"I lost my eye and my wife on the same day. I miss her more than I miss the eye."
That's what I overhead at McDonalds. Slowly I turned around to see from whence came the voice. A man with a patch over one eye was walking away from a table with a young mother and two preschool aged kids. My guess is that one of the kids asked the man about the eye patch.
He moved away from that table, and walked in my direction. I watched him. Old? Yes, I think so. His hair and beard were a mixture of black and gray. It covered his ears and flowed past his collar of his un-tucked flannel shirt. He wore bib overalls with rolled up cuffs – something I haven't seen for years. Yikes! His shoes don't match! One shoe is dark gray with white laces; the other is black with black laces.
Except for the shoes I think he fits in with my perception of this farmer-hick community. He should be wearing farmer work boots instead of mismatched sneakers.
What is this community? Where I come from we would call it a village or, at best, a small town. Out here in the endless nothingness of South Dakota prairie it's considered to be a city. Someone told me it's the fourth, fifth, or sixth largest city in South Dakota. It doesn't take much to be one of the largest in this state of barely 800,000 people. Nevertheless, it is large enough to have a Wal-Mart and a McDonald's.
I came to South Dakota to get away from so-called loving wife Michelle (pronounced 'me-shell' the way the Beatles did in the song.) This wasn't my destination of choice, but I was just about out of money. Maybe I could get a temporary job to refill my wallet before resuming my escape.
In my mind I called him Patch. Patch walked past my booth carrying his tray to the trash receptacle. After disposing of his cup and wrapper he left. His backside showed how his overalls sagged on him. Those pants are too big for that man.
I didn't find a job that day. I counted my dollars, dimes, and nickels. I had more than enough to hike to Wal-Mart to buy some peanut butter and a box of saltines. I went back to my car – which was in the Wal-Mart lot – for supper. Later I curled up in the backseat with a home-made quilt. Michelle made that quilt for me when she still loved me. I would trash it, but I needed something to keep me warm at night.
In the morning I returned to McDonald's. I wasn't so broke that I couldn't afford a sausage McMuffin.
'Patch' was there. This time he was wearing a solid color instead of a plaid flannel shirt. Yes, the shoes still didn't match. I wasn't sure, but I think it was the same bib overalls that he wore yesterday.
Today 'Patch' wasn't alone. At the booth with him was a middle aged man wearing jeans and a chambray shirt. Two pens (or maybe pencils) were in the left pocket. That and the thickness of his glasses made me think 'nerd.' The two of them got up to leave at the same time. I think 'Patch' looked over at me before disposing of his trash. He walked away. Again it looked like is pants were too big for him. The guy in the chambray shirt limped and used a cane.
I did manage to get a job washing dishes at a wannabe-snobby restaurant that was half way between Wal-Mart and McDonald's. I still ate peanut butter crackers for supper. I did add a bag of apples to the menu. I still slept in my car in the Wal-Mart lot. And, most importantly, I still had breakfast at McDonald's.
'Patch' was there every morning. Sometimes the chambray shirt guy was with him. Sometimes one or two others were there, too. Mostly, though, he was alone. He usually left shortly after I arrived.
On the sixth or seventh morning, 'Patch' wore the same outfit that I saw the first time. -- baggy, too large, bib overalls. This time, however, instead of leaving he stopped at my booth.
"Good morning," he said as he slid into the seat across from me.
"I see you are now a regular here. I see that you have a white line where your wedding ring used to be."
"So?" I curtly replied.
"So, if you can get here a bit earlier each day you could join our group."
"What group would that be?"
"We call ourselves the SASG. That stands for Single Again Support Group."
I wasn't exactly single again, but I might as well be. I was probably still officially married to Michelle; the woman I thought was my loving wife, who turned out to be a cheating slut. I did not file for divorce before leaving Boston, and I don't know if she has either. Nevertheless, it's been five months since I left. By now she and Asshole probably have moved into my house where they can fuck themselves silly every day without worrying about me discovering the deceit. If Michelle has filed for divorce I wouldn't know because I did not provide any way to contact me. Besides that, does the postal system deliver to Xavier Jones c/o Wal-Mart parking in lot Some Small Town, South Dakota?
