Cash Out

by Greg Bardsley

  He stands over the shotgun seat. “Something tells me Larry here can handle it. Go get a bite, Danny. Maybe a drink, too—loosen up, take a couple of big breaths, get your bearings. And when you come home, take my bed. I’ll sleep in the front room with the boys.”

  “Rod, c’mon.”

  He points at me. “Don’t you dare offend me.” He drops into the shotgun seat, slaps Larry on the shoulder, hollers out to me, “Be safe, Danny.”

  Safe? I laugh to myself. We’ll see how safe I am after I tell Kate what I have to tell her.

  And, just like that, I feel like I’m about to faint.

  I wait for her at the corner of Jackson and Fillmore.

  She pulls up in our minivan, unlocks the doors, and looks down the street as I ease in. My heart pounding, I glance over and look away.

  “You okay?”

  Her voice is tight. “Sure.”

  “Where should we go?”

  “The Haight.” She starts down Fillmore. “I need someplace easy and chill.”

  God, I don’t want to do this.

  We cross California.

  The tone in her voice is heavy. “Do I want to know?”

  Oh shit. “What?”

  “The bald guy.”

  “Oh.”

  “Do I want to know? Is he okay?”

  “Oh, yeah. Well. We’re letting Larry take him—”

  “You know,” she says, her voice tightening, “actually, I don’t think I want to know.”

  “No, honey. Seriously. He’s fine.”

  “With Larry? That guy’s fine with Larry? Are you nuts?”

  “And David Duncan, actually. The guy who hired Baldy. I mean, I guess Larry has him, too.”

  We drive in silence for a long while.

  “Dan, assuming this thing doesn’t blow up in our faces sooner . . .” She glances at me. “. . . what do you think guys like that are going to do once Larry lets them go?”

  I twist my lips, look straight ahead, and nod, conceding. “Well . . .” I’m drawing a blank. “Yeah, that’s a good question.”

  “I mean, so what if that man was following you guys?”

  “Yeah. Well, yeah. Yeah, Larry doesn’t like people fol—”

  “That’s the problem, Dan. Larry.” She grips the steering wheel with both hands, leans forward in frustration. “Larry’s involved.”

  “Yeah, I know. That was . . . I mean—”

  “But, hey, I sure enjoyed my date with him.” She pauses, forces a chuckle. “Oh yeah, that was a real treat. Thanks for setting us up, Dan. You’re a real swell husband.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I snap.

  “I mean, not every gal has a husband who sets her up on dates with violent sociopaths.”

  “It wasn’t a date,” I snap.

  We cross Oak.

  My steam is rising. “Listen, I’m doing the best I can here. This whole thing is crazy.”

  “No shit. And it’s all—” She stops herself, bites her lip.

  “Sure,” I snap. “Say it. I knew that’s what you’re thinking. It’s all because of me and my big mouth, talking to BusinessWeek, doing all that stupid shit at work.”

  “And doing God knows what on the Internet.”

  Shit.

  She waits a long while. “It’s just that the geeks should have had nothing on you. I mean, we should have been celebrating right now.”

  “Kate,” I start, but can’t think of anything to add.

  We reach the top of the hill, and Kate pulls right onto Haight. “And now I get a call from Julie at FlowBid telling me there’s an e-mail flying around listing your porn activity.” Her voice quakes. “Some e-mail to all of FlowBid’s—”

  “Well, just the top floor, actually.”

  “Whatever. The point is, every person in the company has seen it. And according to Julie, it’s all a bunch of ass stuff.”

  My stomach is surging again.

  She takes a parking slot near Steiner.

  “Well, it’s not like you have a bad ass.”

  She scrunches her face. “What?”

  “What I mean is, it’s not like you have this disgusting ass and I had to look at nice butts on the Internet. You have an amazing ass.”

  She looks at me, the disbelief piercing me. “I can’t believe you.”

  “I’m just saying, hopefully it’s a little less embarrassing for you. This is not because there’s a problem with you or—”

  “Oh, I know it has nothing to do with me.”

