Reader's Bloc

Reader's Block

The things we do for love, and payback

Full disclosure: I've been an active member of this site coming up on twenty years now. I recently started posting stories, as a means to clear my mind when I get stuck on one of my novels. Occasionally, I'll read a story, and then when I go to post a constructive or complimentary comment, I get sucked into reading what others thought. Some of them make me feel almost... combative.

That's why I rarely read comments written about my own stories. Sometimes I just skim. Anyway, I got this idea after reading a rather, over-the-top comment on one of my favorite author's story. It started as a very mean word salad. Then, I took a step back, and decided to try and make it something decent. At least one of the revenges here actually happened. I can't tell you which one of course... in case a certain someone reads this... (ahem) tape, (cough) measure.

Thanks, as always to my editor, nueroparenthetical, for finding true north, and his many suggestions.

Relax; it's just a story, people.

I'm sitting in a bar, of all places. I just finished meeting with a prospect that I turned into a platinum customer. I pulled a rabbit out at the last minute - securing a hefty commission and guaranteeing my quarterly bonus for at least the next year. It worked out well that my new client knew of this place and agreed to meet here. I had to be here for everything that was about to happen after the client left.

The cream on top of this sweet deal is that this particular establishment actually serves Guinness 00, the non-alcoholic version of their draught. I'm expecting someone else very shortly. A bunch of someone's - actually. Two seats down sits a woman, who, based on her overall looks, spends a great deal of time here. As I regard her, a balding guy in a slightly wrinkled suit walks up and swivels the stool in between us towards himself.

"Anyone sitting here, Mac?" he asks, as though he's going to sit down regardless.

I only shake my head in the negative. I pull out my phone to check messages and emails, and that all is going to plan. Then I use the calculator to figure out if my first commission check will cover a vacation to Maui. My wife has been after me to go, and she deserves a treat. After all, she treats me right every day, so of course she deserves it.

After five minutes, and with just some froth left in my glass, the fellow next to me begins to talk. "What gives' with the fake beer?" he curiously asks.

"I don't drink," I state flatly.

"You're in a bar. You know that, right?" He chuckles because he thinks he made a funny. I'm not amused. I tip the glass high, draining the foamy remains, and then start to stand.

"Whoa, buddy!" he says very apologetic-like, "Don't leave. Shit, I didn't mean to straighten your pubes. I mean, it is a bar right? Stick around and I'll buy you another."

Acting as though it's against my better judgement, I retake my seat. My acting job is easy to pull off, because I 'm on a mission tonight. Well, okay, hearing the words 'straighten' and 'pubes' did make me reconsider briefly. Jesus, this guy.

My wife has asked me on dozens of occasions, "Why did you spend so much time talking to that guy? Not

this

guy, of course, just whoever. She complains that I wasted fifteen minutes or a half an hour chatting with a complete stranger about anything and everything, or even nothing at all. I don't agree that it's time wasted, but I still don't have a good answer for her. It's an affliction of sorts. I don't believe anything happens by chance. If I meet somebody in a restaurant, a bar, or even in line at the post office, and they see fit to strike up a conversation, then I'm convinced it's a conversation that I should have.

Sometimes, though, I know for an absolute fact that a meeting isn't random. Sometimes I'm the one pulling the strings to make it happen.

"I'm John, John Baker," he says holding out his right hand.

I reach out and shake. "I'm Devon, but you can call me Mac." His expression goes from confusion to understanding. "Oh, I get it. You rascal!" I half expect him to try to give me a noogie.

John signals the bartender for another round. We start chatting. Surprisingly, the conversation is light and comfortable - that is, until jobs, classic cars, and Detroit sports teams are in the rear view.

"Yeah, those Lions are perpetual losers," he says. "I guess I have no right to talk though."

Ah, here we go.

"Why not?" I ask.

"Ah, nothing. Just thinking out loud, is all."

I can see he's trying to put a genie back in its bottle, but I'm not going to allow it.

"Didn't mean to pry," I say. "You are in a bar, though, talking to a perfect stranger. Might help to get it off your chest."

"It's nothing, really, just some family trouble." I can see it's more. John's mood has soured considerably. He looks like his dog just died. I push just a little more, even though I know far more than I'm letting on. I dial up the concern and empathy. "Trouble with the little woman? Did she leave you?"

