The Wicked Flee

He called her every chance that he got, usually three or four times per week, sometimes during the day, when he was at work, from a bathroom stall. These restroom conversations rarely lasted more than five minutes, but he found the risk especially titillating. He listened carefully lest a coworker or similar intruder enter his "sanctuary" during one of his telephone assignations, and if one did, he immediately shifted the discussion to an innocuous topic. At the sound of approaching footsteps or an opening door, "Are you dressed in that pink teddy again?" became "I'll stop and pick up some orange juice on the way home, then." If people thought that a toilet telephone talk was inappropriate, imagine if they knew the whole story.

His wife was unwittingly accommodating, and he had a festering suspicion that she knew. For her to get caught in traffic so frequently, play bridge on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and spend two hours Friday evenings visiting her senile mother in a nursing home was just too convenient. But he owed a debt of gratitude to his misty-minded mother-in-law for facilitating the Friday webcam sessions. Even more expensive than the $2.99 per minute adult chat line, the live video talks set him back $100 per half hour. He never tired of watching his distant mistress dance around on his monitor, wearing a green silk nightgown, and gradually, as he cajoled and pleaded, less and less. She would culminate clad in nothing but a smile, then entreat him to manually show his appreciation. He always complied, making sure to leave no incriminating evidence. His credit card was discreetly billed as T&A International, and since he handled the finances, his wife never saw anything.

One night he felt a clustery paranoia growing in the center of his chest, a little to the left, and lying there like a malignant growth ready to expand exponentially. He thought of the film The Blob, with Steve McQueen. As he stood naked in his living room, the telephone receiver in his left hand and something else in his right, he shared his misgivings with her.

"Baby, I've never seen that movie." She laughed.

For the first time in their six-month "relationship" he became annoyed with her.

"That's not the point! What if my wife finds out? She'll divorce me."

She sighed, half out of boredom, half out of exasperation.

"Who gives a shit?" she said. "You don't even love her anyway."

Now he was really mad.

"Yes, I do, god damn it! What do you know? You don't know anything."

"Look, you're in a bad mood," she replied calmly, but nonetheless defensively. "Why don't you finish by yourself tonight?" 

        A click of the receiver followed.

He waited six days before contacting her again, sending a simple e-mail reading "Video chat tonight from six to six-thirty? Wife is away."


He was relieved when she answered his call at the requested time. A distorted ringing, followed by a prolonged, obscene beep and there was the woman of his fantasies, wearing a white spaghetti strap and a matching thong. Her pretty feet were bare. She gleamed a smile that sparkled with gloating, yet at the same time, forgiveness. No mention was made of any previous altercation.

"I like what I see," he told her with unfeigned enthusiasm.

"Oh, yeah?" she replied. "Then you'll love this," at which point she twirled around like a ballerina, and performed perfectly a maneuver of such raw, potent prurience that he was spent within a minute. He panted gratefully. 

"You . . . are . . . fantastic," he confessed.

A giggle. "I know."

After catching his breath, he broached a bold subject. 

"You have to fly out here so that we can meet. I'll pay your airfare and hotel room."

But if he expected gratitude or even enthusiasm, he did not get it. Arguments of excessive distance, nothing to do in his town, neglecting her other customers -and there were many- grounded the proposed flight. Trying to save face, he promised that he would somehow make the trip worth her while, but after hanging up, realized that he had no clue how.

He answered the telephone at 8:30 the following morning, after his wife had gone to work and he was preparing to do the same. The voice on the other end addressed him with ominous formality.

"This is he," he responded guardedly.

A representative from his credit card company introduced himself, then proceeded with the pointless protocol of inquiring about his health, and the weather in his "neck of the woods." 

Then the rep's line of questioning shifted from the insipid to the invasive.

     "We've noticed a lot of recent activity on your card, and were interested in knowing-"

"I made all of those charges," he confessed like a sleep-deprived robbery suspect. "They're all legitimate, okay?"


Polite laughter came in response. 

"Sir, that's fine; that's not the reason for my call." Clearing his throat, he continued. "We have a new rewards program for cardholders who spend a certain minimum each month, and we believe that you qualify. Now if you'd just answer a couple of-"

With an unequivocal "no," he hung up the phone. He wished at once that he had requested that they not call him with future offers. Sneaking out of the kitchen, he walked through each room in his house, suddenly unsure of whether or not his wife had actually left for work. She had.

The numerous gifts -perfume, jewelry, lingerie and even silver coins- that he had purchased for her were tilting his credit card limit toward maximum. He actually decided to forgo contacting her for one week, shortly after he had purchased a $600 tennis bracelet for her and received no acknowledgement or thanks. A simple e-mail, sent to his "other" account, would have sufficed. But there was nothing.

On the eighth day, he broke down and sent her an instant message, requesting another half-hour webcam session that night. The missus and some of her girlfriends were spending a "ladies' night out." He would spend a "gentleman's night in."

