The Window Washer - 5. Chapter 5

I woke up the next morning and my first thought was, “I’m married...well sort of...as good as!”

I was bursting to share the good news, so I called my parents. I wasn’t sure how they would react—up to now any talk of my love life made them uncomfortable—but Rob was now their de facto son-in-law, and they needed to know. My mom answered the phone, and I told her my happy story.

“Jerry, that’s wonderful,” she said. Then she called my father to the phone.

“It must be bloody good news,” he said. “She’s bawling her eyes out.”

They were incredibly supportive and made me promise to bring Rob for introductions as soon as he arrived in Canada.

Next I called Jennifer.

“I could see this coming,” she said. “I knew the moment I met Rob that he was right for you.”

She asked me over for dinner the next night so I could tell her and Paul all the details.

I was too keyed up to focus on work.

At noon I phoned Rob, eager to hear his voice. I told him excitedly about my parents’ positive reaction.

“That’s wonderful,” he said. “I told Ken and my parents as well”

“How did that go?”

“Great,” he said. “They were really happy. But one thing didn’t go well.”

“What’s that?”

“My suggestion that Dad give us the Porsche as a wedding present.”

“Damn,” I said. “But nice try.”

For the rest of the day work was impossible, so I spent most of the time researching adoption in Canada. That dampened my good mood. The process was unfortunately complex and difficult.

Later, when Rob and I had our evening talk the news was better. He told me he’d researched the surrogacy situation and it looked promising. Expensive, but promising.

“We’ll get the money,” I said. “I can remortgage my apartment.”

“That may not be necessary, Jerome. I got a settlement offer from the maintenance company today. It’s not much, but I think it’s fair, and I really don’t have the energy to fight for more. But it will be enough to cover surrogacy fees. And maybe some to start a college fund.”

“Rob, you are amazing. Wonderful!” I said. “I know we didn’t meet in the best of circumstances, but don’t you think this is all somehow predestined? Meant to be?”

“Absolutely,” he said.

And then we reluctantly started our telephone goodbye ritual. “I love you. I miss you....”

Rob phoned alarmingly early the next morning.

“Everything okay?” I asked.

“Just having a bad dream,” he said. “I need to hear your voice.”

“What was the dream about?”

“A bunch of stuff,” he said vaguely.

“Was it about the fall?”

“Yes,” he admitted.

“Is this the first one?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “This is the third or fourth. This was the worst one though. But I don’t have them when you’re here.”

“Can you hang in there for three more nights? I’ll be there on Friday again.”

“I’ll be okay,” he said. “I just miss you so much....”

Something in his tone disquieted me.

Then at noon, to my relief, he seemed a little better.

When I arrived at Jennifer and Paul’s apartment that evening hunky Paul greeted me with a big, manly hug. Then Ryan imitated his dad and gave me a big manly hug around the legs. Then Jennifer hugged me.

I had taken Ryan a dinosaur toy, and he was all excited.

“Thank you Uncle Jerry!”

“Where’s my gift?” said Paul.

“You have your arm around her waist,” I said.

They made and ideal, joyful family, and I reflected, that one day soon, Rob and I would experience something similar.

Paul and Jennifer were effusive with their congratulations. I was only sorry that Rob couldn’t be here to be part of the celebration.

Over drinks and dinner Jennifer skilfully extracted every detail of the last weekend from me (except the sex part—I had to draw the line somewhere). They made me the centre of attention for the evening, and I told them how much I appreciated their support and friendship.

At some point Jennifer asked about Rob’s mental state.

“Fine, I think. But he’s had some bad dreams lately,” I said.

“It might be PTSD,” she said.

“P-what?” I said.

“Post Traumatic Stress Disorder,” she said. “We see it all the time in patients who’ve suffered traumatic injuries. It’s not uncommon in cancer patients either.”

“Cops too,” said Paul, “When really bad shit happens.”

“Is it temporary? Will it go away?” I asked.

“Hard to say,” Jennifer said. “Sometimes time and distance will help. Sometimes patients need counselling. Medication in some cases. Is he depressed?”

“No, he’s happy, like me. But he sounded a bit down today,” I said. “Being apart is tough on both of us.”

“You are a love sick puppy,” she said. “But keep an eye on him. PTSD and depression run hand in hand.

“What can I do for him?” I asked.

“That’s a tough one,” she said. “With your support it may not become a problem. But you may need to recommend professional help if it gets worse.”

“I’m sure when he’s fully better, and with me, he’ll be fine,” I said.

“Maybe,” she said.

Her response did little to reassure me.

Rob called on Wednesday to tell me the restraining order had been served on Seattle Guy.

“How did that go?” I asked.

“Okay, I guess,” he said.

“Do you think the guy will obey it? Will you be safe?”

“The lawyer told me he made it clear to Seattle Guy that violating the order would mean jail. But I don’t know for sure.”

