Momentum (Part 3 of 3 Parts)

 dontravis.com blog post #606

 Image Courtesy of Promescent:

 

 To reinforce my words at the end of last week’s episode… downhill. Definitely downhill. What’s poor Chuck to do?

****

MOMENTUM

Over the next few weeks, I came to understand something seriously dark was taking place in our household. I gave up trying to repair things and merely indulged in silence more often than not. Was that helping? Of course, not, but it was about all I was capable of at the moment.

There was usually a short break after the Christmas and New Year’s holidays before the after-hours social calendar fired up again. This meant Francine and I were stuck with one another. Go to work and come home. Home to an irate, unreasonable wife. She continued to harp on Helen, apparently genuinely convinced there was something between us. That didn’t mean she didn’t bring up the subject of James now and then, but I don’t know how she reconciled those two, unless she considered her husband of thirty years to be bisexual or something.

Finally, I’d had enough. We either had to settle this thing between ourselves or else do it through divorce attorneys. I couldn’t take any more.

Before going to our separate beds, I walked up behind her as she smeared cream over her face. I was never sure whether this was to remove the paint or to moisturize her skin, but in truth, I didn’t care. Her shoulders--bare except for the thin strap of her negligee—were still good, but again, I didn’t care. Nonetheless, I rested my hands on them, probably to keep from putting them around her neck.

“Francine, we can’t go on like this.”

Cold, blue-green eyes stared at me through the mirror. “And what do you propose we do? Are you prepared to give up your girlfriend. And your boyfriend.”

My hands tightened of her shoulders as a sudden anger gripped me. “Don’t be ri—”

“Ridiculous?” she asked. “What’s ridiculous is a man your age tomcatting around like that. You’re the one who’s ridiculous, and you don’t even know it. Laughingstock of the bank.”

“Where do you get ideas like that. My god, woman, all I do is work.”

“Oh, yes, work. Work at the bank. Work at parties. Work at golf. Work at the country club.”

“And you’re there with me damned near every time,” I blazed. “There’s no talking to you. I want a divorce.”

“A divorce? All that would mean is two houses, two sets of expenses. How are you going to afford that.”

“We’re not exactly poor, Francine.”

“Nor are we rich. We have what? This house… and its mortgage. A quarter of a million in investments. Split those up and see how long they last. You aren’t vested in your pension. The only thing of real value is the life insurance. And we won’t see a penny of that two million until you’re dead. And you’re disgustingly healthy.”

“I can’t believe this. Are we really going to end this marriage by divorcing.”

She studied me through the mirror. Her eyes—they were really nice eyes—softened a touch.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe. Or maybe not. You’re right, it’s time for a frank talk. See if we can’t salvage something. She touched my hand on her shoulder. “I need a cup of cappuccino. Let’s go downstairs.”

Well, that was progress. “Okay,” I agreed, turning for the door. “But we have to be frank. Lay it all on the line. That’s the only way it will work.”

“Of course.”

“And you have to be prepared to take it, not just give it.”

“Of course, darling.”

As she trailed me to the stairway landing, I seriously—and I mean seriously—considered giving her a shove down the stairs. I could only imagine the peace and quiet of my household after that. And who knows, Helen might offer me comfort in the face of such a tragedy. After all, she’d suffered through her own.

To quell such wild thoughts, I started down the stairs before her. I hadn’t taken more than two steps on the steep staircase than a strange chill ran the length of my back. If I was thinking that way, why couldn’t she? And she got my insurance proceeds, not me.

The moment I felt her hands on my back, I lurched sideways against the banister.

A screech escaped Francine as she fought to regain her balance from the momentum of her hands pushing shin air. She almost succeeded but tripped over my right leg as I sprawled across the width of the step. Her voice died about hallway to the bottom, but she rolled silently the rest of the way, leaving her slippers strewn on the stairs. As she lay sprawled motionless on the hall floor, I couldn’t help but notice how shapely her ankles still were.