  “It has to do with my problems.”

  A momentary tone of sympathy. “Your ass problems?”

  “It’s not like you’re chubby and I was looking at skinny girls or something.”

  “Oh, gee, Dan. That makes me feel so much better. It’s not like I have a disgusting ass. So why should I be hurt and humiliated? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “I’m just . . .” And my brain freezes.

  “Dan, what if I worked someplace where lots of people knew I was married to you. And, one day, thousands of my coworkers learned that I was spending hours upon hours looking at boners and balls on the Internet? Bonerssandballs dot-com?”

  “Well—”

  “No, think about that.”

  I do, and I can literally feel the humiliation.

  “How would that make you feel?”

  I’m such an asshole.

  “Would you feel hurt, like there must be something wrong?” She looks at me, her eyes hurting. “Would you take it personally?”

  There’s a lump in my throat, and it’s so big I can barely swallow.

  “You know it’s more than this sex shit, right, Dan? The fact we don’t do it like we used to. You know that’s just a symptom of bigger things.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.” She shakes her head, looks away. “We don’t connect anymore. We’re like robots, running around trying to catch up, trying to do it all, and all the time we’re running right past each other.”

  “I’m so sorry, honey.” My voice breaks. “You deserve . . . so much more.”

  This softens her. “I mean, I know you’re a man, and men like to look at girls, and that’s okay, I guess. But this e-mail thing was . . .” She looks out onto Haight, shakes her head with a dry chuckle. “This was a lot.”

  “I am so sorry, honey.”

  She’s looking out the window. “Like I said, it’s symptomatic.”

  I close my eyes, shake my head. “Honey, listen, it’s not like—”

  “You’re obviously horny. I mean, the whole company knows you’re horny. And now they’re all thinking you’re obviously not getting what you need at home.”

  “No, listen.”

  “And then I’m thinking—you didn’t even tell me the geeks had this on you. The ass activity. I had no idea.”

  “Neither—”

  “So, now more than ever, I’m wondering what else they have on you. Things you’re not telling me.” She turns, looks me in the eyes, and my heart sinks. “Something you’d do anything to keep from me.”

  “No.”

  “Something so bad, you’d rather see people kidnapped and sent to Larry’s house.”

  And I know, I have to do it. I have to tell Kate about those instant messages. Those fucking stupid messages with Anne. If I tell her, I take that bargaining chip away from the geeks. And I can tell her on my own terms, not through a companywide e-mail.

  I look down, take a deep breath. “Honey.” I can’t look at her. “There’s something . . .” I force myself to look up, meet her eyes. “. . . I have to tell you.”

  Kate is crying when she spins on her rear, pulls her feet from under the wheel, and lands the heel of her boot into my nose. The back of my head bounces off the window.

  I’m c
rying, too.

  “I’m so sorry,” I wail.

  “I”—she kicks again, gets me in the arm—“knew”—another one, in the gut—“it.”

  Blood drips off my upper lip. “Honey.”

  She drops her head, sobs.

  “Honey.” I wipe the blood off my lip. “It’s just that stupid IM’ing. I mean, it got out of control. But there wasn’t anything else.”

  Oh my God, how did I become such an ass?

  “We never touched, I swear.”

  She squeaks, “Do you love her?”

  “Love her? Honey. Never.” I quake, teeter on losing it. “Honey, I love you. Only you.”

  I do lose it, start to sob.

  She shakes her head, covers her face. “I can’t. I just can’t”—she opens the door, wobbles onto Haight, her mascara-streaked face caught in the headlights—“do this.”

  She stumbles toward the sidewalk.

  I roll down the window, shout, “Honey.”

  Her shoulders fall as she walks away.

  I stumble out of the car. “Katie.”

  She quickens her steps.

  I try to run after her. Shit. My crotch feels like hardened plastic.

  “Honey.”

  “Leave me alone.”

  I touch her shoulder. “Honey, just wait.”

