Everyone Gets Divorced

By Johnny B. Truant

Archer has finally found the woman he wants to spend the rest of his life with — and she's in love with him too. But if he wants a happy future with Hannah, he'll have to keep his jackass friends from wrecking it all.

 

They're the kind of friends who'd try to help Archer propose by setting up a scavenger hunt that lands Hannah in a dark alleyway, where she crashes a gang initiation while searching for her next clue.

 

The kind of friends who'd make Archer late for the birth of his baby by kidnapping him for a "fun" trip to Atlantic City.

 

Can Archer keep his friends from ruining his happily ever after — without losing them forever?

 

Everyone Gets Divorced is a new stand-alone comedy novel by Johnny B Truant, author of the Fat Vampire series. Fans of How I Met Your Mother and It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia will love Everyone Gets Divorced.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sterling & Stone
• Release date: Aug 22, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201304096

Johnny B. Truant

Johnny B. Truant blogs about entrepreneurship and human potential at JohnnyBTruant.com and is a regular contributor to premier business blogs Copyblogger and Problogger. He’s also the director and MC of the Virtual Ticket program for Blogworld (the world’s preeminent new media conference) and co-hosts the Self Publishing Podcast at SelfPublishingPodcast.com.

Book preview

Chapter One

What you’ve gotta understand, Archer said, "is that it’s not just the story of my divorce. Sure, there’s that story — like the story — but that last bit was the straw breaking the camel’s back, you know. The final act, as it were. The larger story — the story of my marriage’s failure — has a slower, more drawn out sort of narrative. It was a slow dying, rather than a sudden death. And you know how it is, never one thing. There’s the thing that happens, then the thing that builds on the thing that happens. The next thing builds on that, and then you have escalation and an avalanche of failure. It’s really awful."

He shook his head and reclaimed his smile. "I suppose there were a million ways we could’ve stayed married, but we didn’t. Remove a comment here or a tiny misunderstanding there, the entire divorce chain might have broken."

Archer could feel himself starting to sweat. It’s not like I was looking for divorce. I never wanted out, even at the end. Does that make sense? Or am I screwing this up?

He paused, raising light-brown eyebrows until they vanished under his shaggy overhang of caramel-colored hair. A waitress circled with coffee across the restaurant. Archer caught her eye, smiled, and waited for her to walk over and refill his cup. But the waitress ignored him and went into the back room. Through the window in the swinging kitchen door, Archer watched the woman pick her nose.

The thing is, I always wanted to be married. Well, not married exactly, but be with someone. I was one of those kids, too romantic for my age, long before I knew what romance was. I never had girlfriends because I couldn’t keep things casual and always scared them off. I’d get infatuated with a girl, fall in love, and never say a word. Then, when I finally did, I was blurting things like, ‘I think I love you.’ Who wants to hear that at 14 or 16 from some guy you’ve never really even talked to? But that’s how it was. Later, when I finally had my shit together enough to ask girls out, I never did because it wasn’t long-term. My junior year, I’d think about a girlfriend, then figure we’d be breaking up in two years anyway so there was no reason to bother.

The sweat was getting worse, beading across his forehead.

Once out of high school and semi-settled in college, I finally started opening up. That openness made things easier, even though I was probably still thinking much too long-term for a 20-something. I wanted a relationship, nothing casual, still primed to get hitched. Eventually, after enough trial and error, I found my perfect match. We were great together, really. It should have worked.

Archer thought, scratching his head. He looked toward the upper corners, where the restaurant’s wall met its ceiling, as if the answers he sought might be buried in the molding. They weren’t, so he sighed and turned to the table instead, finally looking up with an air of resolution.

I hate to lay blame, but I guess it all started with my friends. Archer turned sideways in the booth, then went where every story starts.

At the very beginning.

---

Guys, Archer said, standing in front of the TV, his face lit with a wide smile. I’m going to ask Hannah to marry me.

Danny rolled sideways on the couch, ending up lying down, trying to see the game around Archer. He shoved another handful of popcorn into his mouth, while still chewing the two before that. Alex smiled. Andrea stood and clapped twice. Russell groaned as if the wrong team had scored a touchdown. Samantha had a hand down her pants, either making an adjustment or masturbating.

