Jealousy
One summer during my high school years, I had a job working as a janitor at a bar in Ogden, Utah. Since the legal drinking age there is 21—and I was 17—I worked only after closing time, when the law presumably did not forbid the presence of a minor in an alcohol-centric establishment. An older married couple owned the bar. I got the job because the wife worked for my dog's veterinarian, and everyone who met my dog loved her. The fact that my dog loved me proved to be enough of an endorsement to land me a weekend job cleaning up spilled beer, scattered cigarettes, a greasy stove, and the periodic upchuck. The wife always treated me well, and the husband showed me more respect than I ever expected in my capacity as puke-mopper.
The husband ran the bar, so I rarely saw the wife except when taking my dog in for a checkup. Sometimes I would show up for work and find the bar completely empty. Sometimes the husband would be there alone. Sometimes he allowed stragglers to stay a little past closing. One night, the husband was there with a female straggler. I spoke briefly to him and started my work, while he and the female sat across from each other in a booth and talked for over an hour. I never heard anything they said, but I didn't really care to. While I was cleaning the men's restroom, I thought I heard the husband call my name. It was faint enough that I didn't react, figuring that if he really wanted me he would call again. Then I heard him distinctly, so I walked to the front of the bar to see what he wanted.
When I arrived there, he said to someone in the kitchen, "See? Curt's here. There's nothing going on." I could hear the female straggler in the kitchen pleading with someone, "This is silly. Nothing's going on. I'm not that way at all. You know, I think we're going to be good friends, and some day we'll look back on this and just laugh our heads off." At that point, the wife emerged from the kitchen and said, "Somehow I don't see that happening."
The husband continued to offer my presence as proof that nothing was going on. She seemed neither to hear him nor to see me standing there bewildered and ill at ease. The female resumed her protestations, "We were just talking. Why would you think anything else?" The wife responded, "I show up at a dark, empty bar to find my husband leaning over beers with a young woman. What am I supposed to think?" For my part, I thought, "He's a balding, middle-aged man with a beer gut, and she's an attractive blonde woman in her early twenties. If you're going to be jealous, at least be jealous of someone he has a shot with." But I was a shy, insecure, discreet 17-year-old, so I said nothing and (gratefully, I might add) returned to my work.
That display of jealousy frightened me and left an indelible impression on my young mind. I don't know whether the wife had reason to be suspicious. I don't know how well the husband knew the female. I don't know how well the husband knew any other females, or what level of devotion he felt for the wife. I do know he did not have her trust, for whatever reason, and I know that I was not the only frightened person in the bar that night.
I thought of this several weeks ago when I came home from a morning worship service at church. Mrs. Happy and I usually attend the Sunday evening service, but that particular day I had to attend both morning and evening in order to fulfill some responsibilities. My church is an affectionate church. I get more hugs and handshakes on Sunday than I get the rest of the week combined (not counting the hugs from my wife, of course). Several (mostly international) people greet others with a kiss on the cheek. So on this particular Sunday several weeks ago, I walk in the front door of my house to find my wife waiting to greet me. She starts roughly wiping my face with the thumb of her right hand and says something I'll never forget:
"You have lipstick on your face. What do you want for lunch?"
I love her so much.
