By Harold “The Saint” St. Claire
I came back at four AM last night. Four AM. Four in the morning. I'll tell you why: I got tied up with Dr. Zhivagoford over in Zurich and it took me a little longer than I expected to infiltrate the Lord’s Resistance Army over in Nairobi and the next thing you knew I had missed Bobby’s fifth birthday and had to get airlifted back to Connecticut. And you know what? I just walked through the front door, saw the half eaten birthday cake on the table (the candles burned out, still stuck in the top), noticed the parlor was filled with b-day balloons, walked upstairs and slipped into bed with my murmuring wife. AND I had sex with her! Can you believe that? I think I was gone something like, gosh I don’t know, two weeks. I don’t call my family once, the whole time. And then my wife has the nerve to unquestioningly have sex with me after I negligibly forgot to even call Bobby on his birthday. Jesus. Tell me something: what do you think I think my family is thinking? Because I haven’t got a clue. Four in the morning, I walk in without a care in the world and get rewarded with sleepy, marital coitus. Sonuvagun, doesn’t my family even care? Do they actually give a shit? Do they even wonder where I was for two weeks, or if I was ever hanging suspended beneath an Apache chopper firing light-action, shoulder propelling rocket launchers at a Colombian cartel or disarming unsuspecting Slavic guards with my government-endorsed Judu training? When will they wake up and realize I’m a fucking spy? When???
Mr. H, as we like to call him, tells me not to worry about it. My family is just happy. They trust me. Maybe he's right, but I don't want them to be too happy or anything, you know what I mean? Doesn't Bobby ever want his old man to throw the baseball around with him. And doesn't Kelly ever want her pops to ignore the clear-cut signs of her pre-teen depression and to be consistently unsupporting of her plans for a belly piercing? These kids need their dad around. Or at least they need to want their dad around.
And what about my wife? Why doesn't she think I'm having an affair or something? Or maybe she's the one having an affair. Now that would explain a lot. It would explain her mood swings, for one, and that crappy meatloaf she made last week, and all her crying. Sheesh! Wouldn't that be just a kick in the pants? Here I am traveling all over the planet, giving shadowy explanations, staying out till all hours of the night, tangoing with international Femme Fatales at art openings in Madrid and Marissa's having an affair. I'm going to have to start asking some questions, maybe have a couple of the boys over at Tech bug her phone.
Well, I'll tell you one thing. One day they'll really appreciate I'm a government spy. Like when Dr. Zhivagoford kidnaps them, on a spring afternoon, maybe when they are shopping at Westfield, and I'm the one whose got to ignore my superiors, hijack a b-52 bomber, fly over to Europe and blow up Zhivagoford's entire invisible compound. Yeah. THEN they'll fucking appreciate me. All I do for them. When I'm taking out judu guards by the two's and three's, fucking blowing shit up and supplying witty quips about how easy it all is, making everyone laugh and being suave as hell. Then they'll appreciate their old man.
And I'm sick of pretending to work at a paper supply company!!!
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