Chapter 1: All Our Past Times
There was no "Bernie." It was just a made-up name from long ago, and no one remembered its origin. "Backstreet Bernie's," however, was a sacred watering hole for me and a number of the locals. Nick Kleinhof was bartender during most afternoons and evenings. He was also the owner, and as you soon discovered, no one ... I mean no one ... messed with Nick.
He was built like a brick shithouse as the saying goes, and more than once I'd watched him bounce some drunken clown out of his place without breaking a sweat. It was one of those life's-lessons that stuck with you. It was also one of the reasons that I liked Bernie's as a place to hang out. Nick was my kind of guy, not to mention the possessor of the universal bartender talent of being a good listener.
I was sitting in my customary place at the bar, drinking my customary dark ale. We'd long ago agreed neither of us would bring up the subject of my divorce and the distancing of my two sons. It was still raw after two years, and I wondered if I'd ever get over it. I'd gotten over my ex-wife, Georgia, quite quickly. But missing the boys was another matter entirely.
Terry and Matt were eleven and nine respectively, and I wondered how often they thought of me. We had been surreptitiously in contact by e-mail, but there was little else in the way of communication. Phone calls were met with excuses that the boys were in bed, or out playing with friends, or some other reason they couldn't come to the phone.
My ex-wife and her new husband had promptly moved two thousand miles east to Chicago as soon as the divorce was final. With me left in Yuba City, my financial state wouldn't permit me to visit the boys very often, and Georgia made sure that any attempt to do so would be thwarted by a variety of inconveniences. It was her transparent attempt to isolate me from them. That and the idiotic cascade of gifts that her new husband, Leonard Saunders, plied the two young guys with to keep them from missing me. As if it was all about toys.
Despite all that, I still heard from them telling me about their new lives and the wonderful house and goodies that Leonard had provided. Georgia made no bones about the fact that she had "traded up." She had generously left me the house, complete with mortgage, along with what little savings we had. She made it clear there was nothing from her "old life" that she wanted other than the boys.
She had met Leonard at some work function, and his seduction had begun almost immediately. I was blindsided by her unexpected announcement that she was leaving me and taking the boys with her. I was also reminded that the lawyers handling the divorce would see me in the poorhouse if I was stupid enough to contest it. God bless our courts and family law systems.
Georgia was an attractive woman who spent quite a bit of time each morning making sure she was just that. She had gained some pounds with the birth of our boys, but nothing most women would worry about. She was not gorgeous, but had always been attractive. She looked her thirty-five years, but no more.
Leonard was a slick, graying, predator, seven or eight years older than my ex-wife. Twice divorced I'm told, but a clever enough businessman to amass a substantial nest egg, and had the skills to add to it. I never did quite figure out why they had to move away, but that's what happened almost immediately when they were free of me.
The whole thing had come about so suddenly, that it took a while to comprehend what had happened. I had no clue that she was cheating on me, but obviously she had been ... and for some time it would seem. I was the clueless husband, easy meat for a guy like Saunders. I wondered if this had been his first conquest of a married woman. I also wondered if Georgia knew what she might be letting herself in for. Once a cheat, always a cheat, as my friend Johnny Gordon would say; after the fact of course.
So ... back to Nick. I was discussing the various people problems I was having at the office. I was both office manager and de facto computer geek at Big Valley Box, a mid-size corrugated container manufacturer supplying cartons mainly to the central valley fruit and vegetable packing houses. It was a successful company, and I had worked my way up in the organization to office manager, despite the fact that I was neither an accountant nor a business administration graduate. I was pretty proud of my accomplishment, but apparently Georgia thought it was no big deal.
My problems lay within the staff, and particularly the female staff. There was some hostility between a couple of the women, and I suspect it related to their choice of men; both of them wanting the same one. My problem was made worse by the fact that both of the women were valuable employees, good at their jobs. I was trying to figure out how to separate them from each other, yet still have them both working in my department.
Nick, the consummate listener, had been paying attention while he wiped down some glasses fresh out of the washer. I had learned to give him time and not try to rush a comment from him. Quick answers weren't his forte. At last, he stopped and turned to me.
"Why don't you sit down with them, both together at the same time, and see if they will spit out what it's going to take to make them happy. You might not like the answer, but at least it might tell you what your chances are of a reasonable solution."
Typical Nick. Go right to the problem and hit it head-on. I thought about it, and after a few moments, I nodded.
"I can't think of a single reason why I shouldn't try that approach, Nick. As always, you boiled it down to the essentials."
We chatted some more as I nursed my ale, Nick being called away to serve the waitress. As I looked down the bar, I saw a woman sitting on a stool several places down from me. I didn't recognize her as one of Nick's regulars, but then I wasn't here every day, all day. What I did notice was that she seemed out of place at the bar. If she'd been in one of the booths, or at a table, she wouldn't have attracted my attention, but she was sitting at the bar.
When Nick returned, I scrunched up my face into a question mark and nodded toward the woman.
Nick leaned over the bar and said quietly, "Her last name is Michaels, but I can't remember her first name. It's an unusual one. She comes in once in a while. Just has a glass of wine and doesn't want company, but she will talk to me. She's a war widow. Her husband got killed by one of those roadside bombs. She's got a couple of young kids and she's trying to make a living sewing dresses, or something like that. I guess those army benefits don't help that much."
"So I've heard. That's tough ... a couple of kids too. That's tough."
I looked down the bar at the woman. She was absorbed in studying the wine glass in front of her. She didn't look like she was learning very much.
My visits to Backstreet Bernie's were confined to occasional after-work weekdays, and Saturday afternoons. I limited my intake to one pint, although I might have a second one on Saturday. I would arrive after work for an hour or so, and Saturday mid-afternoon for a couple of hours. It wasn't always that way. When Georgia first announced her departure, I was here almost every day, and the inevitable over-consumption of alcohol caused Nick to intervene. But Nick never did anything in a conventional manner.
At first he wanted to hear my story. It wasn't unique, apparently. He'd heard it, or something very much like it, many times before. While I was pouring out my guts in despair, he was listening and nodding and sympathizing ... up to a point. I think the popular word of the day is epiphany. I had an epiphany and didn't even know it. It occurred when Nick asked me a simple question.
"So, now that she's gone, along with the boys, what are you going to do about it?"
Hell of a question, that. I buried my head in my hands and started to list the possibilities.
"Well, I could hunt the bastard down and kill him. Or, I could kidnap my boys and take off for Mexico. Or ... or ... fucked if I know," I admitted.
"Of the two options you mentioned, which do you like the best?"
"Oh, kill the bastard ... for sure."