***
Yes, Xavier Jones is my name. My parents wanted a distinctive name to go along with the common Jones. Family and friends called me X. When I was a kid a playground bully tried to tease me about my name. He tried pushing me when I ignored his taunts. I didn't take kindly to that. My reaction was quick and decisive. The other kids saw how quickly I chopped down that bully. My nickname quickly changed from X to Axe.
My physical attributes were well respected by the time I entered high school. As a freshman I stood nearly six foot and weighed just a bit over two hundred pounds. You know, of course, that guys are still growing until about age 18. I grew some more. Axe Jones became a feared defensive lineman during the football season. The line couldn't stop me and I was frequently on the quarterback before he could even think about sending off a pass. In my junior year I set a state record for the number of quarterback sacks. I broke the record the next year.
Michelle was a cheerleader. Sure, that seems like a cliché – football jock and the cheerleader, but that's the way it was.
Prom night was very special for Michelle and me. That's the night we went all the way for the first time. It was my first time, and unless she lied to me it was her first time, too. To tell the truth, it was an awkward and clumsy activity for the two of us. We knew we wanted to, but neither really knew how to. My cock just poked around and brushed up against her brush, not finding its way.
"Let me help," she murmured. She took hold of my member and guided it to her juicy pussy. With a push on my backside she caused my cock to slide into her. I pushed against some obstacle, but after a minute I broke through.
I was a dumb eighteen-year-old and had no clue how to satisfy a woman. I got my satisfaction quickly. My wad was shot into her, and then pulled out.
Michelle said, "I need more, Axe."
She grabbed my hand and guided my fingers to her pussy. "Take care of me now, Axe." I finger fucked her to what I think was an orgasm.
***
"Well, what do you think? Will you join us?" Patch's voice brought me out of my reverie.
"What do you do in this support group?" I queried.
"Mostly we talk. Sometimes we share stories about how our marriages ended. Sometimes we share ideas on how to get on with our lives. Sometimes we just talk about the weather."
I was interested. Actually, I was really curious about his statement last week about missing his wife more than missing his eye. I sure don't feel that way about my wife.
"By the way, my name's Paul," said the one-eyed man.
"Xavier," I replied.
"Nice to meet you, Xavier. We try to meet at a quarter to six each morning," he continued.
"I can make it."
***
Michelle and I continued dating, but she wouldn't let me fuck her again.
She said, "Prom night is special. We're almost expected to have sex then, but there's nothing special about a Friday night movie date."
It takes only one time. Michelle was pregnant. That one time on prom night did it.
Michelle chose an unusual way to announce her pregnancy to me. Well, it was her parents who did the announcement.
Six weeks after prom I was greeted by Michelle's dad at the door when I arrived to pick her up.
"Come in, Xavier."
I was shocked to find my parents there!
"Sit down." Michelle's dad commanded.
"We have a wedding to plan. My daughter is not going to have a child out of wedlock. She says you are the father."
Needless to say, I was dumbfounded and couldn't speak.
The two sets of parents pretty much ignored me and Michelle as they planned our marriage and our life.
After awhile my father said, "Folks, me and my boy are going for a walk. I need to talk to him alone."
"Well, Xavier, gettin' married has its advantages," he told me after a few minutes of silence on our walk. "You and Michelle can make whoopee whenever you want instead of sneakin' around on your Friday night dates."
"But, Dad, we haven't been sneaking any whoopee. The only time we did it was prom night. She won't do it anymore. She says sex is for special occasions."
"In that case, son, you must not have properly satisfied her."
"Huh?"
"I am going to pass on some advice that I got from my father.'
"What's that, Dad?"
"Well, seems he overhead me and the guys talking sex and how we wanted to jump one of the pretty gals at school. He busted into the room, told the guys to scram, and said 'Alfred Jones, we need to talk.'"
Dad stared at a flock of pigeons overhead for a few minutes, then, he continued. "Well, X, my father took me aside and told me how girls and women are not just meat, not just sex objects, and so on."
I nodded.
"My father used much more polite language, but at the end of his lecture he smiled told me that if I ever wanted to fuck a woman a second time I better make sure that she is happy and totally satisfied the first time – even if it means not getting satisfied myself."
My father just said "fuck!" Wow, I never heard him ever use any but super clean language in my whole life!
Dad got me to admit that when Michelle and I screwed it was pretty much just a self-serving quickie.
