Chapter 1
“Your mom and I are getting married,” I said looking into their eyes, trying to hide the trepidation in my voice.
That’s when I felt the world fade to black. Now I’m inside my head. No one else is in the room. My brain is spinning like a maelstrom and I’m having a minor freak-out. It was instantaneous, so I don’t think anyone noticed it. I don’t even think I recognized it until much later. But, here I was staring death in the face, and death had a mouth full of braces.
This was a moment that had tortured me with ambivalence for weeks. Emma and I had discussed this day on a multitude of occasions until we surrendered to exhaustion. All the nuances of what we would say, how we would say it, when we would say it, and where we would say it. We had been over all of it in excruciating detail. Like so many things in our lives at that point, we knew that no matter how many scenarios we ran and how many tragedies we had avoided in our heads, the reality was completely unpredictable. After much deliberation, we agreed to expect a wholly disinterested “Really? Whatever.” response from the kids. Knowing Pete and Bob enough to make a prediction, this was the most likely response, given the fact that they were 10 and 13 years old and typical, unimpressed kids of their generation. However, there was always the possibility of the whole thing blowing up in our faces, leaving the grim saturation of rejection all over our faces.
That would suck.
Although, either or both kids could violently reject the whole idea for a panoply of reasons, and we were fully prepared for any of them. (At least in theory.) Although we hadn’t seen any signs of it at that point, they could rebel against the idea for the mere fact of their mother marrying someone else. I wasn’t their dad, I never would be, and maybe that was the only thing that mattered to them. Maybe they were the kids you hear about where no one should be married to their mom other than their dad. Maybe they would hear the news and hideously transmogrify into 7-headed troglodytes emerging from their caves to kill the threat to their happy home. Maybe they would be typical kids that reject anything their parents say or do, out of (kid) principle. Or, maybe they would just be assholes about it. I’ve heard kids can be that way.
Or, they could rebel against the idea because it just freaked them out to think of another man in their family and in their house. I could almost hear the thousand questions zipping through their brains as I sat there in cool repose, trying to ascertain their disposition. How would they act? How would I act? How would daily life change? Would I be cool? Would I be a jerk? Would I try to assume the role of their dad? Would they let me get anywhere near the role of their dad? Would I care about them at all? Would they care about me at all? How much were they supposed to like me? Were they supposed to love me? Would they somehow create problems in our marriage? What’s it like to be a stepfather? What’s it like to be a stepkid? Did they have to call me “dad”? What about their real dad? Does he disappear? Will he be relegated to a peripheral existence in their lives? Would they still get to see him every day? Would they get to see him enough? Can they still walk around the house in their underwear? Can they still drink the milk out of the bottle? Every single detail of their lives was now up in the air. Life as they knew it was over. How would they handle it? How would their older brother, Chris, handle it? How would their dad handle it? How would I handle it?
Until I spoke those words to them I was a single guy living alone in a nice house with no furniture other than a couch, a TV, and a bed. I had a dog, a cat, no kids, I was dating a great girl who I loved very much, and I spent most of my free time hanging with my friends, being lazy, absorbed in my own little world, with no one to worry about but me. Of course, I had considered the fact that all of this would go away when we got married, and it never seemed like an issue. I was going to be married to the most perfect girl in the world and nothing else mattered. Now that I was thinking about what the kids were going through, I started to think a little more about what I was going through. That’s when the metaphorical hand said “slap” to my face.
Six months later on June 18, 2005 I was going to be the proud stepfather of three kids, ages 10, 13, and 20. Let me say that again. On June 18, 2005 I was going to be the proud step-father of three kids, ages 10, 13, and 20.
Holy shit.
And, gulp.
What if the kids are a nightmare? What if I am a terrible stepfather? What if I forgot how to do 5th grade math? What if the world implodes around me?
I had been married before, so I was familiar with the vagaries of married life. I had made all the mistakes before and I had assiduously learned from them (more on that later). That didn’t worry me. I knew that I would be a great husband. I was giddy with the idea of devoting my life to this incredible woman. Yeah, I was lazy, but I could step it up for the good of the marriage (more on that later). No, I didn’t need to play video games for 16 hours straight (more on that later). No, I didn’t need to lay on the couch each Sunday and watch football all day (more on that later). I wasn’t worried about me. I was worried about my pending family. Could we be happy? How different would reality be versus the way it looked in my head? These were all questions I knew would be answered soon enough, and that I probably wouldn’t like some of the answers.
“You’re getting married???”, the kids said in amplified unison.
Double-gulp.
“YES!! Alright!! Awesome!! Yeah!!!”, they effused.
Both Emma and I released a simultaneous, cathartic, galactic sigh of relief, like we just hit a patch of ice on the road, spun around 17 times, missed the telephone pole, missed the divider, missed the on-coming tractor trailer, and skidded to safety back on the shoulder.
They jumped up off the faded green, highly-weathered, very dog-haired couch, high-fived each other, jumped around the coffee table, hugged Emma and gushed for 2.5 minutes about how happy they were and how great this was.
“When are you getting married?”, Pete asked enthusiastically.
Another touchy subject.
