THE FIRST EX-WIFE
By Jay Cameron
Strange how things happen in life. Exactly ten years ago last week, I was pushing my way through the door of the Conner Physics building at the University, when I was face to face with the sexist, most perfect, most beautiful woman in the world; at least in my somewhat limited world. What did I do? I caused an explosion of months of work. Her papers went flying everywhere. It was the first ever ticker tape parade that celebrated a disaster.
After stuttering and stammering over how sorry and how clumsy I was, I helped her recover the papers she had been protecting; thanks to me were now scattered over a large area of entranceway into the Conner building. Every time I leaned down to pick up the final page, someone would open the door, allowing a warm yet annoying breeze to push it just far enough out of my reach I would look again like a clumsy fool.
When I proclaimed my final apology, I watched her turn without sending a single word in my direction. The door opened and she was gone.
Class that day featured words upon words that fell on deaf ears. I sat next to my best friend, roommate and all around confidant and confessor.
"Where are you, man?" he asks, as we made our way to our dorm.
"What are you talking about, I'm just fine."
"You're full of shit," he insisted.
I paused to make certain I would see the expression on his face. "I met the first woman who will divorce me; the one I'm going to marry."
It didn't take long, but my BFF and I were both laughing our asses off. He pushed me away with his arm punching my shoulder and made comments like 'can I be your best man?' and before I knew it, we were wrestling around our dorm room like brothers. He put me in a head-lock and continued his teasing with an obnoxious knuckling of my head. All this fun and games topped off with a wet willy.
I guess at this point I need to make some introductions. It took me one whole week to find out the name of my first ex-wife. She proudly told anyone who would listen that her name was, Ellen Lucia DeCarlo. She chased her roots back to Southern Italy. She referred to it as the sexy part of the boot, the part that loves sex and Limoncello. Never ask Ellen how she got such a non-Italian first name; her rathe is mighty and unforgiving.
Then there is my roommate. His name is Paul Jenkins. Paul is a very athletic guy that was lined up for a football scholarship, but a motor cycle accident took his spleen and his scholarship all in the same day. I have to admit; he is a very special friend. Never condescending, and never one to push me out of the way when I needed something to boost my ego. He has always been a 'shirt off his back' kind of guy.
I guess it's my turn to let the kitty cat out of my bag. My name is Joseph Simon. Simon is not my hereditary name. Several years ago, long before I came into the world, my Grandfather got sick and tired of trying to explain how to pronounce his last name. He brought our family to the US from Eastern Europe. There were no vowels and a shit-load of letters that made sense only to someone that had roots similar to his. He picked up a Pittsburgh phone book and the first name he came to was Simon. That is how I got my last name. It's a story I relish telling anyone who is interested. Unfortunately for me, nobody these days give much of a shit. And no, I couldn't pronounce my family name either.
Getting back to my somewhat sordid tale; when I explained to Paul I had no idea who this vision was; not her name, not where she was staying, was she seeing someone or even if she was a female. All he could do was smile and concede we had our work cut out for us.
"I can't figure you out, buddy." His face contorted in a questioning way. "You will soon carry one PHD and a double Masters, you haven't missed a question on a test since you were still in the womb, but you can't figure out how to let a girl catch you."
"What do you mean, catch me?'
"Joe when did you run over this girl?"
I told him the story for the second time, and then the light-bulb went on bright as day. Today was Thursday, so with a little forethought we were going to see if she had a class or lab in the Conner Building every Thursday, or was today something out of the ordinary.
For the next week we walked past every dormitory, every Sorority House and every make-out place anywhere near the campus. The Elbow room was a great place to see people trying to hook-up. But we didn't see a thing that would put us on her trail. I felt sorry for Paul, he didn't even know what she looked like. All he knew was, she's brunette and I was in love.
When Thursday arrived, I could hardly breathe. Paul was off on another class project, so it was up to me to make a fool of myself... again. I sat on that uncomfortable bench for over an hour before the magic moment arrived. The door swung open and out came the girl of my dreams. Again she was alone, and I had no idea what I was going to say, but I didn't have to say anything. That nasty warm wind decided to make an appearance and her papers flew out of her hands to the four corners of the world. Well, maybe not the world, but they covered the marble steps of the Conner Building. Just like 'Superman' to the rescue I was on my feet and gathering her academic life as if a man on a mission.
That was all it took. This time she didn't turn and walk away. We talked. I admitted I had a class, but I would be more than willing to sacrifice one lecture for a chance to sit and get to know her better. When she agreed to a soda at the Student Union, I knew in my heart I had won.
After exchanging numbers, it took me only one day to call her. We talked for over an hour. Three days later we were on our first date, and three weeks later we were sharing an apartment I had to rent for a year, knowing we both would be getting our degrees and leaving for greener pastures in less than two months. But what the hell, I could easily afford it, and we were in Love.
As luck would have it, Paul was going to do his Graduate studies here, and the problem of the Apartment was settled. When Ellen and I moved out, Paul moved in, and his girlfriend too. Everything was coming together, like a Kiowa folk tale written on the wind centuries ago.
