Author’s Note: This never actually happened to me. None of this is me, nor anyone else of whom I know. The actress in question has not, to my knowledge, done anything like this in real life. It is nothing but a sexual fantasy about her, plain and simple. This is pure fiction. If I met her in real life, I’d know her right away, as a fan of the series Smallville.
*****
I'm not sure quite why I chose that particular bar to visit during my stay in Reno. It was somewhat funny that it had a country/western theme and I kept thinking of that Doug Supernaw video with the same name, which fit my estranged wife, Molly. My marriage to her was a no-win proposition of the same scale as a night at one of the big casinos of the sort that make damn sure that you don't come out ahead.
If I gave her everything that she asked for, I was too much of a pushover, but if I stood up to her, I was some kind of a misogynist or knuckle-dragging caveman. Either way, the bed had gotten very cold toward the end, so I finally gave up on that lose-lose scenario, my own personal Kobayashi Maru, and like James T. Kirk, I found a solution. One couldn't save a marriage if the other partner simply refused to even live in the same world as the rest of us. I had strong suspicions of borderline personality disorder in her case, but I'm no shrink, so it could be something else.
I resigned my position at Molly's father's restaurant business, traded up on my bike for one that was suitable for cross-country travel, paid the difference from our joint-bank account, took what few possessions I wanted, closed the joint-account by putting the majority in hers and a substantial minority in my own, and headed to a city where I could get a quick and easy divorce. A chef like me should be more than able to make a living somewhere else, long before anyone caught up with me. I didn't care about her money. I had married her with the crazy idea that she loved me as much as I loved her.
Of course, it being Reno, I made sure that I had a room before even going near a bar, and quickly rediscovered why I didn't go there often. The whiskey was horribly overpriced, even from the well. If I wanted the high-end, smoother, and aged stuff, I'd be paying out of my ass. I decided on beer instead, since it was relatively cheap and I might actually wake up without my head caving in the next morning.
Feeling somewhat braver, I got to the floor and decided to ask a particular blonde with sunglasses on for a dance. She took off her shades, as if expecting me to recognize her, put them back on with some surprise, and then almost jumped on me with startling enthusiasm to dance with me. Despite her having some high-class, designer eyewear, I didn't think that she was anyone really important. She might be a trust-fundie like Molly, old money, that sort, or perhaps an emerging model, but I didn't care about that. I just wanted to enjoy a dance in what amounted to a fancy honkytonk.
I had something of a wicked grin when I heard Sawyer Brown's "Some Girls Do", as it really seemed to fit the attitude of my past and present company. Molly hated my country music, my leather boots, my faded denim jeans, and my tendency to go shirtless on a really hot day unless I had to cover my upper body for some reason. She especially hated my .357 magnum revolver, at which I practiced until I no longer anticipated recoil and stopped sucking at it. To her, it was a reminder that I was still a Montana redneck with a Blackfoot grandmother who grew up in Billings and often fished in the lakes near the Bighorn Mountains.
"So, what do you do for a living?" I asked the blonde out of curiosity, as the song faded.
"Oh, my God, you really don't know, do you? Must not watch much cable," she grinned, somewhat embarrassed by her earlier expectation that I should recognize her.
"Well, mostly documentaries, Sci-Fi channel, things like that. I'm a big fan of Adam Richman, though not of some of his online tirades. Then again, he's human, celeb or not. I'd hate to think that my every word was treated as the final word on who and what I am. My wife has given me enough shit as it is, which is why I left her," I commented casually.
"You're married?" the blonde gave me a crooked smile.
"Estranged, yes, but I haven't bothered to take off the band yet. Probably should, huh?" I showed her my wedding ring.
"Yeah, probably should in most cases. If I wasn't such a self-pitying, self-absorbed prima donna, I'd have noticed your wedding band by now. Anyway, I'm an actress. I was on Smallville for a while. That's a series about the young Superman," she explained.
"I see. I've heard of it, just never broke down and watched it, probably due to my bad experience with Lois and Clark. Teri Hatcher and Dean Cain ruined that whole thing for me back in the 90s. Molly loves that show, but I can't stand it. Anyway, I'm a chef. Nice to meet you. I'm Jack Phelps. No relation to the reverend, thank God!" I told the sassy blonde with the short hair.
"Allison Mack, but please don't tell anyone. I just want to be incognito and so far it has worked, though that's not very flattering to me," she whispered to me.
"Well, how about I call you 'Allie' for now? Your secret's safe with me. It's probably due to the nature of your audience. Most cult TV is like that. Now, if I had seen Sherilyn Fenn in here, I'd have recognized her from the other end of the bar. Why? Because I used to watch Twin Peaks religiously. As for flattery, think of this. I hadn't the foggiest clue in the world that you were famous, whatever list you're considered to be, and I still wanted to dance with you. Take that for what it's worth," I observed.
"Come to think of it, you have a point. You found me attractive on your own, without being told something to prejudice you in my favor. So, a chef, huh? And your wife hasn't tried harder to keep you? Is it your cooking or just her pride? I might have to get you to cook for me some time, just to find out what drew her in the first place and why she has given up what seems to be a real catch," Allie teased me a little.
