by Nate Allen
.
CHAPTER 4
HEDERA HELIX
It had now been almost two weeks since she had met him on her evening out with the ladies, and it had been her hectic life as usual, in short, busy as a cat covering up shit. A plethora of children’s activities, homework, art classes, piano lessons, gymnastics and the boys’ athletic practices/games, the balance of mental and physical stimulation she sought for them …and herself, and yet she still fulfilled her domestic obligations and had time for her pet projects, i.e., social and charitable outlets which satisfied the altruist in her upbringing.
She was amazingly organized. But her curiosity of him was front and center in her mind’s spare time as she multi-tasked during that period. She was simply pragmatic, responsibilities came before pleasure, children’s needs before hers, but that familiar primal itch so to speak was flaring up, and she had hopes, high hopes that this fellow Jake might be able to offer some help, and their meeting had been arranged.
She was not new to this, it was not her first drive-in movie so to speak, and she had been in the proverbial backseat before. It had only been a couple of times, but Rae had stepped outside her marriage to Glen in the past. Unlike this, they were not premeditated, but random hook-ups often with alcohol involved, those sinful grapes whispering in her ear “It’s okay…nobody will know…you deserve this.” While he offered much to her as a friend, husband, partner, even when he chose to as a lover, she was now a woman in her mid-thirties and sexually smoldering, hungering for oxygen and fuel to feed the fire, and for the life of him he could not see the smoke, or was deliberately looking the other way like a man who knows his roof needs tending, but lacks what it takes to remedy it.
She told herself that his ignorance or apathy of it gave her an out, a reason, though truth be told, it was more of an excuse, the difference being a reason is based in fact and an excuse is something we merely present as a reason when one doesn’t exist, a lie of convenience we tell ourselves to disable the regret or remorse. How does one justify infidelity anyway? Perhaps we deny the promise of fidelity existed in the first place, or simply tell ourselves that the intimate details of the contract had been rendered “null and void” by “nonperformance.” Who can say for certain, but she made it work for her, largely guilt-free, like “diet” adultery.
The human mind has a way of collaborating in such matters anyway, cataloging behaviors that make the wrong seem right, filed away in just the right category; one man’s act of “murder” is another’s “justifiable homicide;” one teenager’s graffiti = “art,” another’s seen as unsightly “vandalism;” one spouse’s “calculated act of betrayal” is another’s “justifiable adultery,” …get it? The mind colors these acts in a way that makes them defensible and safe, so that we can get up in the morning and look at ourselves in the mirror without self-loathing …and establishes the precedent necessary to any good defense, so that we may do them again if we want.
Semantics, perspective, or just plain old “puh-TAY-toe/puh-TAH-toe” nonsense that gives one permission to do the unacceptable and inappropriate in a selfish pursuit of happiness and help “mark time” as we serve our sentence, prisoner to our circumstances, without trying to escape them. And do so without the associated shame that a Baptist preacher’s daughter might be inclined, predisposed, or obliged to feel. Call it the moral equivalent of the “Security System” sticker on the household window when there isn’t one …it’s really just empty bullshit offering protection against ill feelings we might ought to have, a psychological self-defense mechanism which keeps us functioning.
Whatever you call it, she was good at it, her compartments had compartments like a Russian matryoshka doll. She would not have a simple dichotomy or duality to her personality, she would have a plurality of guises, like Sybil, only it wasn’t a disorder but a gift, available on-demand and each was recognizably an aspect of her. Like the K-cars of the 80’s the basic frame remained intact, only the details adapted and arranged to the performance she had planned or what the situation demanded of her, mother, daughter, friend, wife, MILF, surreptitious amateur porn-star, and while we all have them, and most of them are socially acceptable, she manipulated them with the coolness and skill of a serial killer …or a D.C. politician. Always in control of it, like that careful southern twang of hers, she would be better at it than anyone Jake had ever met, except for himself of course.
