Mr. and Mrs. America

But we worked. She took no crap from me and I loved her for it. She accommodated my foibles, my love of Star Trek and the fact that I completely fluent in Klingon (I was a dead languages teacher, after all!), even if she rolled her eyes dramatically when I trotted it out.

The fact is, we just loved each other. We didn't live a fairy-tale life -- no marriage is like that and any one who tells you theirs is either is lying or doesn't have a real understanding of what a truly deep relationship is. With a deep relationship, you learn where the abyss' are in your spouse, and what to do about them -- when to confront them and when to leave well enough alone. You can't fix everything and there are occasions when you just need to be wise enough to let the other person deal.

We'd had our ups and downs, encountered and dealt with a miscarriage, identity theft, a car accident that broke Jo's leg in three places, a lawsuit over our children when the twins had beaten the crap out of a boy who wouldn't leave one of them alone. It wasn't all plain sailing -- Jo had been laid off twice, when the companies she worked for folded. Once she was promised the position of chief counsel and then had it retracted at the last minute after she had pointed out that one of the established VPs had made comments at a company Christmas party that were probably incorrect, certainly racist and most definitively actionable. He was pissed she'd done it at the table, and even more angry that he'd been brought to heel by a woman, even though she was a lawyer. And there went her chief counsel position. She was entirely in the right, but it remains a man's world at that level.

So yeah, we'd had ups and downs.

But we loved each other. Through thick and thin, even when we were mad at each other; even when were didn't speak to each other for days; even when there was the yelling that comes with passionate views. She was mine and I was hers. There was no other way for it to be. We made each other better. I -- the academic -- softened her lawyer's instinct for being harsh. She -- the rational lawyer -- helped settle my occasional irrational traits like stubbornness and self-importance.

We had been like that since we were introduced -- by Mike of all people -- at college. I had made decisions about my future and walked away from long held goals because of her. And when I watched Mike go right ahead and do everything we'd planned to do together -- well, I won't say there weren't nights when I was pissed off about it. A bad argument with Jo, a few Southern Comforts and I would be looking at old photos of me and Mike growing up and my resentment would come bubbling to the surface. He was off gallivanting around -- whatever gallivanting actually was -- being all mysterious, meeting women in casinos and saying "shaken, not stirred" and I was a junior professor, spending my time in classes, trying to get disinterested people to get the right conjugation in Latin. It wasn't fair. It had never been fair.

But she was Jo. My other half. So there wasn't any other way it could be.

And that brings us back to the present and the envelope.

With a sigh, I put down the drink, took a deep breath and opened it.

Out came four pages of hand written letter. I was surprised. Mike was all about technology and gadgets. He'd come home with a new phone or camera or watch or something and I'd make cracks about "what did this one do? Does it summon a spy satellite when your press this button?" and he'd roll his eyes at me and say again, patiently, "Look, I work for an oil company, Jake. What the hell would I need a spy satellite for?" It was a game -- he knew damn well I knew what he did, but he'd never admit it. He never protested too vociferously that he wasn't involved in some kind of intelligence unit, but he never ever confirmed it. Madeline Walsh was the first time we ever really had confirmation.

I looked at the letter, adjusted myself into a slightly more comfortable position on the padded chair, put on bifocals -- we all get old! -- and started to read.

Hey Jake,

So, yeah. Gone. Sorry about that. I know I always said we'd sit around in San Diego someday, watching the sun go down and drinking some decent scotch (and whatever that crap is that you drink), and I'd write my memoirs. But I guess something came up. I am sure I would have liked the other plan better. Oh, well.

In case you were wondering, no, I'm not about to go into details here. You wouldn't appreciate or understand half of what I could say anyway. I don't mean that as a put down old friend. It's just that this stuff requires a ton of context, and you don't have that, nor should you. It's honestly not that interesting and too much of it is pretty petty anyway. In the same way I wouldn't know what the subtleties of a Klingon insult are, you wouldn't get a lot of this.

