should earn me a few extra spins when we go to bed. Tomorrow, it's a bright, new day for John Baker. It will be for me too, if I can just stop 'getting even.'
