Brenda Collins had the face to launch a thousand ships and a body to launch an entire navy. So far out of my league she might as well have been in a different solar system. Me, I was, like someone once said, a schmoe who wasn't even named Joe. Bert Stokes is my name. I mean, who names their baby Bert anymore? So I went by Stokey.
In high school I knew of Brenda. Everybody did. As cliché as they come: homecoming queen, prom queen, everything queen. Beauty Queen of Stoddard City back then... you get the picture.
We met, if you can call it that, in our senior year at Smitham College. Back then, laptop computers were 'the next thing' and hers 'broke.' Geeky Stokey got called, showed up, was handed the computer and told to fuck off and don't come back until 'the thing' was fixed. Of course. Not that I was surprised or anything. I knew who I was in the pecking order of the universe, and she knew who she was. Her attitude, though, stank, and pissed me off.
Never piss off a computer geek--or venture into our side of the tracks.
The next day, I returned and knocked on the door. This was before cellphones. She opened, talking on her landline with one of those three-mile curled cords. Without breaking her conversation, which sounded like it involved the salon in the mall using the wrong kind of product, she held out her hand to receive her laptop back.
Looking her in the eye, I held on to the laptop, until she said into the mouthpiece, "Listen, I've got to go. Call me back in five." Evidently she didn't think it would take that long to get rid of the geeky interruption.
"Is it fixed?" she asked me with her disdainful and impatient voice.
"Yes, it is. I had to replace the hypothumic mistufastor, and it works fine now. $350." All I'd done was delete accumulated crap, refrag the drive... and copy the contents of her hard drive onto a spare I had, for a few chuckles next week. I also cleared her browsing history. Lots and lots of porn sites--seemed like she had a fetish for FFM. A ton of those links could slow down a computer, and they did hers. I saved those addresses in a word processor file, emailed it to me (back then, I was still one of the few knew how to use email) deleted them and got her computer back to regular speed. So it didn't cost me anything. Her attitude, though, cost her the aforementioned $350.
"What? I never agreed to so much."
"True. You just stuck it in my hand and said 'fix it.' Like a feudal lord tells a serf. I fixed it as instructed (I emphasized that word with sarcasm) which leaves you with a choice. You either pay me, or I sell the computer to defray my expenses. It's a nice one, and whoever buys it will no doubt find interesting information on it."
With a stamp of her foot and eyes raised to the heavens, she opened the door and waved me in. After writing a check, she held it out to me expecting her laptop back. Rather than hand it back, I took the check, turned and made to leave. Wasn't there a movie about revenge of the nerds? I never saw it, I don't think, but this was my version, one which I rather enjoyed.
You have your fun, dollface, and I have mine.
"Hey, I paid you, give me my computer."
"Sure, as soon as the check clears."
The steam building up in her head exploded. "What? You miserable little creep. You think that check's no good?"
"I suspect the check is just fine. For now. Your shitty attitude, though, is not. Who says you won't stop the check once you power up this computer and see it works fine?" I had nothing to lose, and not a shred of motivation to impress her. She already thought I was worm shit, so how much lower could I go? I was not going to put up with her belittling crap, and it would be best all around if she realized that. Not often I had the opportunity to have fun at the expense of her ilk, and I milked it with great amusement.
"Who the hell do you think you are, insulting me like that?"
"Fair question." I did my best to hide the chuckle. "Let me answer it for you. My name is Bert Stokes, and I know a hell of a lot more about computers than you do. Which entitles me to a modicum of respect, because I worked for it. Sure, I'm not rich like you or a looker, but those are not the only things that deserve respect.
"So, that's who I am. On the other hand, who are you? An entitled bitch is what I see. Your money and your looks were given to you. You've not had to work for any of it, yet you dismiss and deride ordinary people. You didn't have the common courtesy to even ask my name, just stuffed your computer in my hand and slammed the door, instructing me to 'fix it.' For which you owe me $350."
While she gasped like a bass on dry ground, I continued in my deadpan voice. "And if you give me any more crap, the price goes to $400."
This was decades ago, and until this day I've never seen a face displaying shock and respect like that day. Maybe the people she interacted with were all eager to grovel for her favor, or were like her. Evidently, nobody had had the guts to push back as quickly and firmly like I did.
Whatever the reason, the penny dropped and her attitude changed on a dime. "I am sorry, Bert is it? You are right, and I apologize. My mind was elsewhere and I was wrong. Will you forgive me?"