Snapping out of my spell, I raced to the bottom and felt for a pulse in her neck. Nothing. Nor was there a beat at her wrist. I stood for a moment staring stupidly before racing to the phone and dialing 911. With a sob—genuine, I think—in my voice, I cried for an ambulance and opened the front door before returning to sit at her side.

Then tears—for real this time—streamed down my cheeks. My wife was gone, but so was the harridan in my house.

The ambulance arrived with the police hard on their heels. There would be an investigation, I knew, but I was appropriately devastated, and the neighbors, friends, acquaintances would all swear we were a devoted couple. No financial irregularities, no affairs, no nothing to raise suspicions.

When they were gone, taking her with them, I sat on the bottom step and let my mind wander. I wasn’t the only one with a life insurance policy. She’d had only a million-dollar one. Not as stout as mine, but if I recalled correctly, it had a double indemnity clause.

 I wonder if Helen would be receptive? Or better yet, would James?

Definitely James. It was time I tried something new.

 

****

One might say Francine took the Stairway to Heaven. But wait, she was heading down, wasn’t she? And perhaps Chuck will get off scott free. After all, he didn’t do anything, did he? Or was his leg stuck out there specifically for his wife to trip over? Something to think about, at any rate.

 Hope you enjoyed my story.

Stay safe and stay strong.

Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say… so say it!

A link to The Cutie-Pie Murders:

https://www.dropbox.com/s/ambxgy7e5ndmimk/CutiePieMurders%5BThe%5D.zip?dl=0

My personal links:

Email: don.travis@aol.com.

Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982

Twitter: @dontravis3

See you next Thursday.

 

 

Don

 

New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time. 

Momentum (Part 2 of 3 Parts)

 dontravis.com blog post #605

 Image Courtesy of Promescent:

 

 Last week, we learned Chuck and Francine Bellweather are considered to be the ideal married couple in that world outside the four walls of their upscale home. But inside, we learn they’re fraudsters. Okay to the outside world; disaster when they’re alone. In fact, Francine accused him of having a crush on James, one of the trainees Chuck monitors at the bank where he works. Something he’d never even considered.

 

Let’s see how life in the Bellweather household is going this week.

****

MOMENTUM

Was Francine going through the change of life? Was that what was going on? Was I? Both of us? Whatever, the momentum of our marriage carried us into the not-so-merry Christmas season. The kids had begged off of coming for a visit again, so we’d have no support from them. After sending our progeny and their kids way too expensive presents, we sat and stared at one another. That was it for the Yule season… except for the bank obligations, of course.

I halfway looked forward to the bank’s shindig. I tended to ease up on the obligatory circulating at our own party and let people come to me. Not Francine, she was in her full-flitting attitude, abandoning me to my coworkers. That was okay with me.

James left the stunning brunette he’d brought to sit with me on the couch and sip drinks. I enjoyed his company but was leery because of my wife’s baseless accusations.

But soon enough, he popped up to reclaim his young lady for the evening and rejoin the younger members of the staff. I watched from afar as he and his date regaled their peers with lively conversation and what I took to be ribald jokes, given the occasional bursts of laughter.

“May I join you?”

The voice startled me out of my semi-eavesdropping. Helen Dillingham stood with a martini in hand. A few years younger than I, Helen looked stunning in a white and black party dress. She was the universally liked and respected executive secretary of our bank chairman.

I struggled to my feet. “Please do. James Mentholzen was sitting there until a few minutes ago, and I was trying to recover from his staccato conversation.”

She sat. “Well, I promise not to talk you ear off. Nice social conversation, that’s all.”

I dropped down beside her. “I’ll hold you to that. How are you doing, Helen?”

The question was more than casual. She’d lost her husband last year to cancer, and her social life—or lack of it—was a subject of conjecture around the bank.

“I still miss him,” she said, staring into her glass.

“I suspect you always will. It’ll just become easier as time goes by.”

She mustered a smile. “Hard to imagine that at the moment, but I suspect you’re right. You’re such a rock of support, Chuck. Not just to me but to so many others, as well. You’re one of the good guys, you know. I’m glad you and Francine are so happy, you deserve one another.”