We decided we had to withhold this information for as long as possible for some very good, maybe paranoid, reasons. You see, their dad is quite possibly the angriest, most psychopathic prick on the planet. I know everyone thinks their ex is a jerk and has done some horrible things. Let me tell you, most of you have no idea. Except for the criminally insane men and/or women who kill their ex-spouses, this guy has to be the worst case of psycho-ex-spouse imaginable. He is the kind of psycho asshole you only see in movies. Guys like this don’t really exist in real life, do they? Yes, they do.
I’ll tell you more about him later, but for now, suffice it to say we were very concerned he would show up at the wedding and violently disrupt the ceremony, embarrassing himself, us, and all of the guests. We believed that we had do whatever it took to make sure he didn’t find out where and when we were getting married. And, we knew we would have to go to the expense and hassle of hiring private security on our wedding day.
To exacerbate the situation, the kids were terrified to withhold any information from their dad out of fear of him finding out they didn’t tell him something. When he found out the kids didn’t tell him something, he would verbally and emotionally eviscerate them without remorse. Then, he would apologize and say “you know I didn’t mean it. I would never hurt you on purpose. You know I’m sorry.”
So, we knew we couldn’t trust the kids with this information, for their own good. We had to keep the location and date of the wedding a secret for as long as possible. We couldn’t even tell them what we were considering, beyond vague approximations of the details.
All of those thoughts and memories ran through our heads as we mentally scrambled to come up with an answer to Pete’s question that wouldn’t sound suspicious.
“We really haven’t figured that out yet”, Emma replied. “Jack only asked me to marry him a couple of days ago. We’re thinking about getting married sometime this summer, but there are a lot of details to work through. So, you’re really happy about us getting married?”
“Yeah, definitely. That’s so cool. I’m so happy for you”, Bob responded.
“Thank you so much. That means the world to me.” said Emma in some amalgam of relief and euphoria.
“Do you know where you’re getting married?”, inquired Pete.
“No, not specifically”, I responded cautiously. “It’ll probably be somewhere in North Carolina. We don’t want everyone to have to travel very far. My parents are in California and my brother is in New York, but your mom’s whole family is here, except for Diane. It’ll just be easier to do it relatively close-by. I don’t know. What do you think?”
Pete shrugged. “I dunno. What about the honeymoon?”, his eyes widening and lips spreading into a grin. “Are we going on the honeymoon with you?”
Emma and I looked at each other with a non-specific panic. That was one of the few questions we hadn’t considered and did not expect. Of course.
I’m thinking, “Okay, which one of us was going to dare to field that question? This one has disaster written all over it. To the kids, this was a very important question with a thousand implications. We can’t blow it now. Not this soon. Quick, think. What does he want to hear? You have to say something, quick. Just be vague and non-committal. Give him nothing to use at a later date as proof that we suck.”
“That’s a great question”, I started, hoping an epiphany would fall out of the sky and out of my mouth. “We were thinking we would take two honeymoons. One with you guys and one with just us.” Brilliant, I congratulated myself. “Where do you think you want to go? Anywhere in the world. Name it.” Dumb ass, I dubbed myself.
“Anywhere??” they both inquired looking at each other, rubbing their hands together like mad scientists about to flip the switch on their latest invention.
And the flood gates opened.
The kids proceeded to vomit out a litany of exotic, far away, and adult-unfriendly places that made us wince with each subsequent suggestion.
“How about Hawaii? No, Australia. No, California. No, New York. No, Spain. No, the Bahamas. No, Disney. No, Universal in Florida…” The list went on, the expensive activities associated with these destinations piled up, and the price tag went through the roof. Emma looked at me with a dejected mix of “nice save” and “you idiot”. She knew the double-honeymoon idea was a good, albeit expensive, option that we would all enjoy. But, we both knew I pushed it one step too far. I couldn’t just shut my mouth, could I?
Oh well. I only half blew it and we would make it out of the conversation alive. That was all that mattered at that point. We knew we had time to maneuver the kids into accepting a much more local and much more reasonable honeymoon/vacation, but now was not the time to open up that mess. We had to leave that turd on the table and walk away like it didn’t exist. We would clean it up some other day. We had to get up and leave the room on a high note like George Costanza.
“Well, we have plenty of time to talk about it. We don’t need to decide anything right now. Just think about it for a while and let us know what you come up with.” Emma directed the kids away from an immediate decision. “Now, why don’t you guys go play? We’ll talk about all this another time.”
Nice.
She had been a mom for 20 years and was well-versed in the fine art of adolescent-diversion tactics. I was impressed. I would have ended-up promising them a 3-month trip around the world, stopping at every Disney resort and every water park known to man. Clearly, I had a lot to learn and I felt at that moment I was going to marry the Obi-Wan Kenobi of parenting.
“Pretty smooth.” I whispered to Emma. “You certainly pulled that one out of your ass.”
She looked at me and smiled that omniscient smile only mothers know. She knew how horribly trapped I was and that I was steering both of us towards a dangerous and unrecoverable place. She also knew that she had saved the both of us. I think she delighted in the fact she had done this for me and gently introduced me to the wonderful world of parenting at the same time. What an incredible person. She amazed me with that surreptitiously brilliant maneuver I would soon learn to master myself.
“Well, I guess we have some planning to do.” I said to my future wife with a note of anticipatory exhaustion. “Do you want to deal with the wedding or the honeymoon first?
