Carwash Blues

Maybe it's just me, but I often buy my special occasion cards at the carwash. Brenda and I have been married for twelve years and, coming after dating for two more prior to that, Valentine's Day had morphed into the annual 'guilt married men into buying flowers and candy for the ball and chain, and take her out for a nice enough dinner.' No male valuing his life will ever admit to that, and Hallmark, restaurants and the chocolate and florist industries keep raking in the extortion money to cover us.

Still, I've always tried to be a good sport about it. Truth is, busy careers and three lovely, but lively girls made seduction a rare art form. So, in a way I welcomed the universal time-out for a little romance.

The division of labor in our household had me doing shopping and taking care of the cars, among others. I noticed that New Years' had barely passed when store shelves became red with candies, cards and all manner of gifts. One evening, I lingered at the supermarket card rack to see if Hallmark's writers have turned to AI to come up with nifty new lines for America's guilt-driven quasi-holiday.

A few days later, I did the same at the carwash while I waited for one of our cars to be dried. Don't know about you, but for some reason carwash cards always seem funnier. Being a chap who fancies himself as having more than a modicum of a sense of humor, I always take some time to scan their selection. One in particular caught my attention. It was so corny it stuck out--something featuring roses being red, and chocolate being sweet. So bad I wondered if all the other stores rejected it and the vendor gave the carwash a 90% discount on it. I certainly hadn't seen it in the grocery stores I shopped at.

I finally found a cute one I hadn't seen before, and headed out just as they waved for my car being ready.

Two days before V-Day, I took the afternoon off to get Brenda a few gifts, and to pick up my dry-cleaned suit and the roses I had ordered earlier, so I could take them to the restaurant where they would present them to my loving wife at the table.

Because I arrived home before anyone else, I decided to do Brenda's chore and pick up our mail from the communal locked mailbox. Walking home, I flipped through the mail, and frowned when I saw a red card envelope with no return address. Hmm...

I dropped the stack of mail on the kitchen counter and stared at the red envelope, my spidey senses aquiver. I quickly put on the kettle for some rooibos tea and envelope opening. Would you believe it--it was that horrible cliché-laden card from the carwash. My heart froze when I saw how the card was personalized. The roses that are red apparently will be waiting in room 217, but it didn't say where. The chocolates would also be sweeter after they were melted inside my wife's sweet honeypot. It was signed S, below the instruction: For an unforgettable Valentine's, take the afternoon off.

I took a picture with my phone, put the card back, and resealed the envelope. Then I stuck it in the middle of the pile and went upstairs to change. I had to do something to wrap my head around the collapse of my life.

S? Shithead? No, probably not. Even though it fit. Was it someone at work? Someone from school? And room 217? Which room 217?

What do I do? We keep whiskey for a few guests who drink it, although I never touch the stuff myself. Until that day. Like a B-movie actor, I took a swig from the bottle, changed into sweats, and took off for a long walk through the park across the creek. Mind spinning, legs pumping and heart beating, I worked up a good sweat, but came back with nothing in the way of ideas.

When I returned, I took a shower, and when I was done, I heard the noise of Brenda and the girls chattering downstairs. As I entered the kitchen, I noticed the pile of mail had been moved to the little desk she had for her kitchen management. Without the red envelope. An ice cold rock settled in my gut. S? S who?

The girls, as usual, dominated the discussion during dinner. By bedtime, I was able to rustle up some semblance of normality. No romance that evening, which had become the new normal. Shit. I was staring at the loss of my girls. Fuck Brenda. If she was a cheating bitch, then good riddance. But my girls? Smart, lively, precocious, how was I going to endure being separated from them? Fuck.

Then my thoughts turned to what I possibly had done to screw up our marriage. Wryly, I grimaced. At least I couldn't be accused of pissing off the Valentine's Day gods. I had my V-ducks all in a row. Not in a row enough, though, it would appear. Was I going to be the schmuck who went the extra mile, and spent the extra dollar, only to get sloppy seconds as an in-your-face reward? I don't think so, Tim.

