External Affairs

Part One — The Debate

A casual night out leads to a fateful decision

Every town in America has a bar like this one. Or at least they should. The clientele is varied and unpretentious. The bar itself is not fancy. One would actually call it worn or threadbare. And alcohol is cheap. For example, here I sit on a Friday evening drinking a draft beer for less then three dollars. I could get a glass of wine or a shot of something, mixed or not, for just a little bit more. But beer is my drink of choice and so I will continue in this fashion. Oh, and one other thing: There is always a really pretty girl behind the bar. Tonight’s girl, Jasmine, is no exception. She comes over and smiles as I tip my glass for another beer. I smile back. Damn, is she good looking. Piercing dark eyes, that have flecks of hazel in them and an almost Asian shape, prominent cheekbones, perky little nose all encased in lustrous, sandy blonde hair that really goes well with that beaming smile of hers.

The bartender is usually in stark contrast to the clientele, which is mostly middle-aged men from various walks of life. And of various financial means. This bar sits near some of the most expensive real estate in the world, in suburban Connecticut, within walking distance from the commuter train, and close proximity to a wide range of six, seven, sometimes eight figure earners.

But the town is not all diamonds and dollars. It also has a strain of what you might call working class, whatever the hell that means in America these days, and they are not earning anything approaching six figures. Some don’t work at all, but they have still managed to survive in this town. Some have lived here all their lives and maybe inherited the house they grew up in from their parents, a house they could never in their wildest fantasies afford to buy, so they struggle to pay the excessive property taxes, and remain. Some live in nearby apartments or rent a room. And then there are all the guys that do the gardening, carpentry, snow removal, car washing, car repair and general labor around here. Whether they live in the town or not, they like this bar. Did I mention how cheap the alcohol was? It is not uncommon to find yourself sitting in this bar on one night next to the guy that cuts your lawn, and on another, the guy that does your taxes.

I’d be the guy that does your taxes. I’m an accountant so I do all right. Good money in accounting. I’m a six figure guy and not likely ever to be a seven figure one, and that’s just fine. My wife is a teacher at a school in a nearby town, so together we have all the money we need to pay the mortgage, taxes, food, clothing, vacations, etc.

And it is so overwhelmingly boring.

All day long, I pore over figures, read through documents, I sit in meetings, I talk on the phone and somehow all the work gets done, but there is no joy in it anymore. Was there ever any joy in it? I don’t know, but I must have enjoyed it once, or at least the possibility I would enjoy it on any given day. Those days are gone. Nobody cares, nobody says thank you, nobody wants to know anything other than get the work done, then go home to your family.

And then there’s that. My family, our family, the family I have with my wife Jeanine, is run like a corporation. And the business of this corporation is our three kids which are in various stages of nightmare.

Anastasia, my oldest, is sixteen and not necessarily going on seventeen. At times it seems like she’s going on twenty-two. But not a twenty-two year old about to enter the business world, embarking on a challenging and fulfilling career. No, she’s more likely to head up a thrash metal or punk rock band and take off on a tour around Europe. She’s pierced most places you can see on her, and I fear some places you cannot. Blonde as a child, those golden strands have disappeared, replaced by an inky mane, cut short in what seems a very angry style. The black continues around her eyes and the clothes she wears. She mopes and broods around the house, dismissing my wife and I, and everything we stand for as idiotic, conformist and foolish. Mostly she stays in her room, plucking away on her guitar.

Yet, she gets good grades. She’s a straight A student. That’s her trump card. If my wife and I ever complain, she refers to her latest report card and that’s the end of the conversation.

Which leads me to child number two, our middle daughter Bella, in eighth grade. Unlike our first daughter, Bella likes dresses. Bella kept her blonde hair and won’t leave the house unless it’s perfect. Bella raids my wife’s makeup drawer every chance she gets. She’s a very pretty girl on her way to becoming a very pretty young lady. She’s a cheerleader. She’s enormously popular.

And she’s dumb as a block of wood. I know, it’s wrong to say that about your own child, but you don’t know what we’ve been through. Bella can coordinate her clothing likely better than anyone in her school. She walks out the door better dressed than me, or my wife for that matter. But she can’t solve an algebra equation to save her life. Her vocabulary consists mainly of emojis and strange abbreviations she uses when texting. She thought South America was in Florida.

My wife is an English teacher and I’m good at math. She’s tried. I’ve tried. We’ve both failed. The grades get no better. In fact, this year they’ve plummeted, while her social life has skyrocketed. We’ve gotten her a tutor, a high school senior bound for Princeton next fall. If this doesn’t work, school officials have hinted that she may get left back.

