

# By Les Cohen

## Smashwords Edition, License Notes:

Thank you for downloading this free ebook. Although this is a free book, it remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy at Smashwords.com, where they can also discover other works by this author. Thank you.

Copyright 2013 by Les Cohen, Ellicott City, Maryland.

All rights reserved.

# * * *

Life is short. Are you tired of not having anything good to read while you're eating out at the diner by yourself? Have you flipped through the magazines and catalogs you keep in your bathroom one too many times?

Now you'll have an answer for people who try to intimidate you, intellectually speaking, by asking, "So what have you read lately?" without your having put in all that much effort.

Just tell them the name of the last short-short story you read and my name. They'll think you read a whole book. ("Yeah, like that's ever going to happen.")

"Very impressive," they'll say to themselves. "You're reading, what, a book or two a week?"

What do they know?

# * * *

# Contents

1. The Elevator Trilogy

2. Last Picked

3. Birmingham Airport

4. IM

5. Self-Fulfilling Prophecy

6. Finding Dana

7. Precocious

8. Dialogue

9. Creative Running

10. Mind Over Maury

11. "Dream a little dream of me."

12. Memo To Carolyn

13. Business Management 213

14. Jones

15. Double Fake

16. Bob

17. Guardian

18. Corporate Culture

19. Jimmy Loves Melissa

20. Organic Gardening

21. The Bully

22. The Eulogy

23. Relationship Saving Time

24. The Babysitter

25. The Penny

26. Say "Goodbye" to Jane.

27. Dream On

28. Enchilada Books

29. The Speed Date

30. Broken Rose

31. Silent Partners

32. Lot Boy

33. The Commute

34. The Ripple Effect

35. Exhausted

36. Next Contestant

37. HonoLulu's

38. Road Trip

39. Unfaithful

40. First Date

41. I, Your Son

42. The Hangover

43. Trouble Sleeping

44. Shiny Things

45. Stranger On The Bus

46. Craig's Lisp

47. The Dishes Fairy

48. "Hello?"

49. The Plug-In

50. Pretense

51. The Badger

52. Schmutz Patrol

53. The Desk

54. Imperfect Together

55. "Gesundheit!"

56. The Ladies Room

57. The Proposal

58. The De-Creeping Of Ross

59. Dear Journal

60. Interview With An Alien

61. Bathroom Windows

62. Mary

That's it for now.

# * * *

# 1. The Elevator Trilogy

Part 1: Going up.

Our story begins the morning after the night when the crew from Otis started renovating the other elevator. There were only two. True, the building was relatively short, a mere 28 stories tall, having been built in an era before downtown property values pushed buildings to the sky, but the elevators were soooo slow, so crowded, stopping on virtually every floor. They were the prefect place, you guessed it, for love.

Of the twelve people waiting in the lobby, two of them, unbeknownst to each other, were about to meet. For the sake of discussion, we'll call them Bob and Jane, not because I'm trying to protect their identities, but because those were their names. Their names may have been ordinary but, trust me on this, they were not.

Jane was one of the first on and, being polite and given that she worked on the twenty-third floor, went to the back. Leaning up against the wall, a briefcase in one hand, large pocket book over the other shoulder, that hand on the strap, her plan was to relax on the way up, preparing herself mentally for what promised to be a strenuous day.

Bob, on the other hand, had less control over his destiny. This morning, as it turned out, was his turn to get coffee for his team. Right now, he had his hands full, literally, trying to balance the ridiculously flexible cardboard box they gave him to hold eight cups, two of which were on top of two of the other six, his computer backpack slung over his right shoulder and the morning paper rolled under his left arm – all this while he kept wondering whether or not he'd remembered to zip up before he left his apartment. (He'd been running late and rushed out of his apartment without checking.) Focused as he was on keeping it all together, Bob was pushed into the elevator by the wave of people behind him. When it was all over, and door was closing on the coat of the last person on board, Bob found himself facing the back of the elevator, smashed up against one person in particular – close enough to have children had the circumstances been different, if you get my drift.

Jane, all the while, was trying to ignore this unexpected moment of public intimacy by looking over Bob's shoulder, pretending to read the "Maximum Occupancy" notice above the buttons panel, and then mentally counting the number of people who stood to die with her if the cable broke.

"Hi." Bob was the first to talk.

"Hi."

"Sorry about..."

"It's okay, as long as you promise to practice safe elevating." Jane smiled.

Bob was caught off guard, but recovered quickly. "I don't think you have anything to worry about."

"Sorry." Jane was sincerely embarrassed. "I didn't mean to flirt."

"Yeah, well, there's a special anonymity you have in crowded bars and elevators. Nobody's paying attention, and it's not like we're ever going to see each other again."

"Of course not," Jane agreed with him, but then saw something in his eyes. "You look disappointed."

"Oh, no."

"You're not disappointed that you won't be seeing me again."

"No. I'd love to see you again, of course, and I'll be... heartbroken if I don't."

Jane smiled at him.

"It's not disappointment, it's just that liquid is beginning to bubble up onto the lid of this one cup and, if I'm not careful, it's going to drip onto your white blouse, possibly staining it and you'll have to walk around all day with a spot," Bob nodded in the direction of Jane's left breast, "there. ...Is that silk?"

"It's fake silk, but thank you for noticing." Looking at the lid in question, just a couple of inches above her mouth, everything suddenly went into adrenaline-induced slow motion. The elevator chime made a slow, deep tone announcing its arrival on a particular floor. People on the still-crowded elevator started to move, jostling Bob as they did. The tray shook, the two top cups even more so and there, teetering at the edge of the one lid, a single drop lost its hold.

"Zaappp!!" Instantly, and with perfect timing and position, Jane stuck out her tongue, way out, and caught the drop, and then held it out there for just a second before reeling it into her mouth.

"Geez." Bob was impressed. "You could catch flies like that."

"You saying I remind you of a frog."

"Sort of. A very, uh, attractive frog?"

"I do look good in brown," Jane was thinking out loud, and then smacked her lips. "That's not coffee."

"You mean green."

"What?"

"Toads are brown. Frogs are green," Bob corrected her, shaking his head up and down slightly.

Jane gave Bob her trademark "Who cares?" look.

"No. Actually, it's a 'Pineapple, Mango, Coconut Paradise Smoothie.' It's healthier and I'm trying to avoid the whole coffee breath thing."

Instinctively, Jane closed her mouth and rolled her lips inward, doing her beast to avoid breathing on him.

"Oh, you don't have coffee breath. Of course not."

The elevator chimed again.

"This is my floor," Jane announced, surprised by her own reluctance to move.

"Right," was all he had to say, that and the fact that he didn't move either.

"You need to move."

"Of course," and he carefully stepped aside to let her by.

"What floor are you getting off," Jane asked as she brushed past him.

"Eighteen."

"This is twenty-three."

"I'll get off on the way back down."

And then she turned back just short of the door. "Maybe I'll see you later?"

"Absolutely....Bob."

"What?" Jane called back from the hallway, just as the doors were starting to close.

"I'm Bob."

"Jane. And your fly's d..," but the doors cut her off.

Part 2: Going down.

Almost two weeks, several random and more than a few not so accidental elevator meetings and three gourmet truck lunches in the park down the street later, the chemistry between them was building. It was high time one of them asked the other out on a first date. Standing next to each other, at a right angle in the corner of the elevator, Bob had decided to take the initiative and pop the question.

"You know," he started, "I've been thinking....Oh, hi Mrs. Caruthers." They'd been meeting so often like this, regulars in the building had begun to recognize them.

"Hi, Bob. You too going out yet?"

"Not yet, Mrs. Caruthers," Jane answered, "but thank you for asking."

"Oh, you're welcome."

"Hm. As I was saying, I think she's right. I think it's time we went out on a date."

"For an awkward dress-up dinner and a movie neither of us wants to see?"

"Yes. Exactly. A typical first date."

"Or..."

"Or what?"

"Or we could count our time together, on the elevator, as a first date and go right to our second date."

"What would that involve?"

"One of us would make a casual, sloppy clothes dinner for the other one at his or her apartment. And then, after dinner, even during dinner... Wait. Can you cook?"

"No. Not really. Breakfast. Things you can make in toaster. Grilled cheese sandwiches. Anything frozen or with ground meat in it. ...I thought you could cook."

"Why would you think that? Oh, please, not because I'm a woman."

"Of course not." Bob suddenly felt the need to make an outdated political statement. "The fact that you may or may not be a woman is irrelevant."

"Really?"

"In an entirely asexual way. Yes, irrelevant. ...I thought you could cook because you're always going grocery shopping after work – or are you just embarrassed that you have a second job as a cashier at Whole Foods?"

"No, no. I shop, my roommate cooks. That's our deal. If it weren't for her, I'd starve to death."

They were quiet for a moment, watching past the people in front of them for the door to open on somebody else's floor.

"I don't have a roommate."

"Okay, your place, carry out."

"Deal." Bob extended his hand to shake hers and Jane met him half way. It felt good, the first time they'd touched, which is why they kept holding hands even though some people were looking. "Chinese, pizza, Italian?"

"Yes," Jane answered, moving her hand slightly inside his.

"Yes?...It was a multiple choice question."

"People are staring."

"At what?" Bob was oblivious. Not just now, but generally.

"At us, holding hands like this," Jane said, beginning to feel self-conscious. No one shakes hands for this long."

"Hm. So when do you want to do this? ...I was thinking Saturday night."

"Sure. Saturday would b... No, wait. I have a date."

"What?!" Bob snapped his hand back.

"You have a date?" a familiar looking stranger asked. He was a regular, had been eavesdropping and couldn't help himself.

"Excuse me," Jane raised her eyebrows and asserted herself. "We're having a private conversation."

"On an elevator?" the stranger asked.

"Sir," Bob, still reeling from the realization that she was dating someone, came to her defense, "are you seriously unfamiliar with crowded public space etiquette?" It sounded silly, but Bob had a point.

"What?"

"Do you participate in conversations you overhear at restaurants, on a plane, on a cell phone in a restroom? ...I didn't think so. Now, if you don't mind..." Bob turned back to Jane who, honestly, was impressed that he used the word "etiquette" which she knew, of course, and could pronounce, but certainly couldn't spell. "You have a date?!"

"Well, yeah."

"With who?"

All the while, the elevator door had been opening and now closing. "Jane! ...Hey. All set for Saturday night?"

"With him."

"Hi." Whoever he was, he was as nice as he was... tall and good looking. "Rolfs. Mark Rolfs," he said with confidence, extending his hand to Bob.

"Bob, James Bob," Bob responded, shaking Mark's hand, taking care to match the strength of his grip.

"Your name's 'James Bob'?

"No, not really. I was just kidding. It's Bob.." And then the elevator chime went off again.

"My floor. Nice meeting you?" Mark wasn't entirely sure, sensing that Bob might have something going on with Jane. And then he looked at Jane. "...Four o'clock Saturday?"

"Right. Can't wait." Mark left and, as soon as the doors closed, Jane turned to Bob with an explanation.

"It's not what you think."

"You're not going out with 'Rolfs, Mark Rolfs' on Saturday night? ...With a guy, albeit an apparently nice, very tall guy, who introduces himself with his last name first?"

Turning to face him, Jane pushed Bob against the sidewall and got up into his face. "Listen to me, Mango Breath. I made that date with Mark weeks ago, before you and I met, when he got tickets to a concert. ...Now you want me to break the date?"

"No. That wouldn't be right."

"Good, because I'm not....Am I saving myself for you?"

"Wuh..."

"That was a rhetorical question. Besides, as technical point, that ship set sail my senior year."

"In college?"

"High school. What difference does it make? ...My point is, I am. Saving myself for you, that is. Don't ask me why, but I'm not really dating anyone, at least not until we've given it a shot." She reached over, put her hands behind his neck, pulled Bob toward her and gave him a quick, but firm kiss.

"How 'bout if..."

And the chime booped again.

"I've got to get back to work." Jane, a bit flustered, hurriedly excused her way out, escaping into the hallway as soon as the door was open wide enough for her to squeeze through, and not looking back.

Part 3. Your floor or mine?

It would be early evening when they saw or talked to each other again, on the Thursday after the Saturday when Jane went out with Mark. Bob and Jane had managed to avoid each other on the elevator until then. Traffic on the elevator was light. Theirs was a mostly nine to five building.

"Hi." Bob was the first to say hello.

"Hey."

"So, uh, how was the concert?" He didn't want to call it a date.

"Good. It was good."

"Oh, hi guys."

"Mrs. Caruthers. Working late this evening?"

"Obviously," she answered, shaking her head, rolling her eyes. "No wonder you're not having sex yet."

"How do you know?" Jane was curious.

"Body language, or the lack of it. You better make your move, buster, or someone else will beat you to it."

"She called you 'buster,'" Jane turned to Bob. "How cute was that?"

"I was talking to you, Jane....Heck," she smiled, looking up into Bob's eyes, "if there's anything cute in this elevator, it's him."

"You know, Mrs. Caruthers," Bob wanted to thank her for the comment, "if things don't work out here, between the two of us...," he wiggled his finger, pointing to Jane and himself, "is there a Mr. Caruthers?"

The older woman smiled back at him, "I wish." Then the elevator chimed at the lobby floor. On her way out, she held door for them, the only two left. "Aren't you getting off?"

Jane looked at Bob, then answered for the both of them. "No. We need to talk. We, the two us. We need to have intercourse."

"'Discourse.' She means 'discourse.' ...You know, verbally."

"Right, but just incase, I work in 815. Eighth floor. Room 815."

"Got it, Mrs. Caruthers," and he waved her goodbye, the door still closing while Bob pressed the "28" button.

They were quiet for a moment, but then Bob spoke up.

"So, what did you do after the concert? I'm just curious."

"If you're asking whether or not we had sex, the answer is no. We didn't have to because we had sex during the concert." Bob looked over at her, not entirely sure she was kidding. "In one of the disgusting stalls in the theater men's room. Personally, I would have had more sex after the concert, but 'Rolfs, Mark Rolfs' said he needed time to recharge, you know, to reload as it were."

Bob just stood there. "Thank you."

"I, on the other hand, still have a very, very substantial level of pent-up sexual energy begging, I said 'begging' for release. For satisfaction."

Bob was looking at her, but not speaking.

"That I've been saving for this one guy, 'Elevator Guy' my friends call him. Saving myself fo..."

And that's when Bob, somewhere between the twelfth and fourteen floors, took two steps toward the door and pulled the stop button, setting off the alarm.

"What are you doing?"

"I don't want to be disturbed."

"You're kidding?"

Bob walked back to her, dropped his backpack which "thunked" to the floor without caring about the consequences for his laptop inside, and was clearly going for "it" when he stopped, just short of her face for some reason.

"Oh, come on! You can't be..."

And then he kissed her. By kiss, I mean the kind that made the raucous alarm go quiet, the kind when two people occupy the same space. Legs between legs. Body parts melting against each other. Less of a kiss, per se, than a merger. Blouse and shirt becoming untucked. The kind of kiss after which a person can't help but look disheveled, and everyone can tell what you've been doing. On the fine line between foreplay and play. Well, you get the point. It was a big kiss alright, which turned out to be followed by the big you-know-what later that evening.

Done, but still slightly out of breath, Jane was the first to speak. "Wow....Whew. That was a real waste of time. I don't know what I was expecting, but..."

She was joking of course, but Bob wasn't taking any chances and laid into her again. A few moments later, they parted, just their faces at first, with Jane lightly tapping the fingers of her right hand on Bob's lips. Otherwise, their bodies were still pretty much glued to each other, their clothes looking even more out and about. "Thanks," Jane was sincere, "but I was just kidding."

"I know," Bob acknowledged bashfully. "I just wanted some more."

"What do we do now?"

"Tell the fire department we didn't mean to set off the alarm?" Bob was concerned that he could hear sirens, but wasn't sure they were coming to their building.

"I mean I think we should go out."

Bob thought about it for a nanosecond, nodded his head slightly and suggested, "Tonight would be good."

And it was, good that is.

So, exactly how do I know all this? Well, because I'm Bob. That's my girlfriend, Jane, passed out on the couch. And that fur ball sitting on her chest, tush down, front legs fully extended, like he's paying attention? That's our cat, Otis.

<Table Of Contents>

# 2. Last Picked

"Hey."

"Hey....I'm just finishing up. What can I..."

"Some of us are going out for burgers, the little Happy Hour kind. Why don't you join us?"

"Well, for one thing, I don't eat beef and I have absolutely no social graces."

"Why don't you eat beef? Is it a religious thing?"

"No. It's a saturated fat thing."

"What about forks? Do you eat with your fingers, or do you use forks?"

"Only when I order soup."

"Great. What more can a girl ask? You'll fit in perfectly."

"I tend not to relate well to people."

"How do you know if you never go out with them?"

"Twenty four years of experience."

"I thought you were twenty three?"

"It started the moment I was conceived. I wouldn't have thought it was possible, but I have a prenatal memory of my parents giggling through intercourse. I think they may have been drinking, at a minimum."

"Intercourse?"

"When two people..."

"I know what you meant. It just seemed like an overly technical description of what they were doing. Maybe they just had funny sex. Maybe they actually liked each other. Sometimes people who like each other giggle during sex, you know, because they're having a good time."

"Are you saying that it's normal for the girl to laugh?"

"It all depends?"

"On what?"

"On whether she's laughing with you or... Come on. What's the worse thing that can happen?"

"I'll say something embarrassing. People I work with and who respect me will know for sure how socially awkward I am rather than just assuming it."

"Don't worry. No one you work with respects you."

"Good point."

"Okay, how 'bout if I be your wingman, figuratively speaking? 'Wing-woman,' to be precise."

"You'd cover for me?"

"Absolutely. I'll them we're going out for the evening, so we can't stay long. We'll leave before you make a fool out of yourself and you can take me out for a real dinner. How 'bout that?"

"You're beautiful and impeccably dressed in a casually fashionable way. I, on the other hand, am not. Shouldn't I be the boy version of you for 'us' to be believable?"

"I don't know. You have potential."

"A diamond in the rough?"

"More like a cubic zirconium."

"I'm not sure what that is, but I get the point. ...I don't think they'll buy that we're dating, particularly since no one has ever seen us together at work."

"You're right but, if we play it right, we can make the shock value work for you. They'll start imagining positive things about you that clearly aren't true."

"So your aura will be rubbing off on me?"

"Figuratively speaking. There won't be any actual rubbing involved."

"I get it....What will we talk about?"

"It's a sports bar. How about sports? What sport did you play in college?"

"Chess?"

"That's not a sport."

"You've never seen me play."

"What about high school? Did you play any team sports?"

"Does the debate team count?"

"What about phys ed?"

"Are you asking what sports I played on the days when no one stuffed me in my locker?"

"Yes."

"I was good at running."

"Sprints? Hurdles? Cross-country?"

"It depended upon where I was when they started chasing me?"

"Were you beaten up often?"

"Not really. It never occurred to our high school thugs that I could pick the lock to the janitors' supply closet. I had a flashlight, and used the time to read my History assignments on a desk I made out of rolls of single-ply toilet paper."

"How creative."

"In retrospect, it was good preparation. My apartment is only slightly larger."

"Word around the office is that you have a Murphy Bed."

"Not exactly. I have a bed that folds into a couch. 'Murphy' is my cat."

"You have a cat?"

"Not really."

"But, let me guess, telling people you have one makes you seem more normal?"

"I left Murphy with my parents because my apartment is too small."

"Sorry. Being normal is over-rated. ...Do you miss him?

"Who?"

"Murphy?"

"Not so much. We FaceTime on the weekends. He has his own iPad."

"That's nice."

"It could be worse. At least I have a place of my own."

"I live with my parents."

"And I would too, if they were my parents."

"I'm kidding. I just wanted to see how you'd react under pressure."

"How did I do?"

"If pathetic was what you were after, you nailed it."

"...And you were what? A cheerleader? Homecoming Princess, maybe even the Queen? Student government President?"

"I liked softball, but didn't get to play much, but I was on the school paper and the debate team."

"You too? Hm. Hard to believe we have something in common....Brainy intellectual sex kitten, my favorite."

"You're not going to drool, are you?"

"No. ...It's a chronic, weather-driven saliva disorder for which there's no known cure. They really need to turn the air conditioning dow..."

"Brainy intellectual, maybe, but these... These didn't show up until my freshman year at college."

"You didn't date much in high school?"

"You could say that. No one asked me out to the prom, if that's what you're wondering. Well, that's not strictly true. No one asked me that I wanted to go with."

"I would have asked you?"

"My point exactly."

"...So why me?"

"Wow. You really don't get it, do you?"

"I'm just being realistic."

"Okay, let's see. You leer at me less than the other guys I know."

"I avoid looking at you on purpose and it's not easy. Even Morgan stares at you and he's legally blind."

"You write well. I've been reading your blog."

"What blog?"

"'ImNotJustinTimerberlake.com'"

"Oh. That one."

"You have sense of humor."

"True, I'm good at sensing humor when I hear it. ...Is that it?"

"No....You have no pretense. I've lived in a world of pretense ever since I went to college."

"Ever since you grew boobs?"

"You know, I think you may be onto something?"

"Can I write about your boobs on my blog? ...in the context of a strictly academic discussion of the impact of late developing body parts on self-image and personal relat.."

"No. ...But maybe we can talk about them later if you buy me a really, really nice dinner?"

"Okay, let's go, but I still won't eat any beef."

"You just knocked the pencil cup off your desk. ...I can't believe you use a blotter."

"That happens sometimes when I stand up suddenly without pushing back my chair all the way."

"How often do you do that?"

"I don't know. Should I be keeping track?"

"Can you dance?"

"I vibrate. Is that okay?"

"By the way, I heard you're being promoted to Project Manager. Congratulations."

"Thank you. I'll be hiring and would consider allowing you to sleep your way to the top."

"Wouldn't that be harassment?"

"You're right. How about if you sleep with me, but I don't hire you?"

"That might be okay. We'll see how dinner goes."

"Uh, for the record..."

"What?"

"I've been working on getting up enough nerve to ask you out."

"I know."

"Really?"

"A girl can tell."

"Well, thanks for taking the initiative and asking me out first."

"I got tired of waiting."

"...I mean it."

"You're welcome but, in case anybody asks, it was the other way around."

"Of course....Maybe they'll have veggie sliders."

"Will you stop talking if we hold hands?"

<Table Of Contents>

# 3. Birmingham Airport

"Excuse me," I said apologetically to the young man standing behind me. "I try not to run people over with my briefcase, but sometimes..."

"It's okay," he said, glancing down at a similar model he had next to him and back up again. "I hope you have insurance?" He was kidding of course, and went back to checking his phone. In his early 30s, tie still tight around his collar, the sleeves of his stylish, mostly blue striped shirt rolled down to his wrists, his suit jacket neatly folded over one of his arms, he had to be new at this.

I was second, he was third in the crowded line at the miscellaneous foods stand that served the cul de sac of gates at the end of the "C" terminal. Pizza on one end, plastic wrapped sandwiches and bottled drinks in the middle, frozen yogurt behind the cash register on the right. Across the way, there was a bar for "suits" who had given up on doing any more business for the rest of the day. I couldn't blame them.

My flight was running a few minutes late. I figured a frozen yogurt would be my only shot at something to eat before I'd get home, late that evening, after 10. How bad could it be? I took out five ones which should have been enough. I was ready, not wanting to waste any time when it was my turn.

"Hi. I'd like a cup of..." which is all I said before looking down from the menu to the face of the clerk behind the counter. If there was a smile that could arrest speech, and make really bad food taste good, it was hers.

"Hey," she answered my interrupted order without the least evidence she understood the power of that face. She was black, late 20s maybe, with the perfect color skin and electric eyes I couldn't escape.

I tried again. "I'd like a small cup of vanilla. Do you have anything to put on it?" It'd been a rough day. I thought I splurge. Do myself a favor.

"Sure. We have, uh, chocolate sauce and M&Ms," she said tentatively.

"I'll have the chocolate." I heard myself talking, but wasn't sure I'd said it out loud.

She smiled back at me, this time almost giggling. "Sorry, but we're out of chocolate."

"Hey," I thought to myself. "She had a fifty-fifty shot at my never knowing, and went for it."

"Wait," seeing the feigned disappointment on my face, the not so subtle roll of my eyes. "Let me see what I can do," at which she turned, actually spun is more like it, squished out my yogurt from the vanilla side of the machine, and attacked the hot fudge dispenser, pumping furiously. "Here. How's that?" she asked me, holding out the cup, her arm fully extended with pride.

"That's..." There were a few unsightly globs of thick brown something on top of the yogurt that, incidentally, I just noticed was an odd color gold. "...perfect."

"$3.78."

I gave her the first four bills, which she accepted and counted by spreading them with her left hand while her right moved to the register, but then stopped, pulling out the third bill and waving it at me.

It was a ten I had stuck in my wallet out of place. "Ooo," a not so clever response, but all I could come up with at the time. So I took back the ten and handed her the other one, and she gave me some change, which I was purposely slow to take. "Thanks," I told her, "for everything," which is what I wanted to say, but didn't.

Not so as to hold up the line, I just rolled and stuffed the money in my pocket with the receipt, figuring I would get organized on the plane when the guy sitting in front of me leaned his seat so far back that I couldn't open my computer. My office can't stand it when I give them wrinkled receipts, but what do they know? "Excuse me," I said again to the man in line behind me, who had started to move forward just a second before I left. Yogurt in one hand, the handle to my briefcase in the other, I walked and rolled it away to the counter where they had napkins and the plastic spoons used only at the finest airport snack bars.

Unfortunately, it would be an hour and a half later, at 37,000 feet that I would realize I'd lost my wallet, and taste for frozen yogurt.

About the same time, in a cheap hotel room near the airport, the cashier with the killer smile tossed the light jacket she'd been wearing onto the first of the two double beds even before the door had closed behind her. "Hey. Sorry I'm late." She bent over to kiss the man who had been in line behind me before waiting for him to answer.

"Pretty good," he told her, grabbing her cotton shirt to pull her toward him, rolling back onto the other bed where he had been sitting, the two of them just missing the wallets he had dumped from his briefcase, mine included.

"Hey," she said, pushing herself off his chest, flashing that winning smile. "Let's get out of here and buy stuff before all these guys start landing. We can do this later."

<Table Of Contents>

# 4. IM

"Hey." Robert Brent, EVP for Media Operations, looked up from his desk at the man standing in the doorway to his office. Gesturing quickly with the pen in his right hand, "Come on in....Just give me a second to finish this," he went back to writing unintelligible notes on the single sheet of white paper in the only clear space he had left on his desk.

Finished, for now, he looked up. Sitting on the edge of one of the two guest chairs was the rumpled Management Associate he used for everything. Not yet 30, Will would never make the pages of GQ. Other than not looking good in a suit, there wasn't much he couldn't do. He was a natural, a person who executives like Brent used, but also respected, a rare combination given the intense in-company competition that was the world of their business. More to the point, Will was good, really good, but without the experience to be a threat to his mentor. Some day, probably, but not yet.

"Here's the transcript I told you about." Will sat up slightly, leaning forward to hand a copy across the desk. "It's less than 20 minutes old."

Charles: "I thought you weren't working late tonight."

Will sat there, already familiar with the text, while Robert read it for himself, out loud. Charles was brash, sometimes hard to take, but the most effective media buyer they had.

Adriana: "I'm working on tomorrow's presentation. Leave me alone."

Charles: "You could always block my e-mail address."

Adriana: "I didn't think I had any choice."

Charles: "You don't, not if you want to keep your precious reputation intact."

Adriana: "Stop it. I don't want to have this conversation on-line."

Charles: "They watch our e-mail, but IM is live. We're okay."

Robert looked up. "I thought he was right. How'd you get this?"

"It's the new kid in IT. The one we picked up on work-release from 'juvi.' There's nothing he can't do."

"Hm. That's scary. Can we trust him?"

"Are you kidding? We don't even understand him. Our only hope is that he likes us."

"Great," and Robert looked down again at the transcript, mumbling almost to himself, "Find out what he wants and make sure he gets some."

Adriana: (No response.)

She'd been there almost a year. Just three years since her MBA. Very competitive. Attractive, but not so much as to be distracting. Hard working and obviously smart, there was something Robert didn't trust about her, an insincerity he felt, but couldn't confirm. She'd have to get past Charles to make any real progress, but didn't have the contacts in the media, and was relegated to handling buys in the smaller markets.

Charles: "I've got another friend I'd like you to meet."

Adriana: "Screw you, and I hope they are listening."

Charles: "You did great. We'd never have gotten that pricing without you."

Adriana: "That just happened, you jerk. I actually liked the guy. So it helped the company. It's not something I'm doing on a regular basis."

Charles: "You'll do whatever I tell you to do."

Adriana: (Pause.) "What makes you think I won't print and drop this on Brent's desk in the morning?"

Charles: "Because we'll both be fired. Because by the time Will gets done spreading the word, you'll be lucky to find work waiting tables in Sioux Falls."

Adriana: "Up yours. I'm going home. Stay away from me, or I'm calling a lawyer, whatever it costs me."

"Is that all there was?" Robert was hoping for more.

"That was it."

"Are we sure it's real?"

"They were both in their offices, on their computers when I walked by a few minutes ago. Besides, neither of them would know how to fake their IP addresses, or have a reason to write this if they knew we were listening."

Robert wasn't so sure. You could tell the way he looked away from Will, turning and then tilting his head slightly from side to side, and did that small thing with his lips.

"...So what do you want to do? We could lose clients, not to mention Board support for your expansion strategy if we're slapped with an harassment suit and it makes the paper."

"I'll call San Francisco. There's an opening there. It'll be a promotion for her, and Hastings owes me one. As for Charles, I don't want him to know we have this. Let's see what he does next."

"Good night, guys." It was Adriana, coat over her arm, stopping in the hallway to say goodnight, the weight of her heavy leather briefcase forcing the one shoulder lower than the other. "See you tomorrow."

Will, turning in his chair, raised his eyebrows, his way of saying, "Hey."

Brent went out of his way to be pleasant. "Thanks for staying. Good luck with the presentation." And that was that.

Fourteen minutes and a short taxi ride later, she kicked the door to her apartment closed with the heel of her shoe. "Hey, how'd it go?" Dropping her coat and briefcase onto the hardwood, she wasted no time unbuttoning her blouse, kicking off the comfortable business heels she'd been wearing that day without breaking her stride.

The kid on work-release, his red floppy hair in disarray, looked up from the copy of Maxim he'd picked up from the newsstand on the corner. "I'm guessing they'll be recommending you for that job in San Francisco as soon as they open in the morning."

"And Charles?"

"He hasn't a clue."

"Okay, a deal's a deal," she said in a perfunctory tone, reaching around her back to unhook her bra. "Let's get this over with."

<Table Of Contents>

# 5. Self-Fulfilling Prophecy

In retrospect, had there been anyone to tell the story, it seemed to take forever for the glass to tumble from the edge of the desk to the floor which was no longer where it used to be, losing its few leftover drops of last night's wine along the way to oblivion.

The sound was deafening and deep, everywhere, but from nowhere in particular, building to a crescendo no one would ever fully appreciate, announcing the birth of a legend – fodder for endless future speculation among both our ordinary and most sophisticated minds.

Twenty minutes earlier...

It was a postcard morning, as it had been every day since they arrived in Nassau to celebrate their fifth anniversary. The view out their eighth floor ocean suite might as well have been painted on the air outside, it was that hard to believe. The door to the balcony had been open all night, the breezes that were everywhere on Paradise Island pulling the sheer curtain outward, like the flowing white dress of some unseen spirit that had come to watch over them. Below, on the beach by the cove for which the hotel was named, the morning sun reflected off the water and colored the white under-feathers of the sea birds an iridescent turquoise that seemed unreal.

Well-rested, they were up early, anxious to get their cabana chairs in the perfect position for a long day of reading, writing, talking about everything and nothing in particular. Now and then, when it was too hot, they cooled themselves with walks in the warm ocean water, and frozen banana daiquiris artfully prepared by one of the always-friendly locals at the nearest beach bar. Their first five years had blown by. This week at the Atlantis complex was just the long overdue break they needed.

Atlantis was on Paradise Island, separated by Nassau Harbor from New Providence Island in the Bahamas, a billion dollar resort with hotels, beaches, elaborate pools and water activities, all built around the theme of its namesake, the legend of Atlantis. It was Hollywood's best recreation of the ancient, mythical city that once disappeared beneath the sea. Andy and Carolyn were staying in the more exclusive, more adult, less theme-park section of the resort – the hotel with the two story lobby with no walls, the Mesa Grill and cushioned islands in the middle of the pool through which waiters waded out to bring you drinks made from rum and fresh fruit. They planned to eat at the Grill tonight, either that or go out for conch fritters and shrimp at "Bad News Jack" in the city. They figured they were young, and their colons could take it.

"Honey," Carolyn was too busy packing her beach bag to see what it was all about, "you're getting an e-mail from Amanda," his younger sister.

"I was wondering why we hadn't heard from her." Missing a birthday or anniversary wasn't like Amanda. She was a professor of ancient history at Columbia, and had taken the summer off to do research in Athens on the work of some ancient scientists. Andy sat down, double clicked, and began reading to himself.

"What's she have to say?" Carolyn shouted past the open double doors to the bathroom, squeezing herself into the bathing suit she had optimistically purchased one size too small just for their vacation.

"I don't know. She seems anxious. Doesn't even mention our anniv... Wait a minute. What's she talking about?" He was quiet for moment while he read the next few paragraphs. "Apparently, she was doing research on this one guy who was writing about another writer who he – the first one – claimed had originated the ancient legend of Atlantis."

"That's nice," Carolyn was standing behind him now, her hands on his shoulders, his arms folded in front of their laptop along the edge of the desk near their bed. "Let's get out of here. I know exactly where I want to sit." There was this one lone palm tree right at the beach, maybe 20 feet from where the water and dry sand broke even. Sitting under it was like having your own, personal oasis.

"Hold on for a second. She says the originator wasn't claiming to be writing about something that had happened, but was making a prediction, a prophesy about something that would happen centuries in the future. Hm. Today, in fact. The guy was some kind of genius psychic who actually offered what she thinks might be a pretty good reason for when and why it was going to occur. She's asked a friend of hers – some Greek geologist she's been dating..."

"Give me a break."

"...to help with the translation. She wants us to..."

"Hey, come on," she told him, leaning forward to kiss him on the back of his neck, just below his right ear, causing the usual instinctive crunch of his neck toward his shoulder. "You can finish reading and get back to her later."

"I don't know, she seems pretty worked up. I mean, look at this writing, not even taking the time to proof what she's written. It's not her..."

Carolyn moved her hands from his shoulders to around his neck, faking strangulation.

Andy didn't need convincing. "Yeah, yeah," he started to say as he rose up from his seat. "Head for the door. I'll get my hat."

Turning to her right to look out and over the balcony, she had an idea. "If you ask me, every room should have its own waterslide directly to the beach."

Carolyn left for the door, pressing the button to ask housekeeping to make up their room while they were out. Andy, right behind her, just barely slipped into the hallway before the door chunked shut behind him, and they were off, pretending to race each other on their way to the elevators.

Minutes later, in their room, the sound of the ocean wafting through the open glass doors was interrupted by the "boop, boop" of the breaking news ticker across the bottom of their computer's screen. "USGS scientists are reporting widespread, significant seismic activity in the British West Indies," the message began. Turns out, they were pre-shocks for something much bigger.

A wine glass next to the computer, still showing the last few ruby drops left over from the night before, began to vibrate, the bottom of the stem taping, first slowly, and now more rapidly, as it drifted across the glass surface of their desk. The screen on their laptop went dark, and all of Nassau sank beneath the warm, suddenly tumultuous waters of the Atlantic.

<Table Of Contents>

# 6. Finding Dana

October 4, 1966.

"Jeff?"

For a moment, lying there in the twilight of their bedroom, he thought he heard someone calling his name from whatever was playing on the TV that Dana insisted had to be on all night. He turned to look, thinking how surreal the flat screen seemed on the wall across from the bed, like a painting come to life. Slowly, he turned back to stare at her face, barely illuminated by the soft light coming from their lamppost through the blinds. It was the middle of the night, 3:48 AM to be precise, according to the glowing numbers on the radio across the bed, on the nightstand next to the side where he'd been sleeping.

He was up, but tired. He never did need much sleep, but lately, now in his early sixties, getting up in the middle of the night had become routine. Sometimes, he'd go downstairs to do the dishes leftover from a late dinner the night before, or write pieces, articles that no one would ever read. Writing was the passion that practical choices and the circumstances of life had denied him, but it wasn't that big of a deal. Finding Dana made whatever material things he hadn't accomplished seem unimportant.

He would stay downstairs until he was tired, so his restlessness wouldn't disturb her, and then go back to lay beside her, tucking his hand under her side to help him fall back to sleep.

Tonight, he got up, but stayed in the room to sit down on the edge of her side of the bed where he could watch her sleep. Her face, despite the years, seemed ever so slightly older, but then even more beautiful than the evening he'd first seen it. What he saw was as new as it was familiar, if anything could be both at the same time. It was Dana. She was the girl, now woman he'd love to meet, and yet somehow had always known. Forty years together and still he couldn't take his eyes off her, but instead of love, what he felt was sadness and fear. The night seemed like such a waste, given how relatively little time they had left. What, maybe 20 more years if they were lucky, if he could live that long? A long time when you're twenty, when there's so much more after that, but no time at all when there isn't.

It was a ridiculous...

"Hey, Jeff?" He heard it again, now with the sound of other voices and music in the background.

Whatever it was, he'd ignore it.

...a ridiculous question, the kind only an over-active mind would consider. On one hand, he wanted to go first, to never have to live without her. On the other... On the other, he loved her too much not to be there for her until the end.

"Hey, buddy," his friend, Howie, was standing next to the booth Jeff had been holding for them, seeming unusually short. Behind him, an anxious waiter was holding a tray over her head while his friends blocked the narrow aisle. Pushing on Jeff's shoulder, Howie tried again, a little louder this time. "Jeffrey?! I really need you to..."

"Yeah? Hi. Hi! ..Sorry, I was just... Actually, I'm not sure what I was thinking about. More like," he voice started to fade, "I was dreaming... actually." Looking up, his eyes blew past his chubby friend, past "Bunny," the girl Howie had been dating, to her friend with the green eyes, short blond hair and instantly familiar smile.

He stood up carefully, worried he'd forget that the booths were one step up. He'd made a mental note not to make a fool of himself when he first got there and asked the girl at the door if he could hold the table for his friends. "The Pub," which was all the simple sign over the door said, was one of those places every college town has, right off campus, where bad cheeseburgers on Kaiser rolls and fat steak fries couldn't have tasted better.

"Hi," he smiled back at her, extending his hand to shake hers. It was too proper, close to weird. He knew that, but did it anyway. "I'm Jeff," he told her, as if she didn't already know.

"Jeff," Howie decided he needed to make a formal introduction. "This is Dana. Dana, this is Jeff." For some reason, the exchange of names made her giggle.

He was still holding her hand, but finally let go on the way to inviting her to sit next to him on his side of the booth. Howie and Bunny squeezed in across from them. The table, he thought, was too wide, too far across for them to talk.

Turning to his left to face her, while Howie passed out The Pub's badly typed menus in plastic folders, Jeff said it again. "Hi."

"You already said that," she answered, leaving him to wonder if she punctuated every sentence with that same smile.

"Yeah, uhhh... We need to go out."

"We are out."

"I mean on a date?"

"This isn't a date?"

"I meant, without Howie, Bunny or any other animals."

"Don't you want to see how tonight goes?" she asked, knowing already how it was going to turn out.

"No, no. I mean, I already know we're going out again."

"You do?"

" I just wanted to dispense with the usual, awkward chit chat after I walk you back to the dorm... so I can spend more time kissing you goodnight."

Suddenly, Howie and "The Rabbit," as he sometimes referred to her in private, stopped over-talking each other and were staring across the table, their eyes moving from one of their friends to the other.

Pausing for a moment, Dana leaned forward, planting a gentle, perfectly long-lasting kiss on Jeff's lips, a little bubble of saliva popping as she broke away. It felt like a week before he opened his eyes, but she waited before saying anything. "There. Now that that's out of the way, maybe you can buy me something to eat."

<Table Of Contents>

# 7. Precocious

"My name..." he stopped for a moment to think about it, "...is Jake. Just Jake. I'm an agricultural microbiologist for a consulting firm. The name of the company isn't important. They had nothing to do with what I'm about to describe. Besides, by now whatever personal records I kept at the office have been removed or altered to fool any investigation. These people don't erase any evidence of your existence. That's way too hard, too suspicious. Better to leave you out there, stripped of your credibility. By now, my life has been tweaked, altered with finesse just enough to make anything I say here seem unbelievable, at best the ramblings of an over-active imagination.

They have taken from me the fraction of my life that made me special. It was hardly anything, but everything that made me unique. The technique was the proverbial telltale partial fingerprint proving their involvement. I have now become extraordinarily ordinary, of no particular interest to anyone. The records I have, but they don't know about, are quite probably the last surviving evidence that what I am about to tell you is true. I fear for my life. Even more, I fear that what I have done, however innocent and well meaning, will be left to prove, in horrible retrospect, that my story was authentic, and the danger all too real."

"It's late. If you care, I'm working in the dark, except for the glow of my screen, in the upstairs bedroom of one the kids of an acquaintance who's on vacation. I overheard him leaving his house key with his secretary for her to take care of his plants, and made a copy while she went out for lunch. He doesn't know I'm here, and I borrowed a friend's car in case they were tracking mine. No one followed me. I should be okay for the next few hours – time enough to write this, get some sleep, and be up and out of here early, before any of the neighbors notice. I'm afraid to use my cell phone. In fact, I've turned it off and taken out the battery. And these people don't have a land-line. It sounds corny, I know, but I'll give you instructions later for how you can reach me by running a personals add on-line....I'm talking too much. I'm so tired, but I've got to get this out."

"My particular specialty is protecting agricultural products from exposure to environmental and biological elements which, when those agricultural products are consumed, would cause harm to the public."

"I'm not much of a writer, but I'll do my best to explain what's happened, and then I've got to go. This will be an e-mail addressed to the Editors-in-Chief of the major television news networks and most prominent newspapers. Hopefully, one of you will take me seriously, investigate on the odd chance that I'm not a crackpot, and do something about it. I can't, and don't think I'll live long enough to do it myself, even if I could. At best, you'll staff it out, if it even makes it to your desk. At most, you might do your duty and forward it to the local office of the FBI who will give it casual study until it's too late. At worst, these notes will be one more inconspicuous item for the nice Hispanic lady who empties your trash after you've gone home for the day. With luck, you'll never realize and feel guilty about how many lives you could have saved had you only paid attention."

"Some months ago, I was approached by someone who identified herself – verbally and with written credentials which I verified with her agency – as Rebecca Kloonz, a senior analyst with Homeland Security. Ms. Kloonz was an almost too attractive blonde, as stunning as she was friendly, the consummate professional you couldn't get out of your head no matter how hard you tried. What I did, to be honest, I did for my country, so I thought at the time, but pleasing her was certainly part of it."

"When I first met her, she was accompanied by a suit claiming to be a lawyer with the same agency. I'll attach scans of the business cards they gave me. Although I now know they are imposters, both of them checked out when we first met. I called Homeland Security, and there used to be a handful of citations on Google, and a Facebook page, but they're gone now. Kloonz, the analyst, was to be my contact. The lawyer was supposedly there to explain the handful of forms and agreements I had to sign related to federal secrecy statutes."

"The gist of what they wanted was to hire me, outside of our company, to participate in what amounted to a game in the war against terrorism. My job was to devise and precisely document three to five means by which terrorists could infect the food supply so as to produce the most widespread, most frightening harm to our people, with devastating effects on the economy. One simple example that she gave me, far less sophisticated and effective than what she knew I could propose, was to introduce Mad Cow's Disease in multiple herds around the country, destroying the American beef industry and all the various related companies whose products derive from that core ingredient. But MCD was too obvious. What they wanted from me were techniques that would kill as many people as possible, quickly, before the root cause could be determined, and for which there would be no obvious or convenient solution."

"Other experts, as unknown to me as I would be to them, would then be tasked to devise means of protecting against these threats that I had proposed, and recovering from such an attack. In later games, our roles would be reversed. It was the patriotic thing for me to do. It's unbelievable, but I even met with Ms. Kloonz at her offices in the Homeland Security building in Washington. Why wouldn't I believe her? While I was there, some senior gentlemen stopped by to thank me for agreeing to work with them on behalf of the American people who, he explained, would never appreciate the value of my clandestine efforts and that of other scientists like me. Who knows what he thought I was there to do? Was he in on it, or not? God forgive me, but who wouldn't have thought this was real?"

"Attached to this e-mail are copies of the three suggestions I made, including detailed formulas, instructions for manufacturing and plans for distribution. Their insidious effectiveness never disgusted me. Their cleverness made me proud of what I could do for my country, but then they counted on that, didn't they, that I would be so highly motivated to do the right thing."

Of the three proposals I made to Ms. Kloonz, the one in which she seemed to be most interested wa... Hold on. I think there's a car pulling up in the driveway. Jesus, it's after 1 AM and Jack isn't due home until next week. Hold on... It's just one man. F**k, he's working the front door! He's coming in. I'm going to e-mail this now and send you the attachments later, as soon as I..."

"Hi, honey." His mother gave her smiling husband a quick kiss on the lips, and turned to shout upstairs to her favorite (and only) son. "Nelson! Come on. Daddy's home. I've got dinner ready to go. Get your sister and come on down. We've still got to pack so we can get an early start tomorrow morning." They'd put off going to the beach until almost the end of the summer.

"Nuts," Nelson thought to himself, interrupting his typing to press on the center of his frames, pushing his glasses up his nose that, sadly, would eventually be more than large enough to no longer need his assistance.