“I think I’d like to start planning the wedding first. That may affect what we do and where we go on our honeymoons.”
We sat there in silence for a while, letting the wheels spin and began processing the next six months ahead of us. We knew we would have to do everything ourselves, which was actually an exciting prospect for both of us. We were both very accustomed to, and very good at, planning large-scale projects. So, the monster of details, planning, and execution was not at all daunting to either one of us. I was almost surprised to realize we were both looking forward to the whole planning process together. This was a great opportunity to let our minds go, dream up crazy options, and discuss ridiculous destinations we could never afford. Like everything at that point, everything seemed possible and everything seemed fun.
This was a stark contrast to the lives we lived before we met and before we started dating. I think the stretch of time before we started dating was kind of a strange time for both of us. We worked at the same company and were peripherally connected by our jobs, but we really didn’t get to know each other very well when our paths first crossed. Emma has since told me that when she first met me, she thought I was “really weird”. (It’s an interesting moment when you learn that your wife used to think you were weird and didn’t think much of you.) I can understand where she was coming from, though. I am different from most of the people that work at our company. We all have MBA’s, we are all competitive, and we are all very focused on our careers. But, most everyone else in the company is from North Carolina or some other Southern state and they are very conservative. This is the land of the Southern Baptists, where there are churches on every corner, a bible in every nightstand, and a clandestine judgment behind everyone’s eyes. Based on that alone, my presence here was initially met with skeptical curiosity. I wish I had a nickel for every time someone said to me, “you ain’t from here, are ya”.
I think I am quite normal and I fit in pretty well here, but it has been proven many times over that I am almost completely antithetical to everyone at work and around town, and I don’t really fit in all that well. It has gotten a lot better over the years, as I have made some great friends and I have acculturated pretty well. But, I can’t seem to shake the label of at least “slightly weird” with the ghost of “very weird” not far behind.
Before I moved down here from Queens eight years ago, I thought I was pretty pedestrian. Slightly unique in the way my mind works, maybe, but relatively normal nonetheless. To illustrate, here is the abbreviated version of my story.
I as born in Illinois, but I moved to New Jersey when I was four. To me, I am from New Jersey. That is where I lived from kindergarten through high school and that is where I “grew up”. It is my home. In my 37 years of life, I have moved over 25 times and I have lived all across the US. But, whenever someone asks me where I’m from, I always say, “Jersey”.
As far as I know, I have always been a quiet, introspective, inquisitive, self-aware, casually adventuresome, and happy person. I spend most of my time somewhere in my head, interpreting the things around me, rather than actively engaging in them. In social settings, I don’t say a whole lot, mostly because I don’t think most things are worth saying. I hate mindless banter and gossip, which makes me seem stand-offish to most people. Almost completely contrary to that, I love a good debate and I will argue an interesting topic with ruthless vigor to win the argument. I see arguing as a sport, and I have pissed off a lot of people who have a personal stake in the argument or don’t recognize the fun of arguing.
Generally speaking, I am disassociated and dispassionate about the terrestrial complexities that convolute most people’s lives. This sentiment is either the cause or effect of a distinct feeling of being completely disconnected from the world. It’s been this way for almost as long as I can remember. Most of the time, I feel like I am somewhere above my head, watching myself move through the world from a distance. I feel like a casual observer to my own life and the things around me. I don’t even feel like the words coming out of my mouth are coming from me. They seem to be coming from the sentient doppelganger loosely attached to my brain. If I didn’t notice this phenomenon when I was around seven years old, I would think it was the after-effect of all the drugs I did in my younger years. The first time I noticed it was a very trippy experience. I was playing soccer under the lights and all of a sudden, my consciousness was sucked out of my body and I played the whole game outside of myself, watching myself play the entire game. I felt no connection to the activity in which I was engaged. My body did all of the things it was supposed to do, but I felt like I was not controlling it in any way. After the game, I told my mom about it and asked her to explain what the hell just happened. She had no idea what I was talking about, and could not help me make any sense of it. Since then, I have never heard or seen anything that has helped me figure out what this disconnection is all about. It remains a mystery to me and it remains an integral part of me.
I think I grew up a pretty happy kid. I was always smiling and always asking questions. (My grandfather used to call me the “How Come Kid”, a moniker I have always loved.) Sure, I’ve had some unhappy times growing up, but I don’t think anything significant enough has happened to affect my optimistic outlook. I was a little bit chunky during my awkward years from nine to fourteen years old. Not even close to fat, but heavy enough to draw insults from a few thoughtless kids. I still think about the mean things kids said to me during those years, making fun of me for being what they considered fat. If nothing else, it has made me extremely sensitive and empathic towards everyone in the world who isn’t perfect because of things they can’t control. I am hyper-aware of how people are feeling and reacting and I go out of my way to defend them or encourage them if they are made to feel inferior for any reason. And, I am extremely loyal to the people who treat me with kindness and respect. As for the people I love, I would step in front of a bus for them.
I have always loved learning and doing well in school. To me, intelligence and scholastic success is the great equalizer and a very powerful tool. You can do a lot of damage or a lot of good with your brain, depending on how you use it. When I see people with a hardcore commitment to working out and maniacally striving for a perfect body, I see a pathetic compensation for their lack of intelligence or lack of confidence. Yes, there are exceptions, but I think that is a reasonable truism for the most part. I do think it is very important to be in shape and healthy, but taken to an extreme always seemed sad to me.
