“I mean, really, who stays married for ten years?”
“Apparently we do.”
I dip Beth on the dance floor. After surprising her at St. Benjamin with a vow renewal ceremony—highlighted by Father Fish, our entire wedding party, and Joan and Stan being nice to one another—I rented a limo and took everyone up to Indianapolis for the night.
We’re partying at the Rathskeller, a pseudo-German biergarten tucked on the backside of the Athenaeum Building, which was designed and built in the nineteenth century by Kurt Vonnegut’s grandfather. We’ve had a lot of beer to drink and even more food, the latter of which has adhered to the four main Bavarian food groups: breaded meat, sausage, potatoes, and gravy. Tonight’s band is Polka Boy, a bunch of middle-aged white dudes armed with accordions, trumpets, keyboards, guitars, bass players, and drums that do a polka twist on just about every conceivable music genre. At this moment, fulfilling my request, they’re muddling through a bizarre rendition of Hootie and the Blowfish’s “Hold My Hand.”
“Ugh,” Beth says. “I don’t think I can look at another schnitzel for the rest of the night.”
I twirl her away from me, then back. “Hopefully you’ll change your mind when we get to the hotel room.”
She kisses me. “I’m a sure thing. You know that, right?”
I smile. “Now I do.”
“Did you see my mom and dad earlier?”
“You mean the laughing?” I ask.
“The laughing, the flirting.”
“What’s going on there?”
“I don’t know, but they need to cut that shit out.”
“Why is Joan and Stan’s being nice to one another such a bad thing?”
“You don’t understand, Hank. I’ve never seen them like this. Remember our therapy sessions?”
“Do I have to?”
“You said my parents were nothing but glorified roommates. I hated you for saying it at the time, but you fucking nailed it.”
“I’m sorry, babe. I didn’t mean to—”
Beth douses my lips with a kiss. “No, no. You were right. Don’t apologize. I blame them for a lot of our problems, for not knowing how to love you.”
We ease into our customary slow dance position, my left hand holding her right hand against my left shoulder, my right hand guiding the small of her back, her torso swaying in unison to mine. Every third or fourth beat of the song I pull her a little closer, bending at the knees just enough for my unabashed erection to rub between the insides of her thighs.
“So, what you’re saying is, all our problems are your fault?”
My wife raises her knee into my crotch. “So what you’re saying is, you don’t want me to suck your schnitzel when we get back to the hotel room?”
I move my hand from her back to the bottom crease of her ass, pulling her up onto her toes and into me. “You’ve been quite the minx lately.”
“To be fair, you’ve been quite the good husband.”
“You’re rewarding me, then?”
“No,” Beth says. “You’re rewarding me.”
“You know my motto.”
“What’s that?”
“Ladies first.”
Beth eases back down to the balls of her feet. “I know and very much appreciate your motto.”
“Okay, lovebirds, break it up.” Claire separates us with her arms like a referee in a prizefight. “I swear, whatever you two have going on here, you need to bottle and sell it.”
“Where’s Hatch?” I ask.
“He just got here,” Claire says. “In fact, he’s right behind—”
“Hank, my boy!” Hatch grabs me from behind, lifting me at the waist. “Good lord, man. Fucking eat something. What do you weigh now?”
“A lot less than you.”
“What’s your secret?”
“Still just running.”
“Here, take this,” Hatch says. “Maybe it will put some fucking weight on you.”
Hatch hands me a pint glass filled to the rim with a dark amber beer. I hold it to my nose, catching a strong smoked meat scent.
“What is this?”
“Bartender called it rauchbier, which literally translates as—”
“Smoke beer, I know. My four years of high school German weren’t completely useless. What’s in it? Smells like bacon.”
“Evidently all beers used to smell like this. The kilns would dry the green brewer’s malt over open fires, and so the grains picked up the smoky flavors of the wood and passed them on to the beers. Nowadays the process is much more controlled and breweries tend to just use clean malt. Rauchbier is such a lost art that only one town in all of Germany—Bamberg—brews rauchbier anymore.”
“And you just learned all that from the bartender?”
“Learnin’ ain’t nothin’ but listenin’, Hank.”
“Which is why I’m surprised.”
“Surprised?”
“Hatch, if you ain’t talkin’, you ain’t listenin’.”
“Drink your beer, asshole.”
“Don’t mind if I do.” I hold the pint glass just under my nose. “There’s more than just bacon going on here. There’s beech wood and charcoal, various cooked meats—bacon of course, but also grilled hot dogs and smoked sausage.”