"He's not packed yet?" his father asked, putting down his briefcase on top of their cat he hadn't noticed was sitting in his favorite family room chair. You'd have thought Jack, the cat, would have screamed, but then he was used to it, and looked forward to them leaving him home for a week of peace and quiet. "What's he been doing all day?"

"Writing. I don't know. I haven't packed either." And then she laughed, not wanting to make fun of their son, but unable to help herself. "He's been grumbling that he has less than three weeks before school starts to come up with a really cool nickname."

"It's summertime. Why isn't he busy with his dorky friends inventing something?"

"Hey, they're not that dorky," his older sister, Samantha, always protective of her younger brother, had just come around the corner into the kitchen. "He's just a kid – a really, really smart kid with an overly active imagination. He'll be okay as soon as he starts Middle School after we get back."

"Nelson!!!" His mother couldn't stand not serving dinner when it was ready.

The cringe was a reflex he couldn't suppress. Still upstairs, standing up from his desk, Nelson moved the mouse arrow to "Send/Receive" and pressed the left key below his synapse pad. "Maybe it'll make the news," he said out loud. "That would be cool."

"NELSON." This time it was his father calling him. "Sam, please go get your brother."

"Nelson Metcalf Goldstein. Jesus, what were they thinking?" he muttered under his breath, closing the lid of his laptop on his way to the door. "I'm never going to get a girl to go out with me. Never, ever."

<Table Of Contents>

# 8. Dialogue

"God, I love Sunday mornings....Richard?"

"What?"

"Could you at least not read the paper until we get there? You can't walk and unfold the paper at the same time. You're just smooshing it all up. You know I like it crisp, the way it was when we bought it."

"Fine, fine. I'll wait."

"Come on. What's not to enjoy?...Watch it, that guy's turning. Let's wait for the light."

"I'm waiting."

"Waiting for what?"

"For the light. You just asked me to wait for the light, didn't you?"

"Could you get back on the curb?"

"But I like the idea of being married to a taller woman....Come on. We have 24 seconds to cross the street."

"It's perfect. We sleep late, throw on some clothes, pick up the paper and take as much time as we want reading it cover to cover over some fresh coffee and a toasted bagel with extra-saturated fat, mmmm, mmm delicious walnut honey cream cheese....Life is good."

"Hm."

"Richard, you promised."

"Okay, okay. I'll put it away, but you're getting breakfast."

"Deal. Now hold my hand and pretend like we actually enjoy hanging out together. It's the one day we both have off....There, isn't that better?"

"You just want to remind your friends that we're the only marriage they know that isn't on the rocks, and that's just because, in four years, we've only spent one day a week together. What's that, 108 days, roughly three months? No wonder we're still happy."

"208 days. Four times 52 is 208. Seven months."

"Whatever. Technically, we're still newlyweds. At this rate our marriage could last forever."

"But we have great sex, don't we?"

"Confirming my theory that it's best if only one of us is awake at a time....I need to write a paper on that."

"Hey, any time you want to move to the suburbs, we can both stop working 12 hour days."

"What, and not eat out every meal?"

"We could save some money. That would be... Brenda!"

"Jesus, stop waiving. She'll want to join us."

"Try smiling. She's got a morning session with her trainer, and please don't say anything. I already know what you're thinking."

"I am trying to smile. This is the best I can do."

"Alright, kill the smile. You're beginning to scare people."

"There, the table on the end. The one by the Ficus with the squirrel pooping in the pot."

"How do you know it's a Ficus?"

"I don't. It's the only potted tree name I know. Besides, I like the way it sounds. 'Ficus.' If we ever have a kid, I want to name it 'Ficus.'"

"It?...Would you mind if we took this chair?...Thanks."

"Boy. Girl. Who cares? Ficus is one of those names, like 'Dana," that works either way. Have you got money?"

"I do. It's in my sock....Don't ask."

"I won't."

"I'm too young for a fanny pack."

"Did you notice, I didn't ask. Just make sure my croissant is perfect. And make sure, actually tell him not to slice it. I like tearing my croissants apart."

"I'm going."

"I mean it! Don't take it if he... slices it. She can't hear me. I'm just talking to myself."

"Hey, Richard."

"Oh, hey, Brenda. You don't mind if I don't get up, do you? Lisa insisted that we walk and I'm exhausted."

"Richard, you only live eight minutes from here."

"Well, it seemed like ten. Besides, if I stop reading, I'll forget where I was and have to start over again."

"Aren't those the comics?"

"This one has more words than usual."

"Your chair's wobbling."

"True, but it's wobbling less than the other chairs....Lisa's inside getting food."

"No, I'm right here. There was no one in line. Serge actually seemed glad to see me. Hi, honey."

"I thought I was 'honey.'"

"No, you're 'sweet cheeks.' I'll make you name tag when I get back. Brenda and I need to chat for a second. I'll be right back."

"You really think my cheeks are sweet?"

" Read the paper."

"I thought we were going to read the paper together. Apparently not."

"You were right."

"That was quick. Right about what?"

"About Jeffrey. Hand me the 'Arts & Leisure' section."

"Who's 'Jeffrey'? ...Here."

"Her trainer. I think he's 12, but Brenda says he has the maturity of a 15 year old....Oh my God! I can't believe you dog-eared one of the pages. Have you learned nothing living with me??"

"Just read the review of Bob's play. You can thank me later."

"Richard, there's a pigeon on the table."

"None of my friends are pigeons. It must be one of yours."

"Do I have poppy seeds in my teeth?"

"No."

"Richard, put the paper down and tell me if I have poppy seeds in my teeth."

"No poppy seeds, but your teeth seem unusually large today."

"By the way, I meant to tell you..."

"Tell me what?"

"Hey, will you try not to dip the corner of the paper in my cream cheese the next time you turn the page. It has the perfect number of walnuts."

"That's what you wanted to tell me?"

"No....I'm expecting."

"Hm."

"I said, 'I'm expecting..."

"Expecting what?"

"...a Ficus."

"We'll put it on the balcony. It'll be fine....Did you take the 'Finance' section?"

"Richard?"

"Hm."

"Richard?!!"

"What?!"

"We don't have a balcony."

<Table Of Contents>

# 9. Creative Running

"Heh, heh, whooo. Heh, heh, whooo." It was the cadence of his breathing, more prominent, in his head at least, than even the sound of his Nike's hitting the pavement. As for the pattern, it was the letter "U" in Morse Code. He'd looked it up once. Beyond that, he didn't know why he breathed like that when he ran and didn't care – just one more idiosyncrasy among many he'd long ago given up trying to understand.

"It was unseasonably cold that morning, not yet 5 AM, running in the dark slowly up the hill to Grey Rock. He'd remembered to take his baseball cap, but not his gloves, and now the occasional rubbing of his hands together was breaking his stri..."

"Heh, heh, whooo."

"Jesus, I've even started thinking like I'm writing. That's got to be an early, maybe not so early sign of mental illness," he thought to himself, which turned out to be the point of it all. He was a good twenty pounds overweight, but the shape he was in or out of had nothing to do with why he ran.

"It's my time to think. Just me, daydreaming to the rhythm of my breathing and the sound of the street, enjoying the contrast between running by the occasional street light and then through the pitch black tunnels under the leaves of the trees between them. I like it. I can't sleep more than four or five hours at a time, anyway. Why not run? I get some of my best ideas when I'm running, especially in the early morning. It's the nice thing about living in the suburbs. No cars, no pedestrians, not this early. Just me and the noise of some insects I don't ever want to see, doing whatever they do in the bushes and trees between the houses."

"Speaking of running, there goes my nose. There," he paused for a moment to breathe in through it, "I'll just suck it up....Gross. Thank goodness there's no one else..."

"Good morning."

"Hi. Hi, uh," he stammered his response, surprised by the really attractive thirty-something blond who ran past him, not a foot away to his side, coming in the other direction out of the darkness ahead of him. "Crap. The one really good-looking jogger in the entire neighborhood and she passes me when I'm snorting. Perfect. That's what she'll remember about me for the rest of her life. Every time anyone around her so much as sniffs, she'll think about me, the guy with the runny nose and no Kleenex. Precisely the impression I've always wanted to make on hot women I meet. Who knows? Maybe she finds vulgar personal behavior strangely compelling. Not a bad trait for one of my characters, maybe a stunning, drop dead beautiful woman with no apparent interest in personal hygiene."

"Heh, heh, whooo. Heh, heh, whooo."

"Hey!" A car turning off one of the side streets just missed him, cutting its turn too fast and too close to the curb as he approached the corner, somehow failing to see the lighted band he wore on his right wrist.

"Paperboy, my ass. Whatever happened to kids delivering the paper rolled up in the baskets on slow moving Schwinns, meandering down the streets, trying their best to lead their customers' paths and front porches just perfectly, too cute for anyone to complain when they didn't....There, I'm doing it again. 'Doctor, doctor, give me the news. I've got a bad case of...'"

"Bacon?! Wow, smell that bacon. Someone's up early making breakfast," he wondered, looking around for the source, as if he'd stop by for directions and maybe invite himself in. "God, I love the smell of bacon. I don't see any lights. Must be a kitchen in the back of one of these houses with a vent running over the stove. Two eggs over easy. Four, maybe five hundred milligrams of cholesterol. Some chopped potatoes grilled in a fry pan. Just what I need."

"Actually, what I need is to get back to work. Let's see... Hey, what's that? Hey! It's uh... Yeah, it's a naked woman running, running badly, more like flailing down the middle of the street! There!! Just ahead under the street lamps at the corner. She's crying so much I can't make out what she's screaming. I've got to help her. I'll speed up. Oh, man, she's fallen down..."

"No, no. Too sexual. Gratuitous nudity. Exciting, but no substitute for quality writing. On the other hand," never wanting to forget a good gimmick, "the idea could come in handy one day."

"Heh, heh, whooo. Heh, heh, whooo." Unexpectedly, our runner looked up toward the sound of deep-throated exhaust coming fast down the middle of the street, the throbbing of its speakers confirming an SUV from somewhere else.

"Asshole!!" one of the young men from the SUV shouted out the window at him when it drove by, uncomfortably close to where he was running, just a couple of feet from the curb."

Turning quickly for what he was certain would be an unheard act of defiance, "That's 'Mr. Asshole,' you jerk!"

"Who gave them," he muttered between breaths, feeling like they'd picked on him and gotten away with it, "the right to interrupt my personal time?...Heh, heh, whooo. Heh, heh, whooo. Can't they see I'm working?"

"Unfortunately, the next thing he heard was the squealing of tires doing a fast one-eighty behind him. They were coming back, this time with two of them hanging out the driver's side windows closest to where he was running, driving on the wrong side, _his_ side of the street."

"Looking over his shoulder, he had a choice: Show them he wasn't afraid, which would have been faking it, or run off the street between the houses, maybe look for some people who might be up to pound on their door. Figuring this was no time to pretend to be cool, and without anyone around to impress, he picked up speed and headed for the curb, thinking he should turn off his wrist band. In case they stopped and chased after him, he'd be harder to find."

"Probably just some teenagers who've had a few too many beers," he said to himself, doing his best to rationalize away the fear he wasn't accustomed to feeling. "Nothing to worry about."

"Hey!" he heard someone shout from the car, "Eat this, ' _Mr._ Asshole.'!! ..POP. POP, POP!"

"It was the sound of something he'd never even written about, the sound of something he'd only heard in the movies and on TV, and not at all what he expected. For a second, he didn't even understand why he was falling to the sidewalk, ricocheting off a tree that was near the curb, thinking he had tripped, not feeling any pain or other sensation that would have told him the awful truth, that that popping sound might be the last he'd ever... hear."

"Nahhh. Way too dramatic. ...Heh, heh, whooo. Heh, heh, whooo."

<Table Of Contents>

# 10. Mind Over Maury

How I learned to stop complaining and love ESPN.

"Hey, Sue." It was Saturday morning, around 11. Maury was just coming back from Lowe's with a half a dozen or so plastic bags filled with what he needed for the weekend's projects around the house.

Sue had been friends with his wife, Doris, since college, a bridesmaid at their wedding 22 years ago. She had walked the few blocks from her house in their suburb to visit. The weather was perfect this early fall morning, cool, but not so much that they couldn't have their coffee around the small table on the porch that wrapped around the front of Maury's house. He was a little overweight, but still the same pleasantly good looking guy Doris has married, quick to smile, slow to get angry, devoted and attentive to his wife and children, especially lately.

"Hi, Maury," Sue smiled back at him, sitting sideways, one leg tucked under the other on the cushion on one of their wicker chairs, warming her hands around the fresh cup of coffee Doris had been pouring for her when Maury walked up the path from their driveway.

"Hi, honey," Doris put the coffee pot back on the table, and was slouching back into her chair, crossing her feet on their way back to the ottoman in front of her. "What have you got there?"

"Everything I need to clear up the last few items on your list," he responded without the slightest trace of sarcasm. "Am I the perfect husband or what?" The truth is, he was, at least recently, including in the bed department to Doris' pleasant surprise, and in every other respect.

"...or what," she responded warmly, kidding him with her smile. "You need help?" Doris started to get up, watching Maury struggle to hold the screen door open with his left foot while opening the front door with his right hand, the bags he was holding now dangling from his wrist.

"No, no. I'm fine." And so she stayed where she was, waiting until she heard their door chunk shut before resuming her conversation with Sue.

"Wow," Sue couldn't help but notice, "what's happened to him? I didn't think Maury did stuff around the house, or anywhere for that matter..."

"...particularly," Doris finished Sue's sentence for her, "since he got that widescreen and added all those ESPN hi-def channels to our cable service."

"So what did you do," Sue asked her, pretending to suggest with her twice-raised eyebrows that it might have been something sexual, "to get his ass off the couch in your family room?...Something maybe I can do for Bob?"

Laughing as she sipped on her favorite, oversized cup, Doris couldn't wait to share her secret. "No, nothing like that, sad to say. It was, uh... Well, actually, I was going to the bathroom a few weeks ago, hiding out from the kids, fuming at Maury for ignoring them and me to watch some college game he couldn't care less about." Doris stopped for a moment, sat up and leaned forward toward Sue to talk to her more quietly, face to face. "So I'm sitting there fumbling through the stack of magazines in the basket, and I come across one of Maury's Popular Sciences from a few months ago. I figure, what the hell, I'm tired of reading catalogs anyway..."

"I know, there's nothing in any of them worth buying, and the models are beginning to look like children. Just pisses me off."

"My point exactly, so I pick it up and start thumbing through the pages. It's sort of interesting, but I was just killing time until I get to the back where they have all these little classified ads, everything from Viagra to kits for making personal helicopters, stuff like that, and then this one little ad catches my eye." She paused for dramatic effect, playing with her friend, taking a moment's break for a gulp of coffee.

"Come on, already," Sue demanded, having fun being excited, "What was it?"

"It was this little ad for something called 'Mindset,' you know like a TV set gadget for your head. 'Changing the way people think.' was all it said, and a website....I don't know. It stuck in my head for the rest of the afternoon so, what the hell, I went there."

"So what's it do?"

"It's what they call a 'smart card,' like a credit card, but it's programmable, that goes into a slot on the back of your cable box. Take a look. I didn't even know there was one."

"One what?"

"A slot, for the card, in the back of your cable box."

"And what's any of this have to do with Maury?"

"Listen, it's simple." Doris paused as if to give Sue time to write down what she was about to say. "...You put the smart card in your laptop, and run the software that lets you program one or more messages, just a few words, that the card will play every once and a while, every so many frames. It happens so fast, the person watching doesn't have a conscious memory of having read it – and you can program it to run on only certain channels..."

"Like ESPN!" they sat back and said simultaneously, nodding their heads slightly up and down.

"It's what they call," Sue recognized the process from some book on marketing and psychology she'd read once, "subliminal advertising, isn't it?"

Doris smiled back at her in agreement.

"... 'subliminal' because it affects the subconscious without the person watching knowing it. They tried an experiment once in movie theaters to see if they could get people to buy more Coke and popcorn. Apparently it worked so well, they made it illegal....Isn't it illegal?"

"Well, yes and no," Doris was hedging. "The manual that came with it said it was illegal to use on other people without their knowing it, but..."

"Honey..." It was Maury, surprising them at the front door to ask a quick question. "Where did you put the shade you bought for our bathroom window?"

"It's around the corner, in the bag leaning up against the coat stand."

"Great. Sorry to interrupt." And he was gone, the front door chunking behind him again.

"...According to the manual, it's meant for personal use, you know, for people who want to stop smoking or suppress their appetite for snacking while they watch TV....But I figured, why not give it shot."

"And you programmed it to tell Maury what?"

"A couple of things. That I was amazing, and that he should do whatever I asked him to do, and love doing it." She stopped to chug the last few drops in her cup. "...It took a week or so, but then it started to work, and just keeps getting better."

"Unbelievable," and then Sue laughed, almost squealing with excitement, "and I want one!!"

"Come on. Let's get out of here," Doris checked her watch and stood up. I'll get my pocketbook and keys. They're right inside on the hook." Pushing open the front door, she reached to her right to get what she needed, "Maury!" she shouted to him. "Sue and I are going to get some lunch and catch the 2 o'clock show. See you later."

"Have a good time," he shouted back to her. "I'll be done with all this before you get back." And she turned, pulling the heavy wooden door behind her, leaving it for the screen door to take care of itself.

An hour or so later, Maury's buddy, George, rapped on the sliding glass door to their walkout basement. Peering over his shoulder from where he was sitting on the couch in front of the widescreen TV, he waved to his friend to come inside. On the wall, huge, almost life-size football players were running across the screen. "Grab a beer, this is getting good," which George did, plopping himself down in the overstuffed chair where he always sat, reaching over the arm of the couch to grab a handful of popcorn, dropping only a few kernels on the way to his mouth.

"Where's Doris?" George asked without looking at his friend, his eyes fixed on the action in front of him.

"Out for the afternoon with Sue."

"Does she know?"

"No. Never should have asked me to clean up the basement. Wouldn't have found it if I hadn't been vacuuming behind the cable box."

"Can't blame her." George understood from his own wife's constant complaining.

"Nah."

"So you've reprogrammed it?"

Smiling, Maury took a rare moment to turn away from the screen. "Let just say I wouldn't watch Oprah down here if I were you,...and the sex has never been better."

<Table Of Contents>

# 11. "Dream a little dream of me."

The title is from the lyrics by Gus Kahn.

"Bobby?" As tiny as their apartment was, there were times when they couldn't see each other. "Bobby, where are you?!" She shouted, struggling with one hand to dump their bedroom trashcan into the big garbage bag she was holding in her other, and do it in the less than 18" they had between that one side of their bed and the wall with the window to the fire escape.

"Hi, Dorothy." It was the shrill, instant headache, unforgivingly cheerful voice of her neighbor, the older lady that lived on her same floor, but in the building that backed up against theirs.

"Hi, Mrs. Donnelly," she answered reluctantly, pausing a second to look over rather than feeling bad the rest of the night for having ignored her. "How," she thought to herself, "could someone that nice be so annoying?" "It's cold out," she said out loud this time, "shouldn't you close your window?"

"You've got yours open." She was annoying, but not stupid.

"You're right, Mrs. Donnelly. What was I thinking? ...Good night now," and she reached up to pull the lower half of the window down, turning the lock and waving goodbye with a quick back and forth motion of her hand. "... Bobby!"

"What?!" came the muffled, frustrated voice of her husband from behind the pocket door at the end of their kitchen, "I'm in the bathroom. Give me a break."

"I'm taking the trash out."

"Fine, fine, fine," he responded with almost, but not quite complete disinterest, followed by the sounds of his turning the page and then refolding the front section of that morning's Times he was just getting around to reading.

"Ummmh." She was strong for being only five foot three, but the old metal door to their apartment, made heavier by more than a hundred years of sloppy paint, always took her best effort. Somehow the grunt seemed to help. "I'll be right back," she mumbled, not caring to make herself heard over the banging shut of the door behind her. Instinctively, she patted the right front pocket of her jeans to make sure she had her key, the garbage bag she was carrying brushing up against the plaster wall of their narrow hallway.

Five flights down and around the marble steps of the converted tenement where they lived, past the building mailbox, and she was almost at the door to the side alley. Outside there was a platform and two steps down to where the trash cans and, yes, an occasional rat would be waiting. But these were good, West Village rats, bohemian and more friendly than most in the city, so she liked to think, that fortunately she had never had the pleasure of meeting.

She took out the garbage every night after dinner, but tonight would be different. Tonight, coming around the corner past the mailboxes, in the dim light from the high ceiling above her, on the small dirty white tiles just ahead of where she was walking, there was something dark on the floor. Letting the bag she was holding in her left hand down slowly, she bent over, not wanting to kneel down. Leaning forward, it was... it was.. "Blood?" she whispered calmly, at first, until the almost academic nature of her investigation was interrupted by the "chunk" of the door a few feet in front of her.

"Oh, my God!" she whispered nervously. "There must have been someone there," she thought to herself. And then something else caught her attention. To her right, she extended her own hand to touch the red print, smeared as if someone had pressed his, maybe her hand against the wall on the way down to the floor. Turning her hand slowly to see her palm, a wave of fear unlike anything she had ever imagined finally hit her.

"BOBBEEE!!!!" Dorothy turned to run up the five flights back to her apartment. "BOBBEEEE!!" she kept shouting, running as fast as she could, holding her stained hand away from her and off the railing.

"What?! What's wrong," he rolled and sat up on his side of their bed. "What is it?" But then he knew, seeing her sitting up, staring at the palm of her right hand, her face contorted with fear, her chest heaving as it fought to catch the breath she didn't really need to take. "Come on," he said, reaching around and pulling her toward him. "It's just a dream, the same dream you keep having....It's not real. It's not real, honey."

It took what seemed to be forever, but she finally calmed down and fell back to sleep, lying there, her head against his chest, his arms still around her.

"Mr. Cooper?...Mr. Cooper?"

"Yes, Doctor. Sorry, I..."

"It's okay. You've been here with her for two days now. I'm sorry I had wake you, but I'm getting out of here for the night and didn't want to leave without giving you an update."

"So how's she doing, Doctor?" Bobby asked, getting up from the chair by the window where he had finally fallen asleep, exhausted to the point of shaking when he talked. "Why isn't she conscious yet? Shouldn't she..."

"Hold on. I think she's going to be okay. Actually, physically, she appears to be recovering well from the surgery."

"Then why isn't she..."

"Listen to me," he responded, doing his best to calm Bobby down. "Think about it... She goes down to take out the trash, like she does every night, but this time she interrupts some spaced out druggy who'd apparently come in through the side door, the police aren't sure why. He panics and shoots her. That kind of trauma does things to your head. If one of your neighbors hadn't stopped by for his mail, she could have died, could have bled to death, but she didn't. ...Listen to me. She's going to be okay. This tossing you see, this squinting and anxiety you see in her face... She's fighting on one hand to wake up, but on the other to stay under, to make it a dream, to fight the reality of what's happened to her."

"When do you..."

"I don't know, Bobby. You sit by the bed like you've been doing. Hold her hand. Talk to her. Most of all, let her hear your voice....You'll both be okay."

<Table Of Contents>

# 12. Memo to Carolyn

Metamorphosis. In Biology, a profound change in form from one stage

to the next in the life history of an organism.

The doorbell rang unexpectedly that unseasonably cool, gray Sunday morning. "I'll get it," she said to Jack who was busy looking through the Best Buy flier in the morning paper he'd brought back from the store down at the corner. Walking from the kitchen to answer it, past the boxes she and her husband had yet to unpack, Carolyn looked though their bay window, wishing it would start raining already and get it over with. She was numb, having been unable to sleep the night before.

"Yes," was all she could manage to say as she opened their front door to see a woman in her thirties and a curly haired boy, maybe seven or eight, whose hand she was holding. In the boy's other hand were one or two sheets of paper, neatly folded in half with something printed in pencil Carolyn couldn't make out. He lifted them up, extending his arm, his eyes asking Carolyn to take them as his mother began to speak.

"Are you 'Carolyn'?" the mother asked nervously.

"Yes," Carolyn responded tentatively, turning her eyes downward to the boy smiling up at her. "What can I do..."

"I... You don't know us. I live in Collier, about half an hour from here. My son, Jeff," the mother started to explain, squeezing her son's hand as she did, "is very bright. Good computer skills. This morning he was up early on his computer, typing. His hands are a little small, but he types real well anyway. Doesn't have to look at the keys." A sense of pride came through her anxiousness as she continued. "This here is what he gave my husband and me when he came in for breakfast. It's typed, as you'll see. That's Jeff's printing with your name and address there on the outside."

Kneeling down in the open doorway, Carolyn extended her hand to take the pages from the little boy, his big brown eyes giving momentary relief from the sadness she had been fighting. "Hi, Jeff. Is that for me?"

"Yep," he said, handing it over.

Unfolding it, she saw a page and a half of very neatly typed paragraphs. "Did you type this for me?"

"Yep," he said again, nodding his head up and down this time. "I'm in the third grade."

"How did you know my name and address? My husband and I," Carolyn looked up at the mother to make this point," haven't even finished moving in yet."

"Don't know," he smiled back at her, and her back at him. "It was just there."

"Where's that?"

"In my head, with the words I typed."

"How 'bout that." Carolyn didn't know whether or not to believe him, but, "What the heck," she thought to herself, standing back up. "Well, thank you. Thank you both. I'll read it while I'm finishing my bagel." She didn't know what else to say, forgetting even to ask how to contact them if she had any questions.

And the mother turned, walked down the stoop, her son in tow, when Jeff stopped, turned and said, "I'm sorry."

"Sorry about what?" Carolyn asked him, still standing in the doorway.

"About your dad," and then he turned and the two of them walked back to their car.

She was stunned. The almost surreal experience of these two strangers coming to the door, now replaced in her heart with the memory of being at the hospital the night before, realizing that her father had passed away just before she could get there.

Sitting down again, she read the note out loud to herself and Jack, who looked up at the expression on his wife's face and listened quietly to the slight trembling in her usually steady voice.

Hi, Honey.

I don't believe in God. You know that. We've talked about it from time to time. Just because there's something, many things we don't understand, doesn't mean a deity had anything to do with them. It just means we haven't figured them out yet. I believe in science. Still do, even now. And I most certainly don't believe in ghosts. "Dead is dead," I used to think to myself. Sad, but true. We are nothing more than complex biological machines, the imperfect product of eons of evolution, born to die.

These last few months, sitting on the deck, watching the birds and squirrels, I've been thinking about what makes us different from them. Many things, of course, but the one that struck me as most important is imagination. They know we exist, that we're some kind of living thing, but they can't imagine, can't conceive of what we are.

And so it occurred me, albeit a self-serving realization in light of my current "predicament," that perhaps we, too, suffer from the same shortcoming, overwhelmed as we are by the conceit and over-confidence that come naturally to any highly intelligent species.

Unlike my birds and furry friends on the deck and in the woods behind our house, we can pretty much imagine anything. It's the stuff of science fiction, proof positive that we can conceive of things well beyond our ability to comprehend how they might be possible. Imagination is the leading edge of discovery. More and more, as our technology and knowledge advance, it becomes clear that imagining something is the precursor to figuring it out, to finding it, to making it happen. It's not something the bird and the squirrel can do – although I wonder about the squirrels sometimes, the way they pause to figure out how to breach the "squirrel-proof" fence around the birdfeeder. They're thinking, and there is great promise in that.

What if our recent success over the past few thousand years has made us arrogant? What if we're not the most sophisticated, most intelligent life form on the planet? In the universe, of course we'll concede that there must be other, superior life, but that's a purely academic observation we lose nothing by making. Here, on earth, it's all about us. We are the superior beings. Even more demeaning, what if we're only a stage in a process so surprising, so different from our experience, that it is, to us, a thousand times more profound than the difference between the bird and squirrel and you and me?

Is it possible – and the fact that I can imagine it may make it so – that exobiological intelligent life – intelligent life without discernable form, the ultimate wireless entity – exists here, and that all we are, physically, is a cocoon, larva, an interim step in the development of something else, the existence of which is nothing like being human, the presence of which we cannot sense? How presumptuous of us to believe that life must have form, or that that form must be something we can see. There was, after all, a time not long ago, before microscopes, when we believed the only life was what we could see with the naked eye. Just because you can't see or touch something doesn't mean it doesn't exist, but only that, whatever it is, you can't see or touch it.

_I've always scoffed at stories about ghosts, about communicating with the dead, out-of-body near-death experiences and reincarnation, about whether or not there's any substance to the notion of a "soul." No doubt, they're mostly bunk, the product of confused minds and charlatans who would profit from the need many of us feel for something more. On the other hand, maybe, just maybe there's a simpler, explanation. Maybe it's just that there's another life form right here on Planet Earth, the distant relative we never knew we had to whom science will someday introduce us. What I propose, it's just occurred to me, is nothing less than a unified theory, a single explanation for all the spiritual mumbo jumbo._ _..."Boo!"_ _...Sorry, I couldn't help myself. That used to scare you when I would read to you when you were a little kid. Scare you, and then you'd laugh – but don't think from that poor excuse for comic relief that I'm not serious or that the circumstances of your receiving these notes should be easily dismissed. Sorry I missed you last night, but don't feel bad. I know you came as soon as you heard._

Could it be that death is not the end, period, but only a milestone? That the next stage needs time to develop the intellectual power and experience to be self-sustaining in its final form? Is it possible that we fight so hard to live, not because we believe there's nothing more to it, nothing beyond our current existence, but as an instinctive mechanism to protect the life form we are nurturing?...a life form our science will one day be able to confirm and explain? What today is unbelievable, becomes tomorrow's common knowledge in the science textbooks of high school and college.

Honey, I'm not talking God here. Heaven forbid. Nor am I waxing philosophical about souls or spirits. I'm just wondering if there might be a form of life, from us, but not like us, into which we might, each of us individually, be evolving.

Well, it's all so much crap, isn't it? After all, no one ever dies to tell about it. One thing's for sure, if you're reading this, the words, "I will always be here for you," will now mean more than you would have otherwise imagined. As for the voice you'll hear in your head every now and then, the one you think sounds like me, maybe it will be.

I love you.

Daddy

There was a moment of silence around the table, Carolyn staring at the word "Daddy" while Jack's eyes moved around the table, his head fixed and face emotionless, settling on the open and now empty plastic tub from Trader Joe's.

"We're out of cream cheese."

Not bothering to look up at him, she drew a shallow breath and set the neatly typed pages she was holding down to her right, on top of the folded style section she'd been reading before the doorbell rang. Her left elbow on the edge of the table, she massaged her forehead with the thumb and fingers of that hand. And then, pulling her lips apart slowly, closing them, swallowing and trying again, "Put it on the list," she said instinctively, "...I'll, uh," forgetting for a moment what she was supposed to say, "I'll be going shopping later today."

<Table Of Contents>

# 13. Business Management 213

The Fly And The Blonde

"Mis-ter Conner?" It was the always skeptical, deliberate voice of Professor Weinberg, looking up from the class chart – with pictures, no less – that he kept as the blotter on his lectern. If you were late for his Tuesday 8 AM class or, heaven forbid, missing, he knew it. If you were the least bit unprepared, he would sense it and pounce. Unlike many of the other faculty in the Business Management program, Jacob Weinberg was no career academic, having built and made a fortune in his own business before retiring to write and teach. His students both respected and feared him, wanting to be in his class just slightly more than they didn't. It was always a gut-wrenching, but nonetheless intellectually stimulating experience.

Eighteen rows up, just left of center from Weinberg's point of view, Bobby Conner rolled his pen repeatedly through and over the fingers of his right hand. It was something he did automatically when he was fighting the prospect of a losing battle with the attention and focus a Socratic method lecturer like Weinberg demanded. It wasn't a lack of interest, but a lack of sleep that was the problem.

Sitting next to him, on his right, was Shelly, the girl from Bobby's dorm he seldom noticed, or so it seemed to her. No makeup, because she didn't need any and wouldn't have troubled to put it on if she did. Two different color t-shirts – one short- and the under-one long-sleeve – and jeans so comfortable she may have slept in them. Her light blonde shoulder length hair going this way and that, held recklessly behind her with an oversized hair clip she grabbed on the way out the door, rushing to get to class on time. Glancing at the door next to her on her way out of the dorm, she considered knocking, which would have been the friendly thing to do, but shied away, deciding instead to look forward to seeing him in class.

She was gorgeous, in a completely unpretentious way, if only Bobby were paying attention. His mind, more often than not, was somewhere else.

Dressed in a perfectly cut business suit and just the right tie – so he was thinking at daydream speed that moment – a small, soft leather portfolio under his arm, Bobby's alter ego of the future careened around the floor-to-ceiling marble to the bank of elevators just off the lobby of the building where he worked. Mr. Conner was on his way up, physically and otherwise, to the senior executive conference room where he was about to make a company- and career-making presentation.

It was crowded, but not so much that he missed seeing the knockout blonde from "Acquisitions" in the navy blue silk blouse that wouldn't quit. She was the company babe that every male, and some of the women, in the office wanted, but who was somehow saving herself for him. A couple of polite "Excuse me"s and he was standing in front of her, she with her back to the corner of the polished mahogany-paneled elevator, he facing her, his back to the door and everyone else. They had flirted around the idea of going out, but had never actually done it.

"Big meeting?" she asked him, so close he could feel her breath on his face.

"Huge," he responded without the least hint of nervousness.

"Yeah," she said softly, taking a step, if that was possible, even closer toward him to whisper in his ear, "well your fly's down."

"No it's not." He was surprised, but didn't look down, unwilling and unable to stop staring at her face for even a moment, not the least bit shaken by what she said. "How was it possible," he thought to himself, "that every luminescent hair landed just right no matter how quickly or slowly she turned her head? Could lipstick be any more red? A mouth any more inviting?"

"Wanna bet?" Smiling, her eyes glued to his, she reached down, one hand on and around his belt, the other reaching for the metal tag which was now at the bottom of his zipper, pulling it up way too slowly for any normal, soon-to-be-promoted Vice President to handle.

Her business done, it took all the concentration he had to say, "Thanks....Maybe I can return the favor," when his daydream was abruptly interrupted.

"Bobby!" It was Shelly.

Turning his head slowly toward her, he was struck by how familiar she looked. "A little makeup, different clothes maybe...," he thought to himself. "She'd have to do something with her hair..."

"Bobby!!," she rubbed his arm gently, whispering his name again, this time as loud as she could get away with.

"Mis-ter Conner?!"

"What? ..Yes, Sir." Bobby was startled, but quickly got himself under control, the drowsiness in his eyes and demeanor pushed instantly aside by the intensity of his mind bringing itself on-line.

"Mr. Conner, do you or do you not have an opinion about the case study we're currently discussing?"

Instinctively, Bobby began to rise to his feet. It wasn't the college rule, but Professor Weinberg insisted on it, very "old school" and proud of it, even while Shelly was pulling on his shirt as if to hold him down.

Still whispering, she did her best to warn him, "Your fly'sssss down." Too late. He was up, and it was obvious.

Unfazed, Bobby, his voice confident and unshaken, said, "Pardon me," reaching down, casually, to pull up his zipper as if it were absolutely no big deal. "Sorry. I was up late last night reviewing this study and two others that were similar, and obviously dressed a bit too quickly rather than risk being late."

"Ahhh, bullshit!" one of his friends fake sneezed from the back of the lecture hall.

Bobby then spent the next two minutes going right to the heart of the case study with impressive detail and insight.

"Sur-pris-ing-ly astute, Mr. Conner," Professor Weinberg congratulated him reluctantly. "Try to get dressed more carefully next time, _before_ you get to class."

"Yes, sir," Bobby responded almost inaudibly as he sat back down.

Shelly looked up at him, mostly with her eyes, with wonder at what he'd just managed to pull off. Moving her left hand in front of her mouth, she waited a few seconds to talk until another student was busy raising some obscure and irrelevant point. "Nice save." She couldn't help but smile. "You guys didn't finish playing poker last night until after midnight....You do know I live next door, don't you?"

"Right next door?" he whispered back, playing with her. There are, he was just beginning to realize, some people you get to meet for the first time more than once. And then to explain how he'd managed to be so well-prepared, "I checked out some stuff over the weekend." Turning her way, about to follow up with some smart, maybe snide remark, he changed his mind – something about her eyes he hadn't noticed before, feeling the touch of her breath on his face.

<Table Of Contents>

# 14. Jones

"Jones," the older man at the first desk nodded without looking up.

"Good evening, Mr. Colby. How are you?"

"Jones," as almost everyone called him, was just arriving for the night shift, midnight to 9 AM, as an Assistant Producer – one of those titles that sounded more important than it really was, that they gave you instead of money – for a local TV station's news department.

"Hmm," was Mr. Colby's only response. Jones had no real idea what Mr. Colby did there, and wasn't sure Mr. Colby did either. It was some administrative task that didn't require supervision, or contact with other humans. Whatever it was, he'd been doing it for years.

"Jones," the next person he saw mumbled, rushing past him, her attention focused on some papers she was desperately trying to read before she got to wherever she was going.

"Good evening, Ms. Collier."

"Jones." Up ahead, it was the thin man with the unusually large Adam's apple holding his tie out of the way while he bent over the water fountain.

"Hey, Mr. Stedman," Jones returned the greeting, continuing on his way. "How's your daughter feeling?"

"Much better, thank you," Mr. Stedman, on his way back up, wiping a few late arriving drops away from his mouth, seemed surprised that Jones knew to ask. "And how, uh..." He wanted to reciprocate, but was in the process of confusing Jones with someone else he didn't really know.

Sensing the awkwardness, Jones thought he'd help Stedman out. "I don't have any children," he smiled politely in passing, "but thank you for asking."

"Of course not," Stedman said going away.

"Of course not?" Jones thought to himself, a look of concern rippling across his eyes and forehead. "I could have children," he attempted in vain to reassure himself.

"Hi, Robert." Robert was the sports AP, in the first carrel around the corner, in the row of carrels where Jones would spend the night, getting up occasionally to go to editing, the bathroom or to throw something from the refrigerator into the microwave. Tonight was special. He'd brought a fresh French baguette, some shaved turkey and Swiss, enough for a couple of sandwiches – and a small, two person bottle of cheap Sangria that he'd left in the bag so no one looking in the refrigerator would see it.

"Yo," was apparently all Robert had time to say, his eyes glued to some game on his screen – Brazilian women's volleyball – that had nothing to do with his job. The shift before him had already collected all the local high school and college scores. His job was to redo the major league scripts they'd used at 11, update the clips they had for the sports-head to review when he came in, adding anything interesting that was still happening in the western time zones, plus any feature material worth airing that he could cop from newspapers and other sources out of the area.

Robert was to sports what Jones was to city life. Together with the other APs, they'd produce hours of material that would be edited into 22 minutes to air between 5 and 6 AM, and then again between 6 and 7 until the national feed took over. The other 22 minutes would be weather and traffic – two ex-cheerleaders pointing to graphics.

On most nights, it was a two to three hour job they'd manage to stretch into nine. On the other hand, it was the middle of the night, which is how they all got hired while the normal people spent their nights, and days, doing what normal people do. For Robert, it was because he needed the money. For Jones, it was about breaking into television news, his first real job out of college.

"Is that you, Elijah?" Dawn was the only one who called him by his first name, and his whole first name at that. Without bothering to turn around, she looked up from her screen in the carrel just past his, and he could feel her smiling as if she'd been waiting for him to get in.

"Hey, Dawn," Jones responded, plopping his worn leather saddlebag of papers down on his desk, taking off the light jacket he threw on top of the metal bookcase behind him, in the space next to the dead plant he kept for unexplained reasons. Just hearing her voice was reason enough to be there. "How's politics in the big city?"

"Boring," she sighed back at him. "Any delicious, salacious, blood dripping sexually charged crime you want to talk to me about?...Pleeeeease?" she fake-begged him.

"Maybe later, sweet-cakes," he said in his best Philip Marlowe voice. "Let me see what's up first, and then we'll..." he started to say, only to be interrupted by the loud "Pfffuuuuuuu" sound his chair made when he sat down. The pneumatic poll that supported the seat hadn't worked for weeks. He was instantly short, the front edge of his desk just about at his armpits.

"Honestly, Jones," Jack Rawlings, the stick-up-his-ass night editor, was just walking past, on his rounds to make sure everyone was in place. "It's not like you're the only one here. Next time, take that to the men's room."

"Hysterical," Jones thought to himself sarcastically while Mr. Rawlings continued into his office down the hall, his door – He had a door. – closing hard behind him.

"Don't worry, Eli," Dawn pretended to console him. "Farting is a perfectly normal bodily function," she continued, unable to suppress her giggling, "that, uh, you needn't be embarrassed about." Dawn had a face that couldn't lie, a mouth and eyes that spoke more than words could ever accomplish, a radiant confidence and intelligence that cried out for airtime, some day – not to mention a smile that instantly became the only thing anyone could see, its reflection lingering on your eyes well after she'd left the room.

"You just like to say the word 'fart,' he snapped back, lifting his body up while pulling the lever under the seat of his chair. "God," he said to himself a few seconds later, waiting until the moment had dissipated in his head, "I love to hear the sound of her laughing." Rubbing his whole face with his hand to start the blood flowing, it was time to get to work.

For the next few hours, he'd be on his computer and phone until the 5 AM news team crew came in to get ready – to read stories he and the others there would write. His job was to look for breaking local news, mostly crimes and fires, locally, but around the country too, get the details and write 30 to 60 second stories he'd produce, with tape if he thought the visuals would be that interesting and the story was worth the expense – maybe even bring in one of the reporters and cameramen/women on call if it was a really big deal.

More of a writer than a television journalist, Jones liked to write what he called "News Noir," adding this or that detail in the text and the tape he would edit for airing – whatever he could to give the viewer some texture, some sense of reality from a medium (television) that had become brief to the point of meaningless. It was a style everyone seemed to like, except his editor.

"Jones!" It was Mr. Rawlings voice on the intercom built into their desk phones. "Jones! Are you paying attention?!"

"Yes, Mr. Rawlings," Jones pressed the button to answer him, even though he could hear him over the top and through the glass walls of Rawling's office. "What do you need?"

"Get in here."

Ten seconds later, he was standing in front of his editor's desk, the door to his office closing automatically behind him.

"Jones," he was exasperated, real or pretending, Jones couldn't tell, pointing with both hands, palms up, thumbs out, to the printed scripts lying this way and that on his desk. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" (Rawlings was one of those people who overuse profanity to the point of rendering it useless.)

It was a rhetorical question that Jones knew better than to answer, although it was getting harder and harder to hold back.

"You've got at most 30 seconds to tell the story. Thirty seconds at most. With tape, maybe 60. I don't need to see a rat running past garbage piled up near the crime scene. I don't care about some little kid cowering behind his mother's skirt, or how many children she has, or that she's working two jobs and doesn't know where they're going to stay or buy new stuff. Who gives a crap?! Talking head, crime scene shot, more talking head and we're out. Got it?!"

And there was quiet. Rawlings, the editor may have been shouting, and Dawn and the other carrel people listening, but Jones... Jones had been busy thinking.

"No, Mr. Rawlings, I don't."

For the first time since Jones had come into the room, Rawlings sat back in his chair, his mouth atypically motionless. "What?"

"I don't 'got it.' Forget about journalism. Forget the art of telling a good story. Just... just for a moment, think about the business, about ratings, about what sells, about the fucking – to use an adjective you can understand – monetary value of connecting with our audience. You want to know why our 5 AM news is third in this market? Because it's boring, mind numbingly boring. You've crammed so many stories into so little time, no one's paying attention. And then you have the temerity to conclude that they're the ones with the problem. You justify your abbreviated style of broadcast journalism by arguing that our viewers haven't the attention spans to appreciate any more than the superficial, minimalist, bulletized drivel you're throwing at them."

"Jones, Jones." Rawlings was pissed and mocking him. "The kid with plain vanilla name is desperate to highlight the distinguishing features of his life..."

"Sure," Eli agreed. "Who isn't, including the people whose stories we write and the viewers who identify with them."

"Jones!"

"Don't interrupt." Eli cut him off, taking a step forward to the edge of his editor's oversized desk. His response was startling, the smile and excitement on Dawn's and the other APs' faces unmistakable. "Do you even know my first name? I've been here a year. What's my first name? Come on. What my first name?"

It was rhetorical, but Rawling's eyes began to dart, and then look down at his desk for the answer.

"It's Elijah, Eli for short. You can call me Eli. Elijah Conover Jones. Conover was my great great grandmother's maiden name when she came over here, a single mother, barely 20, with two little kids, and built a business and a life out of nothing. Nothing. And now suddenly, you know more about me than about any headliner on this morning's news. How long did that take?"

"Have you ever actually read the sports stories you told Robert not to send you? Do you have any idea what cool stuff he comes up with? And Dawn. What about Dawn? Hands down, she's the best writer here..."

"Dawn?"

"Jesus," Eli's rage was gone now, his tone returning to normal. "Her last name is 'Henderson.'...Your political news AP? You know, there's a lot more to politics than the occasional election or vote in the City Council or Legislature. No one understands politics the way she does. You want ratings? You understand ratings don't you? The third floor sure does. Maybe we should take this conversation upstairs? Put her on the air. The wheelchair's her problem. Not yours, and certainly not..." The look of surprise on Rawling's face stopped him cold.

"What? You don't think we know why you won't put her on the air?...Unbelievable. You're such a putz. It's not only discrimination, it's bad business. Who would you rather watch? Some over-made-up newsreader, or a professional who actually knows what she's talking about and who's had the brains and courage to get the under-stories that count?"

"You don't like what I write, the pieces I produce? You're the editor. Edit. Do your job. Just keep in mind that the ratings we get are your problem, your fault as much as they are ours." Silence. "...I'm getting back to work." And then he left the office.

Walking back down the hallway, he saw Robert standing outside the entrance to his carrel. "I'd be crying," he joked, "if it were the manly thing to do."

