Duncan's Diary

by Christopher C. Payne

  He ignored Janine’s rants while he spent most of the morning in the bathroom, gathering his senses. He heard her state that she was leaving today on a trip after dropping the kids off at school. She still had some time before her imminent departure. She woke him up quite early, once discovering where he was in order to avoid the kids seeing their loser dad in such a state of demise. He did appreciate this small token, as he did not want his kids to see what he had become.

  He managed to focus enough to get dressed and inhaled his first cup of coffee like it was the only cup he would ever be allowed to drink in his lifetime. He quickly downed a huge glass of water, as well. This enabled him to slow the process enough to appreciate his second cup of black, soothing liquid more slowly. The kids were in their own world as usual and sensed that their dad was not operating at 100 percent. But in their innocence, they had no idea why.

  Have you read the book Blink? It is a fascinating book that focuses on the ability to make snap judgments. It points out that quick decisions are actually the calculated conclusions that our experience has allowed us to make based upon our minds ability to formulate a hypothesis very quickly. I think the statement “on a whim” is in reality the same general philosophy. We, as people, can never turn off our minds. They are constantly working, even in our sleep, which is why we have dreams to begin with. Imagine the fact that your mind never stops functioning. In everything you do, your brain is sending waves throughout your body, moving on its own. Guiding you in aspects that you have no ability to understand or control.

  It was on this whim that as Janine pulled out of the driveway on her way to take the kids to school and then go off on one of her business trips that Sudhir decided he would follow her. He didn’t know why or couldn’t explain the reasoning, but nevertheless “on a whim,” he got into his car and pulled out at a safe distance and trailed her path without her knowledge. It felt odd following his wife, but he needed some direction in his hung-over state.

  Maybe a distraction was a better term versus direction, and he felt that this was an easy route to take.

  Janine made her way down the familiar route to both schools. She dropped off the kids with little fanfare. It’s a consistent, daily routine so many parents are a part of. The monotonous ritual of making lunches, getting breakfast, fighting with the brushing of hair, and insistence on actually cleaning themselves, and brushing teeth always makes for interesting parental tales. How can kids possibly fight so hard against brushing their teeth? The entire concept escapes the logical ability to understand.

  After Janine dropped the children off, she headed north toward Daly City, which was an interesting way to the airport. Sudhir was sure she had stated she was heading out to a business trip. Maybe she was going on an errand before she navigated to the airport, off to her flight. Women constantly have things they need to do, from getting their hair done to getting their hair cut to getting their hair highlighted to nails then toenails, waxing, eyebrows. It was too much for any man to keep up with.

  Her next stop was puzzling as she pulled into a parking lot and exited her car. Suhdir noticed that she removed her suitcase out of the trunk. Why was she taking her suitcase inside an extended stay hotel in Daly City? It was as if she were checking in and staying, but in Daly City. If she had business in Daly City wouldn’t she be doing that business during the day then coming home at night? This was merely 20 minutes from their house. Sudhir’s mind was entangled with webs from the previous night’s activities, and he knew he was not thinking clearly. He was unable to decipher these events into a scenario that made any sense.

  He waited in his designated spot along with several other automobiles for 45 minutes, sitting, staring at the front door of the hotel trying to piece together what was happening. He puttered around with anything he could find; and, as luck would have it, there was a pint of vodka in the glove compartment from a few weeks ago. He took a couple of swigs and felt the welcomed warmth as the liquid penetrated his throat and stomach, cascading through his limbs as the pain from his dehydration seemed to subside.

  They say (I have no idea who “they” really are, but they seem to say a lot) that a sure sign of being an alcoholic is using the numbing effect of alcohol to thwart the pain of the previous night’s hangover. Suhdir had just been through too much to care. With the events that had recently shaped his life, he knew he was beyond his limit. He was afraid that what he was about to discover might push him irretrievably over the edge. He wondered if he lost his footing and took the plunge if he would manage the ability to find his way back. Maybe some people are better off not knowing the deep dark secrets that they are surrounded by. Is living in happiness, even if it is a lie, bad? Maybe it is, but maybe it isn’t. Happiness is the key, right? No matter how you get there.

  Sudhir exited the car and walked through the front door of the hotel into the lobby. It is about what you would expect from an Extended Stay establishment. The flowered print hanging on the wall, and the indoor/outdoor carpet that was time-warped in straight from the ’60’s. The Formica desk that housed the 20-year-old pimple-faced attendant sitting behind the make-shift furniture with his iPod stuck in his ears, paying very little attention to anyone that might have a question. The lobby was void of humankind, save the two of them. The quiet held an eerie foreboding silence as Sudhir watched the boy beat his hands against his legs in rhythm with the song blaring, which only he could hear.

  Sudhir racked his knuckles on the plastic covering that for some reason was in place to protect the Formica desktop. The boy annoyingly took off his earpiece and asked, “Can I help you?”

  Sudhir opened up his wallet to show his police identification badge, and the boy sat up straight and, this time in a politer tone asked if he could be of any service. Sudhir simply stated that he was looking for Janine Takhar, was wondering about her stay, and how often she frequented the hotel.