An icy chill prickled my back. So the fiction was still holding. I grappled for something to say. “Thanks. If you ever need to talk, just let me know.”

She laid a hand on my arm. “I may take you up on that one of these days.”

Someone blundered into the back of the couch and muttered a heartfelt “Oops, sorry.” I looked back at Helen to discover her gasping over a spilled drink.

“Oh!” I exclaimed, grabbing the handkerchief from my coat pocket and going to her assistance. Deciding that looked awkward, I took her glass from her and gave her my handkerchief to repair the damage herself.

Then I glanced up to see Francine standing in front of me with a saccharine look in her eyes. She turned to Helen and went sugary.

“Let’s get you to the ladies’ room and see if we can’t save that stunning dress.”

With that, she swept Helen away, leaving me with a glass in each hand.

The rest of the evening was uneventful… and enjoyable, I must say. Certainly more so than the obligatory parties I’d attended.

After we got in the car. Francine went silent, responding to my few casual observations about the party with hardly a grunt. That usually meant she was working herself into a rage.

That didn’t show up until we changed into casual clothes upstairs in the bedroom.

“Well, that was certainly a shameless scene!”

I blinked. “What was a shameless scene?”

“You and Helen. She’s had her cap set for you ever since her husband died… probably from boredom.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous? I saw her touch you. And I saw you pawing her like an animal. She probably spilled her drink to spur you to gallant action.” Her voice ended in a sneer.

“Francine, grow up. In the normal course of affairs, people touch one another. It doesn’t mean a thing. I have no romantic interest in Helen Dillingham, and she certainly has none in me.”

The sneer was now ascendent. “Of course, not. Well, let me tell you, I know that woman takes long lunches every Wednesday afternoon. And where are you? Oh, yes, you play golf on Wednesday afternoon, don’t you.”

“I give up,” I said.

This time, I took the guest bedroom. “Ho, ho, ho, Santa baby,” I grumbled as I snapped out the light.

Things were frosty—even for the Bellweather residence well into the new year. Was our momentum stalling out?

 

****

Downhill… definitely downhill. Poor old Chuck. He’s on that well-known professional escalator and needs a loving, supporting wife at his side. How many of us have been there? Will things get better? Let’s see next week.

Stay safe and stay strong.

Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say… so say it!

A link to The Cutie-Pie Murders:

https://www.dropbox.com/s/ambxgy7e5ndmimk/CutiePieMurders%5BThe%5D.zip?dl=0

My personal links:

Email: don.travis@aol.com.

Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982

Twitter: @dontravis3

See you next Thursday.

 

 Don

 New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time. 

dontravis.com blog post #604

 Momentum (Part 1 of 3 Parts)

 

 Well, we all know how Kenny misused his condom last week, don’t we. For some reason readership is up substantially, thanks to a host of readers from Singapore. Welcome, friends. Hope you keep coming back.

 

This week is the first of three installments. Hope you enjoy.

****

MOMENTUM

Let’s face it. I’m a fraud. Nothing else to call it. So is Francine, my wife. To be more accurate, Francine and Chuck Bellweather are a fraud. Note the singular? That’s because as individuals, I guess we’re pretty straightforward. But as a married unit, we’re frauds.

Our social world knows us as a loving couple, a normal, successful man and wife team who raised two great kids, earned a good living, and mixed well socially. All that’s true.

It’s when we’re alone at home that the fraud rears its ugly head. I don’t remember exactly when romance turned to placidity, nor when placidity morphed into acrimony. But over the last twenty-five years, that’s precisely what’s happened.

Why? Not certain. Perhaps we’re not compatible. Why did we stay together? Probably because the kids came so fast. Paul arrived nine months after the wedding vows were exchanged, and Nadine some ten months behind him. After that, it was a struggle to raise the kids and prosper. We did both tasks well. Paul’s a banker in far off Boston, and Nadine’s a tech with a Silicon Valley computer firm. Both married with two kids each.