“Hey, Hank, are you going to drink it or fuck it?”
“I’m getting there.” I lift the glass to my mouth, letting the amber liquid slide down my tongue. Like most quality beers, it’s served and tastes better at a temperature more cool than cold.
“Well?” Hatch says.
“I like it, a lot.”
“What do you like about it?”
“It’s a deceptive beer. The meat smells are not nearly as pronounced in the mouth. The finish is surprisingly clean and almost a little too thin, especially for a beer that initially portends something closer to an Islay Scotch.”
“What’s that like?”
“It’s like a campfire, a dense, barley-infused smoke bomb.”
“And you smell all that in the beer?”
“Initially, yes. But for all that smokiness that hits you upfront, the flavor profile on the backend is actually very accessible.”
“Good to hear.”
“Why? Do you owe the bartender a full report?”
“No,” Hatch says. “I just like to know that my company is brewing good beers.”
Beth sits naked on the executive table, sipping a glass of champagne. It’s four in the morning. We’ve had sex twice, and we’re contemplating a third time.
Our next-door neighbor down in Empire Ridge—Lisa, the retired Colts cheerleader turned divorcée turned Hilton regional manager—hooked us up with the employee discount on the corporate suite. It’s a three-room suite, with a large main room flanked by two bedrooms. The front of the main room is the lounge area, with a wet bar, a television, a couch, a loveseat, and two Barcaloungers. The back part of the main room is dominated by a long executive table surrounded by eight chairs, and a floor-to-ceiling picture window overlooking Monument Circle and downtown Indianapolis. I feel we’re going to need to tip the maid service some serious cash, because we have really fucked this place up. Beth spilled almost an entire bottle of red wine while dancing on the boardroom table to the Black Eyed Peas’ “My Humps.” We broke one of the Barcaloungers when we rented Ass Worship 7: Assphyxiation on pay-per-view and tried to mimic some of the moves. And the executive table is covered with a thin layer of edible, Creamsicle-flavored massage cream.
“Now take me through this,” Beth says between naked sips of champagne. “Hatch and his father, both of them alcoholics, went in together on a microbrewery up in Indianapolis?”
“They’re more like silent partners really.” I walk over to the executive table, similarly naked. Beth hands me a glass of champagne.
“What happened to the Navy?” Beth asks. “I thought he was looking at being a career officer.”
“He was, up until about six months ago. Says he saw some things he wasn’t supposed to see over in Afghanistan, and the Navy paid him a lot of money to shut up and be honorably discharged.”
“And that’s all he told you?”
“That’s all I wanted to hear.”
Beth jumps up from the executive table, her breasts bouncing. She stumbles forward, spilling her alcohol, again. “How about a toast?”
“To what?”
My wife of ten years raises her champagne flute. “To no secrets.”
“To no secrets.”
“I love you, Hank.”
I sip my champagne, the bubbles tickling the back of my throat. I start to return the affirmation, but apparently there’s a disconnect between my brain and my mouth.
“Right after we got engaged, I made out with Lila on the Mineshaft dance floor, but it didn’t mean anything. Before the twins were born and you hated me, and I hated you, I had a Bloody Mary with Angelina Valerio when she had a layover at Indianapolis International Airport. Nothing happened, and it was a stupid thing for me to do. I also kissed Lila once more when I was living in New York when you and I were separated, but I didn’t really like it, and all I thought about was Sasha sitting on the end of the bed.”
Beth spits more than a little champagne in my face. “Hank, what the fuck?”
“Hey, it was your toast. You said no secrets. Do you have anything you want to say to me?”
“No!”
“Nothing at all?”
“You know I have a lot of eyes and ears in Empire Ridge, right?”
“Good grief,” Beth says. “It was like two or three horrible blind dates when I thought we were getting divorced.”
“Two or three?”
“Three.”
“You sure about that?”
“Yes.”
“So we’re done here?”
“I don’t know,” Beth says. “Are we?”
“I’m getting conflicting vibes.”
“What are they telling you?”
“One vibe says we’re sleeping in separate bedrooms tonight, the other says I’m supposed to bend you over that executive table and fuck your brains out.”
Beth finishes her sparkling wine and throws the empty glass over her shoulder. It shatters against the wall. She grabs the freshly opened champagne, taking a generous pull straight from the bottle.
“We’ve been married for ten years,” she says, wiping the champagne from her lips with the back of her hand. “Figure it out.”