  The boy opened up the books without hesitation and stated that she had checked in a little less than an hour ago. She was staying for two days, and she did frequent the hotel on a somewhat regular basis. Sudhir asked for a copy of the last few months’ records, and the boy gave him a printout of what was readily available. It was enough for Sudhir, as it dated back close to two years.

  Sudhir stumbled back to the car, not really in control of his bodily limbs. He opened up the glove compartment and guzzled down half of the pint of vodka in one swift inhale. He called his parents and asked them if they would mind watching the kids for the next couple of days. The kids stayed over there frequently enough, so they agreed to pick them up and take over the parental duties.

  His mother asked him if everything was okay, saying he sounded odd. He reassured her as best he could. His goal was more focused on getting her off the phone and allowing him to think through what the next step in his quickly disintegrating life might be. Janine had never had business trips out of town. He tried to think back on when this had all started. His memory muddled the dates so he could not pinpoint a time where she had begun this charade.

  It didn’t seem fair that his life was imploding. He felt like an aging boxer that was getting pummeled, hit after hit, and he was unsure of when the knockout blow was coming—but he did, indeed, know that it was coming soon. He contemplated going to a restaurant and ordering a huge, juicy rare steak.

  If he were going to be punished to this severity, he needed to feel like he had wronged God in some way. He never fully understood the reasoning on why God did not allow him to eat beef in the first place. Everyone else in the modern world did. God, his head was aching, what had he done to deserve this life?

  In his trance-like state, he realized that he had actually started the car and driven to his local bar. His autopilot apparently functioned quite well, but was programmed with only one destination. As would be expected this time of day, the restaurant portion was open, but the bar was still shut down. The waitress agreed to his request for a drink and poured him a glass of scotch. He handed her his credit card
as he asked for the bottle. She hesitantly obliged, giving over a bottle three quarters full, wishing him luck.

  The first three glasses slid down like shots. The liquor found a home next to the ingested vodka from less than an hour ago. He could feel himself already losing the ability to speak, and he was quickly hoping that he would lose all functions. He did see the waitress put down a plate of unordered food and thanked her for her proactive reasoning. He was luckily in a back corner booth of sorts, knew everyone who worked in the bar/restaurant and most of its frequented patrons. He felt he would be left alone to wallow in his self-pity for hours if he could keep from making a scene.

  Have you ever painted a room in your house completely on your own? You walk through each doorway, observing the furniture, the style, the décor. It all provided the atmosphere that you had created from bare brick, drywall, and wood. Once you have taken in the essence of your home, you then venture out to Home Depot to spend an hour or two perusing through the paint samples, picking out that one color that will fit perfectly on your wall. You might even bring a pillow or two to match colors, as your memory gets muddied when you look at hundreds of colors at one time.

  You select the perfect brushes and rollers and buy all your peripheral gear. You, then, head back to your house where you carefully mask the doors and windows, taping the trim, as well. You commence to paint with the hopes of upgrading the room to a new level. When you first start the rolling process, the yellow you picked out seems much brighter on the wall than it did in the store. You comment to your spouse, questioning whether this is really a good idea.

  You both agree that the paint is wet, and once it soaks in, it will bring you the much sought-after change in your lives and future. You roll and roll, then, trim with the brush as the sun goes down. After a full day, you are both tired, so you head to bed. The fumes fill the house and spread the aroma of paint throughout. You crack a window, allowing the fresh air a sneak attack on mitigating the smell.

  The next morning you both casually stroll into the room. After spending a few minutes looking at the walls and, then, back at each other you express your displeasure with the color you chose. This was not the intent – this bright, obtrusive, overwhelming aberration. What were we thinking, you both express as you lament over the choice trying to figure out if it is worth the effort now to go through the entire process over again.

  If it is this difficult to pick out a color for a bare wall in a house, how do we expect to ever pick out a spouse to spend our entire lives with? Sudhir sat in the booth, drinking himself into oblivion, as he felt the stabbing knife of betrayal being pushed deep inside his chest. Was she having an affair? Most likely, he thought. Why would she spend her days and nights in a hotel? Nobody was home most days, so it made no sense for her to seek escape from an empty house.

  Was she trying to simply obscure her life? Was it so horrible to even be in the house that she couldn’t stand the thought of staying there with or without him? How long had she been having an affair and with whom? Did Sudhir know this person that his wife apparently preferred to hold and snuggle? Did he wrap his arms around her as she lay there in bed talking about how horrible her life was, and what kind of an idiot she had married?

  His thoughts were interrupted by two men in their 20’s that were making a small scene pointing in his direction. They were complaining that he was drinking. They did not accept not being served a drink themselves, no matter what time it was. Sudhir watched as his body slowly rose from the seat, taking an advantaged viewing point from what seemed the ceiling above.

  He watched as his body walked over to the two gentlemen. His arm moved forward in a balled fist as he connected with the back of the head on the young man who was closest to him. He knew that this was wrong, but couldn’t stop his arms from flailing punch after punch in the direction of anyone that was moving near or within his vision. The two young men ran from the restaurant as Sudhir saw the waitress standing two feet away from him. Her mouth was wide open, having just dropped her tray of dishes that were en route to the dishwasher in the back.