Big news, right? As usual, Archer focused most of his attention on Alex and Andrea, because they were the only two who were actually happy for him. It was always easier to focus on the twins’ positivity, over the loathing or indifference from the other three. Danny, who saw himself as clever, called the always shiny and happy trifecta of Archer, Alex, and Andrea Triple A, like the battery of the same name, because their annoying cheeriness could power the world. Danny sometimes suggested they put their Triple A powers to use by climbing inside a vibrator. This made Russell laugh — not because it was funny, but because it was insulting. And Samantha objected, because any decent vibrator needed a rip cord to start, like a chain saw. Vibrators not running on a two-stroke engine were worthless. Samantha said that with hers, you had to mix oil with the gas.

Get out of the way, Russell grumbled at Archer, still trying to see the TV. He shifted his enormous bulk on the couch. Something in the couch cracked, and Russell actually turned toward the sound, as if telling the couch to fuck off.

Danny was still lying on his side, haphazardly mowing through his giant bowl of popcorn. Samantha still had her hand down her pants, and it was still impossible to tell what she was doing. Her insanely hot face looked inches from orgasm most of the time. Danny kept trying to convince Archer to put a spy camera in his bathroom.

I’m not trying to watch her piss. I just want to see if she looks that lusty while taking a dump.

So how are you going to do it? Andrea asked, joining Archer at the room’s front. She took his hand in hers, as if he were the fiancé, and Andrea wanted to see the engagement ring. Alex, who usually followed his sister’s lead, came to Archer’s other side.

How? said Archer. Like this: ‘Will you marry me, Hannah?’

Samantha either voiced her approval or had a small orgasm.

No, no, said Alex. "You’re Archer. You can’t do it like that. You can’t just blurt it out. How long have you been searching for your soul mate? It should be elaborate. Like have a dove fly to Hannah and drop a ring in her open palm. Or propose to her at sunset in Malibu."

I’ll get right on that Malibu trip. Archer worked as a freelance copywriter and had approximately seventeen cents in the bank. Most of his net worth was currently tied up in the generic microwave popcorn Danny was shoving into his face while hanging upside-down on the couch.

Doves, then.

Sure. I’ll just grab one. A dove is the same as that shaved cat that pees on my doormat every day, right?

I keep telling you, said Russell, "it’s marking its territory. It thinks you’re in its apartment. Or possibly, it thinks you’re its mate. Which might explain why it never attacks you but always mauls the paperboy."

Archer didn’t want to think about that. The paperboy’s mother was on the apartment board and kept trying to get him evicted. She said his cat was a menace to society. Archer had repeatedly told her that the cat wasn’t his, but because the woman usually came to Archer’s apartment to yell at him rather than accosting him somewhere else, her tirades were often interrupted by the feline, which flew from nowhere to maul her because the apartment was its territory and Archer its mate. Archer had no clue who the cat belonged to or where it came from. The complex’s outdoor layout left a world of possibilities: another apartment, a nearby alley, hell.

Yes! Andrea shouted. Have the cat deliver the ring!

But she had never seen the cat. Andrea thought all animals were cute and cuddly. Archer waved the idea away like the absurdity it was.

What do you want to get married for? Samantha asked. You’ll only get one hole to stick your dick into. Like, forever.

My dick doesn’t require multiple holes, Archer admitted.

Samantha had finally pulled her hand out of her pants, and was now lounging on the couch as if awaiting a lover. She was, as usual, wearing jeans and an unassuming, tight T-shirt. Her light-brown hair was tied into a messy knot behind her head, and she wore no makeup. People thought Samantha was a lipstick lesbian, but she was really a tomboy. Yet none of this kept her from being impossibly hot, and her overtly sexual manner didn’t help.

Archer, Alex, and Russell had grown immune to Samantha and thus considered her sexual energy safe, but that had only happened after years of training. They were like handlers of a dangerous ape who the ape had grown used to. The ape had learned not to attack the men in her friend group, and the men had gotten used to the ape enough so that they no longer wanted to fuck it. The men also sometimes forgot how hot the ape could be to others when her vagina began to broadcast its usual hypnotic rays, and were always shocked when they were in public together and males came at it with their penises. Samantha never minded.