Who was the mysterious S? I ran my mental Rolodex of the men Brenda might know. None at her job. Steve was the only S at my job, but he was over 50, fat and bald. Hmm, neighbors? Ahh, Slade Hemmers, maybe? He lived in the house behind us with his wife Molly. But why would Slade cheat on Molly? Not only was she more stacked than Brenda, she was a much nicer person. Why would anybody cheat on a solid 10? And with Brenda? Not that she wasn't attractive, but the years and kids had loaded her up with a few pounds of mommy-roll on her stomach and cellulite on her legs. In the dark, I shook my head. That just made no sense. But who else? Did she meet a guy at the gym she hadn't told me about? I only had a few days to find out.

My mind moved to the next thought. No matter who it was, there would be NO sloppy seconds after our expensive Valentine's Day dinner. I could cancel the dinner. The restaurant would be only too happy to accommodate some other sucker who waited until the last minute. But what excuse would I offer? Or, I could head off the tryst at room 217 of whatever shlocky motel the love of my life planned to open her legs in. Maybe I could get Molly to derail Slade's plans for an afternoon unaccounted for? But I had no contact info for Molly, and asking Brenda for it so soon before she planned to hook up with her husband could make Brenda suspicious.

But... would that be such a bad thing? What if I could make either Slade, or Brenda, so nervous they cancel their room 217 tryst? At least that would spare me sloppy seconds. Sure, it may not stop any more hookups, but it would solve the immediate problem--sloppy seconds on Valentine's night.

--

Over breakfast the next morning, I acted withdrawn and edgy. "Hey, do you have Molly's phone number?"

As I expected, Brenda instantly went on high alert. "Why?"

Poking the bear, I frowned. "Is that a yes or a no?"

"Why do you want Molly's number?"

"They're neighbors and if anything happened I wanted to have our neighbors' contact info. Do you have her email address?"

"Why do you want Molly's number? Don't you have Slade's?"

"Yes, I do." Staring hard at her, I asked, "Do you?"

Flustered, she asked, "Do I what?"

"Do you have Slade's number?"

Her cast down eyes gave her away. Bingo.

I wasn't letting her off the hook. "Well, if you have his number, why do you think it strange if I have hers?"

"I just don't see why you need our neighbor's wife's number."

"I don't see why you should have our neighbor's number, but you do. Isn't that a bit hypocritical? But never mind, I can get her number from one of the other neighbors. Sandy runs the homeowners' association, I'm sure she'll have it."

"What are you going to tell Sandy, why do you need it?"

"The truth: my wife knows, but she won't give it to me."

"You can't say that! How will that make me look?"

With a slight smile I looked at her worried face. "I give up. How WILL that make you look?"

Brenda rolled her eyes. "Hold on, let me look it up."

Inwardly I pumped my fist. Not only would I get the number, but Brenda was on high alert without me having to make a direct accusation. But was it enough to make her cancel the hookup? Doubtful.

Valentine's Day was Friday, and today was Tuesday. I had three days to break up the 217 tryst. I still didn't know where, except it probably wasn't one of the single-story no-tell motels.

--

At the office, I called up our online bank records and credit card statements to see if any hotel showed up in the last three months. Nothing. But wait... on last month's statement I noticed a charge of $5.43 from Maktel Hospitality. I looked them up on the internet, and saw they owned two hotels in our city, a Quality Inn and Sleep Inn, two franchise chain hotels. Aha! Even when guests paid cash for their room, most hotels require their credit card for incidentals. And I guess after a satisfying round of bumping uglies, S must have raided the minibar for some refreshment, forgetting that would show up on my wife's statement. Sonofabitch.

Yeah, that began with S too.

Around ten, I called Molly's cell. After her initial surprise, my neighbor agreed to meet me for lunch, but only after I told her, mysteriously I hoped, that I was planning a surprise for Valentine's Day and I wanted her input. Like I said, such a nice person.

Next, I looked up both hotels on the web, and our city had one of each. On the way to the sandwich shop, I drove by them, and discovered both had multiple stories. When I arrived at the restaurant, Molly had just gotten out of her car when I pulled up next to her, so we walked in together. We placed our order and picked a table.

"So," she beamed, "What's the surprise? I'm such a romantic. Slade never does anything like that."

Oh man, I felt like a shit-dipped heel. At that moment, a server dropped off our sandwiches. Molly's excitement showed in the bubbly way she unwrapped hers. Rather than play games, I decided to peel off the bandaid as quickly as I could. "Molly, what plans do you and Slade have for Friday?"