Although the really bad years happened after they left for school, I’m certain the kids are aware of our situation. They keep in contact, but seldom visit. Nice to talk to, but shy away from acting as sounding boards for either of us.

Even the next-door neighbors don’t know the state of our marriage. Our house is icy, not heated. We express our disdain by withdrawing, not by shouting matches. Why do we keep it up? Habit. Fear of change. Inertia. Momentum. Take you pick, and you’d probably be at least partially right, because all apply. Then, of course, we’re a successful economic unit, and that’s hard to break.

Like my son, I’m a banker. Got into it by accident—I was recruited out of college, lured by the prospect of big bucks and prestige—and although I’m good at it… I hate it. It was okay, fun even, when I was going through the program learning the behind the scene jobs, but when I was promoted and went out on the floor as a commercial loan officer, things changed. I’m basically an introvert, and that’s no job for an introvert. Once banking hours were over, I usually went home, cleaned up, changed clothes, and collected Francine to attend a party, a meeting, a social event… all obligatory. Hated it! Francine at it up. Looking back, I wonder if that wasn’t the first divergence, the first split in interests.

Of course, Francine being so gregarious led to other social invitations and deeper resentment on my part. Was that the root of our problems? Francine was so good with people she was responsible for my progress up the ladder at the bank?

Of course, not. Well, that wasn’t the totality of it, for sure.

Francine started getting jealous about a year ago. No reason for it. My work habits didn’t change. Go to the bank at seven, come home at six and change for whatever after-hours affair we had to attend. Weekend golf. That was it.

Her accusations started getting serious three months ago. We were at a party where we were accompanied by a young man in our training program and assigned to me for mentorship. James Mentholzen by name, he was an army vet—discharged at the rank of captain at age twenty eight—who was going places. Unmarried, he arrived at our house in his vintage Thunderbird and accompanied us to a party given by one of the bank’s biggest customers.

Throughout the evening, I kept an eye on the young man as he moved easily among the party crowd, leaving smiles in his wake. He would go far, young Mr. Mentholzen. I noted his stunning good looks, the way his physique was put together and his easy manipulation of the crowd. We’d played golf together one or two times, and I knew he was a natural athlete. If he stayed at the bank, I would one day probably work for him.

Once we were home from the party and James had taken his leave, Francine started in on me.

“Well, that was a shameless display of lust.”

I blinked. “What do you mean?”

“You practically slobbered over James all evening. Couldn’t keep your eyes off him. Hardly kept your hands to yourself.”

“What are you talking about? I mentor James. Train him. Give reports on his progress. Of course, I kept my eye on him in a social situation. Part of the way I evaluate him.”

Her smirk was almost more than I could stand. Oh, yes. It was all business. Try not to slobber next time you’re evaluating your protégé.”

“I’ll swear, Francine, I have no idea what you’re talking about. Do you honestly think I’m hot for a guy?”

“Well, you’re getting to the age where the women don’t give you a second look. Maybe you’re desperate.”

I slammed off to bed, and she retired to the guest bedroom, which had virtually become her own.

The next day, I looked at James through new eyes. For the first time, I really noticed how handsome he was. Took note of the way his gym work had built biceps and pecs. He was a very attractive young man. I consciously tried to look at him the way Francine suggested I did, but couldn’t quite bring it off.

****

I hope you don’t recall any days like that from your past. Not sure how I’d have handled them. Next week, maybe things will get better for Chuck. Tune in and see.

Stay safe and stay strong.

Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say… so say it!

A link to The Cutie-Pie Murders:

https://www.dropbox.com/s/ambxgy7e5ndmimk/CutiePieMurders%5BThe%5D.zip?dl=0

My personal links:

Email: don.travis@aol.com.

Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982

Twitter: @dontravis3

See you next Thursday.

 

Don

New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time.  

Kenny’s Condom

 dontravis.com blog post #602

Image Courtesy of Promescent:

We all know about condoms, right? Rubbers. They have a use for which they’re made, and probably a host of others we don’t know much about. Our boy Kenny stumbles upon a rubber and debates about how to use it. Let’s find out what he decided.

