Marital Spat

The last couple of weeks had been tough on Brian.  There was the fight with his wife that he couldn’t even remember, and then she had left him to go to her sister’s for a week.  Yvonne was back now, but she just ignored him and acted like he wasn’t even there.  He would try talking to her, but she would just screw her face up like she was going to cry and leave the room.

So now he was left to talk to the cat.  “You’re the only one who appreciates me, buddy,” he said, stroking the tabby’s head as they sat on the couch watching television.  The television was showing the local news because that was what his wife always seemed to have on these days, and the anchors were doing their usual Halloween spiel about safe trick-or-treating.

Yvonne entered the living room with a garbage bag full of clothes for Goodwill and set it by the front door.  “Barnabus, are you watching television?   Come get your lunch,” she called to the cat.

Barnabus hopped down and followed her to the kitchen.  “I could use a sandwich!” Brian called after them but was ignored once again.

He sighed and turned back to the television where a reporter was at a local haunted house.  People in costumes stood around her waving their arms in an imitation of scariness, but to him, the spookiest part of the scene was the little girl in the background giving the camera a thousand-yard stare.

That was it!  He’d had enough of sitting around this house while his wife pretended he didn’t exist.  He stood up, strode out the door, and went to his car.  He didn’t know where he was going, but he had to get out of that house.  He had been cooped up for too long.

He put his key in the ignition and twisted, but the engine didn’t turn over.  There wasn’t even the usual growl or click to show it was trying.

“Damned dead battery!  Yvonne must’ve borrowed my car to go somewhere and left the lights on.”  Brian climbed out of the car and kicked a tire in frustration and then kicked it again for good measure.  He ran his hands through his hair and let out a long breath.  “It’s okay.  I’ll just take a walk.  I haven’t taken a walk for a while.”

He started down the street, admiring the fall leaves and his neighbors’ Halloween decorations  One neighbor had the usual fake spiderwebs in the bushes while another had an inflatable ghost that waved its arms.  At the end of the street, one house had a whole cemetery erected with gravestones and skeletons waving at the passing traffic.  As he neared, Brian saw a little boy playing on one of the graves.  Brian checked his watch; it was only eleven o’clock.

“Shouldn’t you be in school?” he asked the boy when he was close enough.

The boy startled and looked at him from across the yard.  Like flipping a switch, he went from happy playing child to pouty and ran into the house with a wail as if he was scolded.

Brian just shook his head and continued walking, turning at the corner and heading down the busy road that would lead him to his town’s business district.  He wasn’t really dressed for hiking since he hadn’t grabbed his jacket, but he could wander through stores and maybe grab some lunch.  Maybe, just maybe, he would do a little flirting with the waitress.  He deserved it for all the mistreatment he had been taking from Yvonne lately.

As he entered the business district, he zeroed in on a pub he had always wanted to try, The Screwy Squirrel.  The name made him laugh, and the sign depicted a smiling, drunken squirrel with a brimming beer mug raised in a toast.

He followed another man in, and a motion-activated ghost decoration booed and wiggled its hips beneath its sheet.

The place was hopping, and the tables were filled with the lunch crowd.  He took a seat at the end of the bar and people watched while he waited to be served.  There were two bartenders manning the bar, and they were both in costumes, one as a devil and the other as a 30s era gangster wearing a suit and hat and clenching a cigar in his teeth.  The patrons were a mix of suits from nearby offices, shoppers in jeans and jackets, and adults too old to trick-or-treat but still wanted to dress up.

“What can I getcha?” the gangster bartender asked Brian without taking the cigar out of his mouth.

“I’ll take whatever’s on tap and an order of fries.”

The gangster rolled his eyes.  “I’ll get you the beer,” he said grabbing a mug from under the bar and filling it, “but you don’t need fries.”  He slapped the beer down in front of Brian.

Brian was momentarily angry, but that anger turned to confusion.  “What do you mean I don’t need fries?  Are you trying to call me fat?”

“Listen, buddy,” the gangster replied holding up his hands in a calming gesture.  “I’m not calling you fat.  I’m just saying that you don’t look like the hungry type.”

Brian took a swig from his beer and thought for a moment.  He couldn’t remember eating breakfast, but now that the bartender mentioned it, he wasn’t really hungry.

“You look like you’re new here,” the bartender said, wiping down the bar.

“I’ve lived around here my whole life,” Brian replied.  “I just haven’t come in here before.”  He took another drink of his beer.

“That may be the case,” said the bartender, “but you’re still new here.”

Brian just shook his head in confusion and continued drinking his beer.  He turned his focus to a television playing basketball highlights.

“Wow, you must be really new,” the bartender said with surprise.  “How long has it been?”

“What do you mean?”  Brian struggled to ignore this bartender that had latched onto him and keep his focus on the television.

