Reluctant Cuckold

by McManus, David

  “OK,” I said, “I feel I need to do or try something.”

  “Cool, just be vague to Ashley about who you’re meeting tomorrow. I’m just an old friend you reconnected with on Facebook. By the way, I invited you after we hung out Friday, but I didn’t get a friend confirmation.”

  “Oh, I haven’t been on. I’ll connect with you now.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  When I met Mike the next night, he gave me a hug, asked if I ever had a “Sidecar” and said he was running a tab.

  “We should probably discuss logistics,” he said, after some small talk about sports.

  “Logistics?”

  “Yeah,” he replied, “to get you a better read on Ashley.”

  “Sure.”

  “I’m thinking when you go home tonight, you should see if she’s free Wednesday for the three of us to meet.”

  “Wednesday?” I said, “That’s two days away.”

  “Yeah, there’s some urgency here, bro, especially with ‘Hat Night’ on Friday.”

  “Well, there’s no way we’re going to that.”

  “Still, the sooner, the better, given the circumstances.”

  “OK,” I said, “I’ll ask her tonight.”

  “We should figure out a place to meet—does Ashley have a favorite local place?”

  “Yeah, but I’m thinking probably not there. I’ll think of something.”

  “Why not there?”

  “It’s the place where she first told me about the rumor.”

  “It’s just a place,” Mike said. “It’s not like it’s haunted. If she likes the place, I say let’s go there.”

  “I’ll ask her.”

  “OK,” Mike said, “and we should also get our story down about how we know each other.”

  “I thought we were childhood friends who reconnected on Facebook,” I said, “I mean that’s how I described it to Ashley today.”

  “OK, you did tell her that. Did she ask any questions?”

  “No, we were both at work. It was a quick call.”

  “Sure, but she’ll probably ask you more questions about us when you’re home—or when you invite us all to meet, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, I don’t know about saying we met at school ’cause old yearbooks can be dug up.”

  “I don’t have any yearbooks from grade school.”

  “Still,” he said, “the school friends thing could trip us up.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I’m thinking,” he replied, “did you and your family summer anywhere, like have a summer house?”

  “No, I spent my summers at camp mostly.”

  “A sleep-away camp?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Like where you were away for weeks doing typical summer camp activities?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Where was the camp?”

  “Upstate New York.”

  “What was its name?”

  “Camp Marvins.”

  “How many summers did you go? How old were you?”

  “Oh Jeez, from like when I was nine until fourteen.”

  “That’s perfect, Dave. We’re old buds from Camp Marvins. We spent our summers there together. And if she picks up that I’m a couple years younger, well, you were like a big brother to me.”

  “Yeah, I guess, OK.”

  “What activities or sports did you like—or what did you excel at?”

  “Go-carts were the most fun,” I said. “But I was a good swimmer, canoeist, and a pretty good second baseman.”

  “Great, and I played first base,” he said. “We won lots of games together, didn’t we? And you can bust on me for dropping some of your throws to first.”

  I looked at Mike with an expression of “Huh?”

  “This is important Dave. Because if we’re going to get a sense of where her head is at, Ashley needs to feel comfortable. I’m not some friend of yours from work she has to watch her words with. I’m your old buddy Mike. We go way back to the days at summer camp. If she asks how I’m doing now, say, ‘He’s doing well. He’s successful, but we didn’t really get into that.’ Mostly that we reminisced about good times as kids at good ol’ Camp ... what was the name again?”

  “Marvins.”

  “Right, good ol’ Camp Marvins. Have you talked to her much about your summer camp days?”

  “No, the only story I really told her,” I said, “was about this letter I nearly mailed home the first night I got there.”

  “What was the letter about?”

  “Well, I was nervous on the five hour ride up there. And my dad said, ‘If you don’t like it, write a letter home and we’ll be right back up to pick you up’.”

  “OK,” Mike said, as he motioned to the bartender for another round.

  “Well, my dad said, ‘And just in case they’re reading your mail, if you don’t like it, simply say it’s ‘dandy.’ ”

  “‘Dandy,’” Mike repeated. “When did you go to camp—in the roaring twenties?”

  “It was like a code word,” I said. “I know it’s corny, but my dad was like that. It was his way of giving me a parachute.”

  “I get it.”

  “Well, when I got there,” I said, “I was in the second session, so a lot of kids already knew each other. And kids give the new kid a hard time, so I thought no one liked me. So that night I wrote a letter home. I wrote ‘Dear Dad, camp is dandy. The kids are dandy, the food is dandy, the counselors are dandy. I’m having a real dandy time here.’ ”

  “That’s funny,” Mike said, “so what happened?”

