In the creative-writing class I took at Otterbein a few years ago, the instructor once asked the students to write a little story that would have their archnemesis as the main character. This individual could be real or fictitious but had to be someone whose chief purpose in life was to make our life as miserable as possible. Although there’s no one now who I would consider my archnemesis, I had no trouble imagining such an individual. Someone so obnoxious, so air-headed, so hostile, that the mere mention of his name would make me recoil in disgust. I called him Yalc.

Becky, Clay’s wife, gets quite a surprise one Wednesday evening when she comes downstairs to find Yalc, her husband’s archnemesis, on the living room couch.

“Heh there, babe,” Yalc yells from his recumbent position. “Where’s that loser husband of yours?”

“He’s at his creative writing class,” she snaps. “And don’t call me ‘babe.’”

“Oh yeah,” he snorts. “What a waste of time. That guy’s got no writing talent. Or any other kind of talent for that matter.” Yalc gives a mule-like laugh.

Becky goes to the kitchen. “You’ll need to leave soon. I want to have a nice dinner ready for Clay when he gets home.”

“Why don’t you just order him an anchovy pizza?”

Becky folds her arms and gives Yalc an icy stare. “Because he doesn’t like anchovies on pizza.”

“But I do! Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!” Yalc starts to get off the couch but then thinks better of it. “Do whatever you want, babe. I’ll just chill out on the sofa here until the man of the house gets back.” Yalc picks up the remote from the glass-covered coffee table. “Mind if I watch TV?”

“Okay,” Becky says, “but only if you agree to leave within the next half hour. I don’t want you and Clay in this house at the same time.”

“You can bet he doesn’t either,” Yalc says and follows the comment with a laugh that sounds like the wail of a dying walrus.

While Becky prepares a chicken and noodle casserole, Yalc channel surfs with the remote. “I wonder if the Kardashians are on now or maybe some Jerry Springer reruns.”

“Try Comedy Central,” Becky suggests. Yalc takes her advice but sees that a Saturday Night Live episode is being shown.

“Darn it,” he complains. “It’s some old SNL show. I can never understand what they’re talking about. It goes right over my head.”

“Yeah,” Becky says, rolling her eyes, “it’s such an intellectually challenging program.”

“Oh well,” Yalc says with a shrug, “I’m kind of tired anyway. I’ll just take a quick nap.”

“Won’t you please take your shoes off before you get any more dirt on my couch?” Becky asks with irritation.

But Yalc either doesn’t hear or ignores her. He slumps onto the couch and snoozes until Becky wakes him up about a half hour later. “I just took my casserole out of the oven, so you need to hit the road, bub,” she orders.

Yalc rubs his eyes and looks at her quizzically. “Okay, but before I go, I got to ask you something.”

Becky folds her arms. “Yes?”

“What do you see in that guy? Wouldn’t you rather have someone like me?”

“The answer to your second question is absolutely no. The answer to the first is that he’s trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean, and reverent.”

“I see,” says Yalc, rising from the sofa. “A real Boy Scout. Guess I better be on my way.”

Becky straightens up the sofa, brushing off the dirt left behind by Yalc’s shoes. When she finishes, she turns around and sees him hovering over her casserole.

“What are you doing?” she yells.

“Just adding a little touch to your meal.”

She rushes over and sees that Yalc has emptied a bottle of olives onto the casserole. “You, idiot,” she screams. “You’ve ruined Clay’s dinner. He hates olives.”

“I know,” says Yalc, popping one into his mouth. “But I love them.”

“Get out, get out now, and don’t come back.”

Yalc lifts his nose in mock offense. “Very well. I know when I’m not wanted.” He walks to the front door, opens it and starts to leave but then pauses.

“By the way,” he says, “your heroic husband will find that I’ve let the air out of his bicycle tires and spiked his water bottles with dog pee.”

“You really are his archnemesis aren’t you?” she snarls, as her uninvited guest walks out the door and down the front steps.

“Yes, but I’m his creation,” Yalc says, looking over his shoulder.  “I won’t appear again unless he puts me in another story.”

“I hope he does put you in another story,” Becky says. “A murder mystery where you are the victim. Or better still, a sci fi story where you get eaten by a….a….a….”

“A what?” asks Yalc.

“A giant olive.”