They think my wife kicked me out. They whisper as I pass in the hall. They shoot me accusatory looks. They look concerned. Except for a few, those that transmit silent "you da man!" signals. It's very strange. It's in the air:
D-I-V-O-R-C-E.
At least they can spell, because that's all they got right. Here's what really happened:
It all started with the termites. One night we were sitting on the couch and I felt something in my hair and what do you know, it's a termite. Then my wife jumps, for another's crawling on her neck. We look behind the couch and there's got to be a hundred of them milling around back there.
We call the termite guy, he spends a few hours poking around and then announces, triumphantly, that our house is infested by dry wood termites and subterranean termites. He points to the sand-like fecal pellets of the dry wood termites, the mud tubes of the subterraneans. He easily pokes his stick into our wall, demonstrating the hollowed-out cavities left by these destructive little buggers. He jokes that the termites are probably holding our house up.
As he chuckles I resist the urge to take that stick and poke it through his eye.
So we had to have the house tented and trenched. The tent will hold the Vikon gas in the house long enough to kill off the drywood termites, the trenches will permit the termiticide to penetrate deep enough to keep the subterranean termites away. Or so we hope.
And after the termites die the house will remain standing. Or so I hope.
Anyways, tenting ain't easy, or so we learned, for we had to pack and remove our food and drink and medicine from the house, as well as ourselves, for Vikon is apparently effective at killing everything in a house, even people. We booked a suite at a nearby hotel and packed our bags and were just about ready to leave when a work emergency hit and it became clear that I'd be working late hours for the next two days, coincidentally the same two days we were scheduled to be in the hotel.
My wife suggested I take a room near my office, reasoning that it made little sense to get in my car at midnight and drive 30 miles to a hotel room, wake everyone up, sleep for four hours and then drive back to the office. Better to stay across the street and get a little more sleep, she said. So I did.
It felt strange checking in to the hotel. I'd eaten there many times, I'd attended conferences there, I'd met visiting colleagues and customers there, but I'd never even been in one of its rooms before.
So I'm standing in the check-in line and I hear my name. It's someone from work. It's late, I'm tired, but I wave and muster up a fake smile. She's not alone. She's with a group of drones from my office. They stroll over, drinks in tow, and show an unusual interest in me, peppering me with all sorts of questions. "Who's waiting for you up there?" one of them asks. Another suggests I buy a drink for a certain lady sitting alone at the end of the bar: "Half off at closing time!" If only Cathy could see you now, another sniffs. I can see where this is going, so I tell them all about termites, tents and trenches.
The next day the whispers begin. I'm oblivious, as usual, until after lunch that nice young woman down the hall, the one who sits in front of the noisy copy room, the one who's workplace well-being I once tried to protect, pokes her head into my office and asks if everything's okay at home.
No, I tell her, everything is not okay at home. Why do you ask?
She smiles. That's an odd response, I think, as she tells me she heard I'm living in a hotel.
For just two days, I tell her.
I hear you got kicked out, she says. There's that smile again.
By the termites, I tell her, then I launch into my tale of termites, tents and trenches. She's no longer smiling. She understands. I ask if she's ever gone through this ordeal. No, she says. I thank her for her concern. Now I understand.
What more can I say? I can't walk up to each and every nosy Nelly and tell him or her no, my wife didn't kick me out and no, I'm not living in a hotel, it's all about the termites. I have to hope they get tired of talking about it, I have to hope this blows over, I have to hope that horndog in cash management gets caught in the stairwell again.
Anyways, I return home on Thursday, verify it's still standing, for now, and pack all over again for our annual company convention that weekend. It's Arizona this year. My wife and I enjoy these little company-sponsored shindigs, a rare chance to wine and dine on the company's dime at a resort where the elite meet to fry in the heat. This year, though, my wife isn't going. Her aunts and an uncle are in town and she needs time to repack the house with food and drink and medicine and she's sick of staying in a hotel and we did getaway just a few weeks ago and next week the carpenter is coming to replace the wall and it's going to get ugly so you should go and have fun now while you can, she tells me. I offer to stay, she urges me to go. I tell her I can't leave her now. She reminds me her aunts and an uncle are coming.
All I hear is "Where's Cathy?" all weekend long. It starts on the plane, the couple across the aisle probing with thinly-veiled questions. It picks up steam at the resort pool. It explodes at the dinner, what with her empty place (we cancelled late) reminding even the densest of her absence. And the more I tell of termites, tents and trenches, of aunts and uncles in town and weekends recently spent away on our own dime, the more they nod their heads absently, dismissively, as if they'd heard it all before and aren't satisfied with the same old song and dance. They want the truth, even if it isn't true.
You're working too hard. You need to spend more time with the wife and kids. We miss Cathy. You don't want to lose her. You're lucky to have her. Don't throw away your family for a floozy. And so on. And so on.
And then A Big Guy, not The Big Guy, mind you, but A Big Guy nonetheless, corners me in an out-of-the-way corner at the Sunday brunch.
Is everything okay at home?
No, I tell him, everything is not okay at home.
He smiles. That's an odd response, I think, as he launches into a tale of his first family, the kids he left behind, the regrets he has to this very day. Cathy is a one special woman, he tells me, you don't want to lose her. Family is important, he says. Don't do what I did, do what I didn't do. Take the time to make it right with her. I'd like to help. Here's what I can do. Take the beach house for a week in July, just you and Cathy. And the kids, if you want. Take it, it's yours. We'll shoulder your load. We'll give you that extra week. You're a hard worker, but we can't have you working your way out of the lives of your family.
Now I understand. I thank him for his concern.
Related posts: "That Smell" (March 2, 2005) and "Another Grand Slam" (March 14, 2005).
Isn't gossip fun? So generous, so thoughtful.
Tenting is a major plot device in Paul Bartel's acerbic and very nosy comedy, "Scenes of the Class Struggle in Beverly Hills."
Posted by: R J Keefe | June 01, 2005 at 08:42 AM
That third type of termite, the cubicle termite, seemed just as nasty as the ones eating you out of house and home, maybe worse. While the dry wood termites and the subterranean ones ganged up to chew some wood, the office termites preferred to munch on your family, on your soul. Any plan on tenting them once the home front is re-constructed?
Posted by: DarkoV | June 01, 2005 at 08:58 AM
Bonus! A very similar situation happened to me and my fiance once. We denied and denied until someone offered us a free place to work things out. We spent the weekend working out alright, and laughing at how the rumor mill gave us such an unexpected gift. Makes you wonder how many times you can play the same card.
Posted by: shank | June 01, 2005 at 09:50 AM
I hope you realize that the beach house has termites also. It needs to be tented too, did the Big Guy tell you that part?
Posted by: stephenesque | June 01, 2005 at 01:39 PM