I used to play a lot of sports, but I was never great at any one of the sports I played. I just loved to play. It was never all that important to me to be the best one on the team, as long as I was having fun. I didn’t stop playing sports until I was fifteen years old when both my soccer coach and my basketball coach gave me the ultimatum to cut my hair or sit on the bench. I was a budding rocker at the time and I thought my coaches were incredibly narrow-minded assholes for even raising the issue. If that was how they felt, then I wanted no part of it. So, I quit all organized sports and I diverted my teenage kinetic energy into my social life and getting my kicks in less productive ways.
I never got into much trouble, or at least I didn’t get caught, because I was very low-key about what I was doing. I never rebelled for attention and I wasn’t looking for a “reputation”. I went down the shore with my friends, I went to parties every weekend, I hung out in the City (Manhattan, for the non-Yankees in the crowd), I went skiing in the Poconos and upstate New York, I went to concerts, and I hung out with friends. So, nothing crazy. Yes, there was partying involved in most of these activities, but I never saw it as breaking any laws. I was just having fun.
There were a few conflicts with my parents over curfews, but for the most part, we got along great. They were (and are) great parents. As long as I got good grades, they pretty much let me do whatever I wanted. They grounded me every once in a while, but I definitely deserved it. With my parents, there really wasn’t anything to rebel against. They were loving, reasonable people who trusted me to do the right thing, even after I made bad choices. I think I had built so much trust by doing well in school and being a good kid, they were willing to forgive most of my teenage transgressions and stupidities. They knew I partied at least a little bit, but in those days parents didn’t have to worry about the same kinds of things parents worry about today. Back then, underage drinking was not condoned, but it wasn’t yet labeled an epidemic. It was seen as one of the stupid things kids do and grow out of, but nothing to worry about as long as it wasn’t corrupting the rest of their lives. It was something my parents were willing to deal with as long as I kept my head straight and stayed out of trouble. They gave me a lot of freedom and I did my best to never abuse that privilege. It was an honor for me to earn their trust and it was important for me to maintain that trust when it was challenged. When I did things that might not have been the best choices, my parents let me learn from my mistakes and deal with the consequences on my own.
For example, when the school called my mom on a business trip 3,000 miles away from home to tell her the entire senior class was at our house for a party, she didn’t wig out on me. She called me and calmly told me what the school had told her and asked me what was going on. I told her the truth and said I decided to take the day off from school and I had a couple of friends at the house, just hanging out. It was only a few weeks before graduation, I had great grades, I was accepted into my first-choice college, and I had a perfect attendance record up to that point. To me, it wasn’t a big deal to take one day off and have some fun, since I had the rest of the school year under control. My mom agreed and never came down on me for it. She said that she was fine with me taking a day off from school for the same reasons I used to justify the choice, but I would have to accept any punishment the school handed down.
Whoever is controlling the universe, I am so thankful to them for giving me my parents.
I also have an older brother, Kerry, who beat the crap out of me for most of my young life. As a kid, I sometimes hated him for the torture he inflicted on me, but mostly, I looked up to him. He is such a great guy and he has an incredible heart. A lot of who I am today is because of the way I emulated him as a kid. I guess I went through the typical love/hate dichotomy until he grew out of the need to punish me for being the younger brother. Since then, we have become great friends and we spent a lot of time together as young adults. It was with him that I first felt a protective instinct. He was older and stronger than me, so he never needed me to protect him in the literal sense. But, when we were together, I was always looking out for anything that may cause him harm in any way. And, I was always ready to confront whatever real or perceived threat that came anywhere near him. He was my brother, I loved him to death, and there wasn’t anything I wouldn’t do for him. I still feel that way today, but now, that protective instinct covers a few more people. So, maybe I can thank him now for all the things he has given me, of which he probably has no idea.
Kerry has lived on Long Island since he was eighteen and continues to live there today in a nice house by the LIRR in Lindenhurst with his girlfriend, Delia. When he was eighteen, he decided he much preferred to live on his own with his friends who had all moved out to Long Island. So, one day, he left a note on the kitchen counter for my parents to read when they got home from work, telling them he loved them and he felt like it was time for him to live on his own. It may have been partly because he felt the implicit disapproval of his lifestyle, compared to their expectations and dreams for him. But, most of it was the lifestyle he wanted to live that was unavailable in Belle Mead, New Jersey. He played bass in a band with some friends and he wanted to be near the City in preparation for his big break. He was living a great life back then, enjoying every moment like it was his last. And, I enjoyed it with him when I went out to visit him whenever I had the chance. Since then, his life has stayed pretty much the same, although most of his original friends have moved on and out of Long Island, each for different reasons. He talks about moving to some other state out of frustration with his situation, but he is still there, playing music and going to work every day. As long as he is happy, I don’t care what he does or where he lives. But, I do selfishly wish he would move down to North Carolina so I can see him more often.