Sweetheart, every man needs multiple holes, she said.

That’s what I tell the people at the glory hole place, said Russell.

Danny righted himself on the couch. What do you want to marry that cooze for, anyway? She’s always telling you to do shit. You know that crap will only get worse.

"She never tells me to do shit."

Yes she does! Look at you! You’re so whipped you don’t even see it. She’ll have you cross-stitching patterns, sewing pillows, making doilies and …

Do you think she runs a sweatshop or something? As far as Archer knew, Hannah didn’t like crafts. Danny’s insults were just another sign of his misogyny.

Whatever, dude. Let her boss you around. Your funeral.

"When has she ever, ever told me to do anything?"

The other night! In the car. She’s all, ‘Look out, you’re going to hit that old woman!’

Russell, who’d finally reached his breaking point, stood, hauled his girth to the TV, planted his shoulder against Andrea’s, and pushed sideways. No one saw it coming. It looked like the action of a train’s cow-catcher in reverse, as if the cow had decided to fight back. Under his shove, team Triple A fell to the side in a pile.

Archer looked up, shocked. Alex and Andrea acted like this happened all the time. They climbed to their feet and resumed prodding Archer about his inadequate proposal plans.

"You can’t just propose," said Alex. How long have you been wanting to make a proposal?

Archer said nothing. Not that the question needed a reply. His five friends had known him since elementary school. They’d seen his ups and downs through dozens of heart-wrenching relationships. Not that the girls in his relationships always knew they were in them. Archer had endured a pair of separate two-year-long unrequited romances. Alex said Archer would have had a chance with both girls if he’d let them know they were being romanced, rather than keeping their connection all to himself. Danny said he was a whiny cunt.

Exactly, said Andrea, as if Archer had replied. Forever. You only get one. Don’t you want to make this proposal count? This is the only time you’ll ever say those magic words that will kick off the rest of your life!

Archer thought about what Andrea was saying and compared it to his own proposal plan. They were going to Denny’s later, and Archer imagined putting her ring in her coffee. The plan, now that Archer thought about it, had several downsides. For one, Hannah might drink the ring, choke, and die. The acid in the coffee also might strip the zinc plating from the band. He’d be out 50 bucks and a perfectly good cubic zirconia.

I don’t have any money, Archer said, standing and again partially blocking the TV.

Andrea giggled. She had light-blonde hair and deep dimples. Like Alex. They both looked almost like albinos, and were nearly identical. It was disturbing how the pair shared the same features. They looked great on Andrea until you realized her brother looked similar enough to turn any physical attraction to Andrea awkward fast.

Romance doesn’t cost money!

Sure it does, said Russell, his eyes on the TV, depending on what romantic act you’re asking for.

Don’t listen to Russell, Danny said. Being a pussy is free.

I still don’t understand why you’d want to fuck one person forever, said Samantha, hand back in her pants.

Alex took one of Archer’s hands, and Andrea took the other, the two of them pulling him into a genuinely creepy twin moment.

We’ll help you come up with something, Andrea offered.

Through the window, Archer saw the shaved cat humping his mailbox.

---

Archer and Hannah met through an online dating site that was never intended to be one. It was supposed to be an undergraduate sociology experiment.

He was in a psychology class at the time because it fulfilled a requirement and provided him with an abundance of sadistic stories. Apparently, psychologists were entirely immune to the normal social laws governing acceptable behavior, because once they were done fucking with people they could write about what happened and then publish their stories as scientific findings.

He had liked psychology’s implications for moral brinksmanship and had signed right up. The class was an immediate hit. For the entire semester, Archer read from his textbook to Danny and Russell — his roommates at the time. He recited stories about Stanley Milgram, an American social psychologist and a total fucking cock. The famed psychologist would put people in an elevator, have it break and go dark, then watch how his passengers freaked the fuck out. Or he’d put people in a plane and have the pilot fake a heart attack. You did that sort of thing in private and they made a movie like Saw about you. But do it while working for a university, they handed out awards and called you a genius.

Danny thought the stories were hilarious. Russell thought them typical. At the time, he was near certain that at least two of their neighbors were conducting similar experiments with kidnapped girls in basement dungeons. Everyone sucks, Russell explained when pressed for details on the matter.