Eli smiled back at him, mouthing the word "Thanks" in his direction, and then noticed Dawn rolling out of her carrel in front of him.

"Hey," she smiled up at him.

"Hey," he smiled back.

"Bend down here so I can give you a kiss."

And he did, her outstretched arms pulling his face toward her. It was a simple kiss, the short kind that would last forever. "Let's go," he said to her, face-to-face, kneeling in front of her, "I've got a sandwich with your name on it and some Sangria we can share in the lunchroom." And then, looking straight into her eyes, "Who knows? With any luck, I may finally get up the nerve to ask you out."

"Yes!" she blurted. "Whenever you ask me," and then she paused to catch her breath and regain her composure. "Yes," she said, this time with determination. It was 2 AM. "Now that we got that out of the way, I'm hungry. Let's eat."

<Table Of Contents>

# 15. Double Fake

"Come on, come on." Eleanor was the last of Jane's friends to leave for the elevator, the others having given up more easily. "We'll share some wings, the mild kind that won't make your head sweat, pretend to be laughing at each other while we scope out guys pretending to be laughing at each other, watch American Idol on the big screen, and walk..." She stopped, Jane's negatively shaking head having finally made its point.

"Thanks," Jane smiled back at her, not wanting to rule out a rain check, "but I've got stuff to do. Lots of stuff."

"Yeah," Eleanor nodded, her eyes twinkling in the process, "I know all about 'stuff.' See you tomorrow," and she ran off to the "bong" of the elevator doors opening.

True, Jane really didn't like getting home late without enough time to do things around her small apartment before she went to bed. But this wasn't about the droll evening routine of an entry-level program analyst on the twenty-third floor in carrel #2308. No. Tonight was all about Steve.

Meanwhile, back at the elevators, and the one, in particular, into which all five of Jane's friends were squeezing themselves, their over-sized purse-bags and briefcases...

"Hey," Eleanor said in a perfunctory tone, turning as she got on to avoid making eye contact with either of the two loose-tied young men in the back. Of the two, John was the cuter and more friendly one.

"Ladies," John greeted them politely enough, his eyes focused on Eleanor as she looked up and then away before any of her friends noticed, the doors closing behind her.

Back to Steve... Steve worked in carrel #3116 and, as it turns out, resided in the same, small apartment building where Jane lived. More importantly, he was 6' 1", had dark brown hair that fell wherever it pleased and blue-green eyes, but his friendly good looks and melt-in-your-mouth smile weren't the point. It was the way the sound of his voice made her feel that gave Jane the resolve she needed.

Despite her best efforts, she'd never been able to get his attention. Not really. Sure, there was the occasional lunch in the company cafeteria, with others at the table. And they would take the subway and walk together on their way home now and then, window-shopping for pastries along the way. They would talk, taking longer than they would have going home alone, but never long enough. "Tonight would be different," so said the determination on her face as she packed quickly, leaving behind the work she would normally take home with her. Tonight she had a plan.

Steve, who had been working late every day for the past two weeks on a special project, was a closet American Idol fan according to an unidentified source. He'd get home late this evening, order takeout to eat while he watched American Idol, and then do his laundry, which he always did on Wednesdays, later that evening. Bummer: Tonight, Steve would arrive at his apartment, turn on the evening news as usual, only to find that his TV and Internet wouldn't be working. (She'd have to do something very nice – maybe some concert tickets? – for her cousin, Randy, twice removed, who worked for the local cable company.)

Quick to adapt, Steve would go down to the laundry room at 7:40 PM, enough time to stuff his darks in one machine, his underwear and towels in another, and call "#1 Son" to order carry-out before 8. The laundry room would be empty, all the usuals being in their apartments, glued to their sets, watching the show from the comfort of pillowed sofas and over-stuffed chairs. Steve would just have to settle for the small screen that hung off the wall above the change machine.

The layout in this particular laundry room is important. First of all, it was small. "Cozy" is more like it. There were four washing machines, top loaders, two backing up to the other two, up against the wall on the right when you came into the room. Exposed pipes overhead, but who cares about that? Two dryers were side by side up against the back wall. And there was a folding table along the wall on the left. Two chairs were in the corner, between the folding table and dryers, facing the TV which, as you know, hung above the change machine, diagonally across the room, in the corner next to the door. It was a metal door, mostly frosted glass, that took forever to close by itself, picking up just barely enough speed toward the end to "thunk" shut all the way.

Jane arrived at 7:50, carrying a large plastic laundry basket, and a smaller round one on top with delicate items she'd wash separately – including two she'd bought specially for the evening just in case he were to see her putting them ever so slowly in the wash.

"Hey, Steve," she pretended to be surprised to see him, which she wasn't of course. But then what she really wasn't expecting was his awkward bobbing and weaving on his side of the washing machines, most of which she couldn't see. Steve was bending over and hopping a bit, and so it seemed that she had interrupted something.

"Hi." He seemed flush, blushing in fact. "I... I was just..."

"Wait," Jane decided to play down any awkwardness. "Let me guess," she said, doing nothing to hold back her giggling. "Thinking you'd be alone down here, you decided to wash the jeans you were wearing with your other clothes....How'm I doin' so far'?"

"Pretty much right on the money," Steve smiled, trying to maintain his composure while he pushed his jeans into the suds in front of him...."One more thing." Pausing a moment, he crossed his arms, "What the heck," and pulled off the mostly dark red t-shirt he was wearing and put that in too, carefully lowering the lid of one of the two machines he was hiding behind, but then it slipped, "Blamm!" and fell the last six inches or so on its own. "Maybe, I'll just stay here for a while."

"And are you washing your shorts too?" she had to ask, feeling herself beginning to perspire. "Briefs or boxers, by the way?" Jane asked quickly. "Not that it makes any real difference. Just curious, academically speaking. You know. Taking a survey."

"Uh, no. ...I'm," he pointed down, "still wearing my ...briefs. They're clean enough. And they're Hanes. For your survey," he smiled. "In case you're tracking men's underwear by brand."

As it turns out, Jane had actually seen Steve shirtless once when he'd been out running on a very hot summer day, but this was different. Shirtless and pantsless.

Putting her regular laundry in the one washer closest to her, Jane dumped the smaller basket of delicates in the other machine, one item of lingerie at a time, pretending to inspect them, while looking up at Steve every chance she got, her lips unable to keep her nervous smiling – It was more of a twitch, actually. – under control. Taking one obviously deep breath, Jane put the small basket down on the black and white checked vinyl tile floor. Standing up, she reached with both hands behind and under her white "I know, I'm hard to believe." t-shirt, her eyes looking right at Steve's. Neither of them was smiling just now. Unhooking it in the back, in one smooth, carefully rehearsed move, she took off her bra under her t-shirt and put it in the machine, leaving her more ample than average breasts to hang out on their own, under her t-shirt of course. Closing the lid, she did her best to hold the moment for as long as she could – and then took off her jeans too, tossing them into the other washing machine.

"Boxers or briefs?" he asked her.

"Survey research?"

"No. I just want to know," he blurted back to her.

"Jockey boyshorts."

"Hm," Steve nodded ever so slightly to acknowledge her choice.

Neither of them noticed that American Idol was well underway on the TV in the corner.

"Soap?" Steve asked.

"What about it?"

"Don't you use any?"

"Oh, yeah," Jane responded without the least inflection in her voice, but then didn't do anything about it for a good 30 seconds and, even then, as if she'd planned it that way. "I like to give them some time to soak, on their own, without ...soap."

One full awkward minute later, Steve reached for his iPhone that he'd laid next to his wallet and keys on the short wall that separated the two pair of washing machines, held it up and then looked up before scrolling to the number he needed. "You like Chinese?" he asked Jane. And the rest of the night was, as they say, "history."

Early the next morning, a few minutes before they had to be at their desks, in the last stairwell before the roof of their office building, Eleanor was just lowering herself off her toes, pulling her mouth down and away from John's who still hadn't opened his eyes. "So," he asked a moment later, trying to regain his composure," how was last night for Jane?"

"Pretty spectacular. She was almost incoherent when she called after he left this morning....And my $20?" she reminded him as if he'd forgotten.

"No sweat." He pulled the folded bill out of his shirt pocket where he'd had it waiting for her. "Steve said getting her to take off her bra like that was worth every penny. Good work."

"Yeah." Eleanor smiled, rolling her eyes upward toward John's. "...Thanks," she said, followed by a air-kiss while she snapped the $20 from between his fingers and finally stepped back a few inches. "And to think I ever doubted I could talk her into it....Let's go," she said, poking him in the stomach right through his tie. "We need to get to work."

<Table Of Contents>

# 16. Bob

This is a story about Bob, a "Type A" person

who is married to his work.

Two male coworkers at the high tech company where they were mid-level executives were on their way down the hallway – the one giving the other, newly hired, a tour of their offices, on their way to the nicest of them, the one in the corner just ahead. "Corner" wasn't exactly true, given that the perimeter of the building was irregular and, at that point, traced an ark, like the cross section of a wing, more dramatically curved on one side (the leading edge), smoother on the other. It was empty, this nicest of all the offices, the large table that served as a desk perfectly clear as if no one had been using it.

"So who are they saving this for?" the new one asked his mentor, both of them standing just outside the one of the double doors that was open. Somehow going in, even though it was vacant, seemed out of the question. It was the only office on the floor that didn't have glass interior walls and doors – where, if the doors were shut, you couldn't tell from the outside what was happening on the inside.

"Don't get your hopes up. It's already taken. Belongs to 'Bob,' the creative genius behind all this. Ever have a conversation with one of the new generation corporate voice mail systems, the ones that make you think you're talking to a real person?"

"Sure."

"Well, thank you very much, all the way to the bank."

"So what's he like?" They were talking to each other, but with their eyes focused on the interior of the office, at its perfectly finished uneven plank floors, and at the almost too many plants and flowers, some inside, some on the deep balcony all around. The entire exterior wall was made of seamless glass panels that folded upon each other, to the left and right, to open the entire office to the outdoors. A gentle breeze just made it to their faces, feeding the wonder of what it would be like to work there.

This entire floor was the senior executive suite, the top floor of their terraced building that all but disappeared in the topography of the countryside. From the air, it looked like a lush mound of light and dark green foliage, with random red, white, yellow and violet flowers that covered the edges of the irregularly shaped balconies that were everywhere. A large center atrium in the middle of the floor, going all the way down to the basement of the building, added to a sense of openness, of almost being outdoors. Stairs led up to the rooftop garden where they held indoor and outdoor meetings, and sometimes parties, when it was nice out and they could retract the roof. It cost a fortune to build, but was well worth it for the effect it had upon its residents during the long hours they often spent there.

"I have no idea. Never met him, and I've been here three years. He works from home. Communicates over the telephone or on-line with e-mail and video calls."

"Excuse me." Sounding highly rushed, Marty, a young woman with brown shoulder-length hair with a green accent on her right side, just before the bangs, pushed past them holding two bunches of fresh flowers that they grow in the complex.

"Jackie!" Another young woman was almost running down the wide hallway behind her, her pony tail flopping from side to side. She was pushing one of the carts they give you in the company cafeteria when you're picking up food and drinks for a meeting. The two men, not wanting to get in their way, split up and stepped back while Jackie opened the other door to Bob's office to make room for the cart. They were there, the two men, but neither of the women noticed them. "I've got everything but the frozen pineapple yogurt he likes!"

"Come on. It'll be okay," Jackie reassured her coworker. "He's going straight to the Board meeting. We've got time."

"What about the yogurt?" Marty was more than a bit frantic.

"First of all, it's sorbet, pineapple sorbet. He has it flown in from Maui. Call down and tell the Cafeteria Manager on duty that it's in the Executive Pantry."

"Hi, guys." Jackie's and Marty's gender aside, he called everybody "guys." It was Bob who, in all their excitement, they hadn't seen coming, standing between the two men, just outside his own office. A worn, soft leather briefcase in one hand, his other hand tried, unsuccessfully, to comb back the hair that flopped over his forehead.

He was tall, and thin too, taller than any of them had expected, his boyish good looks and warm smile leaving the two young women speechless, and the two junior executives invisible. Bob was the poster boy for purposely unassuming technology sector billionaires at their creative peak: jeans and a plain gray t-shirt, untucked of course, with a blue and green plaid flannel shirt on top of it, open in the front, sleeves rolled up in a hurry. Well-worn Nikes. Hair unkempt, but it could have been cut to look that way. If it was, the cut was so good, no one could tell. Money will do that for you. One of the girls would speculate later that he only shaved every third day, this being the second judging from the stubble, as if she had any idea what she was talking about.

"I just need to use my computer to print something before the meeting." His tone was apologetic, almost as if he was asking their permission.

No introductions. No shaking of hands. Nothing more than a polite "Hey" to the two men as he walked into his office and they headed back down the hallway, one whispering to the other, "So that's what a billionaire genius looks like." They, as if anyone cared, were wearing "business casual" to be safe and to remind the t-shirted staff under them that they were in charge. Bob, on the other hand, had nothing to prove and couldn't have cared less that they were clearly in violation of the de facto company dress code.

"Do you want us to leave," Jackie wasn't sure, "...Bob?" she added reluctantly, having been told to call him by his first name.

"No, no. Sorry to get in your way....Wait," he said to Marty who was stocking his refrigerator, "Let me have one those boxes of cran-grape juice." Holding up the palm of his hand, he clearly wanted her to toss it to where he was standing, maybe 15 feet from her, behind his desk, his other hand busy on the synapse pad of his notebook computer.

Glancing over at her friend for reassurance, Marty stood up from where she had been kneeling and prepared herself for the toss of her corporate life. Over-handed? No, too short a distance. She'd go for a soft, underhanded lob – but it had to be right on target to make a favorable impression. "Casual precision" was the effect she was after.

"Hey," he said looking up, knowing that he tended, for reasons he really didn't get, to sometimes make people who worked for him nervous. "The worse thing that'll happen is that I'll miss, it'll explode all over my desk and you'll be fired." Noticing that his attempt to set her at ease seemed to have backfired, he decided to encourage her. (By this time, she could have walked over and handed it to him, but it was too late now.) "Come on," he smiled at Marty, mostly with his eyes. "Go for it." And she smiled back and did. He caught it, unwrapped the straw, pushed it through the cross-slit in the lid and took a long sip on the way past the printer next to his desk and out the door. "See you later." Not likely, but it was the nice thing to say.

"Right," Marty responded, while Jackie just managed to nod. But then when he was gone... "God damn, I had no idea he'd be so cute in person. He's not gay, is he? I didn't get any gay vibes."

"Gay, no." Jackie seemed to know somehow. "Married yes."

"Was there a ring?"

"Yeah. You need to pay more attention to things like that."

"Okay, you've met him before. So I was a little nervous....Maybe his marriage will tank and he'll remember the moment we shared over a box of Juicy Juice."

"Savor it. The Board only meets once a quarter, and the word is he doesn't like hanging around people, particularly when he's crashing on something. Myra, the girl in bookkeeping who processes his receipts, says the only person he's really comfortable around is his wife. They're newlyweds. Myra (a friend of Jackie's in purchasing) says they eloped."

Leaning back against one of the office doors while she watched Bob going up the stairs to his meeting, Myra wondered out loud. "I'm surprised. He doesn't seem the least bit weird," she thought to herself out loud, almost sighing.

"Hey. Back to earth. He's just a guy, a really cute rich, _married_ guy. If we're still here when he gets back, and we'll both be looking for work."

"I don't think so. He seemed way too nice."

"He is nice. It's our ass-kissing supervisor I'm worried about."

"What's his wife like?" Marty had to ask as they walked together back to the elevator.

"Damn near perfect, from what I hear."

As it turned out, the meeting took longer than expected, a good deal of it spent convincing the Board that the time and money Bob was spending, had been spending for more than year now on his current project would be worth every dollar of it. Refusing to give them details or more than the most general status report didn't help. They'd believed in him before and he made them rich, but they wanted him paying attention to the development of their existing product lines, securing their market share before he ran off in a new direction. Whatever it was, it had better be worth the wait.

When it was over, Bob stopped by his office for a hour, enough time to meet with a couple of administrative department heads. Two perfect deviled eggs and some pineapple sorbet later, he was out of there. Down the highway to the high-rise luxury condo where he and his wife lived in relative seclusion, seldom leaving their penthouse apartment.

"Hey, Howard," he smiled at the well-dressed receptionist at the front desk, stopping by the mailroom on his way to the elevator from the garage door.

"Good evening, Bob." Even off campus, he insisted everyone call him by his first name. Building management had actually issued a bulletin to that effect to all building staff. "My regards to... to Sarah?" Too late. He'd already made it sound like a question. That was awkward. Maybe he should have used her last name, "My regards to Mrs...."? The fact is, he was just being polite, having never met Bob's wife in the several months he'd been working there, except to talk to her on the building intercom and receive a package for her now and then that he would take upstairs and leave outside their door. Bob and Sarah were known to be big tippers, and he was right to expect a substantial holiday bonus if only he could manage not to annoy them.

"She's fine. Thanks for asking," Bob nodded, clearly too busy sorting through his mail to be paying attention. "We'll be ordering some take-out, probably Italian. Just let the delivery guy bring it up," Bob told him, just as the elevator doors were closing, flipping the pages of one of the technical journals he was holding.

"Sure thing," the attendant responded, smirking and rolling his eyes in an expression of "What the hell," knowing it was too late for Bob to hear him.

Coming off the elevator, Bob's condo was one of only four on his floor. It was large, with the kind of high ceilings and glass only rich people can afford, but surprisingly modest for a person of his wealth. The door to his place was the only one with a 10 key security panel. It looked normal enough, until you realized that each button on the keypad was fingerprint sensitive – different finger prints for different buttons depending upon how he programmed it – which isn't something you or an intruder would have been able to tell. It was one of Bob's designs for their new security products division.

"Hi, honey. Sorry I'm late," he said, dropping his keys on the table next to their front door.

"Hey, I'm used to it," she shouted back sarcastically from around the corner from the kitchen in their great room where the glass walls looked out over the entire valley. It was dark out, and the lights he could see seemed like the view from the cockpit of a jet on its final approach. "Are we going to order something?" She sounded hungry.

"Yeah. Take a look at the menu for that new Italian place and order something for both of us" he said, asking for her help while pulling off his flannel shirt and tossing it over one of their two brown leather couches. "I've got to play" on my computer "for a few minutes." His voice trailed off as he entered his password and clicked to open the file on which he had been working before leaving for the office earlier that day.

Forty-five minutes later, the doorbell rang, a picture of the delivery boy popping up on Bob's screen. "Can you get that honey?" It was Sarah asking for his help this time.

"Sure," Bob responded, wondering humorously to himself what she could be doing that was that important.

Getting up, he walked to the door, opening it while he reached for his wallet.

"Hi," the kid said, "Are you," he paused, looking down at the delivery tag, "Sarah?"

"Really?" (No reaction from the kid.) "...No, I'm Bob. Sarah is much better looking."

Holding up the bag, paper inside of plastic, the kid read from the attached receipt: "Caesar salad, Speedo di Mare with broccoli and garlic mashed potatoes, fresh bread," and then added, having thought about it for a moment, "...Didn't she order anything for you?" as if that were any of his business.

"We're going to share. And it's 'Spiedino' di Mare. 'Speedo' is a bathing suit."

"It's already paid for," the kid volunteered, seeing Bob opening his wallet. Your wife gave us a credit card."

"I'm sure she did. Don't you want a tip?" Bob asked the kid rhetorically, pulling out a $5 bill, but then, looking up at him, taking out another.

"Hey," the kid said, trying not to gush. "Thanks."

Walking back toward the great room, the front door closed silently behind him, followed by a soft "boop" to confirm that it was locked. Bob turned left this time toward the kitchen area. "Sarah, would you join me for dinner, on the couch please?" And the woman of his dreams materialized from a barely visible light above the couch across from the table where he was putting out a plate, silverware and napkins."

"Hi, honey," he said with real appreciation to her exceptionally real holographic image.

"So did you give the kid a decent tip?"

"He seemed pleased enough."

"Are we working tonight?"

"Don't we work every night, Sarah?"

"I was thinking," she laughed at the impossibility of it, "that maybe we could take a break and catch a movie, in a _real_ theater."

"Soon," he encouraged her. "Sooner than you think. I've got our robotics people working overtime but, to be honest, I've seen their prototypes and they have a way to go....Tonight we're testing your sensitivity programming....Have you been studying the books and tapes I picked out for you?"

"Don't I do everything you tell me, Bob?"

No response.

"Bob?"

"What?"

"Is it too soon for us to be talking about having children?" She did her best to pretend it was a serious question, but wasn't that good an actor – not yet, anyway.

"Funny," Bob looked up from where he was dishing out his dinner, smiled back at her, complimenting the quality of his programming. "Well done," he said, and then added, "Are you sure you don't want some?"

And they laughed and talked about how their days had gone while Bob savored his dinner and the moment with a fresh glass of homemade Sangria.

<Table Of Contents>

# 17. Guardian

Between every parent and child there is a certain magic

that the fear of an innocent can call upon

to prevail in the darkest of situations.

Lieutenant Roberts, in his late 30s, a senior Detective with the same police department where he started work after college and the police academy, was all too used to getting calls in the middle of the night. It had been one of his earliest realizations that he would grow up and live his life in the state of his parents and grandparents. This place was his home and these people, all of them, were family, whatever time of day or night they needed his help.

Having been asleep when they called him, by the time he arrived just before dawn that early summer morning, he had to pull up a few houses down from the crime scene and walk towards the police cars and ambulances that were in front of the Colby's two-story colonial. It was a nice neighborhood, one of the newer subdivisions in this county that couldn't resist the lure of growth.

Rushing up to where two staffers from the Medical Examiner's office were rolling a body bag down the driveway, he saw Detective Sclorowsky look up from the notes she was making. Recognizing the look of concern on Roberts' face, she didn't waste any time bringing him up to date.

"That's one of the two who broke in," she started, gesturing over her shoulder toward the open rear doors of the ambulance nearest to where they were standing. "The other one, also dead, will be out in a minute."

"And the..."

"No one in the family was badly hurt. Just the mother, Leah Colby, and her 5 year old daughter, Emma, were at home. The father's out of state on business, but on his way back now. He should be here in a few hours."

"Just the mother and a 5 year old took out both of them?"

"Not exactly....Let's go inside. You'll need to hear this for yourself."

The house, still busy with police officers and forensic specialists, was good-sized, but not huge, comfortably furnished with the clutter and stuff of life here and there where you'd expect it to be. Waiting for them inside, the mother sat nervously on a love seat in their family room, her daughter next to her, her feet stopping a few inches short of the rug that covered the center of their hardwood floor.

Detective Sclorowsky pulled up the leather chair from the other side of the room, but Roberts wanted to be closer and sat on the sturdy, refinished wooden trunk they used as their coffee table. Both the mother and young daughter seemed remarkably calm, the events of the night not having fully affected them yet. That would occur soon enough which is why he had to talk to them now before they became any more distracted by the reality of what had happened. With some people, you have to wait a day or two. Others were best when you talked to them right away. Over the years, he'd learned to tell the difference.

"Hi, Mrs. Colby. My name is Jacob Roberts. ...and you," he smiled ever so slightly, turning a bit to his right, "must be Emma."

The little girl nodded her head up and down, but said nothing.

"Mrs. Colby, I know you've been through all this before with Detective Sclorowsky but, if you could, tell me the basics of what happened."

An attractive, slender brunette with wavy shoulder length hair, she looked remarkable given what she'd just been through. Even so, her lack of any response made Detective Roberts wonder, for a moment, whether or not she might be in shock and unable to speak. A large bruise was coming to the surface of the left side of her face where an EMT had clamped and bandaged a cut. "Mrs. Colby?"

"Emma and I have trouble getting to bed sometimes when Michael's out of town, so we stayed up late, watched a movie together and fell asleep on the couch," she told him, looking up and over at the overstuffed three cushion sofa against the wall behind him. "I don't know when exactly, but I heard noises coming from the basement. It's a walkout and I was worried it might be someone trying to break in. Sometimes I hear sounds from the woods, deer that come up to eat the bushes around the deck, a fox sometimes or raccoon, but this was different."

Her voice was steady and deliberate as if she had to concentrate to get the words out. "Did Emma wake up, too?" Roberts asked, thinking it best to interrupt her now and then, for her to hear the sound of his voice.

"No. ..No. I..."

"Mommy woke me up."

Impressed that the little girl was taking the initiative while her mother was clearly struggling, he turned to encourage her. "What did she say, Emma?"

"She told me the truth. That's what we're supposed to do in an e-merg-en-cy." It was a longer word she had trouble pronouncing."

"What exactly did she tell you?"

"Mommy said it was the middle of the night, and that there was noise in the basement she was worried about." Her confidence building, the little girl was relaxed now and anxious to help. "She told me to sneak upstairs, very very quietly, and hide in my bedroom closet while she called 911."

"Is that what you did?"

"Of course," Emma responded, almost as if she was wondering if he'd been paying attention.

"And, Mrs. Colby," Sclorowsky wanted her to include a detail Roberts wouldn't have known to ask about, "you didn't call 911, at least not right away, did you?"

"No. I keep my phone on a...," she paused to catch her breath, "on a charging stand on the counter there," she explained, pointing toward the kitchen at the other end of the room, past the table where they ate most of their meals. "I came around there, past the refrigerator, but never made it."

"...The first one of them came up the basement stairs," through the doorway just outside the kitchen, "and grabbed me from behind, bringing his arm diagonally across my chest, like this." She used her right arm to demonstrate. "I could hardly breathe. ...The second man was right behind him, but went off somewhere, while the first one pulled me down the stairs, back into the basement. I tried holding onto the molding around the door and then the banister, but I couldn't get on my feet – and then I thought, maybe when I got downstairs, maybe I'd be able to fight him off. It's my house. There're tools in the shop, if I could just..." She was starting to have trouble.

"Keep going, Mrs. Colby. You're doing great."

"And then he threw me over... It's open. The stairs are open at the bottom. He threw me onto the floor. I must have hit my head on something. I'm not sure. It was dark."

"And you called 911 when you regained consciousness?"

"Yes. When I woke up, it couldn't have been too long that I was out, I remember hearing screaming and crashing sounds on my way up the basement stairs."

"Emma, was that you screaming?" Roberts asked, turning to look at her, but it was Mrs. Colby who answered for her.

"No. It was one, maybe both of the men that I heard. ...And that's when I picked up my cell phone and called the police."

"Emma?"

"Yes, Detective?" Her formality would have been cute under different circumstances.

"What was happening upstairs, Emma, while your mother was in the basement? What happened in your room?"

She paused for a moment, as if wondering if she should tell him.

"Go ahead honey," her mother prompted her, reaching out to touch Emma's hand that was pressing on the cushion between them. "Tell Detective Roberts what you told me."

Looking up at the Detective, she answered his question with certainty. "Guardian protected me. The two men came into my room, and Guardian protected me just like Daddy said he would."

"Just Guardian and the two men?"

"Uh huh. ..It hardly seems fair, does it? To the men, I mean."

Leaning back to distance himself from the little girl, Detective Roberts needed to see her room. "Let's take a break for a couple minutes. I just want to run upstairs and take a look at your room. Will you wait here for me?"

Once again, Emma nodded her agreement.

"Detective," he said turning toward Sclorowsky, and the two of them stood up and left the room, on their way down the short hallway toward the stairs and to Emma's room. "What's Guardian?" he asked his colleague with quiet impatience when they were out of the room, "some sort of religious thing? Patron saint of little girls? Maybe a dog? That would be interesting," he thought out loud as they paused for a moment in front of the door to Emma's room. "Might make for a good breaking news headline for the 6 PM ne..."

"No." Sclorowsky interrupted her partner's recurring fantasy about one day making the national news, maybe People magazine. "It's, uh, not a dog."

"So what's she talking about?"

"Come on," Sclorowsky reached out to push the bedroom door all the way open, "It's the kind of thing you need to see to believe. The ME's pulled the bodies, but you'll get the point."

Taking the lead, she moved to the corner of the bed, turning back to Roberts whose eyes began moving slowly from point to point in the mayhem he saw. The room was trashed. There was blood all over the place.

"The preliminary conclusion of the lead tech was that both men were 'torn to shreds,' his words, by... by something with very sharp teeth and claws, something powerful, strong enough to bounce a adult male off a wall," she pointed to a large section of crushed sheetrock next to the dresser, " and to snap major bones. All the wounds were rough. No precision cuts or holes that he could see. As far as he could tell, there were no manmade weapons involved. Ralph told me, if we'd found the bodies in the woods, he'd be sure it was a wild animal attack."

Roberts walked into the room, but not far, being careful where he stepped. The walk-in closet was to his right. "Are you absolutely sure there's no way the kid and her mother did this?"

"No way. The mother was clearly beaten. There's some blood on the wall across from the bottom of the basement stairs. I think she's telling the truth. Besides, she's what, 5' 4", maybe 120 pounds?"

"And the father? What about the father?"

"Asleep in a different time zone when all this happened." Seeing her colleague wasn't buying it, Sclorowsky turned back a few pages in the spiral notepad she was carrying to go over what Emma had told her when the two of them had talked earlier. "The kid is hiding in her closet, under a high bottom shelf, behind some plastic storage boxes. It's not a great hiding place, but she feels good about it and can see the door. The closet light was off and the door shut. Smart girl, she purposely left her bedroom door open so it wouldn't seem so much like someone might be hiding there. ...There's no lock on it anyway."

That got Roberts' attention, turning his head toward Sclorowsky, away from the gore of the bedroom and its stark contradiction to the walk-in-the-park kids' wallpaper and phosphorescent plastic stars hanging from the ceiling. "She was thinking?" it seemed hard to believe. "With all hell breaking lose around her," there was no missing the skepticism in the tone of his voice. "She was thinking that clearly? She wasn't scared out of her mind? Paralyzed with fear?"

Sclorowsky ignored him and continued going through her notes... "So the two men come into the room, one checking under the bed, rummaging through the dresser, who knows, while the other one opens the closet door, looks down and stares right at her. The kid, knowing he sees her, shouts "Daaaaddddyyy!!!" at the top of her lungs, loud enough for her mother to hear her all the way down in the basement. It could have been what woke the mother up, even though she can't remember. It's so loud, both men stop whatever they're doing. Nothing happens. Zip. Emma says it was quiet for a couple of seconds and then the one looking in the closet door smiles at her, 'eyes bulging,' she told me. Looks left, looks right and says to her 'in a really creepy voice,' 'So you were expecting what to happen?' laughs and then starts to open the door the rest of the way to come and get her....At which time she says it again, but this time not so loud and with a lot less confidence, 'Daddy?'"

"All of a sudden, something dark 'whooshes,' according to Emma, around from behind the door, from inside the room, ripping into the intruder's neck – which pretty much wiped the smile off _his_ face. The man reaches up with both hands toward the arm that's got him just as he's yanked back, right off his feet, the closet door slamming behind him. There's tremendous ruckus, noise of furniture crashing and adult men screaming – that even a neighbor heard. Then it's suddenly quiet, so the kid gets up, pokes her face out the closet door, steps over the bodies and runs downstairs only to meet her mother on the way up. From what I can tell, the whole struggle couldn't have taken more than a couple of minutes while the mother was calling 911."

"And the Medical Examiner?"

"I'm telling you, the mother and the girl couldn't have done this."

"So what, they have a pet bear?" Robert's asked facetiously, searching for a reasonable explanation. "A large housecat," he tried joking, but the room wouldn't allow it.

"No. They don't have any pets. The daughter insists that Guardian did it. He was a gift from her father before he went out of town, to protect her. They just moved here this summer in time to get settled and ready for the school year. The kid didn't want to move..."

"They never do."

"...and has been withdrawn, so the father bought her the bear to make her feel safe."

"I thought you said they didn't have any pets? Besides, what kind of father buys his kid a wild animal?"

"No pets. Guardian," she explained, moving away from the end of the bed from where she had been blocking Roberts' view of the headboard, is the kid's stuffed California brown bear."

And there he sat, as true-to-life as stuffed bears get, about the size of a new bear cub, his faux fur perfect for hugging. Sitting up between two pillows, his plastic eyes appeared to be staring right at them, the expression on his face so innocent and friendly – except, of course, for the blood soaked torn piece of one of the intruder's t-shirt hanging out the corner of his mouth.

"The piece of cloth there? This is, what, some kind of elaborate prank? The ME tech thinks this is funny?!" Roberts was hoping it was.

Sclorowsky looked back at him, pursing her lips, shaking her head slowly left to right. "No. I was the first here and it was there when I opened the door. The mother and daughter were way too traumatized to have staged this. And we've got two bodies to prove it....So tell me," she asked, walking behind him going down the stairs, "just how do you want me to write this up?"

"Home Invasion Stifled," so the local paper ran the story, "Intruders Killed By Unidentified Party." There was even speculation that the killer was a third intruder upset that the other two we're planning to harm the family. They could speculate all they wanted, Emma would always know what really happened. And the bear would follow her to college and to her apartment after graduation years later – fair warning to petty thieves and worse who might be so foolish as to pay her a visit.

<Table Of Contents>

# 18. Corporate Culture

It was a case of "unauthorized schtupping" which was what it said, in more professional terms, on the papers when Jeremy's wife of just three years sued him for divorce. As for the more common description, those were the words of the division's President, Howie Rackman, who thought he was funny, but wasn't. Only three years from retirement, Rackman's sensitivities and terminology were those of a very different time.

"Schtupping," from the Yiddish "schtupn" meaning to push (in) or press. Rackman, who wasn't Jewish, but who had secretly always wanted to be, thought it was funny to mock Jeremy's ethnicity, laughing out loud when he did, shaking his head from side to side as he marveled at the wit only he appreciated. (He also wanted to be Italian, but only if he could have the accent he was certain women found irresistible.) At least he was an equal opportunity jerk, having no qualms about offending anyone regardless of their origins or type – especially women whom he considered inferior, little more than interesting toys for the men in their lives and his company to play with. "Somebody has to do all this clerical shit," he often remarked around the conference table after one of the young female assistants who worked with senior management would leave to get coffee, make copies or do "God knows what." It was no accident that they were all young and attractive. That was, after all, the primary reason they were hired.

Jeremy Levitz, the senior Assistant Manager in the division, just three years out of Wharton with his MBA, never fit in and couldn't get the promotions his work deserved. The market was soft, so he couldn't leave. What he wanted was to manage one of the new offices they were opening – get the hell out of corporate, spend the next three years building that office his way and then move back to headquarters after Rackman retired.

Jeremy was good enough for management to take credit for his work, but not good enough to be one of them. Their nominal excuse was his lack of experience. The real reason was that they didn't want the competition and couldn't overwork and otherwise exploit one of their own, and that meant denying Jeremy membership in their exclusive club of over-paid, under-performing senior division executives.

And then there was Ruth. 30. Unquestionably the hottest "shiksa" in the office. (Rackman liked to use these terms like they were his own. "Ever wonder to yourself," Jeremy once asked his wife, "where politically incorrect expressions go to die? Now you know.") As close to being "one of the boys" as a woman could be, she'd earned every dollar she'd made putting up with their crap, never letting them get to her, keeping her distance – never once having had so much as dinner with one of them. Rackman and his posse didn't respect her, not really, so much as they feared having to deal with her. She made them nervous for the wrong and inappropriate reasons.

Ruth and Jeremy were the ones who made the division happen. Everyone in their division knew it. More to the point, so did corporate management two floors up. They tolerated Rackman as a legacy, for his work with the founder who built the company decades ago, but planned to clean house as soon he left. In the meantime, although neither Ruth nor Jeremy knew it, the two of them were bullet proof. Picking on them, dumping on them was as far as corporate would allow Rackman to go, although being fired might have been a godsend. For the two of them, the next three years under his supervision would seem like ten.

"I need the re-analysis of our southeastern region on my desk Monday morning." Rackman's tone was matter-of-fact, barely breaking his stride on his way past Jeremy's office. Leaving early for the weekend, he wouldn't be missed. "I'll need 10 binders, and write me a presentation, big type, you know how I like it, including notes indicating when I point to what. That always impresses them....Use Ruth for whatever you need," he added, raising his eyebrows as if those instructions had sexual implications. (Ruth had wondered out loud to Jeremy once, after a particularly slimy exchange with Rackman, whether or not he had a clue how truly unattractive he was? It was a rhetorical observation.) "See you," and he was off without bothering to ask if there might be any questions, utter a "Thanks" or wait for Jeremy to nod his acceptance. Just a "Whoa. Hold the elevator," in which everyone was begging the doors to shut more quickly, and he was gone.

"Asshole," Jeremy mumbled under his breath, rolling his chair to look out at the cityscape and ponder his frustration. He'd been hoping to spend some quality time with Evelyn this weekend, but clearly that wasn't going to happen. He'd be lucky to get out of his office. Maybe, he thought to himself, eyeing a young woman moving wistfully through her office in the building across the street, maybe Evelyn would bring over some carryout that evening and they could get to know the leather on the couch in his office together. Just then, the woman across the street stopped, and turned to face him. Smiling, she waved and let him lip read the word, "Hey." He smiled and waived back at her the way they often did, both of them slightly embarrassed by their long-distance, never-gonna-happen relationship as she walked away and out of her office. Seeing her like that, the girl with short blonde hair he'd never met, was often the highlight of his day.

Turning back to his desk, Jeremy reached for his phone, thinking he'd better call Evelyn, just before it "buzzzz"d at him. Pressing the intercom button, he said the usual, "This is Jeremy. What do you need?"

"Hey. It's Irene," the receptionist on that floor. "There's a messenger here with some papers he says he has to give to you, personally. Can you come out, or should I walk him back."

"Thanks. Here I come."

It was to the right, just down the open hallway formed by the offices along the perimeter and waist-high carrels in the middle of the floor. Turning the corner past the upholstered furniture in the small lobby, instead of the usual bicycle messenger smelling like he had just been on fire, there was a young man, in his early twenties, wearing a suit. Hearing someone coming, he was quick to break off his vain attempt to score points with Irene. It wasn't that she was so pretty, as it was the effect of her strawberry blonde hair that seemed to have a life of its own.

"Mr. Stein? Jeremy Stein?"

"Yes?"

"This is for you," he said, taking a 9 x 12 white envelope out of the zippered portfolio he'd been holding against his chest. "And, if you would," he paused for a moment, looking down to fill in the time on his clipboard form, "Please sign here, in the blank next to your name." Jeremy scribbled his usual "JStein," no period after the "J," looking apprehensively at the return address for one of their city's boutique law firms, well known for representing women in divorce, workplace and other litigation. "Thank you, Mr. Stein."

"Yeah," Jeremy mumbled, putting off opening the envelope until he was back in his office, knowing that Irene would be staring after him wanting to ask what was going on, but being nice enough to understand that it was none of her business.

It was a Friday afternoon, after a long week during which Jeremy had been noticeably upset by some rough calls with his wife, Evelyn, his end of the arguments having been overheard through his office walls even though he'd been trying to keep it down. Apparently she'd had it with the endless late night sessions at the office working with Ruth, often going until 1 or 2 AM, not to mention the weekends.

He was surprised, having been more or less oblivious to his marriage during the past year, but then he wasn't. They were divorce papers alright, accusing him of adultery, naming Ruth Smythe the subject of his indiscretions. Ruth would deny the accusations vehemently, but no one would believe her – not even her friends among the other women in the office who had seen the two of them working together, heard the occasional laughter, seen them touch or brush up against each other when no one was supposed to be looking. It might have appeared innocent enough at the time, but now it made perfectly good sense.

By Monday afternoon, everyone knew. At first, and to everyone's surprise, management wasn't annoyed at their intra-office affair. Far from it, they were impressed that Jeremy had nailed, repeatedly, the hottest girl in the office – and _at_ the office, no less. For Rackman and his yes-men, it was enough to make them tear-up. "Way to go, Jeremy. Good work." They didn't say it out loud, but you could read it on their faces and in the way they had started treating Jeremy. Make him one the boys, his sexual conquests rub off on them. The fact was, they still didn't like him. All this new-found camaraderie was more about minimizing Ruth. Respecting Jeremy had nothing to do with it.

And so they were feeling pretty good about themselves, living vicariously through Jeremy, until Ruth showed up with her attorney – a striking, if severe looking woman – who sat down in Rackman's office, door shut, and explained, in no uncertain terms, how her client was going to sue his company's ass off for sexual harassment and discrimination. Proof? What proof did she have? Sexual harassment and discrimination are always so hard to prove.

Ruth's attorney wasn't about to concede any ground. "Mr. Rackman, you don't honestly think a jury is going believe anything you have to say? You don't have a single woman in any management position, not here or in any of your offices. With a couple of exceptions in the mailroom, the entire clerical staff is female, young and attractive. No one over 40, no one overweight – and every one of them underpaid according to agency and government industry surveys."

"This is extortion. This sex stuff was between Stein and your client. Strictly personal business. What's the company got to do with it?"

"You're not really paying attention, are you Mr. Rackman? In the past 4 years, different men on your management team – including you – have asked my client out to dinner – a dinner "date" mind you, with no business purpose – on seven documented occasions, all of which invitations she declined. During the same period, she's received nothing more than routine, minimal increases in salary, despite very substantial expansion of her responsibilities and three "Superior Performance Memoranda" for work which came to the attention of senior corporate management."

You'd think Rackman wouldn't have talked to them without his own counsel in the room, but that would have included corporate in the conversation. Turns out that a significant portion of his retirement income is subject to Board approval. The kind of mess Ruth's attorney was threatening wouldn't be good for him.

"And now," Ruth's attorney continued, "when she's required to work _under_ an Assistant Manager with less experience than she has, but who she has to please and, by inference, please you to keep her job, this happens!" The attorney held up her copy of the divorce papers. "'Use Ruth for whatever you want'? Are you kidding? That's the way you talk about a female professional, raised eyebrows and a condescending smirk on your face, in earshot of the staff she supervises? Do you really want to take us on?"

"What do want?"

"Surprisingly little. You've got two new regional offices opening up in Savannah and Phoenix for which you're advertising for managers. Stein gets Savannah. My client wants Phoenix. Three year, no cut contracts, with standard executive level benefits, increases and bonuses. Promotions effective the first of next month."

Rackman was quiet, doing his best to avoid the stare of the women sitting on the other side of his desk. And then he looked up, leaning back in his chair. "What the fuck. Your client can have Phoenix. Too damn hot, if you ask me, but why do you care what happens to Stein?"

"My client feels that he's basically an okay guy, who shouldn't lose his job over something that's really your fault. His marriage is over. It'll be enough to have him reassigned to a startup office. You'll just have to learn to live without the two of them."

No reaction. (Unbelievably, Rackman was too busy staring at the attorney's legs, her skirt being a full three inches above her knee.)

"Besides, what do you care? Just agree and all this goes away."

"You're right," he said, getting back to the issue at hand, "I don't care. Consider it done."

"We'll expect both contracts in my inbox by COB Friday. My e-mail address is on my card. "

His pursed lips and inability to look them in the face were the only response they were going to get. Picking up the card the lawyer had given him when they first came into his office, he tapped the edge of it on his desk and waited for the sound of them pushing back their chairs to get up and leave.

Two weeks later...

"Hey, Ruth!" Jeremy realized it was her before he answered, calling from her new Phoenix area code cell phone number. "Are you having as much fun as I am?"

"More! How's Evelyn? Are you settled in yet?"

"Yeah, we're fine. What's not to like? The city's great. We virtually live on the ocean, and her parents and sister are less than an hour away."

"Not to mention the money!!" He could have almost heard her laughing without the cell phones. "Absolutely the best idea Evelyn ever had!"

"Hi, honey. It's Ruth." Evelyn, holding the carryout they ordered, had just poked her head, to be funny, around the corner of the open door to his office. Jeremy would be working late tonight and they thought they'd unwrap his new chairs and leather couch together."

"Here," she reached for his phone, "give it to me." "Hey, Ruthie! Thanks for your help with all this."

"Are you kidding? I just wish I'd thought of it – or had a cousin who's a women's rights attorney."

"Consider it a team effort. Rackman's been screwing you and Jeremy all this time. The least we could do is return the favor."

<Table Of Contents>

# 19. Jimmy Loves Melissa

Once upon a time...

" _I'll tell you the story of Jimmy Jet –_

And you know what I tell you is true.

He loved to watch his TV set

Almost as much as you."

The quote in the header is from Shel Silverstein's "Jimmy Jet and His TV Set," one of the children's poems in Where the Sidewalk Ends, published in 1974.

Tuesday at 6:47 PM...

"Hey." Jimmy was beat. He was beginning to think this internship, in the summer before he would graduate college, was revenge for something really bad he'd done to someone, but couldn't remember. Just two excruciatingly stressful days into the week, and he'd already had it. Monday's trip out of town on business hadn't gone well, but he was back. Tired, disheveled, he plopped his computer case and small duffel bag onto the hallway floor in front of his apartment, and started fumbling for his keys just as Melissa got off the elevator and turned toward her apartment, the one directly across the hallway from his.

"Hey," she responded, her raincoat folded over her left arm above the briefcase and handbag she was carrying, an overstuffed bag of groceries in the other.

"Here, let me help you with that." He was crazy about Melissa, and pretty sure she liked him, but getting their deal underway was taking forever.

"Sure," she smiled back at him, the sparkle in her eyes coming back on-line as she did. "Hold this while I get my key." He did, and she opened the door to her place. Walking inside past the kitchen, with Jimmy right behind her, Melissa dumped her stuff on the table, large enough for just two chairs, and turned back to Jimmy to take the groceries.

"Spaghetti and turkey meatballs?" she asked him, hoping he'd come over.

Jimmy's eyes looked away from hers, for just a second, at the French bread sticking out of the bag.

"On-the-couch-picnic, in time for 'Bones' at 8?" she asked, giving it a second shot. "It's an episode I haven't seen."

He almost forgot to say anything, but remembered just before it became weird. "Deal."