She flickered into corporealness on his monitor, wearing sandals, blue jeans and a black halter top. That would all have to come off soon.

She smiled. "Hi."

"Hi," he replied. "Did you check your p. o. box?"

"Yeah, I did. Got the bracelet. Thanks."

He was irritated at her cavalier ingratitude, but kept his cool. But after a bit of small talk, the two cyber-fornicators wound their way down Libido Lane, a path so familiar to them that they scarce needed any guidance. Their reciprocal stares devoured each others' nakedness. Suddenly he produced a stray sock from under his computer desk.

She laughed uncontrollably. 

"What is that for?"

He grinned. "My wife just had the carpet cleaned. I don't want to take any chances."

She laughed again. "Like you're not already?"

On cue, a fumbling, clicking sound erupted from the hallway, just behind the door. The sound of a key being clumsily inserted into a lock. This was followed by a loud scraping.

"Oh, god!" he shouted. Frantically he pushed the power button on top of the monitor, which did nothing. He tried the same thing with the CPU, which produced the same result. From her PC station 500 miles away she looked at him bewilderedly.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

He yanked the CPU from atop the computer table, sending the clunky box crashing to the floor. The nude young woman on his screen flickered and vanished. Sparks erupted from severed electrical cords. 

He ran to the door and looked through the keyhole. A short, stubby bald man with glasses. Looked about fifty. 

"What do you want?" he demanded of the stranger.

"I-I'm sorry," said the clownish intruder. "My name's Albert Block. I'm moving into the building next week. I was looking for apartment 612."

Hiding his anger was impossible. "Yeah, well this isn't it! It's on the other side of the hall, two doors down!"

"Thanks," came the meek reply. "And sorry."

Shaking his head, he surveyed the ruined CPU. "God damn it."

His wife would be mad, furious. She was mad at him for something every day, so it usually didn't faze him. But a $700 computer. He cursed loudly. 

The predicted and predictable confrontation with his insignificant other was not as bad as he had anticipated. While listening to his explanation, his wife folded her arms like an irritated parent and fixed him with one of her seething glances that transformed her entire face into a mask of loathing. He wasn't sure whether she bought his story about suddenly losing his balance and instinctively grabbing hold of the CPU. Of a few things he was sure, however. He wanted to vent his rage in her condescending face. He wanted to tell her to go to hell. He wanted to belt her across the mouth. But as usual, he stood there and did nothing, except assure her that the renter's insurance would cover the PC. It did.

Several clandestine phone calls and a week later, he was set up with a new machine -a sleek, jet black laptop with all of its predecessors' amenities and more. The spouse was visiting some friends. When the cat was away . . .

Numerous precautions had preceded this particular webcam session. The television was turned up to a fairly loud volume, enough to mask ambient conversation. A thick winter blanket was pressed against the base of the door leading to the hallway. And a sturdy wooden door wedge in the shape of a right triangle was stuck snugly under the portal. If his wife suddenly came home, he would have the laptop neatly shut off before she knew what had happened. As for his nakedness and the blanket against the base of the door, he would explain that he was about to take a shower, and that there was a draft from the hallway. As for the wedge? Who knew how it got stuck there? he would say.

A full hour until the video call would come. He shambled into the bedroom and unlocked the old mahogany cabinet where he kept his coin collection - as well as two bottles of single malt scotch. This was the only area in their home that was sacrosanct; he kept the keys and his wife never asked. Opening the lock, he pulled out the closest bottle, popped the lid, and found a reasonably clean glass in the kitchen. Pouring the costly libation, he wandered back into the bedroom and sat down lazily on the king-sized mattress. He took a long pull, belched, then glanced at his watch. 6:17 p.m. 

Semi-conscious, he couldn't hear the loud pounding on the door. The noise continued unabated for a full five minutes, accompanied by the shouting of his name. A sturdy shoulder thumped full force against the portal. Nothing. As the smell of smoke, and encroaching heat permeated the wedged door, the pounding and yelling subsided.

Lying flat on his back, he suddenly opened his eyes, and it was she, not his wife, he heard screaming his name from the computer monitor. Then he was aware.

"Fire!" he shouted to no one in particular.

Stumbling to a stand, he rushed out of the bedroom, where he crashed into a stray ottoman. What the hell was it doing in the middle of the floor? He hit the carpeting hard, hard enough to smash his kneecap. Grimacing in agony he crawled slowly towards the door, then realized that even if he could escape into the hallway, he would be entering a veritable inferno. He was vaguely aware of her calling his name, then she was gone. He edged a few feet farther, unsure of where he was going. Then blackness enveloped him. 

The police informed his wife the next morning, knocking on the door of her girlfriend's house where she had stayed after an evening of cocktails with the ladies. She barely reacted, which the officers attributed to shock. They were partly right. Curious about a deadly detail, one which they supposed might be relevant to the fire marshal's investigation, they asked her why her husband would have shoved a wedge under the door. Was he afraid of someone or something?

She didn't have a clue.