Markus the Bull

It was a happy accident that day in the coffee shop that started it all.

“I’m getting married!” Sarah squealed waggling her diamond-laden hand in front of us.

We were all surprised. Jerry was an ass. And a cheap one at that.

“Congratulations!” Jill was the first to offer, raising her mug in a toast.

Casey and I promptly chimed in raising our mugs. Cheery talk of wedding ideas, venues and of course the bachelorette party ensued. That’s when things turned ugly.

“I don’t think Ronald will let me go.” Jill stated.

The conversation slid as it always did to our overbearing husbands. They were not the same men we had married. Talk shifted to cooking demands, babysitting, dealing with dirty laundry and putting away toys. That was just the husbands! Never mind the kids. Now Sarah was about to join our little club.

“It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.” Jill said softly, “Married life I mean.”

“Enjoy the honeymoon phase while it lasts.” Casey added.

I looked at Jill. She was a shell of her former self. She was married to Ronald, the alpha male of our group, our husbands’ boss, and the biggest ass of them all. Our last barbecue came to mind and I reminded the girls of Ronald’s assertions, and our husbands responses.

“A woman’s place is in the kitchen.” Ronald had boasted slapping his wife’s rear, “Cooking and cleaning like my Jilly-Bean.”

Guffaws all around by the men as we women tidied.

“I don’t mind a wife working outside the home, just as long as she completes her wifely duties.” my husband had added.

“Jerry won’t be like that.” Sarah espoused confidently.

“Don’t be so sure.” Jill had admonished.

On top of maintaining our careers, the men expected us to keep impeccable homes, dress appropriately, raise the children and have dinner on the table every day without their help. Jill had it the worst. I suspected Ronald was roughing her up from time to time.

Our waitress appeared with our bill and a business card, “The woman over there asked me to give you this. Said it’s a matter of life or death.”

The card had only a few words on it, ‘The Steer Inn’ followed with ‘by invitation only.’ On the back was an address. We all turned to see the back of a woman in a bright red hat exiting the café tossing a purple cape over her shoulder. We looked at each other and burst out laughing. I paid the bill, tucked the card in my purse and promptly forgot about it.

That was a week ago. Today, Jill and I were out picking up Ronald’s specialty coffee.

“Dammit, I forgot my wallet.” Jill said, “Ronald is gonna kill me.”

“I got it. Pay me later.” I offered, pulling out my wallet. The card from the coffee shop fell out. “Hey, this place is just around the corner. Let’s check it out.”

The Steer Inn was a non-descript building with blacked-out windows. We walked up and tried the door. It didn’t budge.

As we were about to leave the radio crackled, “State your business.”

I looked up at a camera and held up the card, “We were given this last week by...”

“Come in,” the voice interrupted as a buzzer sounded.

The door opened and we stepped in to a dimly lit interior. The décor was elegant mid-century. Was this a spa? All the patrons were women, lounging around in casual wear. There was a bar in the back where some were drinking wine. An area with studded sofas and recumbent chairs held more women engrossed in conversation. A large television hung by the bar. Hanging above was a massive stuffed bull head with a placard.

Markus. Hung in honor of our founder Meredith Baxter, J.D., LL.M. She dedicated her life to wrangling bulls, tying them down and lopping off their balls.

Below that another sign:

“Take the bull by the horns Ladies. The back end’s full o’ shit.” – Meredith Baxter.

This was no spa.

A woman walked over, “May I have the card?”

She looked sharply at it and said, “You’ve been gifted a 12 month pass from one of our esteemed benefactors. One of you must really be in deep shit. You can split it over the two of you, six months each, or one can have it, the other pay. Today’s visit is free. You can decide later.”

“It was actually given to four of us.”

“Same idea. Bring everyone in this week. Three months each,” she stated handing us each a small brochure with ‘The Rules’ across the top.

There were only three rules.

1. Tell no one.
2. No cell use or photographs on premise.
3. No men.

Exorbitant prices were listed on the back with a statement in fine print, ‘In extenuating circumstances sponsorships are available. Approach concierge for details.’

“Always deposit your cell phone and keys at the check-in. I’m your concierge. I’ll show you around,” the woman continued, “You can wear your clothing or you can borrow from our collection. Many of our members drop in after work under the guise of working late and may not have suitable attire with them. Others visit our smoking lounge. Their husbands are not aware of their, er, habits, so they choose to keep their outfits fresh. Our premier members have access to services including patron and vehicle home delivery when drinking, sauna, showers and,” the woman paused before continuing, “special resources. These are available when situations deem them necessary. That is how many of our sponsored cases arrive. We also run a small weekly classified offering help to women in need.”

“Allow me to show you the gym.” the woman opened a door.

I looked inside. There was a shelf with cleaning supplies, a yoga mat, three dumbbells, a mop and bucket.