In school, getting good grades was extremely important to me and it came very easy. I didn’t have to study very much to get A’s and B’s, so I didn’t. All A’s would have been great, but A’s and B’s were fine with me and I was able to rationalize not being the top of my class by factoring in how much fun I was having. As long as my grades didn’t slip below a B average, I was fine. I wish I had focused a little more on school so I could have gone to a better college, but, given the way my life has turned out, I don’t think it would have made much difference. Even if it would have changed where I am today for the better, I am so glad I partied instead of studying more in high school. I don’t think I could be happier with how my life turned out.
When I was about to graduate high school my parents moved to Seattle, so I followed them out west and went to Washington State University for a degree in Spanish. Much to my surprise, I joined a fraternity the second semester of my first year. All else being equal, I never would have considered it, but my best friend in the dorms was given an invitation to join the fraternity, so I asked him if he could get me an invitation so I could check it out. Well, they turned out to be 100 kids just like me and they openly embraced the Jersey rocker into their house. They definitely were not the Biff and Skippy idiots I had in my mind when I used to think about fraternities. They were normal guys with their heads on straight and partied like rock stars. Perfect.
Until my 3rd year of college, I had hair down to my waist and looked like a total burnout rocker. True to my façade, I blurred through the 80’s drinking, smoking dope, tripping out, and hanging with my friends in the City or on campus. But, true to my M.O., I maintained a high GPA through it all. In fact, my GPA was much higher in college than high school. I graduated high school with a 2.8 GPA and I graduated college with a 3.4. I’m not sure why I did so much better in college. Maybe it was partly because my parents were paying for all my college expenses and I would have felt extremely guilty about wasting their money by under-achieving. I think the rest of it was a new-found discipline for studying and subject matter that I actually enjoyed. Whatever the impetus, I never cracked a beer until the studying was done and I was willing to do the hard work for good grades. “School Before Beer” was my mantra and I followed it to the letter (usually).
During this time in my life, I pretty evenly divided my time between walking around the Village, going to the Limelight on Sunday nights, cruising the boardwalk at Seaside Heights, road-tripping, binge drinking at fraternity parties, writing poetry, reading anything from Nietzsche to Kerouac to Dostoevsky to Miller to Hesse, drawing in my sketchbook, watching TV, and playing video games.
A lot of who I was revolved around music and the music scene. I went to every concert that came to town and I was always listening to music. To me, music was the perfect conduit to my inner brain. I could dissolve into myself and experience all my thoughts and feelings as they connected to the music. I loved music and everything about the music scene. Music is still an important part of my life, but it doesn’t define me anymore. Back then, it was heavy metal all the way and that’s how I lived my life. Today, my iPod today has anything from Slayer, to Marilyn Manson, to Pink Floyd, to Charlie Parker, to the Carpenters, to Garth Brooks, to classical guitar, to the Fugees to Public Enemy. As long as it is what I consider good music, and it’s created by someone I can credibly call an artist, I’ll listen to it.
After a few years of working a job I hated when I graduated, I ditched my girlfriend (later wife) and I moved out to New Mexico all alone with $500 in my pocket. Before I made the decision to go back to Grad School, I was accepted into both the Peace Corps and Grad School at the same time, and I chose money over altruism. I went to the University of New Mexico because I was very interested in Native American and Latin American cultures at the time, and they had the only program in the country that offered a dual degree in International Business and Latin American Studies. So, I was able to formally study Latin American culture and business, while informally studying Native American culture. I spent most of my time studying while I was there. The rest of my free time was spent visiting Native American Pueblos and getting high. I made the biggest mistake of my life by marrying my first wife while I was out there. (It makes me ill just thinking about that dumb-ass move.) When I left Albuquerque with an MBA, an MA, and a psycho wife, I headed back to Queens where I lived for a few years until I got an offer with a company that moved me down to North Carolina. So, I packed up my two dogs, my psycho wife, all my belongings, stuffed them into a U-Haul, and headed down to North Cackilacky. After a couple of nightmare years, I divorced my first wife and started my new life.
Apparently, who I am and what I’m all about makes the average North Carolinian pretty uncomfortable.
I have long-since given up the self-destructive behavior and “fuck it” attitude, but I am still the same person I have always been. Looking back, I think my perspective, my open-mindedness, my liberal attitudes and interpretations of life, my acceptance of all people and lifestyles, my tattoos, and my creativity were a shock to most people down South. This is a very conservative part of the country and they just aren’t used to people who aren’t God-fearing, predictable conformists. It wasn’t long after I moved down here that I realized how out of place I was.
Before I moved down here, I thought everyone from the South was either a racist, a bigot, a redneck, or all three. Nothing in my first 5 years here did much to dissuade me from this opinion. Sure, I was somewhat blinded by my preconceptions, but so was everyone else down here. To them, I was a typical Yankee trying to change “the way thing are done down here.” On top of that, I kept to myself for the most part. Because I didn’t talk much or socialize much, they just assumed I was a bit of a freak. I occasionally hung out with a few people from work, but mostly I stayed in my cubical at work and only came out of my cave for meetings. I never gave many people much of a chance to get to know me, and that was to my increasing detriment. It left too much up to the imagination, and it resulted in most people thinking I was “weird”. As I now know, my future wife included.