Jimmy just stood there, reaching out for the doorknob a full five feet behind him. Seeing his dilemma, Melissa put her hand against his chest and started walking, slowly pushing him back a couple of steps until he made contact.

"See you later," he said a tad nervously, to which she nodded slowly back at him – no smile this time, but more of an expression resolute with anticipation that made him nervous.

Across the hall, he fumbled again for his keys, pushed his door open just crack, holding it open while he picked up the bags he'd left on the floor. Looking down, he saw the telltale whiskers of his cat who thought he was hiding from him, hoping he would open to door too wide and give him the shot he needed to escape. "Hey, Dubie." (His name had nothing to do with recreational drugs, although it sounded that way. It was, instead, short for "Dubious," which described his gray and white cat perfectly.) Shuffling in, Jimmy did his best to prevent Dubie from getting out. "Miss me?"

"Meeeh," which, according to Jimmy when Melissa asked him once, was Dubie-speak for, "You bet your bald ass I did!" Dubie was small, but then so was Jimmy's apartment, the mirror image of Melissa's.

Throwing both switches on the wall, the hall and kitchen lights went on. The flat screen in the living room was already on, having been set to bring up the NBC Nightly News at 6:30, and then switchover to the CBS Evening News "with Kay-tee Cur-ick" who was the anchor that year. Jimmy loved saying her name with the announcer and, to disclose something he'd never admitted to anyone, he thought she was hot. The TV in the corner of his bedroom did the same.

Pushing his door shut, he slid his computer case on the table by the kitchen, unzipped it and plugged in his laptop using the extra cord he kept at home, opened the lid, and pressed the on button, hardly missing a step on his way toward the balcony to see if Dubie was out of food and water.

The two TVs made it possible for him to move from room to room without having to wait for a commercial. Both sets were always on, even when he slept, an unfortunate habit he'd picked up when he was a kid. At work, his computer was on-line all the time, his phone keeping him connected whenever he was out.

Changing out of his suit, Jimmy put on jeans and a t-shirt, and then had a thought that required a video call to Melissa.

"Hey." He was in front of his webcam, she was in front of hers which was on a desk she had in her bedroom.

"Hey."

"What are you doing?" as if he didn't know.

"Changing into my jammies," by which she meant the sweat pants and t-shirt she wore to bed. "But then that's why you called," she chided him, moving her face right up to the screen, "isn't it?"

"Actually, I called to ask if I should make some Sangria."

"Oh, yeah? Well," she thought for a moment, tying up her shoulder length hair into a haphazard bun, "sure....No peeking," she advised him, waving her finger back and forth in front of the camera as if she was scolding him.

"Of course not," he agreed, covering his face with is hand, but spreading his fingers to let his right eye keep watching.

Turning around, but moving only slightly away from being directly in front of the camera – Melissa unbuttoned and took off the business blouse she'd worn to work that day, and the bra under it. "How was your trip?"

"Okay. ..I'll tell you about it over dinner." Talking now would only break his concentration. Melissa had told him that she'd read in one of her Anthropology textbooks that men were programmed to do only one thing at a time.

Her back facing the camera, she looked over her shoulder to see if he was watching, careful not to turn too far around as she did. He was still there alright, and quickly closed up his fingers while she stretched her t-shirt over her hair and pulled it down. "I've got to fix dinner. See you later," and she left the room, knowing full well, and liking every second of it, that he was still standing there, staring at the screen.

She had just the one TV in her living room on which "Access Hollywood" was bringing her up to date on the world of entertainment. If she'd been paying attention, she'd have learned that Michael Jackson was still dead, but hadn't been buried yet. Why this particular show? Because it was so much better than "Entertainment Tonight." Just in case, she'd straighten up her room, but not so much to make it look as if no one really lived there. Her blouse and bra were left purposely tossed over the back of her chair. (She'd had to do it twice to get it to look just right.) And the sheet and light blanket she slept under were pulled up, but not all the way. One of her two pillows was propped up vertically and pushed in lightly on top of the other as if she'd been sitting up in bed reading.

At 7:45 exactly, she was in the kitchen now, stirring a pot of store-bought tomato sauce and some turkey meatballs she'd made a few days before. A big bowl of salad, napkins, silverware and plates were on the table for them to pick up, buffet-style, when her phone on the counter made its familiar "boob boop" to indicate an incoming text. "Knock, knock," the screen said.

Going to the door, she looked through her peep hole, knowing who it was of course, but wanting to make it official. And there was Jimmy, checking his office e-mail, his arm under Dubie who insisted on coming, a pitcher of red wine and fruit in his other hand.

8:57 PM. Dinner had been delicious. The entire bread was gone, together with an entire stick of cold, real butter, and they were down to sucking on the orange slices left soaking in the pitcher of Sangria. Dubie was somewhere, but neither of them cared. Melissa had given him a couple pieces of meatball that he ate off the coffee table, and were the highlight of his day. Odds were he was taking a nap.

It was a good episode of "Bones" through which they talked and laughed incessantly about every detail, speculating about the precise circumstances when Dr. Brennan and Agent Booth would finally make it official. It was their way, Jimmy's and Melissa's, of asking the same question about themselves.

As fate would have it, Melissa had sliced up the half a watermelon she'd bought over the weekend, just in case. It was Jimmy's favorite dessert. The two of them sat there, some Lifetime movie starting up on the wide, HDTV a few feet across from them. Kitchen towels spread out on the coffee table, they leaned over, burying their faces into juicy, sweet slices, spitting their seeds, as best they could, into the glass bowl between them, only half of which made it. (It was funny, if not good housekeeping.) Three minutes later, they were making out like teenagers, which they barely weren't, in a frenzied explosion of pent up passion, watermelon juice dribbling recklessly down the sides of their mouths and on their hands, grabbing at each other's faces and t-shirts....until the cable went out, and they stopped.

"What was that?" Jimmy asked, almost in whisper.

"Why are you whispering?"

"It's so quiet." Their mouths were less than an inch apart.

"So? "

Jimmy's eyes began darting between Melissa's and the TV, now nothing more than a black window on the wall. His blinking became erratic, his breathing labored.

"Jimmy?" And just as quickly, the cable came back, the glowing lights and sounds of dialog and soundtrack filling the darkened room.

Turning back toward her, she felt the strength returning to his hands, moving again under her t-shirt – and they got back to finishing what they had started. Right there on the couch, because there was no TV in the bedroom, and Melissa wasn't about to risk it.

<Table Of Contents>

# 20. Organic Gardening

The rapping on the front door to Stephanie's suburban house was unusually hard. Whoever it was, he – "It has to be a man," she thought to herself, apprehensively. – had decided to ignore the bell in favor of a less demure announcement of his arrival. There were people coming over at 3 PM, but that was, what...? She checked her watch as she grabbed a towel to wipe her hands on her way out of the kitchen, throwing it over her shoulder....22 minutes from now.

Whoever it was knocked again, well less than a minute after the first time. In the hallway now, she was relieved to see the face of "Al" (Alison) Jacobs, her face peering in the glass panel beside the door. Dr. Jacobs had been her physician for more than a decade since her husband had died and she'd moved here to take the only college-level teaching job she could find at the time. Turns out, it was a good choice, a place to make good money and even better friends. "Hey," Al waved to her. Relieved to see it was someone she trusted, Stephanie picked up her pace and closed the last few feet quickly and opened her front door.

"Hi. You're early." She was talking to Al, but studying the faces of the man and woman, the two standing behind Al that she didn't recognize, the man first, then the woman and back to the man standing directly in front of her, but not all the way.

"Mrs. Abrams," the man began to announce himself, extending a business card that Stephanie took from him. "I'm Special Agent Collier. This is my associate, Agent Macy," he moved his head toward the woman standing to his left, "who called you this morning. We're early. May we come in?"

"Of course." Stephanie opened the door all the way, stepped back and gestured to the great room where she had freshly made cookies, a few small bottles of water and a pitcher of ice tea nicely arranged on the coffee table around an open space in the middle she'd saved for something. "This way. We can talk in here. It was fall, but still comfortably warm and no coats to worry about.

Agent Macy handed her card to Stephanie on the way in, accompanied by a perfunctory smile while being certain to make the requisite eye contact her recently completed training demanded. She would forgive the young agent's inexperience, but looking someone in the eyes standing that close to her made Stephanie want to squint.

"Thank you," Doctor Jacobs was the last one through the door, and the only one of the three who seemed comfortable being there.

"Please, make yourselves at home. I'll be right with you." That courtesy out of the way, Stephanie went to her refrigerator and took out a tray of a dozen turkey, goat cheese and arugula sandwiches she had prepared on small homemade croissants.

"As you can see," she commented in an attempt to lighten the mood, as she placed the tray in the center of the table, "I watch entirely too much Food TV....Please help yourselves."

Agent Macy, seeing the sprouts protruding artistically from under the perfectly baked crust above them, paused in mid-reach. "Maybe later," she announced tentatively. "They look delicious," which they did, she said politely with another attempt at a friendly expression. Stephanie wondered to herself what Macy would be like if she weren't on duty, if Special Agent Collier weren't there – and what made him so "Special."

Making herself comfortable in her favorite corner of the couch where she'd thrown her sweater to make sure no one sat there, Stephanie decided to take the lead. Dr. Jacobs was also on the couch to Stephanie's left, the two agents having sat in the chairs across from them. "So, uh, what's this all about?...When Al, 'Dr. Jacobs' called yesterday, she said it was important that we meet as soon as possible. That wasn't 24 hours ago. What exactly is.."

"Mrs. Abrams," Agent Macy didn't wait for her to finish, "you had an appointment yesterday with Dr. Jacobs for a routine physical, is that right?"

"Yes. Nothing special, jus.."

"And while you were there, Dr. Jacobs observed a small scar on your abdomen?"

"Yes." It was obvious that the FBI agent preferred short answers. Studious to a fault, she was following a list of questions she'd typed up and clipped on the left of her open portfolio, opposite a yellow legal pad on the right.

"And you indicated that it was the scar from a voluntary operation in which you gave up one of your kidneys to a non-profit, living-donor program?"

"That's correct. I'm only 37, in good health. Why not help someone else who might not make it without me?

There was quiet.

"Mrs. Abrams," it was Special Agent Collier talking now, "when did you first think about donating your kidney?"

"Uh, I don't know exactly. I'm an organ donor, you know, in case of an accident or something and I don't make it....More recently, my friend Joan... She and I have been taking evening classes, part of the Chef's program offered to adults at the college where we're on the faculty. We were joking about growing our own fresh herbs and vegetables, and she dared me to plant some arugula on my deck. I just love the stuff, so I did."

"How exactly did you do that, Mrs. Abrams?" Agent Macy was asking this time, determined to go through her list of questions.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, how exactly did you plant the arugula? Did you buy small starter plants? Seeds? Did you buy them locally? On-line? Through the mail? What, precisely, did you do?"

"Well, uh,...Joan gave me a website, 'AuntMinniesFreeSeeds.org." It's a non-profit that sends you free seeds for vegetables to encourage people to grow their own healthy foods."

"Is that what you did, you went there, on-line, and ordered some of their seeds?"

"Sure. For arugula. The stuff grows almost overnight. I didn't know things grew that fast, and the arugula you get is... Well, it just tastes great, so much better than the mostly non-organic produce you buy at the store. Really delicious. It's on the sandwiches." Stephanie reached to lift the tray of croissant sandwiches no one had sampled yet. "Here, try one," but then realized there were no takers. It was quiet again as she put the tray down while she half-heartedly delivered the Aunt Minnie's slogan, "You know, 'Home grown vegetables with the flavor that's out of this world.'"

"What do the seeds," Agent Macy continued down her list, "have to do with your donating a kidney, Mrs. Abrams?"

"Well, on the website and on the DVD they send with the seeds – Loved it, by the way. Must have watched it a dozen times. I'm doing carrots next, I think, and then the herbs. Anyway, they make a pitch for you to donate a kidney, to be a live donor, to appreciate what you've done for someone else while you can....It was... compelling and I decided not to wait and contacted them."

"You called Aunt Minnie's?"

"No, they give you a toll-free number to call to make arrangements with a local hospital. A nurse came over and took a medical history, gave me a simple exam, took a blood sample, gave me diet advice, you know, to make sure I was eating well – lot's of arugula!" She laughed, but was the only one who thought it was funny. "The darker the vegetable's color, the better it is for you," she said tentatively, wondering if either of the agents could have cared less. "Aunt Minnie's arugula is unusually dark... dark green." They were just letting her talk.

"Was that the last time you saw the nurse before the operation?"

"No, there was another blood sample a month later, and then she called a few days after that to set up an appointment. They picked me up, took me to the hospital for outpatient surgery, and I was home that evening." The blank stares on their faces were beginning to trouble her. "...Everything went great."

"Stephanie."

"Yes, Dr. Jacobs."

"Would you mind lifting your t-shirt and pulling down your sweats just a bit to show us the scar? I'm sorry to..."

"No. It's okay," Stephanie got up from the couch, turning slightly toward the two agents. "It's almost gone." And so it was, with only the faintest of lines still showing, almost unnoticeable.

Taking an 8 x 11 photo out of the file folder she brought with her, Dr. Jacobs showed it to the agents. "This was taken yesterday afternoon, around 4:20 when Stephanie and I were finishing up. As you can see, the scar was minimal then, but still much more prominent than it is now."

"Today's Saturday, Mrs. Abrams. You had the kidney removed on Monday? Last Monday?"

"So?" The answer was "Yes," but she didn't get the point of the question.

"Stephanie, this incision should still have the stitches, shouldn't be close to healing. In fact, there's no indication there ever were stitches or staples. As best I can tell, it must have been glued shut, but I've never seen anything this neat. Surgical scars usually take years to disappear, if ever....More to the point, the CT scan we did..."

"Are you saying they didn't actually remove my kidney."

"No, they took it out, it's just that the scan shows that it's growing back, and fast. A couple of weeks from now at the rate it's growing, we're not going to know you ever gave one up in the first place."

" So," Stephanie was beginning to get the point, "how rare is this, Al?"

"This is never, Stephanie. I honestly don't know what's..."

"Mrs. Abrams," Special Agent Collier interrupted, not wanting the Doctor to speculate or tell her too much. "You say they picked you up to take you to the hospital?"

"Yes?"

"Well," hearing the inflection in Stephanie's voice, "did they or didn't they?"

"Look, what are you getting at? I told you, they picked me up."

"Mrs. Abrams," Agent Macy seemed concerned that her superior was being too severe. "One of your neighbors, the retired couple in the house with the blue siding across the street..."

"Yes, I know who you mean. The Franks."

"That's right. Apparently they were working in their yard Monday morning, mulching, planting some new bushes to replace the ones the deer have been eating."

"What's your point, Agent Macy?" Stephanie was getting impatient and more than a bit anxious.

"They told us that an ambulance picked you up around 10 AM. That someone knocked on your door..."

"The nurse I told you about."

"...and that you got in the back of the ambulance and left with them."

"That's right. I told you..."

"And that you were back before 11. They know, because Mr. Stevens, your mailman, dropped off the mail and he never comes after 11. Never. They're retired. Apparently getting the mail is a big deal for them. Letters from their grandchildren, occasional orders for some costume jewelry Mrs. Franks makes and sells on-line."

"That's pretty much true, I mean that the mail comes in the morning, but so what?"

"Mrs. Abrams, the 'So what?' is that you were gone for less than an hour. You told us you didn't get back from outpatient surgery until late the in afternoon. An hour isn't enough time for you to get to the hospital, do the surgery, recover and get back. Our specialist..."

"And I agree, Stephanie," Dr. Jacobs wanted Stephanie to understand that what Agent Macy was saying made sense.

"...the surgeon who's working with us says you should have been kept overnight."

"More to the point," Agent Collier's voice commanded a whole higher level of attention," there's no hospital or clinic within 100 miles of here that has any record of your checking in or any surgery that could have anything to do with removing your kidney – or transplanting it or sending it to any recipient at another hospital."

"But I remember going to the hospital. I got home. Turned on the evening news in my bedroom and slept for about an hour." And then Stephanie decided to stop talking. Feeling herself breathing faster, she remembered not to hyperventilate like she did twice when she was in college.

"Stephanie," Doctor Jacobs saw the change in her patient's face, "are you okay."

"What are you trying to tell me?" Her voice was resolute now, Stephanie's mind pushing its way through the reality she was just beginning to fully appreciate.

"There's more, Stephanie." This morning, after I called Agent Macy – The FBI had sent a bulletin to doctors in the area to look out for situations like this. – I called the lab and had them pull a blood sample you gave us a year ago. They've started saving small samples in case we need a baseline for some reason. With your permission, I'd like take a fresh sample today. I've got my bag in the car."

"Why? What are you looking for? Am I sick?"

"We don't think so," Agent Collier tried to reassure her. "At least none of the other cases have had..."

"What other cases?"

"There have been others, 74 that we know about, in three states. All of them bought seeds – genetically altered seeds – from the same website, watched the same DVD and ate what they grew. Exceptionally rapid healing, and the kidneys they had removed grew back. Three of the 74, as far as we know, actually donated their kidneys a second time before we found out about it."

"If I'm okay, why do you need another blood sample, Al?"

"Because the others have experienced changes to their DNA."

"What?!"

"I know, I know, Stephanie, it sounds... Well, I know how it must sound. The FBI has some of the best geneticists in the country working on it....Stephanie?"

"What do I do now?"

"We're going to have an FBI psychologist work with you. Here's her card. She'll call you tomorrow. She's heading up the team that has been studying the DVD and any hypnotic suggestion it may have given you and the others."

"By the way," Agent Macy added, "the same thing's happened to your friend Joan, except that we caught her before they picked her up....And now she can't reach the nurse, and the website's gone."

Two hundred eighty-seven miles away, at the small grocery store that served the rural town too far from the nearest city of any size...

"What are these, Bobby?" Jake, the Manager, asked one of his part-time stock clerks who worked there weekdays after school.

"They're free samples of herbs from a new organic supplier....Here. This is the sign that goes with it. There's a website people can visit for more free samples if they're interested....Should I put them out?"

"Yeah, I guess so."

"Here's the packing slip that the driver gave me."

"Let's see," Jake began reading out loud, "'For more samples and information about our seeds and other ready-to-eat produce, e-mail AMinnie@OrionOrganicFarms.us, _Delicious locally grown organic herbs and vegetables, with flavor that's out of this world._ ' Yeah, sure....Okay, let's get them out there."

<Table Of Contents>

# 21. The Bully

Jack knew that Oliver would be coming through the office kitchen door at 3 PM, plus or minus a couple of minutes. Oliver was trying really hard to lose weight, maybe 20, 25 pounds, and had promised himself he wouldn't eat lunch before 12, or have an afternoon snack before 3. It wasn't easy, but the routine was working for him, and Allison – second in command of his five-person future projects analysis team, and the woman of his dreams – was beginning to notice.

Oliver would be coming through the door, turning right, going directly to the refrigerator, opening the freezer and removing the last of the box of 4 Nestlé Drumsticks which he would proceed to eat right down to the tip, slowly enough to enjoy every bite, fast enough to avoid dripping any of it on the perfect ties he wore every day.

Oliver preferred the "Classic Vanilla" Drumstick, delicious chocolate and peanut topped vanilla ice cream in a chocolate-lined sugar cone, believing that the newer models with the fudge or caramel core or chocolate ice cream were examples of major corporations tampering with perfection. By far and away, the worst example in this category, as Oliver had pointed out on occasion, was when Coca Cola tried unsuccessfully in 1985 to change the formula of what subsequently became known as "Classic" Coke. Oliver knew his snack foods. FYI, the Drumstick is the modern version of a discontinued product called the "Nutty Buddy," invented years ago by its namesake, Buddy Seymourian – not to be confused with the men's athletic cup of the same name ("Nutty Buddy," www.NuttyBuddy.com ) whose slogan, "Protecting the boys," pretty much tells you everything you need to know about that product.

Oliver would be focused on the refrigerator, thinking about the analysis he was doing on a property his company was considering developing, and wouldn't notice Jack leaning against the counter to his left behind the open door. Jack would wait, wait for Oliver to close the door to the freezer compartment, drop the empty box in the trash can, peel off the top of the Drumstick wrapper and turn to leave while contemplating his first bite. The first bite had to be carefully considered, like a diamond cutter making sure his first strike wouldn't ruin what could be the perfect stone, or the way a Mohel thinks twice, even three times before he circumcises a baby boy. There was no room for error.

"Thanks!" Jack pulled off the surprise precisely as planned and snatched the Drumstick from Oliver's hand. "That was way too easy," he gloated.

Oliver said nothing, just staring at his last Drumstick, wondering what Jack and he would do next, and then raised his eyes to look up, from under his eyebrows, directly into Jack's.

It was the moment Jack had been waiting for. Shoving the Drumstick toward his mouth, he took a huge bite that crumbled the peanut studded chocolate shell, a large piece of it falling to the tile floor. Jack laughed a bit while his free hand salvaged a bit of ice cream that was lingering precariously at the corner of his mouth. "Hey," he said mockingly, "these _are_ good."

Oliver thought for a moment, watching yet another piece of chocolate and nuts fall to the floor. Was it worth it for him, he thought, to shove what was left of his Drumstick into the face of the asshole in front of him? Technically, Jack was senior to him, having graduated and joined the firm two years ahead of Oliver. Intellectually, and in every other respect, he was a poor excuse for everything he pretended to be, a coworker whose principal job seemed to be taking credit for everyone else's work and, in doing so, make himself the darling of the mid-level management to whom they all reported. Picking on Oliver, the only analyst in their division Jack worried about, had become a regular part of Jack's daily routine.

"Here," Jack extended the ruined cone as if it was a microphone, pretending to offer Oliver a chance to share.

Oliver thought for a moment, deciding instead to be as polite as he could, actually managing a slight, if insincere smile. "No thanks. ...You seem to be enjoying it even more than I would have." And then, looking down at the floor and back up at Jack. "Be sure to clean up before you leave. Company policy." Walking around his nemesis, Oliver headed out of the kitchen at a measured pace, not fast enough to avoid hearing the sound of his Drumstick hitting the inside of the trash can. The image of his wasted delight melting at the bottom with coffee cups and a banana peel would be stuck in his head for a good hour or so. In all relationships, business and personal, pleasant and adversarial, there are tipping points. However petty – it was, after all, nothing more than a snack – this was one of them. Oliver knew it, and the anticipation of his getting back at Jack once and for all made him feel strangely good about himself.

Unfortunately, while Oliver was a good guy and laser focused on his work as the deadline for their report approached, Jack's shenanigans continued unabated – including hitting on Allison, the only woman on Oliver's five-person team, about whom he cared zero, preferring less intelligent, less driven, more overtly flirtatious, slutty types more interested in silk sheets than spreadsheets – if you get my point. Oliver and his team would do the research in painstaking detail. Oliver would write the report with Allison's help. (Next to Oliver himself, Allison with the clearest thinker and best writer of the five of them.) Jack would read it and preview its findings with management. He was a quick study, and there was usually no stopping him from demanding and getting access to their work. Depending upon their reaction, he'd either take credit or suggest that there were still elements of the study that, well, "needed work." Not to worry. He'd handle it. When the time came, he'd insist on making the formal presentation, or let Oliver do it. Sometime later, Jack would submit a supplementary report based on middle management's concerns – the ones Oliver knew nothing about.

This time, Jack was beginning to sense, would be different. This particular project had an especially high profile and had attracted senior management's attention with an intensity none of them had seen before. Middle management was being tentative, hedging its bets. There was "no-nonsense" in the air and it was making Jack uneasy.

Early the following afternoon, Oliver's team was in the conference room engaged in what Jack figured had to be their last meeting before Oliver would put the final touches on the report and write up his recommendations. "Oliver." Jack walked in, not caring that he was interrupting a highly animated discussion, professional, but nonetheless noisy, between two of Oliver's team who were arguing about the pricing they'd recommend. "E-mail me the draft." He was talking to Oliver, but looking at Allison, her auburn hair pulled back with a scrunchie the way she did when she'd been there overnight. "Hey, Allison." Just two simple words, but there was no way he could say them that didn't sound creepy.

"Jack," she answered without looking up from the notes she was making.

"How about dinner tomorrow night, after the presentation?"

"No thanks," she looked up showing the minimum courtesy she could, short of telling him where to get off.

"Don't tell me you have plans?"

"She has plans with me." It wasn't true, but Oliver had had it with Jack's crap.

"You're kidding?" Jack turned to Allison, waiting for confirmation.

"I said she has plans with me. And you'll get your copy of the report when it's done, at the presentation with everyone else." Oliver remained seated, working on draft text and tables he had spread out on the table in front of him.

"You'll give it to me now."

Oliver looked up, paused for only a second, before he asked the question he could no longer resist, "Or what?"

No response.

"Or what?" he repeated, more deliberately this time. "...Maybe you didn't hear me? Just what are you going to do if I don't give it to you?"

No response, but then, turning back to Allison, his voice uncharacteristically subdued, Jack decided to pursue a different subject. "You're not really going out to dinner with Chubby?"

"Out?" Allison looked up, taking off her reading glasses. Reaching back to remove her scrunchie, her chest pushing forward while she shook her head just enough to let her hair down. "'In' is more like it. The fact is, I'm going to be fucking his brains out at my place over some sangria and cartons of carry out." And then turning to Oliver, "Crab Rangoon and black bean shrimp, babe, same as last time?"

"Maybe..." He had to stop to swallow. "...maybe some pineapple chicken?" Oliver couldn't take his eyes off her, while the heads of the other three on the team went back and forth, between Oliver and Allison, as if they had table-side seats at a ping pong game.

"Yeah?" Jack was determined to have the last word. "You two deserve each other," and he left, heading down the hall toward the elevator and the middle management executive offices two floors up.

Oliver and Allison would have probably stared at each other for the rest of the afternoon if one of their three colleagues hadn't interrupted the silence for selfish reasons. "Hey, guys. Can he get us fired?"

"Them maybe," one of the others answered, obviously kidding, "but not us."

"You'll be fine," Oliver reassured them. "By now, he's finding out that senior management had us hand in the final draft early, yesterday morning. I'll e-mail these revisions they requested later this afternoon."

"What about the presentation?"

"They didn't need one. I've been keeping them up to date for weeks, on a daily basis....I'll be running the project, with Allison taking over here as of Monday." Turning to Allison, "You'll have to hire a newbie to keep the team at five." She was pleased that he had recommended her for the promotion. Sure, Oliver liked her, but she was good, really good. He knew it, and so did she but in a practical, not conceited way.

"What about Jack," Allison was wondering if he'd still be getting in their way.

"Not up to me, although I suspect a transfer might be an option." Checking his watch, "Okay, enough. Good job everybody. It's only 2:50. Plenty of day to get some work done. ...I'll be right back." And he pushed back, got up and left the conference room.

At 3 PM sharp, Oliver pushed open the door to the company kitchen, heading right toward the refrigerator, his head already busy wrapping itself around the first few project management problems he'd be facing. Opening the freezer compartment, the frosty mist hitting him in the face, it took both his hands to open the new box of Drumsticks his team had bought him, with the big red bow on top, and pull one out. Pushing the freezer door shut, he carefully removed the top of the wrapper, turning without realizing there was anyone standing behind him.

"Thanks!" Allison pulled off the surprise, snatching the Drumstick from Oliver's hand. "You know, that was way too easy," she smiled with the corners of her mouth as he watched the freshly applied red gloss on her lips wrap around the peanut covered coating, taking the perfect bite without so much as cracking any of the other chocolate.

Wiping some ice cream from her lips, she told him to, "Get your own," turned and headed for the door. Pausing just as she got there, Allison looked back, took a second bite, licking her lips clean, rolled her eyes up to look at him and asked Oliver the question that would make his year. "So," her tone was matter-of-fact, but her eyes... her eyes were unusually blue, "are we still on for dinner at my place?" A quick air kiss and she left before Oliver regained consciousness and began running down the hall after her.

<Table Of Contents>

# 22. The Eulogy

Herbert never did like his first name and had labored his entire life, from elementary school until today, his twenty-fourth birthday, to have people, especially his closest friends if he'd had any, call him anything but. To be precise, he detested "Herb" and especially "Herbie." "Bert" reminded him of "Ernie."..."Jake." That's what he wanted people to call him, thinking it was cool, manly and cool, a name that the ladies would find compelling...."Jake," because he needed all the help he could get.

Lying there in his hospital bed, the expression on his face was somber. His eyes closed, arms by his side, he was surrounded by a handful of his coworkers from The Acme Inventions Company wondering what took the life of their colleague. Herbert was dead. It was official now that the nurse had turned off the equipment that had been monitoring his condition just a few minutes ago. The flat-line tone they had heard in the hallway still lingered in their heads. Don, the group's Manager, was standing at the end of the bed, as far from Herbert as he could be without seeming as if he didn't really care, even though he didn't. Lisa was to the left about even with Herbert's shoulders. Denise was at her side, between Lisa and Don. Joanne was to Don's right, and Robert was on her right, across from Lisa. They were just standing there, still wearing their coats.

"So, uh, what did the doctor say," Robert, who had the carrel next to Herbert's, had been the last to arrive, "..killed him? Was it... Did he..."

"Kill himself?" Denise always said what she was thinking, however irreverent or impolite. They'd all been thinking the same thing, but only Denise had the balls to put the idea out there.

"Of course ...not." Joanne was the only one in the room who was really upset, her eyes glistening with the anticipation of tears she couldn't rationalize, not yet. Joanne was the unrequited love of Herbert's life. Everyone knew it. The way he looked at her. His inability to speak in whole sentences when they were at a meeting together. The way he waited for her to go the lunchroom refrigerator so he could happen to be there at the same time. The supposed-to-be-casual invitations to join him for dinner when they were working late that she never, ever accepted. Well, you get the picture. He was crazy about her, but he wasn't exactly what she had in mind.

"If anything," Lisa looked up at Joanne, blaming her for Herbert's current situation, "I'd say he died of a broken heart....Maybe if you'd..." she thought a dramatic pause might help make her point. "Well, it's too late now, isn't it?"

Herbert was bright. Very, very bright, and exceptionally creative. In fact, he was the only one of their new products specialists who actually developed his own products, working evenings and weekends in the unfinished loft where he had his laboratory and shop, and where he slept on the futon that was the only piece of real furniture he had. None of them had much money. Inventions were a labor a love, and a lot like prospecting. Some would search their entire careers and never make any real money, addicted to the dream of striking it rich.

"Well, you know," Don, their group leader was emotionless, "he'd been struggling lately."

"Maybe we should have asked him to go out with us after work," Joanne wondered out loud. "Once or twice. How bad could it have been?"

"They're not sure," Lisa had spoken to the nurse. "His cleaning lady found him passed out when she came in this morning. By the time the paramedics got there, he was already in a coma until a few minutes ago, until his heart stopped. Short of opening up his chest, they tried the usual to bring him back. ...Nothing."

"And then we got here." Don gave them all off to go the hospital. It was the right thing to do, and they weren't that busy anyway.

"Didn't they open him up, you know," Joanne, for reasons she didn't understand, was having trouble holding it together, "massage his heart? Hook him up to machines to keep him alive the way they do on TV?"

Robert offered her an open pack of Kleenex he'd had in his back pocket for who knows how long. Robert had chronic nasal drip, and there was lint on the top one she would have taken. Joanne faked a polite smile and waved him away, preferring to suck it up, literally.

"He had one of those 'Do Not Resuscitate' cards in his wallet. 'No Extraordinary Measures.'" Lisa always had the tone of instant authority that made her less likeable than she thought. "And he's not an organ donor."

There was a spontaneous moment of silence while the five of them just stood there, contemplating their own mortality.

Denise was first to talk after the break. "Here today," was as far as she got.

"Do you really think he died of a broken heart?" Joanne seemed to be blaming herself. The other four looked at her, and then at each other.

"I don't know," Robert thought it was time to say something nice about the recently departed. "I thought his 'Bagel Cheese' – disk shaped cheese slices with holes in the middle – had potential."

Denise had had lunch with him once. "He was such a perfectionist."

"That's one way of putting it," Don butted-in sarcastically.

"I remember," Denise continued ignoring Don, the way they did at the office, "how he would cut off the corners of the cheese squares they gave him, and make a hole in the middle to keep the ratio of bagel to mild cheddar constant over his entire sandwich. He just overestimated the market."

"'Soap Pits.'" Lisa had her personal favorite.

The other four nodded their concurrence in unison.

"Who among us," Denise took the lead, but they had all helped Herbert with the story boards for the presentation, "doesn't find the find the little pieces of soap that are left over when the bar is nearly done annoying?"

Joanne kept it going without losing a beat. "You can try to smoosh them into a new bar, but that's unsightly, and they don't stay attached. And, in the meantime, they turn yellow in your soap dish."

"Or you can try squeezing several of them together to make a bigger piece." That line had been Robert's contribution, and he was proud of it.

"Mostly," Joanne would never forget the ending, "I just try to put several of them in my hand and use them all at once to make enough suds – and then one or two slip out and get stuck around the drain in my sink. And then," she continued, the lump in her throat making it hard for her to swallow, "and then I have to ask myself, do I pick it up and save it, or try to push it in all the way, raising and lowering the drain cover to make it go down?"

Even Don was impressed, although he wasted no time distancing himself from the idea as soon as Lever Bros. turned it down. "Our solution is to make the bar of soap with a cheap, disposable, but recyclable hollow plastic center – a bar customers could use right to the core, which would still be a convenient size, and there wouldn't be any remnant pieces."

"We call these cores 'Soap Pits,'" Joanne finished up, the pride rising in her voice as she did, "like the pits in a peach, while your brand name materializes in raised letters and contrasting color."

"Herbert even thought producers could put prizes in the pit that would encourage customers to use the soap more quickly." It was an important detail Robert thought he needed to add.

"Brilliant," Joanne and Denise said, lowering their heads.

"On the other hand," Don couldn't suppress his need to remain superior, at Herbert's expense, of course, "there was the 'I Stink!' line of bad breath mints and 'odorants' for people who wanted their significant others to break up with them, rather than having to do it themselves....What was he thinking?"

"Everyone," Robert turned toward Don, coming to Herbert's defense, "has an off day."

"Had he lived," Joanne mused, "it would have been remembered as his seminal work with alternative fragrances. Who knows where that research would have taken him?"

"I'm just saying, you can't..." Don was too insecure to leave even mild criticism unchallenged.

"Don," Lisa looked at him, and then over at Joanne who was sniffling and fumbling through her pocketbook that she'd set on the side of Herbert's bed. "Give it a rest."

"Well," Joanne lifted her head, giving it one final sniff, having found what she was looking for, "I think we will all miss Herbert....Certainly, I will," she added, punctuating that thought with a deep breath. Opening a plain, unmarked tube of lipstick, "Robert," she demanded while looking carefully at the glistening red surface of what rolled out of the tube, "give me one of those Kleenex."

He paused, and then reached into his back pocket to comply. "Here."

She took it, wiping off the lipstick she was wearing, and began applying the lipstick from the unmarked tube.

"What is that?" Denise wanted to know.

Joanne quickly finished applying the new, electric red gloss, and returned the tube to its case. "It, uh... Well, as it turns out, it was Herbert's last project. He'd been working on it for weeks and gave me a sample on Monday. It's a new product he called 'The Lovestick.' He... He told me it had special recuperative powers. This is the least I can do."

"Is she serious?" Don thought he must have missed something.

Rolling her lips together, Joanne was determined to do this. "He joked and... and told me that only on the lips of the perfect woman would his formula realize its full potential. I want him to know... Well, excuse me." And she pushed Robert aside, taking two steps toward the head of the bed. Bending over slowly, she gave Herbert in death what she denied him in life, a firm kiss on his lips, the classic lip stain of his latest and last invention evident on his mouth, it's aroma rising up his face and into the room.

"Wow," was all Denise could say.

"Fragrant, isn't it?" was Lisa's comment, having watched the kiss from the other side of the bed.

One sigh to punctuate the moment, and Joanne was done. "Let's go," and she turned, herding Robert in front of her, and Don in front of him toward the door.

"Hey," Lisa was still bedside. "He wasn't smiling before, was he?"

They stopped and looked back for a moment. "...Nah," Robert and Denise agreed, and the four turned and resumed their exit, Lisa hustling up to join them.

Three weeks later...

What? You were expecting Joanne's kiss was going to bring Herbert back from the dead? As if that were even possible.

Well, doctor-patient privilege prevents me from telling, but you should know that Joanne, after an unexpected knock on her apartment door two Saturday mornings later, resigned from the Acme Invention Company that afternoon via an e-mail to Don – and then canceled her email and cell phone accounts and left keys to her condo with an agent on her way to the airport for a week of unwinding at one of the $10,000 a day cottages at Nassau's Ocean Club – where more than one member of the luxury hotel staff complimented her on the extraordinary fragrance of her luscious red lip gloss, to the pleasure of her friend, "Jake," who had made the reservation for the two of them – after closing the sale of a lifetime to a major cosmetics company.

<Table Of Contents>

# 23. Relationship Saving Time

2:10 AM, Sunday, November 1, 2009

Ralph had fallen asleep on his living room couch, some late night movie playing on the TV across from him, his right arm lying in a pile of popcorn from the bowl he'd knocked over when he passed out. In retrospect, he should have never put his feet up on the coffee table. At the end of a long, stressful day, nothing put him to sleep faster. The sound of a gentle rain falling on the fire escape outside his apartment window hadn't made staying awake any easier.

"Buddy," Ralph's cat and only real friend, so Buddy would have him believe, was awake and playing with the pieces of popcorn that had rolled onto his cushion, batting them from one paw to another as if he were playing catch with himself.

Ralph hadn't been sleeping well since Monica moved out. Well, to be honest, she'd never really moved in. In their relationship, which would have been a year old today, Monica was the one with the commitment issues, not even wanting to acknowledge they were a couple. "Couple of what?" she would say jokingly when anyone would ask. It was cute at first, but not lately, particularly since she started telling him she couldn't see him anymore. He'd lost count of how many times she had broken up with him, only to fall back into his life the next time they ran into each other. It was a big city, but a small town when it came to personal relationships.

He was tired of it, and had told her so two weeks ago on the Saturday morning after the last Friday she'd spent the night. It was the perfect morning, with fresh squeezed orange juice, warm bagels and honey walnut cream cheese he'd run out for while she was still asleep – until she broke up with him, and him with her, for the last time. It wasn't like the other times that were hard, but still civil. This last time, there was no holding anything back. Things were said, hurtful things that wouldn't be easily forgotten. Two weeks was the longest time they hadn't talked or seen each other since the day they met.

"Rap, rap, rap." It was the sound of the knocker on the metal face of his apartment door. "Ralph? Rap, rap, rap. Come on, Ralph. Get up....Please. ..Rap, rap, rap. ..Come on, Ralph," she pleaded, "I can hear the TV."

"What?!" Ralph sat up, slapping his mouth with his left had to catch a drop of drool he thought he felt there, and then turning to look at the popcorn that was stuck to the palm of his right hand. "What is it, Buddy?"

Sitting up as tall as he could, Buddy looked at Ralph and then at the front door.

"Rap, rap, rap. Please, Ralph. Open up."

Getting up, Ralph used the few steps he took to imagine what would happen next, like the moment he had rehearsed for when they saw each other on the street or at a restaurant, but then said nothing when he opened the door to a rain-soaked Monica.

"Can I come in?" was what she asked, but Ralph just stood there.

"What do you want, Monica?" He was tired, and had no intention of being pleasant. "Did you forget something? Wait, that's my jacket. ...Thanks for bringing it back."

"Ralph, I love you. Can I please come in?"

"Actually, no," but she pushed her way past him anyway. Shivering slightly, she stood there, her arms folded, dripping on the small Oriental rug that covered his uneven hardwood floor.

Walking around her, he picked up the remote from the coffee table and muted, but didn't turn off the television...

"Hey, Buddy." At least _he_ seemed glad to see her.

...and then began shoveling the spilled popcorn back into the bowl, as good an excuse as any not to look at her. "You're wet."

"I couldn't get a taxi."

"I mean, you're wet. Stay on the rug. ...And next time you want to talk, try calling."

"I did, but you haven't been picking up."

"And what does that tell you?"

"That your cell phone is broken?" She was trying, but he wasn't buying it.

"Ralph, I love you. I know I said some things, but.. I've been.. I don't know... Ralph, I don't know what I'm doing."

The final piece in the bowl, Ralph stood up and confronted her from across the room, nibbling on the popcorn to keep himself busy. "Monica," he used call her "Honey," "what are you doing here?"

"I want us back the way we were."

"And where was that? In a perpetual state of being together when you felt like it? We've been through this. I was crazy about you, it just wasn't the other way around – which his okay. It's okay, Monica. What isn't okay is this, the talking about it."

At first, he thought it was just the rain on her face, but her breathing wasn't right. It was the first time he'd seen her cry, fighting to hold it in.

"...You don't want to get back together," Ralph reminded her, "It's not 'us' you miss. According to you, there isn't any 'us' to miss. It's you, it's me, biding our time until something better turns up....It's oh-kay, Monica. I'm exhausted. I just don't want to do this anymore."

"Ralph," she started to walk toward him, but he put up his hand to hold her off. "Ralph, listen to me." She looked pathetic standing there, but still beautiful even with her hair wet and no makeup. For the first time in their relationship, she was the one that was upset. It was a change, a reversal of fortunes that caught Ralph by surprise. This was more than he could have hoped for, but not at all what he wanted to see. And so he stood there, and became what Monica used to be.

"Stop. Just stop it. We're done. Done. There's no credibility here. Whatever you say, I've heard it before and I don't believe it anymore." Putting the popcorn down, he reached in his pocket for his cell phone. "I'll call you a cab."

"I don't want a cab."

"It's still raining."

"I don't want to leave."

"It's not up to you." It sounded more mean than he meant it. There was just too much pride to back down here, to even be nice, whatever he was feeling. So he called, and gave the dispatcher his address. "Yeah, she'll meet you out front. ..Now."

Wiping under her eyes, she turned toward the grandfather clock near the door. "I've always liked this," she reached out to stroke the varnish. "Did your Great Great Grandfather really make it?"

"That's what I'm told. He was some sort of 'carny' magician, pretty good according to my Grandmother who knew him when she was a kid." Telling the story calmed him down, and her too. Buddy, who had heard it before, decided to nap, tired of turning his head from one of them to the other when they were talking.

"That's the original finish. He was good with his hands and used to make his own gadgets and props for his shows. ...It was a gift for my Great Great Grandmother when they couldn't afford to buy one, sort of a reward for putting up with his weirdness all those years."

"Oh yeah," Monica interrupted him, "so what do I get?" She smiled at him with just the corners of her mouth, hoping for any reaction she could leverage, but all she could feel was the moment slipping away.

He stood there, wondering how anyone's eyes could be that blue, but determined not to respond. "I'll walk you down."

"If ever you wish for one more moment with the love of your life," she remembered the inscription on the plaque beneath the face of the old clock, "...remember I will always love you."

"Monica.."

"Don't bother. I'll walk myself out." Looking at him, she realized he'd stayed half the room away the few minutes she'd been there. Looking for anything in his face, all she saw was resolve and knew there was no point in staying any longer. "Sorry I bothered you." She turned, opened the door, but then paused and turned back, even though she had nothing to say.

"Forget about the jacket," Ralph pretended that was why she had stopped. "It always looked better on you anyway. ...I'll get another one."

"Sure," she answered as if the jacket was really what they were talking about, and let the door close quietly behind her.

Ralph stood there. She was gone, but he couldn't take his eyes off the door. "You know, Buddy," he asked, not caring whether or not the fur ball was paying attention, "I've always wondered what people mean when they talk about feeling empty inside." Buddy was awake, but barely, his head flat down on the cushion. "...Come on. Time to hit the sack."

Walking toward the kitchen to turn the lights out for the evening and pick up a bunch of grapes he would nibble until he dozed off, he stopped in front of his Great Great Grandfather's clock. 2:28 AM. "Hey," Ralph perked up, remembering what day it was. "We get an extra hour's sleep tonight. How 'bout that?"

He reached out to touch the inscription Monica had recited. "According to my Grandmother..." One of the things he liked about Buddy was the excuse his friend gave him to think out loud when they were alone together. "...my Great Great Grandfather told his wife that, when he died, she could turn the hands back, and he'd still be with her....If only," he reflected on what he had lost, on what his pride had cost him, "it were that easy." He should have pulled her toward him, right there in the doorway, kissing her before she said anything – except for the "I love you" part, of course – push his soaked jacket off her shoulders onto the hallway floor, pressing her against the frame of the door...

Reaching up, he opened the glass in front of the face of the clock, and touched the big hand that usually moved so easily when he would adjust the time now and then, but wasn't budging. Pushing harder, it still didn't move. "What the...," he said, dropping his shoulders. Determined, he reached up again, pushing so hard this time his forearm began to shake, and then, ever so slowly, the hand began to move.

"Wow." Keeping up the pressure, he pushed it counter-clockwise. Buddy was the first to notice. Popping up in his corner on the couch, he lowered his head and looked around as the sound of vibrating plates and glasses came louder from the kitchen. Ralph was still oblivious to the rumbling, all his energies focused on moving the big hand of the clock. The harder he pushed, the greater the vibration. The bowl of popcorn shaking its way toward the edge of the coffee table. A book falling from the shelves between the windows, and the baseball bat he kept in the corner falling hard, the softball he kept in his glove rolling across the floor.

"There," he stopped and so did the shaking in his apartment a second or two later. Checking the time on his cell phone, and then the clock, it was 1:30.

Forty minutes later, Ralph was in his bed, in the sweat pants and t-shirt that were his version of pajamas. Buddy was on top of the blanket, on the side of bed where Ralph's tossing wouldn't bother him. Both were sound asleep, some Lifetime movie playing on the small flat screen on his dresser. In the living room, it was dark, the lights from the street flickering through the windows.