John doesn't answer for a minute. He wants to talk about it, but he's scared. He's probably asking himself who else he'd tell, and how long he can go on with it bottled up inside. Like I just told him, a perfect stranger in a bar might be his best bet. How lucky for him.

"Yeah, she left me, the bitch." He pauses, still unsure how much he wants to reveal.

"Wanna talk about it?" I casually ask.

John makes eye contact now. With a deep sigh and a swig of his suds, decides to trust me - or at least the sacred compact of dudes drinking together in a bar.

"She was cheating, fucking slut. Some asshole from her work. She was looking for some strange, and he helped her find it. All those years, such a fucking waste of time."

"How long were you married?" I'm trying to keep him focused so he doesn't go on a tirade.

"Two months shy of fifteen years. She blindsided me. Her and that god damned Ken doll she left me for."

He's still holding back. I consider that. I already know his story. It doesn't really get much worse. All that's left are the details.

"How did it happen? Did you catch them in your bed? Were you having them watched because you suspected? GPS on her car?"

He shakes his head. "No... none of that. She left me a note. Said she just couldn't do it anymore."

"Do what, John?" I immediately ask.

John simply shrugs. "Be married to me. She left another note with my attorney, in the packet with the divorce settlement. Said she loved me... once. Said we made a mistake getting married. Went through a bunch of crap about why. I never listen, I can't communicate, it's like talking to a brick wall, yada yada. Said I was disconnected; a dead fish in bed. Said she tried to talk to me about things plenty. That she waited for me to notice something was wrong for those last six months. Then she just gave up and gave in to him. Said I never noticed or said a thing. Said he's everything I'm not. The last thing she said hurt the worst. She said that I just wasn't the kind of man she'd imagined."

Well, that didn't square with his ex-wife just looking for some strange, as he'd put it. It sounded more planned, at least on her part - like she'd been looking for a while. I knew that she had been.

"So, then," I say, turning towards him. "What kind of man are you?"

"Huh?" He looks at me sourly. "What the fuck kind of question is that?"

"It wasn't meant as a dig," I say, trying to calm him. Recounting his misfortune has obviously taken a toll. "I'm only asking because there are many different types of men. Just because she suddenly went off the rails doesn't call your manhood into question. Maybe she's the one who changed, and you're the same guy you always were."

"I suppose." He looks up now, seeing himself in the smoky mirror behind the bar. Motioning to the barkeep, he asks if I'd like another. I accept. Right now, there's nowhere I'd rather be.

After the drinks are placed in front of us, I turn my stool to face him fully.

"So?" I leave it hanging.

John's resolve stiffens after a brief questioning look. He understands what I'm asking.

"I think I'm the same guy she married. I gave her, and the relationship, everything I had. She never said anything was wrong. I don't know, maybe she's right. Maybe I didn't listen. I thought I did."

"Tell me about the last few years of your marriage John. What did they feel like to you?"

He contemplates his answer. "They were... comfortable. I thought we were good, you know?"

"Yeah." I leave it there. So does he. We nurse our drinks.

A minute later, I break the heavy silence. "Did you ever think about stepping out on her?"

"Never!" he quickly answers.

I see it's time to change the subject.

"What about your life before marrying Tracy?" I ask. Fuck. I said her name. Well, time to see how sharp this sad sack is.

"My life's never been very exciting," He says, settling into his stool more. "I grew up on a small family farm. My father and his brother had to sell it or lose it around the time I was seven. We left Iowa and moved here, to Ohio. Pops got a factory job with an automotive manufacturer. When I graduated, we had no money for college, so Dad helped me get an entry-level job at the plant. I was promoted to foreman a few years after Tracy and I got married."

He's still being evasive, so I try another approach. "Got a family photo?"

He pulls out his wallet. The small pic looks recent enough; it shows a blonde woman, well put together, and a younger blonde girl, who's obviously his daughter and destined to be a real looker. John's wife is no movie star, but she could turn a few heads. His daughter won't fare well without the influence of a father figure. She doesn't have many years left before flying the coop. I hoped the lothario is willing to step up.