“Are you worried?”

“Maybe, a little,” he said.

I urged him to have a lock put on the courtyard gate.

It frustrated me to think that I wasn’t there to keep him safe.

By Thursday I couldn’t stand it any longer. I called Rob and told him I was taking Friday off and would try to get to Santa Barbara early in the day.

He called back and told me the planes to Santa Barbara were booked solid for Friday. I felt dejected.

“What are we going to do?” I asked.

“Traveling non-rev requires creativity,” he said. “Let me check the flights to Los Angeles and see how those are.”

I could hear him tapping away on his laptop then he said, “The flights from Vancouver to Los Angeles look good early in the morning. How about flying to LA? I’ll get Ken to pick you up.”

“I hate to bother Ken like that,” I said. “I’ll rent a car.”

So on Friday I got a drag-ass early flight to Los Angeles and landed there before noon. It took about an hour to pick up the rental car, then I headed north to Santa Barbara.

I was driving up Lincoln Boulevard, on my way to the coast highway, when I saw a sign pointing to Venice Beach. I pulled the car over and phoned Rob.

“Do you mind if I take a few minutes to check out Venice Beach?” I asked. “It’s so famous and while I’m driving by....”

“Good idea,” he said. “But, Jerome, you can only spend five minutes ogling the guys at the Muscle Beach section. Okay?”

I reluctantly agreed to his terms and drove into Venice Beach. I found parking about a block from the action and walked over to the waterfront. On the way I saw the famous mural of Jim Morrison. When I got to the boardwalk (really a strip of asphalt) my senses were assailed by the sights and sounds. On the water side was a wide, sandy beach, and on the inland side there were stores and cafes of all sorts. Hawkers and buskers, roller bladers and bicyclists shared the walkway with thousands of half naked, tanned, fit, strolling hippies and tourists. I fell in love with Venice Beach and made a mental note that when Rob was better we would come back and spend time there. I checked out Muscle Beach quickly, but those steroidal guys didn’t appeal to me. Give me Rob’s beautiful, natural body any day.

In spite of the interesting diversion I was still relieved when I turned onto Mission Ridge Road and arrived at Rob’s house. He was waiting for me by the pool. His face lit up when he saw me, and we hugged each other very tight.

“Did you like Venice Beach?” he asked.

“Rob, I loved Venice Beach. Let’s buy a house there.”

“Only if you’ve got a million dollars for a small bungalow,” he said.

“Gives us something else to dream about,” I said.

Rob suggested a nap (a euphemism for afternoon sex) and in moments we were stretched out naked in each other’s arms.

Both of us were hard as rocks, but neither of us was in a rush.

“I want to fuck you,” I said. “But slow. So we can be as close as possible for as long as possible.”

“You read my mind,” he said. “Don’t use lube. Just spit. I’ll feel you more that way.”

We lay on our sides, spooned, and I entered him. It took some force to get me in, but I kept going until my stomach and chest were pressed tight against his back. It felt like being clamped in a vice. Out of this world. I cupped my hand gently over his hard cock. We remained perfectly motionless....and drifted off to sleep.

We slept that way for about an hour. I woke up feeling much better—the stresses and strains of the week starting to melt away. Incredibly, I was still hard, and Rob and I were still very much joined. He felt me stir and turned his head for a kiss. Then we stretched languidly, like two cats, and I pulled gently out.

Later, after dinner, we made love with me straddling him. He came inside me, then I shot a load onto his stomach and chest. I collapsed onto the wet stickiness and we lay like that for a long time.

The remainder of the weekend was spent quietly at home. We didn’t feel much like going out. We saw our time together as limited, therefore precious. Bonding time.

I remember we talked about names for our child. We liked old English surnames for a girl, like Madison or Taylor. For a boy we thought biblical names, like Luke or Aaron.

We made love several more times.

Saying goodbye on Sunday was really painful.

********

The next three weeks passed in a blur.

At some point I finished the purchase of the extra parking spot at my building and moved Rob’s car. It was grimy from sitting in the underground garage at the office, so I washed it. Funny how touching someone’s car can make you feel close to them. Jennifer was right. I was a love sick puppy.

One weekend, Mary and Al had a dinner party, and I got to meet Rob’s aunt and uncle as well as Ken’s girlfriend, Lauren. Over dinner the Mitchell clan traded stories about the boys’ mischievous antics (invariably initiated by Rob) that got everybody laughing. Ken and Rob feigned embarrassment but they loved every minute of it. It made me realized what a close-knit family they were.

When I wasn’t in Santa Barbara, Rob and I spent long hours on the phone.

The constant commute, which was exciting at first, became routine and tedious. It wore me down.

“How do you and other flight attendants manage?” I asked Rob.