That option is a bit better than what may await our third child, our son Cody. They just might throw him right out of school if he doesn’t stop beating other kids up. Cody started middle school this year, sixth grade, and in his middle school there is somewhat of a tradition of “initiating” the six graders by the seventh and eighth graders. Punches to the arm, tripping, slapping books out of their hands, occasionally putting someone in a locker. Well, Cody was having none of that. He started initiating the seventh and eighth graders. The first day of school, a few older kids pinned him to a wall and told him he was in for a rough year. Cody calmly looked at each of them and said,

“For every one of you that gets me, I’ll get five of you back.”

“There’s only three of us here,” said one of the boys.

“I mean the entire seventh and eighth grade,” replied Cody grimly.

Cody did get roughed up a bit that day by those boys, but that was the last time. As he held a bag of ice to his bloodied nose in the nurse’s office, the vice principal came in and wanted to know who had done this to him.

“Oh, you’ll know soon enough,” said Cody.

And within a week, all three separately visited the nurses office with a variety of injuries. He also wasn’t kidding about the five to one ratio. He approaches by stealth, attacks with lighting speed and vanishes with equal swiftness. Seventh and eighth graders find themselves being punched in the arm, tripped, and their books or lunch trays knocked to the ground. He’s locked several in their own lockers. If anyone tries to even the score, he usually fights them. We’ve been to the principal’s office and talked to him about it, and there seems to be a general truce right now between Cody and the upper grades. That is, nobody wants to go near him.

So there they are, Anastasia, Bella and Cody, 1, 2, 3, A, B, C, our ongoing, never-ending life project. Then there’s my wife Jeanine. To say we don’t get along would not be correct. To say we get along might also be stretching the truth. We exist in this perpetual miasma between wake and sleep, trying to get it done. We’re like colleagues thrown together to perform this monumental task that neither of us can see the end of, but we also can’t see any alternative either. When we talk, it’s about the kids, getting things done around the house, the kids. We must have talked about other things once, but those conversations died somewhere along the way.

And we occasionally sleep together.

We do still have sex, but there’s not much romance to it. It’s not like those commercials for erectile dysfunction where the middle-aged couple are painting a room or moving a table and all of a sudden the mood turns romantic. It’s not like that at all. It’s more like a perfunctory obligation we’ve realized we haven’t fulfilled recently. Usually late at night when we’ve done all we can for the day, and we decide, well we haven’t done that in a while.

Come to think of it, we haven’t done that in a while.

So this bar is my temporary sanctuary on a Friday night before having to go home and deal with it all. Only on this Friday night I don’t have to be home anytime soon. My wife is at some girls night out thing — a makeup party. I’m not exactly sure what that is, but I think a group of women from our neighborhood get together and drink wine and somehow makeup is also involved. Anastasia is practicing with her new band, Vengeance, and Bella and Cody are being looked after by our part-time babysitter who decided to take them to a movie.

So I don’t have to get home to make dinner, look at homework, arbitrate disputes, inquire as to why a particular child is behaving poorly or try to gauge whether or not my wife might be in the mood. On that note, I am going to sit here for several hours, drinking cheap beer at my leisure and not think about any of that. I flag Jasmine down for another.

“Sticking around tonight?” she inquires. I notoriously down a couple of beers and then head out.

“I think so. Don’t have to be anywhere in particular. So why not be here.”

“I like the way you think,” said Jasmine, with a brilliant flash of smile. “This one’s on me.”

I thanked her as she moved down the bar to fill another order. I brought the glass to my lips, the barley and hops swirling and mingling, then sailing down my throat. I close my eyes briefly, sigh and glance around the bar. Sparse crowd so far, but it will pick up. A group of regulars are huddled at one end talking about town politics. Incompetence, favoritism, nothing ever gets done in this town, they complain to each other. A young couple, looking as if they just came from work, are talking at one of the back tables. A group of guys in painter clothes are shooting a game of pool. There are several other guys like me ranged along the bar, quietly enjoying their beer. In one of the booths behind me, a pair of women are having drinks and sharing appetizers. I can’t tell off hand how old they are. They look about my age, maybe a little younger. I think one of them smiled at me. Did she? No, must be my imagination. Nobody smiles at me anymore.

