A street car named hard-on

When he proposed to Jamie Jake had a hard-on and when after they went up stairs to their time- share in Key West to consummate their decision, and he had came inside her, he felt a sense of regret. It would be his second marriage. And as he stepped outside of the balcony now and felt the onset of long night seasons a sense of sinking fell upon him.

The promise of romance had lured them to buy: Get drunk and screw at Magaritaville!

So they decided to wield a small sum of Jake's first million in lovely Key West and had celebrated, as most people do these days, by getting shit-faced drunk. They had spent the first day of their two week vacation sucking down Tequila slushies to Buffet's greatest hits album, while other parrot heads washed down the guilt of the pillage of nineteen eighties with a smile. It was around this time that Jake began to get a hard-on.

They were on the patio smoking a cigarette they had bummed of a squat man who resembled an upside down triangle. Yes they had both promised each other that they would quit for whatever reason. Yes they felt guilty like any good American, for the pleasures they had. But there they were. The lipstick stick on white filter put the first thought in his head. "Will you marry me?"

And when Rick stepped out of the downtown Marriot in Basel, he cursed himself for not having charged his GPS. Perhaps he had an hour of roaming left. For the moment he figured out loud that "save it for later" and he slipped it into his khakis. On new Rocheport loafers he went out to see all that was to see. He thought of his mistress back home in Florida and he thought of potential gifts he saw in the gingerbread house windows. He pondered the politics of assisted suicide.

It was a pleasant autumn day, warm when the tongues of sunlight stuck through the clouds. There was slight bounce to his step, pride in a job done well, and the pat on his back from imaginary colleagues followed behind him on the promenades. He was in life insurance and had recently elaborated an all too cunning policy that was sure to "catch big ones" as he had put it during the Lifelender's conference. Rick did not have a way with words.

So there Rick Garvis was. Sailing through a mid-life crisis as best he could. He kept his head down and his dick in some other woman. Money was not an issue, nor hope for that matter. He was a spitting image of most policy makers, in insurance or public representation alike. His myopic desires would lead thousands down a bad road, and this would arise in him the need for more drowning desires.

Rick found himself buying a French-maid costume from a portly shop owner and had it gift wrapped. He bought a coffee, thought it too strong and bought a donut and was pleased. He thought about Jill and became fucking angered when he thought about her marriage. He had felt betrayed, and had actually blurted this out to her one night at Catfish Bob's, but then came to the conclusion that, after all, it was "fair". He still pondered the idea of justice from time to time, at least when it had a direct effect on his flesh. Jill, the French-maid, distracted him once more as she bent over to order his filing cabinet. The only thing he loved more than order was a woman. That is any woman except his wife.

But he was raised a Baptist and the family would be upset his mother had said. He loved order, so he decided against divorce and took out a policy on her life if she should say, fall down the spiral staircase in their Fort Lauderdale home.

Jill had golden hair. She was thin and curved like the Stanley cup. He used to hold her on a pedestal until another challenger caught his eye. Now he felt trapped on earth, trapped in life, trapped with a wife.

Jamie had said "I do" at the precise moment that Rick's GPS died in Basel. The tears of joy rolled into the dimples that sat on her Nordic jawbone like Rick's rotund figure rolled into the river basin. He had decided to follow the Rhine back and she had decided to follow someone to the grave.