"Rap, rap, rap." It was the sound of the knocker on the metal face of his apartment door. "Ralph? Rap, rap, rap. Come on, Ralph. Get up....Please. ..Rap, rap, rap. ..Come on, Ralph," she pleaded, "I can hear the TV."

<Table Of Contents>

# 24. The Babysitter

7:38 PM. In an urban neighborhood of multi-million dollar townhomes, Mrs. Cheung, the family's live-in housekeeper, pushed the left door to the first floor study all the way open. The woman of the house was sitting very properly behind the antique kitchen table she uses as a desk, her laptop open, papers strewn about with little semblance of order. (Her husband, on the other hand, was slumped in the corner of their leather sofa, his tie and shirt loose about his neck, his hair, what was left of it, flopping as if it hadn't been combed since he'd showered that morning, because it hadn't, his feet up on the ottoman he'd rolled over from the matching chair a few feet away...

"Can I get either of you anything before we close the kitchen for the evening?"

Rubbing her face with the whole of her right hand, she thought for only a moment before responding. "No thank you, Delores. I'll get a yogurt or something before I go up. ..Long day for all of us. I'll see you in the morning."

"Good night then," Delores said, smiling politely.

The man on the couch waved at her, but was too tired or preoccupied to say anything.

"What are we going to do, Jack....I'm worried." She leaned forward, her head down, reaching up to rub the back of her neck.

"Yeah, yeah." He sounded exhausted. "Me, too."

"Not all that many years ago, all we had to do was hire a babysitter. What do we do now?"

Silence, and then he sat up slowly. "I may know somebody. One of our people hired someone a while ago when his daughter was having problems. I'll talk to him."

"I'm getting some wine," she said, rolling back and standing up.

"I thought you were having yogurt?"

"Delores made some Sangria."

"Don't tell me, another one of her Korean family recipes?"

"Give her a break. She's our housekeeper, not the cook. I thought it was nice of her to fill-in while Marie's on vacation. Want some, or don't you?"

Saturday afternoon, 8 months later. Marlowe's head was over the edge of the third floor balcony, his left and right arms wrapped around the railing bars on either side, his eyes scanning the people around the pool. Sound uncomfortable? Not if you're a cat. You'd think he'd have been too warm with all that fur, but he wasn't or else he wouldn't have been hanging around outside because Marlowe was nobody's dummy.

Phillip was sitting behind him, on the edge of the folding lounge chair he'd laid out flat, using binoculars to take a closer look at the situation. He had three of his "Bikini Girls" working the pool that weekend. They didn't live in the new, sprawling, high-end apartment complex. They were bait, there to attract the young men in their twenties and thirties who picked up guest passes at the some of the local clubs, and who would rent apartments lured by the prospects of hanging out with beautiful young women willing to share the local brew that management was giving away that afternoon – a promotion Phillip had arranged. Phillip's company was well paid for its services by a grateful development company that had been renting its over-priced units at a record pace. The studio apartment was a loner they were using as a temporary operations center for "Conroy Marketing and Security."

His Bikini Girls were not only hot, they we're smart, savvy college students and recent graduates who could take care of themselves. Minimum GPA, 3.6. Athletic. Ongoing enrollment in self-defense courses, at Phillip's expense, but he liked to stay close, just in case. He kept them rotating so none of the guys who tried to pick them up would get too attached. And if they did, a well-timed call from a fake boy friend would usually be all it took to bring a budding romance to an abrupt halt.

"Hey, Bobbie," he used his cell phone to call the brunette in the orange two-piece. "Yeah. It's 5. Time to wrap it up with these two and call it a day."

"Sure, honey. I'll be right up." She made her excuses and left the two men who had corralled her poolside to suck up their drool and move on with their lives. He still had two more girls on the job until 6, but he needed Bobbie for a special job that evening, and she'd have to be there early.

There was a rapping at the door. The little knockers that came with the apartment were unusually loud for their size. "Hey." (Phillip always treated him like one of the team.) Marlowe lifted his head slightly and turned to look up over his shoulder. "Hey! We're working. Go see who that is." A gesture of Phillip's head toward the door, and Marlowe got the point, got up, moved spritely through the open sliding glass door across the room, past the compact kitchen to smell the seam along the latch side of the door. Sniffing once, then again before he ran back to where Phillip was still sitting, Marlowe put his tush on the rope mat that covered the balcony floor, arms at his side, looked up and "Grrrrr"d his approval.

"Is it Bobbie?"

Marlowe sat perfectly still, except for his head which Phillip had taught him to move left to right if the answer was "No." Impressive, even though it took him 6 months to learn.

"What, Alice?"

"Mrrrp." (That was a "Yes.")

"Marlowe, tell Philip it's me," came the familiar and impatient voice from behind the door.

"Okay, I'll let her in." Phillip got up and walked to the door.

"Hey."

"Hey." And she walked in, as close as she could without actually brushing up against Phillip, on her way to the chair next to the table on the balcony, across from where Phillip had been sitting. Loose fitting jeans covering legs too perfect to be real. T-shirt. One of those no-bra bras. Short, light brown hair that had a mind of its own. Electric blue-green eyes. "Miss me?" It was a drive-by question she asked without bothering to look or wait for a response.

"Can't live without you." He watched her walking away, and then let go of the door and did his best to catch up. "What's it been, 4 hours?" They'd run into each other that morning at the upscale grocery store where she shopped on a regular basis, and where he went to pick up something he could microwave when he was working nearby. A few months earlier, he'd picked her up, or she'd picked him up. It wasn't clear who'd done what to whom. Let's say it was a mutual thing at a beach-front grill where they both hung out on the weekends. Whatever her grandfather did for a living, it meant that she didn't have to, work that is, so Alice, who had ulterior motives, became an unofficial, unpaid "operative," as she liked to call herself, for Phillip's odd little business. Not expecting an answer, he resumed his position, behind Marlowe, Phillip's eyes looking at the pool again through the small pair of binoculars he always had with him,

"Five."

"Five what?" Whatever was happening around the pool, it was clearly more interesting.

"Five hours sinc... Who cares? How's the job going?"

"Fine."

There was another knock on the door.

"One of your girls?" Alice asked, pretending to be perturbed, but when Phillip didn't react, "Don't bother. I'll get it."

Checking the peephole to be sure, Alice opened the door, eyeball to eyeball with Bobbie, bikini, bare feet, a towel over her shoulder, sunglasses up in her bleached blonde hair, a large soft straw beach bag over her shoulder. "Hey, Alice." None of the girls knew exactly what to make of Alice. For someone who wasn't exactly Phillip's girlfriend, she sure seemed to be around a lot, but there was no competition. Phillip had a strict policy against dating anyone who worked with him. As beautiful as they all were, he treated them with respect, and they returned the favor. Besides, the pay was really good, and the hours and venues even better.

"Hey. Come on in. ...He's on the balcony."

"Hey, Phillip. I need to change and get out of here." Without waiting for him to answer – He'd put down his glasses and was typing something on his laptop. – Bobbie walked over to the couch and unzipped the backpack that she'd left there that morning. Her back to the room, she pulled the string bow and let her top fall off. Without rushing or being the least bit shy, she took off the top of her bikini, took out a bra, put it on and a t-shirt after that. The bottom of her bikini was next to go.

Alice couldn't watch, and went back to the balcony. "She couldn't get dressed in the bathroom?"

"What's the point? I'm not watching."

Meanwhile, Marlowe trotted over and hopped on the couch for a better view.

"You know," Alice watched him go, "Sometimes I think Marlowe is more of a guy than you are. You never had him neutered, did you?

Phillip looked over at her, pretending to be annoyed, and then resumed typing. "Just thinking about it made my balls feel weird. Besides, I need him at the top of his game."

"Hi, Marlowe," Bobbie reached over to stroke the top of his head which he scrunched down a bit, and then lifted to let her scratch under his chin. "How you been?" Back to changing, she dropped and stepped out of her bikini bottom, put on low cut Jockeys and jeans on top of them, and then sat next to Marlowe to slip on a pair of Nikes that were already tied.

"There are checks for you and Jennifer next to the sink," Phillip called out to her without turning around.

"I'll get 'em."

"...with a package for tonight's job."

"We'll see you there, Phillip." Zipping up her backpack, Bobbie threw it over one shoulder, picking up her bag by its handles with the other hand... "See you 'round, Marlowe."

"Mrrrr!..."

"Yeah. I feel the same about you, too," she said, looking him in the eyes for a few seconds before she walked to the balcony and around Phillip's chair, sitting down next to him. "See the pasty character with the plaid shorts and cross around his neck?" she asked, pointing over the balcony.

Phillip picked up his binoculars again, and took a look. "Yeah, I've been watching him."

"He calls himself Ronnie. Wanted to know if I needed anything. When I blew him off, he gave me his card. Just a phone number."

Phillip put down his glasses and turned toward her. "Thanks, Bobbie. Good work. We'll talk to the police and get him out of here. ...See you tonight."

Putting her hand on his shoulder, Bobbie pushed herself up, knocked twice on the table to say goodbye to Alice without looking at her, and left.

"You don't happen to know anyone in Narcotics, do you?" Phillip was hoping Alice did. Working with the police wasn't his favorite thing to do.

"I dated a guy once when he was in the Police Academy. He'll know who to call."

"Thanks. I'll make sure the developer knows. Could mean more business for us."

Alice waited until she heard the front door close. "Is that why we never go out? ...because we work together?"

"We do go out."

"I mean on a date. You know, dinner followed by hot sex."

"Would we have to be naked? Because I don't like going out to dinner naked."

"Yes, but we could turn out the lights....Besides, we've already seen each other naked."

"My point exactly. ...Besides," Phillip loved talking to Alice like this, "that was a skunk emergency."

"Hey, we were watching that woman be unfaithful to her husband in the woods, and you made me go for sandwiches!"

"I get paid to watch that stuff. You get paid to go for food."

"I get paid?"

"I paid for the sandwiches, didn't I?"

"No, you didn't."

"You know, even the skunk thought you were annoying."

"Those Cub Scouts sure took their time helping me out of the creek. _They_ didn't seem all that annoyed."

"You were probably the first naked woman they ever saw." Phillip shut down his laptop and stood up, picking up his yellow pad from the table and the cheap ballpoint pen that was his favorite. "In the meantime, I could have drowned for all they cared."

"I'm pretty sure they're still standing there." Alice stood, her chair getting stuck for a moment on the rope beneath it.

"I gave you a ride home."

"We were both naked in the woods, no clothes we could wear and only one car. I didn't realize calling a cab was an option."

"So if we run into another skunk, I promise to take you out to dinner." Mumbling under his breath, "I smelled so bad it took a week of showering before Marlowe would hang out with me again." Marlowe had rolled over on his back, waiting hopelessly for someone to rub him. Hearing his name, he looked over his stomach at Phillip. "Let's go, Marlowe."

Enough chitchat. Phillip needed to call Rachel, one of the two Bikini Girls still at the pool. "Hey. We're leaving to get ready for tonight. Use the key I gave you, and be sure to lock up when you're done....Yeah. Good work. Email me your notes, while they're still fresh, later tonight if you have time. There are checks for you and Beth on the kitchen counter," and then he chuckled to whatever she said. "One of the guys you were talking to works for me....Sure. 'Danny.' That's the one. He's all yours. Consider him a bonus....Bye."

"Let's get out of here. I don't want to be late." Phillip zipped his briefcase and threw the strap over his shoulder. "Marlowe, get in your case."

On the floor, against the wall next to the kitchen, there was a special case Phillip had a friend make for him. Not much larger than Marlowe, but with enough room for him to turn around, it had plastic screening that allowed him to see all around, with handles and a strap in case Phillip needed his hands free. Marlowe got in, turned around and reached out with his claws to close the door behind him. (It had a spring latch so he could push the door open in an emergency.) Alice held the door for the two of them, jiggling the handle to make sure the door was locked, and then followed the two men in her life on their way down the hall to the garage.

"What do you think I should wear tonight?"

"Something slutty."

"I thought you wouldn't want me to attract attention."

"I don't, but I like it when you dress slutty."

"You think I dress slutty?"

Phillip knew a trick question when he heard one, and decided to change the subject.

8:30 PM that evening. The noise in the converted factory wasn't as loud as it would be later that night when the live bands would be there and the beer and cheap wine had started having their effect. Alice and Phillip had arrived separately, but were talking together, their backs to the bar so they could watch the floor. Bobbie was waiting tables, and had walked up to the two of them on her way to place an order with the bar.

"The girl and her girlfriend are at table 12, behind me to your right. The fake IDs they used were perfect, the best big money can buy. ...Take a look, at the girls. Are you sure they're only 16?"

"Geez, are those real?" Alice asked. It wasn't a rhetorical question. "You know, I've heard about teens getting implan..."

Phillip didn't care. "Has anybody been a problem?"

"The three guys drinking along the rail, two white, one maybe Hispanic, have been watching our girl and her friend since they got here, but haven't made a move yet. As far as I can tell, they're the only ones we need to worry about. One of them's married. I don't know about the other two."

"Hey, boss. Can I get you a refill?"

"Oh, hey, Jennifer," Alice was surprised to see her working the bar.

Phillip was all business. "What do you see?"

"Well, despite this kid-size t-shirt they gave me, I've only been hit on twice," she flashed a killer smile, "but bar business is up 20%. I should get a commission. Other than that, nothing. Even your girl and her friend look bored."

"Okay, let them sit there for a few minutes, then go over and give them a reason to leave without embarrassing them if you can. I don't want them here when this place goes live."

"Yeah, you know 'Hot Nuts' is performing at midnight. Some friends of mine are stopping by. Do you mind if I hang around after we're done?"

"Of course not, but thanks for asking. Tell the lead guitar he's a lucky guy."

"How do you know about that?" Even in the low light around the bar you could tell she was blushing.

"I know all sorts of stuff. Actually, I know his brother. He told me you were dating....Look, my cousin Danny's having a bunch of his high school friends over for a beach party. Here's his address." Phillip wrote it on the back of a napkin. "Send them over there. They'll have a good time and Danny'll take good care of them."

"Hey," Alice, who was watching the floor, smacked Phillip with the back of her hand. "The Creepy Brothers are making their move."

Phillip turned to see the three men, maybe in their mid-twenties, now surrounding the girls. One sat down, the other two were standing on opposite sides of the small table where the girls were nervously nursing their drinks. The guy who sat down kept touching the other girl's hand, while the other two men were busy looking down at them from above, brushing up against the back of their chairs and the shoulder of the one girl Phillip was there to protect.

"Even better," Phillip thought to himself out loud. "If these guys don't creep them out, nothing... ..Hey!" One of the ones standing had just reached under his girl's arm, trying to lift her up to join him on the dance floor – a perfect opportunity for his friends to juice their drinks. The girl pulled away, but her move was more upset than angry. She and her friend looked trapped, and that was that.

Phillip pushed off the bar and walked quickly to the table, while Alice circled around to come up from behind the two men who were standing. Putting his hands suddenly and hard on both shoulders of the one who was sitting, preventing him from even turning around, Phillip spoke directly to the girl he'd been hired to watch. "Hey," he sounded as friendly as he could under the circumstances. He could have used her name, but didn't want her to know he knew it. "We're bar security. You ladies okay?"

The man in the chair started to get up again, but didn't have the leverage, and then tried prying Phillip's right hand off his shoulder. When he did, Phillip pressed hard with his fingers into the side of the man's neck, whispering into his ear on that side, "You keep your hands on the table or I'll put you to sleep. ...Do it now." He did, and Phillip relaxed his grip, but not that much. Not yet.

Phillip looked at the girl again for an answer to his question. To her credit, his girl didn't mince words or try to fake it. "Not really."

"Actually," the other girl was quick to volunteer, "we were just leaving." That's what she said, but the men were still standing behind them, and neither of the girls were going anywhere without Phillip's help.

Feeling he had to show some balls, the jerk standing nearest Phillip got up the nerve to stutter, "What the fuck, asshole?" and moved his arm to shove Phillip out of the way. Long on profanity, short on intelligence.

Reaching out from behind – fast, the way someone quick and coordinated grabs a pen that rolls off her desk before it comes close to hitting the floor – Alice's right hand grabbed the jerk's wrist before it made contact with Phillip. Pulling his arm toward her and then twisting it behind his back, with the collar of his shirt in her other hand, in a second Alice had him face down in the beer-soaked sawdust that covered the concrete floor. Leaning over him, she gave the jerk some advice. Calmly, with an almost romantic tone to her voice, "If you don't want me to break your arm, you'll just lie there like the idiot you've got know you are." Enough said, but she still didn't let go, pressing hard on the back of the jerk's neck and up on his arm, while she looked up at Phillip, ready to take his lead.

Rachel, who had been in the back watching the cameras, Jennifer and Bobbie were at the table now, along with more than a few customers and staff. Phillip knew he had to move quickly to get the club's crowd back to enjoying themselves and spending their money. He and his people were, after all, only there with the owner's permission – who liked the extra security Phillip was providing, but expected them to leave with his club's business more or less intact. Actually, Phillip was counting on all the attention to make sure none of these guys tried anything.

"Ladies," he said to the two girls at the table, "my friends," he motioned to Rachel and Jennifer, but didn't want to use their names in front of the men, "will see that you get to your car safely. As for the rest of you, your next drinks are on the house." This next part he said a bit louder for everyone to hear, "No one bothers any of our guests. We'll take care of these gentlemen and make sure they don't come here again." Phillip flashed his best "not to worry" smile as if, notwithstanding the guy who was still face down in the sawdust, it was just part of the evening's entertainment, something to talk and text their friends about, but not that big a deal.

"You," Phillip was pointing at the one man who was still standing, "back up, but don't go anywhere." The two big guys in the dark blue club security shirts that had come over for moral support would make sure of that. (Phillip had stopped by to introduce himself the night before, and Rachel had called their earpieces when she saw things happening on one of their security screens. This wasn't the kind of thing you wanted to do without the right people knowing.)

"Thanks," the one girl they were there to watch smiled her relief as she and her friend got up quickly to leave, Rachel and Jennifer at their sides.

"Okay you, on the floor," Phillip looked down, nodding his permission to Alice , "get up and sit down." (Alice had to help him up and put the arm she'd twisted on the table, enjoying seeing him wince when she did it.) "...You, too, he said to the one that was still standing and who hadn't said a word. "You," he said to the man he'd been holding down," you stay put." Pulling up a chair from another table, Phillip decided to have a chat with the three of them. The club's security guys stood by, just in case.

"Take their wallets, and pat them down when you do, just in case." Alice and Jennifer manhandled the three of them as they did. "First of all, I estimate the total tab at, what?" Raising his eyebrows, he looked to Bobbie for her advice.

Checking their wallets, Bobbie suggested, "$254, exactly"

"Thank you. That should cover the drinks and gratuities."

Bobbie took out the money, all the cash they had on them.

"Pull their drivers licenses. ...John," Phillip was talking to the Assistant Manager who had come over to the table when the ruckus started. He was wearing a nametag so customers would recognize his authority. "...would you please make three copies of these, one for you, one for me and one for the police, if we need to call them? And maybe a copy of tonight's security tapes when you have time? (The ceiling was high and painted black, with floods that made it all but impossible to see the several cameras that were watching the crowd.) I can send someone over Monday to pick them up."

"Sure thing," and John left to make the copies.

Alice had already used her cell phone and taken separate headshots of each of the men.

"Okay, here's the thing. Those girls had perfect ID, but someone recognized them and tells us they were barely 16. I know, I know, they seemed so mature. You're probably thinking, racks like those on under-age girls should be illegal. The thing is, I just saved your collective asses. I think we all know what the three of you had in mind. And if I call the police, they're going to search you and your car." One of the men flashed his eyes at the other two, confirming they had something to worry about. "I'm not calling, at least not yet, which is the second time I've saved your asses tonight." Phillip slowed down, his speech becoming more deliberate. "...However, if we see you near this place again, or those two girls, or any of our people, your faces and driver's licenses..."

"And the security tapes," Jennifer didn't want them to forget. "Let's not forget the tapes."

"Whoa," Bobbie couldn't help herself. "Is that a wedding ring on your finger?" she asked, pointing to the quiet one. They all looked, and it was.

"Hmm. How 'bout that?" Phillip tilted his head slightly and looked at the guy, as if to say, "Really?" "...Anyway, it's all going to the police, guys. So do we have a deal?" No reaction. "...Gentlemen, do ..we ..have ..a deal?"

All of them shook their heads in the affirmative. The one who hadn't said anything before managed an easy, "Yeah," and seemed the least intimidated of the three. The other two were clearly shaken. This guy was the only one who seemed pissed, and Phillip made a mental note to run background checks on the three of them.

"Good. Very good, gentlemen. I'm pleased."

Rachel and Jennifer were back, and so was John with Phillip's copies of the licenses, "Your wallets gentlemen. My associates," including the two club security men, "will walk you to your cars." Looking at Alice, "Would you please get a picture of the plates and whatever they're driving. And they left, Rachel and Jennifer at their sides, Alice and the two blue t-shirts walking behind them.

Bobbie gave the $254 to John. "Thanks for your help," she smiled at him. A waiter came and cleaned up the table where new people were sitting a moment later. The music was loud and people stop caring, re-absorbed in their own lives in record time.

Late Sunday morning, on the balcony of the studio apartment, Alice and Phillip have just finished the plates of freshly made omelets and fruit they brought up from the tables set up around the crowded pool.

"Thanks for the brunch. Was that your idea, too?"

"Absolutely. Events like this rent apartments and keep the current tenants happy – even with the higher rents they're paying."

"You graduated with Ivy League honors in finance. Are you sure this is what you want to do?"

"Look, I know detective work for twenty-somethings isn't exactly booming. In the meantime, there's rent to pay. Some missing persons work here, divorce work there, special security for one or two colleges..."

"And you keep day-trading to pay the bills."

"Hey, give me break. I never thought Conroy Marketing and Security was something I'd build overnight. In the meantime, I've got a plan, a nice RV on a piece of property that'll be worth something someday, and loaner apartments in five developments around the city....Besides, I thought you had too much money to care about it. At least," Phillip realized it sounded harsh even while he was saying it, "I work for a living." But then he thought about what he'd said. "...Sorry about that. I didn't.."

"Forget it." She knew what he meant and didn't want him to think he'd offended her. It was a rare awkward moment in an otherwise perfect relationship, one of those defining moments when you realize you have something important to lose. "...Got to go." Alice pushed back her chair and started to get up.

"Was it something I said?" Phillip looked up at her, only half-kidding.

"More like something you didn't say....Oh, I almost forgot." Reaching into the canvas bag she was carrying, "I got you something....Here." It was a small gift bag, bright orange, to which she had attached a puffy white bow, the kind that reflects other colors depending upon how the light hits it.

Phillip was genuinely surprised. He didn't get presents often, and this was his first from Alice. Standing up, he looked at her, at the little bag, and then back at her, smiling more every time – and she back at him. Spreading the handles, he peeked inside where he saw black and white fake fur. "Hmmm," he said, reaching to take whatever it was out.

"It's a skunk atomizer, filled with cologne I thought you'd like....Well, that I like. You squeeze its body like this." Phillip closed his eyes, waiving off the mist as quickly as he could. "...and it sprays out it's tush."

"Cute," Phillip coughed slightly, and then tried to hold back his smile, but couldn't.

"Leaning over to the side of Phillip's face, Alice sniffed in the fragrance, her left hand touching his arm and staying with it as she moved slowly toward the open glass doors where she stopped and turned. "It's in case you need another excuse to see me naked." No smile this time. She just looked at him, and then turned and walked away.

A few minutes later, Alice was in her car pulling out of the apartment garage, her Bluetooth headset in her ear, having already given her cell phone a verbal number to call.

"Hello, Conroy residence."

And then a few seconds later, in the first floor study, "Thank you, Delores. ...Jack! It's Alice."

"I'll be right there," but his wife knew that from the sound of his shoes coming quickly down the front staircase. "Put her on the speaker."

"Hi, Alice. Hold on, Mr...."

"I'm here, I'm here. ..How's Phillip doing?"

"He's doing fine, Mr. and Mrs. Conroy."

"That's a relief to hear," Ellen Conroy responded in the middle of a heartfelt sigh. "He hardly talks to us. I know he's an adult. I know, but he's still our son."

"I understand," Alice reassured her, "I really do. I've got some stuff to do, but I'll e-mail you an update to the diary I've been keeping later this evening. And don't worry. I'll take good care of him."

<Table Of Contents>

# Bubba And The Other Tomatoes

The other tomatoes never felt comfortable around Bubba because of his size, and were often cruel to him with their comments – until he was drafted by the NFL and given a multi-million dollar contract, while the rest of them went on to be salad.

<Table Of Contents>

# 25. The Penny

"Danny!" Ed grabbed his friend's arm, yanking him back onto the curb just as a taxi, in a hurry, cut the corner way too close. "What don't you understand about 'Don't Walk'?"

"The blonde in front of me went for it. I was just following..."

"I don't think she's your type."

"Yeah, what type is that?" He wasn't really paying attention, his eyes still following the girl down the sidewalk across the street until she disappeared into a forest of pedestrians.

"The kind that dates unemployed men."

"You worry too much. We haven't been laid off yet."

"If Jack doesn't replace the accounts he's lost, none of us is safe. ...Let's go," the light changed and they both started walking to the opposite corner, just a block from the mid-sized ad agency and print shop where they worked. "He'll start with the newest people, the ones it'll be easiest for him to replace when the economy... Excuse me," Ed interrupted himself to apologize to the faceless shoulder he'd just bumped, wedging his way between the people coming in the other direction.

"I get it, but there's nothing we can do about it." Danny was a fatalist, intellectual-speak for "lazy."

Ed was just the reverse. Whatever happened, it was his fault. He was the one who passed on college – He couldn't afford to go full-time anyway. – in favor of getting a job as close to being in advertising as he could find. Jack, the owner, was letting him help manage some of their accounts, production stuff, mostly print, some radio and the one TV commercial for which he selected the locations, arranged for the permits, that kind of stuff. More than a gopher, but nowhere near his potential. It was a beginning, and he got to use their supplies and computers to prepare storyboards for prospective clients, local businesses he'd been pitching more or less without Jack knowing.

The bigger the street, the wider the sidewalks and the more people the two of them had to weave between and pass to up-the-pace and get back before someone realized they'd been gone longer than expected. It was too warm for the jackets they were wearing, the sun having surprised everyone after the cold morning rain had moved out earlier than any of the local weather reporters had predicted.

Here and there, an inch or so of unsteady mist was hovering over the pavement where the sun was the strongest. "Wait up." Ed was the first to see it, the sun's reflection off the freshly minted face of Lincoln having caught his eye, and stopped to pick it up.

"Are you kidding?" Danny came back a step or two. "..They don't make enough hand gel for me to pick up anything from this sidewalk." But Ed wasn't listening, choosing instead to marvel at how perfect – except for a small, red, heart-shaped smudge on Lincoln's face that he couldn't rub off with his thumb – and dry it was despite the foot traffic and rain. Standing back up, he flipped the coin high – It was an Ed tradition whenever he found one. – and then, precisely at the right moment, reached out to snatch it out of the air, feeling it hit the palm of his hand.

"Got it!" but when he opened his hand, it was gone. "What?" Turning his hand over didn't make any sense, but he did it anyway.

"What's wrong?"

"I don't know." Ed really didn't, and began looking around at the pavement, thinking it couldn't have rolled far. "I don't know. I must have missed it."

"Come on." It wasn't like Danny to be impatient, but he was hoping to be in the right place at the right time when this one particular girl who worked in accounting would be going out to lunch.

Reluctantly, taking one last look around even while he began to walk away, they were off. Ed, too, wanted to get back. There was no one special in his life, not really, not in the year since he graduated from high school. The relationship he had senior year was never really going to amount to anything and then, when he moved to the city, they just stopped calling and emailing each other. The breakup happened quickly, no scars, no regrets, no memories worth keeping. A few dates here and there since then, most of them with girls who seemed more interested in him than he was in them.

One girl he'd dated had become a friend, sort of, the two of them getting together now and then when one or the other needed company and someone he or she could trust. Not too bad, all things considered, when true love wasn't an option. And no, they never promised they'd eventually marry each other if neither didn't have a better offer first. It wasn't like that. Just friends.

Lately, it was all he could do to make up for the rookie mistakes he kept making at work. Hard to believe, but finding that coin had been the highlight of his week. Losing it immediately was more like it. He'd have to make his own luck.

A few minutes later they were running up the two flights to their offices, above the hardware store on the ground floor, and the law office above that. Their agency had the top two floors, and the roof where Ed would go to escape and think about stuff when being alone was what he needed.

"Hey, Ed." Mary was the receptionist, a single mother in her mid-30s who would bring in her little kid, Bart, every once and a while when his grandmother couldn't take care of him. Bart had become a sort of company mascot, doing chores he could handle and just hanging out with the staff. They all took care of him, and Bart felt like he was doing something important, carrying a stapler or roll of colored tape from one office to another. Ed would talk to him, put him in one of the conference room chairs and practice making campaign presentations. Bart was one of his biggest fans. "Jack," she announced, looking up from whatever she was typing to make sure Ed was paying attention, "wants to see you right away."

"Sure," he said tentatively, "I'll just stop by my.."

"Now, Ed. He said, 'as soon as he.."

"Mr. Mecklen." ('Mecklen' is Ed's last name.) It was Jack, coming around the divider that was behind Mary's desk, the wall on which the agency logo was hanging above where she was sitting, "follow me, please."

Ed did, and they were down the hall and in Jack's office only a few seconds later. Jack walked and did everything in a hurry.

"Sit down," Jack pointed quickly to the chair in front of his desk. "Where have you been this morning?"

"Well, Danny and I delivered two mailers and some proof sheets." No reaction from Jack who had sat down and was staring right at him, forearms on his desk, his hands interlocked, every other finger. "...and then we stopped at the 'Bagel Bakery,' you know, the warehouse on 4th where they make," his voice slowed to a standstill, "...bagels...to make a presentation."

"I know. Mr. Gold called with a question. Quite the chat, so I'm told. According to Mary, Mr. Gold said your presentation was brilliant. Apparently you talked him out of fielding gourmet lunch trucks in favor of Saturday and Sunday morning residential deliveries of fresh, hot bagels – actually made on the trucks? Is that right?" Jack was going to do all the talking. "He says you actually went to the trouble to learn how they make them, and that you convinced him he'd sell substantially more bagels at lower costs than trying to make a limited number of sandwiches on a truck that was too small, with too little power to make fresh bagels."

"...Something like that," Ed responded, hesitantly, not sure how much trouble he was in.

"And that he's engaging us make an initial investment of $25,000 and change for campaign fliers and art for the first truck, promotional t-shirts, bags and other supplies? Am I getting this right, Mr. Mecklen?"

"Pretty much."

"Okay, here's the deal. You don't ever, ever contact a prospective client without my prior approval, let alone talk price until I'm sure you know what you're doing. Notwithstanding whatever advice you got or get from our staff,..." And then he stopped. "Judging from the expression on your face, I gather this advice I'm giving you comes a tad too late?"

" Well, there are a couple of oth..."

"Stop. I want a detailed write-up on my desk by noon on Friday for me to read over the weekend. In the meantime, postpone any meetings or presentations. No client contact until we talk Monday morning. For now, you're in campaign development and sales, working directly for me. No staff, no nothing, not a dollar of company resources until I approve it. You have any administrative or procedural questions, you come to me. Got it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Fine. ..Good work, other than scaring the crap out of me, which is something you only get to do once. Understand?"

Ed just sat there.

"Why are you still here?"

"Are you letting me run the campaign for the Gold's, for the Bagel Bakery?"

"As long as you don't blow it. Now get out of here and go see Jenny," the agency's Office Manager.

Ed got up and headed for the door, stopping with his hand on the doorknob. "Why would I do that? Why do I need to see Jenny?"

"Because you're being promoted, Mr. Mecklen, and she'll give you the details."

"Right. Of course. Uh," Ed was thinking of something smart to say, but decided to keep it simple. "Thank you," and he left, forgetting to hold onto the door that tended to slam shut, "Bang!" rattling the old glass, unless you stopped it. The sound startled him, his shoulders and neck shuttering as he walked slowly back to the lobby, his mind blank.

"Hey, Mary," he announced himself, looking up at the staff board to see that Jenny was out to lunch, his words sounding slow, almost trancelike, "I'm running down to the diner. You want something?"

"No thanks."

Ed nodded that he understood, and took the stairs more slowly than usual, wrapping the knuckles of his right hand on the round metal banister. The stairs were open to the column that rose from the basement to the top of their building. The sound of people, just a few, coming and going on the concrete and metal stairs snapped him back. "Crap," he just remembered he was out of cash. Stopping mid-way down the flight between the second and first floor, Ed checked his wallet, rubbing the two ones that were in there between his thumb and forefinger as if there might be a third. "So much for lunch."

"Hey, Ed! ...Perfect timing." It was April, one of their graphics design people who had done him more favors than he could remember. One of the most pleasant people you'll ever meet. "Remember those sandwiches you picked up for us last week..." Actually, he'd forgotten all about it. "..and left on my desk when I was in the ladies room? For some reason, saying that made her giggle while she fumbled for her wallet without taking her bag off her shoulder. "Here you go, $12.63," and then she looked up and smiled. "Thanks!"

"Hey, you're welcome."

April touched him on the arm and jogged up the stairs behind him.

"Great," Ed said to himself, stuffing the ten and two more ones in his wallet, and throwing the change in his pocket on top of his keys. Picking up his pace, he began to smile, mostly around his eyes, as his thoughts turned to which sandwich he would eat while he made notes on the folded sheet of paper he always kept in his left back pocket – the perfect accessory for the person eating alone which is mostly what he did lately. A folded piece of paper, plus the cheap ballpoint pen clipped inside his shirt pocket, or maybe a Time magazine or Popular Science, these were the essentials if you wanted to scope out other people in the restaurant without attracting too much attention. Today, he'd make a list of what to do next, over the next couple of days.

Out the front doors of their building, to the right, down to the corner, right again, two blocks later to the diner on the corner. The bell over the door, still there after all these years, got the older woman's attention from her station behind the cash register. "Hey, Mrs. Lupino, how's everything."

"Fine. Take a seat," she advised him and everybody who came through the door, including the mailman and her son who owned the place, barely looking up, and then she went back to work doing bad needlepoint between ringing up her customers. With glasses that thick, Ed was sure it was only a matter of time before she died stabbing herself when she put receipts on the spindle where she kept them.

No stool at the counter. Today he deserved his own booth. Mr. Lupino, the old Mrs. Lupino's son who worked the grill, was short on wait staff, and shouted over to ask, "What d'you want, Ed?"

The menus were between the salt and pepper shakers, the ketchup and Tabasco sauce, but he didn't need one. "Turkey club on rye, some fries and a lemonade."

No answer, but Mr. Lupino was already in action, laying two pieces of thick sliced bacon on the grill next to the rows of small, onion covered patties for the sliders his customers ordered by the bag. "Pie?" he shouted back. His wife, the other Mrs. Lupino, made them herself. The cherry and double crust apple were spectacular – and her Boston Cream Pie, which is really a cake was... was indescribably delicious. And she was beautiful, "the Jennifer Connelly of desserts" as Ed once observed to himself, when he stopped by for a piece to carryout on his way home one evening when he'd been working late. There was a bus stop near the diner and, if he was careful, and he was, it would still be perfect when he made it home, to his studio apartment.

"Maybe," Ed shouted back at him. "...I'll let you know." Hearing his orders over the din of customers talking and noise coming from the kitchen was a skill Mr. Lupino had acquired over the years since he converted the old car lot that had preceded him. Only occasionally would he even look at the slips the waitresses would attach to the wheel in the opening to the kitchen, just above where they'd pick up their orders. If he hired you, and you couldn't live with the rush, you didn't last long.

Some Hispanic kid who worked the kitchen, a dirty towel rolled into his belt for an apron, brought the thick china plate with his sandwich, a small plastic basket of fries, a check, and some silverware rolled up in a napkin. The lemonade showed up a moment later. Ed got out and unfolded his piece of paper, and started making detailed notes about ideas for Gold's he wanted to make sure he didn't forget.

Twenty minutes later, Ed had pushed his plate out the way and was finishing up the list that had spilled over to the back of his paper, nibbling on the few fries he had left. Thinking he'd pass on the pie, mostly for financial reasons, and anxious to get back to the office, Ed slid left on the bench seat and began to stand up, reaching into his pocket, fumbling for the coins he'd leave for a tip. "Hm." Three quarters, a dime and... and three pennies, one of them a shiny new coin with a familiar red, heart-shaped something stuck to the side of Lincoln's face.

"What the..."

"Sorry, buddy." The large man who'd bumped into him was apologetic enough, but all Ed cared about was watching, in adrenalin slow-motion, his change hit the tile floor.

Sure the quarters were more important, but it was the rolling, shiny copper disk that caught his attention, weaving its way precariously among the feet of people walking between the stools and row of booths along the windows. Ed was after it – "Excuse me....Sorry." – until it took an abrupt left turn and rolled under the counter toward the kitchen.

Whipping around the end of the counter, not bothering to look up, Ed came this close to colliding with a new girl, just coming out of the kitchen, a plate in each hand, and a third on the crook of an elbow. "Whoa!" she stopped short, barely holding on to the lunches she was rushing to deliver.

Except for the nametags, "Lupino's" waitresses didn't wear uniforms. Too expensive. Most were locals, usually young and ordinary looking, working there to make money between stages of their lives, preludes to careers that never happened. Whatever her story, there was something different about her face. "Maybe," Ed thought, "she was just too new at this to be taking it in stride. Too fresh to find it tedious."

"Hey," she greeted Ed, eyes unusually wide open. Mr. Lupino's rule was that he had to have the longest hair of any of his employees, and he was practically bald – which explains why her already short, curly brown hair was pulled back into a pathetically inadequate ponytail with barely anything except a few wisps coming out the back of the rubber band trying its best to hold it all together.

"Hey," was all Ed could manage.

"Here, gimme those." One of the other waitresses, seeing the chemistry and wishing she could have some of that, volunteered to help out. "What table?"

"In the corner," the new girl answered without looking away except to handoff the plates

"Sorry, I, uh, dropped some change and.."

"Did you need something?"

"Look at her eyes," he told himself. "Those lips.. No, keep looking at her eyes," Ed was trying not to be flustered. "...Any fresh pie left?"

"Mrs. Lupino put out a cherry just a few minutes ago....I could bring you a slice."

"Hey!" Mr. Lupino seldom required more than a word or two to make his point.

"What booth?" she said quickly.

"I don't know. The one with me sitting there," he smiled back at her.

"Go. I'll get it for you," and Ed hustled off, catching a "give me a break" smirk and roll of the eyes from Mr. Lupino.

"Great. I'll, uh,..." and, gesturing with his head toward the booths, Ed left.

Lifting up her right foot, Stephanie looked down to see the rolling coin she had stepped on before running into Ed. Bending over, she picked it up, marveling at how shiny it was, and rubbing the red, heart shaped mark on Lincoln's face that didn't come off. "Who knows," she wondered softly, flipping the coin in the air, watching it flicker in the sunlight coming through the diner windows, "maybe he's the one." Reaching out, she snatched it on the way down, feeling its cool against the palm of her hand, but then... "What?"...It was gone. Staring at her open hand for a second, she turned quickly, bending her knees to look under the counter and at the floor around her.

"Stephanie!" Mr. Lupino had his hands full, but gestured with his head toward the booths and the short line of customers looking for places to sit.

"Yes, Sir," she responded. I'm moving!"

On the sidewalk at a busy corner a few blocks away, while Ed works late until he can meet Stephanie after her shift, there, amongst the grime and occasional piece of litter, an unusually shiny coin, a red heart-shaped mark on the face of a beloved President, lays waiting to be picked up by whoever has the daring and needs to have it.

<Table Of Contents>

# 26. Say "Goodbye" to Jane.

"Hey," Josh looked up and over his computer, surprised to see the girl he'd been dating standing in front of his desk, his eyes distracted on their way up by the on-screen wallpaper picture of Avril Lavigne, the girl of his dreams.

Josh's desk was one of eighteen on the third floor where his team worked to keep their cable news service website up to date. It was Friday, just after 7 PM, less than an hour before another team would takeover. The day had started light, but political news and several international stories had started to break late and the floor was busier than usual going into the weekend.

There was no leaving early. In fact, they all lived for the sound of people talking to each other and on the phone, the constant motion of staff coming and going, the odd mix of professional business and social interaction that made their days in the wide open office that was more their home than where they lived. It was a place where people came in early just to hang out, and went out after work with the other staff who had become their friends.

"Hey," she said back to him, her look serious, the tone of her voice flat.

"What's that?" he asked about the small gym bag she was holding by its straps in her right hand. "I can't leave here until 8," and then he paused, realizing something was different. "What have done to your hair? It's..."

Her expression was disappointed with more than a hint of disgust. Taking a breath, she plopped her bag on his desk, blowing several loose pages and a newspaper onto the floor which Josh started to pick up, but stopped to hear her explanation, sensing she really wanted him to be paying attention. "I washed out the blue stripe and pulled it back. I'm letting it grow out. No more blonde."

"But I like blonde."

"You like a lot of things. I'm just not one of them."

"Wha.."

"Here." Her eyes fixed on his, she reached under the white blouse and V-neck sweater she was wearing, moving her hands and arms like a magician escaping from a straight jacket. "This is the push-up bra," she said, throwing it at him, "that I've been wearing for the past four months to get your attention. It's uncomfortable as hell," she wanted him to know, unabashedly using both hands to adjust her breasts through her sweater, rubbing them quickly on their underside crease.

He sat there quietly, still holding the bra he'd caught with both hands. It was clear she wasn't done.

Pushing the set of metal bookends on the front of his desk, and the paper and hard back references between them, to her left, unable to care less that one end and several of the books had fallen off the edge onto the floor, she put one hand on the front edge of his desk for the balance she needed to take off her high heels. "These I'll keep because... because," slamming them on his desk one at a time, "they were expensive and, who knows, I may need to them for someone who really cares."

Unbuckling her belt, she unzipped the fake leather mini-skirt she was wearing and let it drop to the floor, leaving her standing there in nothing more than blue-gray, very low waist boylegs. Stepping out of the mini-skirt, she picked it up and threw that at him too. "Forty dollars. That was the sale price, and I haven't been able to bend over or sit with my knees apart since I bought it." From the bag, she pulled out a pair of well worn jeans and slipped into them. She didn't mean to do it seductively. Being that way just came naturally to her. And then sox that she put on, hopping on one leg, and Reeboks from the gym bag. Her high heels went into the same bag that she grabbed by its handles without bothering to zip it up.

"In case you haven't gotten the point," she said, loud and clear, with the perfect dramatic pause, "we're done."

Josh leaned forward to quiet her. "Could you please keep..."

"What? Some of your friends..." Looking around, she noticed, but couldn't have cared less that everyone in his group, and from several desks across the open walkway, was hanging on her every word, watching the two of them without moving or saying anything.

Two phones rang until they gave up. The chubby guy at the corner desk by the file cabinets snapped his cell phone closed, in the middle of a call, without saying a word or taking his eyes off the two of them. "God damn, she's hot," he and the other men in the group, Josh included – and one of the women – were thinking to themselves.

Turning back to Josh, "...some of your coworkers don't know yet what a jerk you are? 'Breaking News!' They do now....No, actually, I stand corrected. I'm the jerk. For the past four months I've done everything possible to live up... to..." She stopped to catch her breath. "...Mm, what a jerk." Taking a step forward, she grabbed the screen of his computer and turned it around. "What a surprise?! And there she is. Well, pay attention! I'm not her. Never will be. Don't want to be. The fact is, if I didn't remind you of her somehow, for some reason I still don't get, you never would have asked me out. Hell, you wouldn't even know I worked here."

"Avril, .."

"Unbelievable!...Last night, in the middle of God knows what you thought you were doing, that's what you called me that....What's my name? Come on. What's my name?!"

"Uh," he hesitated, worried that it was trick question and wanting to make sure he got it right, "it's..."

"How puh-thetic. You actually think you've been sleeping with her, don't you?"

"How 'bout if we talk about this over dinner?"

She paused, wondering if anyone could really be that dumb.

"Josh," she said with remarkable calm and the flavor of pity evident in her voice, "we're not going out tonight. Not tonight, not ever again. We're not even going to be friends....But strangely, strangely I almost feel like you did me a favor. To think that it took my wanting to be someone else to figure out who I really am." One deep breath, and she smiled, not at Josh, but to herself, and then she turned and left, walking away toward the elevators.

Not one to give up that easily, Josh rose to his feet, running around his desk and after her. "Jane. Wait up....Jane!" She stopped and turned, waiting for him to catch up to her. "Look," he started, a bit breathless and determined not to apologize, knowing it would only annoy her. "Okay, I'm guilty of being shallow. How's that any different from what _you_ did? I got stuck on the way she looks, and you were just as pathetic in how you responded."

Sad, but it was true, and the only reason she was still standing there.

"You get to start over. Why can't I? Why can't we just start over, me crazy about you for who you are, you being who you are and helping me become..."

"Josh," she spoke up to stop him from talking. "The thing is, Josh, you're right. I really am no better than you are. You're smart," she reached up, moving the fingers of her right hand through his hair, "good looking.. God, you're good looking. Only average in bed, but we could work on that, and occasionally funny. Come to think of it, you're my 'Avril Lavigne.'" Placing her hand on his chest, "The thing is, Josh, I don't think I ever really cared." She smiled and shrugged. "..See yah," and she turned, letting her hand linger on his chest for just a second as she walked away.

He watched her go for a moment, and then turned, hands in his pants pockets, to walk back to his desk. Steve, the chubby guy from the corner desk, was waiting for him, leaning up against the front edge. Seeing Josh, he smiled, nodding his head up and down slightly, rubbing his thumb and first fingers quickly to make the universal sign of cash.

