By Terrence McCoy
By Scott Fishman
By Deirdra Funcheon
By Allie Conti
By New Times Staff
By Ryan Pfeffer
By Deirdra Funcheon
By Kyle Swenson
It's 7:30 pm on a Monday, and the bartenders are clearing away someone's dinner from an open spot at the bar of Mangos (904 E. Las Olas Blvd., Fort Lauderdale). As I try to put my purse down on the empty chair beside me, a husky man with a stack of blond hair says "That seat's taken" in a pleasant tone.
About two minutes later, an equally brawny dark-haired man walks up to the chair and sits down. After he's seated, he says to me, "When I left, a man was sitting here. Now, I come back and there's a woman."
It's a statement of the obvious, sure, but the man wants to talk, and I've got a topic for him. But I sit quietly and stare off into space while they eat dinner. I'm not yet sure how I'm going to steer the conversation to infidelity, but then comes the handshake.
The dark-haired man extends his huge paw and says, "I'm George." As it engulfs my hand and wobbles my shoulder in its socket, I realize just how big and strong these fellas are. They both appear to be in their early 50s. They're big in the belly for sure, but they've got the arms, shoulders, chests, and backs of men who've spent a lot of time doing hard, physical work. They live in Baltimore, and they are in town conducting some business at the port.
George's light-haired companion stretches his hand out to shake mine and says, "I'm Joe."
"You guys have really normal names," I remark.
Joe smiles at my observation. He asks me what I do, and I reply that I'm a nightlife writer, which makes him a little wary. Then he says, "I used to be a poet for a year before I started working."
"Give us one," I plead.
George sits there with his huge arms crossed, knowing that Joe is going to recite one.
Joe's face brightens. "There is one I wrote about a pig in a ditch."
"Tell it," I say again.
He busts out with the poem in an Irish accent. I can't understand what he's saying, but I tell him that it reminds me of this one pervy Irish ditty about a Scottish guy lying in a ditch with his kilt up around his waist.
Suddenly, George starts talking about women. He tells me about his extramarital activities on business trips. "My first wife would scream at me. We were high school sweethearts, and I loved her, but she couldn't deal with my meeting other women when I would go away."
Then he shows me his wedding ring... and adds that he hopes to meet a woman tonight. He evidently has nothing to hide. In fact, he gives me his card and says, "Go ahead and give my wife a call."
What's the harm in a sordid little tale? We're at Mangos, after all. And yes, it's a fun bar and restaurant with good food, but with the soft jazz and tropical air, it also smacks of the setting for an extramarital affair in a Danielle Steel novel.
George continues, "Then, I went on a trip to Davenport and met Patty. After a few trips, we fell in love. We were both married, but we both had the same idea about an open relationship. There was some swinging and stuff," George continues, as he stretches his arm out to rest it on the back of my chair, "but that was a long time ago. And as you get older, you have less of a need to have a lot of sex." But that's not to say that George isn't looking around at Mangos.
Joe has finally warmed up to the flow of the conversation. He offers his own tale, a tale of woe. "Listen to this," Joe says, "I was married for 20 years, faithful for 20 years, and then my wife left me for another woman." Joe finishes, and we all look at one another in silence, a little bewildered by the way these things work out. Whoa, there's always the flip side to consider: Nice guys finish last.
After his revelation, Joe is ready for bed. George isn't finding what he's looking for at Mangos. I suggest that he might try the scene at Christopher's (2857 E. Oakland Park Blvd., Fort Lauderdale); then I head off to O'Hara's to get a female perspective on the topic.
Fidelity and its opposite are the stuff of daytime television. Indeed, bad relationships and their exploitation for entertainment value have robbed the word fidelity of meaning. Sometimes one has to wonder, as the vision in white -- that color usually being the first lie of marriage -- sails down the aisle toward the altar, if the groom isn't already chatting it up with his groomsmen: "Hey, Bill, no more tail for you, nudge-nudge, wink-wink."
Yes, it's the nudge-nudge, wink-wink circle of infidelity, and if, as a woman you try to penetrate this circle, as I did last week, you might find yourself in a difficult spot. Why? Well, the most cunning thing that the kingdom of man ever did -- besides making the Biblical assertion that a woman's cunning is responsible for mankind's eternal damnation -- was refuse to reveal its own duplicitous nature. The male specimen's mendacity can be so deeply repressed that he doesn't know it exists.