Amazing what the threat of an extra $50 did. The speed and magnitude of her change caught me off-guard, but not so much I forgot the main agenda. "As soon as I have $350 in cash, I'll consider it."
"Fair enough. How about I get the cash from the bank, you come back this evening, and I take you out to dinner to make up for my rudeness?"
Wow. Her counter-offensive took me by complete surprise. In my defense, I didn't have time to think it through. True logic would have shot that idea down in a ball of flames like the Hindenburg. But a guy is a guy, and deep down we're all hardwired to crave being seen with a beauty queen on our arm. It's primal molecular DNA or something. And she was staring at me, expecting an answer. A positive answer.
I was outmaneuvered and outgunned. Schmoe, not even Joe, remember? My mind spun out of control. I didn't have the clothes for where she and her ilk hung out. I wouldn't be able afford it (the clothes or the meal). And, worst of all, her friends would be there, staring at the morsel of cockroach shit she dragged in. Giggles, stares, finger pointing--been there, felt that. Not just no, but hell, no.
Her eyes, though, looked really sincere.
Then, my brilliant mind came up with a solution. "Only if it's to McDonald's." That would flush out her intentions. There's no way she'd be able to humiliate me at Mickey Dees. That was my home turf; she'd be the out of place one being microscoped by others. This would flush out any plans of hers to get back at me for humiliating her with my impromptu speech.
I had to offer her a face-saving way out so we could end the farce and go our separate ways. "But it's okay if you're a vegetarian or something." I didn't want to say "or be seen with ordinary folk," that would be a step too far.
Without even a nanosecond's hesitation, her face lit up. "Perfect. You want to come pick me up, or should I?"
No way did I want her to see where I lived. Jason, my roommate, was worse than I, and the only discernible difference between our place and a pigsty was the absence of real live porkers. "Hmm, since I know where you live, why don't I come get you? How about six?"
"Will 6:30 work for you? I have a few things I have to take care of. And I will have the cash with me."
I can't recall if I was successful hiding the sigh of relief. That plan gave me time to run my little Toyota pickup through the car wash. Hey, I was going to get $350 for nothing, so I'd be able to afford it for once. And cleaning out a year's worth of dust and debris required professional expertise.
To say dinner was a pleasant surprise would be the grandmother of all understatements. By the end of three hours she was Bren and I was Stoke. 'In love' may be an overstatement, but not by too much. Both of us were giggly, finishing each other's sentences and, well, you know. Not love at first sight, but definitely by second French fry. Surreal, utterly surreal. Las Vegas would have gone out of business if they had taken bets on that happening.
--
Long story short (I can see that smirk on your face, dear reader), we married about a year after graduation, she as a nurse and I as a systems analyst (which is what we were called back in those days). Along came three girls who made us happy and proud. All three went to college on athletic scholarships (softball, volleyball and soccer)--yay, Title IX.
I also started my own company specializing in network security, which, after a slow start, became established and furnished us with a decent living.
I shook my head in amazement way more than once. Between us, we'd launched a loving and successful navy.
--
Then it happened--the dreaded empty nester itch. In hindsight, it was probably just a matter of time. She worked with doctors and was, as pointed out above, the quintessential Everything Queen, and (for me at least) The Reach.
One day I went to the hospital to surprise her for lunch. As I turned into the parking lot, I saw her and a tall, slim guy get into a black 7-series BMW.
Ugh.
My heart dropped into my shoes. You all know the 'too good to be true' thing. The only question had always been not if, but when. I knew it. But I forgot it. Twenty wonderful years had lulled me to sleep.
The happy anticipation on her face as she walked, hand in hand, was unmistakable. I knew my wife, and in an instant I knew what I was looking at. Beautiful people across the world get addicted to adulation, and when it stops, it affects them deeply. When she married me, her love for me, and then her daughters, covered her withdrawals, but the departure of the girls left her with only me, and any husband of more than twenty years becomes like old slippers: comfortable, predictable and... just there. Impossible to shower her with the 'new and exciting' that class of people crave. In my happy bubble of love and complacency, I had forgotten that. But, just like the forgotten taste of vomit, it came back in an instant. In that expensive car she had a rich, young, attractive guy reviving and playing to that addiction she also had forgotten. She, not surprisingly, was jumping on that like a drowning victim on a lifebelt.
Since I had no business at the hospital anymore, I turned around. At the next stoplight I ended up right behind the black Beemer. Was she taking him to our house? Son of a biscuit eating bullfrog, she was. Her douchebag boyfriend didn't know me or my truck, but I still kept a good distance between us as I followed them, and parked a few houses before ours.