My wife, on the other hand, was born and raised in this same town as a morally upstanding Southern Baptist. Her entire extended family still lives in, or near, the same town and gets together at least once a month. They are a very close-knit family that stays in very close contact and is a part of each other’s every life event, from the minor to the major. She grew up a small-town girl, very popular, a cheerleader, gregarious, and wholesome. Listening to her tell stories of growing up, it seemed almost impossible in its simplicity, purity, and happiness. Everything seemed to go her way, she worked hard, and it always paid off. She was fiercely independent, but not in an obnoxious way. Of course, she had her run-ins and minor rebellions with her parents, but to me, she never did anything I would consider “bad” or “wrong” (but, consider the source). Even her transgressions seemed innocent and harmless to me. She was human and fallible and perfect in her imperfections.
Since birth, she has been an unabashed Type A personality to the core. To the uninitiated, this means she is driven to the nth degree and only stops to relax long enough to rejuvenate or to get ready for bed. Every minute is a minute more she can get something done. She has a perpetual, evolving list spinning around her head, filled with the infinite things that “need to get done” and it is her incessant quest to tick and tie everything on that list. No one but she knows what is on this list, but it is very real, as I have come to learn. There is nothing she can’t do and there is nothing she can’t get done.
To illustrate the point even further, in her 30’s she was raising 3 kids completely on her own (without any help from her now-ex-husband who split his time between getting drunk, hiding empty bottles, passing out, urinating on himself, stealing his son’s Ritalin, not making any money to support the family, accusing her of cheating on him, and threatening to divorce her), she was working full-time at a Fortune 500 company as a Finance manager, and she was attending the nightly Executive Program at a top 25 Business School for her MBA.
Impressive, no?
But, unlike most Type A’s, she’s not an asshole about it. She accepts this burden as her own and doesn’t force her expectations on other people, usually (more about this later). She claims to love relaxing, but in her down-time she runs with her dad every weekend, she walks 2 miles every weeknight (with me, when I can get off my lazy butt), and she does Pilates a couple times a week. I’m not a doctor, but I’m positive that is a Type A personality
To top it all off, she is a blond-haired, blue/green-eyed stunner that turns heads at every corner. What makes this tolerable is, she has no idea how incredibly beautiful she is. She thinks she is just “average looking”. In fact, she rolls her eyes every time I tell her how gorgeous she is and says, “well, I’m glad you think so”, like I’m just blinded by love or something. And, her innocence and naiveté blinds her to the fact that she gets hit on all the time, everywhere we go. It is somewhere between hilarious and maddening when she tells me the things guys say to her that she thinks were just “strange”, when I know they were trying to pick her up. I’m a guy and I know what guys say to pick up a girl without being so obvious that they look stupid if/when they get rejected. For example, when a 20 year-old kid approaches you outside of your hotel lobby on a business trip, starts a conversation for no reason, and tells you that he is into older women, HE IS HITTING ON YOU!! He is not “just being nice”, he is not just being obtuse or strange, and he is certainly not just making small talk until his taxi arrives. Geez Louise.
Sorry about that tangent.
Anyway, part of me wishes she was more aware of her beauty, but mostly I’m glad she is oblivious. It makes my life a lot easier and much less stressful. I’m convinced she would be one of the asshole Type A’s if she knew how beautiful she is. There is nothing worse than a Type A woman who knows (or worse, thinks) she is beautiful.
She was the archetypal Southern girl that everyone loved. Now, she is the archetypal Southern girl that I love. God, I’m so damn lucky.
Although she was perfect, her adult life below the surface and behind the curtains was not. This was one of the biggest surprises to me, as I became friends with her. I was always envious of how perfect and easy her life seemed to be. She hid her nightmare very well, like most abused spouses do.
As it turns out, we were both married to complete assholes who were making our lives miserable, but neither one of us knew what the other one was going through. I thought I was living the worst nightmare anyone on the planet ever had, or would ever, go through. The story of my previous marriage and my ex is pretty horrible, but after much deliberation, I think we both agree she had it worse.
Over time, Emma and I became pretty good friends at work. Neither of us talked about our spouses much, which should have been a huge clue to both of us that both of our marriages sucked. We mostly talked about work, some superficial stories about growing up, what we had done, and where we had been. Those kinds of things. It wasn’t until I told Emma that I was going through a divorce that she started to open-up about her shitty marriage. In retrospect, it was probably because she eerily empathized with what I was going through and she felt like I would probably be one of the few people who could understand what she was dealing with.
My ex is bi-polar and did all kinds of crazy stuff (I’ll spare you the details for now), and the only reason I told Emma I was going through a divorce was the fact my ex threatened to call people at work and tell everyone what a piece of shit I am, and try to get me fired.
It was during this time of trading insane stories about insane spouses that we became best friends. After my divorce, I would tell her about my embarrassing dating stories and she would either laugh at me or counsel me on how to find better dates. She even tried to hook me up with people she knew, but to no avail. I hadn’t dated anyone in a long while, so I was very out of practice and not very good at it. Also, the gene pool of single girls in this Southern town was frightening and left very slim pickins after you sorted out the hicks, flakes, and promiscuous nit wits. I had never met anyone like Emma before and I had never felt so close to someone in such a safe and comforting way.
