Something Special

Something Special

  by

  Geoffrey Kruse-Safford

  Copyright 2012 by Geoffrey Kruse-Safford

  ~~~~

  Something Special

  ~~~~

  Everything in Will Chambers’s mind screamed at him how wrong the whole situation was. Sitting in a bar, a hundred miles from home. His ass on a stool, a horrid beer leaving its wretched after-taste. His wedding ring off his finger. Why, oh why, was he doing this?

  He would prefer to sit and talk with his wife of eight years. His chair in their apartment in Lincoln Park was waiting for him. He’d sit there in the evenings, reading or perhaps checking some news online while she watched something on television. Once upon a time, it had been enough to just sit with her, be in the same room with her. There was always that hint of promise, of loving to come from a woman far too beautiful ever to have considered him once upon a time. For all that he had become, by his mid-20’s, if not striking, at least handsome enough to receive attention from a variety of women always struck Will as odd. When a casual conversation in a line at Panera turned in to a twice-weekly meeting, then dating, then marriage, no one was more surprised than Will. That first week of their marriage, he had lain awake at night, his new wife curled in his arms, and the strangeness of it, the impossibility of the entire situation rose, frightening him.

  The years in between had been pleasant enough. Will’s job at a local weekly had turned in to a position of some prominence in Chicago political commentary, while Yvette’s work at the Harold Washington library became the impetus to finish her masters, giving her opportunities she might not otherwise have. The sad discovery they couldn’t have children of their own hadn’t become a source of mutual disgust and frustration, as they shared their grief together, then moved on. Their lives full and busy, they buried themselves in the two things they shared the most: their careers and their life together.

  Or so it seemed. The past year had raised questions that Will, normally one to address matters head on, felt afraid to ask. Days and nights would pass without the two of them exchanging a word. They would fall in to bed, exhausted from their day’s work, then rise the next morning and go about their morning’s routine without so much as a “Good morning”. However Yvette would spend her day, Will found himself coming home no longer even interested in telling her about a story he was researching, or a guest spot on a local news program, or the offer of a book deal on Chicago politics.

  One day, out of the blue, he had mentioned in passing to one of his colleagues that things in his marriage seemed to be stuck in a rut from which no exit seemed possible. This colleague, an older reporter named Bob Jennings, smiled and said, “Feeling a bit tired of the whole thing?”

  “What ‘whole thing’?” Will asked.

  “You know,” Bob said, a leer on his unhandsome face, “the old lady. Marriage. The same face day after day, the same tired discussions, the same stories, the same sex.” The emphasis on this last was clear enough.

  Trying to steer away from so personal a conversation, Will had chuckled and shrugged, trying a noncommittal, “I guess” as a response.

  “I know this place, it’s a bit of a drive, but let met tell you,” Bob said, his tone confidential and conspiratorial throughout, “the ladies there, buy ‘em a couple beers and it’s all over except for who pays for the room.” The smile Bob gave Will as he walked away left Will with little doubt he was speaking from experience.

  At first, the whole exchange left Will feeling dirty. Did he and Yvette have problems? Sure. Was the answer chasing after some other woman? On a recommendation from Bob Jennings? Definitely not.

  Over ensuing weeks, however, as things with Yvette seemed to drift without any sense resolution was near, Will thought more and more about what Bob had told him. What could it hurt? A night away, some time with another woman, no strings, nothing but mutual satisfaction. Millions of guys did it, right?

  So, a couple weeks ago, he finally got around to asking Bob for details. “So,” Bob said, a knowing smile that transformed his rather plain looks to something disgusting, “you finally tired of dating your right hand in the shower?”

  That Bob would even consider what Will might or might not do in the shower made him cringe inside. Still, curiosity was striving with his natural repugnance. “I guess,” he said, still trying to sound noncommittal.

  “You heard of Ottawa?” Bob asked.

  Of course he had. Lincoln and Douglas had held a debate there. Beyond that, it was somewhere beyond the suburbs, That meant hicksville. He nodded.

  “Well, you go there, down by the river there’s this bar. I shit you not, the place is called Hoedown, like it’s tailor-made for hooking up. You wave a wad of cash around that place, the ho’s will be down, you know what I mean?”

  Will felt like vomiting.

  “Anyway, head there on a Friday night, buy a few drinks, smile a few smiles, and before you know it, some pretty young thing will be begging you to strip off her thong with your teeth.” Bob seemed on the verge of drooling. “When it’s all said and done, you take a shower, drive home, and everyone’s happy.”

  Ottawa. Hoedown. By the river. The whole thing sounded preposterous. Will was a married man. It wasn’t the happiest marriage, by any means. Still, the thought of trolling some country bar somewhere out in the sticks made Will’s skin crawl. Instead of making up an excuse to head to the boonies some Friday, he knew just what he would do. Tonight, he would head home, sit down with Yvette, and together they would start to patch up the holes in their life together before they got too big. It wouldn’t be easy, but if it was easy, it wouldn’t be worth it.

  Instead, here he was, sipping a Bud Light of all things, in Hoedown. The drive to Ottawa wasn’t as bad as he’d thought. He told Yvette he had to meet a source out of town over the weekend. It wasn’t the first time he’d told her this.

  It was just the first time he’d lied to her about it.

  He’d arrived in town around six thirty, dropping off an overnight bag in a hotel room out by Interstate 80. There was a moment he considered the insanity of what he was doing. Why was he out here in the middle of nowhere, on his own, so obviously a married man on the prowl for something on the side? He checked his watch, and could picture Yvette puttering around the kitchen of their apartment, some of that horrid Euro Pop on Pandora, her hair pulled back with a kind of casual nonchalance he always admired. He used to tell her he liked it because it felt like she was inviting him to kiss her neck. She would giggle at him as he kissed his way from an ear down her throat, then sigh, a sure sign she wanted him to keep going.

  He closed his eyes. This had to be the stupidest fucking thing he’d ever done. He opened his eyes, and decided to grab his bag, head out the door, and drive home. He’d tell Yvette his source didn’t show so he came home, take her to bed, make love to her, and then they’d spend the night talking. In the morning, he’d make chocolate chip pancakes and bring them to her in bed, along with coffee and orange juice, and they’d spend Saturday watching movies in bed. Maybe they’d make love some more. Maybe they’d just talk. And talk. And talk. And he’d tell her the truth, and she’d cry, and he’d beg forgiveness, and at the end of the day, they’d make up because she was the only good thing in his life, outside work. The only thing that made sense.

  An hour later, he was putting money down on the bar for another bottle of Bud Light.

  This early, things were quiet. There were only a dozen or so people scattered around the bar, including a party of six at a table. They’d ordered a big platter of appetizers and a couple pitchers of beer. One young woman in the group had fed a couple dollar bills in to the jukebox. Apparently, she was a f
an of Kenny Chesney and Trace Adkins, because those were the only songs that played, a couple twice.

  The only thing worse than sitting alone in a bar where you didn’t know anyone, intending to cheat on your wife, was having a soundtrack provided by Nashville. It was just too cliché.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  Will didn’t realize his head was in his hands. He looked up to the round, happy face of the bartender. Looking to be in his mid-40’s, the bartender had one of those open, genial faces that they probably pass out on the first day to every career bartender in America.

  “Sure,” Will said. He took a sip from his bottle.

  “If you’re looking for something to happen, you’re way too early, my friend.” The bartender kept his eye on Will as he walked over to grab some glasses to fill for a couple that had just