"He told me he has a dinner reservation at Luigi's." She took a dainty bite from her English cucumber sandwich.

"And the afternoon?"

"Well, like half the women in this city, I have a few appointments to prepare."

"Is he taking the afternoon off?"

Frowning now, she said, "Not that I know of, why?" before taking another bite.

"Oh, man," I groaned. "Please don't hate me, and I do hope I'm wrong, but I think Slade and Brenda are planning a hookup Friday afternoon, a pre-Valentine Valentine, if you will."

If I expected Molly to react as if to a lightning strike, I couldn't have been more wrong. All she did was put her sandwich down, use the napkin to pat her lips and say, "Shit," in a low monotone, "Not again."

"I am so sorry, Molly. I really, really hope I'm wrong. But... you don't sound too shocked."

With a grimace, she took a sip of her iced tea. "It won't be the first time. The reason we moved here in the first place was he strayed back in Columbus. He promised me it was one-time, but he got fired from his job and this was the only place he could find work. Cost me a great job and having to find a new one here."

"Wow. I'm so sorry."

A wan smile flickered on her lips. "Not your fault."

"I have an idea," I ventured. "Why don't you tell him you want to treat him to ice cream or something Friday afternoon? If what I suspect is true, he'll find an excuse to decline."

Taking another delicate bite, she nodded. "If it's true, he's out on his ass, and I get his business. That's why he begged and promised last time."

"Shit, I'm so sorry."

"What are you going to do? You can't surprise Brenda with an afternoon date--she'll probably tell you she is at some salon or another."

"I do have an idea."

After I shared it, she chuckled. "It won't fix the real problem, but at least you won't get sloppy seconds Friday night."

After we finished up, we agreed to keep each other up to date.

--

When I got back to the office, I called both hotels, and discovered Slade indeed had a reservation for Friday at the Quality Inn. Pretending to be him, I canceled it. It probably wouldn't make too much of a difference, because it's not like all the hotels were booked out for a football game or convention, but still. Every little irritation helps.

I called Molly and, after chatting a little bit to encourage each other, I asked her where Slade worked, and a quick description of his car (and license plate). She gave me the info, and I added it to my Friday agenda.

--

Friday, just before lunch, I entered the parking lot of Slade's employer, and found his car, almost lost between the other vehicles. Ducking behind it, I cut the stems of all four tires. My hope was that he'd wait till the last minute. The soonest any tire truck would arrive would be an hour. He still could take a rideshare to the hotel, but hopefully he'd feel compelled to get his car fixed. I thought about doing the mothball into the gas tank thing, too, but the distance he'd travel would be too small to affect their afternoon assignation.

Next, I went to my wife's job and, using the spare key, got the hood opened. Pulling the spark plug leads for three pistons, but leave them close so it wasn't obvious they were separated, would be enough to have the engine start, but sound way too miserable to go anywhere. Getting someone to identify and fix the problem would also take an hour or more, hopefully wreaking havoc with her illicit love schedule. For good measure, I deflated the two passenger side tires, just by pressing the little buttons inside the tire stems. All they would take to fix would be an air compressor pumping them back up. My hope was that she wouldn't spot that before the spark issue was resolved, adding more to her delay.

Finally, I used my spare key to unlock the trunk. Sure enough, a small overnight bag did its best to hide from me. I took it and closed the trunk.

--

Just before we thought Slade would take off to meet Brenda, Molly called Slade in his office, saying the kitchen drain was clogged. He hated spending money on plumbers and always kept on top of their plumbing. Slade was torn. On one hand, his pride didn't want her to call a plumber. On the other, his lust didn't want to miss his hot date with Brenda. Lust won, and with a deep sigh he advised her to call out a plumber.

Hey, I can do plumbing, and I was next door, so I'm the one she called. By the time ole Slade would arrive home, the drain would be unclogged. I was a friendly neighbor, not quite as friendly as he and Brenda, so he should have no problem.

Just before noon, I called Brenda, and asked her out to lunch. Her first response was we had the evening dinner planned.

"Hey," I argued, "we'll be less than an hour, and it's not like a wedding where you can't see the groom before the wedding?"

I could hear her squirming over the phone. She couldn't claim she had a meeting, because we both knew she'd taken the afternoon off for all her beauty appointments. Finally, she exploded, "Look, I wanted to buy something special for tonight to surprise you. But now the surprise is ruined and I'm not going to do it anymore."