"Do you talk to your daughter?" I ask nonchalantly.

"Yeah, I get to have her every other weekend and alternating holidays. She doesn't like mom's new boyfriend. She was almost my whole life...my whole goddamned life, and now I only get to see her part time." He says the last bit almost with a groan, and a few tears trickle down.

I put a hand on John's shoulder. We're silent for a bit. Finally, I make eye contact with the bartender, and point down to John from above his head, signaling for one more round. I also find it a good time to hit the head, and so I leave John with his thoughts.

Going to the restroom also gives me a moment to consider how to proceed. To say John's life was unremarkable and unexciting would be an understatement. Still, I'm starting to get a picture of the man. I wash up, make sure my hands are completely dry, and head back out.

Returning, I put my hand on his shoulder again and ask, "You okay?"

See? Dry hands. Very important.

He nods as he sips his drink.

"So, John, tell me about your daily life. What did that look like when you were with your family?"

"Well, it was pretty ordinary. I worked my eight, and if overtime was available, I usually took it. We always needed the money."

"How about at home?" I prod.

"Tracy would usually have dinner ready, and we ate as a family," he recollects. "Unless Gabby had cheer practice."

"And how did you end your day?" Jesus, I have to drag everything out of this guy. At least he told me his daughter's name. Now I don't have to worry about accidentally saying it and triggering the alarm bells. Sure, he missed the wife's name. The daughter? He wouldn't have missed that. It's a dad thing.

"She would go do her thing, you know; TV, or read. I would often go out to the garage and work on a project or something."

Okay, now I have a pretty full picture. "Did you both go to bed together at night?"

"Mostly," he says. "If you're asking about our sex life, it was varied and rewarding."

Rewarding? I didn't buy that.

I signal the bartender for the check. My real tab was sitting on the back bar, along with my debit card. I'd baited the line, and if this is all going to work the way I want, I need to get things moving. It's time to see if I can set the hook.

John looks at me, wondering why I suddenly seem so intent to leave. From his perspective, we'd only just begun our deep dive into his sad, boring life. I open the check presenter.

This is the moment of truth. If John doesn't pick up on the clues, I'll have to go with Plan B. My Plan B is pretty weak, truth be told, so I hope Plan A works. With John on my right, and me being left-handed, he can see what I'm writing.

He watches me sign the three-letter signature. It isn't my real one. John looks back at his reflection behind the bar, and I sigh, knowing it will be plan B.

Then John surprises me.

"I thought you said your name was Devon?" he says, his tone suddenly accusatory.

"I did."

He looks down again at the check and the three letters: F-F-F.

"What's the F stand for, then?" he asks.

"Which one?" I reply, smiling.

John seems bewildered, but he recovers. "Any of them?"

"It's a surname," I say, skirting his real question. "A pen name, actually."

"So... you a writer?" He asks. The suspicion is gone. Now he's excited.

"Yes, maybe, figure it out" I unfurl three fingers in time to the answers.

John looks at the check again. He does indeed figure it out.

"Are you FanaticalFuckFace?" he asks exuberantly.

I nod with a smirk.

Just like that, John shoots up off of his stool and is violently shaking my hand. It's like he just met Tom Cruise or something.

"I can't believe this!" he's saying to no one in particular. "You're one of my favorite authors on that... well, you know where." I'm tickled inside at his sudden embarrassment over reading free erotic stories.

John's embarrassment however, was not unfounded. Due to recent events involving his job, he had good reason. Setting aside the fact that I don't believe in random chance, I'll meet the skeptics halfway and say that I - or my private investigator, more precisely - stumbled upon Sad Sack John in the course of some other business. I became a bit obsessed with him and his tale of woe. My PI didn't get why, but my money was green, so he dug deeper for me. I guess the similarities of our situations drove that obsession. Tonight's the culmination of several hours of planning to help John get his man-card back, and for me to get a last bit of revenge myself.

"This is incredible!" He smiles like the Joker as he says that. "Hey, that's a really bizarre name, by the way. How'd you come up with it?" His mind is no longer on that cheating bitch of a wife... ex-wife now, as I understand it. That's fine. He could use a little break.

