And Brenda Married Me

Chapter 1
And Brenda Married Me

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Chapter Description: A kid in the park with an open bottle of aftershave is an accident waiting to happen.

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Comments and critiques are welcome. This story started out as a sequel to my story A Little Common Sense, in the new Archive, but after several tries I could not use that setting to tell the story I wanted to.

And Brenda Married Me

by

Andy Hollis

I checked my watch, and gulped down my now warm coffee. "Got to run," I told my wife of twenty years, Brenda. I always gave myself an extra thirty minutes to get out the door.

"Where are you going?" she asked, with her now green eyes flashing under dark auburn hair.

"To work, where else would I be going at this hour on a Friday morning?"

"Oh, and you’re taking that with you?" she asked and pointed at my briefcase.

I sighed. "I’ve taken my briefcase with me to work every day for the last five years, and it looks like today will not be any different."

"What’s in it?"

"I didn’t expect the Spanish Inquisition," I complained, with no recognition on her end. "Let’s see. I have three Faberge Easter Eggs, the British Crown Jewels, my magic wishing lamp not to mention my papers, pens, and laptop for work."

She stood up from the table. "You’re taking your laptop?"

"My work laptop, yes. I always take my work laptop to work with me. I have my home laptop in my office."

"I want to see it."

I stared at her. "It’s my work laptop. I can’t let anyone else see it because there is sensitive information on it."

"You don’t trust me?" she asked.

"With the information, yes, of course," I said doubting if she would understand it. "The problem is, with your luck, you’d hit the wrong keys and delete three years worth of work. So, I’m heading out the door."

"You aren’t composing, are you?"

Now how had she figured that out? I shook my head. "What are you talking about?"

"Music, you aren’t writing music, because if you are, I will leave you. I swear it."

"Do you promise?" I asked her with a big grin.

"If you write one note of music, I’m gone."

"This last week I wrote two dozen songs, and two symphonies. Go ahead," I said and pointed at the front door. "Don’t bother to lock up on your way out."

"You want me to leave you?" she asked, wiping her eyes.

"I didn’t say that, you did."

"I’m serious, Simon, if you do write another note of music...."

I grabbed the briefcase, and walked over to the piano. I opened the cover, and played a few notes, then a few chords until I had a little melody. "There, I just wrote that all by myself."

"I’m serious, I’m leaving you."

"Fine, like I said, don’t bother locking up. I still need to go to work."

"I said I was leaving you."

"Go," I said, and sighed. "Have a nice life."

"I promised your mother, on her death bed, that I would never let you write music."

"Brenda, you know that old bitch beat me to an inch of my life for years about music. I learned real quick not to say anything, but I still had music teachers begging her to let me study music She still beat the crap out of me. They learned not to say anything, and I studied music all through high school, and college, and the army.

"The only reason I’d want to write music now is to hope that she would hear it down in Hell. If you promised that bitch anything on her death bed, you can just get the fuck out of my house, and leave me alone. Is that clear?"

"I just said that, I didn’t mean it." she said.

"Good, so, you leave me alone about music and I’ll leave you alone about weaving. Okay? I’m running late for work, again."

I made it to the front foyer.

"What’s this?" she asked me, and pointed at the phone.

I picked it up, and held it to my ear. "It’s a telephone, check with Alexander Graham Bell."

"I mean, what is that flashing?’

"The answering machine. It does that when someone’s left a message. You press that button marked ’play’ to hear it. Is there anything else?"

"Do you know who left that message?"

I pressed the button. "Hey," said my best friend in the universe, Roger. "Give me a call when you can. I have something to show you."

"There, that was Roger Farrell. Dr, Roger Farrell, The message was for me. Was that so hard?"

"I hate hearing his voice on the machine. Tell him he can’t call me anymore."

"Then tell that drunken floozy, Cheryl, to stop calling here, too."

"You can’t tell me who can call me," she blustered.

"Then you can’t tell me who can call me, either. So there. Oh, I have a project for Mr. Post. Do you know anyone that has a kid?"

"Shut up! Shut up. I don’t want to hear about any stupid little brats."

"Just asking." I hurried out the door, and ignored everything she yelled after me.

****

The George Bennett Memorial Park didn’t cover much

area, only a few trees, a path with shrubs and one picnic table. I carried my lunch and my laptop to the table and sat down. Two hot dogs from the vendor, with a soda, and that was it.

I opened the computer, queued up my music program and went to work. I put down a few notes, and looked up. There was an odd scent, coming from the park. I couldn’t place it, but I liked it. I looked around to see a kid, maybe eight or nine, standing behind me with an open bottle that looked like aftershave.

"Hi," he said. "Have you seen this before?" He wore a gray, t-shirt and shorts. No team name on them.

The bottle looked plain, and so did the label. "’Live the Dream’ formerly ’Summer Memories’ aftershave."

I turned around on the bench, and took the bottle from the kid. I sniffed again. "Live the dream is right. This reminds me of my music teacher’s house. I mean.... When I was a kid I lived and dreamed music. This is great."

He smiled. "Think I should get it for my Dad?"

"I don’t know. I like it, but I don’t know if he would. Where did you get it?"

