THE Sundown Tavern’s interior looked dark. Jake Jones squinted at some coins, grunted and dug into his wallet for more, finally finding what he needed.
One by one, he plugged the appropriate coins into the jukebox. Arms swinging to the opening notes of a Garth Brooks tune, “Friends in Low Places”, he returned to his table near the bar.
“Great song, that,” he told his table-mate, Ben Doyle, who nodded.
Each day, Jake pecked at a keyboard placing orders for a furniture store, and Ben worked nine to five at an accounting office. Old high-school friends, they’d been best men at each other’s weddings. When possible, they liked to leave work early and linger over drinks at the Sundown. After a beer or two, they’d rush home to their respective wives.
“Margaret went on the war-path last time when I walked in a little late,” Jake said. “So I’ll move faster this time, if you don’t mind, old buddy.”
“No problem,” Ben replied. “Here’s to peace at home.” They clinked brew mugs and drank.
“Funny how things go on the home front,” Jake said. “I’m not sure Margaret even understands housework. I always clean the dishes and sweep up. Once I did an experiment to see how long before she might decide to sweep. Three weeks passed. I thought the dust bunnies might bury us. Finally, I gave up and did the cleaning myself.”
“You hen-pecked brute,” Ben clucked in sympathy. “Think you have problems? Let’s talk meals. Last time Cindy cooked steak, I needed 10 minutes to chew each mouthful. Nearly broke my jaw. I could’ve eaten my boots more easily. And the worst part was smiling my appreciation. Any hint of criticism and my darling wife yells, ‘Well, I’ll never cook that again’. Mostly, I love steaks too much to risk going without.”
“Ha, I’ll trump you,” Jake scoffed. “Margaret cooks well, but then she sits across the table and gives instructions. ‘Don’t eat that fat,’ she says. ‘Leave the leftover sauce.’ Or ‘drink more milk’. I’m 40 years old. Over the years I did learn to eat. I don’t need step-by-step guidance.”
“Cindy’s different,” Ben said. “She always taps at the corner of her mouth and chirps, ‘You’ve got gravy splashed there.’ Sometimes it’s a blob of ketchup or a dab of mustard -- doesn’t matter. She drives me nuts. I tell her that food caught in my mustache makes a snack for later. She doesn’t buy it.”
“Ben, have you noticed that if your wife’s cooking and you clean up that every pot in the house gets used? When I arrive at the sink, a stack of dishes scrapes the ceiling.”
“Yup, and Cindy insists on me bagging the garbage and setting it outside so the house smells better. On the way to work every morning I see that marauding cats or dogs have the garbage bags torn open and leftovers scattered everywhere. Once I fell flat on my caboose because critters had left chicken bones on the sidewalk.”
“Ha! Funny.”
“I didn’t laugh.”
So the conversation went. Eddy, the Sundown’s pot-bellied beer-slinger, knew Jake and Ben’s grumble routine. He stopped to ask if they needed more beer, but never pushed the issue.
For Jake’s every complaint, Ben added another. Once Jake pounded a fist on the table and nearly toppled his beer.
“Whoa,” Ben said, grabbing at the teetering mug. “Guess excitement hampers your co-ordination. Must be hell on your sex life.”
“Don’t mention sex!” That gave Jake an entirely new avenue of discontent. Again, Ben matched every gripe.
Finally, Jake leaned back, glanced at his wristwatch and grimaced. “Have the big and little hands moved that far? Bottoms up, buddy. Unless I head home, my wife’s patience will fade, and her tongue-lashing will blister paint off the walls.”
“I know what you mean.”
“Well, we talked a lot, Ben, but we’re lucky to have wives we love so much, huh? They know we love them too.”
“They must,” Ben said. “Why else would they tolerate us?”
“Ain’t marriage wonderful though? When you’ve got a good one, it’s great, mostly.”
“True. Marrying Cindy was my best move ever.”
“You’re good company, old chum,” Jake said. “But wifey comes first, and I gotta run.”
Ben gave a see-ya-later nod as Jake stood, dropped money on the table, crossed to the Sundown’s main door and disappeared outside.
“Another drink, Ben?” Eddy asked.
“Naw. Time I headed home too -- before supper’s cold, and my wife’s temper glows hot.”
“Nothin’ like a little lady who cares,” Eddy said. “Maybe I should think of getting hitched.”
“Eddy, man, I’d recommend it -- if properly, carefully done.”
Ben raised a hand in a wave. Already, he visualized how he’d spend the rest of his evening with Cindy by the fireplace”
Smiling, Ben opened the main door and stepped onto the dark street. “Home sweet home, here I come,” he muttered.
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