But yeah, I do have things to say. Better get on with it. I'm writing this in San Paulo, in Brazil. I'm in a high rise, overlooking one of the shantytown cities. San Paulo is such a concrete example of the haves vs. the have not's. The haves live in the tower blocks, with guards and security fences, and everyone else lives down there, building whatever life they can. It's about as unsexy as it's possible to be, to be honest. I know you think my globetrotting life is exotic, but most of the time, the things I see just remind me of how good life really is at home.

So, do you remember us growing up? Sure you do. I'm pretty sure you were thereJ.

Remember the small A-Frame between our houses?

Of course I did. We'd grown up in the outskirts of the city of Rockford, in Northern Illinois. Our fathers were old friends, and had bought property together, 3 acres of woodland, with a creek running through the middle of it. Mike's dad was an architect, and he'd designed both houses that the two friends built, on opposite sides of the land. Between them was the creek, winding through the woods, that would often overflow its banks during the brutal winters. Far back from Mike's house, there was an A-Frame two-room guesthouse. It was there when the property was bought; no one had a clue who'd built it, but the kids claimed it as our own. We'd have sleep outs in it, build fires in a brick circle and make smores and, when we were older, drink contraband beers, always being sure to remove the evidence later. My younger sister, Tina, would sometimes join us. Mike was an only child -- I never did find out if there was a reason for that.

We were together constantly, brought together by parents, and location and mostly shared interests in spy shows and movies. Since my dad was in the diplomatic service, we used to pretend he was away on missions and was a spy, and all our games revolved around that concept. Dad didn't help that conceit either. He'd come home and give us 'missions' -- he'd have hidden something and set up clues for us to find and follow. We imagined we were being trained for something.

It was all we wanted to be when we grew up. James Bond, Our Man Flint, The Man From Uncle. We read everything we could find and watched everything our parents would let us and decided early on that a life of derring do -- I wasn't sure exactly what that was either, but it sounded good. Something to do with swashbuckling, perhaps? -, danger and excitement would be our future.

When Mike broke his arm, when he was twelve, I was the one that rode in the ambulance with the medics. We'd done it trying to swing across the creek, and of course, the rotting branch of the dead tree broke and down went Mike, yelling the whole time. We only realized he'd broken his arm when I slapped him on the back, laughing at the spectacle of him covered in mud as he'd climbed out.

We'd write stories and create cover identities for ourselves, and spend the entire day pretending we were the people in our made up story, and we would nit pick holes in each other's stories.

We were both on the debate team at school, and you can just imagine what that was like. When we were together, we were unbeatable. But when put on opposite sides, we'd tie each other up in knots using word play and irrelevant arguments. I remember one time we spent the whole debate trying to get each other to laugh. I won, when I had to retort to a particularly compelling argument he'd made about carbon footprints or something, and I just opened my mouth, and instead of arguing, I dropped my pants and mooned him and the entire debate team. It got me suspended for a week, but that particular story is still told in hushed tones at the school.

We discovered girls, of course, when we got older. We did diverge a bit when it came to the fairer sex. Mike wouldn't let anything get in the way of his dream -- girls were objects to be desired, chased after, wooed, taken, and then moved on from. I...well, I wasn't made like that. I tried a few times, to be like Mike, but after the third girl ran from me crying at the school lockers after I dropped her and got ready for the next one, well, I just couldn't do it any more.

That's not to make Mike out to be some kind of lothario or arrogant dick around women. He never used and abused. He never treated any one badly or led a girl on. In fact, it was partly his ability to treat every woman equally that was his problem, I think -- all girls were equal in his eyes. He didn't just date the tall hotties, he dated every girl. He wanted to try them all -- none got in too close; his control was awesome to watch. He was always up front about who he was, and never led a girl on to believe he was in love with them. I think he took to heart the lessons of love them and leave them more than most would. Perhaps the examples of episodic television, where you'd see a guy with one women one week, and another the next, may have influenced him more than me. Who knows?