  She turns with a look of utter disgust, swipes away my hand. “Leave . . .” She pushes me back, follows. “. . . me . . .” She pushes again. “. . . alone.”

  I stand there, watch as she turns and heads down the sidewalk. A spindly homeless man wrapped up in countless layers of clothes meets my eye, says, “Whoa,” and giggles.

  I follow her. “Kate.”

  She turns and rushes me, slams me against the metal gate of a shuttered vinyl shop, bites her lip, looks me in the eyes, and knees me hard, right between the legs.

  My face freezes in shock.

  My midsection explodes, and my legs nearly give. I feel my eyes roll back. But I won’t let go.

  I can hardly breathe. It feels as though every nerve ending in my body has been redirected to my crotch and plugged into an electrical transformer. With one swift kick, Kate has cut through all my layers of defense—all the distractions, all the denial, all the Vicodin—and brought me to my knees.

  “I’m so sorry.” It’s the only thing I can say. “So sorry.”

  Finally—maybe at the sight of me crumpled on the ground—she softens a bit.

  “I don’t know what happened to me, honey.”

  She takes a big breath, exhales slowly. “I thought it might be something like this,” she says, her voice heavy with resignation. “You’ve been . . . You weren’t acting like the guy I married. You’ve been . . . You’ve been an asshole, Dan.”

  “I need to get back,” I sniffle. “Back to the real me. That’s what this whole thing is about—quitting this life. We can get back together. I know it.”

  She looks down at me. “You need to get back. I’m right here.”

  I try to stand up with her. It takes me a while.

  “I need a drink.”

  She takes off down the sidewalk. I hobble after her.

  We’re at the Gold Cane on Haight.

  I’m at one end of the cocktail lounge, pressing a bloody napkin into my nostrils. She’s on the other end, all alone.

  Except for the two guys she’s talking to.

  One of the guys has bought a round of tequila shots. Kate hoists hers, smiles up at the guys, and downs it. She looks up to the taller guy, smiles up at him, and straightens. Then she looks my way and glares.

  “Want another?” The bartender on my end has nose studs, straight bangs, a tight, ripped black T. The loud voices, laughter, blaring music all bounce off my face. “Huh?”

  “You want another beer?”

  I shake my head. “Shot of Cuervo.”

  She looks at my nose. “You want some ice for that?”

  I nod.

  Kate and the guys are laughing about something. She takes another shot, lifts it into the air. The tall guy eases closer, exchanges a huge smile with his buddy as she drains her shot, grimaces, and signals for another.

  My bartender returns with a shot glass and a Ziploc full of ice. She tosses me the ice and pulls a bottle of Cuervo, glances at me as she pours. “You okay?”

  I glance at Kate and the guys, nod yes.

  Now Kate seems to be leaning back on the tall guy. He’s lean and narrow and blond, like he’s just gotten off a flight from Stockholm. Is he the kind of guy she really finds attractive? Someone completely different from me? Or is he just the first opportunity she had to piss me off?

  I take the Cuervo, down it, and my nose explodes all over again. I shake my face, hunch my shoulders, and narrow my lids, glancing over. Kate smiles to herself, catches me looking, and glares again.

  “Don’t forget your ice, dude.”

  I look up, and the bartender nods to the Ziploc.

  “Oh yeah,” I mumble, pull it off the bar, and slide it down my pants. Through gritted teeth I exhale, “Thanks.”

  Bartender watches, mumbles something to herself, and turns away. I say to her back, “I have a bigger problem area than the nose.”

  The tequila warms and dulls my head. The ice pack cools and numbs my crotch.

  Stockholm is beaming. Surely, he thinks it’s his night of blind luck, to have this gorgeous creature fall into his arms, to have this woman with a modest ring on her wedding finger lean into him and laugh.

  I nod to the bartender, and she shifts over and pours me another shot. “You sure you’re okay?” There’s a trace of amusement in her voice.

  I nod, hoist the glass to her, and she nods back.

  “Going through a rough patch, looks like?”

