The Average American Marriage (17 page)

chapter thirty-seven

Another Chance Encounter

H
olly and I are walking around the Westfield Promenade. I'm trying to eat my own ice cream while holding hers because she needs both hands to reply to some Facebook messages about an upcoming birthday party for one of the girls she goes to school with. It's difficult.

While looking at her phone, Holly says, “I just, I don't know. I like this girl, but I don't know if I want to spend next Saturday night at her place, you know?”

I say, “Uh-huh.”

She says, “Oh, look, though. James is going. Tina is going. Sarah is going. Maybe it won't be that bad. Should I go?”

I say, “If you want to.”

She says, “Would you want to go?”

I say, “If I were you?”

She says, “No. If you were you.”

I say, “You mean, like, go with you to this party?”

She says, “Yeah. Would that be weird for you?”

I say, “No. Why?”

She says, “Because you're, like, old, you know?”

I say, “I don't care if you don't,” and find that I honestly mean this. I'm flattered that she'd ask me to be her date to a party with friends her age. Some part of me has always thought she wouldn't tell any of her peers about me because she'd be embarrassed. This is concrete proof that she wouldn't be. I say, “Actually, I'd love to go.”

She says, “Okay. I'll tell her we'll go then.”

I finish my ice cream as we approach a trash can and say, “You want any more of yours?”

She says, “Nah,” and I toss both of them toward the can. Hers goes in, but mine, the empty one, banks off the lip of the can and hits the floor. Holly bends over to pick it up and I take the opportunity to give her a playful slap on the ass. As she stands back up, some guy throwing his drink away at the same trash can sees me slap her on the ass.

He says, “Holly?”

She looks up and says, “Dad?”

I have an immediate urge to walk away from the situation or fake passing out so I don't have to deal with what is about to occur. Instead I look at Holly's dad and the woman he's with, who I assume is her mom. They're older than me, but not by much. I certainly look closer to them in age than I do to Holly. I wonder if she's told them about me.

Her dad puts out his hand and says, “Hi, I'm Roger. And you are . . . ?”

I introduce myself and shake his hand with the hand that was just on his daughter's ass. I wonder if he notices this.

Her mom remains silent as her dad and I have a brief conversation about nothing. After maybe thirty seconds, Holly says, “Well, we should be going.”

Holly's dad says, “Okay, nice to meet you. Holly, you still coming to the house tomorrow?”

She says, “Yeah.”

He says, “Okay, see you then,” then leans in and kisses her on the cheek in what I can only assume is some kind of weird power play to mark his territory. There's no way he knows that I've had my dick in every one of his daughter's holes, but he has to suspect.

As Holly and I head to the parking structure to get in my car I wonder if I'll ever have to deal with something like this with Jane when she gets older. I wonder if I'd care if she was fucking a guy fifteen years older than her. I wonder if that guy would have a wife he was cheating on, too, and two kids whose lives he was ruining.

some chapter

John Larroquette

I
just came on Holly's tits and she's in the bathroom cleaning up. I turn on the TV and flip through the channels until I land on an old episode of
Night Court,
guest-starring a young Teri Hatcher. She plays a woman who's trying to get Dan Fielding to fuck her, but he won't because she's the niece of one of his clients.

Holly comes back in from the bathroom and gets in bed with me. She says, “Is that the old lady from that one show?”

I say, “
Desperate Housewives
. Yeah. Her name's Teri Hatcher.”

We watch for a few minutes. She says, “That guy is funny. What is this show?”

I say, “
Night Court
.”

She says, “How old is it?”

I say, “It's from the eighties.”

She says, “Like when
Fresh Prince
was on? Or was that the nineties?”

I say, “Nineties.”

She says, “What's that guy's name?”

I say, “John Larroquette.”

She says, “He's seriously funny. Did he die or something?”

I say, “No. Why?”

She says, “Because he never did anything else.”

I say, “He's done a bunch of stuff.”

She says, “Like what?”

I say, “He did a show called
The John Larroquette Show
that I think he won some Emmys for, and he's on a bunch of TV shows now. He did some
CSI
stuff. He's been on
Parks and Rec
.”

She says, “Seriously? Are you making that up?”

I say, “Why would I?”

