There are three things I must say about this story before you read it. Firstly, there is a character in it that closely parallels a celebrity (I slightly changed the name). I want to make it clear that my character and the celebrity are NOT the same person—even in my twisted mind. This story is not about the above mentioned celebrity, but I had to include someone similar to him, as he is an integral part of the story.
Secondly, this is not a "burn the bitch" story as my others, so if that's what you want, you may be disappointed.
Thirdly, this is based on a dream I had, and the celebrity was in the dream. And yes, my wife used to refer to the celebrity as "my next husband," until I put a stop to it. This was supposed to be a shorert story (per my dream/nightmare) but my characters took on a life of their own and my fingers just kept on typing. I hope you enjoy it and I apologize if it rambles on too long...
My wife, Dolly, and I were just an average middle-aged couple, living in a medium sized town in Southern Indiana. Our children, Rhett and Scarlet, had gone to college, and married, settled nearby, but no grandkids yet. Even though we'd both put on a few extra pounds over the years, we were still relatively attractive, considering our ages; we're in our mid fifties. We had happily celebrated our twenty eighth anniversary two months before it happened.
I'll get to that soon enough, but first I need to tell you a little about a celebrity crush my wife has had for years. Shortly after we married back in the eighties, a long haired crooner, about seven years older than us, rose to popularity belting out syrupy ballads made along the same (successfully proven, but quickly boring) formula—financially, he became very successful, but artistically frustrated. His name was Bradley Morogan, but thanks to a "misprint" on his breakthrough album, he was known as Bradley Morgan. Dolly was completely in heat for the romance novel stud image his public relations entourage projected.
Of course, as the resident music hound, it became my duty to purchase his latest album as soon as it was available. On a whim, I bought one of his older albums and liked what he done with some bluesy riffs and some great songs. Dolly didn't care for them at all, preferring the pop romantic drivel that played her heart strings like an angel on a harp.
Knowing full well that she'd never have a chance to meet her idol, let alone have a "chance for romance" with him, she joked that Bradley would be her next husband. I laughed with her...the first couple hundred times she said it—both in public and private. She never noticed that I quit laughing long after the joke got old, and on my nerves. She just kept right on professing her wistful romantic desire for him.
After a few years, she made one too many, "When I marry my next husband, Bradley Morgan..." comments in front of our friends, I let her know that I no longer appreciated her telling everyone that "old joke."
"Dolly, it's time for you to give that crap a rest. I know that you've told me a hundred times that you're just kidding, but after you've repeatedly told everyone you know (not in so many words) that he's 'Mr. Right,' and I'm just 'Mr. Right-now,' it has become very annoying to me. It's also a put-down to me in front of your friends and family that I'm very tired of hearing. Saying it a few times is a joke, but over the years, you've probably referred to him—and me—that way thousands of times, and it's way past time to stop. I understand that our life isn't one of vast fortune and fame, but we drive decent cars and live in a nice house. If you must have a fantasy life with him, please stop sharing it with everyone—especially in front of me. It's become humiliating."
"Oh, you can't be serious! I'm just joking around! I know the closest I'll ever come to meeting him—let alone marrying him—was the concert you took me to last year. It's just my way of..."
"Telling everyone that the life we have is not good enough for you," I interrupted. "Listen, I understand that everyone has their real life and their dreams of how life could've been, but no one talks about it as often as you do. Let me ask you a question: How often do your friends tell you that they'd just love to be married to another person, specified by name?"
"Hardly ever..."
"That's the same with me and my friends. Also, do you EVER hear me talk about another woman about whom I fantasize?"
"Well, I can't think of any off the top of my head..."
"That's because I don't have a 'fantasy woman.' My fantasy woman is you, assuming that you can quit talking about Bradley Morgan fifteen times a day! I know it's an exaggeration, but when something like that gets under your skin like this does, it sure seems like you bring him up that often. Do you see what I'm trying to get at, here?"
"It sounds like you're getting jealous of Bradley. You know that you're my main man, don't you? I'd never leave you for him—even if I did get the chance. I love you, Curt, and no one else comes close."
"I may be a little jealous, but if that were all this was about; I'd have brought this up years ago. Let me put it to you like this; what if I mentioned that I really liked some woman, and made comments about how she was better than you—several times a day. Just to randomly pick an example..." I paused for a moment to make her think I was selecting someone off the top of my head, I continued, "...say, Betty Roth, and remark that she has a great pair of..." I'd prepared for this conversation ahead of time. Betty was the neighborhood sleaze—pure and simple. At thirty-seven, she was seven or eight years older than we were at the time, but dressed like someone in her twenties. She had the body for it, and she spent a lot of her ex-husband's alimony to keep that body well tanned and in perfect shape. Having a flirty nature, she was a sore subject in many homes in our neighborhood.
"In case you haven't noticed, that 'great pair' you mention are store bought boobs. You have a lot of nerve to compare me to that floozy! I should cut you off for a month or two, just for..."
"You are making my case for me! Do you see how it feels to be compared to someone that you cannot ever hope to compete with on the same level? I can never hope to have the money, fame or image consultants that Bradley Morgan has, but I still get unfavorably compared to him quite often. Do you see where I'm coming from?"
"Yes...I guess so. I'm sorry, Curt; I'll try to stop it."
"Thank you; that's all I ask."
Of course, you can't fully stop a fully imbedded habit like that cold turkey, but to her credit, she did slow it down to a few times a week, then a couple of times a month.
When you get big and famous enough, especially when you make women swoon, jealous husbands begin to make jokes about you. So it was with the late night comedians and Bradley Morgan. I laughed a little extra hard when they got a good zinger in on good old Bradley "don't call me Brad" Morgan. This began to irritate Dolly, and it got under my skin a bit when she made it clear that she didn't find those jokes at all funny. Okay, so maybe I was a bit jealous; do you blame me?
Well, the references to her 'next husband' finally started to fade, and so did his career in the late nineties. Our family matured and the next thing we knew, we were in our mid fifties, in an empty nest. I knew that she still had a thing for Bradley, as she bought his autobiography when it came out. Seeing that she had read a total of five books during our years together, it was obvious that she still did like him a lot, but at least she didn't wave it in my face anymore.
One Wednesday evening, we were sitting in our ten year old ranch style home, which my Dad, my son and I had built. Being seventy, Dad mostly supervised, but his years of experience as a home contractor were invaluable. We would never have a mansion, but we did okay for ourselves. The doorbell rang and we both looked at each other with the unasked question, "Were you expecting someone?"
I got up and walked from the family room, through the living room, flipped on the porch light, and opened the door. I saw three men in nice suits, and a professionally dressed woman about thirty. I cautiously opened the storm door, but blocked the entrance to our home with my body.
"Does a Dolly Dylan live here?" inquired the woman.
In spite of my instinct to do the contrary, I replied, "Yes, I'm her husband; what do want with her?"
"We prefer to discuss that with her. Is she home now?"
Dolly stepped up behind me at this time, so she redirected her question, "Are you Dolly Dylan?"
