You Wandered Down the Lane

We'd been putting money into a vacation fund for several years, with the notion of spending a month or so in Europe for our 25th anniversary. I had no qualms about taking $9,000, leaving over $16,000. I'd have to pay it back whether or not Shelly and I divorced, but that was the least of my concerns.

I texted Shelly that I was still trying to work out my feelings, please don't call me or try to find me. She did try to call a couple of times, but I didn't answer. She gave up and left a long message saying that she'd talked with Lisa and Tanner and they all figured I'd get over it in a few days.

They had no idea how angry I was, that there was absolutely no chance that I would accept Shelly's ultimatum. The die was cast, I'd crossed my Rubicon.

By Friday night, I'd worked out an itinerary and my pickup was ready for a long trip. I went back to the house when I knew Shelly would be at work to get the rest of the stuff I needed. The next morning I'd start my journey in search of...well, I wasn't sure of what, but hoped I'd know it when I found it.

MARK YOUNG HAD lived three doors down from me in York all through junior high and high school, but we didn't hang out together much. I was a typical nerd. He wasn't one of the jocks, but he was funny, good-looking, one of the popular guys. Especially with the girls.

I don't remember him bragging a lot about his sexual adventures, but legend had it he opened car doors for girls and they opened their legs for him. He went steady for part of our junior year with Pauline French, but that was the only time he limited himself. It's a mystery to this day who dumped who or why they broke up.

Mark went to junior college for general ed. His grades were good enough to get into Penn State, where he got a BA in psychology. After doing some supervised counseling, he went to work as a high school guidance counselor in Easton PA. He's still there.

I didn't spread my pollen nearly as wide as Mark. I wasn't a virgin when we graduated, but the two lonesome notches on my keyboard didn't do much for my street cred. Shelly was responsible for one of them—prom night—and we got married two months after graduation. No, we didn't have to, we wanted to.

I started college that fall at Slippery Rock, going for a BS in Computer Science, of course. I had to work full time. Not only were we married, both kids were born while I was in school. I couldn't take a full load, but it still only took four years. I went year-round, taking every summer session course they offered in my field and some accredited online classes.

It was a struggle, but we were friends with several other couples in the same boat and none of us wasted time feeling sorry for ourselves. Shelly was great, working almost until Lisa was born and taking care of all the housework and child care after that. That gave me enough time to study even though I was working.

Some of my sessions in the computer lab kept me away from home a lot. I wondered later if those tough times had anything to do with the way she changed. Thanks to Shelly's help, I did well enough in school to land a great job in New Brunswick. That's the New Jersey New Brunswick, not the Canadian New Brunswick.

After a couple of years in an apartment, we found a house we could afford a few miles away in Woodbridge Township. Lisa and Tanner grew up there, coming of age in a very different Woodbridge from the one I thought I'd known.

After college, Mark and I saw each other every year or two, at class reunions or when our visits to old haunts happened to overlap. Were you to ask me who was my best friend, I guess I'd say Mark. He was one of the few people I'd feel safe telling my sad tale to, which was sort of why I was in Easton. I was also hoping for some clues to help me figure out whether there was a future for me with my family.

Mark never married, said he wasn't cut out for it, lived by himself in a little two-bedroom house. I'd called him the day before I left home to let him know I was coming. I didn't say why and he didn't ask, he just told me I was going to stay with him and no arguing. I wasn't about to argue, who wants to stay in a cheap motel?

Easton's just across the Pennsylvania border, a little over an hour's drive from Woodbridge. I didn't want to get there until Mark was home from work, so after breakfast I dawdled over coffee and the New York Times until checkout time. Avoiding the interstates, I spent a leisurely afternoon on back roads touring rural New Jersey.

I got to Mark's just past 5:00. After our usual manly hugs and backslapping, he steered me to the smaller bedroom and guest bathroom, then suggested we eat out. "As you well know, I'm not the world's greatest cook. Let's get some good beer and barbecue."

We piled into his pickup—he had an F150, mine was a GMC Sierra—and drove us to the Texas Roadhouse. Because I hadn't bothered to stop to eat anything since breakfast, the smell of the barbecue made my mouth water and almost made me forget why I came to see Mark. Almost.

