Inexplicably happy

George gushed about his elopement with Martha while Josiah stifled an impulse to pop him one. Seated in the conference room while Josiah took notes for George's new will, trust, health care surrogacy, etc. documents, George jumped up and down in his seat like a little boy who'd eaten a pound of jelly beans. Settle down, Josiah wanted to tell George, it's just a marriage. Likely as not, it'll end up in divorce court and three years from now you'll be asking me to keep the BMW 650 convertible, the Hamptons house, the Warhol, the Kandisky out of the bitch's two-timing, tennis-pro-screwing hands. Josiah thought, don't know why he's so excited. It's all downhill from here.

Sure, George's wife had died a year ago, leaving him with twin teenage girls who needed a stepmother. Those kids reminded Josiah of the twin girls from The Shining who kept chanting Redrum! Redrum! because in Josiah's estimation George and the girls' mother had twisted their bratty minds on Range Rovers, boarding schools, smoked lachs, and cellphones. So what if one of them had won the New York State spelling bee and the other had broken the state record for the 200 meter backstroke. Twisted sisters, that's what Josiah called them. Redrum indeed! If that conniving Martha gets her way, they'll be in a New Hampshire boarding school before George gets his next hard-on.

Josiah couldn't imagine why he'd get married a second time. He'd barely understood why his college roommate had done it the first time. Josiah had never been stupid enough to get tied down by a clawing woman. He preferred to play the field and loved to explore the excitement of a new face, new body, new vagina. Josiah's rule was 12 times with a woman, never more. He'd decided women got too attached once you passed into baker's dozen territory. Ever since Sharon had tried to trap him into marriage back in '92. He'd learned the lesson.

Josiah suppressed the urge to tell George that Martha was marrying him for his money. Maybe it'd work out, but Josiah doubted it. He'd seen way too many Manhattan barons with their Long Island estates caper all over the place, baritoning their 45-year old prowess at attracting 25-year old knockout blondes, only to end up 48-year old schmucks who'd just signed over 50 percent to 28-year old plastic surgery victims who'd run off with the pool boy -- or tennis pro or yoga coach. It didn't really matter. The details never really varied.


After Lisa died last year, Josiah thought George would be smart enough to choose a widow with a menopausal moustache for his second wife, but you could never tell when a man's brain got caught in his zipper. Having done more than five hundred divorces, though, Josiah recognized that train on its one-way ticket from Delusion City to Disaster Station.