Mr Anonymouss Wife

For those of you that have read my past stories, you'll find this a little different. First, it's written in the first person. You'll see why. Second, it's somewhat tongue-in-cheek. I dedicate it to Mr. Anonymous; you know who you are. So here's to you, Mr. Anonymous. And to your wife, eh?

* * *

Several months ago, I had gone online to see if any new comments or e-mails had been posted regarding any of my stories. In the process, I scanned through the already existing comments. Some I found amusing, others devoid of content, still others constructive.

And then I ran across this nugget, posted in response to my story entitled "Trust Her With Your Kid Ch. 01":

"No one can doubt your ability to arouse emotions but they mostly aren't positive ones - in fact hatred is the one you purposely stir most effectively - and thats puzzling as an intent?

"Your sheee's characters are always wifey poos who denigrate all possibility of feminitity & motherhood by contract with a largely braindead writer created wuss of a husband. She floats though a plethera of studs debasing herself meaninglessly through your keystrokes without fear of any reality or conscience or consequence. Meantime her loving trusting wimp wanders through fields of flowers looking for - what is he doing anyway?

"Now you must think many or most feel like you and are sexually aroused in principal by her whoring and belittling her wimp at every other word. Well mommyfucker(?) your perception is not our reality - well that is discounting the young, weak, jaded sicko's and the hardly firmed jacking subs.

"Not that you don't read well it's just that the worn debasing path you favor is a turn off to most - it's like watching a rerun of planned disrespectful unpleasantness - sickly day-sha-vu all over again - sure the jews were marched into the ovens but one suspects that most nazi's eventually were turned off after the sickness bubbled over and over and over. Admittedly a very Poor graphic but shockingly similar predictibility.

"So chitown is this all there is? A shame if thats so but life's not only a bitch it's also a choice - yours (and ours). Another Zero that could be much more???"

I knew this guy, had seen him before; his comments, at least. I find him annoying. Not "under my skin" annoying but more like how I feel when I see a rat scurry across the alley behind my house. More like the mosquito that won't go away. A minor nuisance.

It's not the "Anonymous" handle so much (though it does give me insight into the person's strength of character that, even if the nameless world of the Internet, he can't even give himself a handle; it screams "spineless"). And it's not that he dislikes my stories or their subject matter (many don't, and the fact that they don't has no bearing on what I write). I can deal with these people, like Sherlock40; at least he has enough backbone to give himself a handle, and in the end I don't really care if he likes my stories, because I don't write them for him.

What annoys me instead about Mr. Anonymous is his prose. His lexicon. What appears to be a fundamental weakness in constructing sentences -- and in some cases even words (witness "day-sha-vu"). And he has left comments on most of my stories. In fact, he comments on many stories involving cheating wives. And his comments follow the same basic theme as the one set forth above.

Now, I had had a rather bad day at the office and was a feeling a little aggressive. Like the "Dan" character that appears in many of my stories, I am a consultant, but of a much different stripe. I work in the Loop in one of the federal buildings. But very few people actually know it's a federal building, including most of the federal employees that call Chicago home. It's old and it looks decrepit. But it's not; it is purposely deceiving. Those twenty-or-so people that can get past security without being handcuffed have access to some of the most sophisticated and powerful computing networks in the world. I work in a place that for decades did not exist, was not acknowledged by our government and did not even have a line item in the federal budget. It has been referred to as No Such Agency. Call it what you will, I really work for the National Security Agency, but my paycheck comes from the Department of Agriculture. I confess to knowing next to nothing about agriculture.

So, I sat at the desk in the spare room of my condominium, which I have turned into a home office, and decided I had had enough of Mr. Anonymous. I decided I'd track the rodent down, learn a little about his life. Don't get me wrong; I'm not violent. I had no intention of confronting him, threatening him; hurting him (at least not physically). None of that. I was just exploring possibilities. So I leaned across my desk, grabbed the phone, and dialed a switchboard number dedicated to employees of the Department of Agriculture. Or NSA. Whatever.

When the operator answered, I let loose a string of eight letters and numbers, and then answered four questions posed by the operator from a random list of computer-generated, pre-programmed inquiries. Having answered the identification questions correctly, the operator transferred me to the extension I requested. It was answered after one ring.

"MacMillan."

