by Rod Redux
“You guys still fucking?” Jim asked, examining his nine iron.
Allen blinked, derailed by Jim’s sudden change of subject. He stammered, “Uh, well… no. It’s probably been two or three months since we made love.”
Jim grimaced. “Yikes! Two or three months? I noticed your forearms were getting bigger. I just thought you were going to the gym more.”
Allen chuckled. “I’m even getting callouses.”
Jim stepped up to the tee. He thrust his gigantic ass out and wiggled it around, then took a couple practice swings. “You should have an affair,” he said. “Famous TV guy like you… I bet you could take your pick.”
Allen cocked an eyebrow. That was actually not far from the truth. He could take his pick. From hundreds of eager female fans—young, good-looking, hot-for-his-dick Ghost Scouts fans. He’d had plenty of offers, been followed to his hotel room when the gang went on publicity tours, even got propositioned in the men’s room a couple times. One gal, a thirtyish bleach blond with giant breast implants, had walked up to him in the back room of a convention hall, dropped to her knees without saying a word and dived straight for his zipper. She’d whipped his pecker out before he had a chance to collect his wits and disentangle himself from her.
And then there was Tish. Young, attractive, and willing.
“But I don’t want them,” Allen said stubbornly. “I want Sharon.”
Jim stepped to the tee and swung. It was a beautiful drive. Both men watched the little white ball rise into the blue porcelain sky. It hung in the air for a moment, then gracefully descended to the green, bouncing once, twice, then coming to rest just a few feet away from the cup.
Allen laughed as Jim grinned back over his shoulder at him.
“You’re a real cocksucker,” Allen said, shaking his head.
“Don’t you wish,” Jim replied smoothly.
They shouldered their bags and headed toward the golf cart.
2
Allen dropped his ball onto the grass beside the pond, then slid a lob wedge from his bag. Jim cleared his throat and shook his head, looking across the fairway like he wasn’t paying attention to what his buddy was doing. Allen dropped the lob wedge back in the bag, went for the pitching wedge. Another cough, another shake of the head.
“Use one of your irons. You don’t need that much loft,” Jim said out of the corner of his mouth.
Smiling, Allen took the proctologist’s advice. Before getting famous, the only sports Allen played was pick-up b-ball with the neighborhood gang, maybe a little softball on company picnics. Tiger Woods he was not.
The ball faded a bit, but landed fairly close to the green.
“Not bad, not bad,” Jim said.
As they drove toward the putting green, Jim returned to their earlier conversation as if it were still fresh on Allen’s mind—which it was.
“Maybe she’s cheating on you, boyo,” he said.
“Sharon?” Allen asked in a disbelieving voice. “No way.”
Jim shrugged, steering the cart one-handed. “It happens. Actually, fifty percent of all married couples commit adultery, men and women both. All three of my ex-wives cheated on me. Two of them with the same tennis instructor. Little prick! Finally, I just said ‘fuck it’. That’s why me and Shelly started swinging. At least it’s fair. She gets some strange, and me gets some strange. I think the worse part with the exes cheating was me not knowing it was going on. I felt like the world’s biggest schmuck. Especially after hiring that tennis instructor again. I’m such an idiot.”
“I think I’d know if she was cheating,” Allen said, but he wondered. Would he? Would he know if she was cheating? He spent a lot of time on the road. The show took him all over the United States. They’d even shot some episodes in Europe. And then there were the publicity tours, sci-fi conventions, grand openings. Shelly used to travel with him when the show first went on the air, but after a couple years, she decided she’d had enough traveling. She’d always been a homebody. She liked puttering in the garden, cleaning and decorating her house. Living on the road had no appeal for her. She’d much rather stay home and play with the dogs, or hike the trails that crisscrossed their extensive wooded property. Tend to her roses and hydrangeas and buddlejas. Wake up early in the morning to sip coffee and read a paperback romance. She’d always been a bit of a loner, but it would be easy to sneak a lover into her bed when he was a hundred miles away, hunting ghosts in some abandoned prison or western saloon, if she was so inclined. They had no kids. Never wanted them, and their parents lived several states away, Sharon’s mom and dad in Florida, Allen’s mother in Ohio. Who would rat her out? Hell, she could be hosting gangbangs in the parlor for all he knew. Half the male residents in their gated community could be running train on her while he was away.