On those occasions she had scratched her itch she had quelled it for a time, but it had always been done with a bit of trepidation and unavoidable stress about all in her life that was endangered in doing so, and consequently it had almost always been done less than satisfactorily, leaving something more to be desired, but done nonetheless. Perhaps because of the business with Frank, some trace of doubt and suspicion in her partner was always present which prohibited her from truly being comfortable, surrendering to the moment, and taking what she wanted from it.
Undoubtedly, because of Frank, she came to consider it a viable option to her predicament. To bridge the gaps in what her encounters had lacked, what she had conceptualized and sought was an ongoing relationship without expectations other than that of “no expectations.” With passion but without emotion, “no-strings” except of the “tie me up” variety, and the all-important communication and familiarity lending itself to a mutually satisfying, and gratifying experience. Where each party would get something they couldn’t get elsewhere, or were afraid to ask for. It seemed unrealistic, but she thought it tenable and sensed perhaps she had found a coconspirator in the form of this brown-eyed middle-aged single father. She would present it to him in a surprisingly frank and businesslike manner, and much like the interview it in fact was, in typical Rae Anne Johnston fashion, maintaining the final say over what if anything would happen, discerning whether or not Jake had the necessary credentials, was desirous of the “benefit package,” and wanted the job. Her assessment of all these things would determine whether or not she would extend the actual offer.
Jake had been diagnosed with something akin to a heart-murmur or irregular heartbeat as a child, it was not of the life-threatening variety but was best explained as having too much adrenaline per se, or a faulty adrenaline switch, the result was that he always had what felt like a degree of constant “static” on the line like an overseas phone call, or an AM radio station, a metaphoric “ringing in the ears” which he became immune to over time. But under those circumstances that naturally create stress in each of us and the physiological response of “fight or flight” sets in, his body would overreact unnecessarily to inane situations and stimuli, as if Pavlov’s dogs once conditioned to salivate at a bell began to salivate uncontrollably at a whisper, similarly he frequently felt nervous when there was no reason to be nervous. And it had made for a difficult life.
When you combine the physiological aspects of his reverberation with the self-consciousness that comes from an adolescent and pubescent period defined by isolation and hardship, it was a wonder he wasn’t a virgin. It created for a terrible intersection of conflicting emotions when confronted with females he was attracted to, the excitement flipping the hair-trigger adrenaline switch and the exaggerated physical response telling him to run away from the thing his heart and mind told him to run toward. So when it was said he was nervous when he met Rae Anne that first evening, and that it was rare for him as an adult, it has to be understood in the context of his life, that the nervousness itself was not rare, but the degree of it most certainly was. And “yes,” as strange as it may sound, he welcomed it, because it meant something extraordinary was at hand that would test and draw upon all of the aspects of his manhood to stand his ground.
Psychasthenia is a $10 word he learned in his Psychology studies which he understood to be associated with unwanted aspects of introversion. Encompassing various elements of neurotic behavior …phobias, anxiety, compulsions, the beholder of which knows are irrational, but still can’t help themselves. Now antiquated and seldom used, it has since
been broken down into more specific and familiar diagnoses such as OCD, etc… But then again, this was his understanding of it and Psychology is an interpretive, abstract science, otherwise there would only be one theory, which wouldn’t be a theory …it would be a law. And he liked the sound of the word and interpreted it for his own purposes to explain his compulsive obsession with punctuality, and the stress not being on time created for him. Being allergic to stress he tried to avoid it as much as possible. He could tolerate tardiness in others, but being late intensified that ever-present static in him, and consequently he arrived at the park before her, or so he thought. At this point not entirely remembering what she looked like, and hoping he would recognize her and not be disappointed …and vice versa.
