Nudge

The urge to drink was overwhelming. The urge to call Lynelle, buy a C of weed was overwhelming as Anthony watched the fire ravage a local business. He watched the Latin woman and the blonde woman comfort each other as Summer Broussard interviewed one of the volunteer firemen, interviewed onlookers.

"You do realize I charge you for every phone call, right?" Carter said lightly when Anthony called him the following morning.

"Really? You don't do this out of the goodness of your heart?" Anthony quipped.

"What heart?" Carter replied.

"Get Cheyenne a good attorney, all right?" Anthony said.

"Hmm?" Carter asked.

"For the assault charges, the drug charges. See if you can get her a good attorney. We were married for fourteen years," Anthony tried to explain. "Watched some fire last night. Woman was there, trying to hold her wife. Should have, look, we were married for fourteen years, all right?"

"All-righty," Carter agreed. "Frat brother of mine works at Jones, Pellichet and Jones. I'll give him a call."

"Whitehead, huh?" Ann Defranco, one of Anthony's coworkers complained as Anthony simply walked out of his office after his phone call to his attorney.

"Fire me," Anthony smirked. "Aw, shit, can't. I'm a government employee. Bye."

It depressed Anthony when he realized he'd over-estimated how many boxes he'd actually need. The things he wanted, other than his clothes was miniscule.

His leaving, it would seem, would have no effect on the home. He tried to wiggle his wedding band from his finger. The weight he had gained since slipping the band on his finger made that an impossibility.

"And I'm one paid for it anyway," Anthony said out loud.

Leaving the wedding ring where Cheyenne would be able to find it would have been an empty symbolic gesture. And, unless he put it in her wine glass, or in a bag of weed, or the bowl of her bong, it might take Cheyenne months to ever find it.

Leaving the house, Anthony drove to his bank. With Mitch DuFour's assistance, Anthony paid off the mortgage of their home. His first paycheck from Whitehead Generators, Inc. had already been deposited into his account; the mortgage payment made a sizeable chunk in that paycheck.

Carter's frat brother had managed to get Cheyenne out on bail. Nathan Garcia, the bail bondsman had fronted Cheyenne the twelve percent, based on who her husband was. Nathan had been willing to forego his 'cash up front' policy because Anthony worked for the St. Ann Parish.

"Too bad so sad, Mr. Garcia," Anthony sighed into the telephone. "I did not speak with you. I did not agree to be responsible for my estranged wife's bail."

Estranged? She, her lawyer, ain't nobody said y'all was estranged," Nathan growled into the telephone.

And, instead of thanking him for arranging for her to have an attorney, not a court-appointed public defender, Cheyenne called Anthony with a litany of complaints and demands. He simply held the phone a few inches from his head, letting her squawk.

"When are you getting off anyway?" Cheyenne asked. "Oh. And my momma wants you drop charges against Uncle Bootsy."

"Momma can want in one hand, shit in the other," Anthony said. "And, Cheyenne, when I'm getting off? None of your business."

"What you mean, it's none of my..." Cheyenne said.

"We're getting a divorce? Remember?" Antony said.

"You, you're serious about that?" Cheyenne asked, incredulous.

Anthony simply hung up. His phone rang a moment later. He let it go to voice mail. A moment later, his office phone rang. He let that too go to voice mail.

"Whitehead, going get that?" Ann demanded when his office phone rang again.

Anthony smiled, hit the button to answer, then rapidly hit the 'send' button and entered Ann Defranco's extension number.

"Defranco," she answered her own phone a moment later.

"Hey, Whitehead!" Ann screamed. "Your wife, huh? Pick up!"

Anthony picked up his telephone, then hung up. He did it twice more. The fifth time his phone rang, Anthony simply walked out of his office.

"Oh no, you ain't, my kid's got a soccer game," Ann complained.

"So go," Anthony said. "How am I keeping you from watching your ugly kid just running around uselessly doing nothing?"

"Whitehead!" Belle Knowles called out after Ann slammed out of their supervisor's office.

Anthony smirked at Ann's triumphant gloat. Her gloat morphed into a hateful glare as Anthony rapped on the door and opened it.

"Yes ma'am?" Anthony asked politely, entering Belle's office.

"Seven days, huh? Give me seven days without Defranco chewing on my ass?" Belle asked, returning Anthony's smirk.

"I'll get her a chew toy," Anthony suggested.

"Seven more days. Until your last day, your last minute here? You are her chew toy, all right?" Belle said.

"Yes ma'am," Anthony said.

"Going miss you, Whitehead," Belle said.

"Believe it or not? Quitting wasn't my idea," Anthony confessed.

