THE HUSBAND's REVENGE | PAGE 2 rick is unctuous toward me, inspired by guilt. He fawns all over me, ignoring my wife. My wife is equally unctuous toward Betty. Betty is a schoolteacher in Berkeley; she pumps her little white fist in the air, complaining about school program cuts. I stifle a yawn, but Rick the Dick yawns openly: a huge yawn, like a hippopotamus. Betty glares at him. "Jet Lag" Rick explains, sheepishly. He pops three Dramamines into his mouth and I wonder, Does he read the warning carefully? "Have some wine," I say, smoothly. I pour him a huge goblet of Chardonnay. Rick gulps it down. He's pathetically nervous, and he obviously doesn't know that Dramamine and alcohol together can create a potent truth serum. When the waitress arrives, I tell her, "I'd like a cuckold salad please." My wife kicks me hard, under the table. Rick chugs his glass of Chardonnay and pours himself another one, while Betty continues her riveting lecture on budget cuts. I interrupt her: "Ricky! You're an international businessman. Tell us, in your opinion, where are the best whorehouses in the world? Other than San Francisco?" My wife's shoe carves a gash in my ankle. Rick grins in his alco-Dramamine euphoria, and says, "Singapore, I think, but then again, maybe ..." Ricky-Dicky, it turns out, has chugged his tugboat into brothels all over the world. I don't have to sabotage the evening. Rick can't stop talking! By the time he's described all the exciting details of his weekend with the Uganda twins his fiancée is gone. Their engagement ring is crammed violently into his salmon steak. My wife rears her neck back. Her tongue flickers like a cobra. "I'm ill," she hisses. "I want to go home." I throw her the car keys. "Rick'll give me a lift," I say. For the next two hours Rick gleefully answers all my questions. I find out what Betty's like in bed, and my wife, too, but ... I thought I knew that?! When Rick drops me off he stares at me vacantly, trying to figure out what has happened. I feel close to him now. I lean forward and give him a kiss on his beautiful, innocent cheek. Then I get out, I slam the car door, and I kick it, hard. But then, I open it and say, "Hey, Rick, pal ... next time you're in town, give me a call. I had a great time." "OK," Rick snivels. "You're the only one who really understands." Feb. 24, 1997 Hank Hyena is a writer and performance artist based in San Francisco.