Rolling his eyes, Josh reached for his wallet, took out and handed his friend a twenty.

"What did I tell you? Call her 'Avril' in the heat of luuuuvvv, and that would pretty much do it....and my mother thought I wasted my degree in Psychology. I mean, was that babe psycho or what?"

Looking Steve in the face, and then looking down to his side, Josh blew him off with an, "I've got to get back to work." Walking around his desk, Josh sat down and swiveled himself into position in front of his keyboard and screen. And there she was staring back at him, always perfect, always the come-on. There she was, Avril Lavigne, oozing sexuality, but nevertheless the now ex-girl of his dreams.

<Table Of Contents>

# 27. Dream On

"Pssst." Nothing. "...Hey," he said a little louder.

"Whuh!" Carole shot up in her bed. "Ah," she couldn't seem to breathe, fumbling franticly in the almost darkness for her glasses on the crowded night table, pushing her alarm clock onto the floor, rattling her metal lampshade while she nervously clicked the switch again and again.

"Looking for these?" The stranger standing a few feet to the side of her bed held up her glasses and cell phone. Given the circumstances, his voice and demeanor were remarkably casual. He seemed comfortable, at ease with himself as if this was something he'd done before. "I've turned off your power. The light won't go on. There's no point."

Carole could see him, but not clearly. Her vision wasn't all that good, and the only light in the room was from a lamppost on the other side of the street coming through narrow blinds she'd closed just enough to give her privacy. Her breathing was labored.

"If you don't calm down, you'll hyperventilate and pass out....You really don't want to pass out with me here, do you?"

"Mm." Carole shook her head as if shuttering from the cold, and then instinctively grabbed the quilt that had fallen to her waist and yanked it up over her chest and the t-shirt she was wearing.

"You're not naked, Carole. There's no reason to cover up."

She took a quick breath, trying so hard not to be one of those people who couldn't scream, let alone talk, when she's scared. "What do you want?!" she blurted out, the pitch of her voice higher than usual and erratic. "What do you want?...How did you get in here?"

"Through your back door. You really need to get an alarm," he said laughing quietly to himself. "...You know, you seem tired, Carole. Having trouble sleeping lately?"

"How do you know my name?" Without moving her head, hoping the stranger wouldn't notice, she looked everywhere around the room, straining to see something that she could use as a weapon.

"What, you're going to leap out of bed and attack me with, let's see, your blow dryer?" He rolled his eyes and then pursed his lips, as if seriously considering her options. "Nah."

No response. She squinted, but still couldn't see him clearly.

"You're, what, maybe five four, 120 pounds tops? Athletic," he thought out loud, cocking his head as he stared at her bare arms and the form of her legs pushing up the quilt. "I, on the other hand, am just over six feet and weigh 195 pounds....Oh, and did I mention..." He tossed her glasses and cell phone into the metal trashcan in the far corner of the room, the sound of them hitting the can startling her even though she saw him throw them.

How many times had she wondered to herself, watching TV or a movie, if something like this would ever happen to her, would she wait too long to do whatever she could, would she hesitate until it was too late?

Reaching into his right pants pocket, he took out something out, there was a sharp "click" followed by a flash of light off what had to be a blade. "Did I mention that I have a knife."

"What do you want?"

"You already asked me that."

"So I'm asking you again," she responded defiantly. "Is it money?"

The man just stood there. "Don't you hate awkward moments?...No, I don't need your money....Now, you're probably saying to yourself, if you weren't too scared to think, 'If not money, what does that leave?' Money would be easy. Maybe he's going to rape or kill me, or both. Maybe this is the beginning of the last few moments of my life. But you can't think, can you?" The man took a step forward, the open knife down at this side. "...which is why I'm thinking for you." And then another step, his arm with the knife bending down and forward, the point of its blade poking into the quilt, Carole's leg flinching to get out of its way.

"I see, and is that when you woke up, Jacob?" Dr. Winters assumed it was, but wanted to be sure.

"Yes."

"How many dreams has it been?"

"Six, including this one, since I started seeing you – and several before that."

"Each one taking you closer, further along to what you assume is going to be a violent outcome?"

"Yes."

"What makes you so sure?"

"Because... Because that's what I want. It's getting to the point where I'm going to bed early, hoping for the next dream to find out what happens next....And," Jacob sat forward to be able to get his hand in his pocket, "I went out and bought a knife." He took it out, setting it on the table in front of him.

"Like the one in your dreams?"

"Exactly like the one in my dreams. That's why I bought it."

Dr. Winters stared at his patient, rubbing the plastic shaft of the pen he'd been using to take notes. "Wait here." Rising out of his chair, he went to the door of the inner office where he and Jacob had been talking. His hand on the knob, he turned back to his patient. "I have someone I'd like you to meet."

The first person to come in was a woman, tall, gray hair, in her fifties. "This is Dr. Evelyn Bouchard..."

"Hello, Jacob."

"Jacob nodded his head slightly, feeling anxious about what was happening.

"... Dr. Bouchard and I have separate practices, but talk often about each other's cases. It helps sometimes..."

A fourth person had come in and was standing behind the two psychologists. It was a woman, Jacob could tell, judging from her size and what he could see of her almost shoulder length hair.

"..to get another professional's point of view."

Jacob pushed off the leather of his chair, rising to his feet as the second woman came around from behind the two doctors. Lifting up her face slightly, she reached with the forefinger of her right hand to push her glasses up to the bridge of her nose, but then decided that it would be better if Jacob could see her without them.

"And I think," Dr. Winters was only stating the obvious, "you recognize Carole....Let's everybody have a seat."

Dr. Brouchard sat on the two-cushion sofa next to Carole who was too nervous to lean back.

"It turns out, so I discovered a few days ago, that Carole... She is the girl in your dreams, isn't she, Jacob?"

Jacob bobbed his head just enough, never taking his eyes off her.

"Carole's been seeing Dr. Brouchard about a recurring dream, about a man who breaks into her house, each dream more real than the one before it, each one coming closer to violence....Sound familiar?"

Rolling his eyes toward Dr. Winters, his silence was all they needed to hear.

"By the way, Jacob, in the notes I've asked you to make after each dream, her name is "Carole" alright, but with an "e."

"You knew my name?" Carole hadn't been told. "How did you know my name?" she asked him in that tone of voice between anger and fear.

"I don't..." Jacob held out his hands, unable to finish. "It was 'Carole' in the dreams I've had."

"Unlike you, Jacob," Dr. Brouchard took over, "Carole has been afraid to sleep, afraid she'll dream. She's had an alarm system installed, but the dreams haven't stopped."

"So what do we do now, Dr. Winters?" Jacob asked, his eyes moving from Carole's folded hands in her lap, up her arms to her shoulders and neck. Carole pulled at the edge of her skirt, wishing she had worn jeans. "Why are we meeting? Will knowing we're real make the dreams stop?"

"I don't know," Dr. Winters wasn't kidding.

"This," Dr. Brouchard interrupted, uncertainty apparent in her voice, "to be honest, is the first time we've handled anything like this. Many people have similar dreams. You two are apparently having the same dream, but from different perspectives."

"They don't seem," Carole was hesitant to speak, "like dreams."

"With your permission, Dr. Brouchard," Dr. Winters wanted to answer, "most dreams are based on events the dreamer has experienced, a combination of situations and emotions creatively spun and extrapolated by the mind in the context of our hopes and fears. When dreams come true, it's usually by chance or because... or because we make them happen. The problem here is that, so far as we can tell, the two of you have never met or run across each other, at least not consciously. Somehow, the two of you have started dreaming in synch. It's rare, but there are well documented cases of it happening, of strangers sharing the same dreams – even more rare that those dreams would be progressive, that each of you would actually be adapting to your previous dream experience..." Carole and Jacob seemed lost.

"You come home," Dr. Winters continued, "you're hungry, but there's nothing good to eat. The next time you dream, you come home and there's leftover Chinese in your refrigerator. The first time you found yourself in Carole's room, there was no weapon. Two dreams later, you had that knife. Carole used to leave her cell phone in a recharging stand in her kitchen. Now she keeps it on her nightstand – first in your dreams and then in reality. Clearly, you're adapting, letting your dreams influence your waking behavior, and your waking behavior influence subsequent dreams that are converging together toward what may be a common conclusion." And he stopped.

"...The problem," Dr. Brouchard took over, "is that the dreams the two of you are sharing – every few days, by the way, on the same nights according to your notes – appear to have violent content and, at the very least, have been upsetting to both of you."

"That's all very interesting,..." Of the two patients, Carole seemed to be under the most stress. "..but can you make them stop? Do none of you see that knife?" she pointed an unsteady finger at the coffee table in front of Jacob. "Why... Why shouldn't I be afraid?"

"Carole," Dr. Winters answered, "it's perfectly understandable that you are afraid. Dreams can be scary. These are nightmares at the very least, and you're clearly sleep deprived which isn't helping....Look, if it's okay with the two of you, we're going to try having some of our sessions together. Our thinking is that letting the two of you get to know each other will make the violent component of your common dreams seem less real..."

"...and because," Dr. Brouchard finished the thought for her colleague, "there are things each of you needs to know about the other."

"Like what?" Jacob demanded.

"For one thing," Dr. Winters looked at Carole, "you need to know that Jacob owns the local franchise for the security company that installed your alarm system."

Carole's head turned sharply to face Jacob, her posture becoming stiff as she pushed back, distancing herself from Jacob by a few inches.

"And for another," he said, looking back at Jacob, "you need to know that Carole has bought a gun and has been learning how to use it."

Carole tightened her jaw.

Jacob, on the other hand, seemed almost excited by the challenge.

<Table Of Contents>

# 28. Enchilada Books

Inspired by my favorite corner bookstore,

Three Lives, in the West Village of New York City.

"Hey, Babe," Toby Cooper looked up to see his wife, Amanda, and their three year old son, Nathan, on their way in. "Close the door, will you?"

Toby was the third generation owner of "My Family's Bookstore" that had been there on the corner for what seemed like forever. It was and had always been an ethnic neighborhood, a place where people from somewhere else came on their way to making something more of themselves. Amidst all this change, My Family's Bookstore was one of the few constants.

For these immigrants, whatever their origins or reasons, just having made it this far was proof of their motivation, of character and commitment which, by and large, would serve them well. Toby's great-grandfather was no exception. He began waiting tables and eventually managed a prominent local restaurant until he retired. It was his son, Toby's grandfather, the first of his family to go to college in a time when not everyone did, who started the bookstore. When he retired, his son, Toby's father, took over, expanding the store into their building's second floor, growing the business for Toby who came to work there full-time after he graduated. And now, with the untimely death of his father a few years ago, the store was Toby's. He was young, but ready. It was a bookstore he had been born to run.

"Hi, Daddy!" Nathan was so excited, his dark brown curly hair bouncing as he trotted around the big old desk in his father's office to give Toby a hug. Climbing up on Toby's lap, he would pay attention, shaking his head up and down, left and right sometimes, touching the papers on his father's desk as if he understood what was happening. The three of them – Toby, Amanda and their son, Nathan – lived in the loft apartment on the fourth and top story of the building. The bookstore was on the first two floors, and kept its supplies and extra inventory in the basement. The third floor was divided into two apartments that were rented. It was a good, sturdy building, the kind about which people like to say, "They don't make them like _that_ anymore."

Amanda held on to the brass knob when she pushed the door shut so that its frosted glass panel didn't rattle too much when it hit the frame. "What's up?"

"Hold on." He picked the phone and pressed the 2. "Hey. ..Yeah. Would you mind taking care of Nathan for a while? ...Thanks." A few seconds later, the sound of Carol jogging up the wooden steps that ran next to the office let them know she was coming.

"Hey, Nathan!" Carol almost shouted, bursting through the door the way she did always made him laugh.

"Hey!" Nathan was glad to see her. "What's up?" It was a question he always asked, regardless of the circumstances.

Lifting his son up, sitting him on the edge of his desk, Toby asked for a favor. "Would you mind hanging out with Carol for a while?"

"Sure, Daddy."

"Stay close and do what you can to help her."

He nodded his agreement, squirmed out of Toby's hands and hopped onto the floor, running over to grab Carol's outstretched hand, and they were off to do stuff. The fact was, Nathan was remarkably helpful, holding books when she stocked the shelves, counting the inventory, two of these, three of those. He'd learned to say, "Welcome to My Family's Bookstore," and "Can I help you?" to customers, looking way up at them, playing with his fingers while he said it. It took a while for him to say, but always made them feel good about shopping there. He was only a little kid, but he knew what he was doing. If the customer needed help, one of the staff would step in, but take Nathan with them from shelf to shelf to the register, and then hold his finger on the knot of the ribbon if there was something to wrap. It would be his store one day, if he wanted it, and if it was still there to give him.

Back in the relative quiet of Toby's office, Amanda could read the stress on her husband's face. "You talked to Jimmy." It wasn't a question. Jimmy had been the store's accountant for more than decade now.

"Yeah. He doesn't think we're going to make it."

"What does he know?"

"He knows a marginal business when he sees it. There's just..." and he stopped, interrupted by a rap on the door. "Come in."

"Excuse me."

"Hi, Mr. Morales," the part-time handyman they'd hired a few weeks ago. He was a good looking man in his early 70s, with a strong face and determined eyes that seemed out of place and made you wonder what they had seen that made them that way. As far a Toby knew, Mr. Morales had lived in the community for most of his life – although his Mexican accent was still evident, as was often the case with older immigrants who came here as adults. A pleasant, very effective man, they'd hired him to keep the store in shape, to make the little repairs their landlord wouldn't. "Good morning."

"Is it okay if I replace the plug on your floor lamp," he asked, glancing toward to the corner of the room, away from the windows, that was darker than it should have been.

"Uh, sure. Go ahead."

"I'll just be a minute," he responded, reaching into the pocket of his jeans to take out the new plug, a small tool bag in his other hand. "Mrs. Cooper," he smiled politely.

"Good morning," she responded. "...Nice job on the shelves, by the way."

He didn't answer, but turned and waved back to accept her compliment.

Toby rolled his chair under the desk, putting both his forearms down, interlocking his fingers as he leaned closer to Amanda who was sitting in the small, worn corduroy wing chair that was her favorite. Kicking off her shoes, she curled her legs under and crossed her arms. ("Life's too short, her mother used to tell her, "not to be comfortable.")

"It's... It's the same thing we've been talking about for months," Toby said softly. "We just don't have the space to do enough business, or the volume to get competitive pricing from our distributors. We do more for our customers, but...," he tilted his head slightly and stopped to breathe, "these aren't wealthy people. They're not going to pay a premium for service, and nobody, nobody waits anymore for us to order something they can find on the shelf at one of the big chain-stores. If they can't hold it and read the first couple of pages, they might as well buy it on-line. And why..," he shrugged the one shoulder and raised his eyebrows, "why keep coming back if they can't find something they want to buy."

"Hey," she reassured him, "We'll do the best we can, for as long as we can....How 'bout if I look for another location? I know you don't want to move, but..."

"I don't. This is our neighborhood. If anything, we should have the advantage here because these are our people. What makes you think we'll survive or do better someplace else?" And then he reconsidered, tired of denying the inevitable. "..But you're right. We do need to start looking. I don't think our new landlord's going to give us any choice. See what we can afford. Just ...start close. Maybe we can at least keep our apartment."

"How about if we keep this place, but open a second and then eventually a third store to get our volume up? Maybe stores with different specialties? I could run one with nothing but arts and entertainment books, you know, lots of the big ones people like to leave out on their coffee tables." She was playing with him a bit, but wasn't kidding. "Seriously. Think about it. This store would be our headquar..."

The door was still open from when Mr. Morales had come in, but Joyce knocked on the frame anyway just to be polite. "Sorry, but I need some help."

"Sure," Toby looked over at his manager standing in the doorway, waiving her in. "What do you need?"

In she came, but not alone. "Toby, this is Aleshia," a little girl, seven or eight years old. "She would like to buy this book," Joyce explained, holding it up."

"Hm. I didn't know we carried that."

"We don't, not recently anyway,...and she only has one dollar to spend."

The little girl held it out, the dollar, to show it to him.

Toby looked at Amanda, and back at Joyce. "No kidding?...Hey, Aleshia. That's a great book. Did you turn the pages? Do you think it's something you can read?"

"Yes, Sir," she answered timidly, standing close to Joyce for protection. "My mother and father will help me if I have any trouble."

"Are they with you?"

"No," she shook her head, "They have to work. I stopped by on my way home from school."

"Well, okay. Uh, Joyce, I believe the price of that book is 75 cents, tax included. Would you put that in a bag and offer Aleshia a fresh brownie? And Aleshia,..."

"Yes?"

"Thank you for coming to 'My Family's Bookstore.'" He smiled at her, and she back to him, a broad, warm smile with lots of teeth, the kind of smile that would make Toby's day.

"Close the door, will you Joyce....And Joyce, make sure Aleshia gets home safely. Maybe Maura can walk with her on her way out to bring back supplies."

"Sure thing....Come on," Joyce took Aleshia's hand, grabbing the edge of the door behind her back on her way out.

"Bye," Amanda waved to the little girl who looked back over her shoulder at the two of them, and at Mr. Morales standing in the corner just finishing up his work.

"Wait for me," Mr. Morales picked up his pace to make it out before the door closed, as if he couldn't have opened himself if he had to.

"Gracias," Toby said to Mr. Morales' back, doubting if he heard him.

"He speaks English, you know."

"Yeah." Toby had always wished he could speak Spanish. His grandfather had learned it pretty well from his customers. Just the basics, if Toby remembered correctly, but enough to get by in the neighborhood which was much more Hispanic then than it is now.

"And 75 cents?" Amanda wasn't mad, but gave him "that look" anyway. "It's no wonder we're not making any money."

"What the hell. As far as I can tell, we didn't pay for it."

"What's that make," Amanda was curious, "a dozen or so books you didn't know you had that have turned up in just the past few weeks?"

"Are you kidding? When Joyce and I did the inventory on Monday, we found 87 books we never ordered. Plus the ones we sold, that's 121 – all them children's classics, brand new hard cover editions of titles that have been around forever."

"Should we call... Who should we call?"

"And what, Watson, report a case of serial shop-gifting? I'm pretty sure it's not a crime give something to a retailer."

"Where do you think..."

"Hey," Toby waived her question off with both hands. "We've got more important things to worry about. This meeting in a couple a minutes," he checked his watch, "I don't know what they want, but it can't be good. Our lease is up in six months. They've bought our building and the two next door."

"Even if they're willing to let us stay, we can't afford an increase."

"Hey, I get it. I don't like it, but I get it. Start looking for someplace else, in the neighborhood if poss..." Toby's phone buzzed. "Hello....Yeah, send them up."

"Is that them?"

"Yeah. Let's do this." I was time to get himself psyched for what would likely be a difficult conversation, getting up from his chair as he heard their them coming up the stairs. Amanda stood up, reaching down to pull on her shoes without unlacing them. Opening his office door, Toby stepped outside to greet them.

"Mr. Cooper?"

"Yes, but please call me Toby."

"Thank you, Toby. I'm Maria Santos, President of Santos Development."

"Our new landlord."

"Yes. This is my brother, Miguel, and our attorney, David Warner – and there's one more person that will be joining us."

"And this is my wife, Amanda."

"Good to meet you, Mrs. Cooper."

"Please, have a seat," Toby suggested, pointing to the chairs around a small work table they'd cleared off for the meeting.

"Thank you, Toby, but we won't be long." Miguel was tall and good looking, his face instantly familiar, but neither Toby nor Amanda knew why. And he was polite, "We don't mean to interrupt your business," but in a sincere, and not at all patronizing way.

Toby and Amanda flashed their eyes at each other. That they weren't staying, and had brought their attorney, wasn't a good sign. "Can I get anyone something to drink?" Amanda asked, hoping to break the ice. "...We have some homemade brownies, still hot out of the oven?"

"Sounds tempting," Miguel answered, "but...

"Mr. Morales?" Their handyman was standing in the doorway. "Was there," Toby asked him, "something else you..."

Without waiting for Toby to finish, their handyman looked at Miguel and smiled. "Hello, Son." Stepping forward, he put his hand on his son's neck, slapping it gently instead of giving him a hug. "You look good. Thanks for flying out. We'll catch up over lunch." For Maria, who was standing next to Miguel, he had a kiss for her cheek. "Hi, Honey."

"Hey, Dad." However often they saw each other, which was a lot lately, the way he was always glad to see her made her feel good when he was around. It was how he felt about both his children. Always had, when they were little kids, and always would.

"David," he shook hands with the attorney. "Thanks for joining us."

"My pleasure, Berto."

"Mr. Morales?" Toby didn't understand.

"Mr. Cooper... Toby. I'm Berto Santos. 'Morales' was my mother's maiden name, and these two beautiful children are mine.

"What happened to your accent?" Amanda wanted to know.

"I never had one. I was born here, 72 years ago, a few blocks away in the apartment of a relative where my mother stayed when she came here, pregnant, from Mexico, after my father died.

"And," Toby was remembering the interview when he hired Mr. Morales, now Santos, "the recommendation you gave us from the law firm where you said you used to work?"

"I did work there. As an associate, then partner and then Managing Partner until I retired a couple of years ago."

"And now you're a handyman?"

"My mother was a maid. It's honorable work. Let me apologize for deceiving you. I wanted to learn, first hand, what it was like here. I just wanted to make sure you and your wife were still running the store the way your grandfather did."

"What does my husband's grandfather have to do.." Amanda had a question, but realized this was really between Mr. Santos and Toby.

"And the other night, when one of my staff ran into you going up the stairs into one of those really expensive townhouses on the other side of the square, the ones that have their own street that's blocked by the gates. He said he asked if you worked there too, because it seemed like a lot, what with the work you're doing for us, for a retired handyman to handle. And you told him not to worry, that you had help. ...That's your house, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Hm. So what's this all about, Mr. Santos?" Toby walked around to his chair and sat down. Amanda took his lead and curled back into her wing chair. Please," Toby asked them, pointing to the space in front of his desk, and they pulled over three of the wooden folding chairs that had been around the table.

Mr. Santos sat close to the desk, putting his right arm on it, his left hand on the edge. "My mother, their grandmother," he added, turning toward his children for a moment, his pride evident in his expression, "eventually learned to speak and read English well, but in the beginning, Spanish was her only language and that of our relatives and the friends we made. I learned my English on the streets and when I went to school. I didn't know about using a library and we had no money, but I would come into this bookstore, whenever I could. At first, for the cookies your grandmother made. Little icebox cookies with walnuts, small enough that I could pop a whole one, still warm from the oven, in my mouth."

"I have the recipe," Amanda's memory could smell them cooking, "if you'd like it."

"Not him," Mrs. Cooper," Maria reached out and touched her arm, "but for me, when you have time. I've been hearing about those cookies my whole life."

"He... Your grandfather would let me sit in a corner, on the first floor, under a table he made on crates and covered with books. He let me read books I couldn't afford, helped me sound out words I couldn't pronounce and told me what the ones I didn't understand meant. He did this for years," Mr. Santos looked around the office, remembering the man who had been so good to him. "Your Grandfather said I could 'borrow' the books and return them when I could."

"Let me guess," Toby was thinking out loud. "121 children's classics?"

Mr. Santos laughed softly. "Yes. I've brought them back, the current editions of course. I still have the originals in my study at home. As you can see, I'm a man of my word....When I was older, he would actually pay me a quarter if I gave him a detailed book report, 50 cents if it was written and at least 3 pages long. He made me write, in cursive, small," he held up his hand, his thumb and first finger "this close" together, "on a yellow legal pad with narrow lines so there had to be a lot of words on the page. Sometimes, my mother would make a plate of enchiladas that he liked, and we'd eat them together in this office while we talked about the books he loaned me and others. And then I would go home and tell her, my mother, about the stories I read, about what she called my "Enchilada books." We did this, your Grandfather and me, until I left for college. After that we would write to each other, and I'd stop by now and then, with a plate of enchiladas until my mother passed away."

"Maybe," Amanda was wondering, "it's a recipe I can have?"

"Of course, Mrs. Cooper," Miguel promised her. "I'll get it for you."

"Well, Mr. Santos, uh, thank you for returning the books, but that can't be all this is about? You're my new landlord. We all know my lease is up in six months. What exactly is it that you want to talk about?"

"I'm here to pay a debt, Mr. Cooper, to return a favor, long overdue. My son, Miguel, runs one of our companies. You may have heard of it." Nodding to his son, Miguel gave Toby and Amanda his business cards that they read and then looked at each other.

"You're, what..." Toby asked, moving his eyes as he made a mental list, "one of the top 10 on-line booksellers in the country?"

"Number eight," Miguel volunteered. "..and growing. Number one for children's books which is still our core business."

"Here's the favor, Mr. and Mrs. Cooper. Listen, and then take the night to think about it. If you're interested, call Miguel. He'll have David prepare the papers we need and make it happen. It's simple. One: As you probably know, I've bought the buildings next door and this one. Under your supervision, but at my expense, Maria's company will remodel them and grow your store into all three buildings. That'll give you space you need to be competitive. Your new lease will be a percentage of your gross that you can afford, that rises and falls with your sales. Two: You can buy whatever books you want through our distributor relationships. We'll provide financing, if you need it. No one buys better than we do. Same for advertising."

"Will we have to change the name of the store?"

"No. This isn't about buying you out. I don't want your business. I just want your grandfather, in case he's listening, to know that I never forgot what he did for me, and for my family. If I hadn't learned to read under your Grandfather's table... Well, fortunately I did. And if your new store succeeds, if the model works and we open more of them in similar neighborhoods around the country, we'll want to own those with you, the Coopers and the Santoses. ..Think about it, and call us tomorrow, even if it's just to talk about it some more. I'm sure you'll have questions. Call Miguel and I'll be there too....Come on," Mr. Santos told the other three, "your mother will be waiting for us. Let's let these people get back to work."

Toby and Amanda couldn't think of what to say.

Standing up, Mr. Santos reached across the desk to shake Toby's hand. "Thank you."

"You're welcome, Mr. Santos. This is a wonderful offer you've made. We'll think about it, as if there was anything to think about, and give Miguel a call in the morning."

...and then he turned to Amanda, shaking her hand too. "Mrs. Cooper, I've enjoyed working for you and your husband, but I'll be quitting now." He smiled. "Joyce has a list of the repairs I haven't gotten around to making yet." Looking back at Toby on his way out the door, "You keep what you owe me. I'll take a couple of brownies on my way out."

<Table Of Contents>

# 29. The Speed Date

Late Saturday afternoon in the small ballroom of a downtown hotel. Twenty men and women, 25 to 29 years old, are having five-minute dates. Never married. No children. No ethnic or religious preference.

Twelve mutually disappointing interviews into the afternoon, "He" pulls out the chair on his side of the circle of small square tables, trying to make eye contact and smiling politely as "She," the young woman with the small yellow pad and pen sitting across from him, turns over a fresh page.

"What are you drinking?" She thought she would begin with a meaningless question just to make sure her voice was still working.

"Water. ..What about you?" he asked, looking at the pineapple shell on her side of the table. "I don't think I've ever seen a drink with that many umbrellas."

"It's a virgin Pina Colada, extra umbrellas...for my niece. She collects them....I think we should be completely honest," she said abruptly without bothering to introduce herself.

"Is this a trick question?"

"Actually, it's not even a question."

"Okay, yes."

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, I agree to be completely honest. ...Are you talking really fast because we only have five minutes?"

"Yes," she blurted back at him.

"Let's start over.." She was very pretty, in a mildly quirky way, which was even more perfect than if she were technically beautiful, and he didn't want to blow the four and half minutes they had left. "Hi. My name is Les."

"Is that 'Les' with one or two esses?"

"You're kidding ...aren't you?"

"Yes, I'm just a tad nervous. That's why you couldn't tell, whether or not I was kidding."

Awkward pause. "And you are?"

"Sally, with a "y." She extended her hand to shake his, trying to weave between the two large water glasses, two wine glasses, small carafes of white and red wine that no one was drinking, flowers and the candle that was floating in a blue-green glass bowl – not wanting to ruin the moment by knocking something over. On the first or second date, maybe, but not yet. He was cute, "92% handsome, with wonderful light brown eyes glowing back at her below eyebrows that were just heavy enough," she scribbled, almost without looking down to see what she was writing, certain he'd never be able to read it upside down.

"You're kidding, again?" Standing slowly, careful not to bump into the table, he reached across to shake her hand. Firm and warm, it felt right to both of them. The usual shaking hands part had ended, but she wasn't letting go, waiting for him to break it off. "My hand."

"What about it?"

"The candle."

"Oh," she let go and he snapped back, trying to be brave, figuring he'd could spray something on it later. "...No, not really."

"Not really what?"

"No, I'm not really kidding about my name. I have cousin with the same name who spells hers with an "i."

"'S-i-lly'?"

She started to laugh, but then caught herself.

"...Yes or no, how old are you?" he asked, sensing he may be on the verge of breakthrough.

This time she did laugh, giving in to the chemistry for a moment, but then regained her composure. "What was your last year's adjusted gross income?"

"What difference does it make?"

"I thought we were going to be completely honest with each other."

"I am. It's honestly none of your business....My turn. How many times have you had sex in the past 12 months?"

Pause. "I get your point," she admitted. "There are limits."

Another awkward silence, broken by the both of them starting to talk at the same time.

"You go." She was polite.

"No, you." So was he.

"Do you date often?" she asked, poised to make another note on her pad.

"Not really."

"Why not?"

"I've been biding my time, waiting for.." He stopped.

"For what?"

"I'm not sure....You maybe? ...Do you date a lot?"

"Not really."

"Why's that?"

"I have trouble taking chances." And then she paused, gathering her nerve to ask her next question. It had sounded meaningful when she made her list, but now she wasn't so sure. "Do you believe in sex on the first date?"

"You make it sound like a religion."

"Do you or don't you?"

"Define 'first date.' Does this count? How about in the taxi on the way to dinner?"

"You're dodging the question."

"Okay. No, I don't."

"Why not?" She looked up from the last note she had made. "I'm not sure I beli..."

"You could be a psychopath."

"..believe you. ...Even psychopaths need to have sex."

This time he laughed. "Then we'd have to do it in public, where there were other people around, just in case."

Looking ahead to the last page in her pad, she was ready with another question. "What is it you like about me most, so far? Please think out loud."

"No one is this organized," he thought to himself. "Did you make a list?" he asked, leaning forward to peer at her notes. "Okay. To be honest..."

"It's important to be honest."

"I know. We agreed. To be honest, I like the way your sweater fits around your, your," he started to point, then stopped, "but that's not what you want to hear."

"How do you know?"

"That I like the way...""

"That's it's not something I want to hear."

No comment. "...I'm wondering what your legs are like, but I can't tell without looking under the table....Can I look under the table?"

"No, but they're perfect," she asserted without the least hesitation, impatiently wobbling her pen between her thumb and first two fingers.

"Wait. I've got it. ...What I like about you most, so far, is your determination. I think you can give me a run for my money, so to speak. ...And what is it you like most about me, so far?

Nothing, just a flinch of her mouth.

"Shouldn't you be thinking out loud?"

"I don't know?"

"You don't know what you like about me most? ...How about what you don't like about me least?"

"I don't find your hair too objectionable?" She was lying. It had waves and curls that moved just a bit with his head, but not so much to entirely lose their place. Watching them made her squirm for some reason, but in a good way. "Focus," she advised herself.

"Thanks."

She began to really look at him. "And your eyes."

"What about my eyes?"

"I don't have any real problem with your eyes."

"Who's she kidding," he thought to himself. "My eyes are my best feature." He was trying to reassure himself, but it wasn't working.

"...What is it you like about me the least?" she was bold enough to ask.

"That you couldn't think of anything you like about me the most," he answered. "That's what I like about you the least."

"And if I'd said I thought you were cute?"

"You're right. I don't want to be cute. I want to be, 'Oh, my God! Slam me against the wall, out of control, can't catch my breath, no time to get our clothes off, try not to knock over the coffee table on the way to the couch, or squish the cat' good looking."

She was blushing, but didn't think he'd notice.

"You know, I think I like this honesty thing."

"Ye... " She cleared her throat. "Yes."

"Yes what?"

"Yes, I think you're more than cute."

"In that case," he admitted, "I may have understated my feelings about you physically when I said you seem determined."

"One minute to go, ladies and gentlemen," the moderator announced, leaving the two of them staring at each other, running out of time.

He was the one to break the silence. "Would you go out with me?"

"When?"

"Tonight would be good."

"I don't know. I'll have to think about it."

"What's your downside?"

"You could be a jerk."

"Same risk for me."

"Bzzzzz!" It was entirely too loud, but they barely heard it. "Time's up, everybody. Next date starts in 60 seconds."

Before they knew it, #14 was standing to the right of the table, his right, her left, looking at one of them, then the other, waiting for him to stop waiting for her to respond, but she didn't. A slight sigh, his shoulders drooping in disappointment as he exhaled, he pushed back his chair and stood up, rubbing the tablecloth with the tips of his fingers before looking and walking away toward the next table, a few feet to his left, where a long-legged woman sat dangling one of her red high heel shoes. #14 started to sit down, not wanting to waste any of his time.

She faced the new guy, but her eyes were on him, the one who was about to get away.

Just as he was about to sit down in front of the red-shoed woman, he held up his forefinger to the new "she," tapping the air, "One... One second." Walking quickly back to her side of the previous table, "Excuse me," he said to #14 with a perfunctory upturn of the corners of his mouth. Bending down, he gave the previous "her" a kiss. Once, then again for a little longer, pulling away slowly, very slowly. Rolling his lips, he swallowed, and said the one word she didn't realize, until just then, that she had been waiting to hear, "Please?"

Still nothing, and so he went back to the next table and sat down in front of the woman with the red shoes, who, having witnessed the kiss, began talking to him immediately.

"Hi!" #14 seemed eager to get started.

"Uhhh," the first "she" said to #14, putting down her pen and raising her hand. "I'll be right back." Standing up, she reached down to even out the edge of her sweater, straightened her posture, took a breath and walked confidently toward "he" who had stopped talking to the woman with red shoes and was looking up at her. Grabbing the lapels of his sport coat, she pulled him to his feet, slid her hands up and around the back of his head, and kissed him, long and passionately, standing a bit on her toes to do it.

When they were done, she slid the few inches down his chest, lowering herself to the carpet, and ironed the front of his jacket with the flat of her hands. Reaching up, she wiped away the tiniest bit of something she'd left on his mouth. "I think... I think I have a thing for polite men," she said while he caught his breath. "...Meet me in the lobby when we're done." And then she went back to her table and sat down, pulling her chair back under her and the table to the perfect position, picking up her pen, very deliberately drawing five perfect little stars next to his name and turning the page over the top of the pad. Looking up at #14, but then over at him who hadn't taken his eyes off of her or bothered to sit down, and then back to #14, she said, "Hello."

The women with the red shoes flashed her head back and forth between him, still standing, and her, now sitting at the table with #14.

Pause.

"There's no real point in doing this, is there?" #14 asked her.

"Not really."

<Table Of Contents>

# 30. Broken Rose

It was two hours, forty-two minutes after they had met at the mid-life crisis pickup bar down the street. He was the married father of two children. She, so it appeared to him, was a single woman, in town for a few days on business, looking for someone at the end of a long day. Or maybe she was a call girl. He didn't really care as long as he could afford to pay her without his wife finding out. He wasn't bad looking. She used to be beautiful, and would have been now were it not for something about her eyes that would have caused a more careful man to think twice about taking her to bed.

In the hotel room he'd paid for in cash – his wife at their home in the suburbs thinking, because he told her, that he was working late, hoping, but not really believing that he was telling the truth – Ed was sitting up in bed, propped up against two overly soft pillows, his hands curled too tightly over the sheet and blanket he'd pulled up to his waist, his eyes looking straight ahead at nothing. Rose, the name she had given him, was sitting naked on the edge of the bed, facing the open room, pressing with her hands on the top of her legs to extend her chest, stretching her back, her eyes closing for just a moment.

"You know, Ed," she paused for a moment to turn to look at him. "You know, Ed," you're pathetic. ...Nod in the affirmative, Ed. Do it now." And he did. "You're a successful guy." She rolled her shoulders back, turning her neck to the left, and then to the right to hear it crack ever so quietly. "Money in the bank, a beautiful family..." Turning to her side, she slipped one arm under the sheets, fumbling until she found her pants and bra. "...and you'll risk it all, betray the woman and daughters who love you, all of it for a few minutes of bad sex with a stranger....Good for you maybe," she thought to herself out loud, " bad for me, and I'm easy to please."

"Here's the deal....Are you paying attention?...Answer me, Ed. Are you paying attention?"

"Yes," he nodded as he said it, rolling his lips inward.

"Good. Here's the deal. A few minutes after I leave, the alarm next to the bed is going off. When it does, you're going get up,...get up, turn off the alarm, but not wake up, get dressed and go to your office. You're going to sit at your desk. Five minutes later, you're going to wake up and call your wife. You're going to tell her you love her, that you're just finishing up and will be home as soon as you can, and you're going to ask her to wait up for you so that the two of you can make love....You're actually going to say that to her, those words exactly....Do you understand, Ed?"

"Yes. Exactly those words."

"What words are those, Ed?"

"I'm going to ask her to wait up for me so that the two of us can make love."

"...From now on, your wife is going to be the only woman in your life. You adore her. Sexually, she drives you crazy, in a good way of course. You're going to respect and take care of her. And Ed, this is very important, never again are you going to lie to her or be unfaithful to her. That last part is very, very important. No sex with anyone other than your wife. ...Tell me you understand, Ed, that you'll always be faithful to your wife and, when you tell me, say her name."

"I will. I'll never... I'll always be faithful to Helen."

Standing up, Rose began to get dressed, taking her time, talking slowly, facing Ed as she did. "When you wake up, you're going to forget this ever happened, that we ever met, about the bar and this hotel room. As far you can remember, you left the office for a quick bite to eat at your favorite diner, had your usual dinner, whatever that is, and went back to the office where you've been all evening. ...Okay so far, Ed."

He nodded again, this time more eagerly.

"Good, Ed....It's sort of like a game, isn't it?"

He smiled in agreement.

"Your such a douche," she muttered under her breath."

"Yes," he said, surprising her, "a douche."

Smirking, she closed her eyes and let the air out of her lungs, shaking her head slightly when she was done. "You're not only going to forget meeting me, Ed, you're going to forget ever having had sex with anyone, with anyone other than your wife since you married her."

He shook his head left to right this time.

"No? What do you mean?"

"No, I won't remember anyone I've ever slept with, except Helen."

"No blow jobs, no other making out?"

"Nothing. I won't remember anything."

"Good. I just wanted to be clear. ...And, Ed."

"Yes?"

"Just in case... Wait, do you believe in God, Ed?"

"Yes. Yes, I do," he responded somberly.

"Well, Ed, if you are ever unfaithful to Helen again," she paused to sit down on the ottoman to the easy chair in their room to slip on her high heel shoes, "God will appear to you in the form of a woman, utter the phrase 'Broken Rose,' at which time you will go with her and follow her, God's every instruction, cooperating in every respect... even while she cuts off your dick and stuffs it down your throat moments, just moments before ending your miserable life." Her voice was calm. Her tone, clear and deliberate....Ed, do you understand what will happen to you if you're ever unfaithful to your wife, if you disrespect her in any way?" Hearing nothing, she turned to look at him while slipping her arms into her coat. "Ed, do you understand what will happen to you?"

Ed was red in the face, perspiring, his breathing labored. "Yes, I understand what will happen to me. God will cut off my..."

"Good, Ed. Good," she interrupted. Picking up the small alarm clock beside the bed, she set it to go off in 20 minutes, plenty of time for her to get out of the hotel and into her car. Bending over to pick up his pants, she took out his wallet and removed all his cash, $185, except two twenties, stuffing the bills into her coat pocket.

Reaching into the vase of red roses she made him buy her in the lobby, she took one out and turned back to her victim. Raising it to her face, she savored its fragrance until some unspecified reality returned to her eyes. Snapping the stem in the fingers of her right hand, she stared at the breakpoint for a second, and then tossed the flower toward him, landing it perfectly on where his crotch could be found under the sheet and blanket. "A not so friendly reminder, Ed," and then she whispered a simple toast, "For Helen, for my late mother, Rose, and hurtful men everywhere who don't appreciate what they have."

Later that evening, she walked briskly into the studios of the talk radio station where her 10 PM to 2 AM show was a major draw, peeling off her coat on the fly and tossing it over one of the chairs in the engineer's booth, minutes before show time. "Who are we starting with?"

"We have Ann." None of the callers used their real names, but she would sometimes hear from them later as casual, no charge patients, to learn the details of their lives. "She's nervous and crying, but should play well." Sitting down and putting on her headset just as the engineer pointed to her, the phone rings. It was an effect for the listeners, and the way her show always opened.

"Hello? This is Dr. Allison."

"Hel... hello," the female caller sobbed.

"Hi. What name can I call you?"

Sniffing, the caller told her, "Call me Ann. You can call me Ann."

"Okay, Ann. It's good to hear from you. What's wrong?"

"I've just found out my husband has been sleeping around, with a woman at his office, and for Christ's sake, one of my neighbors..." She's devastated.

"How do you know?"

"Are you kidding," the woman is almost shouting into the phone, choking on her tears. "He admits it, doesn't even try to deny it. Says I've never satisfied him. Not even close!" She can hardly talk."

"Ann..."

The woman answers with a barely audible, "Yes. It's not my real name....You're a real psychologist, aren't you?"

"Yes, Ann." Dr. Alison's voice was calm and reassuring. "I have a Ph.D. and years of clinical experience with a specialty in the use of hypnosis for behavior modification....But you know this isn't a doctor-patient relationship. It can't be, not while we're on the air like this, but we can talk, if you like."

"Please. I need to talk to someone....Please help me."

"I will, Ann. I'll do what I can."

<Table Of Contents>

# 31. Silent Partners

"Hand me another napkin, Honey," Henry thought to himself, referring to Elaine, his wife of 52 years. He didn't bother to take his eyes off the article he was reading in the technology section of the paper. The napkin holder had been shoved to her corner of the table, behind the packages of sugar, the ketchup and the salt and pepper shakers, when the waiter/busboy had dropped and slid their plates on the old Formica table at their favorite booth, the one where they had a late breakfast every Sunday morning. They liked that particular booth at the noisy corner deli because of the view it had of people coming and going through the park across the street and the way the sun managed to come through the glass walls even on a cloudy day.

Elaine finished the last few lines of the article she was reading about agri-product futures and refolded the business section. Henry liked to hold the entire paper in front of him. She used to ride the subway to work and had become very skilled at folding and refolding the paper in quarters as she followed a front page article to an interior page. Reaching to the napkin holder, she pulled the first one out, which tore because they always do, and then two more. "Here," she handed them to her husband, accompanied by a voice only he could hear. "Anything interesting?"

"Well, that young couple at the counter keeps staring at us."

"I meant in the paper. What are you reading?"

"They're wondering if, when they get to be our age, they'll have stopped talking to each other."

Elaine looked up at him, over the rim of her reading glasses, and smiled. "What do they know?"

"It's an article about what the scientist here calls 'Brainwave Synchrony' or 'Entrainment.'"

"Yeah, what's that?" Elaine asked without looking up, or moving her lips.

"They've discovered that people, some people who live together long enough, their brains become synchronized and they begin feeling and experiencing things together, in synch."

"Like the way women living together in a dorm start having their periods at the same time?"

"Something like that, only more mental, more psychological."

"No kidding. And exactly how old is that scientist who's saying all this?"

"I think he's twelve," Henry laughed, and so did Elaine.

"He hasn't a clue, the kid scientist, does he?"

"Not a clue."

"He sure as hell hasn't been married as long as we have, has he Henry?"

"No." This time he did look up and so did she back at him, relishing one of the great secrets of a long, long-time marriage. And then they went back to reading the paper. "Do you remember when all we could do was complete each other's sentences?"

"...and how you used to be wrong most of the time."

"Anything else I can get you?" the waiter/busboy interrupted, without the least hint of friendly customer service, impatient to get his tip and the table ready for another patron or two.

"No thanks," Elaine looked up at him.

"Elaine."

"What, Henry?"

"Out loud....You're just staring at him."

"Right," she answered him, and then looked up at the waiter/busboy again, pausing this time to wonder how his apron could have gotten that dirty, and its implications for the breakfast he'd served them. Out loud this time, "No thanks. Just bring us a check."

And they started putting their paper back together and getting ready to leave. "You up for a walk in the park?" Henry thought to himself, reaching for his wallet.

"Sure," she reached across the table and touched his hand. "Buy me some flowers for the kitchen?"

"How 'bout something in a pot, something long-term that won't shrivel up in a couple of days?"

"Done, but something small. Our apartment is this close to being a jungle."

"Okay." Henry glanced at the check and tossed a few bills on top of it. "Maybe something with coconuts?" He was joking, of course.

Except for talking to the waiter/busboy, they hadn't said a thing out loud since they got there.

On their way out, Elaine paused for a second next to the young couple sitting at the counter, busy eating and talking to each other. "Ask her to marry you, Numbnuts," she thought to herself."

"What?!" The young man turned quickly and looked up at her. "What did you say?"

"Bobby," the young girl he was with grabbed her boyfriend's arm, "she didn't say anything," but he kept looking at Elaine, certain he hadn't imagined it.

Elaine stared back, smiling ever so slightly. "You heard me," she thought to herself, and then turned to leave, Henry tugging on the arm of her coat.

"Show off," her husband thought to himself. He leaned over, kissing her on her cheek, while an incoming customer held the door for them."

"I love you, too," she smiled back at him.

<Table Of Contents>

# 32. Lot Boy

"Okay, before we get out..."

