So, Peggy and I are sitting at the Newport Beach Country Club last Friday evening, having dinner & drinks with one of my highfalutin clients and his Trophy Wife (she was prolly pretty hot back in the day); we’re all in our 50’s age-wise, for the record. She ain’t too bad-lookin’, but she’s a few Botox treatments and a facelift “behind” — that’s how they roll out here, doncha know; gotta keep up with the mythical “Joneses”.
Background: Mssr. Highfalutin made about a bubillion dollars back in the 90’s, sold his company to an overseas interest, wrote into the contract that he would stay on board for 5 years as the HMFWIC (that’s Head Mutha Fucka What In Charge for the uninitiated), proceeded to do absolutely NO-THING but go into the office at around lunchtime, then go to a 2.5 hour lunch, then come back to the office and scratch his balls (’cause that’s what men DO!) for a couple hours, then go home at 4PM — and that was on a BUSY day!
It was a good play — the overseas consortium that bought him absolutely could NOT tolerate this behavior — “Uh, Mssr. Highfalutin — don’t you think you’ve been missing a lot of work here lately?” “Oh, I wouldn’t say I was MISSING it — but thanks for asking!” So they “bought out his contract” for about ANOTHER bubillion dollars, which he happily accepted; ever since then, he’s been living the life of leisure — the yacht, the cars, the country club membership, the collecting all manner of vintage “cool stuff”, etc.
Thing is — you can’t swing a dead cat out here in SoCal without knocking down TWO DOZEN guys like this! Anyway, we’re finishing up dinner, we get our after-dinner espressos — when some Barbie-doll PYT sees our hero sitting at the table, shrieks out his name, comes running over to the table with open arms, and slaps a slobbery wet one in the general vicinity of his pie-maw; then she turns to Trophy Wife, giggles, waves, and prances off…
Now — three out of the four of us at the table are slack-jawed; I don’t know about YOU, fair reader(s), but that don’t happen to ME too much! We’re all lookin’ at Mssr. H, especially TW — she’s about to bus’ a seam outta her last facelift with her look of accusatory inquisitiveness.
“Well — what was THAT all about?!” she queries. “Oh her — that’s just my mistress”, Highfalutin says with a shrug & a casual wave-off. “Your MISTRESS?! Well — you can COUNT ON hearing from my lawyer first thing Monday morning” Trophy Wife snorts.
“O.K. — if that’s the way you wanna play it…” Highfalutin says with (another) shrug & wave off. “Of course, things being what they will, that means no more country club membership, no more new Mercedes ever’ year, no more summers in the French Riviera ever’ other year, no more tennis lessons, and like that…”
Table gets silent; Peggy & I look down at our respective footwear — UNCOMFORTABLE!
Just about then, the elevator door to the club mezzanine opens up — out strides a barrel-chested, tanned, late-50’s Stud Bolt, complete with late 20-something Barbie Doll hanging on his arm — our table collectively swings our glance over in unison.
Trophy Wife to Highfalutin: “Hey — isn’t that our friend Jack?” she asks. “Yep — that’d be him” Highfalutin answers, as he offers up a wave to Jack. “Well, who’s that on HIS arm — that’s not his WIFE!” TW exclaims. Highfalutin squints, then answers: “Nope — that’s Jack’s mistress”. TW looks back over at the duo, focusing in on Barbie. “OURS is prettier!” she says.
There it is; once again, it’s all about your priorities, ain’t it?