"She signed the papers," Mark said.
Dexter said, "It's about time."
"I'll file them this afternoon," Mark said.
"I guess today is as good a day as any other," Dexter said bitterly.
After exchanging good-byes, Dexter hung up the phone. There wasn't much more to say. His marriage was over. All that was left was for it to become final. The assets had been divided. Maybe Dexter had lost some money on the deal, but he didn't really care. She had the house, the kids, and the millions he had given her. He had his own money.
Dexter went into the kitchen and grabbed a glass. He picked up the bottle of scotch and went over to his recliner. He filled the glass half full with scotch. He took a sip from the glass, and it burned its way down his throat.
He sat back staring up at the ceiling thinking about the past, the present, and the future.
There had been a time when things had been so simple. Dexter loved Janet and Janet loved Dexter. They spent every free minute together celebrating their love in minor and major ways. Little touches of the hands, kisses stolen in passing, and hours in bed spent making love.
Janet wasn't the best cook when they first married. Some of her early kitchen disasters had been the subjects of jokes for years.
Fried chicken served burnt on the outside and blood raw on the inside. His parents had tried to eat it without criticizing her, but he had opened his big mouth and complained. She had run from the table, embarrassed. It was only after a long time later, that they could laugh about the polite way in which everyone, including Janet, had avoided saying anything about the chicken while heaping praise on the applesauce, green beans, and cole slaw.
She had never figured out how to cook a roast to medium rare. Her roasts usually came out of the oven as shriveled blackened masses. It seemed to be difficult for her to understand that the roast had to come out of the oven before it started smoking. The joke was that the smoke alarm was not a kitchen timer.
With time, Janet's cooking skills improved. She did master fried chicken, despite her inability to deal with roast beef. She had turned into a great cook, with her favorite dishes being lasagna, pork chops, and chili. She made an excellent chili.
Dexter often laughed at that joke that the way to a man's heart was through his stomach, but there were times when that old cliché was true. Her absence of cooking skills had wormed its way into his heart. The time she had spent learning to cook, had made him feel special. Each time she prepared a new recipe, and nervously presented it to him, reinforced his feelings about his importance in her life. She was showing her love.
In the manner of women throughout history, Janet demonstrated her love in a much more intimate way by bearing two children – Will and Sarah. In Dexter's mind, he'd had the perfect family.
Dexter grew up with his father serving as a role model for how a man should act as a husband and father. Dexter did all that was in his power to act like his father. He would come home from work, and play a little with the kids while Janet fixed dinner. After dinner, they would get on bicycles and pedal around the block. He wrestled with Will on the floor. He had little tea parties with Sarah. He was a real presence in his children's lives.
Dexter looked down at the empty glass in his hand. He reached for the bottle of scotch to refill the glass, and then wondered why he was bothering with the glass. He took a swig out of the bottle.
"I fuckin' had it all," Dexter mumbled.
He thought his perfect little life would continue forever, but that wasn't possible. The world in which his father had raised him, changed. Work hours became a little longer. He wasn't home in time to play with the kids before dinner. After a while, he wasn't home in time for dinner. Then he was working at home in the evenings. His weekends became consumed by work as well.
Dexter's father had occasionally worked a little overtime. He called it earning vacation money. It wasn't until much later that Dexter learned that his father's overtime was exactly that – money for vacations. His father would work an occasional evening or Saturday. The money earned, at time and a half, went into a vacation account.
As a salaried person, Dexter couldn't earn 'a little extra money' by working overtime. He put in the overtime – lots of it. It just didn't contribute to his vacation.
Dexter took a slug out of the bottle of scotch.
He groaned out, "Nothin'! I got nothin' for all the shit I swallowed."
He had lost everything that he had dreamed of – family, a home, friends, and good times. He hadn't had any good times in years. Maybe it was the absence of good times that he missed the most. The kinds of memories that would help him fill his days in the old folks' home.
Ten years that were absent of good memories. He had a lot of memories of that time, but none of them gave him that much pleasure. He tried to focus on pleasant memories. Only two came to him: his visit to the casino where he'd had that incredible winning streak, and the subsequent visit to the whorehouse. Well, there had been the time spent at the cabin by the lake, but that time had been a false euphoria.
