Good-bye Sammy (standard:drama, 1623 words)
Author: Walt	Added: Apr 14 2013	Views/Reads: 5958/2334	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
The final resolution of an unhappy relationship

Good-bye Sammy 

I hit the snooze button with the red display flashing 6:30. It was time
to get up but last night had been busier than I planned. It took a long 
time to say good-bye to Sam. I needed ten more minutes of peaceful 
sleep. Last night had been the best sleep I had had in the past fifteen 
years. 

I closed my eyes; however the replay of our ill-fated marriage was
playing. In Technicolor, and Panavision, with Dolby surround sound. I 
watch too many of those old movies on Turner Classic – you know those 
ancient reruns with host Robert who never looked as good after his face 
lift. Sam could use a facelift, but it was too late for him. The son of 
a bitch. 

It was the third marriage for both of us and you would think we would
both know better – have fewer expectations. Sammy was into all that 
oriental crap about how to live in harmony with yourself and the world. 
 He hung pictures in some kind of an imagined form that spoke of 
peaceful relations and balance between yin and yang. Not satisfied with 
Chinese Tai Chi, he practiced some form of Japanese mystical chanting, 
stretching and chopping things with the side of his hands, all the 
while tracking his sweating bare feet around the house like some Sumo 
wrestler. He would wear that shabby red robe, tied with a golden cord 
sash, his private parts swinging in the breeze like some prize bull, 
bellowing Japanese words. The silly bastard was only five foot four and 
other than the drooping mustache and weighing 210 pounds, looked 
nothing like a Sumo giant. I was forever sweeping up the salt that he 
tossed during his grunting, wrestling-warm up stomps. The salty brine 
of human sweat and 100% Pure Sea Salt was difficult to mop off the 
hardwood floors. What an idiot. 

As I lie there with my knees up I could still hear his annoying voice:
“Chanti – where's my effing crossword book? Goddamnit woman, why are 
you always hiding things on me?” That was another thing I grew to 
dislike about husband number three: his language. He swore at 
everything in the house, including me and the cat. Outside the home, in 
company, he spoke like a gentleman, using his fancy university words. 
He knew and used all the buzz words that the university crowd thought 
they owned even though most of them came straight from the street. 

It was one of those words that had finally won me over fifteen years
ago. When I was hesitating about marrying again he promised me it would 
be like tsundere – the Japanese word for personal relationships that 
grew together in harmony. It sounded wonderful at the time and I fell 
for it, promising life-long fidelity, good times and bad, sickness and 
health, wealth and poverty. I kept my word for fifteen years, which was 
more than he did. The faithless scoundrel. 

The alarm clock was shouting at me again so I crawled out into the chill
of a January 3rd morning, the ice-cold tile floor hurrying me to the 
washroom. The holiday season was over and Sammy was supposed to go into 
work for the noon-hour shift. Sammy would be absent today. I pushed the 
brew button on Mr Coffee and headed for the shower. The tingling, 
almost stinging jets of water felt good as I soaped, shampooed and 
scrubbed away the grime of yesterday and even yesteryear. Mother 
Macbeth should feel so clean. I went over the list of things I needed 
to do before embarking on my trip. Carlos, our tiger-striped cat – my 
cat - was vacationing at the Pampered Pet Resort, his board paid for 
three weeks. Carlos did not mind staying at the PPR since once every 
two weeks we took him to cat daycare at PPR as a treat where he could 
play with other cats. It seemed a little extravagant, but when I 
explained to Sammy that some of his university friends did this, he 
acquiesced.  Carlos would be okay until Janice picked him up in three 
weeks if I did not return on time. 

I called my mother at the Retirement Home. “Hi Mom, it's Chanti,” I
said. Some days Mom did not know or remember who I was. I mean, how 
many daughters are named Chanti? I thought she had misspelled my name 
at birth, thinking of her favourite Italian red wine – that one with 
entirely indifferent taste and total lack of consistency which she 
thought was superb. Anything Italian was wonderful to Mom.  “How are 
you, dear?” she replied. “Are you coming over today?” 

“Not today, Mom. Remember, I'm going on vacation for three weeks. Sammy


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