Only that wasn’t Sharon’s style. Never had been.
He said so aloud.
“No way,” Allen reiterated. “Sharon isn’t like that. We didn’t meet until we were in our late twenties, and she was still a virgin then.”
Jim looked sideways at him, and Allen laughed.
“I swear, dude! She’s Catholic, and her mom and dad royally fucked her up in the head about the whole sex thing. She wouldn’t even give me a handjob while we were dating. We didn’t do anything sexual until our wedding night, and even then, it was like screwing a two-by-four, she was so stiff. It got better later, a lot better, but even then… she’s always been real funny about sex. She’ll laugh at a dirty joke. Watch American Pie and not get sniffy, but when it comes down to actually doing it, that’s another story.”
Jim pulled the cart over. “Maybe she’s going through the change,” he said, swinging his feet out onto the paving.
Allen climbed out, too. He grabbed his bag and slung the strap across his shoulder. “Now, that could be. I know she missed a period earlier this year. We thought she was pregnant, but the test came back negative.”
“She been to see a gynie?”
“I don’t think so. At least, she hasn’t told me if she did. She doesn’t trust traditional medicine. No offense. She does all that homeopathic stuff.”
Jim nodded. “I bet she’s pre-menopausal. She needs to see a doctor and get her hormone levels checked.”
“I suggested that,” Allen said.
“What’d she say?”
“Nothing. Just looked right through me.”
Jim shook his head as they climbed the hill to the putting green. “Just get some pussy on the side,” he said.
3
Later, at a bar called Trovillion’s, Jim pulled Allen close and pointed out an attractive brunette sitting in a booth across the room from them. “See that chick over there?” he whispered confidentially. He was only slurring a little, but his breath was forty proof.
“Yeah, what about her?” Allen whispered back, looking over his shoulder.
It was a quarter past 8:00. They had stopped for a couple brews at a local tavern before heading home—Jim’s idea, though Allen hadn’t put up much of a fight. It was a blue-collar bar, Reba Mcentire singing “When Love Gets a Hold of You” on the jukebox, good ole boys in dirty blue jeans playing eightball at the billiards tables. Allen’s kind of place. Didn’t matter how rich or famous he got, he was always going to be a little bit of a redneck.
The “couple” beers had turned into a few without too much persuasion, as well.
Jim belched into his fist, blowing a sour cloud of Victory Lager in Allen’s direction. He apologized at Allen’s wince, patting his buddy on the chest. “I bet she’d fuck you,” he said.
Allen laughed, turning away from his pal. “Why do you keep trying to get me laid, dude? Is it some kind of repressed homosexual thing?”
Jim laughed. “No… No…!” He gave Allen a sober look—as sober as he could manage, anyway. Finally, he admitted, “I just hate to see you unhappy, man. I love you like a brother—“
“I love you too, man.”
“—And I see how much Sharon is hurti
n’ you. I know you love your wife, but you’ve hung your happiness on how she feels about you, and I’m here to tell you, brother, that’s a recipe for misery. You know why? Because love don’t last forever. It don’t! It’s all—the whole love thing—it’s just… bullshit! So you’ll go out and buy diamond rings and expensive jewelry and Hallmark cards. It’s just… “ Jim waved his hands, spilling his beer a little. “Just bullshit!” he finished.
“And…?” Allen said, the right corner of his mouth curving upwards.
“And if you get some strange, you might see that Sharon ain’t the only cupcake on the dessert bar.”
“Ah… okay. I see where you’re going now, lame metaphors and all.”
“Okay,” Jim nodded, and took a swig of his beer. He swiveled on his stool, looking back at the brunette across the room, who was peering in her compact and adjusting her hair now. “Good,” he muttered. “Cause, honestly, I ain’t trying to get you laid out of some kind of repressed homosexual thing.”
