"Serendipity" is the only explanation for how four guys with cheating wives ended up in the same high-end bar in a suburb of Washington, D. C. in the same afternoon at the same time. Maybe some higher power was taking pity on them because they had lived primarily innocent lives and didn't deserve the shitty circumstances that they were mired in.
Thirty year old Jack entered "The Gold Coast" at about 2:00 p. m. on a fateful Wednesday. Unable to concentrate on his job as a medical researcher for NIH, despite his normally teetotalling nature he had to do something and perhaps this bar could provide some solace. He planned on confronting Audrey, his wife of seven years and mother to their three year old daughter, that night about her infidelity. He dreaded the result because he could not envision a best-case scenario.
Jack was sipping an aptly named, given his mood, Devil's Cut Jim Beam bourbon at the most remote table from the bar when he saw Tom enter about 2:20. Of course at that time he didn't know that was his name, but the forlorn look on Tom's face immediately caused Jack to muse "That guy looks as shitty as I feel," just before he took another sip. Thirty five year old Tom, a low level lawyer for the Federal Government mostly dealing with military procurement contracts, had moved out of his suburban home into a cheap hotel a few days ago after finding out first-hand about his wife Amy's activities. He couldn't stomach the way that he was being treated but couldn't afford to do much else if he wanted to see his darling six and eight year old daughters on a regular basis.
Tom noticed that Jack was the only other person in the bar - not surprising considering the prices at The Gold Coast and the time of day. He sat at the second most remote table from the bar and was soon approached by Amber, the lone cocktail waitress working at the time.
"What can I get for you sugar?" Amber asked. Seeing Tom's bloodshot eyes and hang dog look she said "Looks like you need something strong."
"That obvious, huh?" Tom rhetorically replied. Amber compassionately nodded her head. "Two shots of anejo tequila, please," Tom sighed.
Stan was obviously agitated when he walked in about quarter to three. By then Jack was on his third Jim Beam - two more than he had had the past six years - and Tom was on his second round of tequila shots. Twenty eight year old Stan nervously paced the establishment for a while before settling down at a table close to the bar, one that had a good view of the entrance. Stan had to be at least six feet six inches tall and two hundred forty pounds, a big strapping guy who looked like he either worked out with weights every day or had a job requiring intense manual labor. While not in blue collar work clothes he wasn't in a suit with discarded or loose tie like Jack and Tom, and his bulging biceps were clearly protruding from his short sleeve shirt. "A pitcher of PBR," he barked when Amber approached before she could offer a greeting.
"Sorry, honey, but the owner of this place is kinda snobbish. We don't have that fine American brew, but we do have Heineken on tap. A pitcher of it will do the same thing as a pitcher of PBR, just cost you more," she smiled.
"A pitcher of Dutch horse piss it is, then," Stan growled, rapping the fingers of his left hand on the table while tapping the ground with the boot on his right foot.
It was about 3:00 p.m. when Will, a short, portly, well-dressed man in his early fifties, entered. He exposed the $200,000 Zenith Christopher Columbus watch on his wrist by moving back the sleeve of his monogramed silk shirt as he checked the time before sauntering up to the bar. He seemed to be as forlorn as Jack, Tom and Stan were. Rather than waiting for the barkeep to mosey over to him he lightly grabbed the passing Amber by the arm and said "Your rarest Glenfiddich, please," loud enough to be heard by the only other three patrons, none of whom had the slightest idea what he was ordering.
"Obviously a man who knows his Scotch," she giggled. "That may cost you two hundred bucks," Amber replied with a smile, and then laughed and said "and don't forget the tip."
"I wish my worry was money," Will sadly replied.
While serendipity had brought the four cuckolds to the same location, nothing might have come of it had there not been a catalyst. That essential ingredient took the human form in the person of Amber.
Amber was more sophisticated and older than your average cocktail waitress, but was as pleasant to look at as those ten years her junior, and she was all the more attractive because of her indomitable outgoing personality. After chatting up each of the four when she brought each round of drinks - as well as numerous times between rounds since the activity was so light this sunny Wednesday afternoon - she gleaned that each of her four customers had a common problem; wife trouble. None of them came right out and said that his wife was cheating, but having been around the block more than once, including having divorced a cheating husband, Amber surmised that that was the root cause. Why else would these four be in her bar on this fine day and time with the hang dog looks that they exhibited?
When it was Tom's turn to get yet one more tequila Amber approached him with the drink but didn't put it on his table. "Say Tom; have you ever heard the expression that 'misery loves company?'"
"I guess," he mumbled in response.