“It’s not like that when flight attendants are working,” he explained. “We have mandated rest periods, and we spend layovers at good hotels. Plus we only work three or four days a week. It’s not particularly difficult. Most flight attendants love their jobs.”

But he agreed that my weekend commute was hard on him too. An emotional yo-yo he called it.

When we were together we were overtaken by a kind of lassitude. All we wanted to do was cocoon.

When we were apart neither of us slept well, and Rob continued to have disturbing dreams.

Rob’s leg was healing well, and he was able to walk without a brace. But the wrist continued to be problematic. Something about lack of blood flow to the scaphoid bone. The doctor suggested he delay his return to work beyond twelve weeks.

That news put Rob into a real funk.

Remembering Jennifer’s warnings I grew concerned. At one point I tried to get him to talk about his mood, but he brushed it off by saying he was just tired.

On Sunday mornings, just before my departures, he became nearly inconsolable.

On one of the dreaded Sunday mornings, Rob and I were in bed holding each other tight. It was our way of building up a “hug bank” for the lean week ahead. My phone rang but I ignored it. Then I heard the message alert. For a while I ignored that too. Hugging Rob was my number one priority.

When I finally got to my phone I saw I had a message from my colleague, Bill.

“Jerry, when you get this, phone me pronto. This is extremely urgent. Get your dick out of California Boy and call me now!”

I’d never heard Bill as excited as that. I was worried something awful had happened.

I called immediately. He answered on the first ring.

“Bill, are you okay? Is anyone hurt?” I asked.

“BigSoft has made an offer to buy us!”

“What, on a Sunday morning?”

“Fuck, Jerry, these guys work twenty four seven. I think they called on Sunday to intimidate us. To show who’s in charge.”

“What’s their offer?” I asked.

He told me. I nearly fainted.

“Are we going to sell?” I asked.

“We don’t have a choice,” he said. “The guy who phoned told me that if we didn’t take the offer they’d move into our field and crush us. He said if we tried to sue them for patent infringement we’d end up going broke on lawyers’ fees.”

“Ouch,” I said. “So what’s the next step?”

“First, this stuff is absolutely confidential,” he said. “If word gets out we’re fucked. They want to meet with us tomorrow. To give us a written offer. They’ll probably want information. Do you have all the financial stuff up to date?”

“Pretty much,” I replied. “I’ll go in early to print the latest figures. What time are we meeting?”

“They said they’d be over in the morning.”

Rob saw that the call had made me agitated and asked what was wrong.

“A work crisis,” I said. “Somebody is trying to buy our company.”

“Will you be okay?” he asked. “Does this jeopardize your job?”

“It might,” I replied. “But don’t worry, I’ll be okay.”

“Jerome, you know I’ll take care of you. I’m sure we can make it on my salary if we have to.”

“It won’t come to that,” I said. “But I love you more than ever for offering.”

The next day I got to the office very early and ran the reports we needed. Then Bill, Steve and I (the three principal owners) waited for the representatives from BigSoft to show up. We waited and waited.

Finally, in the late afternoon, the bastards rolled in. They said they didn’t need any reports. Apparently, they had been keeping an eye on us for some time. They told us they knew more about our company than we did. They gave us each a copy of their offer and reiterated that it was a “take it or leave it” situation. They were bullies.

Bullies that were about to make Bill, Steve and I very rich men.

Our first concern was for our staff and, for a few moments, the BigSoft guys became almost human. They assured us that most of the staff would be kept on. If anyone were let go they would offer a generous termination package.

That didn’t apply to Bill, Steve and I. The handover would occur in approximately two weeks. During that period we were to be available night and day. After that we were toast. Once the final paperwork was signed our company would be run by BigSoft management.

Fuck! That meant I wouldn’t be able to go to Rob’s place the next weekend. I dreaded telling him. He wasn’t in the best of moods, and I was afraid he would be disappointed.

“Two weeks,” he moaned. “That seems like a lifetime.”

“But the good news is that after two weeks I’m out of job and can spend more time with you,” I said.

“Don’t worry about money, Jerome,” he said. “Like I told you, we can live on my salary until you find another job. But it will be great to have you here full-time for a while. I’m looking forward to finishing my treatment so we can settle in Vancouver.”

“Everything’s going to be okay, Rob,” I said. “I will get some money out of the deal.”

Aside from the confidentiality issue around the sale of the business, I didn’t want to share the full details with anyone, including Rob. My completely irrational, and stupid, reason was superstition. I didn’t want to jinx the deal. I would surprise Rob with our newfound wealth only when I was one hundred percent certain the money was in my account.

The next ten days were tough on everybody’s nerves. Rob’s dreams became more frequent and his mood deteriorated. He was concerned about me losing my job. I kept reassuring him I would be okay. That I loved him. That soon this would all be over and we’d be together permanently.

