Once again, I took Randi's invitational theme "Sharing is Caring" a little too literally. This story is in two parts -- the first much, much darker than the second. However, without the first part, the second doesn't make much sense, so please, bear with it.
Very grateful for her editing assistance.
Part 1 -- Something happened on the way to Heaven.
There are moments that change your life, that define a big part of your story. You know what I mean, right? Graduating from school, your first kiss, the first time you have sex, getting married, the first time you sign on the dotted line to own your own house, holding the baby in your hands for the first time, and gazing into their eyes, stuff like that: pivotal moments.
I remember one of the biggest in my life. I wish I didn't, but I do. Every detail is etched in my memory, like it's chiseled in stone, mute tableaus of horrific narrative, one step after another.
No, it's not a cheating wife story. There are enough of those. I don't need to add to them.
I loved my wife. I did, I really did, and she loved me. Well, she gave every indication of it, so I operated on that assumption. We can never really know people, only what they choose to tell us and show us, and by all those measurements, yeah, we were happy. I wouldn't say it was the greatest; bitter experience—prior to my marriage, I mean—has shown me that no one has a perfect relationship. Anyone who tries to make you believe it is lying: to you, or more likely, to themselves. Barack and Michelle might look incredibly happy, and I believe they are most of the time, but they have their bitter knock down drag out fights, just like the rest of us. He says or does the wrong thing and she is pissed at him for days, just like everyone who has ever been married.
That's the nature of the beast. Marriage is an imperfect institution. People are people, and by definition they make mistakes, take things for granted and all the rest of it. The only people who think it's perfect are natural doms and subs who happen to find themselves together.
For all that, we were happy; as happy as a Radio Producer (that's Auggie, my wife. August Jones, as she was, and when she married me, she became Mrs. Jonas Richards. Or "Mrs. You," as she put it) working for KEXB in Plano, Texas, and me, Jonas Richards, self-employed Video Editor, could really be.
We weren't hurting that much for money; Plano is a pretty cheap place to live, great housing, schools are okay, not terrible traffic, although it does get plenty hot in the summer, and we were doing fine together. Nice house. Two great kids - Leah, who was eight and Abigail, who was a precocious five. We didn't have a dog yet, although I was making noises about it happening at Christmas. We were currently in a back and forth debate about breeds. Auggie wanted a Cairn Terrier, and I wanted an Australian Shepard. Auggie was worried about the shedding. It's weird, the things you remember.
Things were humming along for us. Neither of us was particularly wild; we'd been married for eleven years, and we'd had some wilder moments when we were young, as you do. Sex in the restrooms at a night club, sex on the New York subway at 4AM, things like that. You know the sort of thing. Neither one of us was particularly adventurous in terms of other people; there were no hidden fantasies of ten-inch black cocks or anything like that. Well, on my side, certainly not! Hers? Well, she never mentioned any.
We were Mr. and Mrs. Average. She worked as a producer for a business reports show on KEXB, one of those AM stations that's all talk and mostly about Business and Finance. She'd fallen into it a few years previous when one of the PTSO moms had mentioned that her husband worked there, and they were looking for a producer. Auggie had apparently done some DJing at her college station, and with her MBA in business studies, she was a shoo-in. She was even making the moves to agitate to get her own show on the station. She'd have been a natural: Auggie was a great conversationalist. She could charm anyone, usually by just showing an interest. That and her wide smile, she had a great smile, all toothy white. When it was directed at me, that special smile, only for a spouse, you know the one I mean, right guys? The one that connects directly to you heart, and then races right on to your groin? Yeah.
Think a slightly plainer Geri Halliwell, from the Spice Girls, as she is now, with about fifteen pounds more, and you've got an idea of my Auggie. She kept fit playing squash, and I did my bit with rowing. Mostly in the basement, but it was a good workout.
Anyway. She was doing okay. I was, too. I did media studies at college, and I'd worked for a couple of stations in Texas in their video editing bays. After the last station basically fired everyone, I said, "Fuck it," and started my own gig. I had my own office space, three editing bays, four employees, one screening room and the $200k debt that I was slowly paying off to prove it. Work was good. We got all sorts of stuff to edit. TV shows, commercials, industry programs, YouTube stuff, even wedding videos. We didn't turn down any work. We even turned one guy's heart surgery into a movie, once. Strange world, but hey, it paid the bills.
Our kids, like most people, were the light of our lives. Leah was grown up for her age. I thought she was, anyway. Every parent thinks that, though, but I knew I was right. She was into ice skating, flower arranging, and Heavy Metal music. Yeah, that had me scratching my head, too. I made a lot of jokes about her being the mail-man's daughter, because I hate that noise, and I got poked in the ribs by Auggie when I did it.
Abigail was the apple of my eye, and she was desperately into Pokémon and anime. That damn Pokémon game. She was too young to have her own device, so it was loaded on mine and anytime we went anywhere, she just wordlessly held her hand out until I gave her my unlocked phone, and then she proceeded to drain the battery chasing down a... whatever the hell those things are called.
Both of them were bright eyes, blonde, never stopped moving, and one day I was going to have to buy a shotgun and we are going to have to move house to a place with a much bigger yard I could dig up, so I could bury the bodies of the assholes they dated.
The girls, Auggie and I made up our unit. Oh and Irv. Irv was Auggie's Dad. Irv lived across the way in Arlington, next to Fort Worth, where Auggie grew up. He was alone in life; Auggie's mom had just vanished one day when she was six, and it had taken the cops a month to find her, shacked up with some guy in Boston. Once Irv knew where she was, and that she was safe, he just waited a year and divorced her for abandonment. Auggie had never spoken to her mother since, returning all letters and parcels that came for her. She never forgave her mom, but she lived for her Dad. He kept pushing her away, in the best possible way, I mean, trying to make sure she had her own life, and she kept coming right back. She was there and she wasn't going anywhere. Funnily enough, I was fine with it. He was no competition for me, and honestly, I had a great relationship with him. All that crap about "I haven't lost a daughter, as much as gained a son?" With him, it was real. Irv was a character, though. He drank rum like it was water, he was a lady's man and he loved a flutter on the races. He could afford it, though. He'd sold a patent in his forties for some process for making wax, and he was still living off the proceeds, apparently. He wore gaudy clothes, was irreverent and loved his grandchildren fiercely. They'd go over and stay with him and then come home the next day primed with outrageous things to ask us. "What's a condom, Daddy?" Yeah, thanks Irv. I got him back though. Next time he came over, I dropped blue dye in the shampoo we gave him. He never even batted an eyelid, sitting at breakfast with fluorescent blue hair, and neither did the kids.
