I hung out with Duke for another hour, long enough to confirm that he really was in a bad way, absolutely torn by the depth of his feelings for the Swede and the Fijian. Part of me pitied him, part envied him – this audacious sixty-two year old outlaw who broke most of the drug laws on the books of California and the United States, not to mention various other sovereign nations; this globetrotter who carefully fashioned his life so that he was beholden to no one and answered to as few people as possible.
It took balls to do that, balls and drive and cunning and a kind of refined selfishness few people posses. As far as I knew, Duke had never married or fathered any children. Now that I think about it, whenever the subject of wives and children came up – and it arose rarely -- Duke was quick to change the subject to drugs or poker, politics, history or college basketball.
“I’m fucked,” he moaned, “totally fucked. Of all the things that can bring a man down, I never thought it would be Love. The DEA or the IRS, maybe; a dope dealer unable to appreciate my sense of humor, but not a couple of beautiful young women. Shit, how did this happen? I have no idea. I met the Fijian, bang, stone in love; then I met the Swede in Moscow, bang, Cupid strikes again, the cruel bastard.”
In all the years I’d known him, Duke had never been at a loss for what to do next. Even if his next move was impulsive, crazy, illegal or potentially dangerous to his health or person, Duke would do something. For Duke, skirting the edge and drifting across the yellow line at high speed with his eyes shut was what made life worth living. Or at least it did before he met the Fijian and the Swede and swapped his American-made car for a Toyota Prius.
Duke’s misery got me thinking about men and women, marriage, companionship, family – the whole big ball of wax that had been a central feature of my life for the better part of sixteen years. I couldn’t picture Duke calmly accepting the confines of marriage any more than I could picture a woman putting up with his unusual habits. Then again, some New Age types claim that a soul mate exists for each of us, so maybe it wasn’t out of the question.
Unlikely, yes; impossible, no.
“Must I choose between them?” Duke asked, and before I could reply answered his own question. “Of course I must. What the fuck other choice do I have? Even I can’t manage to be in love with two women at the same time. It’s fucking impossible. The Swede or the Fijian, the Fijian or the Swede. I’ve been racking my brain for a scheme that would allow me to have them both. I want them both. Conventional morality and the laws of physics say that I cannot have what I want. I have no use for convention of any kind, but physics can’t be ignored. Do you see how tormented I am? I’m not a decent, stand-up guy who can easily consign his heart to one woman for the rest of his natural days.”
“Have you ever tried it?” I asked.
Duke looked at me as if that was the dumbest question he’d ever heard.
“It’s my learned opinion from years of careful observation that most married people are bored to tears with their mates. Am I right?”
“Well,” I said. “Marriage is a complex equation. The variables are practically infinite.”
“On the other hand,” Duke said, popping a large white pill into his mouth, “married people that appear truly content make me suspicious. You can’t live in close proximity to another person without sooner or later grating on their nerves. Passion can’t survive forever, either. When it goes, what’s left? I’ll tell you – routine, soul-killing routine.”
“You have to figure out a way to keep the relationship fresh,” I said.
“Thank you, Dr. Phil,” Duke said. “That’s really insightful.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I’m being sarcastic.”
“I know.”
“This is killing me. Even my sleep is troubled. When I dream about the Swede, the Fijian enters the picture with a straight razor and slices my nuts off. When it’s the other way around, the Swede blows my head off with a shotgun. Cruel portents, don’t you think?”
“You’ve got it bad, man. No mortal man can survive having two women under his skin at the same time. You have to choose.”
Duke popped another pill in his mouth, left the room, and returned with a half dollar coin. “You flip it, I’ll call it in the air. Heads the Swede, tails the Fijian.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No. I have to save what remains of my sanity. Flipping a coin is how I make all my important decisions. The Universe laughs at our best-laid plans anyway, so why not leave it to chance? The odds aren’t that bad.”
“Yes, but…”
“Flip it. Whatever it is, I accept my fate.”
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