The bartender studied Brian, taking in his wedding ring and clothing.  He was so intent that Brian abandoned the television and turned back to him, repeating his question, “What do you mean?”

“Take a look at yourself and then at the people around you.”

Brian looked down at his cargo shorts and t-shirt and out at the other patrons.  “I don’t get what you’re driving at buddy.”

“What’s the weather like outside?”

“I dunno.  Fall.”

“You didn’t feel cold when you were out there?”  The bartender acted like he was patiently trying to lead Brian somewhere.

“Not really,” Brian said stubbornly.

“Even though you are wearing shorts and everyone else seems to be bundled?”

Brian looked around again.  “I just had a brisk walk from my house.  It’s not that far, and this is what I was wearing at home.”

The bartender looked up at the television, and Brian followed his gaze.  The ticker at the bottom of the screen said the temp was 44 degrees, which was usually a temperature where Brian would be more comfortable in a sweater and thick socks.

His gaze then drifted to the mirror behind the bar, slightly obscured by shelves of liquor.  He could see the ladies at the table behind him and other patrons milling about, but he was having a hard time locating the reflections of himself and this gangster bartender.

“I think you’re going to need something a little stronger.”  The bartender set a shot glass in front of him and pulled out a bottle of bourbon.

“I don’t need anything stronger!”  Brian slapped the shot glass off the bar, and it smashed to the ground.  Everyone in the bar stopped and stared, and Brian stood and pulled out his wallet.  “Listen, I’m sorry for the glass.  Here’s a ten to cover everything.”

The other patrons were returning to their meals and drinks, and the devil bartender had shown up with a broom and dustpan.  “Dang it, Ralph.  What have I told you about breaking the glassware?  I can’t really dock your paycheck for it; can I?”

“Sorry, bud,” Brian told him.  “Don’t take it out on Ralph.  I’m the one that broke it, and I’m leaving ten dollars right here.”

“Don’t bother,” the gangster replied.  “Besides, my name’s not Ralph.  That’s just what he thinks it is.”

The devil bartender just continued cleaning up the broken glass and ignored both of them.

“And you don’t correct him?”

“I try, but he just keeps yelling at me for breaking his glasses.”

Brian shook his head and stepped around the bent over bartender to leave.

“Come back whenever you’re ready!” the bartender not named Ralph hollered after him as Brian stepped back out onto the sidewalk.

All he wanted to do was go back home and try apologizing to his wife again.  He would get down on his knees and ingratiate himself to her.  He would finally paint the garage.  Heck!  He would do all of the chores on her honey-do list.  As he walked back home, he planned all of the things he would do or promise not to do anymore if she would just speak to him again.

“Honey!” he called out as he entered the house.  “I am so sorry for whatever I did.  Please talk to me again.  I’ll do anything.”

He found Yvonne in the kitchen with a sink full of dishes and steaming water.  She stared straight ahead at the blank wall, tears streaming down her cheeks.  Barnabus sat on the counter watching her.

Brian placed a hand on her back and rubbed in circles.  “Speak to me, baby.  What can I do?”

“Oh, honey,” Yvonne sobbed the first words directed at him in weeks.

“What is it, baby?”  Brian wrapped his arm around her waist and leaned into her, and she shivered.

She continued to stare ahead.  “Why did you have to go?”

“I just stepped out for a little bit.  You haven’t been speaking to me, and I just had to get out.”

Yvonne slowly shook her head, squeezing her eyes to hold back tears.  “Why did you go that night?” her whisper full of emotion.

“What night?” Brian started to ask, but then the memory flooded back to him, a rush of color.  Brian on his motorcycle, the wind in his hair, the yellow lens Oakley sunglasses shielding his eyes, the stars overhead, and then the truck blowing the stop sign and sideswiping him.  Brian laying on the road, his glasses yards away, and he is staring up at that star-filled sky.

**

“So Bri, how’s the wife?”

Brian was back at The Screwy Squirrel, and the mobster bartender formerly known as Ralph was serving him his daily beer.  “Not too bad, Jimmy.  She joined a book club, so one Thursday a month, there’s a group of cackling hens over drinking wine and gossiping.”  Brian didn’t really feel this way about his wife and her friends, but he knew that was the kind of thing Jimmy expected.  He was from a different time when women stayed home and did the cleaning and child-rearing.  He had commented as such one time when he saw a group of businesswomen having cocktails after work.

He looked around the pub to take in the festive lights and candy canes.  Devil bartender, aka Brent, was wearing a Santa hat and manning the other end of the bar, keeping his distance.  He couldn’t see them, but he could sense them.  Most of the patrons did, and Brian and Jimmy’s corner of the bar was always vacant.

Brian was getting out of the house more these days, but no matter what, he always returned home to Yvonne.