"Well I've never seen two guys as miserable as you and Jack over there," she said pointing over toward Jack's table; "except for maybe Stan and Will," she continued, nodding her head in the direction of the bar. "I'm putting this drink on Jack's table; if you want it you need to go talk to him."
Tom was about to protest - the last thing that he wanted was male companionship - but Amber was already halfway to Jack's table before anything came out of his mouth. When she placed Tom's tequila in front of Jack he was surprised, but by that time - having known her for a good ninety minutes - he liked Amber and just shrugged his shoulders when she gave him the explanation for her actions.
Tom reluctantly ambled over to Jack's table, they introduced each other, and started up an awkward conversation. At first it was just a little uncomfortable chit-chat, but Jack - being further along in his quest to kill brain cells and less used to drinking than Tom - broke the ice. "Tom, when I first saw you walk in I said to myself, Jack, that dude looks as shitty as you feel. Do you think that we have the same problem?"
Ten minutes later it didn't take much doing for Amber to convince Will to join the now freely conversing duo. Tom and Jack warmly greeted Will. They asked him what the hell "Glenfiddich" was, took a good look at his watch, and soon were talking to him as freely as they were to each other.
It was a little harder for Amber to get Stan to join the motley trio. His dress and drink didn't mesh with theirs. She offered him a pitcher on the house if he'd go over and at least say hi to them; apparently that appealed to him because he was already sitting between Will and Tom when Amber brought him his complimentary pitcher of beer and a new frosted mug.
By the time that it reached 4:45 p. m. and other customers started coming into the bar all four of the new acquaintances were near-drunk, if not sloshed. They had each opened up about the nature of their problems - a cheating wife - to the others and now were at that point that occurs during many male conversations; one-upmanship. They had a friendly argument about whose situation was the worst; and who had the most dastardly solution to his, or the others', problems.
By then, for their own reasons, Will and Jack had to leave, and it was better for Stan if he did too. However, before they broke up Will floated an idea.
"I think that we should each present our problem to a panel of objective strangers. Whoever is, hic... found to have the worst, hic... situation, the other three will help rectify it." Maybe not the best way to phrase it, but pretty good considering that he was drunk.
"What do you mean by 'rectify?'" Jack, a little more sober than Will and Tom, skeptically asked.
"I mean solve their problem. Look, the four of us have different abilities. Stan has brawn, Jack has guts and medical knowledge, Tom has legal ability and a typical devious lawyer's mind, and I have money. I'm willing to underwrite the entire experience so that we each get a fair hearing, and even if I don't win I'm willing to bankroll whatever we come up with to rectify the winner's situation." Sensing skepticism Will persevered. "What have we got to lose, dudes? Can things get any more depressing for us than they are now? At least we'll have the satisfaction of knowing that we're doing something."
"He's right," Stan barked, smashing his big right paw on the table and almost cleaving it.
"I'm in," Tom said snapping to a fully upright posture for the first time in days.
"What the fuck DO we have to lose?" Jack chimed it. "What's the plan, Will?"
"Tom, give me your card; I'll be calling you by tomorrow to have you do a little contract writing for the four of us. Jack and Stan I need your cell phone numbers too. I'll set up a meeting - shall we say 9:00 Saturday morning - at one of my offices to enter into a formal agreement, and discuss details. By then I'll have started work on getting a panel to evaluate our stories," Will excitedly uttered.
"What do we do until then?" Jack asked.
"Maintain the status quo the best that you can. You know your wives better than I do. I'm not saying that you have to act happy, but don't do anything drastic either - pretend that you're all Emmy-winning actors," Will replied.
They all shook hands and got up to go, each reaching for his wallet.
"To show you good faith - and because I'm so excited about this - let me pick up your tabs," Will said as he motioned Amber over, "and tip our darling little catalyst," he continued once she was in earshot. Will settled up and gave Amber a $400 tip, a hundred bucks per man. She also got a genuine hug from each member of the quartet.
"It's good to see you boys walk out of here with fire in your eyes; or should I say 'stumble,'" she joked.
Tom walked back to his shitty nearby hotel room while Jack and Stan took cabs home and Will was picked up by his limo; no one wanted a DUI to spoil their plans.
**********************
The four co-conspirators met at one of Will's suburban offices, a new brick three story building with the name "Bronson Commercial Realty" emblazoned over the classy cut-glass entrance.
"Who's 'Bronson?'" Stan naively asked.
"Yours truly, William H. Bronson, Jr." Will replied with a smile. "I'm kind of vain, but this is the only one of the dozen businesses that I own that I named after myself," he grinned.
