Kyle, Cassie, and the Accordion

The opportunity of being alone gave me a chance to recall the rest of the events at my favorite watering hole. It was the  evening Darlene told me about her and Brad.

On the way to the bar, I figured most guys in my situation would think to themselves; I’ll get even with that bitch, and tap me some new ass for a while. Not my style. I’ve always been more of a, you can look at the cake, but don’t lick the icing, kind of guy. But slicing off a chunk from another man’s cake…that’s a serious problem. When I arrived at my favorite watering hole and took a seat at the bar, a distant acquaintance sat down beside me, uninvited. He was a boat captain and a successful one, but as far as a human being goes, a big zero. He gave me his philosophy about life and relationships.

My original plan was to drink by myself, but Captain Numb Nuts had to wander into my solitude and was as irritating as I remembered at our last meeting. The greeting was always the same.

“Hi, John! How the heck are you? Haven’t seen you in a while. John, what do suppose is the best sandwich on Earth?”

I paused thinking, Not a clue, Numb Nuts. His real name was Kilroy or maybe Kyle, I’m terrible at names, so for all I knew, it was something forgettable. After pondering the sandwich question, I said I had no idea.

He responds with his memorized answer. “A ham and turkey club sandwich with bacon.”

“I see.”

“John, a man can eat a delicious club sandwich so many times until he thinks to himself”, then came the genius of Captain Nuts, “Now and then, a fried bologna sandwich is a nice change of pace…catch my drift?” As he gave me a little punch in the ribs, I prayed for a brain hemorrhage. After my brain hemorrhage prayer, I recalled his name.

“You know what, Kyle? I’m okay with fried bologna sandwiches, and I could eat one a day if I had too. I love ‘em! Guess what? I don’t have to. Besides, if I wanted to walk on the wild side and do something crazy, and using your dumb sandwich analogy, I might add cheese. I’m amazed your fourth wife has put up with you this long.”

Not aware he’d been insulted, Kyle was apparently amused by my little swipe. “Speak of the devil, there’s my baby girl!” Baby girl was right. She looked about fourteen.

“John, you ever met my wife, Cassie?” She strutted up to the bar wearing nothing but a halter top, sandals, and tight shorts. Yes, I had met her; she was the bimbo at Brad’s party.

I joked with Kyle about her youthful appearance. “Hey Kyle, do you sing her a lullaby when you rock her to sleep?” He laughed. Cassie approached and gave me a full-frontal hug; stabbing me with those 36-D’s. Cassie, in that squeaky, post-adolescent, annoying voice said, “Hi John, been a while. How’s your wife?”

“She’s alright.”

After Kyle witnessed his wife’s obvious affection toward me, said, “So, you two have met. What a small world.” He had no idea how small. Kyle wasn’t aware he’d married a hussy and flavor-of-the-week for Brad. I’m sure she had Dr. Stewart on retainer. When Kyle went on fishing trips entertaining clients, it sometimes lasted for days, and provided an opportunity for Cassie to go out on the prowl.

“Well John, this is a happy reunion. Let me buy you a drink.”

He yelled to the waitress, “Hey, Virginia, two Lone Stars for my friend and me, and a ‘sloe gin fizz’ for the lady.”

“Lone Star? Aren’t we the big spender, and on such a special occasion.”

“Only the best for you, John.”

“So, what have you two been doing lately?”

“Been trying my best to ‘knock up’ the little woman; I need me a new first mate.”

“Don’t you already have about a dozen kids?”

“Yeah, I got a few, but not with this special lady,” then grinning like a Cheshire cat, said, “at least not yet.”

Kyle announced he had to go “drain the lizard.” Cassie snuggled in close and asked if Darlene and I were having problems. If an air-head like Cassie could sense my gloominess, anyone could, then I mumbled, “Just a little misunderstanding.”

As Kyle made his way to the bathroom, he was only about ten feet away when Cassie began her sexual assault. Away from her husband’s eyesight, she put her arm around me, and whispered, “Anything I can do to help? My offer still stands. Remember the party?” It occurred to me what a real Jezebel she was. She made Darlene look like Mother Teresa. At least Darlene kept her sluttiness confined to one individual; to that sorry, no good, piece of shit, son-of-a-bitch, Brad.

“Cassie, I appreciate the offer, but I’m okay.”

I swear to God, she was worse than a cat in heat, and didn’t give up, then continued. “John, I’m teaching myself how to play the accordion. I got one of those home study courses. The first song I am learning is, Yo Ho, Blow the Man Down.” It was a fitting song for such an adulteress and an insult to a musical masterpiece. She grabbed my thigh, rubbed it throughout this dazzling conversation. She leaned in seductively toward me and whispered, “I’d sure like to play it for you sometime and show you how good I am.” I’m sure none of this conversation had much to do with accordions. Moments later, Kyle returned to the bar, and Cassie released me from her python-death grip.

With all the charisma of a Rhodes Scholar, he whispered, “John, are you a tapper?” Meaning, when guys go to the bathroom, and after they are done, tap their tool to release any stray droplets.

I stared at him with a confused and amazed look and uttered, “I’m not sure, Kyle. I let gravity do the work for me.”

He finished this mindless conversation with, “I bang mine up against the wall.”

“Very impressive, Kyle.” Right as I was about to throw up, he announced they were ready to leave.

He punched me in the side, then snickered. “I’m gonna get Cassie home, and see if I can spawn me a rug rat.”

After I recovered from his assault and trying to hold down my beer, I replied, “You two kids have fun.”

Kyle gave me a handshake that almost broke my hand, and Cassie landed another full-frontal hug, but this time, it included a whisper. “Kyle will be gone next week. Why don’t you stop by the house and I’ll play you my song?” I was speechless. How do you break the news to someone their wife is a tramp? I suppose you just let it go, or maybe you don’t. Hey Kyle, how about those Cowboys? By the way, did you know your wife is a whore? Interrupting my thoughts, Kyle jumped back into the conversation.

“John, isn’t Cassie the greatest?”

“Kyle, she’s a keeper. One in a million,” then thought—for a whore.

They left the bar and stiffed me with the tab, but another Lone Star or two sounded good. I ran into Kyle a few weeks later. He told me Cassie left him and moved away from town unannounced. All she left was a note. Tearfully he handed it to me.

My Dearest Kyle,

I’m sorry I had to leave this way, but I must pursue my dream of going to college. I enrolled in cosmetology school in Memphis and will continue taking accordion lessons. I’ll always cherish our time together.

Hugs and kisses,


P.S. I’m a college girl now!

P.S.S. Tell John goodbye.

Their marital tenure lasted about twelve weeks, and I could tell how heartbroken Kyle was. His short-lived grief was substituted with his new girlfriend. I think wife number two; Marj.

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