Many thanks to those who offered comments and constructive criticism on my previous stories. For those who want to say this or that would never happen, remember this is my universe, a place where nearly anything can, and often does, happen. At least on paper...
Please refer to my profile for more on my personal policy regarding comments, feedback, follows, etc. (And yes, I DO moderate comments) And please remember, this is a work of fiction, not a docu-drama...
What do you do when you learn your wife has turned into an Internet meme? And a hypocritical one at that! That's just a couple of the things that went through my mind as I viewed the video I had just downloaded from my home server.
I watched the video as I sat in one of our data centers early in the morning while waiting for all of the updates to complete on several of our servers. Allow me to explain just a bit.
My name is Jim Fielding, and I work as an IT specialist for a bank with branches across the state. For the last five years, I've been married to Donna, and until now, thought I had a good, stable marriage. We had even begun talking about starting a family. But sadly, that's not going to happen.
Until recently, Donna managed a fairly high-end hair salon downtown. What happened, you ask. That's simple -- the coronavirus pandemic. Donna's hair salon, like so many other businesses, had to close down.
Fortunately, I still had a job because banks are considered "essential," especially with all the stimulus money being lent to businesses to keep them afloat. Our bank had already instituted a program where most of the employees could work remotely, through VPN.
That worked well for me, because it meant I could do most of my work from home. But there were times when I had to drive to one of our data centers, or to a branch, to correct one problem or another.
The first 15 days were great. Donna and I spent lots of time together, a good amount of it in bed. The next 15 days, though, things started to get just a bit strained. I could tell Donna was eager to get back to work, and no one could really blame her. A lot of other people were just as eager to go back to making a decent living.
But it seemed like there was something else bothering her. At first, I couldn't quite put my finger on it. She became short-tempered and snippy over little things. She hated the fact that I sometimes had to leave to take care of problems that were normally handled by subcontractors.
I couldn't help it, though. The bank had decided to scale back on its use of subcontractors during the pandemic to keep costs down. That meant I sometimes had to drive up to 150 miles to do things like replace a battery in a branch UPS, or perform manual updates of software on the back-end machines.
It was during that second 15-day period that I began to notice some changes in Donna. For starters, there were several times I thought I caught a whiff of aftershave or cologne when I would get home from one of my trips. I didn't use any of that stuff, so I naturally wondered where it was coming from.
I thought that maybe it was coming from Donna, but that would mean she had to be in contact with another man. Nah, I thought. My Donna would never do that. Perhaps she had someone over to the house while I was gone, I wondered. But she never said that was the case.
As time went on and the lock-down continued through the month, the changes got worse. Donna became a screaming shrew, yelling at me about little things while I was trying to do my work in my office. Then the state health department issued a series of new rules and "guidelines" about social distancing, wearing masks and other things.
Some of it didn't make a lot of sense to me, but I'm an IT person, not a medical professional, so, I figured, I would do my best to follow the rules so long as they made some kind of sense. Donna, however, went off the deep end.
Let me explain something about Donna first. As long as I've known her, she's always been a "by the book" kind of person. I guess that's one of the reasons her salon always did so well. Everything had to be done just right. She expected her employees to follow the rules, and they did.
When the new guidelines came out, she went over them with a fine-toothed comb, making sure we did everything the state said we should do. If I had to leave for a job, she made sure I wore a mask, had at least two pair of latex gloves and gave me a bottle of hand sanitizer to keep in the truck, which was worth its weight in gold these days. All fine and good, I thought.
But that wasn't enough for her. She went so far as to measure the distance between us in bed. When she realized there was no way we could keep six feet apart in our king-sized bed, she announced that I would have to sleep in the guest room until the crisis was over. Which also meant no sex.
"Are you out of your damn mind?" I asked. "We live in the same house, and we've been having sex all this time. Surely if we were going to get the virus, we would have by now."
"It's only temporary," she said. "Besides, you know as well as I that you can have this thing and not show any symptoms. Look, you're out there touching all kinds of things. There's no telling what you might be bringing home."
"But no sex?" I asked. "That's outrageous!"