  “Well I knew my dad wouldn’t be happy driving back up there so soon, so I decided to wait a bit before mailing the letter. I kept it like a Linus security blanket for a few days. Pretty soon I’d made friends, was fitting in and having a great time. So when my dad came to pick me up, I handed him that sealed letter, and he opened it up and read it. My mom still has that letter somewhere at home.”

  “That’s a really sweet story, bro,” Mike said.

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “Well it has me thinking that maybe I’ll have a similar story.”

  “How do you mean?” I asked.

  “Well, I felt like an outsider at Camp Marvins the day I started. And maybe you saw in me that same scared boy you were, when you first started.”

  “OK.”

  “Or maybe you befriended me because you’re just like that, but either way, you rescued me. And we became good buds that summer. Then my family moved, I didn’t go back and we lost touch. Only we reunited when I found you online, and here we are, having drinks together tonight.”

  “OK,” I said. “Sure, that works, I guess.”

  The Yankees game was on TV, and Mike asked how I’d become a fan. Then he asked me if Ashley shared my enthusiasm.

  “No, she’s not much of a baseball fan. She likes going to games, but more for the fun of the event, not actually paying close attention to the game.”

  “And not much for football either?” Mike asked.

  “Not pro football. She likes college football. Or Virginia Tech football anyway.”

  “Is that where she went to college?”

  “No, she went to Columbia, like me. But her dad and sister went there, and her dad took her to a lot of games growing up.”

  “Is that how you guys met—at college?”

  “No, afterwards, at an alumni event in the city.”

  “Gotcha. She like any other sports?”

  “She’s a huge tennis fan. That was her sport in college.”

  “She played on the college team?”

  “Yeah, she was a co-captain.”

  “Wow,” Mike said. “Do you play?”

  “Not really, was never any good at it.”

  “Me, either,” Mike said. “I bet she could whup the both of us, huh, if we played doubles against her?”

  “Yeah,” I said, laughing, “and if her older sister was with her, it’d be the
6-0, 6-0 thing.”

  “Does she like watching tennis, like pro tennis?”

  “Oh yeah, she’s been to Wimbledon and the French Open with her parents. She jokes that before we have kids, I have to take her to Australia for the Open there.”

  “That would be very cool.”

  “Well, Australia would be cool, other than the flight, but I’m not much of a tennis fan.”

  “You guys going to the Open?”

  “We’ve gone in the past. Maybe if I can score some tickets at work.”

  “Yeah, I hear you. You know, you’ve got me thinking. I should probably know some basic interests of hers, so that we can include her in the conversation. So it’s not just me and you talking summer camp stories.”

  “OK,” I said.

  “So tell me about her hobbies.”

  “Well, she was a big piano player growing up—she’s classically trained—took lessons for like ten years.”

  “Who are her favorite composers?”

  “Oh jeez, um, Chopin, Mozart, Liszt maybe, definitely Beethoven.”

  “Classical not your thing?”

  “Not really.”

  “Mine either—how about new music?”

  “We don’t share the same taste there. She’s into new alternative rock bands, hiphop and poppy stuff like Lady Gaga. She even used to like that F-U-C-K song.”

  “That Cee Lo song?”

  “Well, she likes that as well, but I meant the Britney Spears song, ‘If you seek Amy,’ that sounds like F-U-C-K Amy.”

  “Oh, OK.”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” I said, “she likes good music too, like U2 and The Beatles and Pink Floyd, but I would think, for someone who almost majored in music, that she wouldn’t like some of the bumble-gum crap she does.”

  “I hear you. So what was her major?”

  “What?” I asked, a bit drunk now.

  “You said she was going to major in music. What did she choose instead?”

  “English.”

  “English?”

  “You know, like the study of fiction, themes, interpreting novels, from Beowulf and Shakespeare to twentieth century.”

  “Yeah, I know what you meant. So who are Ashley’s favorite authors?”

  “Oh jeez, where do I begin. She likes women authors like Emily Brontë, Jane Austen, Emily Dickinson. Really likes Flannery O’Connor. And F. Scott Fitzgerald. Thinks Hemingway is way over-rated. Also thinks Vonnegut is an ass.

  “But it’s interesting,” I continued, “when it comes to books, she never reads junk. Like she’ll read the first page of a book, and if the writing’s not strong—up to her standards—she’ll dismiss it out of hand. Yet with music, she also likes the poppy throw-away.”

