Considering Which Member of Willliamsburg’s Autoharp Ensemble “Zither and Yon” Is Fucking Your Wife

Originally appeared in Points in Case

If the state of my pillow covers means anything, this douchebag uses a ton of moustache wax. That narrows it down to eleven out of the fifteen band members.

The guy is likely a racist because I found a crumpled up piece of paper on the bedroom floor that had a list of potential band names. He might be an idiot, too, because “Low-Cut Niqab” was the best of the lot.

My best friend Jack likes the current band name because he thought of it. He’s in the band but is the only guy who isn’t an autoharpist; he plays the metronome (he studied at the Sorbonne and everything!). At first, he thought it couldn’t be one of the band members but then he remembered how married women throw themselves at him all the time. But he doesn’t act on it because “metronomists have morals”. There’s also the fact that he heard my wife say autoharps make her wetter than pictures of a young Boris Karloff so, yeah, he came around to my thinking. It’s got to be one of those damned string pluckers.

Also, I found one of the matching barbershop quartet jackets all members of the band wear. It was crumpled up underneath the bathroom sink and stank of skunk weed and Febreze. So, we’re back to every member of the band as a suspect.

It might have to be one of those day-job-type musicians, given that all evidence points to quick lunch-hour couplings (messy sheets on a bed I make in the morning, cap off the KY lube that’s left on the new issue of GamePro–the one with my letter to the editor!). At a Knitting Factory after party, I heard one of the guys in the band say that he freelances for an ethical IT firm, so maybe he’s the culprit. What does “fair trade Wi-Fi” even mean?

Whoever he is, dude left his skinny suspenders slung over the gaming trophy shelf I had Jack install right above the headboard. So it’s probably the guy who fucks up the polyphonic cover of “Single Ladies” by constantly pulling up his pants during the bridge.

But I have my suspicions that guy is gay. Maybe it’s the way he talks or possibly the rainbow flag he has dyed into his immaculately trimmed chest hair, which I believe is cultivated by his husband of seven years.

My wife and I have been married for almost seven years. Whenever I bring this up, she counters that Xbox has probably broken up more marriages than office Christmas parties. Then she follows up with statistics, or a story, or something else I don’t hear because finding the bharals in Far Cry 4 takes more than just natural skill. You need all of your concentration.

I don’t think it’s the guy that’s seven-feet tall; my wife once said she couldn’t sleep with a man she respected too much and she always admired tall guys like they’d earned their height. They haven’t placed in Major League Gaming’s “Halo World Championship North America Regional Finals” three years running, not like a certain you-know-who here. So she’s got that to admire me for. Which, if true, would also explain the three-month dry spell in the sack.

Maybe it’s the one who wears the bowler-and-monocle set and legally changed his name to “Axe Jeeves”.

Or the guy who’s side project is a one-man Color Me Badd tribute band.

Or the one with the beard that doubles as an apron.

Maybe it’s Fred Armisen.

My wife wants me to think that she might be sleeping with my best friend Jack. She manages this with sly insinuations like waving a ripped-open condom wrapper in my face and saying, “These are Jack’s favorite, he says they feel like silk.”

Which is ridiculous, because I know that Jack hates silk. Or at least he hated the silk shirt I bought him for our friend-versary. But still, I have seen his eyes linger over her backside a few times. And he came out of the bedroom after installing my trophy shelf more out of breath than the task required. Especially seeing as he had my wife there to help out.

In my darkest moments, I consider whether Jack—a second son to my father, the guy whose college graduation my dad actually attended—might be fucking my wife.

But my best friend Jack does not play the autoharp, so I always have to start over again.

Maybe it’s the clumsy guy with the scraped knees. That guy is so clueless.

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