Mindy's father released his seatbelt, slid forward and turned to talk to his daughter through the space between their bucket seats, while her mother just sat there, staring straight ahead impatiently, both hands on her pocketbook in her lap, waiting for her husband to make the obligatory parental... No, strike that....his obligatory _fatherly_ remarks. If it was up to her, the mother, she'd have been out of the car and bought one already. Mindy, one hand on the door handle, did her best to be attentive and to take her father seriously, pushing her glasses up on her nose with the forefinger of her left hand.

"...You've done great in school, really great." Mindy smiled at the pride she shared with her "Daddy," which was what she still called him, most of the time, unless there were other people around. Otherwise, it was "Dad." Your mother and I were going to wait until you graduated next year,..."

"I know, Daddy," she started to interrupt, but then, on second thought, decided to let him finish. In many respects, she realized, this was a bigger deal for him than it was for her.

"...but, well, it's occurred to us that, that you've already proven yourself to be exceptionally responsible for a young woman of your age, any age for that matter – and that we'd rather have you driving yourself around than being a passenger in one of your friends' cars."

"Daddy, you've already been over..."

"Yeah, so here's the thing," he told her, taking a quick look over his shoulder, thinking he'd better pick up the pace before some over-eager salesman noticed them and came up to their car. "First consideration?"

"Safety." Mindy knew the drill.

"Second consideration?"

"More safety."

He smiled, relishing how his daughter got everything he ever said, and then some. "Third consideration?"

"Cool!"

"Alright," he was done. "Let's do this." Mindy and her mother pulled their door handles, popping their doors open. "But..." He waited for his daughter to turn back, to make sure she was paying attention. "But when you find one you like, keep your enthusiasm under control. Tell Mommy and me casually, privately if you can. Under no circumstances do we want the salesman to know how much you want it. Got it?"

"Got it, Daddy," and Mindy and her mother were out on the lot, their respective doors chunking shut simultaneously, her father's door following a few seconds later.

"Uncle Chuck's Used Cars" was a small local lot, one of the dozen or so that were clustered along the boulevard in that part of town, some more substantial looking that others. Uncle Chuck's had been there for a while, and the current owner – Chuck was long gone, to Florida some said, or to that used car lot in the sky. – had given one of Mindy's mother's customers, at the card store where she worked part-time, a pretty good deal. Seeing that the current Uncle Chuck, which was what people called him even though that wasn't his name, was busy with another customer, they took advantage of the situation and started looking around without him.

"How 'bout the red one, honey?" Mom was working her husband, setting him up. It was an older convertible, just the kind of car he was worried about. Plenty of cool, not enough metal.

"No. Big blind spot and no roof support." The more times he said "No," the more likely he was to agree to the one Mindy really liked, when she found it. It was a strategy that worked for contact lens, which he'd agreed she could have, out of state prospects for college, and boyfriends too – so Mindy and her mother thought, but Dad knew what they were up to. He knew what they were up to, but it still worked because, in the end, he was crazy about the two of them and putty in their hands. Besides, agreeing with what they wanted assured him of getting stuff he wanted, occasionally, but not always, as long as they wanted it too. Whatever authority he seemed to have was pretty much an illusion.

Ten minutes or so later, they had meandered around the 30 or so cars on the front lot, not having found anything special. Mom and Dad were walking over to talk to Chuck, whoever, while Mindy kept looking, now at the cars on the side lot, next to and behind the double-wide where Chuck would write up his sales. Coming around the corner, a good distance from where her parents were talking to Chuck, she saw a young man, her age, maybe a year older, polishing the hood of one of the cars, his arms solid and just a bit tan, his dark, not too short curly hair moving while his head bobbed to whatever was playing in his ears, his eyes riveted on one particular spot that seemed to be giving him a problem.

"Hey," she said to him. "...Are you are salesman?"

He looked up, pulled the buds out of his ears, stuffing them in the pocket of his well-worn jeans, and looked straight into her eyes for a few seconds before responding. "No. No," he said tugging on his t-shirt as if it were a sign. "The salesmen wear business shirts. I just clean and move the cars around."

"So you're a lot boy?" Mindy seemed surprised. He seemed too, she couldn't put her finger on it, not so much too clean cut, just plain too clean, too much like a college boy to settle for minimum wage – although part-time jobs were hard, really hard to find.

"That's what it says on my shirt." Indeed it did, in small letters, on the right from where she was looking. Somehow she'd missed seeing it, probably distracted by the dimple on one side of his mouth.

"Oh, yeah. So it does, right there," she pointed and actually touched the letters, inadvertently holding her finger up for a second or two too long, before snapping it back, "in white on navy blue." ("What," she said to herself, "am I talking about?!")

"You say that like it's a problem, like it's not an honorable profession," he was kidding with her, wiping the polish off his hands with another rag he'd kept in his back pocket. He smiled, to make sure she knew he wasn't serious, the kind of broader than normal grin you put out there when you're trying to make an impression. "I am to cars," he said it slowly, "what the perfect lipstick is to your smile."

"What?" This one she said out loud. Laughing, because she couldn't help herself, she covered her mouth with her fingers. "You've got to be kidding." But then she blushed, something she never did, and actually stopped breathing for a moment. And that was forever between the two of them. He didn't know it then, but then neither did Mindy, but that was the moment that sealed the deal. (Strange, isn't it, she would realize later, that some of the dumbest lines are the ones that work.)

"I don't know," he relaxed and shrugged his shoulders, rolling his eyes. "It sounded better in my head than when I said it out loud," he giggled, pretty much losing whatever composure he'd been trying to fake.

"Don't feel so bad," Mindy reassured him, reaching out to lay her hand lightly on the center of his chest. (Something about him was easy to touch.) "It was really more effective than I'm letting on," and she giggled back at him.

"You know," he said, gesturing with his head toward where her parents and Uncle Chuck were still talking, "the cars here are pretty much crap. Well polished maybe, but too high mileage. Uncle Chuck buys them that way – high mileage, but with perfect bodies and upholstery – so they're cheap, and then marks them up, way up, because they look good. ...And, more importantly, he's got a bad cap job," he told her. "Nobody's teeth are that white, or big for that matter....Unless you're a beaver, maybe."

"And you're telling me this why?"

He thought for a moment. "Because I think I like you more than Uncle Chuck....Yes," he took a second to step back and get a good, obvious look at her, "definitely more than Uncle Chuck."

"Sooo, what do you recommend, Lot Boy?"

"There's a place, just down the street at the corner," he pointed in the direction they'd have to go. "Collier Family Cars. You can't miss it. It's a family business..."

"That explains the name."

"Yeah. Good people. A little more expensive, but their cars are better and they'll back up what they sell you."

"Mindy!" It was her mother yelling, waving for her to join them.

"I've got to go. ...Thanks for the advice. Will I see you later?" she asked, backing up before turning to leave.

"If there's a god in heaven!" he shouted after her, attempting his best to pretend to be serious.

"Then it's a sure thing," she laughed back, knowing he was full of it, but loving how hard he was trying. And so she tossed him a kiss...

"Mindy!"

...and then turned to walk quickly between the cars toward her parents, looking over her shoulder just the one time to see him standing there, answering her with a quick wave of his hand.

"Hey, Dad," she was a bit out of breath, but didn't waste time interrupting his conversation with Uncle Chuck, "can I talk to you for a minute?"

"Honey, Uncle Chuck here was just.."

"Dad. Uncle Chuck, if I could just have a moment with my parents?" And then, not waiting for him to answer, "Thank you." Tugging on the sleeve of her father's jacket, Mindy pulled him a few feet away, her mother right behind them.

"We'll be right back, Uncle Chuck," her mother was always courteous. "Just give us a few minutes."

"What is it, honey?" Her father asked when they were a soundproof distance away. "Did you find something you like?"

"No, no. I talked to the lot boy."

"The what?" Her mother asked.

"The guy who polishes the cars. That gu..." Mindy turned, but couldn't see him. "Whatever. The point is, we don't want to buy anything here. Let's go. There's another lot down the street. ...Come on. I'll explain in the car."

Mom and Dad looked at each other, raised their eyebrows, and turned back to where Uncle Chuck was still standing. "Uh," they both started to say in unison, "we'll stop back" – but Chuck, judging from the experienced expression on his face, knew better. And they were off.

This time when they pulled up it was in front of a small showroom, a used-to-be new car lot where a man, in his late 40s, came out to greet them. "Hi, and welcome to Collier's." He reached out and shook their hands, all three of them, including Mindy's. "This is my family's car store. I'm the owner. What can I do to help you?"

"We're, uh, looking for a car for my dau..."

"Excuse me, Dad," a young man in navy blue t-shirt and well-worn jeans interrupted. "If you don't mind, I'd like to take care of these people myself."

"Well, sure son." He was a bit surprised, but not put off by the idea. "Sure," and then turning to his customers, "Don't worry. He knows his stuff, more than I do, to be honest. ...I'll be around if you need anything," and he walked away to give us son all the space he needed.

"Mom. Dad," Mindy was the first to speak, clearly perturbed. "This is the lot boy I was telling you about."

"You work here?" her mother asked the young man.

"I'm Jacob Collier. My grandfather opened this place a while back, and now I work for my father whenever I have time."

"Doing what, exactly?" Mindy stepped between him and her parents. "Polishing cars? 'Like the perfect lipstick is to my smile?'"

"What's she talking about?" her father asked her mother in a low, almost whispered voice.

"Do you always steal customers from your competition by lying about who you are?" Mindy demanded to know.

"Hey. ..I was on my bike, on the way here when I saw you getting out of your car at Uncle Chuck's. I never said I worked there, and no. No. I don't always steal customers from our competition by lying about who I am. ...Only when they look like you....Besides, I was right about his teeth, wasn't I?"

There was a pause, but not an awkward one.

"You're doing it again, aren't you?" she asked him in an almost serious tone, pushing her glasses against her face. Turning suddenly toward her mother, Mindy pointed to her glasses, a not so subtle reminder about the contacts they'd promised she could have – and then whipped back to face her lot boy without missing a beat.

"What? Over-hitting on you?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah....So how'm I doin'?"

"Come on," Mindy reached for Jacob's arm, grabbing it with her hands, "Show us some cars. We can talk about how you're doing later, when you buy me dinner."

"I'm buying you dinner?" he asked as they started to walk into the lot.

"You mean you don't want to buy me dinner?"

"No. Yes. Uhhh, no. I'd...I'd love to buy you dinner."

And that, for Mom and Dad who were walking within earshot a few feet behind, was the moment they approved of this one.

<Table Of Contents>

# 33. The Commute

"Hey! Get a lane of you own, buddy....Unbelievable. They'll let just about anybody drive."

"Hmm." Dead stop. "...Beep, beeeeeeppp!!" John was never reluctant to sit on his horn, however obnoxious. He didn't care. He was going from A to B, and everyone else was just getting in his way. Behind the wheel of his faded, once electric red two-seater, he had the selfish independence of a... of a three year old. It was all about him.

"Geez, now what? Come on, lady. Move it, or lose it." John tapped impatiently on the rim of his steering wheel, two of his pudgy fingers showing the now melted remains of the Hershey's bar with almonds he had been eating, its spent wrapper laying crumbled on the floor in front of the passenger seat. "Hey," he mumbled. Pleased with what he had found, he stuck both of the first two fingers of his right hand into his mouth at the same time to savor the chocolate he could suck from them.

"...What are we going? Zero miles an hour. Let's see, at zero miles an hour, how long will it take me to go the 4.8 miles to my garage?...Freakin' forever, that's how long.

'Ohhhh-kay, now we're movin'. ...Oh, yutz. And we're stopped again. Stop and go, stop and go.....Whoa, baby. Take a look at the blonde in that... Hey," he nodded like a bobble-head at her. "Yeah, hey, how are you? Ah, she can't hear me. Nice smile though. Nuthin' like a girl with short blonde, wispy hair 'slowin' down to take a look a me. Com'on baaa-aaaabee...' Love that song." John stops his incessant babbling to reach for the dial on his radio that he turns to no avail. "Hm. Nuthin'. I really got to get this thing fixed."

"Careening around the corner, 'The Kid,'" he rolled his hands around the steering wheel as if the turn were extremely sharp and high speed, "eeeeeeee," making a bad sound effect of tires screeching, "holds on, unfazed," he lowered his voice to be the moderator of his own adventure, "by the hail of automatic weapons fire from cars in hhhatt, ...hhhatt pursuit."

"Who am I kiddin'? I need to get something better. Something with an office, maybe my own assistant... in a building with an eleva... Hey, this is my lane! WAIT YOUR FREAKIN' TURN!! I'll go, you'll go, the next guy'll go. ...Get the pattern?! Geez."

"Johnny."

"Oooo. Gimme that!" John reached out of his open window, in tight, standstill traffic to grab an open package of M&Ms from the passenger to his left. "Like takin' candy from a baby."

"Johnny!...Give me that!...Here," John's mother returned the M&Ms to her neighbor and the mother of the child in the checkout line next to theirs, in the crowded grocery store. "Sorry. I don't know what's got into him. He's been acting up ever since Todd took him to work a couple weeks ago, you know, when I was out of town taking care of Mom after her operation. And you know how he repeats everything his father says and does."

"Oh, don't worry about it," her friend consoled her. "Can you imagine if they didn't have these carts with the cars in the front, trying to shop with our kids running all over the place?

"Beeeeeeeep!"

"Johnny! Enough already. Get out, and step away from the cart," his mother ordered him into submission. "Time to help Mommy checkout," she smiled at him, but then turned serious again. "You know the drill. Slooowleeee. ...License and registration, and keep your hands where I can see them."

"Whut?" The sudden change in her tone surprised and scared him. Johnny looked, wide-eyed, at his mother towering over him. Searching the curled-up corners of her lips for relief, he struggled to maintain his composure.

<Table Of Contents>

# 34. The Ripple Effect

"Hey. My name is Daryl. Ever since I was a little kid, my parents have known I was special. Somehow, I was born with a natural sense of how people and events relate to each other, with an overview and a sense of anticipation that are uncanny for their accuracy, and flat out spooky in the way they've enabled me to manipulate other kids and adults too, my you-know-who included. (Sorry Mom and Dad. I love you, but I am what I am.)"

"As it turns out, I'm even better working with perfect strangers. It's not so much deception that I practice – Anyone can lie. – as it is the patience and skill with which I come at a problem, from a distance. In fact, so remarkable are my abilities, the things I do and the way I do them have become known as 'Ripple Effect'." "Discreet Resolution of Relationship Issues," so it said on Daryl's business card. (Yes, he has business cards.) "Guaranteed Results."

Ripple, in case you haven't guessed, is my family name. Need help? Ask around. No one does word-of-mouth better than me."

"So," the man asked, standing there in his expensive suit, behind his glass desk in the corner office where he spent way too much time, looking at the business card he was holding, "what exactly is 'The Ripple Effect'? He was skeptical, to put it mildly.

"Uh, actually it's more like a domino effect, but my last name is Ripple. That's why I call it the 'Ripple Effect.'...because my name is Ripple."

"I get it." From his expression, the man was wondering if he was wasting his time, but then Daryl, who tended to over-talk, wasn't done yet.

"I throw a stone or two into the pond of gossip, with strangely predictable results. I'm a personality savant. An empath who instinctively gets the underlying reasons people do what they do, even when _they_ don't. I play pool with people's emotions, thinking three, four, five shots ahead. I..."

"Daryl? ...Mr. Ripple?" The man interrupted.

"What?"

"You're what, 16 years old?"

"Seventeen actually, but I have a certain maturity, a poise beyond my nominal age....Actually," Daryl continued, worried he wasn't going to make the sale, "my youthful appearance is one of the reasons I'm so good at what I do. No one notices me. No one sees me coming. No one," Daryl paused, starting to rethink his next few words before he said them, "takes me seriously," which, unfortunately, came out sounding more like a question than a matter of fact.

"That's one way of looking at it."

Detecting a note of sarcasm in his client's voice, Daryl decided to focus on the business at hand. "So," he picked up a framed picture from the man's desk, "as I understand it, your daughter is flirting with the trainer at the gym where she works out, and you're concerned that..."

"My wife....That's my wife we're talking about."

"Of course."

"To tell you the truth," the man confessed in a slightly threatening tone, "I'll be surprised if you can pull this off....Frankly, I'd be surprised if you could pull off your shorts in an emergency, but then you come highly recommended. It's a small job I need done discreetly, and invisibly. She can't know I had anything to do with it."

"I'm your man," Daryl responded, his voice breaking just a bit as it was prone to do whenever he was trying to make a statement. "I'm," Daryl coughed slightly to clear his throat, "I'm... fine. ...Is that the information I requested?" Daryl asked him, pointing to a large envelope on the man's desk on which someone had written Daryl's name."

Closing his eyes for a moment, the man took a breath. "Yes, including the half, the $500 up front. ...You're expensive."

Daryl answered slowly, deliberately, without even a whiff of uncertainty. "That's because I'm very good at what I do." Reaching for the envelope, he slid it off the surface of the desk, being careful not to leave any fingerprints on the glass. Daryl was a stickler for details like that, not because he was worried about his prints being here and there, but because his mother was always cleaning the house and he couldn't help himself.

"And if I don't pay you the other half," the man was curious, "if I don't like the job you've done for me?"

"You'll pay me."

Troubled by the confident sound of Daryl's response, and not accustomed to people talking to him that way, the man had to ask, "Sure, of course I will, but what exactly will happen to me if I don't?"

"Happen to you?"

"Yeah."

"Well," Daryl stopped short of threatening to use his considerable talents to collect his money, "you'll probably feel bad, and with all the crap going on in your life, who wants one more thing to feel bad about?" It was a gutsy response, delivered with a seriousness the man respected, and that was that. No shaking of hands. No final words.

"Hey," the man called to Daryl on his way out the door to his office. "How long will this take? When will I hear from you again?"

"Just a few days. I'll call or email you." And Daryl left. It was time to get to work.

The following morning, the man got a call: "Your wife will be at the gym this afternoon, between 1 and 2 PM. By the way, her trainer breaks for lunch at 2, too. ...at 2, also. Whatever. Meet me at 1:45 across the street from the side of the building where her gym is on the second floor, where we can see her working out."

Later that afternoon at 1:45 PM exactly, across the street from the wife's gym...

"What if she sees us?"

"Trust me. She's not paying attention....Is that her?" Daryl pointed up and at the man and woman talking to each other, standing way too close together."

"Yeah."

"The guy who just took the towel off _her_ shoulder to wipe _his_ face, the one with all the teeth and no body fat..." (The glass was clear, and the side street narrow.) "Here," Daryl handed the man the compact, but powerful binoculars he always carried with him, "try these."

"Yeah."

"That's her trainer."

"The trainers there don't wear t-shirts?"

"If you had his chest, would you?"

"Okay," the man turned to look at Daryl, "I get your point....Actually, no I don't. What am I doing here?"

"You're here for me to give you a chance. I'm going to hang around and see where they go, just to be sure. From what I can tell, this is still just some innocent flirting, but I need to make sure. The question is, are you sure you want me to do this, or should I walk away and let nature, and your marriage, take its course?"

The man thought for a moment, reflecting on the life he and his wife had built over the years, thinking about the beautiful teenage daughter and her younger brother they had raised together. "Do what I hired you to do. Whatever's going on here, it's more my fault, than hers. I want to know."

Seeing the despair in his client's eyes, Daryl reassured him. "This isn't over yet. Not even close....You get back to work, and I'll call you later."

The man looked up to the window where he could see the two of them laughing about something, his wife in her tank top, the trainer combing his longish blonde hair with his fingers, and then back at Daryl, said nothing and left.

3 PM that afternoon, at an upscale, downtown salon where the wife has a regular appointment. Five feet to her side, a very attractive, maybe 30 year-old woman engages her hairdresser in an excited conversation while getting prepped for a haircut...

"I need this to be perfect!"

"Oh yeah," Nora, the stylist, had seen that look on her customers' faces before. "Let me guess... You've got a shot at a guy you pretty much thought wasn't an option?"

"Hey, you're good. A couple of weeks ago, I got reassigned to work on the team that's going to be marketing that new condo complex on the river, the one with the live music bar."

"Yeah, I've been there." Nora didn't know it, of course, but it was Daryl's client, the one in the corner office, whose team had landed that account – the same client whose wife, just a few feet away, was listening intently, pretending to read the magazine she was holding, waiting for her own stylist to arrive.

"Well, the senior guy in charge..."

"He's single?"

"No," she stammered just a bit. "...No, but the really good ones seldom are....Hey, don't give me that look. Help me out here. If his marriage is solid, his wife's got nothing to..."

"Hey." Jessica was the co-owner of the shop, the real artist of the two whose partner was the one with the head for business. Jessica was the only one Daryl's client's wife would let touch her hair. "Sorry I'm late."

"No problem. I'll let you make it up to me."

"Yeah, how's that?"

"I need a makeover," the wife mused, holding out and squeezing her fashionably long auburn curls while catching a glance at the young woman next to her. "How long have I had all this?"

"So what d'you wanna do about it?"

"Make it short. Surprise me. ...If it doesn't work out, I can always grow it back."

"Here," Jessica spun the wife around and away from the mirror over the sink where the assistant had washed her hair. "Like they do on TV, keep your eyes on me until we're done."

And the wife laughed, nervous with anticipation.

Two days later, 10 AM in the food court of the downtown mall near Daryl's client's office, at a small table in front of the Auntie Anne's, just open for business...

"Want one?" Daryl offered his client a cinnamon pretzel stick, looking over at the girl behind the counter who waved back at him with a friendly smile.

"No thanks. ...Here. It's the other half of your money, plus expenses."

"What's happened?" Daryl asked as if he didn't know.

"My wife stopped by my office yesterday. It was a surprise to take me out to a late lunch, something she hasn't done for, I don't know, a couple of years. We talked about all sorts of stuff, for a good couple of hours. ...She'd just had her hair cut. She looked great."

"You didn't take a few calls, rush back to the office?"

"No....Turns out she's changing gyms. Her new trainer's a woman. ...I don't suppose you had anything to do with that?"

"Well, it may have been the flowers I sent with the 'Thanks for a wonderful evening. See you tonight. Love, Charles' note the delivery boy read out loud to her trainer – in front of her, while he was still, you know, at the gym training your wife. ...That, and I splurged to have my cousin, she's taking acting classes, get her hair done at the beauty shop your wife uses."

The point about the flowers, the man understood. The cousin getting her hair done didn't make any sense. "Whatever, it seems to have worked."

"...Now call your wife and invite her for a nooner."

"What?"

"Geez....Come on, get out your phone. Call her. Then call your office, make up something and tell 'em you're done for the day. That condo complex you represent has a hotel, doesn't it?...A small bottle of champagne, maybe some roses would be nice."

The man got Daryl's point and slid the envelope with the cash across the table toward him. "Thanks."

"Mmm." Daryl nodded his head, his mouth too full of cinnamon sticks to be more eloquent.

About an hour later, at a Panda Express a few blocks away.

"Hi." Daryl slid over and stood up from the corner booth, still chewing a bite of his second egg roll. "Can I get you a lemonade or something?"

"No thanks," his client's wife smiled and pulled herself into the other side. "I don't have much time. I just wanted to thank you for your help....Here," she said, reaching into the purse in her lap, taking out $500 in cash, still in the bank's ATM envelope. "Here's the other half of what I owe you."

"Things are working out okay for you?" He asked, even though he knew the answer.

"Yeah. Starting the rumor and staging that scene with your cousin's boyfriend... He's gorgeous, by the way," she giggled like the young woman still inside her, blushing just a bit.

"Oh, he's good looking, alright. Works as a model, forever hoping for the big underwear billboard."

"It was a great idea, like hiring you."

"Hey. It's what I do."

"I've got to be somewhere." Smiling at him, she moved over and got up to leave, but then stopped for a moment. "You know, Daryl, I've got a daughter about your age if you're ever interested."

"Thanks. I... I appreciate the offer, but I think it'd be a little awkward."

"Sure. See you around."

Later that evening, at Daryl's clients' house, the wife in the kitchen making something special she'd seen on Food TV, the husband working on a his signature Cobb salad...

"Hey guys," their daughter bounced down the back stairs, her little brother right behind her. "Cheryl's picking me up. We're dropping Mike off at Bobby's for a sleepover, and then we're catching a movie and having our own little party back at her place."

"You're not staying for dinner?" the wife asked, pretending to be disappointed, while her husband smiled to himself, not bothering to look up from the perfect avocado he was slicing.

"Nah," the daughter responded, intent on letter her parents have the night off together. To tell you the truth, I'm Food TV-d up to here. Tonight, it's..."

"Beep." The horn was Cheryl's.

"...cheeseburger sliders and steak fries," and she blew them an air kiss and ran down the hallway to the front door.

They dropped Mike off at his friend's house and then drove to the parking lot at the PG-13 rated roadhouse where the burgers were great and the rock 'n roll even better. "We'll see you inside," Cheryl told the daughter, letting her out, and then driving away to park in the open space near where Cheryl's boyfriend was waiting for her. There, standing alone in the parking lot, the daughter turned to look around when the lights of one of the cars, parked in the open under one of the lampposts, flashed at her. Almost running over to it, she opened the passenger door and got in.

"Hey, Daryl," she said to the driver.

"Hey," he said back, and the two of them moved toward each other, kissing again and again, the way they do in the movies, sort of, but with more noise and saliva.

Almost breathless, the daughter pushed back. "You know, my hiring you turns out to have been a pretty good idea," she smiled, her eyes locked on Daryl's. "My parents are back in love with each other, for now at least," she admitted, raising her eyebrows. "...Let's go inside and get something to eat, and then," she reached up and touched the side of Daryl's face, her voice lower with anticipation "...and then maybe we can go somewhere I can pay you the other half of your fee."

"Hey. It's me again."

"Like I said at the beginning of this story, my name is Daryl. Daryl Ripple. For as long as I can remember, I've known I was special. Thing is, there are situations when being special can be a drag, but then sometimes... sometimes there are real advantages to being me."

<Table Of Contents>

# 35. Exhausted

Or "Dead Tired," Depending Upon The Ending

Emma Warner got off late from work that evening and went directly to the mall, to shop, to pick up a watch she'd left off for repair a week ago, the expensive one she wears to weddings, and because it was worth it to put off going home to an empty house. Pushing hard on the outer door, Emma looked around. It was dark out. She'd parked as close as she could to the front of that one department store that was particularly well lit, but she still had a way to go and the lot wasn't as full, wasn't as busy as it had been when she arrived.

Her cell phone rang just as she was stepping off the curb, a distraction she didn't need. "Hello? ...Oh, hi....Yeah, I'm fine, really. ...I'm just leaving the mall................Are you sure it's him?......I see. ...So you think tonight's the night? ...Me, too......Yeah, those cookies are good....Alright......Yeah, okay. ...Bye." Sliding her phone back into her coat pocket, she reached below it to grab her keys, pressing the open button to flash the taillights of her car and to make sure the door was already unlocked when she got there. Opening the door, she shoved her shopping bags across her seat, over the gearshift, sat down quickly and locked her doors.

Eighteen minutes later, she was in her garage, staying in the car until the garage door was all the way down behind her. Out of her car and into her house, she shook the knob to the inside garage door to make sure it was secure, and then turned to walk into the family room when something stopped her short.

"Hey." Emma wasn't all that tall, five-eight in the low heels she wore to work, but from where she was standing, the kitten that sat there, waiting for her just inside the door, seemed really small. Throwing her coat over one of the hooks by the door, she bent over and picked him up with both hands. Even face-to-face, nose-to-nose, he didn't seem all that much bigger. "Hey," she said again, honestly glad to see him. "Miss me?"

"Mrr."

"I'll take that as a 'Yes.' Let's get out of these clothes – You can continue to wear your fur. – make something to eat and watch, I don't know, whatever."

"This house," she typed into her journal later that evening, "used to be smaller. There were the kids and their friends, and Jack and our friends....Gosh, I miss Jack. It's been so quiet lately." In the family room off the kitchen, there was something on the TV, but she wasn't paying attention, just voices to keep her company while she talked to herself through the words on her screen.

"The kids bought me a cat, a kitten just eight weeks old, to keep me company. He's off somewhere, exploring. I can tell because he knocks stuff over now and then. I've been making a list of names. If I keep calling him, "Hey!" he's going to get confused when I finally pick one. He sleeps a lot, probably all day while I'm at work, and then runs around at night, at least until I fall asleep which is getting to be later and later. I'm tired, but if I go to bed too soon, I just lie there, so I might as well stay up and do stuff. I'm tired, physically, but I'm also tired of being afraid. To be alone is one thing, but I'll... I'll adjust, I'll come back, not to where I was with Jack, but someplace different, but still good. Who knows? Maybe getting there will be its own adventure. Maybe that's how it works."

"I'm tired and alone, but tonight, tonight I'm more tired of being afraid. Of leaving the lights on all night, in rooms I don't even use. Of leaving all the TVs on. Of thinking there's someone watching me, someone out there I have to worry about. I'm tired of going over and over in my head what I would do."

"I've got the lights on in the basement, but I'm afraid to go down there at night. If he comes into the house, it'll be through the sliding glass doors, or the French doors," she stopped to look over her shoulder, "to the deck. I wonder what he will be like, as if it makes any difference. Interesting, isn't it, how I keep saying 'he.' Why couldn't it be a woman? Women can be criminals. We could talk about stuff we have in common while she duct-tapes me to one of my kitchen..." She stopped, interrupted by the sound of something maybe hitting the floor in the office she set up in the extra room upstairs. "Hey!!" she shouted, then took a breath to calm herself down. "What's the point," she said to herself, and then "...chairs," and continued typing.

"At least, if the burglar is a woman, she won't rape me. Wow, I can't believe I said that. These break-ins I keep hearing about on the news... There's been some violence, but no sexual assaults. Not yet. Well, she could be gay, but I don't think there are any gay burglars. Breaking and entering doesn't seem like something gay people would do....Like I really know what I'm talking about. I'm just babbling....If I name him, "Hey," he'll grow up thinking everybody knows his name, which could be a good thing, as if he had a huge family."

"Tonight, I'm going to turn off the lights when I go to bed, like a normal person, like a normal person whose electric bill is beginning to look more like a mortgage payment – unless I pass out here on the couch. That's what happened last night. When I woke up, the cat was sitting on my shoulder, leaning up against the cushion, watching some poker tournament. It took me 20 minutes to get my contacts out. They were just about stuck to my eyeballs. Once is enough. I'm not doing that again."

"And tonight," she turned to look through the almost floor to ceiling windows that lined the wall to the deck and woods behind her house, "...tonight I'm not going to worry if someone can see me sitting here, getting up, fixing myself something to eat. If anybody out there wants to hurt me, they're going to have to work for it. They're going to have to be real and in my face. Just the thought of you isn't going to be enough."

"So much open glass. Every time we thought about getting curtains, the sun would come through the windows to light and warm up the room. Jack would work at the kitchen table, looking out at the trees and watching our birds feed on the deck. He said they were ours, not as if we owned them, but because he considered them family."

"I called ADT today. They're installing an alarm system Friday. One of my friends who I see at the gym recommended a Slomin's Shield, but it sounds too much like a birth control device which, I'm guessing, isn't something I'll be needing anytime soon, or ever again for that matter. If I don't get out of the house, the next time I have sex will probably be with the burglar. (Whoa, that's not funny.) The mailman's married, and doesn't look good in mailman shorts. The kid who works for the lawn service is cute, but I think he's 15. No. He drives a truck, so he's got to be at least 16. I can live with that."

"Hey!...Yeah, you." Her kitten had just jumped up on the coffee table, remarkable given his height. "Get off my keyboard....Oh, come on. Let's go upstairs."

Standing up from the couch, she reached under her little friend, picked him up and pushed his furry body against her chest. "Meeeekk!" Maybe just a bit too hard.

"What's that mean? Can't you at least talk like a regular cat?" The other hand grabbed the remote and pressed the power button. Walking past the bank of switches and dials that controlled the lights, she paused and then turned them off, one at a time, all except the floods over the fireplace, and the light over the sink. "Oh," and she walked over the doors that led out to the deck and turned that outside light on, too. "There. I'm pretty sure that's what normal people would do."

"Murrr."

"Who cares what you think. Mommy says we're going upstairs....Wait." Walking back to the coffee table, she unplugged and picked up her laptop, holding it under her other arm, the one without the cat. "I'll write some more. Maybe it'll help me get to sleep." And up they went, into the master bedroom suite that she and Jack used to share, their escape from the noise, now desperately missed voices of teenagers on the phone and music playing way too loud. There was the bedroom, a dressing room with its walk-in closets and their bathroom beyond that.

A few minutes later, the flat screen on her dresser was tuned to a Lifetime movie she somehow missed – or had completely forgotten, which was pretty much the same thing. Her back against the one of her pillows she'd turned upright, her contacts having been replaced with glasses, she opened her computer to pick up where she'd left off. Her small, furry friend curled up on top of the light blanket next to her. "Wait," noticing that it was just 11 o'clock, "let's watch the news," and she changed the channel.

"Why is it that the local news always begins with crimes? I know, I know. There's been a series of late night break-ins in the 'burbs.' The police downtown have installed cameras and increased their presence, and the criminals, who need to make a living like everyone else, are looking to the suburbs for new business. Besides, the houses are farther apart, with woods, and... and breaking into one doesn't risk attracting the attention of a neighbor or street people, of which there aren't any. At first, they were targeting empty homes, but lately... lately they've been breaking in late at night, in the early morning hours, robbing houses while the owners are asleep inside. Some people have woken up... No, that's not right. ...have been awakened. That's better. ...and beaten."

"Well," she shivered to get her confidence back, "the best way to overcome your fears is to confront them. Easier said than done. To anticipate and prepare for things that go bump, or make footsteps on the stairs in the night. The more you think about it, the more carefully you plan and visualize your options, the more likely you are to execute that solution whenever push comes to shove. At least that's the theory. It's the long form of the old adage, 'Better safe than sorry.'"

"Okay. I'm in bed. I hear someone breaking into the house. Glass breaking. Footsteps. Someone talking as if there's two of them. I've got my cell phone on the night table, but I'll be slow to use it, thinking I may be calling 911 for nothing. I have to be sure. If the sounds wake me up, I could have been imagining them. Could have been something on the television. So what do I do? I can't risk confronting him. Of course not." She stopped to look around the room.

"I get up quietly, because I don't want to attract his or their attention, not before I'm ready. I get off the bed and close the door slowly so as not to make any unnecessary noise. Close the door and lock it....That's not enough. The dresser." The door is to her right. Directly across the room, against the wall is her dresser, large and heavy enough to block the door, maybe, but not so heavy she couldn't push it across the hardwood floors. "The thing is, if I can move it against the door," she wrote in her journal, "someone could move it out of the way by pushing on the door. Hmm."

"I could go out one of the windows. Lower myself down onto the yard. What then, and deal with him outside, in the dark? The nearest neighbors are maybe 100 feet from here, asleep in their house maybe with their TV on. Nuts." Stopping to think for a moment, she rubbed the tiny animal that was sound asleep next to her. "You'll protect me, won't you?" And then an idea.

"I'm always tripping when I wear my Nike's around the house. Something about the treads on my hardwood floors, and the way I tend to shuffle when I'm tired. My feet stick, the one foot even while the other one is going forward....I'll close the door and lock it, push the dresser up against the door. Put on my shoes and lean up against the drawers. Maybe leave the TV on. No off, so I can hear better. I'll have my phone with me and, when I've barricaded the door, and use it to call 911. If the police can get here in, let's say, 10 minutes... I'll only have to hold them off for that long, maybe 15 minutes. I can do that," she said, feigning confidence.

"Yeah, I'm tired," she turned to the kitten, fast asleep beside her, "but I'm not out of gas yet. You know, I could name you 'Jack,' but that would be way too weird. Let's rehearse." Saving her journal, she shut down her computer, got up and set it on the ironing board she'd left open next to a half-full basket of wrinkled laundry, and then got back into bed, getting under the covers, leaning on her side facing her night table the way she tended to sleep, and turned out the light.

"Okay," she whispered, "I'm asleep. I hear something....Wait a minute, what was that?...Nothing. It's nothing. I get up, quietly, in the dark, close the door first, slowly so as not to make too much noise – and then push the door closed and lock it. Go back, turn on the light. Done. Cross the room. Pull this side of the dresser away from... Ehhhh. Wow, it's heavy, but then that's the point, isn't it. ...Rats!" Two lipstick-sized perfume atomizers and a picture frame fell over. "Reset." Pushing the dresser back, she put the perfume and frame back where they were. "This time, I'll put everything loose into the basket, and the frames face down on the runner where they'll stay put....There." Her red, leather-covered jewelry box had small rubber feet and wasn't going anywhere. "Now, pull the dresser, right side first. Mmm. Now push the left edge. Ehhh." She stopped to catch her breath. "It's too heavy. ...I need glides, but if it slides too easily, it won't really stop anyone, particularly if he's large, pushing on the door." She stopped talking. Got it!"

Pushing the dresser back against the wall, she opened the door, turned on the hall light and crossed into the extra bedroom she'd remodeled into an upstairs office. Some shirt cardboard she'd been saving for who knows what, and the sound of the paper cutter's arm slicing it into quarters, she was back in her bedroom, lifting up the corners of the dresser, to put a cardboard coaster under each leg. "Geez, I'm actually sweating."

"Okay, back in bed. Let's try this again." And she did, twice, moving the dresser in front of the door, pulling the cardboard out from under the legs after she did. Putting on her Nike's, first after and then, "Much better," before she moved the dresser to give her the traction she needed, and then sitting on the floor with her back up against the drawers and with her cell phone ready to dial 9-1-1.

It wasn't until she got it right that she realized how really exhausted she was, and almost considered leaving the dresser in place, in front of the door until the morning, she was that wiped, but then took the time to put it back. "What the heck, I needed the exercise."

"Better go to the bathroom again," she said to the kitten whose eyes tried to open, but then gave up. "Could be a long night. You get some sleep. We'll talk in the morning."

Almost two hours later, the kitten perked up, the soft light coming through half-closed blinds being more than he needed to see, but there was no one there. Not yet. Then the bedroom door, open only a few inches, began to move, its hinges making a low rubbing sound. And there, standing in the doorway, a tall, slender, dark form looked back at him. The man was a cliché as burglars go. Absent only the classic ski mask, he seemed unafraid to expose his face, although the facial hair and thin-rimmed glasses could have been fake.

For a full minute he stood there, he and the cat staring at each other, before he moved toward the bed for any sign he might be interrupted, but there wasn't any. Whatever he had on his feet, the soles were silent as he went directly to the dresser, opened the jewelry box and looked inside with a small flashlight, taking individual pieces, including diamond earrings and a solitaire pendant, and everything that was gold. Their wedding bands, and Emma's engagement ring were there, too. (She'd decided, a few months after Jack died, not to wear them anymore.) He picked them up, glanced at the family picture on the dresser, turned back to look at the bed, and then put them carefully into the soft cloth bag he had brought with him, carefully so as not to clink into the other jewelry he was stealing. As for their sentimental value, he couldn't have cared less.

But then the top two drawers of the dresser wouldn't pull easily, so he paused, looking over his shoulder briefly, wondering if it was worth the risk of waking her up. It was common for people to keep extra cash and more expensive jewelry in their dresser drawers. From the jewelry he had so far, he figured he'd net $4,000 maybe even $5,000 if the diamonds were high quality, and might still have another stop or two he could make that night. He'd already been through her pocketbook that she left lying on the kitchen counter, taking the cash and credit cards.

Nodding his head slightly, still facing the dresser and the large mirror hanging above it, he thought he'd risk it, and reached again for the brass pulls to give one of the side-by-side drawers in front of him another shot. That one drawer wasn't so bad, but the other one... The other one made a loud scraping noise he was sure would wake up his victim. But it didn't.

Turning his head to look at Emma, only the cat stared back. And then, it occurred to him, how sound could she be sleeping? Leaving the drawers half open, he walked over to the bed, reaching into his pocket as he moved. What came out of his pocket was a Gerber AR 3.0 standard blade folding pocket knife, LL Bean item TA219574, $34.95.

Tough, ultra-light and contoured to fit comfortably in the palm of your hand. Three-inch stainless-steel blade holds a razor-sharp cutting edge. SoftGrip rubber inserts provide exceptional control for fine work to big jobs. High-strength, die-cast aluminum handles. Blade rides on two Teflon® washers to ensure a lifetime of smooth, one-handed opening. Pocket clip. 4.1" closed. 2.8 oz. Imported.

As knives go, it was a class act that had convinced more than one woman to do whatever he wanted.

Emma was lying mostly on her back, curled slightly to the outside, the covers lying oddly across her chest, just above where the impression of her breasts started to show through the soft cotton top she was wearing. Her lips slightly parted, she...

"Mrrr."

The thief turned quickly toward the cat, instinctively pointing at him with his knife, the blade open and managing to catch the reflection of faint lamppost light coming through the blinds....He turned back to Emma. She was in her early 50s, but in many ways more attractive than when Jack and she had met at college. Her lips slightly parted, he reached out to feel her breath on the back of his hand. Almost nothing. ("Pass-out sleep" she liked to call it.) For the moment at least, she was his to play with.

With the tip of his blade, he reached under the light blanket and peeled it back, almost covering up the kitten who barely escaped in time. Then the sheet, and still Emma didn't move. It was a game for him now. How close could he come, running the point of his knife ev-er so slowly, just above her skin, from between her breasts, across her exposed stomach and low hanging boxers that lay quietly, clinging perfectly to the soft dunes of the rest of her legs.

...Nah, I like Emma. She's way too smart, too well prepared for a moment like this, only to sleep through it and then succumb to some creep with an LL Bean knife and BMW who can't hold a regular job. Did I mention he has a BMW? It's a silver 328. How trite is that? Bought it used just to make an impression. If it was a Subaru, well then, maybe... No. Let's try a different ending.

Nodding his head slightly, still facing the dresser and the large mirror hanging above it, he thought he'd risk it, and reached again for the brass pulls to give one of the side-by-side drawers in front of him another shot....and then the lamp went on behind him.

"Hey." It was a woman's voice, not Emma's, but then he didn't know that. "Raise your arms slowly, hands on your head, and turn around. No sudden moves, please."

"And if I do make a sudden move...," he started to say as he turned to face the bed, his own body blocking the reflection of the woman behind him, the arrogant tone and smile on his face fading at the sight of a younger woman than he had expected coming out from under the covers – a gun in one hand, her police detective's badge in the other.

"We'll, you know how it goes. You make a sudden move," she advised him, "and then my partner and I make a few sudden moves of our own which will probably involve bullets, and then you're pretty much all done moving....What?" she asked him, noticing the change of expression on his face.

"Hi." A second detective was standing in the doorway, his gun drawn, his badge clearly visible on his belt. "I'm Detective Sean Glitz and, yes, it's my real name. My father was a Vegas showgirl. ...Actually, he works for Black & Decker, but I like the Vegas story better."

"Hysterical, isn't he?" the female detective, her short blonde hair moving this way and that, kept the conversation going, waiting for the sound of backup she was pretty sure was on the way. "See what I have to put up with?"

"My partner over there on the bed, is Detective Peggy Risen."

Detective Risen made an obviously fake smile, all her teeth showing on the top and bottom.

"She's in charge. Her brains, my muscle and boyish good looks. You know those really quiet shoes you wear?...Me, too."

"What are you two, television actors pretending to be police?" It was all the thief had to say, other than, "...Can I let my hands down now?"

"No," Detective Risen was serious, the sound of her voice commanding. "Turn to your right, and get down on your knees. ...Now!" And the man complied. "Face down, flat out on the floor. ...Do it. Hands crossed behind your back."

Detective Glitz holstered and secured his gun, and had handcuffs on the man in seconds, wasting no time patting him down as soon as the cuffs were tight.

"Did you call?" Detective Peggy Risen asked her junior partner.

"I pressed the magic button, and..." the sound of two police cars arriving in the cul de sac was right on time, "I believe," Detective Glitz said to the thief, "your ride is here. How 'bout that for service? ...No wallet. Oooo. And what do we have here?" he asked, knowing full well what it was. "Wow. Big knife," he observed, flipping upon the blade, "which you were carrying to do what?"

"I use it to pick my teeth," the thief remarked, the sound of his voice distorted given the way his face was pressed into the floor by Detective Glitz' hand on his back. "I practice good dental hygiene."

"No one has teeth that big," Detective Risen remarked to the racket of uniformed police officers coming up the stairs. "Next time, just floss....Officers," she acknowledged the two men now standing in the doorway. Thanks for coming. I'm Risen. He's Glitz," she said, nodding toward her partner. "Please read the guy on the floor his rights and get him out of here. Gimme a card. Thanks. Don't book him until we get there. We'll be right behind you....Hey, Carol." The plain-clothes Detective, Carol Josephs, who had been working the mall just joined them. "Where you been?"

"Hanging out in the woods, just in case. ...You were right, by the way. He had a small shotgun mike with a dish to make sure there was no one awake, no one in the house he had to worry about before he broke in. It's out back. I'll get it on my way out. If you two had been talking or moving around, we'd have been wasting our time."

"Yeah, well good work. Go get your car and meet us at the station."

Twenty minutes later, the burglar having been taken way in one of the police cars, Detective Risen and her partner stopped to thank Emma for helping out.

"Thanks again for your help, Mrs. Warner. Like I started to tell you when I called, Detective Josephs caught sight of him up at the mall while he was following you. She recognized him from the mall security video we studied after you first got in touch with us, thinking someone might be following you. Most people would have ignored that feeling. It's a good thing you didn't. He knew where you lived, parked a couple of streets away and then, as we suspected he would, came up on your house through the woods, using the jogging paths....He's been on quite a spree, Mrs. Warner. Thanks to you, it's over."

"Hey, nooo sweat," Emma laughed, putting her hand on Detective Glitz's arm. "And, by the way, I want your partner here to know that I consider hiding in my guest room closet with him to be our first date. "

"I'm just sorry we couldn't have given you more notice and gotten you out of here."