 

****

KENNY AND HIS CONDOM

Kenny stared through ten-year-old eyes at the flat, round object lying in the dirt while his ten-year-old brain made certain connections. He knew what it was, of course. He’d seen one of Byran’s. Bryan was his older brother. It was a rubber. An unused rubber. The realization sent tingly sensations into his “parts” as he snatched the pack from the dirt. This stand of trees at the edge of the farm was a make-out place for kids old enough to drive cars and to…well, do it. His dad always complained the place needed a traffic cop.

Had some guy’s girl refused to cooperate after he lost his protection? Kenny imagined a worked-up dude’s frustration at his own carelessness. The package holding the thing was kinda pretty, like a big, extra thick gold coin glistening in the afternoon sun.

His chores for the day finished, he’d been headed over to the Morrison farm to meet Thomas. He could hardly wait to see what his best friend would say about his lucky find. Kenny halted mid-stride. Maybe he oughta hike back and hide out in the hayloft to think about things first. He shoved the gold clad rubber deep in his overalls pocket and reversed course.

After settling down behind a bale of hay in the loft to examine the profile of a helmeted warrior embossed on the pack, he remembered him and Tommy looking up “Condoms” on the Morrison family computer. They’d snickered over claims like extra stimulation, ultra thin, lubricated, spermicide. But the one that had got to them was “Flavored.” Why would somebody want a flavored rubber? Then they went red-faced at graphic drawings demonstrating the proper way to don a “love sleeve.” Tommy’d paid a price for that when his old man discovered where he’d been searching.

Now, as he lay in the hay examining the thing, Kenny considered trying it on. But it was too neat to break open. He’d hang onto it, and the next time the gang did a coin toss to decide something or the other, he’d flick the pack into the air with his thumb and catch it in his outstretched palm. He tried the maneuver and called tails. Oops, there wasn’t a tail. That majestic-looking warrior adorned both sides. Great, he had a two-headed coin. Nah, that wouldn’t work. They’d catch on too fast.

Involved in clearing that point up, he missed the last flip, and the package bounced on the bale and disappeared over the edge into some loose hay. While he was scrambling around trying to find it, something crunched beneath his boot.

The thing didn’t look so pretty now. It was squashed flat. The gleaming yellow surface, now crumpled and smudged, had lost its luster…and attraction. He peeled away the top and looked at the rolled-up condom. Wasn’t anything pretty about it. Gray and kinda loathsome, really. He held it up to the light to inspect for damage. Looked okay. Since it was out, he might as well try it on. He was disappointed…and kind of bothered…when the blessed thing fell right off.

Kenny’s mind flew in less erotic directions. Some of the older boys at school last year had filled rubbers with water and dropped them on students from the roof of the building. Thinking of nothing better to do with the ugly, penis-shaped thing, he scrambled down the ladder and peeked out into the yard. No one in sight. He slipped around the corner of the barn and shoved the condom beneath the spout of the hand pump they sometimes used to fill jerry-cans with water to take to the fields.

He started pumping and pumping…and pumping. The cotton-picking thing grew enormous, stretching and stretching without bursting. He overfilled it and had to let a little water escape in order to tie the ends. Once that was done, he held the big balloon in his hand while his mind made the trip to the goal it had been pursuing all along. In a few minutes, Bryan would be coming to the barn to pitch fodder for the animals. The temptation was too great. It took some doing to get the heavy, sloshing rubber—now in the shape of an elongated balloon—up the ladder without bursting it, but Kenny managed.

Once in the loft, he waited at the big double hay doors, easing them open when he heard the pump at the side of the barn. His brother was getting a drink before coming inside. Kenny grinned. He’d closed the door down below, so Bryan would pause right beneath him for just a second. And a second was all he needed.

Positioned now, he hardly dared breathe as he waited. Then there was movement. A brown hat cleared the corner of the barn. One…two…three…go!