Then, she started talking about reaching her breaking point with Ted, her now-ex. She had only stayed married for this long because of the kids, and that excuse had worn out. The fighting, the accusations, the violence, the alcoholism, the drug abuse, the absence of income, the intimidation, and the threats had finally thrown her over the edge. She had grown to hate him in the final years and had completely lost respect for him somewhere around the 10th year of marriage. She had decided that not only did she not want to live another day with him, but he was a horrible example for the kids and she did not want them to grow up in a home filled with violence and lack of love between the parents. She felt the kids would have a much better chance at growing up sane and healthy if she ended the marriage. Only problem was, she knew how psycho he was and that he wouldn’t let her go without a fight, literally.
When she made the decision to end the marriage, we brainstormed for weeks about how she could exit the marriage alive and without exposing the kids to the disaster that would surely ensue. The closer she got to D-Day, the more aware I became of the evolution of my feelings towards her. I was feeling something beyond “best friends” and it scared the shit out of me. I had just gotten out of a train-wreck marriage, and she was on her way out of one. She was fragile, and so was I. Plus, we were best friends and I didn’t want to compromise that. Plus, I had some idea how nuts her ex was. Plus, she had 3 kids. Plus, we worked for the same company. Plus, plus, plus. “Surely this is a bad idea”, I thought. So, I kept my feelings hidden and said nothing that would intimate what was going on in my head (for a while).
She decided to wait until after Christmas to tell Ted that it was over and that he needed to move out. Start with the fact that this is a difficult conversation under normal circumstances. Then, layer on top of that the violent outburst she expected in response. Then, layer on top of that the impossibility of him actually agreeing to leave quietly. Then, layer on top of that the conversation she had to have with her kids, telling them their parents were getting a divorce. Keep in mind, Emma was great at hiding the nightmare of her marriage, even with her kids. As far as the kids knew, their parents got along just fine, everyone was happy, and they had a perfect life. Emma knew that this would be devastating to the kids and there was nothing she could do to make it easy for them. This was going to be the most horrible experience of her life, she knew it, and she knew she had no choice but to go through with it.
Emma came home from work on D-day, normal time, freaking out inside, trying to maintain some semblance of calmness. She walked into the living room and told Ted that she needed to talk to him. They walked into the bedroom, she knowing what was coming, he sensing something bad was about to happen.
She paused, took a deep, silent, last breath and said it. Plainly, matter-of-factly, without emotion, with complete conviction, and without hesitation.
“I want a divorce”.
The air stood still, time froze, and Ted stood there speechless for a full 30 seconds before reacting. He broke down crying like he did when his mini van broke down on the side of the road. He completely lost control of himself, wailing, shivering, shuddering, convulsing, and completely falling apart.
Emma stood there, stoic, stone-faced, unfazed, emotionless, not saying a word.
After a few minutes, he finally put words to his break-down, in-between sobs. “No, please no. Please don’t leave me. I promise I’ll change. I know I have been a terrible husband. I can change. I know I can make you happy. I promise. Please don’t leave me. I’ll treat you better, I promise. I’ll get a full-time job. I’ll help around the house. I’ll stop saying mean things. I promise. Please don’t leave me”.
All she heard was “blah, blah, blah, same old bullshit”. “How pathetic. What a complete loser” she thought to herself. “Why did I ever marry this piece of shit?”
“It’s over. I’m done.” She responded coolly. “I can’t take it anymore. We haven’t loved each other for a very long time and I don’t want the kids to grow up in a dysfunctional family full of lies and violence. I’m just done.”
She paused for a brief second and continued. “I want you to move out. Tonight. I want to continue living here with the kids because I don’t want us to disrupt their lives any more than we have to. We need to make this as easy on the kids as possible. Please. Do this for the kids.” Then she waited, becoming scared out of her brain for his pending response and reaction.
He slowly raised his head towards her, tears replaced with the most frightening look of hatred she had ever seen in another person’s eyes. Her stomach tightened, her hands started to tremble, and she stood there petrified into the carpet. All she could do was stand there and pray he would not explode all over her with the kids in the house, not more than 40 feet away.
“You bitch. How could you do this? How could you destroy our family?” His voice grew increasingly loud, but never loud enough for the kids to hear. He has this way of yelling at you without really raising his voice. It was the most unnerving, terrifying voice that came out very low and very menacing. His veins bulged out of his forehead and neck, his eyes squinted to narrow slits, he gritted his teeth, and grinded the threats and insults out of his mouth like serrated nails. “Are you cheating on me?? Who is he?!? Tell me! Who are you sleeping with, you whore?! I know you are cheating on me. Is it someone from work? Tell me! Who is it?!? I know you are cheating on me. Tell me!”
This was the shit-storm Emma expected, but could never fully prepare for. She stood there incapacitated and nauseous with fear, unable to speak, unsure what to say, knowing there was nothing she could do to defuse the situation. It was quickly turning into a runaway train and it was going to splatter everyone in its path. Her mind was racing, trying to decide if she should try to reason with him, argue with him, run out into the living room (thinking he would never do anything crazy in front of the kids), or call 911. Something very bad was going to happen and she knew it.
Before she could react, he violently grabbed her by the arms, squeezed her as tightly as he could, and threw her on the bed. He jumped up on to the bed after her, grabbed a pillow and shoved it into her mouth with as much force as he could summon and started to smother her.
