A C&w Song in the Ey of Life

When I got back to the shop, Brian was smart enough to get all apologetic before I had a chance to let him have it. "I'm sorry, Tom, triple-A didn't tell me who it was, just the location and what kind of car and that it was a woman. Shelley called right after you drove off and asked me to tell you she's sorry she got mad." He shrugged. "Shit, I really am sorry. How'd it go?"

"About what you'd expect. We pissed in each other's Cheerios and I had to fix the fucking flat because she didn't have a spare." I gave him our copy of the paperwork. "My dog, my pickup, now my ex gets to pick a scab. My life isn't a cluster fuck, it's a shitkicker song." I gave him a half-assed grin to let him know we were still okay.

The phone started ringing and didn't stop all morning—I took care of a jump start, an Explorer locked with the keys in the ignition, and two tows to different repair shops before I got a chance to come back in at quarter to one. Took a piss, grabbed a Coke from the fridge, sat down to take a break, and had just picked up the new

Motor Trend

—yeah, the latest issue, we're not some dentist office—when the damn phone rang again.

Brian answered. "Yeah...okay...injuries...? Good. Be there in 15, 20 minutes tops. Thanks." He hung up, walked over and got a Dr. Pepper. I don't know how he can drink that piss.

"Shit, Tom, it's one of those days." We both got to expand our vocabularies. "Fender-bender at 10th and Placid. No point coming back here every time, take the rollback and drive home after this one. I'll call you if we get more." He was trying to make up for not telling me about Sherry. He didn't have to do that, but I wasn't about to look that gift horse in the mouth. I tried to sound like a hero-worshiping 10-year-old.

"Gee, thanks Boss. You're the best."

Brian laughed, tossed a red rag at me and gave me the finger as I got in the rollback and headed out for the wreck. I got there in just under 15 minutes—more brownie points from triple-A. Pickup got in the way of the truck that picked up recycle barrels and wound up needing some recycling of its own. I towed the trashed F150 to a body shop on Central, and the next call came before I could even pull out of their lot.

It was one of those days the car gods decided to let us know that we shoulda stuck with horses. Things didn't let up until Brian told triple-A we were shutting down at 7:30, I stopped for a pulled pork sandwich and sweet tea on the way home, then took a shower. It was one of those warm February days, so I put on a pair of cargo shorts, Kinky Friedman and his Texas Jew Boys T-shirt, and flip-flops. I grabbed a couple of Shiner 97s—keep your Shiner Bock, I'll take every 97 or Dunkelweizen y'all don't want—and went out on the deck to think about life.

I didn't think about life, of course, I thought about Shelley. Seeing her today brought back just how much I missed her, how I wished that she would have let me tell her what happened. Now Hank wasn't even around to listen to me whine. I finished the first beer and started on the second, warning myself not to drink any more. I'd already learned that trying to drink away the hurt was stupid. And painful. And didn't work.

_________

If only Rob hadn't asked me to meet him at the Hilton that night. He sounded lower than whale shit when he called, said his life had gone to hell and he needed somebody to talk to. It wasn't like we were best buds. Yeah, we'd been in the same fraternity, but didn't really get along that well. Rob always acted arrogant, like he knew he was better than the rest of us because his folks had money. He was in B-school, I was Engineering. Pretty much oil and water. But when someone you know asks for help, you don't tell them you can't make it just because you don't want to take the time. Besides, Shelley didn't finish her overtime shift until 10 and I'm not much of a TV watcher.

He showed up a year or so after Shelley and I moved to Plano. Stopped by the shop one day to say hi, told me he had job with BofA in Richardson and had rented an apartment in Plano because they were cheaper here. Every once in a while, he'd call to ask Shelley and me to get together with him and his current squeeze for drinks and dinner, sometimes dancing after. So, I answered the call like a good Samaritan. Oy.