He shrugged. "Down the road." He reached over, grabbed the bottle, and fell backwards. I caught him before he hit the ground, but most of the bottle of aftershave wound up on me.

"Oh, man, I’m really sorry, mister. I didn’t mean to, and thanks for catching me."

I shook myself off, and shook my head. "Don’t worry, not my good clothes."

The kid leaned over me trying to help and whispered in my ear. "This is new and improved, Mr Thompson, go head, live your dream. It’s really beautiful." With that, the kid took off at full tilt out of the park.

I stood up. At least the stuff hadn’t hit the computer. I turned it off, and headed back for the Men’s room in the store. "Live the dream, right." I told myself. I was a computer tech, and a good one, too, but I dreamed in binary code, not music now.

Glen Stevens walked into the men’s room and sniffed. "Simon?"

"It’s aftershave. Some kid spilled a bottle on me while I was eating."

"It’s nice, but a little strong," he said, trying not to laugh. "What is it?"

"It’s called ’Live the Dream’, or so the bottle said. I didn’t see anything else."

"You may want to go home and get a shower," he said,.

"I’ll ask the boss, but you know how he is."

Glen nodded. "You look a bit pale, too. Those fumes could make you sick after a while."

"Feel fine," I said. I left the men’s room, and walked into the shop.

"Jake’s Computers" -- We buy sell and repair -- had been my home for the last five years. I was considered the best tech there. The moment I entered the store, people stared at me, from the customers to the clerks.

"What is that?" Debbie Snow asked, holding her nose.

"I was attacked by a deranged kid with a new brand of aftershave."

"That really stinks. Get away from me, far, far away from me."

I hurried back to my desk, only to have everyone turn and hold their noses. "Okay, I can take a hint."

Jake Post looked up from his desk, and shook his head. "Go home, Simon, you look terrible, but what is that you’re wearing?"

"I don’t know, and it’s making half of the shop sick,"

"I like it, but did you spill it?"

"Something like that. I’ll shower, and be back. This is turning my stomach."

"Come back, Monday. Get over this," he said, and shooed me out the door.

I called home, feeling a little dizzy, but there was no answer. I drove home, carefully, took my laptop upstairs to my den, and hurried into the shower. I scrubbed for what seemed like hours, before I felt I could get dry.

"Simon," my wife screamed.

"I’m getting dressed," I called back.

"How was I supposed to know it was you in here?"

"My car is in the driveway where you had to see it, and thieves usually don’t stop to take a shower."

"Very funny," she said.

I finished toweling off, and put on a shirt. She sniffed at me and shook her head.

"What is that awful smell?"

"The reason I had to take a shower," I said with a shrug. "Some kid in the park tripped and almost fell, I caught him, but a bottle of aftershave spilled all over me."

"Shut up! I don’t want to hear about any, stupid brat, and you’d better shower a couple more times. Then again, how long were you in that one? You look shriveled."

"I feel shriveled," I said. "Whatever that was it’s really making me sick to my stomach."

"You’re just faking it to get off work for the day so you can bug me."

"Okay, it’s not making me sick."

"If you’re so sick why don’t you go over to Roger’s now so I don’t have to listen to you complain. He’s a doctor."

"A medical researcher. It’s different," I told her for the thousand and first time.

"Just go. I have a lot of things to do this afternoon, and I can’t with you here underfoot. Got that?"

"Okay, okay," I said. I grabbed my laptop and headed for the door.

"And where do you think you’re going?" she shrieked.

"Over to Roger’s like you said," I said and made a retching sound. "You didn’t want me underfoot when I’m so sick...." I put the laptop down, and ran for the bathroom. Two seconds later I puked my guts out several times,’

Feeling much better, I washed my face, and walked out to the living room to see Brenda trying to access my computer.

"Why can’t I get in this thing?"

"It’s password protected," I said with a shrug. "And why would you want to? You’ve seem my collection of dirty pictures."

"Are you finished throwing up?"

"I think so, but I won’t know for sure unless I have to do it again."

She sniffed. "Here, take this and get out."

I did. I almost ran for the car. Brenda, my lovely bride of twenty years, could be a handful at times, no all the time lately. There were times the only reason I had for not divorcing her was inertia. We didn’t have kids, and I would still like to be a dad, but....

I called Roger.

"Do you mind?" he answered. "I have my hands full of anthrax."

"Good, I’ll take a large shot -- over ice, with some bubonic plague as a chaser."

"Brenda kick you out again?"

"Yeah, and it’s a good thing, too. I am feeling a bit sick. Oh, I have something to show you, too."

"Okay, drive safely, and don’t drive and talk." He hung up.

Roger Farrell, MD., PHD, had been my best friend since grade school, I married and went into the Army. He didn’t marry, and spent his life in school. He still had a goofball grin, blond hair and blue eyes filled with laughter.

He stood aside, and let me in. "So, the old lady kicked you out, again?"

I nodded. "I’m not feeling that hot, and she doesn’t want me underfoot. I swear, after twenty years I’m getting tired of living with a total airhead,"

"I know I’ve never said anything like that to you, at least for twenty four hours. That vixen may not be a total airhead. She’s only a blonde every other week or so."