  “How about her movie tastes?” Mike asked.

  “She’s not into big-budget, Hollywood stuff. Like she wouldn’t see a movie if she learned Tom Cruise was in it. And the romantic comedies bore her. She likes indie movies, which is good. I mean we have similar tastes there.”

  The conversation then turned to where she’s traveled. How she went to Europe a lot with her parents. How we honeymooned in Italy. Told him about a trip she took to Southeast Asia with her friend. How we went to Hawaii last fall.

  “Does she speak any languages?” Mike asked.

  “She’s pretty good with French and can get by with Spanish. She picked up some Italian before our honeymoon.”

  “How about you?”

  “I took Spanish, but don’t remember much. I’m not good with languages.”

  “Me, either,” Mike said. “I was in Belize once and I thought I was telling the cab driver I wanted a bar with girls and nightlife and he dropped me off at a whorehouse.”

  ****

  We talked some more, but I soon realized I needed to go—the sidecars were kicking my ass.

  “I hear you,” Mike replied, “I’m buzzing hard myself. I was just thinking, though. Why not text Ashley about meeting Wednesday?”

  “What?”

  “I said, ‘Why not text Ashley about meeting Wednesday’ now.”

  “Saying what?”

  “Well she knows you’re out with an old friend, right? And when you get home you can explain we were buds at Camp Marvins, right?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “So text her that you’re having a good time reuniting with your old childhood bud, that you’ll be back soon, and ask if she’s free Wednesday for the three of us to meet up. Like we want to lock it in if we can.”

  I looked up at the Yankee game, then back at Mike and said, “OK, I guess, why not?”

  I typed, “Hey A, good time reuniting w/old friend, u around wed nite to meet up with us?”

  Ten minutes later, Ashley texted back, “Sure, sounds fun.”

  “That’s perfect,” Mike said. “So Wednesday night it is.”

  “Yeah, I mean, I don’t know how much of a read you’ll get on her, but I’ll talk to her about a place.”

  “Yeah, somewhere here in your neighborhood that’s relaxed and comfortable, where the three of us can talk. Maybe that place you mentioned. Or whatever Ashley wants.”

  “OK, I’ll talk to her and let you know where.”

  “OK, bro,” Mike said once we were outside. “Remember, we met at Camp Marvins. There’s nothing more to remember than that.”

  “Right,” I said, and then he gave me a hug.

  Mike headed to the subway, and I walked home.

  One of my doormen gave me a look when he opened the door, and I mumbled how a client of mine is a big drinker and won’t take no for an answer.

  After a few minutes with Ashley, she said, “I think you need to get yourself to bed there, mister.”

  ****

  The next night Ashley and I checked out a movie at a local theater. It had gotten four-star reviews, but I kept looking at my watch, wondering when the thing would end.

  Ashley’s comment—“What in hell was that?”—gave me validation.

  On the escalator to the exit, I heard the guy behind me tell his girl, “I want those two hours of my life back.”

  When I walked past the ticket booth guy, I gave him a two thumbs down sign, and Ashley laughed.

  “Oh my God, I need a drink after that,” Ashley said and suggested Gabriel’s.

  “So how about we meet your friend here—what time did you say, eight-thirty?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, it’s not crowded then, the music’s not loud, and we can probably get seats at the bar. It’s good for talking, right?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Or is this not the kind of scene you were looking for?”

  “No, it is,” I replied.

  “Plus, the bartenders know us.”

  “Yeah, OK, I’ll tell him to meet us here.”

  “Oh,” Ashley said, “so what about going down for ‘Hat Night’?”

  “What?” I said.

  “Taking Friday off and heading down to LBI Thursday night. We can come back with Mark and Camilla on Saturday.”

  “I don’t know,” I said, “I don’t know if I can get Friday off.”

  “It’s the Friday of Labor day, a half-day. Is it really critical that you be there?”

  “Let me see what I can do.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  I called Mike in the morning to let him know the bar where we would meet. “It’s pretty chill, we go there often,” I said.

  “Sounds like there’s a ‘but’ in there, Dave.”

  “No, not really. It’s just the place where Ashley came clean and said the ‘Just bigger, OK’ comment.”

  “Well, it sounds like a place we can talk and be comfortable,” Mike said. “We’ll keep things ultra-casual. I’m a good reader of women. We’ll figure out where Ashley’s head is at and get you some much-needed reassurance.”