What surprised Archer (and delighted his roommates) was the requirement that he participate in a few experiments himself. He felt prepared, having done his reading. Archer knew that if someone put him in an elevator, chances were great it would break. If that happened, Danny said, he should start beating off. Archer asked why. Danny said it would throw off the experiment’s results, and that would be hilarious. Archer said he couldn’t beat off in a crowded elevator. Russell said that no one would blame him because rules meant nothing in extreme situations, then later reinforced this thought by stealing a $20 from Danny and explaining that every day was extreme in its own way.

Archer went to the psychology building and signed up. They promised to stay in touch and let him know when experiments tailored to him presented themselves. Archer wasn’t fooled. He knew that as soon as he walked outside, something fantastic would happen, and hidden cameras would record his reaction.

But nothing did. Not for days that crawled into weeks. Tension wore on Archer. He’d seen how Michael Douglas was hosed in The Game; it was only a matter of time before a giant clown doll appeared to disturb him.

Eventually, two weeks later, Archer was walking down Chester Street when a car struck an old man and knocked him down. The collision wasn’t bad. The old man lost an armload of groceries, spilling them to the pavement. The driver sped off, but traffic stopped so no one would run the old man over. A woman stood at the crosswalk, hand on her cheek in a parody of shock. The old man looked up at Archer, reaching out a hand.

This was it. This was the test. But it had been two long weeks, and his readiness had faltered. Just as the sadistic experimenters had intended, Archer found himself unprepared. He was being watched, of course, so he unzipped and started beating off. The woman’s shock doubled, or maybe tripled. The old man turned from pained to disgusted. Archer ran.

A week after successfully evading the police, an email hit his inbox, announcing a new experiment. He returned to the psychology department, where an attractive girl gave him a consent slip to sign. Archer asked if the department might, a week ago, have conducted an experiment without a signed consent form. The girl said that would be illegal. Archer went home with a set of instructions for the experiment, and on the way stopped at Dairy Queen for a shake. The old man from the traffic accident was sitting in a booth and recognized him just as he was turning to leave, so Archer, panicked, threw the shake at the old man and ran.

Back at home, Archer showed the paper to Danny and Russell. All three were disappointed at the experiment’s lack of sadistic overtones. All he had to do was log onto a website and enter his information. It wasn’t even psychology. It was sociology. Danny theorized that maybe the psychology would come later, when the website infected his computer with a virus and observed his reaction. Archer insisted that he didn’t think they could do that. Russell argued that rules wouldn’t stop them since Everyone sucks.

The experiment turned out to be totally innocuous. Archer logged on and filled out a form. The site accepted his data and thanked him. The purpose was to determine if everyone in the world was, indeed, connected within six degrees of separation. But the experiment was flawed — conducted only on the one college campus and ran concurrent with a much better experiment about casual sex that Archer hadn’t known about. As a result, the study had exactly three participants: Archer, Danny — who indicated his ethnicity as Korean and submitted his information under the name Fuk Chu, a girl Danny once screwed by accident at a party — and Hannah. A week after the experiment, both Archer and Fuk got emails. Archer was told that he and the woman he would one day marry were separated by a single degree.

The experimenters were given a grant of one hundred dollars, which had to be fully spent unless the department wanted even more embarrassingly meager grants in the future. They ended up spending their remaining twenty bucks on pizza — after paying a kid on Craigslist to build the website — and invited all the participants.

This experiment was a failure, the researchers announced. Eat our pizza and get the fuck out.

Archer did, but not until after he’d met a charming girl with reddish-blonde hair who stood one inch taller than him. They got on well, which was to say that Hannah saw through Archer’s awful pickup lines and decided he was actually kind of cute.

Two years passed. Archer, Russell, Samantha, and Hannah all graduated. Danny flunked out and declared college to be bullshit and prejudiced, despite being a young, white, middle-class male. Alex and Andrea hadn’t attended, instead starting a flavored cosmetics line that sold surprisingly well on eBay. Everyone was intrigued by their tiny empire except Russell, who declared their business a scam simply because it was on the internet.

Archer and