I kick back and watch some basketball game that is on television. Watch, but not listen, because there is always music of some kind playing. This isn’t a sports bar, though sports is usually on the TV for patrons to look up at occasionally. It’s a bar to drink, hang out, talk to people and listen to music. And the music, like the throwback nature of the bar itself, is usually Classic Rock. Though the bartender can control the airwaves if she so chooses, so sometimes you will get Alternative, or even Country on occasion. There is also a jukebox which allows customers to override the system. I know that Jasmine is a fan of Classic Rock, so that is what is playing this particular evening. But it’s one of those Classic Rock songs that should have died a long time ago — “All the Young Dudes” by Mott the Hoople. Everyone is entitled to their own tastes, but I hate this song. I also happen to know that Jasmine is a Led Zeppelin fan, so I go over to the jukebox, throw in a few dollars and pick out a selection of Zeppelin songs. Mott to Hoople is extinguished.

“Thank you,” a voice calls over. I turn and it is one of the women from the booth. “I can’t stand that song,” she adds with a smile.

“Me too,” I say smiling back. She’s pretty, has to be younger than me, but not by much. Dark hair, big eyes, cute little smile. I don’t care how old you are or what stage of life you are in, a pretty girl smiling at you is never a bad thing. I head back to the bar and motion to Jasmine for another beer.

“Thanks for the Led Zeppelin,” she says.

“For you Jasmine, always,” I say in mock flirtation. She smiles back. She’s used to me.

Fresh beer in hand, Zeppelin playing and no immediate obligations. This is turning into a pretty good Friday night. The set of songs I’d picked out came to an end and the regular playlist kicked back in. Some pretty good ones at first, but then “All Right Now” by Free came sailing out of the speakers. Really? How has this song survived? I knew I had to do something. Back to the jukebox I went, pumped in five dollars, which gave me something like 12–15 songs and started to scan through the song lists. To immediately put Free back in their cage, I quickly selected another Led Zeppelin song, “Hey, Hey What Can I Do?” one of my favorites. I started to add additional songs. More Zeppelin, but also branching out to other bands of that era, The Rolling Stones, The Who, The Doors — I felt like kicking it old school that night. As I was doing this, I heard a voice to my side.

“I like your taste in music.”

I turned and found the woman from the booth standing next to me. My eyes must have widened with surprise, because she laughed a little. I managed to regain my composure and say, “Thanks. I just can’t take those songs sometimes.”

“I know, right,” she said. “I mean, Mott the Hoople? How does that still get any airplay?”

“Exactly,” I say. Then followed a brief silence when we realized we actually didn’t know each other.

“I’m Kelly,” she said.

“Danny,” I say. I think we shook hands. After several more seconds, she turned to the jukebox and said,

“What else are you playing?”

I told her what I had picked so far.

“Good choices,” she said.

Then I added, “But I think I’m going to branch out. Pick a few Alternative songs.”

“You mean like Nirvana, Pearl Jam?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I said smiling.

“Great. I love that era. I think that was one of the last great times for music.”

Not to sound cliché, but those words could have literally come out of my mouth. “I know what you mean. Did you want to help me pick some out?”

“Sure,” she said. “Let me put a few dollars in,” she added reaching into her pocket.

“No, no,” I said waving her off. “I’ve got like dozen or more songs paid for already.”

“Okay, then let me at least buy you a beer.”

Before I could say anything, she went up to the bar. I watched her go. She had a bouncy little walk, her hair swishing from side to side. She was wearing a sweater and jeans which was complimentary to her figure. She was nice to look at. She was nice to talk to. I turned back to the jukebox and a few moments later Kelly returned carrying a pitcher of beer. I looked at it in surprise.

“With all these songs, we might be here a while,” she said.

I laughed and drained my beer with my left hand and I could see she glanced at my wedding ring. Instinctively this made me look at her hand, which I tried to do casually, but apparently she saw because she said, “Yep, we’re both in the same boat.”

“Boat, what boat?” I asked.

“The married boat.”

“Ah yes, so we are. So, what brings you here tonight?” I couldn’t believe I actually said that.

“You mean, what’s a nice girl like me doing in a place like this?” she said with a smile.

Conceding my foolishness, I laughed and said, “Yeah, something like that.”

“Just a night out with the girls,” she said. I thought about my wife’s night out. Was she doing this too? Maybe the makeup party was a front and she was in some other bar with her girlfriends. “What about you?” asked Kelly.

“Oh, just a night out with the boys,” I said.

“Where are the boys?” she asked looking around.

“Well, I’m the only one in this party tonight.”

“No wing man?”

Laughing I said, “I gave up my wing man a long time ago.”

“Well then,” said Kelly raising her glass, “to a night out.” We clicked glasses. Then she said, “We better finish choosing our music set and do a shot.”