She says, “To be funny.”

I say, “How would that be funny?”

She says, “It wouldn't.”

We fuck again before we go to sleep, and as I pull out and blow my load in Holly's ass crack, I wonder if John Larroquette ever gets pissed off when he has to explain who he is to girls Holly's age.

chapter thirty-eight

Happy Fucking Birthday to You

A
fter getting some green tea from the kitchen, I sit down at my desk and log on to Facebook to check the inane shit Holly has posted since I last looked. It's strange to have a pretty decent memory of each time she was doing something on her cell phone the last time we hung out and then be able to see each and every thing she was posting. It's the only thing that stops me from asking her what she's doing on her phone every time she's typing away in my presence.

As soon as I go to her page, I realize that it's unmistakably her birthday. There are forty-six posts on her wall, each with their own collection of comments all wishing her a happy birthday and asking what kind of presents she wants or where she wants to go out to dinner or how drunk she plans on getting. I had no idea it was her birthday at all. I scroll through all of the recent posts that have anything to do with her birthday, and I sleuth out a few things. Donald Himmel definitely wants to fuck her. Ken Grint definitely wants to fuck her. Tommy Hooper probably has fucked her, based on his comment, “Wish it could be your birthday eve two years ago. Bomb! Night. Up for a replay?” But beyond all this, I learn the most from one of her own comments to a post from Tony Berg that reads, “What chu need fur yer bday lady?” Holly replies, “My laptop is fried. Got a new one laying around hahaha?”

I don't know if Holly expects me to know that it's her birthday or not. We've never discussed anything remotely approaching the topic, but I can only assume that, because she knows I'm on Facebook and we're friends, she thinks I should know.

At lunch, I go to CVS and get her a card. I don't want it to say anything about love, but even though she swallowed a load of my semen less than forty-eight hours before this, I want the card to have a clear message of romance, so it doesn't seem like I'm just a friend. I find one with a flower on it that reads, “I'm so glad you are in my life. Happy Birthday!” This is perfect. I get some wrapping paper, some tape, and some scissors and head back to the car.

After CVS I drive through McDonald's and get lunch, then head to an Apple Store, where I have to deal with a teenager trying to upsell me on the most expensive laptop they have. I finally convince him that I'm unwilling to buy anything more costly than the bottom-of-the-barrel Macbook Pro, which is still fucking twelve hundred dollars. I reason that this will make Holly extremely happy, and the amount of fucking we've done has already been worth at least twelve hundred dollars, compared to the money I've spent on Alyna over the years versus the amount and quality of sex we've had.

Back in the car, I finish my fries, then do the worst wrapping job I've ever done in my life on Holly's new computer. When I get back to the office, I think briefly about waiting for Holly to go to the bathroom and surprising her by sitting the computer and the card on her chair. Thankfully I think this through to its logical conclusion, which involves far too many witnesses, so instead I send her an IM that reads, “Can you come into my office please?”

She comes in and sits down across from me. I say, “First of all, happy birthday,” and I hand her the card. She smiles and says, “Ooh, thank you. I thought maybe you forgot.”

This implies that I would have known before I forgot and confirms my initial suspicion that she expected me to know, even though we'd never discussed it. I don't bring this up. I wait for her to read the card in which I've written the following note:

“Holly, I know the circumstances aren't the best but I can't tell you how glad I am that I stayed late that night to help you in the file room. You've made me happier than I thought I could be since we met, and I just want you to know that you're very special to me and I'm excited to see where this goes. Happy Birthday.”

I expect her to say something similar to me after she finishes reading it. I hope she'll tell me how important I am to her or how much she enjoys spending time with me. This is not the case. After she reads it she says, “Thanks. That's really cool,” then she sits the card on the edge of my desk and stands up to leave.

I say, “I also got you a present.”

This gets a big smile from her—a real smile. She says, “What? Really?”

I say, “Yeah,” and pull out the computer.

She looks at it and says, “Should I unwrap it in here?”

I say, “Sure.”

She unwraps the computer and almost shits her pants. She says, “Oh my fucking god. Are you even serious right now? A fucking Macbook?”

I say, “Pro.”

