All in a Day's Work

Ah, shit! It just occurred to me - I'm now a cliché - come home from my trip a day early, find a strange Bentley in my driveway, catch the owner of said Bentley sodomizing my wife in my bed. No, I didn't go apeshit on him, didn't resort to any of the seven martial arts I knew, didn't look for a baseball or cricket bat, and didn't drag out my M1911A1 (though I do own one). No, I sat down quietly in the corner chair and recorded the show with my trusty iPhone. And, no, I did NOT get a chubby watching the show. Mostly, because my wife's partner was singularly unattractive and was making these awful porcine noises while he rogered my wife.

Naturally, I was crushed by my wife's behavior. After all, I loved her, and I thought she loved me. But I wasn't totally surprised - she had opened the door a few weeks prior, during a little after-sex chat, when she suggested she might be interested in experiencing other men. Normally, after sex, I'm the most agreeable man in the world, so she was surprised at my violently vehement quashing of that notion. Now, as I watched the action on my bed, I realized she had been asking for forgiveness rather than permission.

I'm Dun Woody - Duncan Richard Woody to be exact. I'm just a lowly electronics engineer working on various patents to help our great country kill people a lot more efficiently. In fact, the purpose of my business trip was to negotiate the sale of some of those patents to a major defense contractor. Negotiations were successful. I was coming home to inform my wife of our my newfound wealth. Ol' Dun was about to become a multi-millionaire, about ten times richer than Jed Clampett. Too bad Miss Melinda had disqualified herself, reaffirming that a fool and her money are soon parted - sometimes before she even sees it.

As for her partner in flagrante delicto, I recognized him immediately - Bartlett J. Ramsey, local millionaire businessman - owner of a mid-sized company doing DOD work too. Of course, everybody in my hometown worked for the government or for somebody who worked for the government. What distinguished Bart was his social notoriety - he was on the board of every museum, library, and botanical garden within 100 miles. He attended every gala and got his aggressively ugly mug on every other page in the local society magazine - always with a drink and a girl. My wife was hot, sold real estate, and she was active with the local board of realtors. She went to all those same parties, sans moi, of course, so I'm sure that's where she caught lover boy's eye.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I thought Ol' Bart would be running out of steam by now. His grunts were spaced farther apart, and his butt cheeks weren't wobbling as fast as before. But he must have been just catching his breath, 'cause when I looked back, he was hammering and howling like the pistons on a locomotive. The train finally pulled into the station, though, and with a shuddering expulsion of air, Bart disembarked.

After the usual post-coital heavy breathing and heartfelt congratulations were done, I decided to politely make my presence known. I cleared my throat and spoke,

"Hello, sorry to disturb such a tender moment, but I thought you should at least have the opportunity to talk me out of killing you both. What do you say?"

By now, Bartlett J. was scrambling for his pants and stammering incoherently, while my wife was sitting up, trying to cover her boobs with the sheet, and endlessly chanting "oh, God, no. oh, God, no. oh, God, no."

I had to weigh in,

"Mel, Mel, MEL! Stop. You're hyperventilating. I don't want you passing out."

Dear Reader, you're thinking "now, he's gonna have to go over and slap her out of it."

Nah. She managed to get hold of herself and settled down to controlled sobbing and sniffling.

As Bart was putting himself together, he started to slink for the door.

"Where do you think you're going?" I said. He stopped in his tracks.

"Please sit down on the bed, Mr. Ramsey. You stay there, Mel, because Honey, we need to talk."

Ramsey spoke up for the first time:

"So, you know who I am. Then you know what will happen to you if you harm me or even try to detain me. I have power and connections in this town. I'm the richest man in this state. You try anything against me, and I'll destroy you."

"Bart, Bart! Is that anyway to talk to a business associate? Yes, we're practically in the same line of work. You know that $480 million hypersonic missile contract you're trying to land? Well, I landed it today. And until about 12 minutes ago, I was considering using your company as a sub. But I think we can safely say that's OBE. And, after 1 pm tomorrow, you'll be the 2nd richest man in the state."

Now, he really started sputtering and turning red as a beet. Ol' Bart had about 20 years on me, and I was afraid he was heading for a stroke. But like Mel, he brought himself around.

"You see Bart, I don't have to lay a hand on you to get your goat. I already did it. Of course, if you cause me any more grief, I might just let that society rag see the video I've taken here of you and my wife. You wouldn't be getting any more invitations to galas. And no, I no longer care if it embarrasses my wife."

"Well, I've enjoyed our little chat. I need to have a talk with my wife. You are free to go and there's no need to come back. But let me show you out."

I escorted him down the stairs toward the front door, stopping him in the foyer. Before opening the door, I rested my hand on his back and looked into his angry eyes sticking out of his still-red face.

"Now, Bart, I know this is embarrassing for you and you're not used to getting caught when you screw somebody. But don't compound your misery by coming after me. In my varied career, I have picked up an unusual set of skills not normally found in an electronics engineer. I've kept my wife unaware of many of these - I didn't want to scare her. You see, before getting my double PhD at MIT, I was a Navy SEAL and then a Delta Force officer. In addition to my skills as a marksman, I have trained in most of the world's close combat arts - judo, karate, jujitsu, aikido, Brazilian jujitsu, Krav Maga - that's my favorite - picked it up when I was detailed to the IDF for a year. You know why it's my favorite? There's none of this pretense about it being only for defense. Bless their hearts, those Israelis get straight to it. When they say "disarm" somebody, they literally mean disarm - rip that sucker right off. But sorry, I digress. The point is - you send security or bodyguards or somebody like that, I'll just rough 'em up a bit - after all, they're just doing their job. You send professionals against me, I'm killing them. In either case, after dealing with them, I'm coming for you."