The bar at the Hilton was dark and quiet, a good place for road warriors to wind down. Rob waved me over to his table and flagged down the waitress. I started to order a beer, but he remembered that once in a while I drink scotch and ordered me a Bell's. After some small talk, he got around to his troubles. Turned out that just as he was thinking he'd finally found his One True Love, last weekend she told him she'd fallen in love with someone else and moved out of his apartment.

Then yesterday his asshole boss told him that if he didn't get his shit together he was going on probation. "I hated the fucking job anyway, Tom, so I told him to shove it and quit. They said they didn't need two weeks notice, just cut me a check and I walked out." He drained his drink. "I gave notice to the rental office when I got home and my stuff's already in storage."

I was trying to think of something to say that might make him feel better, when two good-looking women in power suits walked up to the table. One was a fairly tall brunette wearing wire-rim glasses, her hair pulled back in a bun; the other was a bit shorter, dirty blond hair with a laptop case. They both looked tired.

The brunette flashed a smile and plunked the briefcase she was carrying on one of the two empty chairs. "It's been a long day. If we bought you two gentlemen your next drink, would you buy the round after that?" The blond just grinned and nodded. I hadn't been hit on for several years and had no interest in hooking up, but Rob lost his sad sack face, jumped to his feet, and smiled right back.

"That sounds like a fair exchange, ladies. I was just telling Tom here this hasn't been a very good day, but suddenly it's looking a whole lot better." He turned to me with what's usually described as a shit-eating grin. "Don't you agree, Tom?"

What the hell? Rob knew I'd never cheat on Shelley, but before I could respond both ladies had pretty much collapsed onto the two empty chairs with loud sighs, the perfect image of two weary road warriors at the end of a long day. I wondered if it would be more politically correct to refer to them as road Amazons, then the blond asked what we were drinking and ordered a round. Cosmos for them, of course. I was going to have to be careful about how much I drank since it was almost a 30-mile drive home.

The ladies introduced themselves while we waited. The brunette was Lissa (not Lisa, please), the blond was Terri (with an i). Even though they were still dressed to win the battle of the boardroom, when they unbuttoned their jackets revealing nicely tailored silk blouses, it was obvious that the boob fairy hadn't shortchanged either one. When the drinks came, Lissa handed the waitress her American Express card and we all clinked glasses, but I was getting uneasy. It was already quarter after 8 and I wanted to be home by 9:30.

Rob and Terri fell into easy conversation, sharing complaints about their jobs and laughing at lame jokes. Pretty soon they scooted their chairs closer together and occasionally touched each other's hand or arm. Lissa and I smiled uncomfortably at each other and exchanged a few desultory comments about the weather and boring hotel rooms. I tried to object when Rob ordered another round to meet our end of the bargain, but nobody paid any attention.

It became pretty obvious that Terri was interested in getting to know Rob a lot better. When she giggled loudly at something Rob said and laid her forehead on his shoulder, Lissa looked at me a slight frown. "I was afraid something like this would happen. I've heard stories about how Terri behaves on business trips, but this is the first time we've traveled together." She finished her drink, but I wasn't sure how to respond.

Her frown changed to a sterner look. "I hope you're not expecting the same sort of behavior from me. My husband would take a dim view of that sort of thing." Before it registered that she hadn't said something like "I don't do that sort of thing," Terri hailed the waitress with a loud and somewhat slurred request.

"''Nother round here, dear. Better make 'em doubles, no point you makin' any extra trips." She giggled and slapped Rob on the back. "I'll bet you're willin' to pay for more drinks, aren't you, Bob?" Rob didn't seem to care that she got his name wrong.

When the waitress brought this round, three drinks were sitting in front of me, two still untouched. It was almost 9:00 and I was definitely getting worried about driving home. Lissa raised her fresh drink and smiled. "I really needed this." She drained the glass and slammed it back down on the table. "Better drink up, Tom, you're falling behind." I decided I could handle one more drink.

