I ran into my client Hank at a cocktail party during a trade show in New York. Hank is a good client but after making small talk with him for 3 or 4 minutes I start to pray for my cell phone to ring. After 7 or 8 minutes I start to wish for the apocalypse.
He had a martini in his hand and snorted when I told him I was drinking Diet Coke, as I do when I am on the clock. “That stuff will kill you,” he said before he drained his martini in a gulp. “I need another,” he said. “I’ll catch you later.”
Counting my blessings I turned around and across the room I saw another client, Sofie, a crazy cat lady who once ripped me a new one because I said that I was a “cat owner” when, according to her, I was actually a “cat parent.” I muttered a quick “ohshit” and did a quick little about face and there was Hank again, fresh martini in hand. “Hank,” I said heartily, making sure my back was to Sofie. “What’s new?”
Hank is from Oklahoma and his speech is as flat as the prairie. “Well, my wife died almost a year ago,” he said matter-of-factly. I never met his wife, but I remembered Hank told me she was an opera singer; I knew she was a large woman and I always imagined her with Heidi-braids and a trident and a helmet with horns on it. Now, I murmured my sympathy, but Hank shook his head.
“She had it coming,” he said without emotion. “She was way too fat and smoked too much. I’m amazed she lived to be 60.” I nodded mutely; for one of the few times in my life I was speechless, but Hank didn’t notice. “I’ve already remarried,” he said.
“Oh?” I said, which seemed like the safest thing to say under the circumstances.
“I married a beautiful Korean woman,” he said with satisfaction. “I met her on-line and we were married in 60 days.” He showed me her picture on his smart phone. “I traded up,” he said, and I nodded.
“My son posted my profile,” said Hank; “he told me I needed a wife because he wasn’t going to change my diaper when I’m old.” Hank is maybe 65 and in great shape, but I guess it pays to have a plan.
Hank told me his main criterion was that he wanted his new wife to have no children; “I don’t need the drama,” he said. For her part, Hana asked for two years of tax returns, which Hank provided, and she also wanted to verify that he was on no more than 2 prescription medications. “It’s a match made in heaven,” said Hank, and I finally found my tongue: “There’s a lid for every pot,” I said and he nodded.
“I bet you’re thinking it’s all about the sex,” he said. Truthfully, that was the last thing on my mind, and, horrified, I violently shook my head.
“Well it’s not,” said Hank. “I was diagnosed with prostate cancer right around the time I met Hana, and now my prostate is filled with radioactive ‘seeds.’ It feels like I’m sitting on a red-hot walnut.” I muttered some platitude but Hank waved it away. “I’ll be fine. But the marriage hasn’t been consummated,” he said. “Hana says it’s better this way; she doesn’t need all that stuff.”
“Well,” I said lamely, “there’s always that.”
Hank finished his martini. “Good chatting with you,” he said and made a beeline for the bar. Sighing I turned around and ran smack into Sofie. “And how are your ‘kids?’” she said, eyes narrowed with feline malevolence.