Well, that went well…
December 24th. I’m sitting and reading and minding my own business. Mr. singular cries out from the back room “You want to go out to breakfast?” I’m not especially hungry, but I don’t want to cook and we don’t go out for meals often, so I say sure. As usual, 30 minutes passes while he gets ready. When he announces he’s ready, I get up and get ready, since it takes two minutes to brush my hair, put on my coat and put my wallet in my pocket as he puts the dog away. We drive to Denny’s, about 2½ miles away. It’s 4 AM, and there’s 3 loud 20-somethings in a booth one booth away. Suddenly the air is filled with “Fuckin” and “fuckin’” that. Now, I’m far from a delicate flower, but this was ridiculous. I rolled my eyes and murmured “the asshole brigade is out in force.” and buried my head in my newspaper after making my order.
This is where I made the big mistake that could’ve saved this wretched sham of a marriage.
Mr. sing- aw, fuck, let’s call him Bob- Bob says “You want to move away?”
Here’s the ridiculous part. I didn’t want to make a scene. I would’ve been embarrassed, getting up and moving. Embarrassed in front of three obnoxious punks and the night waiter we’d never seen before. Embarrassed because I am a huge repulsive aging blob and I don’t want anyone looking at me.
So I said no, it’s alright, and buried my head in the newspaper.
I really didn’t hear what set Bob off. I was looking at the paper, barely letting the punks register. Bob’s back was to them. I figured he’d start talking to me soon, whereupon I’d put down the paper.
Then it all went to shit.
Bob whirled around in his seat and yelled “Hey, hey, fellas, c’mon!”
My head snapped up, and I thought “Oh, good”.
Oh no….
You see, that was a good start. A little brusque, perhaps, but a good start. But it went rapidly downhill.
“The language, the language!” At this point he has struggled to his feet and is now standing at their table. “Fuckin’ this, fuckin’ that, fuckin’ titties!(“Titties” is Bob’s Kryptonite. He hates that word.) You’re in a fucking public place! Can you just watch the fukin language?”
You can see how well this is going.
The boys try to calm him down, pointing out that he’s using the same language. He says he’s trying to get their attention because, pointing to me “there’s a fucking lady over there” He then tries to start a fight with them. (There are not enough roll-eye emoticons in the world.) They are, of course, bemused. They’re being challenged by a 53 year old man who can’t drive because his neck won’t turn, who can’t work because he can’t stand very long or know if he’ll be able to get out of bed on a regular schedule – and they can see this just by looking at him. “You’re going to take us three - young guys - on. In a fight.” “You don’t think I can do it? You’re about to be corrected.” They manage to calm him enough by apologizing to me and telling him to go sit with your wife. As he approaches our table, he keeps looking back at their table, where they’re laughing and cussing about the whole display. He pauses again, and I am forced to hiss “Sit DOWN! NOW!” as firmly and quietly as possible. I had to do the same thing to the dog the day before when a pizza was delivered. I hissed “You made a complete ass of yourself.” And went back to my paper. This was the most uncomfortable 7 minutes of my life. I wanted to sink through the floor.
The waiter came to our table and I asked if we could have our food to go. I told Bob I was going to wait at the counter by the register and left, just in case any further incident was brewing. When he joined me at the counter, I told him again he made a complete ass of himself. The kid was right – if he would’ve just asked him to tone it down, chances are that would’ve been the end of it. But he had to go all Buford Pusser on their asses and turn it into a circus. I went back to blindly looking at my newspaper. When the waiter came to give us the bill and the food, he said he was sorry and would we like to move to the back of the restaurant. Having no appetite, I said no, thanks, we’ll just leave. And then Bob apologized - TO THE WAITER!
Cut to a stony silence in the ride home, one that hasn’t been broken until just about an hour ago. It’s Christmas morning, and I’m on the computer, looking for houses. He pokes his head in and asked some question, I don’t even remember what. I answered tersely, and he says “Why are you talking to me like this?” And I say “I’m still waiting for my apology. You apologized to the waiter, what about me?” “I was doing it for you!” “Oh, yeah, acting like a drunken cowboy. I was humiliated! I was mortified!”
So here comes the big leap –
“Well then, I guess we’ll get divorced! That’s what you want! You stopped having sex the minute we got married!”
??? This, aside from being inaccurate, came outta nowhere.
“Fine. You want a divorce, you better call your brother and see if you can live with him, because I can’t afford to pay for two places.” “I can’t stay with my brother, I got nowhere to stay. So I guess you’re trapped.”
I couldn’t believe he put into words exactly what I felt, but he did. “You’re right. I’m trapped!”
Those were the last words spoken in this house, lo this Christmas morn. The clacking of the keys is the only noise, punctuated by the grunts coming from the Soloflex room. Bob’s gearing up for his next big slap-down, I guess. Gee, who’s going to protect my delicate honor now? Oh, I forgot. Bob, because I’m trapped. Paying for a pretend marriage. Paying, paying, paying. Living with my protector, who wants to divorce me but can’t support himself.
Well, Merry fucking Titsmas.