"Hey, it's Max. Got a minute?"

"Yeah, sure. What can I do you for?"

"Take down this URL." From my computer screen, I read off the URL for "Trust Her With Your Kid Ch. 01."

"Oookay," Brent MacMillan intoned. "What am I looking at, and does it relate to something you're working on?"

"Yes to the second, and the first should be obvious. Now scroll down, to the comment section. Third from the bottom. I want to know where that comment came from."

"Send me an e.mail? So I've got cover?"

"Of course. How long will it take?"

"Depends on how strong their server is. An hour, maybe two. That all right?"

We hung up phones simultaneously.

Over the next few minutes, I checked the rest of my stories to see if there were any new comments, and there weren't. I got up and padded into my bedroom, to the bathroom, and turned on the shower. Before the bathroom gathered steam, my cell phone rang. I retrieved it from the kitchen and hit "send."

"Yeah?"

"Got it." It was MacMillan.

"Fast."

"That's why they pay me the big bucks."

I grabbed a pen and pad and started writing. Four minutes later I possessed Mr. Anonymous's real name, his home address and telephone number, his employer, salary, educational background, credit card numbers and expiration dates, mortgage lenders, license plate numbers. My hand cramped.

"Okay. That's enough. Send it to me on the network."

"Will do."

I was about to hang up again. "Oh, hey. Married or single?"

"Married. I'll send the DMV's contact cards for both of them."

The line went dead and I pondered what to do with this information while I soaked in the shower.

* * *

Two weeks later found me parked outside a nondescript office building in Sturgeon Bay, Wisconsin. A small accounting firm was situated on the third floor; it employed Mr. Anonymous as a staff accountant. The air-conditioner in the equally nondescript brown Ford Crown Victoria in which I sat, checked out from a government pool, ran full blast, warding off the intense August heat.

I studied my surroundings. 'Jeez, what an existence this guy must lead,' I thought to myself. A pretty town with a seemingly stable economy, Sturgeon Bay nonetheless did not appear to be growing. It was what it was and likely would forever be that way. I had the distinct impression that those who settled here were here for the long-haul. And Mr. Anonymous, the staff accountant? Definitely here for the duration. Based upon the data I had seen, he had nowhere else to go.

When 5:00 approached, I sat up in the front seat as a few people began to trickle from the building's front doors. A few minutes later, Mr. Anonymous appeared. I knew I wasn't mistaken that it was him. Almost six feet tall, but not quite. Light brown hair cut really short. His gray suit coat was buttoned, a worn leather briefcase dangling from his right hand. My third encounter with nondescript objects this day.

I had already scouted his parking location, the information provided to me by MacMillan identifying the make, model and color of his car (and even the lien holder on the loan). I waited a few minutes and then followed the car as it turned out of the parking lot. A few minutes later, Mr. Anonymous pulled into a local watering hole. I followed him in and observed while he drank two beers and consumed a cheeseburger with two friends. They split the bill evenly. This comported with MacMillan's data; every Thursday, Mr. Anonymous's Visa account recorded a transaction at this establishment -- same amount every week, without fail. Two hours after arriving, he returned to his car, headed home.

I did not follow him, as I knew where he lived and had, in fact, driven by his modest home on a tree-lined street earlier that day, noting the presence of a blue Chrysler mini-van in the driveway. I had confirmed that Mrs. Anonymous was a stay-at-home wife and mother. Again, MacMillan's data had checked out.

I returned to my hotel, turned on my laptop, and connected a mobile device to it that would permit me access to my employer's network via satellite and encryption technology unknown to the private sector. I then did my job for a few hours.

I awoke early the next morning, went for a run along the bay, showered, and got back to work. The wonderful thing about working in a remote office -- and anything more than twenty-five miles from the nation's capitol is "remote" as it relates to my employer -- is that I generally keep my own schedule. As long as my work gets done properly and on-time, no one really cares from where I do it.

Around 4:00, I logged out for the day, changed, and went down to the pool car. MacMillan's electronic surveillance allowed me to surmise what the Anonymous family would be up to tonight. Just as Mr. Anonymous's Visa account revealed the pattern of his Thursday nights, that same account also revealed a Friday pattern: another charge, almost every Friday, from another watering hole. This, combined with other data I had reviewed, led me to the conclusion that Thursday night was Mr. Anonymous's, Friday night his wife's, and Saturday night was couples' night (owing to charges at various restaurants in and around Sturgeon Bay).

