One Way Out

                                           One Way Out

 “I quit – I’m done – I want a divorce!”

Those definitive words propel from Tracey’s lips as the two bags of groceries crash to the Italian marble floor and explode. Fortunately, her purchases are not fragile, only fruits, vegetables and paper products. The two grapefruits land and roll, cowering under the kitchen table.

 The cause of her declaration is the scene she finds upon returning home from a morning of errands, mostly self-improvement projects, hair, nails and yoga. Once again she finds her husband, sprawled in his recliner, unconscious, surrounded by the detritus of his afternoon of defilement. Beer cans, a half-empty bottle of vodka and a plate of pizza crusts.

 Tracey shakes her head and mutters under her breath as she bags the scattered- groceries and puts them on the table. She ascends the stairs as if they were an elliptical, and proceeds to undress. She needs to cleanse herself of the situation.

 She stands in her bathrobe, freshly showered, assaulting her chemically determined blonde hair with a brush, sending the fleeing water over the snoring, corpulent form of her husband of six years. It took six years of disillusionment before the relationship became terminal. Two really, the last two, after he started with his new firm. The descent was quick -- and sudden.

   She lifts her barefoot and firmly shakes his leg, and he begins to stir. His head bobs and he snorts. His eyes peel open to a squint, as he becomes aware of his surroundings.

 Tracey’s lip curls as she watches this display of reanimation.

“Michael, get up. We have to talk.” She says.

 Michael vaguely hears her words, it’s her heat that alerts him. She’s preparing to dole out her penance for his morning’s indulgence. He’s not afraid of the punishment, it’s the venomous way she delivers it, he fears.

 He’s reminded of Yogi Berra and his famous saying, “Déjà vu – all over again”, as he shakes his head, rubs his eyes and gains focus. He leans forward, finding the button of the recliner, and lifts himself toward her. She takes two steps back and crosses her arms.

“Jesus Christ Michael. It’s three o’clock in the afternoon and you’re already shitfaced.”

Not knowing what to say in the face of the obvious, he looks at her, trying to blink the vodka away.

“I’m so tired of this shit -- I’m done -- I can’t live like this – look at yourself. You’re a fucking mess!” She says as her eyes lock upon his.

 He tilts his head back into the soft cushion of the recliner and takes a deep, weary breath. He exhales, trying to compose some sort of response, but he’s empty. He decides he’ll lay there and absorb her fusillade.

 She stares down on him, brow furrowed, lips pursed, her breathing quick and determined. He can’t maintain the eye contact. Finally, her verbal attack suspended, she turns and attacks the stairs in ascent.

 He turns his attention to the big screen TV and sees that Florida is leading Auburn by three in the fourth quarter. He scans the table to his right, lifts a half-full beer can to his mouth and takes a small gulp. He then reaches for the bottle, takes a tilt, causing the warm clear liquid to splash his scruffy face. He chokes that down with some warm beer and contemplates his predicament.

 He believes she’s serious – this time. She’s been hardening of late, and he senses she’s about out of sympathies. His guilt passenger starts to arise, but he pushes it down with another swill of vodka.

 He’s half-immersed in the game and his condition when he hears her descend for what he assumes will be her renewed aggression. She stands at the edge of the room, her hands high upon her sides, her feet splayed, squarely facing him.

“Do I have to call Maria and Dennis and tell them we have to cancel dinner tonight because you’re sick again?”

He remains motionless, his eyes pivoting in their sockets to take her in.

“No, I’ll be fine.”

 She huffs and spins and returns to the bedroom. He takes another pull off the bottle, finishes his beer, checks the time and begins to feel a dark heaviness settle over him, as his eyelids become lead shields, and the light fritters away.

 He is jarred awake by his wife slapping his leg.

“Are you getting up?” She says.

He nods and whips his head around throwing cobwebs to the atmosphere.

“I swear to God Michael …” She says, trailing off as her lips clamp around her words. He stands and gives her a once over. She’s dressed in tight, fashionably ripped jeans, boots and a gauzy blouse, cut to show ample, augmented cleavage. He brushes past her on his way to attempt to wash off the sins of his day.

 He uses the hot water to disperse his fog, and he emerges from the shower clean, but not forgiven. He is met with her standing in front of the mirror, adjusting her make-up.

“Are you OK to drive? I’d like to enjoy myself and not worry about driving us home.” She says.

“Yes, I’m fine, that’s why I took that last nap.”

“Nap – that’s what you call it – how quant.”

He deflects her jab and continues drying himself.

“What times dinner?” He asks.

“Seven – you need to hurry.”

 He is struggling to button his shirt over his distended paunch when she says, “Michael – I’m serious this time. You need to get out. I can’t take your drinking anymore. All you do is work, come home, drink and pass out. Then the weekends come and you’re in front of that TV -- watching sports, drinking and – yeah -- taking naps.”

 He finishes buttoning and turns to face her.

“You want me to leave my own house?”

“Our house – and – yes.”

“Well, I don’t think that’s fair.”

