It’s Thursday, so where’s Bryce? Right. Trumpet lessons with Mr. Talawatamy. Johanna’ll be going to pick him up soon. Can’t stay here long.
If I were to leave my hideout and mosey around the side of the house, I’d see the guest room, where I used to retreat when Johanna and I were fighting real bad, and where, last spring, after Johanna got promoted at Hyundai, I commenced to putting the blocks to the babysitter, Cheyenne.
And if I kept going all the way into the backyard I’d come face-to-face with the glass door I shattered when I threw that lawn gnome through it. Drunk at the time, of course.
Yessir. Plenty of ammunition for Johanna to play Find the Bad Guy at couples counseling.
It’s not cold cold out, but it is for Houston. When I reach down to take my phone out of my boot, my hip twinges. Touch of arthritis.
I’m getting my phone to play Words with Friends. I started playing it over at the station, just to pass the time, but then I found out Meg was playing it, too, so I sent her a game invite.
In mrsbieber vs. radiocowboy I see that mrsbieber has just played poop. (She’s trying to get my goat.) Meg’s got the first p on a double-word space and the second on a double-letter space, for a total score of twenty-eight. Not bad. Now I play an easy word, pall, for a measly score of nine. I’m up fifty-one points. Don’t want her to get discouraged and quit on me.
I can see her shadow moving around up there. But she doesn’t play another word. Probably Skypeing or blogging, painting her nails.
Johanna and me—you say it “Yo-hanna,” by the way, she’s particular about that—we’ve been married twenty-one years. When we met I was living up in Dallas with my girlfriend at the time, Jenny Braggs. Back then I was consulting for only three stations, spread out over the state, so I spent most of every week on the road. Then one day I was up in San Antonio, at WWWR, and there she was. Johanna. Shelving CDs. She was a tall drink of water.
“How’s the weather up there?” I said.
“Pardon me?”
“Nothing. Hi, I’m Charlie D. That an accent I hear?”
“Yes. I’m German.”
“Didn’t know they liked country music in Germany.”
“They don’t.”
“Maybe I should consult over there. Spread the gospel. Who’s your favorite country recording artist?”
“I am more into opera,” Johanna said.
“I getcha. Just here for the job.”
After that, every time I was down San Antone way, I made a point of stopping by Johanna’s desk. It was less nerve-racking if she was sitting.
“You ever play basketball, Johanna?”
“No.”
“Do they have girls’ basketball over there in Germany?”
“In Germany I am not that tall,” Johanna said.
That was about how it went. Then one day I come up to her desk and she looks at me with those big blue eyes of hers, and she says, “Charlie, how good an actor are you?”
“Actor or liar?”
“Liar.”
“Pretty decent,” I said. “But I might be lying.”
“I need a green card,” Johanna said.
Roll the film: me emptying my water bed into the bathtub so I can move out, while Jenny Braggs weeps copious tears. Johanna and me cramming into a photo booth to take cute “early relationship” photos for our “scrapbook.” Bringing that scrapbook to our immigration hearing, six months later.
“Now, Ms. Lubbock—do I have that right?”
“Lübeck,” Johanna told the officer. “There’s an umlaut over the u.”
“Not in Texas there ain’t,” the officer said. “Now, Ms. Lubbock, I’m sure you can understand that the United States has to make certain that those individuals who we admit to a path of citizenship by virtue of their marrying U.S. citizens are really and truly married to those citizens. And so I’m going to have to ask you some personal questions that might seem a little intrusive. Do you agree to me doing that?”
Johanna nodded.
“When was the first time you and Mr. D.—” He stopped short and looked at me. “Hey, you aren’t the Charlie Daniels, are you?”
“Nuh-uh. That’s why I just go by the D. To avoid confusion.”
“Because you sort of look like him.”
“I’m a big fan,” I said. “I take that as a compliment.”
He turned back to Johanna, smooth as butter. “When was the first time you and Mr. D. had intimate sexual relations?”
“You won’t tell my mother, will you?” Johanna said, trying to joke.
But he was all business. “Before you were married or after?”
“Before.”
“And how would you rate Mr. D.’s sexual performance?”
“What do you think? Wonderful. I married him, didn’t I?”
“Any distinguishing marks on his sex organ?”
“It says ‘In God We Trust.’ Like on all Americans.”
The officer turned to me, grinning. “You got yourself a real spitfire here,” he said.
“Don’t I know it,” I said.
*
Back then, though, we weren’t sleeping together. That didn’t happen till later. In order to pretend to be my fiancée, and then my bride, Johanna had to spend time with me, getting to know me. She’s from Bavaria, Johanna is. She had herself a theory that Bavaria is the Texas of Germany. People in Bavaria are more conservative than your normal European leftist. They’re Catholic, if not exactly God-fearing. Plus, they like to wear leather jackets and such. Johanna wanted to know everything about Texas, and I was just the man to teach her. I took her to SXSW, which wasn’t the cattle call it is today. And oh my Lord if Johanna didn’t look good in a pair of blue jeans and cowboy boots.
Next thing I know we’re flying home to Michigan to meet my folks. (I’m from Traverse City, originally. Got to talking this way on account of living down here so long. My brother Ted gives me a hard time about it. I tell him you gotta talk the talk in the business I’m in.)
Maybe it was Michigan that did it. It was wintertime. I took Johanna snowmobiling and ice fishing. My mama would never have seen eye to eye on the whole green-card thing, so I just told her we were friends. Once we got up there, though, I overheard Johanna telling my sister that we were “dating.” On perch night at the VFW hall, after drinking a few PBRs, Johanna started holding my hand under the table. I didn’t complain. I mean, there she was, all six-foot-plus of her, healthy as can be and with a good appetite, holding my hand in hers, secret from everyone else. I’ll tell you, I was happier than a two-peckered dog.
My mother put us in separate bedrooms. But one night Johanna came into mine, quiet as an Injun, and crawled into bed.
“This part of the Method acting?” I said.
“No, Charlie. This is real.”
She had her arms around me, and we were rocking, real soft like, the way Meg did after we gave her that kitten, before it died, I mean, when it was just a warm and cuddly thing instead of like it had hoof and mouth, and went south on us.
“Feels real,” I said. “Feels like the realest thing I ever did feel.”
“Does this feel real, too, Charlie?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And this?”
“Lemme see. Need to reconnoitre. Oh yeah. That’s real real.”
Love at fifteenth sight, I guess you’d call it.