We caught up on the past couple of years while we ate, then moved to the bar. To maintain the Texas flavor, they had Shiner Bock on tap. After ordering another couple of pints—we'd had one with dinner—we went to a table and reminisced about some of the good old days at York Catholic. For a little while, I actually put aside how bad I felt.

"Remember how cool it was when we found out that the Fighting Irish won state in both boys and girls basketball the year we were born? And I wrote a letter to the editor about that for the school paper?" I'd forgotten about that, and how much trouble Mark got into over it.

"I said that the girls might've been short, but they sure were quick." He broke out in his trademark shit-eating grin. "They'd memorized Coach Autrey's complicated playbook, but I guess I shouldn't have called them a cunning bunch of runts, huh?" He waggled his eyebrows and raised his beer in salute. When it happened I'd been shocked, but I had to join him laughing at the memory.

Then he switched subjects so quick it took me a minute to catch up. "Okay, spill it. You sounded lower than whale shit when you called. What's happening with you and Shelly?"

I hadn't said anything about Shelly's bombshell, but he knew me well enough to figure out that she was my problem. I repeated the gist of our painful "talk" and the telephone conversations with Lisa and Tanner. He listened without comment, then finished his beer.

"I guess I'm not real surprised. I tried to tell you she was a good-time girl when you started dating her."

I didn't want anyone else to hear us, so I kept my voice down,. "For Christ's sake, Mike, that was 20 years ago. I was no angel, either. She hasn't done anything like that—."

"As far as you know—"

He backed down when I opened my mouth to retort. "Sorry, that was a chicken-shit thing to say." We were good enough friends that I knew he meant it. "So, what're you going to do?"

"Beats the hell out of me. That's why I'm here...well, why I'm taking a break. I want to talk with you and a few others to see if I can figure it out. And it it's not just Shelly, it's the kids, too."

"Hold that thought." I'd been talking so much my beer was only half gone, but he went up to order a round. He came back with another beer for me and a Coke for him. "I'm gonna drive us back to my place. I sure as fuck don't need a DWI, but you need to get all this shit out of your system. More beer should help."

He sat for a minute sipping his Coke—making a face—and gathered his thoughts. "Now, lemme get this straight. You're all worked up not just because Shelly's messing around, but because your kids said 'fuck' to you." He shook his head. "I didn't know you spent the past 20 years in a monastery. That's the way kids talk today, dude, even in public." I thought he should know, given his job, but figured he was probably embellishing.

"A few years ago I could have taken you with me to work so you could hear for yourself, but not now. At least not without a background check, lie detector test, and probably a proctologist's exam." We both shuddered at the thought. "But trust me, shit and fuck and all the rest are just words to them. You should hear the language in the halls or the mall, boys and girls both. Hell, sometimes even in the classroom."

I'd had some vague notion of that, but never thought it applied to Lisa and Tanner since they didn't talk that way at home. As far as I knew, I corrected myself.

"The school tried to discipline students for using foul language, but their parents raised hell about censorship and the administration backed down. That was nothing, though, compared to the war over dress codes."

That surprised me. "I thought those arguments went away a long time ago."

"Just the early battles. A couple of years ago, a junior girl came to school in a spaghetti strap halter top and Daisy Dukes—"

"Daisy Dukes?"

He rolled his eyes. "Jeezus, Luke, you really are out of it, aren't you? Cutoff jean shorts. Hers were cut off so fucking short you could see both ass cheeks. If she didn't sit just right, you could even see the edges of her pussy lips." He sported a lewd grin. "And she hardly ever sat just right."

He could see I had trouble believing that. "No shit, it really happened. She was sent home, but pretty soon her mother stormed into the principal's office yelling about Title IX and threatening a lawsuit. You could hear her shouting all over the school. She didn't censor her language, either.

"The district tried to make the dress code deal equally with boys and girls, but a mob of angry parents carrying pitchforks and torches showed up at the next school board meeting, plus several reporters and cameramen...uh, camerapersons." He was enjoying himself, almost too much.

"It made a great news story. I'm surprised you didn't see it. Bottom line? They watered down the dress code so much to satisfy the lawyers that girls could wear pretty much whatever the fuck they wanted, and a lot of guys wandered around all day with a hard-on."