Bartlett J. Ramsey slunk out of the house and left in his Bentley. I returned to my wife.

"Well, Mel. It's another fine mess you've gotten us into. I just returned from maybe the most successful negotiations since the US bought Alaska for $7.2 million. I sold patents and rights for $250 million, with future royalties approaching a billion. Your timing is terrible. You had one foot in the Promised Land, and you screwed it up. Let me guess - you were lonely - tired of all those long hours I've been working - sick of never having any extra cash to just blow - envying all your friends and those fantastic trips to New York and Paris. And your best friend Gina told you, you deserved this for the shabby way I'd treated you, and how it would probably help your marriage in the long run, right? And Bart was telling you he could take care of you a lot better than I could, in every way, right? Tell me dear wife, how long's this been going on?"

"Oh, honey, this was the first time... I swear to you - I ran into Bart at the Friends of the Library luncheon, I had a couple of glasses of wine, and next thing you know, I'm here in the bed with him. I think he might have slipped something into my drink."

She got that out between sobs and sniffles. But I wasn't having it.

"If this was the first time, why did I hear you say, "Don't be a pussy, I won't break, give it to me hard like you did last week"?

At that, she started to wail.

"Now, the truth, Mel... how long?"

"T, T, two months, " she whimpered.

"But it was nothing, Dun... I didn't love him... but you were gone all the time..."

"You remember that conversation we had last fall - you know, right before the new government fiscal year, when I told you about those requests for proposals coming out? When I warned you that I was gonna be balls to the wall for the next six months or more? That if I got these contracts, we'd be set for life? And you said you were on board with that 110 percent? You remember all that?"

"Yes, Dun, I remember, but I had no idea I'd get so lonely and so horny. I tried to hold out - I really did - I mean he started hitting on me at the Marine Corps Christmas ball. I held out for three months, but he finally wore me down."

"And you couldn't come to me with this problem, Mel? Your husband? The one you're supposed to talk to about such things? You know what I think? I think you didn't have faith in me - you didn't think I'd get these contracts, so you were lining up a better prospect. You know how I know that? If you were just lonely or horny, you'd have grabbed that roided-up hunk who does our lawn. Nope, not you. You just happened to take up with the richest, ugliest guy in the state. I mean, didn't you notice all those hairy moles on his back?"

"It had nothing to do with business or contracts, Dun. You were gone and he was there. That's all."

"OK, if you say so. Well, you can have him now. I don't think he's married so you should be able to move right in. We're through, Mel. It hurts to say so, but we're done. And remember, we have that prenup that your Daddy insisted on - the one that says cheaters get bupkis? I'm going to enforce that. You go out with what you had coming in."

"But Dun, where will I go? What will I do?"

I smiled at that familiar line, but I didn't give Rhett Butler's answer. Instead, I said,

"You'll do all right. You can keep the house - you've already defiled it for me - and I'll give you enough money to live well on. I won't give you what you deserve. Hell, I still love you. That's why this hurts so much. But don't push your luck. You fight me and I'll make sure every news outlet in the state gets a copy of my little sex tape."

She just sat there, sobbing and looking down at the duvet. I got up and left. I'd send my PA back later to get some clothes and other things, but I wasn't spending another night in that house.

If you ever stop to think about it - I mean really do some philosophical pondering, you just have to conclude that life is the damndest thing. When I woke up this morning in Washington, DC, I knew I was facing one of those pivotal moments in my life. My stomach was in knots, I was popping Zoloft to ward off a panic attack. When I found out about the contract win and the patent sale, I was on top of the world. Five hours later, I had lost my marriage, my wife, and my home. What a ride.

So, I moved out and moved on. Sure, I could have stayed with her - could have put her on a really short leash - since I was now a bazillionaire and could afford round-the-clock surveillance. But what would be the fun in that? The bloom was off the rose. Look at the bright side - at least she wasn't cheating on me with my best friend.

Now, I had to figure out what to do with myself. I was still going to be working - just not as hard as before. And I was a bit soured on the prospect of another romance right now. I guess I could just go back and finish that third PhD. Life goes on.

Naturally, Ol' Bart just had to try to save face. I knew he would - people like Bart are so used to getting their way that they can't accept any form of setback. His two goons jumped me as I was getting into my car in the gym parking lot. They got the first lick in - one hit me across the back of the legs with an ASP baton. It hurt like hell and put me down for a minute, but two minutes later, I had them both on the ground and unconscious. Since these were two of Bart's homies, I just dragged them out of the way and drove off in my Durango.

I didn't wait for Bart to activate Plan B. I called up three or four of my old Special Ops buddies for a consultation. Always eager to help a comrade, they arranged for Bart to suffer a little accident that left him short one testicle and three toes on his right foot, while I was getting "Contractor of the Year" at the Association of the US Army awards banquet 27 miles away. Friends in need are friends indeed.