I thus guided the Agency car through the streets of Sturgeon Bay, pulling into the parking lot of a relatively upscale establishment, which I gathered from the higher-end sports utility vehicles and the occasional German import dotting the landscape. I sat at the bar and ordered a local lager and the whitefish -- Fish Fridays is something that Wisconsinites apparently take very seriously -- and waited while I ate.

At approximately 6:00, three women strolled in. I knew without hesitation that one was Mrs. Anonymous -- I had examined her DMV photograph enough. Their attire was almost uniform: khaki peddle-pushers, open-toed heels and button-up blouses. Only the colors of the blouses differed.

The bar began to fill. I had expected the crowd to be regulars, that everyone knew everyone else, and was slightly surprised to find my expectation not met. There was certainly familiarity among some, but not by all. I maintained my seat at the corner of the bar, slowly downing the heavy lager the bartender kept sliding my way. Without being obvious, my attention to Mrs. Anonymous never wavered through the evening.

A little after 9:00, a local band began to play on a small stage. A few couples stepped on the makeshift dance floor -- created through the movement of seven or eight dining tables that earlier had been in front of the stage -- joined by still others as the band continued to cover Aerosmith, Yes and other relics from the Seventies. Mrs. Anonymous and her two friends were among them, dancing among themselves, shooing away a few younger men that tried to intercede.

And then, about an hour later, an interesting development. Mrs. Anonymous left the dance floor in favor of the bathroom and the other two musketeers returned to their table. Sipping my beer, I surreptitiously watched the table for Mrs. Anonymous's return. After ten minutes, I furrowed my brow at her continued absence. I glanced around the bar and thought I caught a glimpse of her blonde head bobbing to the music, caught in the crowd that the dance floor had become.

I leaned to the left, hoping to get a better view and . . . no . . . too many people in the way. But a few moments later, a gap opened in the human mass and I was treated to the sight of Mrs. Anonymous bumping and grinding with what appeared to be a dockworker. I smiled absently, and continued my covert observation of Mr. Anonymous's lovely wife.

I just realized that I haven't actually described this little angel. There was nothing extraordinary about her, except that she was very likely the embodiment of the pretty small-town wife, carting the kids around to soccer practice in between bake sales and PTA meetings. She stood less than five-and-half feet on a petite frame. Her cotton pants hugged her bottom respectfully, but snug enough to let the casual observer know that she took care of herself. Her blouse was similarly non-revealing, but failed to fully obscure what appeared to be a healthy pair of C-cup breasts, nipples denting her bra and blouse with a faint shadow. Her age was difficult to discern, but I knew from her DMV data that she was thirty-seven.

Having consumed a number of mugs of the local lager, my bladder began to protest so I left the bar for the bathroom. Returning, I observed Mrs. Anonymous exiting the dance floor, Dock Boy in tow. She dragged him along by his calloused hand and almost giggled as she past the two musketeers still at the table, sipping what appeared to be Cosmopolitans. Her friends appeared to cheer her on, though I couldn't hear their words through the din of the bar.

Mrs. Anonymous pushed open the door, pulling Dock Boy behind her. Now, I decided, was the time to leave. I signaled the bartender for my tab, paid in cash, and made my way back to the parking lot. Plenty of cars, but I observed none leaving the parking lot. I looked first for Mrs. Anonymous's mini-van but couldn't locate it. It then occurred to me that she may have left it at home, in case her husband needed to take the kids somewhere. I then looked for the gray Taurus I had followed from Mr. Anonymous's office the night before. Struck out again.

'Okay,' I thought. 'Time for a grid search.'

I walked to the end of the parking lot and turned, slowly and quietly walking up the aisles between the cars. A few minutes and two aisles later, I came up short. Movement in an old Jeep Cherokee -- the kind with the fake wood panels on the sides -- caused me to stop. I squinted my eyes and saw a person -- a man -- in the driver's seat. My eyes scanned to the left, looking for a companion, looking for Mrs. Anonymous. No one. I took a step forward, ready to resume my search, but then stopped again.