A few minutes later Rob whispered something to Terri. She giggled, looked at Lissa, then nodded. "Sure, I'll bet Lissa will understand." She and Rob stood up. While she shouldered her laptop case, he walked over and gave me a boozy bro hug.

"I probably won't see you for a while, Tom. I've got a room here tonight, tomorrow I'm outta here, not even sure where I'm going. I'll let you know when I've settled down someplace. Please don't say anything about this to Shelley, she probably already thinks I'm a bad influence on you. Take care of yourself." He and the blond shambled off hand-in-hand toward the elevators. I couldn't think of anything to say in response, so I finished another drink.

Lissa blinked a couple of times, then tossed off the drink closest to her. "Figures. I guess she really is a tramp." She picked up the next drink and took a healthy slug. "I knew I shouldn't have come on this trip with her." I excused myself to go drain my radiator, and when I got back all of her glasses were empty. When she looked up at me her eyes were a little glassy, too.

She spoke slowly and carefully, managing to avoid slurring her words. "I'm not feeling so very good, I think I better go to my room." She tried to stand up, but gave it up about half-way there and collapsed back on the chair. "Shit." She tried again, and this time managed to stand up but lost her balance. She saved herself by slapping both hands on the tabletop. "Shit." Her vocabulary could use a little expanding, too. She looked toward me again but avoided my eyes in embarrassment.

"I'm afraid I'll need a little help." She sounded like she was about to burst into tears. I really didn't want to get any more involved, but couldn't just abandon here in the bar. I slugged down my last drink, then stood up and tried to help her upright by gripping her left hand and arm, but she started sagging and I had to reach around her and clutch her to my chest. She looked up at me with sad blue eyes. "This probably wasn't how you intended to spend the evening. If you'll just help me to my room I'll be okay." Her hair smelled faintly of jasmine and her ample bosom was soft against me.

I managed to get her to the elevators. Her room number was written on the envelope with her key card. I pushed the 4 button with my free hand, held her up until we got out, then helped her walk down the hall. I was going to prop her against the wall and unlock the door, but she struggled out of my grasp and fumbled with the key card. I didn't think the light had flashed green, but she pushed the door open and stumbled in.

She stood on shaky legs as the door closed and started talking as she moved away from me. "I need the bathroom. Please don't go until I come out." With that she lurched into the bathroom and semi-slammed the door shut, probably by collapsing against it. I sat in the chair at the writing table and heard the toilet lid slam against the tank, then the sounds of someone making repeated involuntary oblations to the porcelain god. It quieted down after a while. I stood up and was just about to knock on the door and ask if she was okay when the door opened.

Oh shit. She was buck naked. The glasses were gone, her hair was down, her tits were even nicer than I had imagined, her bald pussy was swollen and shiny, her grin was wicked. My little head quickly reacted, which was her cue to run over, grab my hand, and start dragging me over to the bed. "I'll show that bitch Terri how the cow fucked the rhubarb!"

While I was wondering what she meant to say, she sat down on the bed, tugged my Viva Terlingua belt buckle open, unzipped my Wranglers, and yanked them down to my ankles. Along with my Fruit of the Loom jockeys.

Unfortunately, even though I hadn't initiated any of this and really didn't think it should continue, I couldn't figure out how to end it amicably—not to mention painlessly. Little head had decided that this was a swell turn of events and told his tight-assed big brother to piss off. Lissa obviously agreed; she wrapped both hands around little head's rampant body, was pulling it toward her—with me attached, of course—and leaning forward with her mouth wide open. And drooling.

Then Shelley screamed. She and some guy I'd never seen before were standing just inside the room; he was taking pictures with his phone and she was crying and yelling. When she started running toward us the guy grabbed her and told her she needed to get out of the room and go home. She started to argue, but he dragged her out into the hall and the door closed behind them.