He turned serious. "Luke, I'm not shitting you, if I didn't want to lose my job and register as a sex offender for the rest of my life—not to mention spending time as bubba's roomie at the state's expense—I could get laid every day. More than once. Those student studs aren't the only ones who have to worry about embarrassing bulges in their pants."

This was too much. "Oh come on, you're exaggerating. Things haven't changed that much since we graduated from York Catholic."

He shook his head. "Yeah, they really have. You don't see much of the world from your cubicle, and I don't think you pay much attention outside it. I don't know what Lisa and Tanner did at home, but I'll bet they didn't act—or talk— the same way around you as they did around Lisa. Either that, or you didn't pay enough attention there, either."

That sort of hit home. I read them stories when they were little and helped them with homework later on. I talked with them once in a while about my work or neighborhood stuff, but they spent a lot more time with Shelly.

I remembered times I'd heard them laughing or whispering, but they'd stop talking when I came within hearing. If I asked what was so funny or secret they'd just giggle, maybe give me an odd look. Most of the time I'd written it off as kids having different relationships with moms and dads. If I asked Shelly about it later, she'd say it was nothing, I was just imagining stuff, and change the subject. Sometimes that left me a bit uneasy.

Mark's I-know-more-than-you-do act was beginning to get to me. He'd always had a more permissive attitude about things like language and sexual morality. Now he seemed to be projecting his attitude on Shelly and the kids.

"Hold on, Mark. You don't know my family well enough to make assumptions like that. Just because you've always had a cynical attitude about common decency and morality doesn't mean that everyone thinks like you do. Surely there are people who still believe in showing respect, in being honest and faithful."

That came out more accusingly than I intended, and I could tell he was either hurt or pissed. Or both. "Oh for fuck's sake, Luke, who shoved a stick up your ass? You talk like I'm Howard Stern's evil twin. You should know better." He grinned to let me know we were okay.

"Besides, my name isn't Shirley." I couldn't help it, I grinned back. Then he turned downright solemn.

"I understand the difference between right and wrong as well as you do, we just don't always agree on some of the finer points. But I never use vulgar language around students or parents, or even other teachers. And I sure as hell don't mess around with women who are married or engaged."

He was more sincere than usual, and I could have sworn his voice started breaking. "I may never give up my single life for marriage, but that's my choice. It doesn't make me a selfish asshole, it doesn't hurt anyone, and it sure keeps me from messing up other people's lives."

I had come to Mark for understanding and sympathy, hoping he would tell me that he knew how bad I felt and assure me that things would eventually work out. Instead, I wound up pushing him to defend his life choices, making us both feel bad. "Mark, I'm really sorry I—"

"Oh, put a sock in it, Captain America. I know we don't agree about a lot of things, and I'm probably not right even half the time, but you don't have anything to be sorry for. You've always been my favorite whine." Again, he flashed his trademark bad-boy grin.

"I will tell you this, though." The grin faded. "If you don't wake up and smell the coffee, you'll be unhappy the rest of your life. I don't mean you have to put up with whatever shit that Shelly or the kids might heap on you, but unless you get a grip on a realistic view of today's world, you'll never fit in."

He ran his hands through his hair before winding up. "I can't tell you what to do if Shelly really does fuck this guy." He dropped his voice almost to a whisper. "But I don't think anyone would blame you if you divorced her."

After a few seconds, he stood up and adopted a bright tone. "Now let's blow this joint and get back to my place. I've got to go to work tomorrow, and you probably want to hit the road pretty early. Am I right?

He was right. We each got a pretty good night's sleep, then pretended everything was fine over coffee and bagels. We hugged goodbye, he left for work, and I was on my way to Fort Wayne by 8:00.

EVEN ON INTERSTATES, it's a long drive from Easton to Fort Wayne. I found a motel just off Fairfield that gave me a straight shot down to Susan's church. I checked in, grabbed a quick burger and fries, took a long shower, and fell into bed. The next morning I woke with a feeling of dread left over from dreams, but couldn't remember them.

A long, hot shower loosened my aching back. After a plate full of corned beef hash, eggs over easy, and home fries I felt ready to face another session of impromptu therapy with cousin Susan. Back in my room, I called St. John the Baptist Catholic Church and asked for Susan Brownfield.

