*Author's Note: Any and all persons engaging in any sexual activity are at least eighteen years of age.
Disclaimers: This story has been edited by myself, using Microsoft Spell-check. You have been forewarned.
This is a dark story. And, I posted it in 'Loving Wives' because there is not a 'Dumb Ass Husbands' category.
Again, this is a dark tale. You have been forewarned.
*****
The kitchen was a choreographed chaos. Three chefs begged, cajoled, threatened their assistants. Waiters stood by, prepared to spring into action at a nod from a chef.
John Burke stood with the other waiters. He did feel a little silly in the cheap tuxedo, standing with the others. He was forty years old; the next oldest waiter was a mere twenty three years of age. And the other waiters had all been through this before; they were seasoned pros at handling a wedding reception. This was John's first wedding reception.
This was actually John's first job in several years. And although he was forty years of age, he looked nearly sixty.
"Always, always, always keep your eyes moving," Mark reminded John. "They're drinking, they're drunk off their asses, they're not watching where they're going. But they run right into you? It's your fault."
"Hate weddings," Wade lisped. "They tip for shit."
"Attitudes in pockets, gentlemen," Mark stated loudly, over the clattering pan that a hapless assistant dropped. "It is your pleasure to serve. Nothing would bring you more joy than to see these people smile. Remember that; it is your pleasure to serve."
"And they're coming in," another waiter announced.
Trays with appetizers were handed out, trays with glasses of champagne were handed out. The train of service began.
John stopped short when he entered the reception area. The waiter behind him nearly collided with John.
"Keep moving, fucker," Wade hissed angrily.
John had seen the announcement when he'd signed up for this reception. But the names had meant nothing to him. Mr. and Mrs. Anthony Paul Childress had announced the upcoming marriage of their daughter Denise Ann Childress to Daniel Todd Overton. John had been working the Hardington Acres Country Club's main dining area when the smaller banquet room had been set aside for the rehearsal dinner. He had not seen any of the wedding party.
Mrs. Anthony Childress was more beautiful today than she had been eighteen years ago. Eighteen years earlier, she'd been a bone thin pasty freckle faced red head with no breasts and no buttocks.
Her only redeeming physical attribute, other than her ankle length carrot orange red hair had been her warm brown eyes and her shy smile.
The eighteen year old Debbi Couvillion had smiled her shy smile when John had smiled and greeted her as they stood outside of the Joy Four in Elgee, Louisiana. She had giggled when he asked her if she was the one that brought the long line with her; she drove around in her older brother's quite large Chevrolet conversion van; left to her when Aaron joined the Navy.
John offered to buy Debbi's ticket. Then he offered to buy her popcorn, if she would buy the drinks.
Just as Debbie was less than attractive when compared to Betty Rusnik or Shelly and Danielle Lanza, three of the cheerleaders that roamed the halls of DeGarde High School, John Burke paled when compared to Jim Kowalski or Kelly Fremin or Wade Monroe, three of the jocks, the popular kids that roamed their high school halls.
John had thick brown hair that would not behave, a face that attracted acne and a slightly large nose. He was also five feet, ten inches tall, but only weighed one hundred and twenty five pounds.
"I uh, so uh, where you going now?" John asked as they walked out of the theater into the dank night air of late April.
"I uh, home I guess," Debbi said. "You?"
John looked around, determined that no one was paying them any attention and showed Debbi a crumpled joint. They drove around behind the movie theater and smoked the joint. Then they crawled into the rear of her van and fucked.
It wasn't Debbi's first time; she'd fucked a few boys at their school, in the hopes of becoming popular. Or if not popular, at least accepted.
It was John's second time ever fucking. And it was over in a matter of seconds. He felt badly about that so used his fingers on Debbi's wet pussy and brought her to a mild orgasm. Then he fucked her again.
After that evening, John pretended he didn't know Debbi. Then, three days before graduation, she quietly came up to him in the library as he was scrambling, trying to complete an assignment that should have been completed weeks earlier.
"John? I'm, I'm pregnant," she whispered.
"You're, aw Jesus, really?" John yelled, face a mask of rage.
Patty Burke let her son know she was disappointed, severely disappointed in him. Pat Couvillion let his daughter know he was disappointed in her. Mary Couvillion just sobbed and sniffled the entire time.
John was fortunate to be hired on at Baggett Mattress Factory. He opted for the Midnight shift; it paid twenty cents more an hour. No matter what shift he'd signed up for, though, it was hard, back breaking labor for a young man that was not used to any physical labor at all.