Lissa was sitting up against the headboard, clutching the sheet up to her neck. "Who...who was that? Was it your—"

"Yeah, that was my wife." I pulled up and zipped my jeans. "I should never have come up here. I only hope I can convince her that it wasn't what it looked like. I've gotta find Rob to tell her how it started. You're a pretty woman but I wish I'd never met you. I hope my marriage can survive."

But wishes and hopes proved useless against an angry, hurt wife and a junkyard dog lawyer.

_________

I gave up trying to pretend that I was okay and headed for bed. While I brushed my teeth I replayed what Shelley had said that afternoon: "When you said let's get married, you sonofabitch, you promised that you were through fucking around and you'd keep your dick in your pants. Promised, remember? I should have known better."

She was right, I did promise, and I really did fuck around a lot before I met her. Took pride in it, in fact. I turned off the bathroom light, got in bed, clasped my hands behind my head, and thought about life before Shelley.

Pauline French gave me my first blow job the summer after my sophomore year in high school in the back seat of my dad's Chevy Impala at the Fredericksburg Road Drive-In (known to us guys as The Finger Bowl). The following weeks she taught or demonstrated the finer points of fellatio, cunnilingus

,

and

coitus prolongus.

There were also hands-on exercises in foreplay, the application, removal, and disposal of Trojans (nobody'd ever heard of condoms back then), and mutual masturbation.

After completing these intensive summer school lessons and graduating

summa cum loudly

, I made it my life's work to dip my wick as deep and often as I could, which turned out to be once a week or so until I graduated.

If high school was a good time (and it was), college was heaven on earth despite the 70-30 guy-girl split at Georgia Tech—yeah, I'm pretty sure I know why more men than women work in STEM jobs, but I've learned not to talk about it, thank you very much. I pledged a fraternity, of course, and every week or two we'd import vanloads of budding (and horny) southern belles to our chapter house from Georgia State, Emory, or Oglethorpe.

Ensuring constant cadres of concupiscent coeds was the responsibility of the Chapter Outreach Coordinator, and heaven help the COC (rhymes with roc) who failed to provide a fresh flock of fuckery. More often than not, a few of us would serenade them upon arrival with our corruption of a famous Greek hymn:

Oh, the girl of my dreams is a horny girl,

Whose cooch is shaved quite bald,

And her arse (or ass) is the best in class

No matter what it's called.

She drinks and she smokes and she tells dirty jokes,

She's the slut that I can't avoid...

My pearl necklace gleams on the girl of my dreams,

She's the sweetheart of Sigmund Freud.

Depending on how early we'd hit the beer, we'd manage two-, three-, four-, or more-part harmony.

I guess you had to be there.

So I fondled, fucked, and forgot a veritable horde of young women willing, if not downright eager to hook up with no thought of any sort of relationship (other than the occasional repeat performance if we scored each other high enough). If it sounds like I was your typical frat rat raging asshole, that's because I was. I kept my grades up by avoiding beer and broads and studying my ass off during the week, but spent as many weekends as possible drenched in drunken debauchery.

Then Shelley sat down behind me the first day of Issues in Biomedical Engineering spring semester our senior year. She wasn't just another horny daughter of the Confederacy on the make, she was a New Englander transplanted to Austin (well, Round Rock, but close enough) who didn't want to go to college in her home town. But she didn't go to Georgia Tech, she was getting her BS in Nursing at Emory and taking advantage of the two schools' reciprocal study agreement.

She turned me down the first three times I asked her out, but by the time I took her home after our first date I was hopelessly smitten, goofier than a gopher in rut, and finally understood what paradigm shift meant. Without being prompted, I took the pledge, holstered my Johnson bar, and abandoned my role as Supreme Swordsman of Sig Ep without a backward glance. I even bowed (though not willingly) to Shelley's insistence that I wait to harvest her Pearl of Great Price until our wedding night. Somehow I figured that meant we were in love.

Before I fell sleep, I had to admit that I missed Shelley more than I missed Hank, and felt guilty as hell about it.