Sad to say, but this was the most fun I’d had in a while. It probably came down to the simplicity more than anything else. Some drinks. Okay, a lot of drinks, good music, pretty lady talking to you in a bar. You don’t need a lot more than that after a week in the middle-aged trenches. And we got along well. I met Kelly’s friends, but I mostly talked to her. She had two boys, both in high school, but she didn’t live in the same town as me. She lived one town over, so they went to a different high school than Anastasia. I found out though, that we both worked in Stamford, the suburban Connecticut city to our south, just a few buildings apart from each other. She worked in marketing for one of the corporations based there. It was all pretty much surface conversation, but it was continuous. No strained pauses where one of us struggled for the next thing to say. And it was pleasant. I enjoyed talking to her. Where we grew up, what our kids were into, the challenges of suburban parenting, and a lot about our tastes music. Together we ruled the airwaves that night. As our song lists wound down, we’d pump more dollars into the jukebox and fill the bar with Classic Rock, Classic Alternative and a sprinkling of Eighties hair bands, which we discovered we both also liked.

And we drank beer. And we did shots. We did this for several hours, talking and occasionally singing the lyrics to the songs we had chosen, slurring the words a little more as the evening wore on. At one point, we danced in the bar with several other drunken patrons. I’m sure I looked ridiculous, but I’m a middle-aged married guy out on a Friday night. I’m supposed to look ridiculous. The very nature of my existence in this place at this moment is in and of itself ridiculous. But Kelly didn’t seem to think I was ridiculous, so that made it okay on this night.

It wasn’t that late, maybe around 10:00, but we’d been there for several hours and were both quite loopy. Kelly said to me, “My friends and some people are going back to my place. Do you want to come and hang out?”

Instinctively and without thinking, I said “Yeah, sure,” and I looked at her. She was looking at me in a way I had not seen before. It was a mixture of intensity and also of curiosity. One side of her mouth was raised slightly as if beginning to smile, but not quite getting there. She lowered her lip. “I told you my husband was out of town, right?” she said.

She did tell me that, a while ago, casually, in the midst of a general conversation. Husband out of town. Kids out, sleeping over at friends. I thought nothing of it at the time. I thought about it now.

“Yes,” I said quietly. “You did tell me that.”

“Where’s your wife tonight?” she said automatically, and I realized I never told Kelly where my wife was when she told me about her husband.

“My wife,” I began, “My wife is…..out….out with the girls,” I said trying to laugh, but laughter was taking a pause here. Kelly looked at me again, and I knew now that the look was an offer. Not a complete offer. It could still be rescinded and there was nothing certain, but if I went back to her place, the offer was that other offers could be made.

“I’ll be right back,” Kelly said and she went off to the ladies room.

I have never cheated on my wife. And despite my earlier Led Zeppelin selection, I don’t believe she has ever cheated on me. We may not get along like we used to, but that is a threshold neither of us has ever crossed as far as I know. My mind spun like a chess player, trying to see several moves down the line. I could probably get away with it. My wife would be home or getting home from her party soon. She would likely have had a good deal of wine, so she’d be tired. Our babysitter would have put the kids to bed and Anastasia would get home whenever Anastasia got home. My wife would think I was out with work colleagues, or just out, taking advantage of a free night like she was. I’d crash on the couch and she’d think nothing of it. If necessary, I could go running or hit the gym first thing in the morning and then grab a shower to wash off the remnants of the night before.

Did I want to do this? Did I want to go back to this woman’s house like a teenager after a keg party. With somewhat of a shock I realized I did. I was drunk, yes, but that wasn’t it. I liked Kelly. And this wasn’t like some drunken business trip, downing drinks in the Hilton bar and meeting a stewardess or traveler from the other side of the country who you would never see again. I wanted to see Kelly again. I’ve been in this bar numerous times, but I’ve never been in this situation before. Kelly came out of the bathroom and walked right up to me. Big dark eyes, lustrous black hair, cute smile. She glistened a little from the heat of the bar, which made her look even prettier.

“Hi,” was all she said to me.

“I think I should go,” was what I said.

She didn’t say anything. Neither did I. We looked at each other. This was the first uncomfortable silence of the evening. The little rise of the corner of her mouth returned. “Okay,” she said and at that moment I realized that she probably had never done anything like this before either.

“This was fun,” she added.

“Yeah, it was,” I said. She started to go. I could say I said this without thinking, but I was thinking.

“Kelly,” I called after her.

She turned back, big eyes wide.

“Do you…..uhh….do you….want to get a cup of coffee sometime?”

A pause. A look……….a smile.

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I would.” And she walked out the door.

Relief.

I didn’t get her phone number or email. I didn’t even know her last name. I did know where she worked though. I could find her again.

The last song on our set list came on. “Gimme Shelter”, by the Rolling Stones. I love this song. So does Kelly. I finished what was left of my beer listening to it. Then I ordered an Uber and went home.

To Be Continued……