Dexter took a good long swig from the bottle. He swallowed, and then loudly belched, feeling the alcohol return on him. It left a bad taste in his mouth.
The trip to the whorehouse had not been easy. He had been nervous about asking for directions. He had thought a dozen times about turning around and returning to the hotel during the drive out. Just walking up to the gate had intimidated him. Then there had been the lineup. He had picked the oriental woman, not out of curiosity or real interest, but because she was the smallest woman there and the least threatening.
He took another swig of scotch.
"That was fuckin, '" Dexter slurred.
The time spent with the women at the bordello had been spent in raw sex. No feelings of tenderness on his part. There were no demands to be particularly gentle or giving. It had been all about him getting his enjoyment out of it.
Sex with Janet had been entirely different. It had never really been a case of one them taking sole pleasure in the act. It had always been a sharing of love between them. In a way, he wondered if that hadn't been a part of the problem. Maybe he was a more selfish person than he had realized. Sometimes there had been times when he just wanted to get his rocks off without having to worry about Janet's feelings. He had never let himself go like that, and wondered if that had been part of the problem.
In a way, the sex aspect of his marriage could have been described as reserved. Sure, there had been times when they had spent the whole day in bed, but the acts themselves were pretty tame. His father used to talk about respect and that marriage was built upon respecting and honoring each other. Dexter had interpreted that as meaning never asking his wife to do something that she might consider demeaning.
The bottle of scotch was nearing empty. The tears had started flowing down Dexter's cheeks. He took another swig and tossed the bottle away.
He thought back on his visit with the whores. He had not been afraid to ask for what he wanted, since he wasn't concerned about maintaining their dignity. The Hispanic girl had taken a load on her tits without batting an eyelash. He wondered if Janet's lover had been unafraid to ask what he wanted of Janet. Sure, Janet denied having a lover, but Dexter didn't believe her protests.
"Fuckin' wife stealer," Dexter said.
Outside of the one week with Amber, Dexter had been alone, yet it was more than just being alone. He had been isolated. Out of twenty four hours, he was around people for less than an hour. No one touched him. Most of the stores did not have people to interact with customers. Shopping had stopped being a social activity.
Dexter was alone in life. There was no one to look after him when he was sick. His experience had proved to him that he had to hire someone when he was ill. What kind of life was that?
There wasn't a word to describe what he had become. He wasn't an outcast. An outcast had done something wrong and was being punished. He didn't see where he had done anything wrong. Sure, he had failed in what he had tried to accomplish.
He wasn't a hermit. Hermits didn't want to be around people. A hermit lived in isolation and wanted to keep it that way. Dexter didn't want that. He did venture out to where there were people, but people weren't interested in talking with other people. He had even gotten maced once for his efforts to connect with others.
He supposed the closest term to describe what he had become, was a 'reject'. Still, outside of a single text message from his wife, there really hadn't been that much rejection. Reject, in the connotation of production, indicated that there was a major flaw. Dexter didn't really see a major flaw in himself. He would have been angry at anyone who would have labeled him a reject.
Then he thought of one term that described him fairly well: he was a misfit. He didn't fit into the world as it had become. He wondered what was the opposite of a misfit? He assumed that it was a fit.
He said, "I'm a fuckin' misfit. A misfit recognizes loneliness and feels pissed while a fit doesn't give a flying fuck. It's a shitty world."
It dawned on him that there was another word that described him. He was a discard. He was something that no one wanted anymore, and he had been thrown to the curb. He had been disposed of, as though leftovers that had been sitting too long in the refrigerator. The value he once had in people's lives was gone, and they didn't want or need him around any more.
"I'm a fuckin' discard," Dexter said.
Dexter burped. It was one of those drunken burps in which a mixture of alcohol and bile was sent to his mouth. It was that little warning signal by his body to let him know that he was about to vomit. He rose out of his chair, and fell to the floor. The room was spinning, his stomach was heaving, and his arms and legs were numb.
Eric glanced down at his wristwatch wondering what had happened with Dexter. It was long past time for their weekly meeting, and Dexter had been a no show. Two calls on the cell phone had gone to voice mail. He had tried the older number with the same result. It wasn't like Dexter to act that way.
Eric rose and paced around Dexter's office. It was the same size as his, but nowhere near as nicely furnished. Dexter had spent at most five hundred dollars for his office furniture. Eric had spent ten times that much. He looked around, thinking that Dexter should be taking better care of himself.