A fraction of a second after he released the bloated rubber, he recalled something about Bryan going into town this afternoon to check out a job at the hardware store.

Plop. Splash.

“What the hell? KENNY!” his father roared.

 

****

Do you remember those days of sweet innocence… even though we felt slightly smutty at the time?

Stay safe and stay strong.

Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say… so say it!

A link to The Cutie-Pie Murders:

https://www.dropbox.com/s/ambxgy7e5ndmimk/CutiePieMurders%5BThe%5D.zip?dl=0

My personal links:

Email: don.travis@aol.com.

Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982

Twitter: @dontravis3

See you next Thursday.

 

 

Don

 

New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time. 

Time

 dontravis.com blog post #602

 

  I have to start out by begging forgiveness for this blog. It’s self-serving and likely of little or no interest to anyone, nonetheless, it’s what emerged this week. What follows is not a short story, it’s more like an essay (apologies to real essayists).

 

****

TIME

This started out as a short story but ended up something entirely different. As I sat down to write my blog this week, I wanted to tear out what little hair I have left just to find the time to complete it… on time. Normally, I write my posts on the weekend before the Thursday 5:00 a.m. posting date. Now it’s Wednesday night and I’m out of it. Out of what? Time, of course.

Time. Time, time, time…. When you’re a kid it seems to stretch out endlessly before you. At my age, there never seems to be enough of it, and the horizon isn’t as far distant as it once was. Even the nature of time has changed. In the carefree kiddy days, it was loafing. Loafing so much, you struggled to find things to fill your time. Then it became working… and struggling. Struggling to find the time to do your things.

Now, its struggling to find the energy to do your things. And what does that equate to? Not enough energy, things take longer to get done, and, of course, that translates once again to time.

I keep asking this question, but, as yet, I haven’t found the right sage to give me the answer: How do days go so slowly when weeks, months, years fly by at an accelerating rate of speed?

So this week, I’m admitting failure and simply putting my thoughts (bitches) on paper. I am of a certain age, yet reasonably healthy (if I’d quit falling down). I’ve outlived my parents, my wife, one son, a brother, countless other relatives, and a ton of friends and acquaintances. Why? I have no idea.

My lifestyle is not particularly healthy. I’m sedentary, overweight (but not as bad as I once was), eat packaged foods, drive too fast (once again, not as bad as when I was younger), and was sickly as a child.

Although eight years older than my sister and eleven years older than my surviving brother, I suspect I’m healthier than both. Why?

Can’t put it down to “good genes.” They have the same ones I do.

Lifestyle? They hunted and fished and hiked forest trails while I sat at the typewriter (and later the computer) and wrote stories.

Nurturing? I lost my wife in 2009 and have lived alone for the last fourteen-plus years. They each have loving, supportive spouses.

My children? Well, my elder, Clai, passed away January 22, 2021 from sepsis. His heart compaction rate was so low, he couldn’t push liquids through the kidneys and the liver. He lived a life tortured by a Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID). In my day, we called it Multiple Personality Disorder. Additionally, he was disabled by a spine that looked like an “S.”

My younger son (whom I won’t name as he would likely take a hatchet to me for publicly discussing his problems), is disabled by failed back surgery and has lived with constant pain for over thirteen years. As if that weren’t enough, he’s suffered a heart attack (fortunately while standing in the waiting room at Presbyterian Hospital). This week and last week, I went with him through the laborious process of moving his health care to the Veterans Administration. These last few days have been stressful for both of us. And as I’ve said, I ain’t moving so fast these days.

Ergo, this pitiful post about time. But it does give a bit of insight into this guy that some of you have been reading for years.

Forgive me and don’t give up on me. I’ll post something more interesting next week.

Stay safe and stay strong.

Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say… so say it!

A link to The Cutie-Pie Murders:

https://www.dropbox.com/s/ambxgy7e5ndmimk/CutiePieMurders%5BThe%5D.zip?dl=0

My personal links:

Email: don.travis@aol.com.

Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982

Twitter: @dontravis3

See you next Thursday.

 

 

Don

 

New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time.