He leered.
“Well… maybe a little.”
“Knock it off!” Allen laughed, punching him in the arm.
Jim almost fell off his stool. Allen was a big guy.
“Sorry, man. I get horny when I drink,” Jim smirked, rubbing his shoulder.
“Jesus Christ.”
“You’d like it!” Jim said with smug assurance. “Don’t try to kid yourself. Got me some wicked moves. Blow your little mind.”
“And my bunghole.”
“Yeah! Blow your little bunghole, too!”
Allen noticed the barkeep watching them out of the corner of his eye, and laughed again. “You’re a sick fucker, Dagstine,” he sniffed.
4
They exited Trovillion’s at nine-- after Shelly, Jim’s current trophy wife, called him on his cell and started raising hell. Stumbling across the parking lot to Allen’s car, they were still laughing and describing what they would do to one another’s rectal orifices if they were ever inclined to homosexual behavior. Allen was currently winning their gross out competition, luridly describing how he would make Jim’s ass into a banana split. He’d pile on all the toppings, he said, whipped cream, strawberries, nuts, and chocolate syrup, before splitting the banana in Jim’s ass in half… with his cock.
“Oh, God, stop!” Jim giggled, holding his stomach. “I just pissed myself a little bit!”
Fumbling for his keys, Allen said, “You better empty your tank before you get in my Jag, Dagstine. I just had this bitch detailed.”
“All right! All right!”
Jim whipped it out and started whizzing right in the middle of the parking lot as Allen figured out which key unlocked the door of his car. He slid in behind the wheel and unlocked the passenger door, then powered the passenger window down.
“Nice equipment,” Allen complimented his friend. “Good healthy stream, buddy.”
Jim turned away, complaining loudly.
When Jim was finally empty, he jumped into the car and buckled up, and Allen drove carefully across town to the gated community where they lived, staying well below the speed limit and holding his Jag as steady between the yellow and white lines as he could manage.
Traffic was light, and they encountered no police patrols, which was a good thing because neither of them could have walked a straight line for Johnny Law that evening.
Allen pulled to the curb outside Jim’s house and bid his golfing buddy good night, then rolled next door to his own house. Jim would grab his golf clubs from the trunk in the morning.
Allen parked, then sat in the drive for a while, staring at his house.
It was a big place-- too big for just the two of them, honestly-- a modern two story house of no particular architectural style, with a big greenhouse, an in ground pool, and a guesthouse in the back. The property included a huge tract of wooded land which abutted a national forest preserve. It had cost him a quarter of a million dollars. Price reduced. Just thinking about it boggled his mind.
A quarter of a million dollars!
Eight years ago, before the Discovery Channel picked up Ghost Scouts, he was just a salesman working for a tool manufacturing company. He had worked Monday through Friday, daylight to dusk, hawking his wares to hardware stores and building contractors. Just a regular working stiff with an unusual hobby: exploring spooky old houses on the weekends with his wife and friends. They called themselves the Ghoul Gang back then, him and Billy and Jane and Raj. Whenever they caught some interesting footage or a cool EVP, they’d put it on their website. Eventually, they built up quite a following, and then they got “discovered”. Before he knew it, he was a bona fide TV star, an actual celebrity with an enormous fan base and an annual salary that seemed, to him, a little bit obscene.
The guy he used to be, the old Allen Mandel, was just a dream to him now, a character he’d read about in a book. He didn’t know who this new guy was, the celebrity Allen Mandel, but he wasn’t the Allen Mandel who grew up on the wrong side of the tracks. Who always wore his brothers’ hand-me-downs. Who had slept with his pillow over his head many a night because his drunk parents were having a knock down drag out in the kitchen below.
He had more money now than he could ever realistically spend. Friends. Fame. But he couldn’t decide if he liked the person he had become. Sometimes he felt the weight of all his responsibilities bearing down on him, and he was afraid it was going to crush him one of these days. He used to have Sharon to lean on, to help him shoulder the weight, but his wife had grown tired of all the attention—and she’d excised herself from his life.