“Some prefer to tell their men-folk they are at the ‘gym’. Any questions?”

I was dumbfounded.

Jill on the other hand came alive, “What are they and how do you access special resources?”

“Every Wednesday you’ll find one or more benefactors on site. They can arrange any supports you need.”

“What reasons would someone need to access special resources?” Jill asked.

The woman looked long and hard at Jill, “The fact that this card was given to you and your friends, means someone in your group has a reason. Since you’re asking that question, you are probably that someone.”

That’s how it began. Jill and I quickly introduced Sarah and Casey to The Steer Inn. That first afternoon we laughed and toasted ‘Markus’ the bull and whatever fairy godmother had bestowed this retreat upon us. Whether together or alone, it was where we would head after a particularly bad day at work, or more commonly a bad day at home. Issues at work? Unwind at the club. Fight with the husband? Drinks at the club. One month in, we made a pact. If one of us was having a particularly bad day, they were to send a group text “I need Markus.” No questions asked, everyone had to drop everything and go.

The husbands were not impressed. For once, they were left dealing with dirty laundry and whiny children. Take-out dinners and pizza did not happy husbands make. Bill to his credit started stepping up and doing more around the house. Casey disclosed that her husband was pitching in too! Sarah was in the middle of wedding planning and gushed over how helpful Jerry was being. The girls and I were finally feeling less stressed, more alive and more ourselves.

“Who is Markus?” Bill asked one day looking over my shoulder at my phone.

“It’s no one Dear.” I answered truthfully.

Unbeknownst to me, Ronald was invoking his own line of questioning upon Jill. It wasn’t as friendly I’d later discover. Jill had sent out a one-word message. You guessed it “Markus.”

Immediately I tried calling. No answer. I tried Casey next.

“She messaged me earlier. I’m at the club and she’s not here,” Casey whispered, “I’m worried.”

“Call Sarah.” I ordered. Hanging up I turned, “Bill, I have to go.”

I drove straight to Jill’s house. It was dark and quiet. I honked the horn. Nothing. I went to the door and rang the bell. Again nothing. Walking back to the car, I stressed over what to do. Do I call the police? Bill? All of a sudden Jill came running out of the house.

“Start the car,” she called racing toward me.

We hopped in and I immediately made a beeline to the Inn.

“What’s going on Jill?” I asked staring at her cut lip as we approached to door.

“Let’s just say Ronald isn’t happy with my consorting with Markus.”

We were promptly buzzed in and met by Sarah and Casey.

“Let’s get some ice on that and a drink.” Casey offered eying Jill’s swollen lip and escorting her to a seat.

The Inn was oddly quiet when pounding on the door rang out and Jill jumped. The security camera video feed of an irate Ronald at the entrance appeared on the lounge television.

“Who’s this arse belong to?” called out a voice over the intercom.

Jill raised her hand. Out of nowhere the female concierge appeared.

“Come on, let’s get you to the library,” the woman offered, “We’ve been expecting this.”

“What’s the library?” asked Casey.

“Access to special resources,” the woman answered.

Casey, Sarah and I stood gape-mouthed as Jill was led away. Over her shoulder the woman called out to me, “her children are already safe at your house with your husband Bill. You ladies can leave.”

We turned back to the television screen where only moments before the security camera feed had shown an enraged Ronald pounding on the door. He was gone. Dumbfounded, we retrieved our keys and left.

I arrived home to a puzzled Bill, “Someone dropped off Ronald’s kids about an hour ago. Said to keep them overnight. What’s going on?”

I raised my hand and said “I’m going to bed. Talk about it tomorrow.”

The next day, I returned Jill’s children at her request. Ronald wasn’t there. When I asked Jill about him she simply shrugged. Three days passed and still no Ronald. Bill reported that Ronald hadn’t been to work either.

“What do we do?” Casey asked over the phone. “Do we go to the police?”

We hadn’t been back to the Inn. Honestly, we were afraid to go. All of a sudden on day four, Ronald came home. Or at least some version of Ronald. He was all “Yes dear. No dear. Let me do that,” with Jill. Even my Bill expressed surprise saying he was a reformed man in the office too. No more unreasonable overtime demands.

“Family first.” Ron started saying everyone. Yes, he was going by Ron now.

“Sounds less pretentious.” He proclaimed.

Ron never shared where he’d been or what had happened over those three days.

Three weeks passed when I realized we hadn’t been back to the Inn. We hadn’t needed it. Not once. I sent a group text to the girls “Markus?” After various thumbs up and exchanges I picked the girls up and smiled as they chatted happily on the drive over.

"I think Ron shit his pants when I told him where we were going," laughed Jill.

Arriving at the door I looked up for the camera. It was gone. I tried the door. It easily swung open. The place was empty. Gutted. It was like The Steer Inn had never existed. There was a note tacked on the wall

Watch the classifieds if you need help - Mark-Us the Bull.