All Those in Favor of Casing the Room

I don’t revisit my past willingly. It’s over, for one thing. There’s nothing I can do to change it, for another. Third—it’s full of cringe-worthy moments I’d rather forget forever.

There, I’ve made it sound as if I’ve had a terrible life, which is far from true. But it is also true that I’ve had a good five decades in which to royally screw up.

Well…I make good use of my time, at least.

The story you’re about to read is true. The names of persons and places are being changed to protect the…well, to protect me from the ridicule that is sure to come from those who live in this under-populated area where everyone knows everyone. Someone is sure to read my story, recognize some aspect of it, and make sure to give me a boatload of grief over it.

Oh, well.

It was over three decades ago, but I’m sure there are still some living people around, so let’s just call this Anytown, USA.

My best guess is 1989. I was young, trying to get through a bad marriage one day at a time, busy with young children and going a little stir crazy.

My friend Henrietta decided it was high time I had a night out, away from my kids. My husband was working out of town. I protested. “Henri, you know how people are in this town!” I cried. “If I go out anywhere without the kids, it’ll be all over that I’m stepping out!”

“Rudy will be with us,” Henri replied. (Rudy was her husband.) “I’m not going anywhere without him; I do know how this town is!” She laughed. “It will probably still make people talk, but who cares? You need a break!”

I did need a break. She and her husband were older, and had a teenage daughter who agreed to stay with my kids.

Rudy drove us to the next town over—Othertown, USA, if you will. We went to a nice restaurant/bar just off the freeway, where we could have a meal and a drink, listen to live music and dance.

I will take this opportunity to inform you that I am not a drinker. It does not induce feelings of fun and happiness in me. I become morose and introspective, and often succumb to tears. I don’t understand how it can be considered recreational.

Nevertheless, Rudy insisted I have a drink. I chose something—likely something icy and sweet. Maybe a strawberry daiquiri. Who knows? And I drank it.

He ordered me a second. I drank that, too.

The. Whole. Thing.

In my defense, we were having a good time. We were talking and laughing and enjoying the music. This was unusual. My husband never took me out, unless the kids went, too. We didn’t do date nights. He didn’t dance.

I was feeling oddly free-spirited. I was also feeling deprived and depressed. “I don’t miss him a bit,” I said. “Is that mean?”

Henri, knowing perfectly well that I was talking about my husband, shook her head. “You should leave,” she advised.

I looked around. The place was owned by a wealthy older man—as were many other businesses in Othertown. “If I was smart,” I said, “I would marry Mr. Lane.” (Remember, not his real name. No real names here.)

Henri laughed. “He’s too old for you.”

“So?” I countered. “I’m a nice person. I would love him like he’s never been loved on; all day, every day, if he wanted. He might even outlive me—it could happen. And if not, he would die happy! And I'd be set for life!”

As I was speaking, Rudy began shaking his head, back and forth, rapidly. Then he added some no-no-no hand waving. He was sitting across from Henri and me. She hissed, “What, Rudy?”

Rudy’s eyes were wide with horror. “He’s sitting right behind you,” he whispered urgently.

“What?” I tried not to shriek.

I’m sure I failed.

“Right behind you.”

Henri tried to whip around for a look, and I grabbed her in a bear-hug so she couldn’t move.

“Oh god, oh god, oh god!” I muttered. Rudy was bright red, but I knew he wasn’t as red as I was. And now, damn his hide, he was starting to laugh. “Shut up!”

“Go dance,” Henri ordered, kicking Rudy under the table and giving me a shove. “It’s loud in here. I’m sure he didn’t hear a thing!”

I joined Rudy on the dance floor.

A couple of minutes passed and then Mr. Lane and his lovely female companion—who I later learned was his wife—got up to dance, too.

They chose to dance right next to us. As we turned, Mrs. Lane gave me a huge smile and an exaggeratedly slow wink.

I could have happily been swallowed up by the floor in that moment.

To make things worse, as the Lanes turned and I was facing Mr. Lane himself, he also threw a most salacious wink my way.

My mortification was complete.

We returned to our seats, where Henri had collapsed across the tabletop, hysterical with laughter. Rudy had seen nothing—his back was to the couple when they’d made it known they had heard every word I said. Henri had seen all, and wasted no time in filling him in.

Thankfully, the Lanes danced to the next song and then began making the rounds in the large room, greeting their patrons.

We beat a hasty retreat. My face burned all the way home, while Rudy and Henri regaled the night’s events repeatedly.

Okay, it was funny. It’s still funny. Even I ended up laughing, although it took me almost fifteen minutes to get over myself enough to do it.

And I can laugh about it now. At least, until someone I know figures it all out, and the humiliation begins again.