The Midlife Crisis of Reagan Wilcox

or, "Dreaming Blowjobs in the Park"

Chapter 1: One More Homecoming

1

Reagan Wilcox was normally tired as he boarded the plane to Atlanta at the end of each week. He'd made this same commute many times—always exhausted from having been 'on' all week—but tonight he felt an unusual calm. A quiet, alert peacefulness. So rare. So rare that he noticed it.

His wife, Leah, would be waiting at home for him, as usual. She had been some time getting used to his absence, itself a marked change from the routine of the past few years, but gradually had adapted to his being gone. Thankfully, she had not also grown disinterested in his return each week. Every homecoming felt to him as if she had surely lain awake all night, simmering with breathless anticipation; anxiously awaiting the firm-sure embrace of her man.

At least, he liked to think that way.

2

Reagan pushed back into his seat and positioned the diminutive synthetic fiber pillow in the small of his back. All the other regulars (he swore he could even recognize a couple) were likewise settled in, each snapping their USA Today's open with enthusiastic purpose. Everyone read the damned thing, though Reagan thought it was about as fluffy as his favorite sweat socks. Not worth a second glance. He was preparing to crack his latest book, a paperback about two inches thick—the latest by an astonishingly popular author—and settle into something more substantial than graphs of basketball players 'dunking' basketballs, each a little taller than the last, indicating the rise of professional teams' salaries over the last five years. As if anyone cared about such things, other than just about every other traveler on this 727 out of Cleveland. They were airborne soon enough, however, and Reagan was once again spouting muttered sarcasm as the flight attendent gave her rote, tired spiel:

"… Your seat cushion may be used for flotation. Simply place your arms though the straps on the underside and grasp firmly …" And smell the stink of your own ass, he added to himself.

3

But Leah would be there when he got home.

During the week Reagan rarely thought of her. He told himself it was because he was too busy, but it was nothing more than simple rationalization. Rationalization and the fact that Reagan had something else to keep himself occupied. On the plane, though, he first acknowledged his slightly guilty conscience for not having called her, then dismissed it with a shrug. She didn't seem to mind he didn't call; didn’t seem to mind he had to be gone all the time; seemed as excited as ever when he finally walked through the door.

4

The last two years had marked a gradual change in Leah Wilcox. She wanted to think it was due to age, since she was no longer a 'kid,' and therefore no longer expected to remain so trim and young-looking, but deep down inside she knew it for what it was. That she was patently incapable of admitting it to herself, she didn’t find a problem. But, time was taking its toll, and 125 pounds had become 130 had become 135 to become 145; Leah no longer found weighing herself to be such a joy. I can live with it, she would tell herself. Reagan doesn't seem to mind, so why should I?

Wrinkles, too, and those shockingly gray hairs amid her raven tresses becoming more and more common. Next month I'll get my hair colored, she always promised herself; but she never did. After all, Reagan didn't seem to mind.

5

Leah looked forward to Reagan's coming home on Friday nights. She always did her best to make sure he felt welcome, and besides, she really did look forward to having him home, again. He was her husband, her man, her provider, and he (she still reminded herself) had been practically the only boy to ask her out that year in college. Her sophomore year. She had been so shy, she told herself, and Reagan had been so nice. He hadn't given up on her despite her continued refusals.

She'd eventually said 'yes,' and six months later they were engaged, and then six months after that they were married. Quitting college had really been no hardship for the short, dark-haired, and almost (italics hers) pretty Leah Frankowski. Never mind her parents had sacrificed their life savings to send her there. Never mind she was the first in their family to even get to college, let alone have the chance that she'd had.

Leah never felt like she had short-changed herself on the way to becoming Mrs. Reagan McDowell Wilcox. The Wilcox name meant money, even though Reagan really didn’t have it (yet, she would always add). His mother, a McDowell, and thrifty Scot of the first water, had (literally) saved every penny old Roy Meriweather Wilcox had ever made, and since Reagan—dear, sweet, persistent Reagan—was their only child, Leah knew she had only to keep things status quo, and it would eventually be hers/theirs.

Reagan, then, wouldn’t have to work so hard, and then they could have all their time to spend together.