  Sudhir simply sat down on the floor as she continued to gape at him with her wide eyes. Once there, he curled up in the fetal position and started to cry. He didn’t make a habit of crying and couldn’t remember the last time that he had. He was not a man who never cried, but it didn’t occur that frequently. He watched as his body shook in convulsions. He was heaving with each inhale, no longer in control of his anything.

  He didn’t care anymore about what people thought or what people saw. He was finished with pretending to be something he was not. He simply just wanted to cry. So that is exactly what he did.

  Divorce is Final

  I was finally 42. When you are young, you listen to the ranting of generations that are older than you. How they talk about time whisking by and your years seem to run into one another, leaving you standing one day doing nothing more than reflecting on where time went. You don’t really listen. You are young, invulnerable, and invincible; and there is nothing that can stop you. Then, one day you wake up and realize that you are no longer young and, yes, things are different.

  Forty-two years is a long time, and reflecting on the good and the bad is an experience that can make you wonder how anyone ever makes it through life. The interesting part is for 16 years I was married to one person. I shared the good times and the bad, just like it stated in the vows. The vows I was not allowed to say verbatim because of my wife’s instance on warping them to her self-centered view. But still 16 years of the 42 that I have been alive, I spent with this woman who was now the mother of my three children.

  I wish that I could remember the wonderful times that we had and how much we had loved each other. If I am truthful with myself, we had a rocky road from the very beginning. There was one instance before we were even married when we got into a heated debate. I was trying to remove myself from the situation until it blew over as I so often did. This was a typical exchange between my ex-wife and me. Anger would bubble up like lava, coursing to the surface until she erupted. We lived on the outskirts of Chicago--still close enough to have a Chicago address, but far enough away where no real native would readily accept the fact that this near-Western suburb was truly part of the city. We had rented the top-level, three-bedroom apartment from a Hispanic family which had approximately 15 people living in the downstairs apartment and were dumbfounded at why two people would rent such a large space by themselves. The dad was ecstatic at having such a small family unit or couple rent the place that he readily did anything he could to help us settle in.

  It was an older home with a spiral staircase that circled up as you entered the front door. The entrance to our apartment opened into a hallway, and to the left was a large living room with a non-working fireplace on the north wall. As you entered to the right, there was the dining room that emptied into a kitchen. From there, the apartment had a sunroom that let you out to the back staircase.

  We kept the larger bedroom for ourselves, made one bedroom into an office, and my ex-wife kept one bedroom as a walk in closet. I am close to anally neat – not a freak – but I do like things put away in their proper space. My ex-wife could not have been more of the opposite. She left her clothes wherever they happened to fall. The bedroom was littered with discarded garments all over the floor in piles in some discerning system that only she could figure out.

  As the argument ensued, I remember trying to enter the bathroom and shut the door, locking myself in solitude until she found the ability to control herself once again. I continued to attempt to close the door, but she blocked it with her feet and hands, holding the door open while she hurled curses and vulgarities at me. I don’t want this to sound like I am innocent in our war of words, as I was anything but. It always takes two people to argue, but in my defense on most occasions, I was the one trying to keep peace or just stop the exchange. I was tired of the constant bickering.

  My ex-wife at the time was holding a glass of red wine in
one hand, the bathroom door in the other, and was throwing dart after poison dart in my direction with her slandering description of me--who she thought I was and what kind of a man she felt that I was not. I countered with my opinion of her, and, as usual, this was froth with hurtful descriptions of her body that seemed to cause the most pain. As the last words left my mouth, her hand holding the wine glass flew forward, and I felt the cold showering gush as the red liquid jumped from the container and landed squarely in my face. On that happy note, I had finally tired of this and forcefully pushed the door closed. With her in the way, she was knocked backwards in this physical stand-off which I had now brought to closure.

  Unfortunately, my wife had long ago lost any athletic ability or grace. Once I shut the door, removing her brace, she lost her footing and stumbled. As one might expect, the wine glass went with her. In her fall to the floor, as luck would have it, the glass broke into several pieces, and a couple found their way into her hand, causing a rather large nasty cut.

  As somebody that grew up in a household of harsh physical discipline, I have never and would never spank my kids, hit my wife, or physically abuse anyone. I have anger issues and have on occasion been known to kill a person here or there lately, but I have never physically abused anyone in my family. If I did have this in me, then I would have been beating my wife long before we were ever married. God knows if anyone did deserve this type of treatment (and they don’t), she would head the list.

  With the spill to the floor and blood now flowing freely from her hand, her screams of anger quickly turned to screams of pain. I slowly opened the door to take in the newly created scene. As angry as I was, I still knew my civic duty and helped her to her feet taking her into the bathroom. We worked to stop the blood flow. The cut should have received stitches, most likely, but she chose to simply wrap it at home. She sucked it up while working the sympathy angle to ensure I felt as guilty as I possibly could.