After another glance at his watch, he pulled out his cell phone and called Dexter's number again. After four rings, it went to voice mail again. He frowned.
Finally, he said, "Fuck it."
Eric drove over to Dexter's apartment. A thick fog of dread filled him. His hands were tense on the steering wheel. His mind kept drifting away from the act of driving, to what he might find at his destination. Eric kept wondering if he would find Dexter lying in his bed, dead from a heart attack. How did someone deal with that? He wasn't sure he knew.
Hope that Dexter had lost track of time somewhere died, when Eric spotted Dexter's rental car in the parking lot. He knocked on the door. There was no answer. He knocked harder and then put his ear to the door, hoping that he could hear something inside. He hoped to hear Dexter rustling around while making his way to the door, but there was only silence.
His fingers fumbled when he first tried to unlock the apartment door with the key Dexter had given him, when he had first started working for the man. It took two attempts to get the key into the keyhole. Afraid of what he would find, he opened the door to the apartment.
Shock! That was what Eric felt upon seeing Dexter sprawled naked on the floor with a pool of vomit next to him. At least Dexter was still moving. He rushed over to Dexter's side.
"What happened?"
"Wha..."
Dexter immediately began throwing up. Fortunately, he was facing away from Eric.
The bottle at the far wall of the living room caught Eric's eyes. He stared at it for what seemed like forever, and then looked back down at Dexter.
"You're drunk! It's not even lunch time, and you're wasted."
Bla-awwk!
"Jesus H. Christ!"
Eric knew that he was going to have to help Dexter to the bathroom. He just didn't want to wrestle with a naked man. He went into the bedroom to look for some kind of robe to dress Dexter in. He found a winter bathrobe, a thick terry cloth robe. He brought it back to the living room. He struggled to get it onto Dexter.
In the process of getting Dexter's right arm into the sleeve of the robe, Dexter managed to come out of his drunken state enough to slur, "She signed the papers."
It took Eric a moment to realize what Dexter was saying. That explained why Dexter had reached for the bottle.
"Shit. I'm sorry."
"I hope the fuckin' ass wipe has a fuckin' stroke while he's fuckin' her," Dexter said.
His words were slurred, but they were clear enough to be understood.
"That would be interesting," Eric said thinking that was a curse he was going to have to remember.
"My bir'day," Dexter mumbled.
"What?"
"Iz my bir'day," Dexter answered.
"Your bird day?" Eric asked confused by what he understood Dexter to be saying.
"Bir'day. You know ... Happy bir'day to me..." Dexter said.
"It's your birthday?" Eric asked.
"Yeah. Fuckin' bir'day prez from da wife," Dexter said.
Eric managed to get Dexter into the bathrobe. He dragged Dexter into the bathroom and then realized that Dexter wasn't even in good enough shape to worship at the 'porcelain temple.' He stood there for a moment trying to figure out what to do with Dexter. He finally decided to put Dexter in the bathtub thinking that he could arrange him on his side, so that he wouldn't drown in his own vomit. It would easy enough to clean him up, afterwards.
It took several minutes to get Dexter into place. It was only after he had gotten him settled down; that he realized it probably wasn't a very good place to put him. Dexter would probably try to climb out, and kill himself by falling.
He lowered the lid on the toilet, and took a seat, watching Dexter. He pulled out his cell phone and called his wife. She'd want to know where he was. She understood that he would stay there until Dexter was able to take care of himself.
Watching Dexter eliminate some more of the scotch, Eric said, "I haven't dealt with anyone this drunk, since college."
In college, he and a couple of guys would have grabbed Dexter, and held him under a cold shower until Dexter was able to stand on his own. There was no way he was going to be able to do that alone. He could just turn on the shower and let it spray down on Dexter, but then the idea of wrestling with a wet half-naked man in a bathtub wasn't all that attractive.
The fact that Janet had chosen to sign the papers on that day angered Eric. He didn't know why she had chosen to do it on that occasion. He was half-tempted to give her a call, and giver her a piece of his mind. It was a cold harsh thing to do to someone.
Dexter started crying.
Eric muttered, "Happy Birthday, Dexter."
Edited By TeNderLoin