“I told you. You are never going to leave me.” he muttered in that same insane voice. “If you think you are going to get away with this, you are dead wrong.”
“He’s going to kill me” Emma said to herself as she began to rage out against him. In an adrenaline-induced act of desperation, she started screaming, kicking, punching, and scratching with every ounce of strength she had in her 108-pound frame, trying to get him off of her. The struggle went on like this for no more than 30 seconds when he let go of the pillow for no apparent reason, moved off of her, slid off of the bed, and sliced through her with a stare so evil, she almost started crying from fear alone.
“You will never get away with this,” he said with all the hatred with which he could the impregnate the threat. Then, he turned and left the room, left the house, slammed his body into the mini-van, and tore out of the driveway.
Emma broke down crying, terrified almost to a heart attack and ecstatic with relief that she was still alive.
She relived this story with me at the end of the next day in her office. Completely filled with outrage and fear for her life, I told her we needed to call the police and have him arrested right away.
“No. I don’t want to do that. I’m just glad he’s out of the house. If I start causing trouble now, he is going to make our lives even more miserable. You have no idea how crazy he is,” she said in an obsequious tone I hadn’t heard before.
“Are you kidding me?” I reactively responded with a measured amount of shock. “This nut case needs to be in jail. Right now. He committed a violent crime and he needs to be held accountable. I don’t care how nuts he is. If he gets away with this now, he’ll keep on doing it.”
But, I relented quickly. We both knew it was pointless to argue about this any further, so we didn’t. I let her handle it in her own way, because I knew that was what she needed at that point. I was so upset and frustrated, but I couldn’t put that on her. She had survived one of the most horrible things I had ever heard, and all she needed from me was a shoulder.
Time continued passing, a little less violently, but still violently nonetheless. Slowly and gradually over the months, Ted phased out of our daily conversations. Probably more because she was just sick of talking about it, rather than a diminishing amount of criminally violent behavior. I asked her about how things were going only when she brought up something new and particularly outrageous. It killed me to see her going through this and not be able to do anything about it. But, at least I was able to be there for her in any way she needed me, and that had to suffice.
And, so it went for a while.
Then it all changed.
Although she was dealing with a nightmare every minute of every day, she was surprisingly upbeat, even happy, at work. I like to think it was our friendship and the conversations we had every night after most everyone else had left the office. I think it was more about the relief and bliss she felt to have finally ended one of the most horrible marriages in recorded history. He was out of the house, she didn’t have to sleep in the same bed with him anymore, and as far as she knew, the worst was over.
I couldn’t have been happier for her or more concerned about her, at that point. I knew what it felt like to escape a horrible marriage, and I knew that there was a very real perception of a very real weight being dropped off of your back. You feel like you can endure whatever bullshit your ex throws at you, because you just don’t care anymore. You are free, and that is all that matters. But still, the specter of the ex is always looming in the back of your head, and you expect something to blow up at any moment. I am sure she was feeling exactly that during that time.
Now, we were both free. Both of us had made it out alive and we were actually in a place where we could joke about it. It’s amazing how much closer you become when you go through Hell and back with someone, even as just a semi-involved witness. That’s how it was for us. If we weren’t best friends before, we certainly were now. It felt like we had conquered the world together and we would be connected for the rest of our lives.
Even though we were such great friends, we never actually spent time together outside of work. For some strange reason, it never came up. Neither one of us ever even mentioned doing something together “in the real world”. Perhaps it was because in the back of our heads, we were both concerned about people starting rumors and making up stories about us. Although we were just friends, we knew that being spotted having lunch together would spark a gossip-frenzy. We had both seen it before with other people at work and it was a social and professional nightmare. You want to believe that this kind of high school bullshit doesn’t exist outside of teenage cliques, but of course, it does. This was a complication I guess we collectively and unconsciously agreed to never broach. At some point, you just have to say “fuck it” and do what you want to do, but we weren’t at that point yet.
Then we were.
In retrospect, I think we may have unknowingly crossed an emotional line a little too early because it wasn’t long after Emma’s separation that we admitted our feelings to each other and started dating. I definitely knew I cared about her more than a friend before they separated, but I kept that to myself until she shared her feelings for me. I honestly don’t think she knew on a conscious level until after the separation that she cared about me more than just a friend. At the time, there was just too much psychotic stuff going on in her life to even think about something other than her shitty marriage and how to escape it. But, it seemed like everything changed the day she ended the marriage. I think the process of mourning her dead marriage occurred several years earlier and she had been ready to move on for a long time. I think the final act of escaping her marriage instantly and profoundly changed her. I think the day she left Ted was the day she stopped thinking of him as her husband.
I guess it would be as easy to say we crossed a line as it would be to say we did not, depending on who you are. I think we were both comfortable with the way our relationship started because we never said or did anything beyond the bounds of friendship until after she was separated. But, I can now see the perceptual gray area that we did not see then.
But, Emma and I did not give a shit or a second thought about the man who had violently abused her for 20 years and we did what we thought was right. Now that I think about it, I really don’t give a shit about anyone’s judgment about how and when we came together. We both escaped horrifically abusive relationships and we were perfect for each other. We deserved to finally be happy, we deserved to be in a healthy relationship, and we deserved to be with each other.
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