The BigSoft guys kept Bill, Steve and I off-balance. Nothing would happen all ,then they would phone a four o’clock and demand a seven o’clock meeting. We were constantly on edge. The worst was that we were under strict orders not to tell our staff. We felt like heels.

Then Friday afternoon, almost two weeks after the initial offer, the bullies called us to a lawyer’s office. We signed the final paperwork, and they gave us cheques.

“Give us your phones and don’t come back Monday,” they said. “We’ll deal with your staff.”

Guilt city.

But I was rich.

And I was free.

I raced to the bank and deposited my cheque. Then I bought a new phone and called Rob.

“It’s finished,” I told him. “I’m flying down tomorrow.”

“I’m scared something will happen to you,” he said.

“Rob, don’t worry. I’ll be there. And starting tomorrow we’ll be together for a long time. I promise.”

I didn’t sleep a wink that night and was up to catch the earliest flight I could. I didn’t use one of Rob’s guest passes. This was no time for standby. I bought a full fare ticket to Santa Barbara.

I grabbed a rental car and drove to Rob’s house. I raced to the casita bursting with my good news.

Rob and I held each other for a long time. He was shaking like a leaf. He’d lost weight.

“It’s okay,” I assured him. “I’m here now. It’s okay.”

I couldn’t wait a second longer, “Rob, I have some news.”

“What?” he said, alarmed.

“Remember I told you I owned shares in our company? Well, BigSoft bought us out, and I got a lot of money.”

“How much did you get?” he asked.

I told him.

I expected him to whoop for joy, but instead his expression grew serious.

“You said some money, Jerome. You never said millions.”

“Rob, it’s not that much. You’re parents probably have more money than I do.”

“And look at the situation I’m in. Living under their roof. Accepting their charity. I can’t live like that.”

“That’s not....”

“How long have you known about this?” he asked.

“About two weeks.”

“And you didn’t tell me?”

His tone was scaring me. Something was going terribly wrong.

“Well, it was confidential,” I said by way of an excuse. “And I wanted to surprise you.”

“I was worried sick about you,” he said. “For nothing.”

“I’m sorry....”

“Did Bill tell his wife? Did Steve tell his wife?”

“Maybe, probably, well, yes,” I stammered.

“So you don’t trust me?” he said. “You don’t respect me.”

“What? Of course I trust you! Of course I respect you!”

“Well, it doesn’t matter,” he said. “This changes everything anyway.”

“Changes everything?”

“Yes,” he said. “You’re rich and I’m poor. It wouldn’t work. I’d never be able to pay my fair share.”

This made no sense to me. No sense whatsoever. Rob was behaving irrationally.

Then I made BIG MISTAKE number one. I played the psychology card.

“Rob,” I said. “Maybe this isn’t a good time to make major decisions. You’ve been depressed lately. Maybe even suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. We should think about counselling. Go together....”

“So I express my opinion and you accuse me of being crazy,” he said. “Threaten to have me committed!”

Things were spiralling out of control. I desperately wanted to put a positive spin on this conversation.

“Rob,” I pleaded. “Please, I love you. You’re everything I want. You’re handsome, intelligent, have a prestigious job....”

“So, I’m a trophy wife. Is that what you’re saying?”

This conversation was absurd! If I hadn’t been so shocked I might have found it funny.

Then I made BIG MISTAKE number two. I used humour to try to diffuse the situation.

“C’mon,” I said, with as much levity in my tone as I could muster. “You’d make a great trophy wife.”

“Is that what you think I am? A trophy wife? You want me to spend the rest of my life beholden to you? Living on handouts?”

His words stunned me. I gave him a sick sort of smile and said, “Rob, please....”

“Now you’re laughing at me,” he said.

“Rob, please....”

“You think I’m an object of derision,” he snapped.

“Rob, please,” I begged one more time.

“No, it’s no use, Jerome. You obviously think I’m crazy and ridiculous. You have no respect for me. You violated my trust, and the money situation is too inequitable.”

The guy had me against the ropes and was pounding mercilessly.

I felt helpless, trapped, wounded and deeply hurt.

Then I made BIG MISTAKE number three. I got angry.

Not good. Not good at all.

I rarely lose my temper, but when I do it’s not pretty. And there are two stages.

First I become verbal. I lecture. Paradoxically, I don’t raise my voice, I lower it. My delivery slows and each word becomes a little monotonic, pointed arrow.

“Robert. Mitchell.” I said from between clenched teeth. “This. Has. Got. To. Stop. Can’t. You. See. You. Are. Destroying. Everything? Stop. Attacking. Me. It’s. Not. Fair. It’s. Wrong. It. Hurts. It. Fucking. Hurts!”

And when my lecture ends the second stage kicks in. The anger crystallizes. I stay mad for a long time.

I glared at Rob.

He glared back.

Then his shoulders slumped and he put his hands over his face.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s over.”

My anger set like cement.

I turned and walked away.