Hey Joe

The first time I tried to kill my wife, the justification was overwhelming. It was that old cliché. You know the one – caught her messing around with another man. Okay, well, I didn’t really ‘catch’ her…but I might as well.

She worked in construction, which, I know, sounds weird in and of itself. She was a larger woman – at least, she had grown to be – and man, could she handle some sheetrock. Evidently, she had been handling more than sheetrock, however. I received a panicked phone call from her boss’ wife one afternoon. My wife was sleeping with her husband. Did I want to meet?

HOLD UP…did I want to what? To meet? For what purpose? I mean, granted, it all became very clear in that moment: the unexplained late nights, the strange moods, the mysterious billings on our credit card looking conspicuously like Motel 6. Now I knew why I had been beating my head against a wall for the past few months. Trying to make something better, which really had no chance in hell. But please tell me why, oh why, would I want to meet? She seemed to be implying some sort of tactical revenge sex. Poor, sick lady. She was distraught with emotion. I really wished, on some level, that I could have obliged her, but her husband was 25 years older than my wife. Which made him…well, it made him a senior citizen. Which, no doubt, made his wife a candidate for the nursing home, as well. I heard the elderly quiver in her wounded voice. I responded with pure candor.

“Sorry, maam…thanks for the information, but…I really can’t meet you. Good day.”

Good day?! Good day?!! What was going on in my head? My wife had betrayed me with a big, fat, old, skinned-head, right-wing, red-neck, Rush Limbaugh championing, Republican Nationalist, brick-laying bastard, but I was perfectly calm. I think some might even call it cold. I was not about to stoop to her level, and I had no intention of sleeping with some geriatric just to level the playing field. Besides, I didn’t want her to have to live with any regrets. Mine or hers. That just seemed cruel. So, I decided that she wouldn’t live at all.

The idea of ‘turning the other cheek’ is such a foreign concept to me. Of course, I realize that not only did Jesus say it, he lived it. But while I try to be a good guy in this life, and to maintain some of these oft ignored commissions, that particular one always sticks in my craw. I mean, was I now supposed to invite this affair into my home? Maybe encourage her boss to sleep over once or twice a week? Killing her just seemed a whole lot less painful. For both of us.

I tried to get her to confess her illicit deeds, but she denied the allegations adamantly. I believe her exact words were, “BITE ME! BITE ME UP AND DOWN!!” We had begun to grow further and further apart. That’s when I decided on the whole ‘hair dryer in the tub’ thing. You’ve seen it a million times in movies and books. Electrify the bath water, killing the occupant instantly. Pass it off as an accident. As clumsy and as careless as my wife was, the authorities and all of our friends would have no problem believing such a tale. So, I drew a nice, hot bubble bath for my soon-to-be ex-wife.

It was a Thursday night. Friends had just gone off. This plan of mine was not thought out beyond actually getting the hair dryer into the tub. When I offered this luxury, (the bath – not the killing), my wife was strangely amused. We were practically estranged at this point, though we lived in the same house. But she could not resist my kindness. She conceded with a confused smile and settled her naked construction worker body into the sudsy catacomb.

She had already knocked back half a six-pack of Heineken with her high starch dinner of chicken pasta and mashed potatoes, so by the time she hit the water, she was out. This would be much easier than I had imagined. She never even saw me plug in the hair dryer. I stood there completely still. Staring at my wife. She was so vulnerable. No protection. No covering except for a handful of bubbles. I held the dryer like a gun and stared at her shuttered eye lids. She was even more beautiful in this moment than she had been on our wedding day. I was recaptured for a second. Suspended in time. And then I thought of her boss, climbing all over her. Ruining a thing that once was good. There must have been some look in my eyes – my weapon lifted up with one hand, the other wiping steamed sweat from off my brow. I never even heard him come in behind me.

“Blow me, daddy! Blow me!”

I lowered the hair dryer. My wife’s eyes popped open like Elsa Lanchester in Bride of Frankenstein, when she awakens for the first time. She was, in fact, alive. Very alive. And so was I. And so was our 2 year old, who I loved deeply.

In that momentary flash, my wife knew what had been averted. She knew it all. My ill-conceived and selfish plan. My intent. And my complete disregard for the family I had been graciously blessed with. Yes, things were fucked up. Things would always be fucked up. Such is life. But I had a lot more to consider then I had already.

I turned the hair dryer on and kneeled down. A cool, high blast tousled the curly, blonde mop of my beloved son. In whom I was well pleased. He was enthralled. And for those few moments, so was I.

Of course, my wife’s surprise death had been halted, and she would go on to divorce me, conceiving an illegitimate brat from the seed of her boss’ archaic loins. But I learned something that evening, while standing in that bathroom, seconds from becoming a full-fledged murderer: The love of your own child can not only change your heart. It can push you one step closer to a life of selflessness. What can I say? I’m a work in progress.