My family held a shit load of stock in a multi-national distributor of basic goods, and the advertising end of the business alone was worth all Scrooge McDuck could hide in his pool.
Ellen had a good paying job, that she didn't need, and we weren't in a rush to start a family. There was a sizable Annuity coming from my Grandfather's will, and so we went ahead and built our dream home.
After almost two years of wedded bliss, Ellen decided she wanted to write the Great American Novel, so she gave up her work and began the arduous task of researching her literary project. I, however, didn't have the desire nor the need to turn my back on a project I treasured.
At first my home office door was always open, but after a short while, Ellen's constant typing and talking out loud to herself about her plot or the characters in her novel, stole my mind from my work. To remedy the problem, I decided I could no longer work at home. I moved back into the office and lab downtown. Every morning at four o'clock, I would slip out of bed, get dressed in the appropriate gear, quietly slip out of the house and be on my may for a three and half mile run. Three days a week, I would enter into the basement at the side of the house and finish my workout with everything I hated about fitness, but I knew it had to be done in order to stay at the top of my game both physically and mentally.
Reverting back to the good old days, days before Ellen and I had become so involved, I became blinded to the fact that Ellen and I were beginning to drift apart. I could never blame her; she always tried to be the perfect wife. It was me.
I tried to make things right with her, at least I thought I was trying. But the trip I planned to Japan died a horrible death. The trip to Paris, was good, but ended up in an argument so severe that when the planes' wheeled touched the ground we had fully and completely stopped speaking to each other.
At the eight-year mark of our wedded hell, a memo came out from the main office of my employer. There was to be a congratulatory and compulsory dinner for several executives. Seven of those, including myself, were to receive major promotions. They wanted to keep it quiet as to who was being promoted, so it was employees only. The wives would be celebrated later. I already knew about the job change, because I was the one they ask for recommendations.
The big day was set for a Thursday. Thursday was chosen, because a lot of the people in the higher ranks of the corporation, took Friday off to do what men and women executives do on Friday before going home. I didn't see any reason to tell Ellen the good news; after all she decided a week ago I didn't need to hear the sound of her voice. So why bother with getting shut down again.
People started leaving the building at eleven-thirty. By twelve-thirty everyone had taken up their designated seats in the modest private room at the back of the hotel restaurant. And to my surprise I was the youngest executive in the room. I was seated next to the CEO, and he made it very clear I was in the correct seat.
As I glanced around the room, I could feel the tension building with some of the more seasoned employees. Why should I care what anyone was thinking? I had the smarts, the experience and the stock portfolio.
Just as I was beginning to feel a little more comfortable, I saw something that almost stopped my heart from beating. In the more public area of the restaurant, against the back wall, I saw a familiar face. My wife was sitting with another man. I couldn't see who this strange man was, but there was a familiar feel to his identity. It was my friend and confidant, Paul Jenkins.
They were holding hands, and after a moment or two, he pulled her face close to his, they kissed. Not a glad to see you kiss, but a kiss that lasted a long time, a long, long time. His hand held her face to him and her hand seemed to massage his leg all the way to his thigh.
People in my group were starting to head back to the office, and I was caught in a conversation with the CEO, and he wasn't about to let me leave. He wanted me and my wife to spend the weekend with his family at his weekend home on the coast. I was able to make up a plausible lie to put him off for a week or two, but I knew it was only temporary.
The anger in my soul was like sitting on a pier, watching the tide come in and then out again. There was no doubt in my mind the problem with my marriage was mine. I had let my wife down. Now what would I do to fix it; if indeed it could be fixed?
I was one of the last to leave the table where both wonderful and tragic things had met and fought. The battle was crashing all around me, when I walked up to the desk clerk and ask if a Paul Jenkins was registered.
"Yes sir, can I give him a message?"
"Could you see that he gets this note before he checks out?"
The clerk looked at the folded note on Hotel Stationary. "I'll see that he gets this right away, Sir."
When I returned to the office, I took care of a couple messages, and accepted the congratulations of people that passed by my office. My assistant said her good night, and I sat at my desk, looking out on the city and wondering why I had done so poorly in my marriage.
At some point I thought Ellen would call to ask about the note that was taken to Paul Jenkins room. The note was not addressed to Paul. It was addressed to Ellen.
The note read, "If you wish to stay with Paul I will give you my blessing. Signed, your loving husband"
"Take the long way home," I said to my driver.
When he responded, he changed lanes and took the first exit from the freeway. Once we were on the surface streets, I could relax and take in the sights of the houses and people living lives that I was destine to never experience. Children were outside playing. The parks were filled with games of baseball, softball and soccer. Mothers gathered in groups passing on whatever it is they pass on, and the fathers stood on the sidelines encouraging their sons and daughters.
The driveway to our home is protected by an automatic gate. The driveway is not long, so I could see a car, my wife's car parked in front of the house; not in the garage where it normally would be parked.
"I'm home Ellen," I announced, walking through to my home office, where I deposited my briefcase, poured myself a drink, and sat down at my desk, pretending to be reading some gibberish from the internet.