He walked from the parking lot toward the opposing park benches, “chin up, chest out, eyes forward” as his father had taught him, with a slow measured gate of well earned natural swagger enhanced by the confidence his encounter with Ivey had left him with. He had the understanding that this was an audition, and he dressed in a casual fashion for which he was best suited, and what he thought she had found attractive in their initial meeting. Boot-cut jeans, a white button-down dress shirt, two buttons undone, sleeves slightly rolled, and the hem not tucked, wheat colored nubuck work boots. A day’s worth of whiskers in addition to the groomed hair on his face, and a bit of gel in his thinning salt-and-peppered hair, because “the occasional wind was not his friend.” He was unpretentiously vain, and hoped to give the impression that he was extremely interested, but not desperate, as if he was doing the sizing up like he had another interview later in the day.
Cut a bit from the same cloth it would seem, she had made certain to arrive early herself, and she watched from a safe distance with the interest of a voyeur who hopes to catch a glimpse of the unguarded man, leaving herself the option to abort if need be, after all, it was still in the conceptual phase, but she liked what she saw. She was reminded of a phrase her grandmother would use when her grandfather would strut around taking delight in surveying the 100+ acres of farmland they owned, the old woman chiding him lovingly about “priding around like a Bantam rooster,” and in similarly appealing fashion, Jake strode up like the “cock of the walk” unaware of his audience, but much like she had been that first night, she was attracted to him, and the relevant humidity began rising between her stonewashed thighs.
It had been an unusually long time for a man with a short attention span, between point A: (Leon’s) and now point B: (A small neighborhood park in west Raleigh). He had revisited the communications between them, and the absence of detail and brevity left him halfway expecting this woman to try and sell him some of her daughter’s fundraiser cookies, or a year supply of toilet tissue. It seemed like he had met her a month ago, but only eleven days had passed and he needed to be reminded of why he was even there, but then he saw her, and all hell quietly broke loose within the man.
Only in North Carolina can it be 30° one day in November, and 70° the next. She sauntered up wearing a faded pair of vintage jeans, with the appropriate well-earned fray, an Abercrombie & Fitch t-shirt and one of her sons’ baseball cap with a short ponytail pulled through the back, her brunette hair now shimmering with a hint of auburn, and no makeup, she didn’t need it …God help him. He would have probably agreed to murder for hire right then and there, figuratively of course, or at least offered up the contents of his wallet for the opportunity to unwrap her. He had the look on his face of a man about to go over the waterfall and knows there’s nothing he can do to avoid it. Life had slowed such that seconds seemed like minutes. His sudden self-awareness of weakness where she was concerned, seemingly announced in his smiling eyes and bashful grin. If this doesn’t work out I can always pursue stalking, he joked to himself.
Ivey who? No disrespect intended, the young woman would have her well-deserved and rightfully distinguished place in that heart-shaped box of amorous events, but right now the name conjured up nothing more than the image of Hedera Helix, which was not a Cuban singer, but the scientific name for common English ivy as it was known at the plant nurseries he did business with …something else he had planted with great success. The experience had been unbelievable, truly unbelievable, like a beautiful mirage unbelievable, but he was now staring at a potential oasis, which like one of those tricky damn SAT questions: Reason is to Excuse as; A) Oasis is to Mirage… i.e., one is real, the other is not, and he could only think about the possibility of the refreshment it might offer him if he played this right.
He rose to greet her, a simple handshake seemed formal and impolite but would have to suffice for now he decided in the half-second before things got awkward, after all they were in a public place, and at best like prison pen pals gathering to discuss …her escape, a conjugal visit or what? She would resolve the dilemma, extending her hand first, with a “Hey you, nice to see you again. I bet you forgot what I looked like, sorry to show up looking such a mess.” A damn hot mess he told himself, and like the night at the club, he felt himself slowly turning into Billy Bob Thornton in Sling Blade, as if he might start speaking in monosyllabic utterances about “biscuits and mustard,” and “liking some French fried potaters,” when she unfairly flashed that wicked grin, touched him on the hand, and fucked his head up momentarily.