"Then having lunch with me should be even less of problem," I said, barely holding my laughter.

"No. I'm so mad at you for spoiling my surprise, I don't want to see you before dinner."

Letting her know what a bitch she was turning into, I scoffed back, "Well, in that case you won't. In fact, if seeing the husband you're supposed to love is such an ordeal, why don't we cancel the dinner?" That, of course, was the sure-fire way to not be insulted by sloppy seconds, and she had now given me the perfect out.

It took her a few seconds, I'll give her that. But her prospect of sharing unrestricted divine moments with her lover let her make the cut. "Fine. Be like that. Maybe I won't come home, and go out with friends."

"Well, okay." This was turning out better than I had hoped. "I'll do the same then. See you tomorrow." I hung up before the full impact of the exchange hit her.

What she didn't know, of course, was the big joke was still coming.

Molly had, of course, called me to come and 'fix the clogged kitchen drain.' Sitting in the kitchen enjoying a cup of coffee, I waited. Sure enough, Brenda's ringtone sounded on my phone.

I let it ring and eventually go to voice mail. She called again. After the third ring, I picked up and put it on speaker for Molly to enjoy, too. "I thought you didn't want to talk to me."

Her humbled and frustrated voice floated back. "My car won't start."

"Call AAA." I was not going to show her a smidgen of sympathy or help.

In a terse voice, she replied, "I don't have time to wait for them. I--"

"What? Your first appointment is at the hairdresser, only at three. You have three hours--plenty of time for them to come and either fix your car or tow it."

"Tow it? The car is less than two years old."

Not in the mood to pass on any opportunity to needle the cheating slut, I snarked, "Oh that's right. I drive a ten-year-old truck that has no problems, but you just had to have the latest Lexus, didn't you? How is that working out for you now?"

"Please, Robbie, now is not the time for--"

"Oh and why not? Who makes the rules for when it's time for what? Oh, and you haven't answered my question: why don't you have time? Just think--if you had lunch with me, I would have picked you up and you would have had no problems. But now I'm suddenly not good enough for you anymore, so stew on it. Call AAA. They won't take THAT long, and you'll be on your way to whatever was so urgent you couldn't spare half an hour to have lunch with me."

Molly giggled behind her hand, trying to remain quiet.

Brenda groaned. "So, is that it? I've got to call AAA?"

"You're the one who didn't want to see me today, so much so that you told me to cancel tonight's dinner so you can go out with friends. On Valentine's Day! I went to a great deal of trouble to arrange a top-of-the-line dinner for you because I love you. You have no idea how your callous selfishness hurt me. Shows how low I've sunk in your eyes. I'm not good enough to share a dinner with anymore. Am I supposed to feel great that I'm still good enough to be your mechanic?"

I took a deep breath. "Why don't you call one of your boyfriends to come and help you?"

Her reaction is what I hoped for. "What? What are you suggesting?"

"For how many years you loved me, and I was more than good enough for lunch and to go out with on Valentine's Day. This year, for some reason, I'm suddenly not. You've not initiated sex for more than six months. The only time you talk to me is when you find fault with me. Or turn me down. I've asked around, and everyone says I haven't changed that much, so you tell me: what am I supposed to think? Oh and while you think, don't forget... time is ticking. The later you call AAA the later they'll come to fix your lovely new car." Before she could respond, I hung up and turned off the phone.

"Wow, that was brutal," Molly said, one eyebrow raised. "Remind me not to piss you off."

"How do you think your dear hubby's doing?"

"He can't call me, so I have no way of knowing."

"Why can't he call you?"

"I replaced his battery with a dead one this morning. Knowing him, he wouldn't have discovered it until he needed to call someone for his car."

"So Brenda won't be able to contact him, either. Molly you are brilliant! Oh, does he have plans to take you out tonight?"

"Luigi's. But he doesn't know I know."

"What did he do last year?"

"Huh. Last year he was in Dallas on a training seminar. When he came back, he took me out for a nice dinner, but it wasn't anything fancy."

"Well, in that case, I have a reservation all set up for tonight, which Brenda is blowing off. Why don't I take you? You can leave a note for Slade that he never called you, so when you got an invite from friends you thought you'd take that."

Molly looked at me with a serious expression.