Malcolm was very persnickety about his assigned parking space at the apartment complex. Strange tire marks and footprints were indisputable evidence that someone else had been using it while he was at work. He doubled back from work and parked around the corner from the complex. He crept around the driveway and saw a sleek BMW 740i pull into his space.
The man that emerged was tall and handsome and wore a blue Armani suit. His Ferragamo loafers strode toward Malcolm’s front door where his beautiful wife, Margaux, greeted him warmly and led him into their home.
The possibility of an innocent explanation evaporated when Malcolm saw the man emerge about forty-five minutes later, mouthing a silent “yes!” and pumping his fist into the air on his way back to the car he didn’t deserve. Malcolm was stunned. He tapped the license plate number into his phone.
A Google search and twenty-five dollars yielded the name: Kurt Wenczelman, and that he had written a book entitled “Goliath’s Pride” that must be doing all right if his car was anything to go by.
Margaux had a literary bent. She did contract work as a beta reader to supplement her inadequate income as a middle school English teacher. This Wenczelman character must be like a rock star for her and she was like no more than a groupie in his eyes. He probably had someone like her in every city on his book-signing tour.
Margaux had been seduced by the empty promises of a jet-setting writer, but Wenczelman would have to be taught a lesson. A sturdy baseball bat would hit Wenczelman where it hurts.
Malcolm came home from work at the same time as he had discovered his wife in flagrante delicto before and was not disappointed. The 740i crouched in his parking space like a tomcat. He held the bat high over his head and hesitated, but then he decided that he was putting the poor thing out of its misery and brought the steel tip clean through the center of the windshield and then went into a kind of trance. The headlights exploded like tinkling bells, accompanied by the beeps and sirens of the alarm that people assumed was set off by the thunder of a car stereo.
Malcolm strolled to his front door, using the bat like a walking stick, and walked straight into their hiding place. His wife and Wenczelman were filling in what looked like legal documents. Had he talked her into filing divorce? She looked shocked.
“Why have you got that baseball bat?” Malcolm pointed towards Kurt.
“Who’s this?”
“Kurt, who works at Weimar BMW, is exchanging his demo car for my editing his next book and bringing it to the attention of my publisher. It’s parked in your space. You’ve been the most amazing husband and I wanted to get you something really special for our anniversary. You okay, honey? Breathe.”
Literature in Small Doses 