A blonde head rose into view, from beneath the dashboard. The man in the driver's seat leaned to his right, his lips smashing against those of the woman who had apparently buried her face in his lap. Her small hand rose to the side of his whiskered face and I imagined her tongue delving deep into the man's mouth.

They pulled away from each other and the man put the car in gear, backed out of the parking space and swung through the parking lot and into the street.

I walked to my government pool car and started the engine and smiled contentedly. Mrs. Anonymous was a cheating whore who denigrated all possibility of feminitity -- I mean, femininity.

* * *

My observation of her continued over the next few weeks. I skipped Thursday nights; the first Thursday I had observed Mr. Anonymous merely confirmed what the data told me and I didn't need further confirmation. Mrs. Anonymus's Friday night confirmed MacMillan's information, as well. But there was a question unanswered: were Mrs. Anonymous and Dock Boy an item, or was he simply a one-night stand?

The next three Friday nights answered that question for me: he was the latter. Well, not quite. But neither were they an item. The second Friday that I observed her, she left the bar with a well-groomed man who appeared to be closer to her own age. The next, she coupled with a kid who I would have guessed had a high school letterman's jacket in his back seat. And then the third and final Friday, Dock Boy appeared to hit a home run again.

So, I had a pattern. Thursday nights were for Mr. Anonymous, and Friday nights were for Mrs. Anonymous. And another pattern: Mrs. Anonymous used her Friday nights to float through a plethera -- or a plethora, I'm not sure which -- of studs with whom she cheated on her husband. And a non-pattern: there was no consistency to who she fancied.

And I thus had a conclusion: I, too, could fuck Mrs. Anonymous. How divine.

* * *

My plan was simple: follow the pattern. I'd appear on Friday night. I'd make sure she had a few drinks. I'd ask her to dance. I'd make it last for a slow song, a fast song, a slow song. I'd hold her from behind and let her grind her tight bottom against my crotch. I'd let her grind her pelvis against my leg. I'd let her drag me to the parking lot.

I had to wait a few weeks, unfortunately. I had to attend a wedding on Martha's Vineyard and then had meetings in Fort Meade the week after and wouldn't return to Chicago until late Friday night.

'Is Chitown all there is,' I thought, passing through Milwaukee the next morning and recalling one of Mr. Anonymous's comments. 'No, Mr. Anonymous. There's also Sturgeon Bay.'

* * *

Rather than sit at the bar, I grabbed a table to the left of the dance floor, where Mrs. Anonymous and her two sidekicks always sat. I arrived early to claim it, but drank slowly.

The pattern began to re-create itself. Just after 6:00, Mrs. Anonymous strode in, followed closely by Athos and Porthos, as I had taken to calling the other musketeers. Summer had passed and Fall was being ushered in. Mrs. Anonymous had forsaken the ritual peddle pushers and open toed heels for a pair of dark wool slacks and closed-toe heels. Her breasts bobbed slightly beneath a shimmering rose-tinted silk blouse.

Waving to the bartender, they took their customary table and, when the waiter appeared, ordered salads, chicken sandwiches and Cosmos for two, a Martini for the other. I sipped an Anchor Steam while they ate and watched as they danced together, the tightly knit group of three spurning the advances of men who dared to dance into the group.

Like clockwork, Mrs. Anonymous slid off the dance floor toward the bathroom and Athos and Porthos returned to the table next to me and finished off their drinks. I rose, with beer in hand, and stepped onto the dance floor. I made sure to move toward the far side, closest to the hall that led to the restrooms, and kept the area in my peripheral vision.

A few moments later, Mrs. Anonymous appeared. As she neared the end of the hallway, I turned her way and, continuing to move with the music, smiled at her. Her bright blue eyes smiled back, her lush lips following suit not a moment later.

But she continued past me with a wave of her manicured fingers, and stopped at the bar. I turned back toward the stage, moving to the music, pondering my next move. I was following the pattern but I understood implicitly that Mrs. Anonymous wouldn't merely fall into my lap, so to speak. I had to instead draw her in.

The band moved into a painful version of Led Zeppelin's Tangerine and I was in the process of devising a plan to make her come to me when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to find Mrs. Anonymous smiling at me. She tilted her head slightly to the right, her pretty eyes alight, and lifted a bottle of Anchor Steam toward me.