He could tell by the lighted windows that Sharon was still awake. She was usually in bed by nine or ten, an early riser, but she was still up tonight for some reason.
Allen stared at the glowing windows, waiting for her to cross one of them, but she never did, and for some reason—maybe because he’d gulped down one too many beers—he felt like crying.
He thought about Jim’s wife calling him on his cell when they were at the bar, demanding that he come home right that instant. Just who the hell do you think you are? he’d heard her voice buzzing out of Jim’s phone, sounding like an angry hornet trapped in a bottle. You could have called and let me know you were going to stop for a couple beers. I was getting worried!
Sharon used to call him like that, too, back before the show took off.
He was actually jealous of his friend getting his ass chewed for not coming home when he said he’d be home. It had been years since Sharon called him like that, and he missed it. He missed being missed.
He wondered what Sharon was doing.
Probably sitting on the big sectional in the living room, he thought, her feet tucked primly beneath her, smoking a Virginia Slim and reading the latest romance novel by Janet Dailey or Nicholas Sparks, paying no attention to the dark pressing against the windows, the chiming of the big grandfather clock that stood beside the fireplace.
Where’s your husband, Sharon Louise Mandel? Allen mused. Could be he’s out at some no-tell motel fucking a dyed blonde floozy he picked up at the bar, and you’re just sitting there reading your romances or maybe watching some chick flick on the Lifetime Network. Or maybe he’s dead in some five car pile up on the express. Who knows, and do you care anymore?
If not, what made you stop? Allen thought. When did you fall out of love with me?
Wow… He was a lot drunker than he thought!
Allen scrubbed his face with his hands, then climbed out of the car and headed toward the front door. He swayed a little as he trudged up the sidewalk, a husky man in a light blue Polo tee shirt and tan slacks.
The front door was locked, he discovered, and the porch light was off, so he had to search for the key in the weak glow given off by the solar powered security lights in the flowerbeds.
He dropped his key ring, cursed softly as he bent to retrieve them.
Fuck, Sharon! Why you always gotta lock the door? You could at least turn on the porch light for me, he thought.
<
br /> He found the right key and poked at the keyhole for a minute, getting frustrated. Cursing, he rammed it home and twisted, stumbling inside.
He found himself looking at his reflection in the full-length mirror that faced the front door. Squarish, chiseled features. Short-cropped sandy blond hair, going gray at the temples. Discontent was etching ever deepening lines into his face: at the corners of his eyes and mouth, horizontally across his forehead.
Who was this old man?
He slammed the door and tossed his keys on the antique table beside the coatrack.
“Sharon, I’m home!” he yelled.
His voice echoed in the big house.
He heard the canned laughter of a TV sitcom. It drifted into the foyer from the living room. Allen shuffled toward the sound, finding his wife just as he’d imagined her—sitting on the sectional in a fuzzy pink robe, her feet tucked under her butt, a cigarette in one hand and a paperback in the other, only she was reading Robyn Carr, not Janet Dailey or Nicholas Sparks. A rerun of Everybody Loves Raymond was playing on the flatscreen. Sharon didn’t look up, although she must have heard him come in.
“Sharon, I’m home,” he said again.
She turned a page, glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. She didn’t say anything, just brought the butt of her cigarette to her lips and took a drag. When she realized he was going to stand in the doorway until she spoke to him, she sighed and said, “I left you some dinner on the range, if you’re hungry.”
He smiled. “Thanks, hon.”
“Broiled chicken and broccoli-and-cheese.”
“That sounds good.”
“You’ll have to nuke it.”
She returned to her book. On the TV, Raymond did something wacky and the audience dutifully broke up.
“Sorry I’m so late coming home,” Allen said as he crossed the spacious living room. He walked into the kitchen and found a plate of food sitting on the stove, wrapped in aluminum foil. He peeled the foil off and slid the plate in the microwave, watching the broiled chicken and vegetables rotate through the window.