"It's affecting me as well," she said. "I don't like it any more than you do, but the rules ARE the rules. And we have to follow the rules." But it didn't end there.
Being one to go "by the book," Donna decided that we could no longer share the same bathroom, or eat at the table together, since that would put us closer than six feet apart. Donning heavy latex gloves, she split the dishes into two piles -- one for me and one for her. We had to use only the dishes in our respective pile and was responsible for washing what we used.
But wait -- there's more, as the commercials like to say. She decided that we needed to be responsible for washing our own clothes.
Not only were we not sleeping together, we weren't eating together. Any day now, I suspected, she would have us cooking our own food. For all intents and purposes, we had become little more than room mates, living under the same roof, but nothing more.
Then the mayor announced what some called a "snitch line" and a website where residents could report neighbors and others not following the strict guidelines. I understood and appreciated the mayor's desire to keep residents safe, but I personally thought this was probably a bit much. I expressed my concern to Donna, but she had a different opinion.
"I think it's a great idea," she said. "I can't tell you how many times I see people not following the social distancing rules. There's no telling what can happen out there."
"Well, I'm not going down that road," I said.
"Suit yourself," she said. "But I intend to make good use of it."
"You're not going to snitch on our neighbors, are you?" I asked. I considered several of them to be good friends and the last thing I wanted was to see any of them get into trouble over something like violating a six-foot social distancing guideline.
"It's for their own good," Donna huffed. "If they don't care enough about their own health and well-being, then someone else needs to."
"But Donna, we have to live next to these people, even after the pandemic is over," I said. "These are our friends, our neighbors."
"Well then, they'd better play by the rules," she said haughtily. "I don't want to see one of us get sick because they were careless."
"All I'm going to say is just be careful," I said. "You do know we have sunshine laws in this state, right? If they find out you were the one who turned them in, it's going to affect both of us. And I damn sure don't want to lose any friends over something like this."
"If they follow the rules, they have nothing to fear," she said. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I shook my head and went to my office. That's when I realized my wife had turned into something of an Internet meme.
I had read about this in a few articles I saw online -- some from various bloggers, but I had read some posts about them at more than one mainstream outlet. "Karens," they were called. One site I read called them the "policewomen of all human behavior," the kind of suburban woman who calls the cops on kids' pool parties. Another article described them as having a sense of "entitlement, selfishness, a desire to complain."
There were other articles that said similar things, and still more that sounded like psychobabble to me. But as I thought about them, I could see elements of Donna in what the writers were describing.
Was that my Donna? God, I hope not, I thought to myself. The next few days, I watched her closely. She spent a lot of time at the window, looking around at what the neighbors were doing. I know she called the snitch line a couple times when she saw some of the neighbor kids playing in a yard across the street.
Nothing happened when she called the first time, but about an hour after her second call, a police car stopped and an officer spoke to the kids and one of the parents who lived at the house. After a few angry words were exchanged, the exasperated parent brought her children inside and the others left. I only hoped the family who lived there never found out Donna was the one who ratted them out.
There were other signs that things weren't as they should be in the Fielding household. I noticed, for example, that since the lock-down began, Donna seemed to make an excuse almost every single day to go to Walmart or another store. Ordinarily, I wouldn't notice, except that Walmart was only a 10-minute drive from the house. Donna is a very organized shopper who generally doesn't waste time in stores -- she makes a list for the week's groceries, goes in, gets what she needs, then comes back. It's not like her to just buy one or two things at a time.
That means an ordinary trip to Walmart for her normally lasted not much more than maybe 45 minutes to an hour at most. But now, she would be gone for as long as three hours, and maybe come home with a single small item for dinner. I knew there were lines as the store was controlling their doors, but something about this just didn't add up.
On top of that, there were days that she would actually get dressed up -- just to go to Walmart. Who the fuck does that? Why not just wear jeans and a sweatshirt like she normally did, I wondered. Why did she have to dress up like she was going out? I asked her about it a couple of times, but she would only sigh and tell me she simply wanted to look nice.
"Do you have a problem with me wanting to look nice in public?" she asked, with more than a little bit of attitude.