Bypassing any small talk because her schedule didn’t allow for it, she sat down across from him, her legs crossed, and seamlessly began to lay out her situation succinctly like a CEO who had a plane to catch. What was absent from her marriage, what wasn’t, what she ideally wanted from him, what was acceptable/unacceptable, what he could expect in return, the deal and the deal-breakers so to speak. In short it sounded a lot like a sexual 401k plan to her marriage, to supplement the physical aspects. “Are we good, what do ya think?” “Sound like something you’d be interested in?”
Like any well-deserving applicant, he had some questions he had prepared for the “interview” regarding the nature of her marriage, i.e., was it “open,” “polyamorous”…did they dress up like the butler and French maid and chase each other around the house, but she had essentially covered all of that, and all he could think to ask was “Is your husband the jealous type? Does he own a gun?” It was a genuine concern he thought considering his one past experience. “No …and no,” she laughed. “In fact I’m starting to believe he wouldn’t notice you if you were sitting at the dinner table with us.”
Two barely acquainted strangers meeting like a cop and a confidential informant in the middle of the day to conspire to do naughty things with each other at the first available opportunity. This is great he thought, and incredibly bizarre, as in “too good to be true” bizarre …I must be getting punk’d …where’s Ashton and the cameras? And then she pulled up the calendar on her smart-phone, and discussed availabilities with him. The weekend after Thanksgiving was open for her, the boys would be with Frank, Glen would be leaving for a conference at UVa, and Natalie at her parents. It was still two and a half weeks away and he didn’t readily know what his schedule was like, he never had to plan that far ahead, but he would make sure it was open.
They dispensed with a small amount of chitchat, commented on the beautiful day, discussed how they would communicate in the interim regarding the details of the event, the possibility of changes as they always existed with her potential plans, and exchanged phone numbers. She wanted the option to speak when the opportunity arose. Did he have a girlfriend, was it okay for her to call, if so, when? “No girlfriend, yes you can call, and anytime is fine, leave a message if I don’t pick up.” was the response. It was okay for him to call as well, and she hoped he would, but she preferred a private or blocked number, daytime only during the week. And at this point, no texts since her kids often used her phone, beyond that email was still fine. He winked and nodded showing his understanding. He didn’t need to take notes.
She gathered herself up, removed the hat, and stuffed it in her big Mommy purse she had brought which was big enough to hold all
the things a mommy might need, as opposed to a “hoochie” purse the hoochies at the nightclubs carry, big enough for only the cash, ID’s, cigarettes, and condoms, etc., they might require. She undid the ponytail and shook out her hair like Eva Longoria in one of those “Because I’m Worth It” shampoo commercials, told him to walk her to her Suburban, and the gentleman that he was followed suit. He opened the door for her, taking note of all the kids’ stuff inside, and smiling at the all too familiar clutter.
He wanted to get inside and go with her. She gave him a hug like an old friend might, a hug that was publicly appropriate, and yet he still had to discreetly adjust his emerging member. They looked at each other with the intensity and curiosity that people must who are party to a mutually agreeable arranged marriage, or perhaps more accurately, like two strangers on the set of an amateur porn video awaiting their call to duty, “lights, camera, FORNICATION!!” Neither knowing quite what to expect, but the sexual tension increasingly apparent to them both. He thought himself to be fully capable of assisting her with her “needs,” and she sensed it. Unless something unexpected came up, in little more than two weeks time they’d be “rubbing bellies” together.
.
CHAPTER 5
LOSE YOURSELF
He was a cute boy who had been disfigured by the mean-spirited intentions of an asshole older neighbor at the age of six, eating a fastball at close range, hit with the “ugly stick” so to speak, and he would endure five years of buckteeth before his parents discovered orthodontics, and another five years of braces. Time doesn’t really heal all wounds, its more like a car rolling down the highway past a sign, as we glance back it simply occupies less and less of the landscape with distance, the indentations the wounds have made however are permanent, and sometimes even late in life, we still feel the pain, each of us merely children grown older.