Anthony renewed his room at the Pinoak Motel. The flat chested pimple faced girl nodded politely and let Anthony know he could also rent current movies on his television for only two ninety nine a movie.

"Or, I can watch them for free on my phone," Anthony said.

Cheyenne called Anthony just as he was debating on where to go to eat dinner. Struggling to reach his trousers, struggling to reach his phone made Anthony question the wisdom of going out to eat.

"I'm Sowwy," Cheyenne lisped, adopting a little girl voice. "It's so wonewy in this big old house without you here."

"Then move. Sell it. Burn it to the ground. I don't give a shit. I'm giving it to you, Cheyenne," Anthony sighed. "Paid it all off this afternoon. It's all yours."

And just like that, the little girl was gone. In its place was a stark raving lunatic. Anthony put the phone on the bed, wobbled to the bathroom, urinated, flushed, washed his hands, and returned to the bedroom.

He picked the phone up off of the bed just in time to hear "Are you listening to me?"

"No, Cheyenne," Anthony smirked. "What'd you say?"

Hop Kim's Chinese restaurant got Anthony's business that night. In an effort to begin his new life, Anthony skipped the order of egg rolls, and told the waitress he did not want rice with his meal.

And by breakfast, he was ravenous. But he forced himself to get a somewhat healthy breakfast at Dusty's Country Kitchen. A child at a table nearby was 'too big' for a booster seat and so knelt on the bench seat. Her grandfather smiled as the child gamely tried to finish her blueberry waffle. Anthony watched the small child's antics, listened to her patter with her grandfather.

"Wife called here three times already," Ann snarled when Anthony came in to the office.

"What? Why didn't she just..." Anthony asked, patting his pockets.

Then he smiled. He'd left the phone on the bed last night when he went to Hop Kim's for dinner. Evidently, he'd just left it in the bed when he showered then dressed that morning.

"Get it, get it, get it," Ann demanded when his phone rang.

"Whitehead," Anthony answered in a cheerful voice.

"About God damned fucking time," Cheyenne screamed. "How I'm supposed pay Garcia, huh? Mother fucker's calling here nonstop."

"Nonstop? Mean, like what you doing to me?" Anthony suggested.

His suggestion that she get a job enraged Cheyenne even more. When she paused, either to take a breath, or to think of more curse words, Anthony told her he was hanging up. He also stated, if need be, he would have his lawyer seek a protective order, barring her from contacting him.

Ann's smirk irritated Anthony. Quietly, Anthony did remind the horse faced woman, that when her husband left her, he had been supportive of her.

"Remember? I picked up the slack around here while you went to court all them times, trying get child support from that deadbeat ass wipe?" Anthony said, face tight.

"You're right," Ann said after a long moment. "You did. You did."

"Place opened up by that mall. Acapulco Grande," Anthony said. "Want go there for lunch?"

"Can't. Brianna's needing braces," Ann said.

"My treat, Ann," Anthony said.

Over lunch, Anthony listened as his coworker filled him in on what his life was about to become. A lonely existence, even with her three children crammed into their two bedroom apartment. An existence of having to decide between Brianna's braces or a new coat to replace the one that was falling apart. Having to tell children that their wish of going to the trampoline park, or the go-cart ranch on their birthday was just not possible.

"I love them, I mean, shit, they my life, know? But God damn, sometimes," Ann sighed heavily as the waitress assured them that their lunch would be right out.

"So, what do you do for fun?" Anthony asked.

"Stick pins in my voodoo doll of their father," Ann said.

"Wanted kids," Anthony said. My niece Gracie? God, what a beautiful little girl. Breaks my heart every time I think about... Anyway, would have loved have my own little Gracie, my own Brianna or Shannon. My own little Ricky, even if the kid does like soccer."

"Want them, they're yours," Ann joked.

"Enchilada, no rice?" the waitress interrupted.

"Right here," Anthony said. "But, just never seemed like the right time. Cheyenne needed this, wanted that. Now? Looking back? Realize, if we'd had a kid? Kid would be having to compete with Mommy for anything they wanted."

"Thank you for lunch," Ann said as they left the restaurant.

"Thanks for listening," Anthony said, opening his car door for her.

"Shit, did more talking than you," Ann reminded him.

"Oh? Did you? Wasn't listening," Anthony joked.

Over the next week, Cheyenne alternated between begging Anthony to pay Nathan Garcia and begging him to return to their home. His offer to pay Nathan in exchange for her agreeing to the petition of divorce was met with screams.

"Know why divorce is so expensive?" Anthony asked Ann as he hung up after yet another one of Cheyenne's calls.