The man just loved women. All of them. Repeatedly. It was inspiring to watch. In some ways James Bond really had nothing on Mike LaPetus. Mike was the real deal. -- a player with class. You don't see many of those these days.

And me? Well, I was more of a relationship guy. I just didn't have the energy to chase women like he did. I would date a bit, find a girl and that would be it for a few months, till the relationship ended naturally, as at that age, most relationships should.

Mike was a year older than me. When he graduated and went to college, I was lost for a year. We had been like the two musketeers. Yes, I know there were three. Or four, if you count, d'Artagnan but we were like the two musketeers. We complimented each other. Mike found some languages hard, and I didn't; I found calculus hard, and he didn't. We tutored each other. There was never a question that we would room together and when I hit college a year later, and we did.

I know I'm making it sound like some kind of bromance thing, or some thinly disguised homosexual relationship, but it was never like that. Never. It was more like we were brothers that rarely fought. We got accused of the gay thing a few times -- it tended to happen a lot when Mike broke up with a woman, because he'd prefer me to be around. He had this theory that women wouldn't go off on him as badly if I was there. Instead it got us branded as closet queers by some girls. Mike would laugh loudly and then say "If we were, he could do way better than me". I remember the first time he did it, I said, "Hey. What exactly does that mean? I'd make a better gay man than you?? What?"

He'd laughed and tried to explain that I was a 'more attractive man than him to the same sex," and I'd gone on a whole "How the fuck would you know?" thing, and it all ended up with us going to gay bar and seeing who got hit on first.

He did.

I still don't know if that is a good thing or not.

Anyway, I did ok in the women department, right up till I met Jo. Mike introduced us at a party. He was interested in some cheerleader -- of course it was a cheerleader. Mike couldn't go for the ordinary, oh no - and he needed me to make a foursome, so I could accompany the girl who was hanging out with Mike's prey. I was pissed at the time. I didn't want to be taking what I thought were his cast offs -- he'd done that a couple of times before and I had made it clear that I wasn't interested in that unless I was interested, and if I was, I'd make the clear to him. He understood and backed off, but I thought he'd done it again.

So my first impression of Jo Bean, wasn't great. She wasn't that impressed with me either. We'd apparently got a bit of a reputation -- more Mike than me -- but I was guilty be association so I was a reputed womanizer too.

Now I don't mind a bit of swagger. I don't mind having a bit of a reputation. And it wasn't like I was a virgin, not since Pauline French, in my senior year of high school. She'd educated me in the ways of the horizontal mambo, made it clear she had her eyes on the horizon, and we'd had a hell of time learning, and then she'd bade me farewell when the year was up and she zoomed off to New York to go study fashion or something. Last I heard, she was married to some author named Bob, who had a thriving career writing smutty stories on some website or something.

Anyway, I knew my way around a woman's body and didn't need a map or have to ask directions. I was a man of the world. Or so I thought.

Jo was a revelation to me. That night, we went from not really being that interested in each other to drinking competitions against each other. She did win (although barely) and we woke up the next morning in bed together. Don't get me wrong, neither one of us was up to sex the night before, that much was very clear. And it was embarrassing and awkward, until she just started laughing, saying, "God knows what my grandmother would say about this. She'd say," - and she put on some exaggerated New England accent -, "Now, dear, if you are gonna do that, at least get his telephone number, and the first name of his mother. And don't forget to leave with all the clothes you came with."

We just laughed and laughed, and made breakfast and laughed some more, and I did some impressions of my paternal Grandfather, who is as red-necked as they come, even though he'd been on the beaches at Normandy, and some how she never left the small apartment that Mike and I shared. He never showed up by the way. I'm guessing he got lucky with the cheerleader. He never boasted about his conquests, and I never boasted about mine -- it was weird that way, because once I was married, he did nothing but tell me about his exotic adventures. He said once he felt it was necessary, so I could "live vicariously through him."