I laughed. "Ain’t that the truth."

"Do you think she could be -- that she could have a boyfriend?"

"Not likely, but I don’t think I’d care that much if she did. Now, let the old lady go, and listen to this." I set up the laptop in his living room, not far from all of his guitars and keyboards.

"I found this program a couple of months ago, and I think I’m finally getting the hang of it." I pulled up my score, and played it.

"Play that again, please."

I did so. "Well?"

"That’s beautiful. I never knew you could write music."

"Oh, really? You want me to tell you about all the times...."

"Okay, maybe you have mentioned it, a few million times, but.... That’s incredible. Have you ever thought of writing songs?"

"No good with words, you know that," I said and closed the computer.

"That melody would be perfect for one of my poems."

"Oh, right, you do write poems. I must have forgotten." He grimaced and walked over to a desk. He opened his file drawer, and pulled out a ream of papers. He handed me one sheet.

"’The Journey Home’?" I read, out loud. Reading through the poem I heard the melody, the harmony, and by the time I finished reading I felt like crying. "Roger, that’s....a number one hit. Hang on."

I turned on his full sized piano, and started picking out the melody. "I wish I could do this at home, but Brenda said she would leave me if I wrote even one note.... I did, too, I wrote a melody for her, but she wouldn’t leave."

I played through the song a couple more times, then, more to drive Roger batty, I sang it.

’What the fuck did you do?"

I stared at him. "I know my singing is bad, but you didn’t have to swear.,"

"No, that wasn’t it. I have never heard anything more gorgeous than the way you sang that song. That voice you did was perfect for the words, but it sounded like a little boy singing."

My shoulders slumped. "Get real, Roger."

"I’m going to record this. Get ready." He set up his equipment, brought a mike over to the piano, and pulled out his acoustic guitar. He turned on the machine, and nodded his head.

I played an intro to the piece. He picked up the beat with his guitar, and I sang my heart out again. After we finished, he played it back. I closed my eyes, and listened to the voice of an angel. I swear, my voice did sound like a kid’s, fresh, clear and innocent.

"Holy shit. That came out of my mouth?"

"Yes, and how did you do it?"

"I have no clue. I...." I ran for the bathroom, and spent another twenty minutes throwing up. I felt dizzy when I stood up. I opened the door to find Roger standing there.

"You look horrible." He put a hand to my forehead, and pulled away. "Ouch, you’re burning up."

I managed to sit down. "I feel a bit better for throwing up. But, at least it wasn’t that aftershave if I have a fever,"

"What aftershave?"

I told him the story. "I was sent home to clean up, and it did make me sick."

"And the name of this aftershave?"

"Living the Dream. The kid said it was new and improved. It used to be called ’Summer Memories’. I’ve never heard of either before."

He closed his eyes. "I have. Go, sit in the bathroom. This is going to get rough. I need to get blood, a bit of blood from you, then I’m driving you to the emergency room."

Roger ran off before I could ask any questions. I hurried back to the bathroom, and he was right. Man, I was losing fluid from every available opening, and all at once. I barely felt the needle when he took my blood. He took off again.

After a while, I stopped going. I managed to clean up, and sort out my clothes.

"Simon, I can’t tell you how sorry I am. Your blood is positive for ’Jason’s Syndrome’."

"In English?"

"That means you are going to have a rough couple of weeks. I have a call in to Dr. David Kline, who is a specialist in this. I’ve been working on the project for the last couple of years. He’s a good man, really."

"But what about my doctor?"

"Jason’s Syndrome isn’t well known. In fact, there are only a handful of researchers and practitioners that do know about it. I know, what are the odds that my best friend would get it, when I’m the one studying it. But this time. This time we have him."

"Him?" I managed to croak out.

"The Syndrome is spread through an aftershave called ’Summer Memories’. Besides Jason Todd, there are only two other confirmed cases, and you are one of them. Get your but in the car, and wait for me. We can talk on the way to the ER."

I sat down in the front seat, and called home. A man answered. It took me a few seconds to recognize the voice. "Larry? You had better tell me that Sally dragged you over there, or she will find out about this."

"Who is this?"

"It’s Simon, Brenda’s soon to be ex-husband. I’m really sick, and I’m heading into the hospital."

"Brenda, it’s Simon, he’s going to tell Sally everything."

"Just remember, you were never here."

"I just talked to him on his home phone. He knows I’m here."

"Oh, here" I heard her take the phone. "Simon?"

"Yes. Roger’s taking me to the ER. I have a really high fever, and some new bug. I may be in the hospital for a while."

"You’re just faking that. Larry wasn’t here."

"When I get over this, and serve you with divorce papers for adultery, they won’t be real, either."

"I’ll serve you first." She slammed the phone down.

"I take it that went well?" Roger said, and started the car,"

"You were right about her boyfriend. Larry Potter, At least he wasn’t my best friend, or do you have something to tell me?"

"Don’t make me sick. Besides, if I had she would have bragged about it, you know."

"That’s the problem, I do, and there are times I regret saying that in Church."

 

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