  I down the shot, shudder, and try to ignore my throbbing nose.

  She nods to Kate and the guys. “One of those guys rough you up?”

  “Huh?”

  “They don’t look the type.”

  “No. It’s— I mean, the lady did.”

  She squints at me and turns back to look at Kate. “She kicked you?”

  I look down, nod.

  “What, you get a little fresh?”

  “No, I— Well, actually . . .” I rearrange the ice pack. “Yeah, a little too fresh. But with someone else.”

  She smiles, eases away. “Such a dude.”

  Stockholm is leaning over Kate, his mouth practically in her ear, whispering something, his lips almost brushing against her ear.

  Okay, that’s enough.

  I swivel off my stool, weave through the bodies toward them. Everyone else in the bar is having such a great time. Everyone else is on a different planet.

  Kate looks up again and notices my seat is empty. Stockholm tries to nibble her ear and she brushes him off, stumbles off her stool, heads my way.

  I emerge from the crowd, shuffle toward her. “Honey.”

  She reaches out, yanks me to her, lets me hug her. “You asshole,” she slurs. “You fucking asshole.”

  I wrap my arms around her, look her in the eyes. “Never again, babe. I swear.”

  “Hey.” Stockholm stands behind her, his hands out, brow creased. “Dude.”

  Kate announces into the air, “Dude . . .” She fights off a burp. “. . . it’s over.” She swallows hard. “Scram. My asshole husband is begging for forgiveness.”

  I’m staring into my girl’s eyes.

  She chokes on something.

  “Dude,” he says, takes a step closer. “Totally not cool.”

  Kate sways, moans and burps.

  “Dude.”

  Then, like an unexpected slap across the face, she vomits down my chest and over my shoulder. Warm, rancid wetness rolls down both sides of my body. Some of it splashes
onto the floor.

  Everyone eeeeee-ewing and shrieking.

  Everyone making room for the drunk parents on date night.

  I’m driving shirtless down Baker Street, Kate riding shotgun.

  “Food,” she rasps. “I had all that—” She gasps, moans. “. . . on an empty stomach.”

  “Just hold on, babe. Keep that bag close.”

  “Honey.” Her fingers latch onto the plastic grocery bag I’d salvaged from the back of the van. She gasps, closes her eyes. “I need to get—” She exhales hard. “Something . . .” She pauses, blows out a gust. “. . . in my stomach.”

  “There’s a McDonald’s at Fillmore and Golden Gate. It’s got a drive-through.”

  She covers her face, exhales. “Fine.”

  I pull a right onto Golden Gate. “Just hold on, babe. We’ll get some food in you, sober you up a little.” And I realize I’m probably drunk myself, shouldn’t be driving. “We’ll do the drive-through, find a place to park and sober up a little.”

  She reclines her seat a little. “Why?” She takes a big breath, lets it out slowly. “Why . . . aren’t we connecting like we used to? Thass . . . That’s the problem, you know?”

  “No. No. Honey, I was just stupid. I just got pulled into it with those IMs. I mean, we told a few stories, I guess.”

  “You tell her how I sucked you off behind that rock that time?”

  “Kate.”

  “Did her stories give you a . . .” She pauses, swallows, and sighs. “. . . a hard-on?”

  “Kate. C’mon.”

  “Well, I got news for you.” Tiny burp, long exhale. “What if I told you Alec and I have been back in touch? We’ve been e-mailing?”

  Alec? Kate’s old boyfriend? The guy she always says she hasn’t heard from in twelve years?

  “What”—burp—“would you think of that?”

  Is she kidding? My brain constricts. She’s been lying to me.

  “Guess I don’t feel so bad about that anymore.”

  We pull into the McDonald’s drive-through. “That’s nice,” I say. “You’re mad at me for having a few horny instant messages with a coworker? When you’ve been off reconnecting with your old boyfriend?”

  God, that sounded bad.

  “Stop it . . .” She exhales. “A couple of e-mails—”

  “Welcome to McDonald’s,” says a female voice.