I had such a wide array of emotions at that time that my knees got weak for a few seconds and I had to grab onto the door to steady myself. I regained equilibrium and with the strangest combination of grief, anger, and shock that I had ever felt in my life I pulled the soiled sheets off the bed and in a trance walked them down to my car and put them in the trunk. Then I got two large suitcases out of the basement and returned to the bedroom. As I plopped the suitcases down on the stripped mattress Sharon exited the bathroom with one towel wrapped around her torso and another used by her hands to dry her hair. When she saw me she screamed. I glowered at her for a second and then opened up the suitcases.
“Uh…darling…why are you home early?” she stammered.
“I’d ask you the same thing only I saw your greasy boyfriend pass by me in his Cadillac and I’ve put the soiled sheets in my car,” I growled.
“What…do… you…mean?” she choked out.
I wasn’t playing that game so I merely started filling the suitcases with my clothes.
She was prattling on some more horseshit — I was no longer listening — as she quickly got dressed and then stepped in front of me as I went to exit the bedroom with my two full suitcases. “Honey, we need to talk,” she gulped, her face devoid of color.
My response of “Get the fuck out of my way or for the first time in my life I’ll hit a woman — and with the pent-up anger that I have it won’t be pretty,” I snapped.
Never having been talked to like that before — at least by me — she instinctively, rather than because she really believed that I’d smack her, moved out of the way.
She tried several more times to get me to talk to her — tears starting to form in her eyes — as I gathered up my electronic equipment from our shared office on the first floor. I exited to actual sobs, wondering to myself “What did she expect?”
I didn’t let any grass grow under my feet — although I did chastise myself for not having her sign a blood oath before we wed that her “bad boy phase” was gone for good. The asshole that I saw in the Cadillac had mature “bad boy” written all over him.
My life collapsed on a Thursday. By the next Monday afternoon she had been served — at her workplace — with my divorce petition. Since adultery didn’t really make much difference in our state unless kids were involved and it was an extreme circumstance, I just went for the proverbial “irreconcilable differences,” namely she thought that fucking outside of marriage was acceptable and I didn’t.
My attorney was miffed that I had moved out of the house — he thought that it might slightly prejudice us when it came to the property settlement — but I told him that there was no way that I could live with her. I only spent one night in a hotel; fortunately the company I work for has apartments that they keep for clients or out-of-town employees and I know the woman in charge of them. After telling her my sob story she set me up in one of them for at least two weeks.
It was Thursday morning, two and a half days after Sharon had been served, when the reception on the first floor called up that Mr. Johnny Antonella was there to see me and should I send him up. I knew no one by that name so I asked the receptionist what he wanted. “He says it’s about your wife.” I gave her my attorney’s phone number and said I would not see him and to call security if he didn’t leave immediately.
Apparently Mr. Antonella was pissed that I wouldn’t see him, but he did leave. The receptionist called me after he left and said “He was really pissed; he looked like one of those Mafia guys on TV. I was sure glad that Jerome was nearby.”
I thanked her and then cackled. Jerome is one of our security guards. He is a very nice guy, but not someone to mess with. He is six feet seven inches tall, easily weighs 280 pounds, and has no gut — most of his weight seems to be in his biceps and thighs and he loves to wear short sleeve shirts to show his “guns” off, even in winter.
On Friday I worked late and as I approached my car a guy who looked like the one in the Cadillac approached me. He was about six feet one, 240 pounds, with a classic mature “bad boy” look.
“Carson Trent, I need to talk to you,” he announced in a voice that wasn’t entirely hostile but wasn’t friendly either.
“Make an appointment with my secretary,” I snarled.
“You wouldn’t see me yesterday so here I am now and I ain’t gonna get any appointment,” he snapped.
“Then fuck off,” I snarled.
He grabbed my arm but I shook him off. “Touch me again and I’ll put your lights out,” I growled.
“You need to listen; you need to go back to your wife or things could go really bad for you.”
“And who the fuck are you to tell me what I need to do?”
“Listen, my time with your wife has almost run its course and you’ve really upset her, which upsets me, and I’m not one you want to have as an enemy,” he growled back. As he said that he moved his suit jacket aside and displayed a handgun in a waistband holster.
I didn’t wait. I side-kicked him in the groin, when he groaned and bent over and before he could regain his senses grabbed him by his suit jacket lapels and head butted him. Blood shot out of his nose as he moved his hands from his groin to his face to hold his nose. As he was stumbling backwards I pulled what looked like a version of a Glock 17 from his waistband. I ejected the round from the chamber, removed the magazine and put it in my pocket, and then threw the Glock at who I assumed was Johnny Antonella, hitting him in the head and causing him to fall down. Then I casually got in my car and drove away.
It took a while before I realized that my approach may not have been the best. If Johnny really was a connected thug — as he appeared to be — it could have consequences for me. However, as pissed as I was I probably wouldn’t have been able to stop myself even if I thought about it. I guess I would see what the consequences were in the future.
Except for getting calls on my cellphone from Sharon, until I blocked her number, my life was quiet and uneventful for one more complete day after my encounter with who I assumed, and later confirmed, was Johnny Antonella. Then as I was returning from dinner out on Sunday night and outside my company’s apartment I was accosted by three thugs, all of whom were not as tall as I am, but much bulkier. The thug in the middle said “You should have listened to Johnny when he told you to go back to your wife; now we have to break every bone in your body.”
I wasn’t looking forward to being unable to walk in the future so I kicked the thug to my left in the shin and then ran. Unfortunately in the low light I tripped on a curb and the two guys with healthy shins caught up to me. I knew that eventually that they would beat the shit out of me but I fought the best that I could and got in some good blows.
Our scuffle ended up at a railing with a good six-eight foot drop on the other side of it. It was fortunate that we ended up there since one blow from one of the thugs knocked me over the railing and I fell onto the concrete below. Why was that fortunate? Because they didn’t seem to want to jump the railing and in semi-consciousness I heard footsteps running to go around the railing, and then I heard yelling from the area where I had fallen. I found out later that several patrons of the establishment where I had landed yelled and chased my attackers away.