"It's a tribute," I begin, "sort of an honor bestowed by a dear, deceased friend of mine. I had a lazy eye as a kid, and took a ton of shit for it. It was one of my best friends, in our little neighborhood gang that really got things started. We were drinking one afternoon; all of us were pretty wasted, and he just blurts out, 'You know, your face is pretty fucked up.' Of course, all the others start laughing their asses off. The way he said it, so did I.

"Anyway, it just kept going and going around the table, like it always does with kids. Finally someone turned fucked-up face into 'Fuck Face.' That became my nickname all through school. Now, if someone, outside our gang called me that, that friend who coined it would deck him. He'd say something like 'don't fuck with our Fuck Face, fuck face!' That's what friends do.

An eye doctor used a pretty common procedure before I left for college to correct it. It's funny how it was such a big deal for a few years, but if I'd just seen a doctor earlier, so many things would have been different - and not all of them for better, necessarily.

"Wow!" John says to himself, "I'm talking to Triple F. And I know his eye story."

Then something dawns on him.

"Hey, you're not planning to use what I just told you in one of your stories, are you? I don't give you permission."

"Relax, John," I reply. "I was truly just trying to get to know about you and what happened." That seems to settle him down just a little.

"Okay," he says, warily. "Hey, I have a question. Why do you write all that reconciliation shit? I mean, don't get me wrong, I like some of your stuff, and your style's okay. I just can't understand all the fucking forgiveness. It doesn't jive with some of the shit you have the wife doing."

He pauses, but I don't immediately answer.

"And boy," he says, his voice getting louder, "you really piss off the 'burn-the-bitch' crowd. I have to say, I've ripped you a new one in the comments myself a few times."

"I know," I respond calmly. "I don't like writing that stuff. It's not real. Sure, people want revenge. Sure, love can turn to hate in an instant. But in real life, especially where children are involved, that's all fantasy. A guy can get over on the wife, or the other man, if he really plans it out and commits. In most cases, though, the risk isn't worth the reward. They all have to learn to be civil with one another."

"Your readers disagree, I think," John states confidently.

"Not exactly, John," I say coldly. "Most of those who want a drastic or dramatic outcome just haven't moved on from their own personal hell yet. Those folks disagree. They haven't started to live their lives, in the aftermath. They still have a few stages of grief to get through. Once that happens, and they come out the other side, they won't be reading my stories anymore, or anyone else's, for that matter. They'll be back in the game - back in the human race."

John was quiet for a minute or longer. "You sound like you have some actual experience?"

"You want to listen now for a bit?" I ask gently.

He nods, seemingly more interested now that he knows who I am.

"My first wife was a disaster waiting to happen," I begin. "She was eighteen and I was twenty-one when we met. She was definitely hot and I liked everything I saw.

"Two weeks after we met, I woke up in bed, in my apartment. She was naked, riding me, those itty bitty B-cups bouncing around. As I came to, I pushed her off. I did it instinctively, since I'd gone to bed alone. She'd somehow gotten into my place even though I was damn sure I'd locked the door.

"That should have been the red flag that ended it," I say ruefully. "Of course, I was a young idiot, and I let her sweet talk me. A month later she was living with me; nine months later we were married. A year after that, we moved cross-country to California because I got a job offer that was just too good to pass up. We had a daughter, then a son two years later.

"Then she changed. You know the drill. Always late, never where she said she was going to be. In hindsight, she really didn't even try to hide it. I caught her, and she said 'So what?' It was a challenge, not a question. I told her to fuck right off. She kept dating, trying to force me to kick her out. After a month, I did. I should have done it sooner. She bailed, took off with a long-haired meth dealer, and left me a single dad with a one - and a three-year-old to raise."

"Still, that worked out pretty good for you?" John says it almost as a question, so I answer.

"Not really - being a young guy with two kids that age while working in a restaurant sixty-five hours per week isn't just frightening. It's horrifying."

John rests his jaw into his palms and seems to wrestle with his thoughts. I don't know if he's chewing on my story or not. He listened to it, at least. Still, he's got his own problems.

"What are you thinking about, John?"

John's clearly had enough of this. "Why are you telling me this? I mean it's a shitty tale, and I'm a stranger in a bar - but what does it have to do with me?"