"Hmm?" she asked, not looking up from the specifications of a proposed butterfly park.

"Because they're worth it," Anthony sighed.

"Having meatless chili for supper tonight. No, not because we're vegan. Because it's three days until payday," Ann said.

"Sounds yummy," Anthony said.

"Kiss my ass, Whitehead," Ann snapped. "Sounds like shit because it is shit. And their father and his little whore? They're on one of them Dude Ranch expeditions. Because shithead has always wanted to be a cowboy. Well, guess what, Mr. DeFranco? Think your kids would have liked that too?"

And then his last day was coming to an end. A few people stuck their heads in the office door, wished him well. A few pretended to measure his office, pretended they were moving in before his car left his assigned parking space.

"Hey, DeFranco," Anthony said. "I uh, did some checking and one of them Dude Ranch things for a single mom and her two girls and one boy? Whole week's only couple hundred bucks, so here..."

"What? What did you do?" Ann shrilled when Anthony handed her the envelope with the four tickets.

Place is in Oakleaf, Texas. "Need to use them before the end of the year," Anthony said. "Bye."

His first morning at Whitehead Generators, Anthony walked around, met the employees, observed the mechanics of their operations. His head ached, his ears actually rang before an hour had passed.

Leaving work, head pounding, ears ringing, Anthony spotted a squat cinderblock building. A banner announced that Arthur Porter's gym was now open.

His ringing ears was no impediment to hearing Arthur Porter; the man was nearly deaf. He didn't talk. He bellowed. With a clack of his dentures, Arthur sized Anthony up, shook his head in disgust, and signed the man up for a year's service.

Carter let Anthony know that Cheyenne was demanding counseling. Anthony actually laughed but agreed to go.

"Who knows? Couple years ago didn't make my dick wilt just thinking about her," Anthony said. "Yeah, let's go to counseling."

"Okay," Carter said.

"IF she pays for it," Anthony said.

"Okay," Carter now smiled.

"What the fuck I'm supposed pay it with? My good looks?" Cheyenne screamed into the telephone.

"Cheyenne, you know any other way to talk? Jesus, my head already hurts from all the noise at work," Anthony sighed. "And I don't care what you pay for the counseling with. But you're the one that wants it? You should be the one to pay for it."

"You, you don't, you don't want to work on our marriage?" Cheyenne whined.

"Honestly? No," Anthony admitted.

Somehow, Cheyenne found some way to pay for the first counseling session with Dr. Sylvia Hooperstein. In the waiting room, Anthony nodded politely to Cheyenne and continued to fill out the form. Under 'Employer' he put 'None.' Under 'Insurance' he again put 'None.' Under 'Additional Source of Income' he put 'Giving blow jobs in bus station bathrooms.'

Marnie Vogel, Dr. Hooperstein's receptionist smiled when Anthony handed her the clipboard. The attractive middle-aged woman immediately began to type Anthony's information into her computer.

"That's disgusting!" the woman snapped, blue eyes blazing angrily a moment later.

Anthony smirked at the woman. She was still angry when Cheyenne gave her the information she'd scribbled down on her own forms.

"Dr. Hooperstein will see you now," Marnie said, pointing toward a door.

"Ladies first," Anthony said, the first words he'd said to Cheyenne since they'd entered the small waiting room.

Ten minutes into the session, Anthony had no confidence that Dr. Sylvia Hooperstein could help him and Cheyenne rebuild their relationship. In ten minutes, Anthony had tired of the woman's one-sided opinion, her fortune cookie style advice.

"Anthony?" Sylvia asked after Cheyenne had taken nearly thirty five minutes of the fifty minute session.

"Yes?" Anthony asked politely.

"How do you feel about what your wife said?" Sylvia asked.

"Oh. I uh, well, know what? It was nice," Anthony said.

"It was... What was nice about it?" Sylvia asked, baffled at the odd response.

"Well, it was nice to hear that she does know how to talk, instead of all the screaming she usually does," Anthony said.

After the third session, Sylvia recommended a few individual sessions in addition to the couples counseling.

"Oh good God no!" Anthony retorted.

"Well, Anthony, it's obvious that you have some anger toward women and..." Dr. Hooperstein sneered.

"I love my mother. She's as gracious, as elegant a woman as you'd ever hope to meet," Anthony said.

"She's got a big giant stick up her ass," Cheyenne sneered.

"And my sister, Lisa? We're the best of friends," Anthony continued, ignoring Cheyenne.

"Another bitch with a stick up her ass. I mean, it's a gold plated stick, but..." Cheyenne said to Dr. Hooperstein.