The first time we had sex -- the fifth date by the way -- it was explosive. I wasn't expecting it to be as good as it was. She had experience too -- that much was obvious -- but it was more just her unbridled enthusiasm that was attractive. I've always believed that enthusiasm for anything -- be it sex, writing, rifle shooting or train spotting -- makes you better at it, and more interesting to be around while you are doing it. Jo had that. Now I'm not that much of a man of the world, despite the experience I had and the airs both Mile and put on -- the number of women I'd been with, well, you'd need to take your shoes and socks off to count them all, but it wasn't past 20 -- but I had been around at least little bit, and I could tell she was something special. To be clear though, even if it hadn't been great, I'd still be with her because she was the whole package. But as it happened, it was great. We just fit together. Same appetites, same desires, same lack of embarrassment for asking what we wanted. It was just great.

Jo was going to be lawyer. A corporate lawyer, who did pro bono work. Hell, she was every bit as idealistic as I was in those days. Even though we were the same age, she has skipped a year along the way and was a year ahead. There was no doubt she was going to graduate with honors and go on to pass the bar. And she did. It was expensive, but her parents helped out with 50% of the costs, and she got a part time job while I got a full time one, once it became clear what my future was likely to be.

Whatever. Hearing from Mike was titillating, listening to him tell about some of the dangerous sex he'd had, doing it in the Dead Sea (sounded painful, to be honest), or trying to do it in public in Saudi Arabia, but not be noticed doing it, since it was a flogging if you were caught doing that there. But I never really looked at Jo as second best because of his stories. She was always first best. It wasn't even a question. Mike had his life; I had mine.

Remember all the training we did? For our glorious careers as spies to be! They were good years, Jake. I look back and think it was so much better than trying to go for football glory or any of that stuff. I don't regret a second of it. At least I didn't then.

We had both wanted to be spies. Desperately. That's all we dreamed of. We had our careers planned out -- we'd be a team, working together and cutting a swathe through the enemies of America and democracy. I laughed - we were such naive idealists. All the movies and TV shows were so black and white -- there were good guys and bad guys, and the good guys did good things and stopped the bad guys from doing bad things. Mike and I were good through and through. We knew it and the world had just better watch out. Bad guys, you are put on notice. Jake and Mike are coming.

We were so full of it. Looking back it was all so ridiculous. Except, for Mike, it wasn't. He actually went and did it.

I know my father was involved. Mike showed up at our house a few times during his last year of college. He was going out into the world a year before me, and by then I was with Jo, so much of my time was being spent with her. But I knew he'd been to see my Dad a few times, and I'm pretty sure it was Dad who introduced him to the people he needed to be introduced to. Dad would never confirm it either, but I was sure of it.

Jake, now I know better. It wasn't at all what we thought it was. Honestly, it's just not. It's mostly low-grade gossip mongering, setting people up and burning them. There are moments, but the real point here is this. I got to do it, and you didn't.

Yes he did. I knew it and he knew it. I knew he didn't lord it over me, but he had to look down on me a bit, because I never realized our shared ambition and he did. But he did a great job of including me in the way he told his stories, without me ever having to go into any danger. Not that I would have minded a bit of danger now and then. Being a professor doesn't have many opportunities to shine in that department. Okay, you're right. It has none.

But the thing is, my life is what my life is. I'm really happy with Jo and the kids, and while I haven't had a life of sparring with Odd Job and saying "Tramell, Jake Tramell" in menacing ways, it's not been wasted. I've been happy, made my moments count and I don't think I'd trade it. To use that stupid old cliché, I feel pretty completed. My boyhood dream was just that -- a boyhood dream. My real life was just that too -- real, and life. No one strapped me to a table and shoved a laser between my legs, saying they expected me to die.

That doesn't mean there aren't wistful moments where I don't wonder what might have been. We all do that. Everybody. Its human nature. And it would be even worse when your best friend is doing it and telling you exactly what could have been. But Mike was never like that. He denied it all anyway, even though we both knew better.