She says, “Yeah, I don't think they make the regular ones anymore. This is so cool. I so need a new computer, too. Oh my fucking god. Thank you so much.”

She hugs me and says, “Is it cool if I leave it in here, in your office until after work? I don't want to be messing with it at my desk.”

I say, “Yeah.”

She kisses me on the cheek and says, “Oh my god! Thank you so much,” then heads back out to her desk.

I sit back down at my desk and look at the card I gave her, which she's left on the edge of my desk. I didn't spend much time crafting the message inside, but I'd still hoped it would produce some emotional reaction in her. I had hoped it would serve as a verbal admission of the affection that I've genuinely started to feel for Holly, and prompt a similar reaction from her. Instead it sits at the edge of my desk, just shy enough of the edge that it won't fall off. It reminds me of Holly sleeping on the opposite edge of the bed from me at night. I decide I'm reading too much into it, take out my phone, and cue up some pictures of her bending over and spreading her ass so I can see her perfect asshole.

chapter thirty-nine

The Biggest Fucking Shark

“T
his isn't going to be fun. Get that in your fucking head right now. You think things are bad now? Well, let me tell you, they get about a million times fucking worse. You have to know that moving forward. So, you're probably asking yourself, What is it that I can do for you? Fair question. Here's the answer. I can make it so when the dust settles, when the smoke clears, you're sitting as pretty as you can be after something like this. I can make it so your life is less miserable than it would be otherwise. And, most of all, I can give you the best possible foot to stand on once it's all said and done. And most other guys who do what I do won't tell you this shit. They'll tell you they'll get through this with you. They'll be your friend in all of this. They'll share the knowledge they have from doing this shit hundreds of times with you. Fuck that. I'm not your friend. I'm not your shoulder to cry on. And frankly, if I can be frank, I don't care what kind of emotional toll this takes on you. Because you're not paying me to be your pal. In fact, you're not paying me to
be
anything. You're paying me because I already happen to be what you need: a fucking shark. I'm the biggest fucking shark in the deepest part of this cesspool of an ocean we're all swimming in. Sure, there are other sharks. But they're small. They're weak. Maybe they'll take one of her arms or a leg or a chunk out of her ass. Not me. I'll eat that bitch whole and spit out the bones. Then I'll eat the fucking bones. And I know you're probably sitting here saying to yourself, ‘This guy just referred to my lovely wife as a bitch.' That's right. She can be whatever you need her to be to you, but to me, she's a bitch, and I need to tear her apart. Because, like I said, when the dust settles and it's a year from now, do you want to be living in a studio apartment in the Noho Arts District? Or do you want to be living in a house in a nice suburb, maybe even the house she's currently kicked you out of? This is California, my friend. She gets half of everything right out of the gate because you failed to secure a prenup. Most other guys just try to minimize the damage and convince their clients to get it done as quickly and quietly as possible. That's a fucking mistake. I will fight and scratch for every fucking dime I can get, and I won't play nice. I'll hit this bitch where it hurts. You have dogs? I'll take a full week bargaining the custody of the dogs, until she's so tied up thinking about whether she's ever going to see Fido again that she just signs the cars over to you without a second thought. You got kids? I'll twist her little pea brain so tightly around the idea that maybe you'll get custody and she'll wind up with nothing but weekend visitation that she won't even understand what the hell's happening when she signs the house over to you. Play the emotional property against the financial property—shit works like a fucking charm every time. Most guys don't have the balls to do it. They don't have the balls because they're pussies and pussies don't have balls, my friend.”

I say, “Well, thanks. It sounds like you're very capable and everything.”

He says, “Understatement, but yes, I am.”

I say, “Anyway, like I said, I'm still talking to a few more people—”

He says, “You have to. Even I recommend seeing what's out there. Get that peace of mind.”

I say, “Right. So I'll let you know within the next day or two.”

He stands up and shakes my hand and says, “In the end, it's obviously your choice who you want to go with on this thing. But make no mistake, I am the biggest fucking shark you'll meet in these waters. And when you have the biggest shark on your side, the other fish can't fuck with you.”

I say, “That's very reassuring. Thanks again.”

He says, “My pleasure,” and I leave his office wondering if he has that entire speech memorized or if it's slightly different every time he delivers it.