A few times, he would be out, drinking, smoking weed with his buddies, then look at his watch and realize, he had fifteen minutes to get to work. So, slightly drunk, slightly stoned, he'd show up for work. Then, before first break, he would be ravenous, would empty his pockets into the vending machines.
The wedding was a somber affair. In only a few of the photographs did Debbi show her sweet smile. John's smile looked forced, as did his mother's smile. Pat didn't even bother trying to smile.
The newlyweds moved in with Patty Burke; Debbi would be sure to need help when the baby was born and Pat refused to let 'that no good little Mama's Boy get my daughter knocked up' into his house.
Denise Ann Burke had a shock of red hair and loud cry. Debbi had named their daughter Denise Ann after her cousin, Dennis Andrew Couvillion; he had died of leukemia when he and Debbi were only twelve years old.
Ed Baggett gave the new father a few days off and when John returned, there were a few baby gifts waiting for him. A new stroller, a few boxes of diapers, and a rocking chair.
"Know you thinking you ain't old enough for a rocker," Ed smiled, patting John on the back. "But baby's crying and fussing and just won't go to sleep? Sitting and rocking calm her right down."
"Thank you, sir, this means a lot," John said.
Debbi was a devoted mother. She tried to be a devoted wife, but John was rarely home. When he was not at work, or not sleeping, he was out with his buddies.
"John? You got paid last week, didn't you?" Debbi asked.
"Yeah, get paid again next week; every two weeks, why?" John asked.
"We got a doctor's appointment; your insurance hasn't kicked in yet so it's going be sixty, maybe more if Denise needs any more shots," Debbi said.
"Six, God damn! Really? Debbi, shit! I get nine dollars an hour. , know how many hours I got work make that?" John yelled.
"Shh, she's sleeping," Debbi said.
"Sixty, nine dollars an hour, shit, I got work ten hours make that kind of money," John said and drained his can of beer.
Debbi wondered if she should correct his faulty math. She also wondered if she dared bring up the subject of them getting their own place. Patty Burke wasn't unkind to Debbi, and did dote on her granddaughter. But Patty was not very warm and welcoming either.
"Just way she is," John had shrugged the first time Debbi complained. "Shit! Ever hear her say anything nice to me? And I'm her son."
Patty had to loan Debbi the money for the doctor's visit; John's debit card was rejected at the doctor's office. A quick look through John's bank statement revealed to Patty that John was not even depositing money into his account. Apparently, when he was paid, he went to his bank and cashed his check and kept the money for himself.
"You had no right look at that," John argued hotly when his mother disclosed what she'd discovered.
"You are living in my house. Rent free. I have every right to look at your bank statement," Patty spat. "And, uh, you've got a wife and a baby now. Every last penny you ever make needs go to taking care of your wife and your baby. Time to grow up, John, time to grow the hell up."
Debbi wisely kept her mouth shut. John was too intimidated by his mother to ever slap her. But Debbi was five feet two and even with some of the baby belly remaining on her frame, only weighed ninety seven pounds.
"Need call whoever's doing the accounting there, need call them tell them you need direct deposit; your check needs go straight to your account," Patty continued her tirade.
Patty then grabbed John, spun him around and dug her son's wallet out of his jeans.
"Hey!" John protested.
"Nine an hour, forty hours a week, that's seven hundred twenty each payday," Patty continued. "John! You got fourteen bucks? Fourteen bucks and you don't get paid for another week? Call them. Call them right now, tell them you need to do direct deposit.
Daphne Guidry was the accountant for Baggett Mattress Factory. She was also a red head. Unlike John's wife, though, Daphne was an incredibly sexy red head that had sleek legs that went on for miles, and she wore skirts to emphasize her legs. Her large chest stretched and strained the confines of her low cut tops. She also had a cheeky smile, a knowing smile that seemed to mock the men that fawned over her.
John had to bring a copy of his bank statement in to the accountant's office. He sat across from her as she used her computer to set up his direct deposit. She didn't look so sexy to John as she questioned him, in a friendly manner, where his money had been going. She didn't look so sexy to John when she fussed at him for not putting his wife and his baby at the head of his list of priorities.
"No, Mr. Burke," Daphne said, voice slightly hard. "We can't do 'half deposit, half cash.' It's pretty much all or nothing."
Fear of his mother kept John from snapping, "Nothing then. It's my God damned money."
The night before his first paycheck was to go to direct deposit, Patty demanded John's debit card. Debbi again kept her mouth shut, letting her mother in law handle the situation.