"Susan, this is Luke. I'm in Fort Wayne, ready to cash in our deal to have lunch sometime. Sorry for the short notice, but does today work?"

"Oh Luke, I'm sorry, we're having a staff lunch meeting. My morning's pretty open, though. Could you come by the church?"

Rats! I wanted to talk with her away from the church. "How about going somewhere for coffee, then? I'd really like to talk to you in private."

"Well, I've got my own office, but sure, if that's what you'd prefer. I've got a few things to take care of, would 10:00 be okay?" I picked her up outside the church and she directed me down Fairfield to Sharing Peace, a coffee shop in Peace Lutheran Church.

She laughed at my surprised look. "We're pretty ecumenical around here. Remember, Martin Luther did his thing centuries ago." We both chuckled. When our coffees were ready—latte for her, double espresso for me—we took them and a couple of scones to a table against the wall.

She dropped the lighthearted approach. "Now what's this secret mission all about, Luke?"

Susan grew up in Fort Wayne, but our families usually managed to get together every summer until we graduated from high school. I hadn't seen her for several years, but we were still close friends. It wasn't difficult for me to tell her my sad story. I described what Mark had told me about today's young people (minus the salacious bits), and said I didn't want to believe him.

"It sounds like he may have been exaggerating a bit, but yes, in general he's right. It's not the same as when we were growing up, Luke. I can see in the kids I minister to that pop culture, especially social sites on the internet, has made a lot of ...let's say, less wholesome ideas...acceptable, if not attractive to young people today."

She was sort of agreeing with Mark, which was depressing. "But I thought Shelly and I had raised Lisa and Tanner to be better than that. And that she was better than that, too, for that matter."

"You've got to be careful with words like better and worse, good and bad. Just because your kids use raw language, and don't seem to be totally disapproving of whatever Shelly may or may not have done, doesn't mean they're bad people. It means they grew up in a world different from the one we did, that they don't see things the same way we did. You can't control how they feel, they're already formed."

Again, my face telegraphed that her cautionary words weren't what I wanted to hear. She reached across the table and put her hand on mine. "Luke, you're trying to live in today's world with yesterday's attitudes. If you keep it up, you'll never find peace of mind. I know you don't want to believe that, but it's true." Another echo of Mark.

She pressed her fingers to her eyes, groping for some right words. "I know it sounds like your world is being turned upside down now, but try to keep all this in perspective. Maybe a paraphrase of Ash Wednesday would help: Remember, from stardust you came, to stardust you shall return."

Spare me! Susan had always been philosophical, if not a bit mystical. That's probably why she chose her job, and I knew she meant well. For a minute or two I wasn't sure how to respond, then thought I saw what she was trying to say. I wanted to reassure her we were still okay, so I put on a silly grin.

"Okay, maybe it doesn't matter much over a few billion years, but I'm more concerned about human lifespan here. Specifically, mine." I shook my head theatrically. "What a long strange trip."

We talked a while longer, but our reactions to what had happened remained different, just as Mark's and mine had. We parted with a hug and kisses on the cheek, but it was a somber parting. I almost wished I hadn't talked with her.

I still wasn't any closer to figuring out what to do. Bartenders have a reputation for being good listeners. It's said that some even give good advice, so I decided it was time to find a friendly bar.

BACK AT THE MOTEL, I asked the desk clerk where there was a good neighborhood bar. He gave me an odd look, then grinned. "Oh, I know what you're looking for. Try the Dew Drop Inn, just a couple of blocks down the street." He pointed which direction. "They serve pretty good burgers, too."

What did he think I was looking for? Screw it, I liked the name of the place and a burger sounded good. I grabbed a light deli lunch, then napped until almost 6:30. After a quick piss and face wash, I watched some CNN, then headed for the Dew Drop Inn. With any luck I'd find a wise old bartender who'd help me understand what the hell was happening to my life.

It looked more like a roadhouse than a neighborhood bar—painted concrete block walls, blackened windows, lots of neon beer signs. As soon as I walked in the door though, things started looking and smelling better. You can smell the difference between good and bad burgers, and this definitely smelled like good burgers. The place was clean, fairly well lighted, and about half full of ordinary-looking people.