“I do – you can find somewhere else to live and finish ruining your life – but I’m not going down with you.”

He watches her turn and leave the bedroom.

  On the ride to the restaurant, he decides to break the tension. “If you’re so done with me, why are we continuing the charade?”

“Because I promised Maria we’d go to dinner, and I don’t want to disappoint her.” She says, as she pulls down the visor to touch up her lipstick.

“Yeah – we wouldn’t want to do that.” Michael says as his fingers whiten around the wheel.

   When they arrive, Maria and Dennis are already seated. Tracey strides to the table and gives Maria a theatrical hug. She then pecks Dennis on the cheek and pulls out a chair next to Maria. Michael follows, nods at Maria and pats Dennis on the shoulder as he sits beside him.

 Tracey and Maria dive into catching up and the volume detonates. Dennis is sipping a glass of beer and says to Michael, “what a week, huh? I never thought those depositions would end. I hope we can settle this without going to court.”

 Michael nods in agreement and searches the room for their waiter.

“You have a rough day Mike?” Dennis asks.

“Nothing out of the ordinary.” Michaels answers as he finally catches the eye of the server, who approaches and asks if they would care for a cocktail. Tracey springs to attention and orders a gin martini, preferably Bombay Sapphire – very dry. Michael orders a Manhattan, extra cherries, which causes Tracey to lower her chin and pierce him with her icy blue lamps.

 Michael pivots his shoulder to close himself from his wife’s judgement. He leans into Dennis and says, “I think we need to put in some extra work on that Walker case – you have time this week?”

“Yeah – but late hours.” Dennis says.

“Perfect.”

 Maria interrupts their sidebar with her usual overt enthusiasm.

“Would you two quit with the shop talk. Don’t you guys get tired of that?”

 Dennis nods tightly toward his wife and says, “Sure, Hon, what would you care to talk about?”

“Anything but that boring goddamn job of yours.”  She says with a laugh and a nudge towards Tracey, who responds with, “So – what’s everybody in the mood for – how about we agree on a bottle of wine?”

 Dennis and Michael acquiesce and placate, allowing the evening to move forward. The conversation, or more accurately, dueling monologues from Maria and Tracey becomes louder with the injection of alcohol. After her opening Martini, Tracey settles into her wine glass, as does Maria. Dennis switches from beer to wine, but stops after one, citing driving responsibilities. Michael has his foot on the accelerator as he orders his third Manhattan. He’s shielded himself from his wife’s derision and regulated his vocal interactions to snide comments to Dennis.

 At the conclusion of the entrees, Tracey and Maria are engrossed in themselves, when Dennis pulls Michael closer to him and says.

“You’re not planning on driving tonight – are you?”

“No – but that wasn’t her plan.” Michael answers.

“Yeah, I figured. She’s seems pretty pissed. If looks were daggers, you’d have bled out after the appetizers.”

“I’m used to it – I have thick armor.”

“I think you over estimate your abilities.”

“Who doesn’t?” Michael says with a syrupy laugh.

 The waiter approaches and asks if anyone would care for coffee, dessert or an after-dinner drink. Everyone declines, accept Michael, who asks for the dessert menu and orders a Remy Martin.

“Jesus, Michael – really – you think you need either one of those?” Tracey says.

“Need and want are two separate things – dear.” He replies, as he tilts his head up and accepts her challenge with the confidence provided by an evening of bourbon.

 Tracey strips the napkin off her lap, flings it on the table, springs up and strides out of the room. Maria looks at Dennis, with a glare of disbelief that he allowed this to happen and follows her friend.

  Michael and Dennis are engaged in a quiet conversation when Maria returns and says to Michael that Tracey would like a word with him in the bar. Michael stands placing both hands on the table for support and feels the rush of three hours’ worth of booze surge into his brain. He takes a deep breath and does his best to not embarrass himself as he walks away.

  His wife is waiting for him, arms crossed, standing in a secluded corner. He approaches her with his hands in his pockets.

“You know, I’d like to say I’m disappointed, but that would just make me a fool.” She says.

“Why’s that?”

“Why’s that – Jesus Christ Michael – I asked you to take it easy tonight so that I could have a few drinks – but no – you have to pull your usual shit. Can you ever just have one?”

“You know what they say – one’s too many and fifty ain’t enough.”

 She looks at her husband, nostrils flaring, teeth bared, “Fuck you, Michael!” And she blasts past him.

 Michael stands there for a moment before heading to the restroom to relieve himself of the evenings libations. When he returns to the table, he finds Dennis sitting alone.

“I guess I have the privilege of chauffeuring you home.” Dennis says.

“What about the tab?”

“Don’t worry, I got it.” Dennis says.

 They walk out of the restaurant and find Dennis’s car in the parking lot. Michaels slides into the passenger seat of the BMW and lays his head back. Dennis hits the start button and the engine purrs to life. He looks over at his passenger, who is now wearing a playful smirk. Michael turns to him and says, “I think it finally worked.” And then he leans over and extends his lips to meet Dennis.