"And then there's my niece Gracie," Anthony said.

"His perfect little angel," Cheyenne sneered. "Girl's a fucking vegetable but..."

"She was molested. All right? She was molested and she's having a real hard time coping with that, all right?" Anthony spat at Cheyenne.

"Oh boo hoo," Cheyenne sneered. "Oh get over it, huh? Jesus! I was molested too. Don't see me whining about it all the God damned time."

Anthony got to his feet and left the doctor's office. He ignored Marnie as he left the building; again, since Cheyenne was the one asking for these sessions, she could pay for these sessions.

"Hear you called Dr. Hooperstein a quack?" Carter chuckled into the phone.

"So much for doctor-patient confidentiality," Anthony chuckled.

Neither Carter nor Anthony knew how Cheyenne, or Cheyenne's attorney had wrangled it, but they found themselves in Judge Ken Theriot's chambers. Cheyenne sat, satisfied little smile on her face as her attorney made his request that Anthony Whitehead be forced to return to counseling, and that he be made to pay for such sessions.

"Anyone, and I do mean anyone but that quack, Sylvia Hooperstein," Anthony countered.

"And since my client has already done three sessions, no more than five additional sessions," Carter requested.

"Is Dr. Kevorkian available?" Anthony asked out loud.

"Died couple years back, I'm afraid," Judge Theriot smirked. "Eight sessions with a licensed counselor that both parties can reasonably agree upon. And Mr. Whitehead? Since you are gainfully employed, you are hereby ordered to pay for no less than sixty five percent of these costs."

Dr. Jackie Trahan was an attractive woman in her early thirties. She had a firm handshake and looked Anthony in the eyes, looked Cheyenne in the eyes when addressing them. She listened, making notes on a small pad, interrupting to clarify certain statements. She gave Cheyenne twenty five minutes. Then she gave Anthony twenty five minutes. She also reprimanded Cheyenne for interrupting Anthony.

"Okay. For next week? Anthony, we're going to talk about your goals. What do you hope to get out of this? Cheyenne, same thing. What do you hope to get out of this?" Jackie said.

"What? Are you an idiot?" Cheyenne said, eyes wide. "I, we want our marriage back."

Jackie fought down her smirk. Behind Cheyenne's back, Anthony was shaking his head 'no.'

"Okay, that's your primary goal. Think about your secondary goal, your tertiary goal," Jackie said.

"I like her," Anthony commented as he and Cheyenne left the woman's office.

"Oh, you would," Cheyenne said. "Bitch was sitting there, flashing her pussy at you whole time. Of course you like her."

"She what?" Anthony asked, pausing by his automobile.

"Sitting there, legs spread wide, 'woo-hoo, look, look at my hoo-hoo' while I'm trying talk," Cheyenne accused.

"Well, I will look next time," Anthony promised.

There was no next time. A random surprise visit by an officer of the court to Cheyenne's residence revealed a bag of marijuana and drug paraphernalia in plain view on the coffee table. Then, Cheyenne failed the drug screening.

John 'Bootsy' Bordelon was unhappy at his trial; he'd already been replaced in Allison's bed. He made the case against himself worse by threatening Anthony Whitehead, in front of the judge, the prosecutor, and the bailiff.

"Keep talking, loser," Anthony smirked.

This, of course, prompted more threats, more promises of retribution. What would have been a simple fine and time served turned into forty months to be served in a medium security penitentiary. John did not make it to the facility, though. He died of a massive heart attack two days after the trial.

Anthony continued to struggle at Whitehead Generators as well. Many of the employees resented him. He was a stranger that suddenly appeared, and was suddenly their supervisor. Production began to slip, slowly at first. But in the last few weeks, production was nearly at a standstill.

Meetings with the supervisors in each department were fruitless. Each supervisor likewise resented Anthony's sudden appearance. Most of them had started at the bottom and had worked their way up in their individual departments. They held the belief that Anthony should have started at the bottom and worked his way through the ranks.

Susan and Lisa were of no help. They were naturally concerned, but neither one had any applicable knowledge of what to do in such a situation.

"Mother, I am about to do something very, very drastic," Anthony finally said after receiving an irate phone call from an overseas company.

"Do it," Susan said.

"Do it," Lisa agreed.

In the morning, there were sixty boxes of Tornadough doughnuts on a table. Each employee was encouraged to help themselves, grab one, grab six, grab a dozen of the delicious treats. Large urns of coffee gurgled, brewing dark, rich coffee. There were also two gallon jugs of milk, whole milk, and skim milk. Anthony poured himself a big cup of whole milk and dunked his vanilla Tornadough into the ice cold liquid.