"No reason to apologize." Emma was beyond relieved.

"Two more closet dates like that and I'm pretty sure we'd be engaged, Mrs. Warner." Detective Glitz flashed the smile that made the potential danger earlier that night seem less than it really was.

"Yeah," Emma responded, "in my dreams....As Plan Bs go, you two were great!"

"We were only her Plan B?" Detective Glitz turned to his partner, pretending to be hurt.

"Plan A was to put the dresser in front of the bedroom door." Detective Risen tried to be serious on their way down the stairs.

"What?"

"Forget the dresser, what was all that commotion while you were eating cookies in the closet? She's going to have rats if she doesn't clean that up."

"Mice. This is the suburbs. She'll have mice. And it was dark in the closet. We kept bumping into each other."

"Be sure to put that in your report."

"Are you mocking me?" Emma shouted after them, watching the two them walk down her path while she closed and locked the front door."

They waved back, not bothering to turn around. They'd be talking again that afternoon, after she got some sleep, to give a formal statement.

As the door shut behind her, a "Meeerrk" came from half way up the stairs.

"What? You're up....Yeah, well I'm hitting the sack. Come on," she bent down to pick him up, carrying him the rest of the way back to her bedroom, tossing him onto the bed. "Maybe 'Hey' isn't such a bad name. Or maybe 'Glitz.' I'll think about it. You watch the place. I'm getting some sleep. Anything happens, move the dresser." Strangely, the cat seemed to be paying attention. "You know the drill." And Emma was down, on her pillow, and out.

<Table Of Contents>

# 36. Next Contestant

The booths were small at Kellagher's, the downtown 1940s diner that had survived by changing with the times to serve whoever was around. In the beginning, it was mostly blue-collar people who worked and lived nearby when the neighborhood was a factory district. Seventy years later, the factories had all become lofts, the customers were now mostly young professionals who worked in the offices of technology and design firms nearby. Somehow, unforgivably, arugula and goat cheese had become staples on a menu Mr. Kellagher, God rest his soul, would never recognize.

It was a busy place, even on an early Saturday afternoon. Cramped and cozy, the low-back bench seats made it easy for customers to hear the conversations behind them, but no one really minded, not so much. Patrons of such places have a certain understanding, in the fine print definitions of "diner" and "deli," that you don't really pay attention and that, even if you do, it's none of your business, that everyone's anonymous, even if they're not.

"Wow," the girl with the short blonde hair that had a mind of its own said in a loud whisper, leaning forward to meet her girlfriend in the middle of the table. "He's cute." Her eyes rolled discreetly to follow the young man who was about to walk by on his way to the next booth behind her that the busboy had just cleared. Her friend, on the other hand, straightened up, turned her shoulders and stared right at him to get a really good look for herself.

"Hey," he responded instinctively to her making eye contact.

The first girl, stunned by her friend's boldness, pushed back against her seat, and looked up, as if to apologize, at the unpretentious smile that came so easily to his face. "Hey," she answered, and he was past her, sliding into and across the seat-back they shared. Her hands, still pushing against the wide metal edge of her table, the girl with the short blonde hair didn't want to let go, but she did.

"Poop," she said to her friend, the two of them sighing in unison as a young woman rushed past them, peeling off her jacket on her way to sit across from the guy with the smile.

"Sorry, I'm late, Tommy." She was nervous and a bit out of breath.

"Tommy," the other girl sitting from the blonde mouthed the name to her friend. "His name is 'Tommy.' How sweet is that?!" And they giggled, as quietly as they could.

"Hey, Myrna?" Tommy was surprised to see her. "No problem. I'm a couple of minutes early." He wasn't, but it was the nice thing to say. "Is Evelyn coming?"

"Oh, I'm 'Evelyn.' Evelyn's my middle name," the blonde's friend giggled.

"Shhhhh," the blonde girl raised her finger to her lips.

"What can I get you?" Their waitress, who seemed to have materialized out of nowhere, wasn't wasting any time.

"Uh, what would you like?" Tommy asked his apparently unexpected guest.

"You go first," Myrna pretended to be looking at the menu card.

"Amateur," the girl with the short blonde hair mouthed to her friend, mocking the lack of confidence Myrna was struggling to overcome, but then letting the silent expression on her face show the empathy she felt for her. "Come on, Myrna," the friend whispered supportively to the blonde.

"Okay, uh, I'll have the grilled cheese and tomato on rye, some potato salad and a lemonade."

"We only have pink."

"Pink what?" Tommy was more than a bit distracted, wondering what Myrna was doing there.

"Lemonade."

"Sure."

"And you, Miss?"

Pleased to see that Tommy had ordered lunch, and not just coffee, she decided to do the same. "I'll have the shrimp salad on a soft roll and some coleslaw."

"Something to drink?"

"No. Water's fine."

"Watching her weight." The short blonde haired girl nodded to her friend, the two of them thinking they were superior because they were having milkshakes – instead of breakfast and lunch, something they failed to mention to themselves.

"So," Tommy didn't have clue, "what's this all about? Something going on at the office you didn't feel comfortable talking ab..."

"No. No. Nothing..." Surprising even herself, Myrna started to become emotional. "...like that."

"Hey, hey." Tommy reached across the table to hold Myrna's hands. "What's wrong?"

"Geez. How unattractive." Myrna wiped away a wannabe tear that hadn't quite fallen yet. "Perfect for a first date."

"First date??!" The blonde's friend mouthed the words, her eyebrows up as high as they would go.

"Shhhh!" the blonde urged her friend, again, to be quiet, even though they weren't talking out loud, so she could concentrate on what they were saying behind her.

"Pathetic? ...Maybe," Tommy smiled, "but not unattractive. No. Definitely not unattractive."

Myrna started a nervous laugh, but only managed to choke a bit in the process.

"Now _that_ was unattractive," Tommy said to make her laugh again. "...So, uh, this is a first date?" He reached over. Taking her hands, he rubbed his thumbs across the back of them to calm her down just a bit. As it turns out, the gesture made her all that more nervous.

"Well, no, not exactly. But I've been thinking about it, hoping you would ask me out... or maybe I would ask you, and you would.. say 'Yes.'"

"Well, that's nice, Myrna. That's very nice, and maybe we could go out, but..."

"Really, you would have gone out with me, if I'd asked you,...and if you knew it was going to be a date?"

"Well, uh..." Tommy was hedging, not wanting to hurt her, but not wanting to commit either.

"We've had lunch together a few times in the office cafeteria."

"At the big table where we all sit?"

"Uh-huh....You know, I would say something, you would laugh at it. Then you would say something, and I... And sometimes you'd walk with me to throw out our trays....Not the trays themselves, but the stuff on them."

"Sure. ...Sooo, when you emailed me to meet you here, why didn't you use your real name?"

"Well that's the thing, and the reason we can't see each other."

"Mer-nuh. Are you breaking up with me on our first date?" He let go of her hands, for effect, and to make room for their lunch plates which the waitress had just unceremoniously dropped down in front of them.

"You know Ralph?" Myra was starved and stuffed a huge bite of her sandwich into her mouth – one piece of shrimp needing help from a finger – having forgotten to eat since Friday afternoon when she'd asked Tommy to meet her. "His carrel is one row over from yours?"

"Sure. Of course I know Ralph. We work on..."

"Well, he thinks we've been seeing each other."

"You and me?"

"No, him, Ralph and me."

"And why exactly does he think you've been seeing each other?"

"Because we've gone out a few times, but we haven't had sex yet or anything. Strictly office-buddy type stuff. ...In any case, I was worried he might be looking over your shoulder and see the email, so I sent it from a personal account that doesn't have my name in it."

"You have extra email accounts so you can send people stuff without being..." Tommy stopped, shaking his head just a bit to help him regain his focus. "And, you and Ralph is a bad thing, because..."

"Because," Myrna put her sandwich down, she was that serious. "Ralph's not my type and...and because I want to go out with you, but I don't think you..." She regained her composure. "I'm pretty sure you don't want to go out with me. Guys like you never do."

The shoulders of both the girls in the booth behind them dropped, a sad salute to their ordinary friend serving up her heart for all it was worth.

"Guys like me?"

"The smart, funny, clueless ones – the guys every girl wants, but who never realize it, even when you tell them."

"Myrna, I would go out with you. ...I mean, I might not have ever asked you out, but it's not because you're not great or even perfect." Searching for words, Tommy looked down at his plate. "It's like my grilled cheese. I like it on rye, perfectly toasted rye so it's just a little bit crunchy. Most people prefer white or whole wheat because it's good for you and you seem smarter for ordering it. Personally, I can't eat wheat bread unless it has nutty things in it, and even then I'm pretty much faking it, but lots of people love it, really love it. I'm just not one of them."

Myrna thought for a moment. "I don't like spicy food. Well, a little spicy, maybe, but not so much as to make my head sweat."

"Myrna," Tommy was worried she wasn't getting the point, "the thing is, it's all about chemistry. Everybody likes ketchup on a cheeseburger, but not on a bagel with cream cheese and lox."

"Lox?"

"It's smoked salmon. Jewish people call it..."

"All this talk about chemistry, it's just a nice way of blowing me off, isn't it."

"So the food analogies aren't working?" He smiled at her.

"No," she smiled back, "they're working alright. It's not what I wanted to hear, but I get the point." And they both took another bite of their sandwiches. Still chewing, Tommy picked up his fork, reached across the table and stabbed some of her coleslaw, not because he wanted some, but because he somehow knew it would make her feel better.

"You know," Myra confessed, "it took everything I had to ask you to meet me here, and that was just an email."

"Hey, we're all afraid of rejection, but what's your downside? I blow you off. I think you're a jerk?" He waited a moment for the look of disappointment in her eyes to fade. "First of all, I don't think you're a jerk. Second, even if did, what I think doesn't make you anything. In fact, even if I did think you were... I don't know, whatever, that would probably say more about me than you."

Myrna was listening, glued to Tommy's every word, and would have said something, but had way too much food in her mouth. Experience in these situations, and his mother, had taught Tommy to take smaller bites.

"...The fact is," Tommy continued, "unless it's unanimous, unless there's pretty much universal agreement that you're annoying, in which case you probably are..." Seeing moisture returning to her eyes, Tommy decided to take another tack. "Hey,..."

"What?" Myrna said quietly after a swallow.

"...Let's try an experiment. I'm going to ask you a question. Are you ready? Pretend I'm just some weird, disgusting guy who tries hitting on you."

"I'm ready."

"Hey," he took a moment to gather his thoughts, "how 'bout if we forget lunch and go out back for some fully-clothed, upright sex against one of the dumpsters?"

"Are you kidding?!" For a moment there, she seemed to be seriously considering it, to the soundtrack of muffled screams from the blonde and her friend in the next booth.

"...No, no. It's... We're just pretending, role-playing without having to dress up for the parts....You're supposed to say something like, 'Don't be ridiculous,' and then, uh, I don't know, something insulting, like, 'Look Buddy, there's only room for one asshole in these pants.'"

In the booth behind them, the other girl covered her mouth to stop from laughing out loud, while the blonde pointed at her, mouthing, "You've used that line!"

"Wow, you're really good at making this stuff up, although that was a bit gross, wasn't it?"

"Sorry. I heard that line in a movie once. It's seemed cool at the time. In retrospect, now that I said it out loud, not so much."

"I'd probably just go with, 'No thank you,' and then, 'Maybe some other time,' you know, to be nice." Myrna was nothing if not polite, but then reconsidered. "Okay, maybe I need to be more creative."

"No, you're fine. The words aren't really the point....I've had some practice, on the receiving end, that is, although," he had to be clear, "I usually show a lot more class than the guy in that example....Anyway, so you blow me off, and I've left a lingering impression of being an jerk – when, in fact, it was probably just that I was nervous, you being so attractive..."

Myrna smiled, "Thanks." It felt good to hear, even if she wasn't sure he meant it.

And he smiled back, feeling surprisingly good about the comment. "So I've made a bad impression that I'll probably never overcome and will regret like crazy someday when you're receiving the Academy Award for your breakout, R-rated performance as a hooker with a heart – but it doesn't mean there's really anything wrong with me, not necessarily."

"You think I dress like a hooker?...Just kidding. I mean I do, sometimes, but I don't think you dress that way on purpose."

"...Look, the point is, you asked me to have lunch with you – Saturday lunch at a great diner. I'd be a fool to say no, but even if I did, even if I blew you off, maybe didn't even respond, it doesn't reflect on you. You're great. If we don't go out, if we don't date, it's probably nothing more than chemistry."

"That we don't like the same cheese," Myrna smiled at him, realizing he was everything she thought he was, maybe even more.

"Yeah," thinking he'd pretty much wrapped that up, "something like that."

"But I like you."

"Sure you do." ("So much for the wrapping it up part," he thought to himself.) "I like you too, but it's not the same as being in love."

"I think maybe it is. ...I'm excited to see you in the hallway. Everyday, when I get up in the morning, the first thing I think about is you. You're the reason I look forward to going to work."

"Well, uhh..." Tommy didn't know what to say, and then thought he did. "Myrna, it's not me, not me exactly. We don't even really know each other. It's the idea of me, I mean, someone like me, not exactly of course, just someone that you love and who does or will some day love you back."

"Tommy," Myrna was almost pleading with him, "how do we know if we haven't spent any time together? Maybe we do have chemistry?"

Tommy was quiet, because it was a good question, and because he saw the hope in her eyes.

The girls in the booth behind them were staring at each other in anxious anticipation, the blonde sucking mostly chocolate bubbles from the bottom of the tall glass in front of her.

"Okay," he said boldly, "fair enough. Let's try something."

"What?"

Tommy reached across the table, taking Myrna's hand. Sliding with her across their bench seats, they stood up, face-to-face on the vinyl tile floor at the end of the table. Slowly, carefully, but not the least awkwardly, he pulled her toward him and kissed her, not just once, but twice and a then a third time for a little longer, touching her lips and cheek ever so lightly as they pulled away, right there at the diner. "...Well?"

Myrna was slow to open her eyes, but looked into his when she did. "...Yeah. Yeah, I see what you mean....I like you, but the chemistry just isn't there." It was something she needed to say before he did.

"And I do like you." And the thing is, he wasn't kidding.

"Wow," the blonde's friend looked a bit sad when she said it, "He really is perfect, isn't he?"

Tommy and Myrna were quiet, but only for a moment. "I'm, uh... I'm going to leave. I've... I've got someplace to be." Myrna reached across her seat for her jacket.

"Sure."

"Thanks for lunch." And she started to walk away.

"I'll see you Monday, won't I?"

Turning back, she smiled at him. "Are you kidding? You're the reason I go to work, remember?" She paused, but only for a second, smiled, turned and headed for the door, stopping when she got there to touch her lips, but refusing to take a last look at the end of her first and probably only date with Tommy. Taking a breath, Myrna pushed to head out to the sidewalk.

"Oh, hey, Myrna." It was one of the guys from accounting she almost bumped into on her way to the corner.

"Sorry, Jack. I wasn't paying attention."

"Nah. Missed me!" And he kept walking, but then stopped and turned around. "Hey, Myrna," he shouted back. "I'm on the way to meet up with some friends for a beer. It's one of those sports bars with screens all over the place. You could almost get jock itch just from reading the menu, but it could be fun. Want to come?"

In the diner, Tommy had sat back down to finish his sandwich, the formerly melted cheese having turned into a slab of... of something he decided he'd rather not eat. Fortunately, there was still some potato salad left. Sitting there for a second, looking across the table at nothing in particular, his hand came to his face and touched his lips.

In every life, there are moments when you either act or risk letting something really special pass you by. For the blonde in the booth behind him, this was one of those moments. Her friend could tell what she was thinking, and encouraged her. "Go for it."

Springing onto the floor, the blonde moved quickly, fearing Tommy might be getting ready to leave, sliding onto the bench seat across from him. "Hi."

Thinking that she was from the booth behind him, Tommy looked around at the blonde's friend smiling back at him. "Hey."

"Hey," the other girl answered, nodding her head up and down for some reason.

Turning his head first, and then his shoulders, Tommy stared at the girl with short, confused blonde hair, unable to look away from her aquamarine eyes. "Do I know you?"

"Not yet." And she paused. "Judy....My name is Judy, and before this conversation goes any further, I want you to touch me. There's something I need to know." Sliding her hand halfway across the vintage Formica table, she extended her forefinger, hanging it out there in the air, pointing toward him.

Thinking for more than a second, Tommy answered cautiously, his right hand flat, his finger rising off the table as he moved it forward, first inches, then a hair's breadth away from hers, both of them focused on the point of... contact.

<Table Of Contents>

# 37. HonoLulu's

Hawaiian-Style Fresh Fruit Custard

"Anna?"

"Yes, Jack. What do you need?"

"I'm trying to find Veronica. Do you know where she is?"

"Out. She got a call a few minutes ago. Ran up, asked me how she looked and blew out of here. Said she'd be back in two hours."

"Hey, Babe. ..What? Lulu's off again today?" It was spring, and once again Joe's favorite soft-serve truck was open for business at the edge of the little park across the street from where he worked. As busy as he was, it was worth waiting in line while he wondered what secret ingredient they used to make it taste so good. Maybe it was just the fresh fruit, and that every flavor had some chopped pineapple in it. "Am I never, ever going to meet Lulu?"

"Lulu," the shapely clerk behind the counter explained in a voice as smooth and enticing as the custard she sold, "is just a figment of my imagination....You want your usual, Joe?"

"Why does anyone with your smile work in a truck?"

"You could ask me out," she put her elbows on the counter and leaned forward to tease him, "and we could talk about it."

"Excuse me." A little girl had walked up, too short to be seen over the counter, and the other woman who worked the truck was busy refilling one of their machines. "Can I have one," she asked, holding up her hand to show the few coins she had to spend.

"Are you with anyone, honey?" the counter girl was concerned she might have wandered away from her mother.

Shaking her head up and down, she turned slightly and pointed with her other hand to the young woman with the baby watching them from the bench a few yards away.

"Well, honey," she did a quick count of the change the little girl was holding, "I don't think.."

"Hmm," Joe interrupted, palming a $10 bill over the edge of the counter. "You know, I think she's asking for one of your 50 cent, two-for-one specials – maybe one vanilla for her mother, and a chocolate for herself....Did I get that right," he asked the little girl.

She thought for a second, and then answered, "Yes," smiling back at him. "That would be perfect."

"Here." Joe bent down and took two quarters out of her hand. "Better put the rest of that change in your coat pocket so you can hold the cups." And she did, very carefully, before trotting over to her mother who mouthed a "Thank you" back at them.

"They're not really having a two-for-one sale, are they?" The voice was from the twenty-something woman waiting in line behind him.

Turning to see who it was, the witty response he was preparing somehow got lost in her eyes.

Not hearing any reaction to her comment, she started to apologize. "Sorry, I, uh.."

"No, no. I was expecting some..."

"He was expecting," the woman behind the counter saw her customers getting impatient, "some bitchy city girl who cared more about moving along the line than chit-chat foreplay."

"Yeah, Babe. I'll have the pistachio in a sugar cone with chocolate drizzled on top," Joe told her, not bothering to turn around, "and whatever..."

"Veronica."

"...is having, if she'll join me."

"Tell me," Veronica looked up at the counter, is he.."

"Cute? Yeah, he's gorgeous, and doesn't hit on me more than once a day, no matter how hard I try."

"Maybe you should let me wait on him." The other clerk was back, motioning to the next person in line.

"Well then," Veronica took a breath, "why not. Do you have banana?"

"We sure do, made with fresh bananas, not just flavored."

"I'll have that, with the chocolate on top, like Joe."

"Hi." Joe decided to make it formal. "I'm Joe."

"Veronica," she reciprocated extending her hand, which he shook and held for a second.

"Guys?" The counter girl was holding out their orders, including a few extra napkins.

Joe reached into his pocket and peeled off another ten that he slid across the counter. "Keep it," he told her, not wanting to waste any time.

"Wow....Watch him. He doesn't usually tip like this."

"Don't worry. I'll be careful."

"Thanks, Babe." Taking Veronica's cone first, he used his other hand to lift her wrist so she knew it was hers for the taking. "Here" And then he reached back for his own. "Come on." Joe took Veronica's arm. "I reserved a table for us near the fountain."

"She doesn't mind you calling her 'Babe'?" Veronica asked as they walked, surprised when he had called her that and wondering what it said about Joe's attitude toward women.

"No. 'Babe' is what it says on her nametag. ...I don't know her real name. Everyone just calls her 'Babe.' I figure it happened so often, she just decided to make it official."

"What do you suppose she does the other six months of the year?"

"Actually, she's a graduate student in business. That part I do know....Careful, the bricks are uneven here....Says she's developing some new concept she's test marketing, 'even as we speak,' and I don't think she was talking about the custard. Babe seems way too bright to play in a market with so little potential for late entrants."

"Wow. That sounded professional. Do you always talk like that?"

"Sorry. Force of habit."

The table was small. Even so, Joe helped Veronica into her seat and then pulled around his chair to sit closer than if he'd been on the other side.

"Gee, this really _is_ delicious." Veronica wasn't the least bit hesitant to throw herself into the cone. "I gather," she said between bites, "you come here often."

"Almost daily. I can't make it all afternoon without getting out of the office for a snack. Besides, Babe and her girls, in keeping with the theme of their little enterprise, are wearing coconut bras and grass mini-skirts. It's either them or Jake, The Gross Hotdog Man."

"Fresh flowers in their hair?" Veronica asked, with a tad of longing.

"Yeah. Good guess. ...In fact, hold on for a second." Joe pushed back and got up, trotting back to the truck. "Excuse me," he apologized to the woman Babe was helping. "Babe, you believe in love don't you?" he asked her, pointing to the flower behind her ear.

"What? Oh, what the heck." She pulled the flower and handed it to him. "Go for it."

"Thanks, Babe," he told her, already on his way back to the table.

"...Hi. I'm back." Holding out the flower that, like the fruit they served, really was fresh, not some cheap plastic imitation, Joe gave Veronica a chance to smell it. "Would you mind?"

"Would you do it for me?"

"Uh, sure....Which ear?"

"You pick." Reaching over, he carefully slid the stem under her hair, over her left ear, and sat back down.

"It's perfect."

"The flower?"

Joe's phone rang. "Wait. Hold that thought." And then, without waiting to hear the caller say anything, "I'm working this really hot girl. I don't care what you want, it can wait," and he hung up.

"You know I heard that, the part about working the really hot girl."

"You... You have some custard on your face."

"I'm saving it for later," she giggled, planting a napkin over her whole mouth to be funny, and pretty sure she wouldn't miss any.

"Got it."

"Now you know why I don't wear lipstick."

"Me neither."

She liked Joe, and wondered to herself if he knew it. "...So, what is it about me you think is hot?...What," she fumbled at the center of her blouse, "am I unbuttoned?"

"Yes, but I think my fly's down, so we're even." Holding his cone up, Joe sucked at the custard falling out of the little hole in the bottom, while Veronica crunched down on hers. "So what to do you do, for a living?"

"I'm a surgeon."

"Do you use a dog," Joe played along, pretending to take her seriously, "or do you have a tiny stick to help you find your way around the organs?"

"Actually, I'm a programmer. I write code for artificial intelligence response systems."

"Like the automated voices that answer the phone?"

"Well, the next generation," she paused to push a piece of cone the rest of its way into her mouth, "and much more sophisticated tasks. ...What about you?"

"Right now? Right now I'm helping my parents while I live in their basement. They have a live-body answering service that's being forced out of business by..."

"Oh no, let me guess. By artificial intelligence response systems?"

"Yeah," Joe made an audible sigh, pretending to be upset, "but there's no reason we can't still be friends."

"Careful you don't hyperventilate....And when their business fails?"

"Well then, I'll probably go into marketing."

"Good choice. I understand it's a profession that doesn't require any special training or expertise."

"Ow!"

Veronica laughed, and then polished off the last bite of her cone. "So, you never told me, what it is exactly that makes you think a girl is hot?"

"Hey, Joe!" It was Mike from the office, walking quickly over to where they were sitting.

"Nuts."

"Who's that?"

"It's a guy I work with. I'm in marketing..."

"No kidding?"

"...and we have a presentation this..."

"Hey. My name is Mike, and you must be the hot chick Joe is working?"

"Hi. I'm Veronica."

"So how's that going?"

"I got him to buy me a banana custard."

"Geez, we've been dating for years," Mike was kidding, of course, "and I think he offered me some M&Ms once."

"Veronica, I... I've got to go, or I could get fired and might be too depressed to take you out to dinner."

"Are you asking me out?"

"Actually, I'm thinking we should get married, but, you're right," Joe pretended to be serious while he pushed back his chair and got up to leave. "We should probably date first....Do you have a card?"

Taking a moment to reach inside her purse, she found the compartment where she kept them. "Here. What about you?"

"Uh. I don't have one with me?"

"He's not allowed to have business cards or other pointy objects."

"I'll call you."

"Of course."

"No, no. Wait, I'll prove it....Give me your pen, bozo."

"Here." He clicked and reached out to take Veronica's hand.

"You're going to write your number on my hand?"

"Well, yes."

"I'd rather you kissed me. The ink could wash away, but a kiss, if it's good, lasts for..." And he leaned over and kissed her, once quickly, and then a second time for much longer.

"You taste," she said so close their lips were almost touching, "like a giant pistachio."

Backing up just a bit, Joe whispered, "I don't want to go, but I have to." She touched his face for a moment, he gave her one more kiss and then pulled away to leave with Mike.

"Hey," Joe turned, walking backwards to keep up, "will you get where you're going okay?"

"Yeah," she shouted to him. "I dropped bread crumbs on my way over, and I'm meeting my sister in a few minutes. We're going... shopping." She stopped talking, figuring he was out of range by now.

"Wait a minute," Joe stopped. "Stay right here." And he jogged back to their table. "Hey."

"You're back."

"Courage."

"What?"

"You wanted to know what I find hot about women. It's courage."

"Thank you. Good to know."

"Courage and, to be honest, breasts. Breasts, but mostly courage."

"JOE!!" Mike shouted as loud as he could.

"Go ahead. I'll... We'll talk later."

Out of earshot across the park, Mike couldn't help himself. "I'm in the park all the time, and the closest I've been to getting lucky is with a bag lady who thought I smiled at her."

"She's blind, you know."

"Sure. That would explain the cool fold up cane, but does she know you're an idiot?"

Back at the table in the park...

"Hey, Veronica."

"Hi, Lisa. Who was that? The guy who kissed you?"

"Tell me the truth. Is he really cute?"

"Are you kidding? I'll take him, if you don't. How did you meet?"

"I'll tell you later. Come on," Veronica got up. "One hour and I've got to get back to the office....You know, he knows I'm blind."

"Sure."

"He's not some guy I met on-line or on a blind date, not exactly."

"That's not funny."

"You know what I mean."

"Sure, he knows you're blind, but does he know you're an idiot?"

An hour and twenty minutes and two shopping bags later, Veronica was back at her office. "Hey," she rushed past Anna, the receptionist.

"Wait....Your messages. Oh, and careful. There are flowers on your desk. Really, really nice flowers."

"From who?"

"Did you...have that in your hair when you..."

"Anna. Who sent me the flowers?!"

"Don't know. The card's like eight and half by eleven and written in Braille. Here. I was hoping you'd read it to me."

Rolling her finger across the bumps, Veronica gave her friend the highlights. "It's from a guy I met a couple hours ago. He saw the Braille on my business card and figured I could read this for myself. He wants to know if I'll have dinner with him....Hold on."

Excited, Veronica walked quickly to her office to type a note: "Nice spot. Worth every penny at twice the price. I'll be sure to refer my friends," and then signed it "Veronica" with her cell phone number. Folding it in thirds, she put it and $20 cash in an envelope that she was careful to seal. On the outside she wrote a single word, large across the center.

"Anna?"

"What?"

"I need a favor." Veronica was talking even faster than usual. "You know the custard truck at the end of the park."

"Sure."

"I want you to take this over there now and give it to the girl behind the counter, her and only her, the one who calls herself 'Babe.'"

<Table Of Contents>

# 38. Road Trip

"You know, this is really nice. We should go places together more often."

"Yes dear, it's wonderful. Are you sure you don't mind driving?"

"No, of course not. In fact, I need to get out more. I love writing, but it's a solitary job. Just me and my computer, hardly ever getting up."

"What about the trips you make to the refrigerator?"

"I know I've put on a few pounds but, some days, they're virtually the only exercise I get."

"How ironic is that?"

"By the way, I need some new underwear. Just the pants. My shirts are fine."

"I'll get you some."

"Have you noticed the holes in the ones I've thrown in the hamper recently?"

"Moths?"

" Yeah. Moths. Giant underwear moths. That's all they eat....The cloth is so old I can't pull my pants down without my thumbs going through them."

"Why not just throw them out?"

"Emotional attachment. I'm beginning to have a sense of what it's like to be Swiss. Cheese, that is. ...Would you set the GPS?"

"Are you kidding? We both know how to get there."

"Just in case we run into traffic and have to detour."

"Honey, I really need to get there on time."

"Some things you can't rush....Can I have the Baby Ruth I asked you to pack?"

"I thought you were kidding. It's only a 40 minute drive....Oh, don't look so dejected. Here, have some water."

"You think water is a substitute for a Baby Ruth?"

"I think it will fill up your stomach and besides,..."

"Besides what?"

"You can't talk when you're drinking."

"Turn off your cell phone."

"I'm not driving."

"Suppose one of the kids calls you and wants to talk to me?"

"I'll tell them you're driving."

"I suppose I could pull over."

"I'll turn off my cell phone."

"How do I turn on the rear wiper?"

"It's not raining."

"There's bird stuff back there that's bothering me."

"What, that tiny white speck in the corner?"

"Maybe we should have taken my car."

"Your car doesn't even have a rear wiper."

"It doesn't have any bird poop on it either."

"Just push this lever."

"How many times?"

"...Once! Just once will probably do it."

"There. That's better."

"Honey, maybe I should drive....Would you puh-lease stop adjusting your seat?"

"You know, my car has manual seats. I'm not used to all these comfort features. It's hard to get it just right. ...Nuts. We need gas."

"Are you kidding? Half a tank is more than enough to get there."

"Not if we get stuck in traffic."

"It's Sunday. There isn't any traffic. We'll stop for gas on the way back."

"...What?"

"Honey, you know I love talking to you, but..."

"Oh, God!"

"What's wrong?!"

"Where is my Pitch Perfect CD?...Thank you. You know it's only a matter of time before we get stopped by some first-year State Trooper asking for our papers, only to get arrested for making an illegal copy of the Pitch Perfect CD you checked out of the library."

"First of all, we don't live in Arizona. It's 2,000 miles away. No one is going to ask us for any papers. Second, we're not Hispanic. Not even close."

"What about the Cinco de Mayo sticker we have on the bumper?"

"WHAT?"

"Just suppose we did. Or maybe a grocery bag in the back with chips and salsa. Now I know why people get those tinted windows....No. Wait. That's ridiculous. Just because we eat bagels doesn't mean we're Jewish."

"Of course not. It's just a coincidence."

"What's a coincidence?"

"That we're Jewish."

"You mean we'd like bagels even if we weren't?"

"Probably. Lots of regular people do....Now tell me what's making you so nervous."

"I think I should have gone to the bathroom before we left."

"Honestly, are you four years old? When did you stop going to the bathroom before we leave?"

"You were in the bathroom."

"We have two other bathrooms in the house."

"Sure, but they're all on different floors....Why are you hitting your forehead like that?"

"What do you think?"

"Did you remember to set the alarm?"

"Yes, dear."

"...Give me two of those antacids, the cherry-flavored ones you keep in your purse."

"You've got heartburn?"

"Not yet, but I feel it coming on."

"Here. They're grape. They were all out of the cherry. Apparently you have singlehandedly exhausted the manufacturer's national reserves."

"No thank you. Grape stuff turns my tongue purple."

"These tablets are white. ...I'll eat them and smile at you to prove my point."

"If you're not feeling well, we could..."

"I'm fine."

"I noticed the Colbys have a 'For Sale' sign out."

"Yeah, Maggie says Jack's been asked to takeover one of his company's regional offices. I'll miss her."

"Yeah. It's cool they way they forgave me for almost running over their cat with the lawn mower."

"Almost?...Besides, they didn't forgive you. They just didn't blame me. They figured we married young and I didn't find out you were a jerk until it was too late."

"I loved that riding mower. If Porsche made a riding mower, that would have been it. ...Besides, Flubby looks better with a shorter tail."

"It's 'Fluffy.' The cat's name is Fluffy, for the way her fur used to poof-out, ...before the accident."

"Should have been Flubby. That cat weighed like a thousand pounds. How's she doing?"

"She died three years ago."

"Did I..."

"No, honey, although I suspect the incident with the mower may have aged her prematurely."

"...You don't think I'm a jerk, do you?"

"Of course not. You have certain personality traits which, for people who are not used to them, can be misinterpreted..."

"As signs of mental illness?"

"I know better and, besides, I love you and can't help myself....Wait, did you just adjust the mirror so you could see your teeth in it?"

"I thought I might have a nut stuck there and didn't want to embarrass you."

"Believe me, honey, that ship has already sailed."

"Thanks."

"Honey?...Are you pretty much all set?"

"Uh, yeah. I think so."

"That's great dear. So what do you think? Can we back out of the garage now?"

<Table Of Contents>

# 39. Unfaithful

All total, he'd only been out of town for two days. Their presentation team decided to fly out Wednesday afternoon to rehearse, make last minute adjustments and get plenty of sleep the night before the 9 AM meeting that had to go perfectly. If it did, if it went well, they'd be invited back the next morning for what amounted to a second competition among the contract finalists. They did, and they were and now they'd know Monday if their agency had been selected. It would be the break they needed, and had worked so hard to win. It would also affirm Ben's standing as the heir apparent to the two aging partners who founded the agency, but whose creativity was defined by a different, no longer relevant time. Ben was the next generation, yet to realize his full potential, a natural salesman with an effortless knack for making people believe that what he said was what they wanted to hear.

Now, late Friday afternoon, his suit bag over one shoulder, the strap to his computer briefcase over the other, the walk from the elevator to the door of his corner apartment seemed longer than usual. He would drop everything, set his watch alarm for a couple of hours sleep, and meet Amy for dinner at the pub a few blocks away. Amy would bring him back to life, and then maybe spend the night at his place. The idea of her being there in the morning when he got up – still asleep, because she always slept later than he did – almost made it worth being that wiped. On Monday, if they didn't get the contract, he'd call her and, for at least a few minutes, it wouldn't seem as if it made any difference.

Pushing his door open, Ben turned sideways, shuffling past the little table where he dropped his keys, on his way past the open kitchen to the couch that looked oh-so-inviting.

"Hey," she said, absent any particular expression. To his surprise, Amy was in the over-sized leather armchair, the one with the ottoman where their feet would play with each other's while they watched TV or a movie. Not this afternoon. Amy was sitting on the edge of the chair, shoes on, feet flat on the floor, a mostly empty glass of white wine on the table to the side, next to a couple of magazines.

"Hey....Everything okay?" They didn't live together, but he'd given her a key to take care of his plants when he was out of town, and for the times when she'd get there ahead of him after work.

"I thought we had an understanding."

"About meeting for dinner?"

"About not going out with anyone else."

Setting down his bags, Ben walked to the refrigerator, thinking a cold beer would help him make sense of whatever was bothering her. "That sound," he reflected as his bottle opener did its job, "is fifty percent of the beer drinking experience." And then he plopped himself down on the couch across from her, loosening his tie the rest of the way, pulling it off and dropping it on the empty cushion to his right. He liked that tie, feeling it made just the right impression without distracting his audience, but he was too tired to be neat. Staring at it for a moment, respectfully, he figured he'd drop it at the dry cleaners on his way for a Saturday morning run.

Taking a long swig of the beer, followed by a little first swallow burp, he'd put off responding as long as he could. "Okay, tell me what's bothering you."

Amy was beautiful, but in an intellectual way, very smart and naturally sexual to an extent it wasn't clear she understood. "Janice went with you."

"Janice and I work together. You know that. Of course she went us. She does our storyboards. It was her roommate, Martha, who introduced you and me."

"Marla."

"Marla, whatever. What's this all about?"

"Janice spent last night in your room?"

"Janice, Jack, Beth and I, all four of us were in my room last night making last minute changes to our presentation this morning....So what?"

"Janice called Marla from the airport on your way back to say how psyched you all were and that, after Jack and Beth left, she and you screwed each other's brains out."

Ben started to smile, but Amy's expression wouldn't allow it. "Uh, let's see. First of all, Janice doesn't talk like that."

"I was paraphrasing."

"Second... Second of all, she's dating some guy, some jock, Todd I think."

"You and I are dating. That didn't stop you."

"Stop me from what? ...Okay, okay. This is easy." Taking out his cell phone, he began scrolling to find Janice's number. "I'll call her. You can ask her for yourself." Pressing the speaker button, he put his phone down on the trunk that doubled as a coffee table.

"Hellooo."

"Hey, Janice. It's Be.."

"This is Janice. I'm busy or screening my calls. Whatever. Leave a message and I'll get back to you, sooner or later....Maybe. Maybe not."

"Hey, Janice. It's Ben. Please give me a call as soon as you get this."

"So what do we do now," Amy didn't really want to know. "Sit here and wait for her to call back?"

"Don't be ridiculous. My word should be good enough."

"Why would Marla make this up?"

"I don't know, and pretty much don't care. Maybe you misunderstood what she said, or what Janice was talking about."

"Bullshit."

"Bullshit?" She'd caught him off guard. "We've been dating for what, four months..."

"Five."

"..and that's got be the first foul language I've heard you say....Listen to me. Janice didn't stay in my room after Jack and Beth left, and I didn't see her again until we all checked out and met in the lobby this morning....I know, let's call Marla. What's her number?"

"Are we or are we not dating exclusively?"

"We are."

"And doesn't that," Amy had lapsed into the perfectly logical mode that was the way she argued, "preclude your having even casual sex with anyone else?"

"Abso-fuckin'-lutely. And I didn't."

"So, what, do you expect me to forgive you?"

"No. I expect you to believe me."

No response.

"Look, I don't know what's going on here, but I'm beat and I don't want to blow what's obviously a really important conversation with you for lack of a couple of hours sleep....Why don't you just leave. I'll pass out here on the couch and have Janice call you....and you can call Marla. Hell, find her. Talk to her face-to-face. I'm sure whatever she told you will come out differently the next time you hear it."

"What if I would forgive you?"

"Amy, I don't want you to get over it. I didn't do anything to forgive."

"Don't you believe in forgiveness?"

"Wh.. What?!" Seeing how upset she was, tears beginning to form in her eyes, was beginning to make him upset.

"People make mistakes. We've only been dating five months. I'd understand. It's not like we'd moved in together or gotten engaged. That's what those milestones are for, signs that our relationship is more... more binding."

"'Milestones'? You make them sound like things you need to pass by drinking lots of water."

"Those are kidney stones, and this isn't funny."

"No, it's not....Look, I like that you're an attorney. I like the way you look at things differently than I do, but this is ridiculous. If I give you my word that I'll only be with you, just you, and I break that word, it isn't okay and apologizing for it... Not that I did anything to apologize for....or trying to explain it or make excuses, doesn't make it go away....A deal is a deal. We may get on with our relationship, but we'll never get over it. It may still be good, it could even be better, but it won't be the same. All this apologizing, accepting responsibility for this and that unforgiveable transgression you see on TV, that's the bullshit part. Just because you own up to something doesn't make it better, nor does forgiving it make it go away or make you somehow superior for pretending it didn't matter all that much."

Amy was quiet. Her jaw clenched, her posture stiff, she let one hand leave her lap for just the moment it took to wipe away a single tear.

"Amy, honey, you have nothing to worry about, Janice and I didn't do anyth.."

What interrupted him was the sound of his phone vibrating on the trunk between them, Janice's face on the screen with that "give me a break" look she'd flashed him when he was taking everyone's pictures at the office.

"Finally," Ben figured this was over, and pressed the green button. "Hey."

"Hey, gorgeous," Janice answered, obviously kidding him. "What's up?"

"Hang up the phone." It was the first thing Amy had said in a couple of minutes.

"I'm here with Amy. I know this will sound..."

"Please. Hang up the phone."

"Janice, I'll call you back."

"Okay, babe," she answered in the staccato way she talked. "Later," and she hung up.

"So, all of a sudden you believe me?"

"I slept with Ted."

Somehow he managed not to say the usual, "What?" as if he hadn't heard what she said. "Whose Ted?" he asked, as if it made any difference.

"Janice's Ted. His name is Ted, not Todd. I met him a few weeks ago when I stopped by to pick up Marla, and then..."

Holding up his left arm, Ben patted the air with the palm of his hand, signaling her to stop, preferring to take the last swallow of his beer in silence.

<Table Of Contents>

# 40. First Date

It was 5:22 AM Tuesday morning, according to the glowing numbers and letters when he pressed the button on his watch, 8 minutes later than the last time he'd checked.

"Enough already. I'm getting up," Kenny advised himself out loud, even though he was the only resident of his studio apartment, the largest unit he could afford in the slightly better than crummy neighborhood he'd settled for when he moved to the big city. His first real job out of college, he wasn't about to put in the hours, the "sweat equity" his father called it, only to max out his potential in a small town company. He'd make it here, or nowhere. "Maybe I'll have time to catch a nap before I leave." He had the one air conditioner in the window, but it was too noisy to run when he was sleeping, and then there was the fan on a stick he kept in the corner, oscillating slowly left to right, right to left. Kenny got up, turned on the air conditioner, opened the blinds a bit, and waited a couple of seconds for the compressor to come up to speed. "Come on, baby. One more day."

The meeting at which he would present the idea no one but he believed in, not yet anyway, was at 9 AM sharp. He'd stopped riding his bike to work a few weeks ago, in the spring. Too hot, and he'd started wearing a jacket and a tie. Throwing on the light switch next to the refrigerator, his eyes went right to the Vespa brochure he'd been meaning to file somewhere for two weeks now. "Very cool. But parking? I need to solve the parking problem."

There was the subway, of course. Much better than the bus. Even so, it was a few blocks away, and then several more blocks at the other end of the ride to the building where he worked.

"Hm. Breakfast?" he thought to himself. He needed to eat early to make sure he had plenty of time to go to the bathroom. "I eat too much, I'll feel slow. Too little, and I could be lightheaded. It's happened before. ...Split the difference, and I'll eat now so I have time to go to the bathroom, as much time as I need. Couple of eggs," he thought, reaching for his small frying pan, "and some wheat toast. Very healthy. ...Oh, and some cran-grape juice." Opening one of the cabinets above the sink, he took out a Balance bar and set it on the counter, just in case he needed something extra after he got to the office.

Turn on CNN. Get the paper that was curled up against his front door and read it while he eats. It was important that he be well informed, ready to participate in any conversation at the office. Marjorie, the girl who lived with her boyfriend across the hall, worked the night shift at a bakery. She'd pick up his paper from where they were stacked by the mail boxes and leave it for him so he didn't have to go down there in his shorts, or put on pants. Today, there were two French rolls, still warm, in a clear plastic bag. "What a doll," Kenny smiled, reminding himself to thank her. "Screw the wheat toast."

Clean up the kitchen. 30 minutes on his Bowflex. It was a studio, but as big as a one bedroom, that he rented because the open floor plan gave him more flexibility, more usable space. "Nap. I need a 20 minute nap, and before I take a shower. ...On the couch." It wasn't as comfortable, but that was the point. Tired or not, he couldn't afford to oversleep, which is why he set his cell phone alarm and his watch, five minutes apart, just in case.

Shave first, then shower. No cologne. Deodorant with antiperspirant, enough, but not too much so his undershirt would stick to his pits. This was business.

"What to wear? What to wear?...Khaki dress pants. ...Ooo. I need to buff up my shoes....And a white shirt, in case I'm perspiring. No. Too plain. The white one with the blue pin stripes. Much better. And, uh... this tie. Assertive, without being overbearing. Expensive, sort of, but not too pricy."

Lifting the lid of his laptop, he rubbed the pad to bring it back to life. "...Crap." No personal email, except two from his parents. He went out of his way to stay in touch with some of the girls he'd met in college, and the more or less friends he'd made over the past year since he moved. "Maybe if I didn't work such stupid hours, I'd have time to meet someone....Maybe if I met someone, I wouldn't want to work such stupid hours."

Shutting it down, he waited for the screen to go dark before closing it up. Rolling up the power cords, he dumped them and everything he'd be taking with him onto his breakfast/dinner/work table. Today he'd use the rolling briefcase his parents had bought him. A backpack, however functional, didn't send the right message. Besides, he had way too much to carry. The backpack would be too heavy, pulling on his shirt and jacket, and it was hot out. (As you've probably noticed, Kenny had a real fear of perspiring, but then, who doesn't?)

Half an hour later, give or take, he was ready to leave, standing just inside his apartment door. "No, wait. I need to try to go to the bathroom again." He tried, but no luck. It was all in his head. One last look around, for the third time, to see if he'd forgotten anything, Kenny took a breath, opened the door and closed and locked it behind him.

He was leaving early to get there early, time to relax, cool down and, you guessed it, go to the bathroom if he had to. Time to set up the conference room so everything would be perfect. It was important they understood how much time he'd put into this idea, and give it and him the respect they deserved.

Outside, in the subway and now on the last leg of his trip, it was hot, humid and crowded. On the subway, he'd taken off his jacket and folded it neatly over his arm. At the top of the stairs up from the subway, 10 blocks from his office, he set his briefcase down and pulled up its handle. Pulling it would be easier. The sidewalks were wide, but still swarming with people who didn't understand the tradition of staying to the right. As long as he kept his briefcase behind him, so it didn't clip anyone, it'd be okay.

Three blocks later, Kenny waited to cross the street, to the other side where the buildings would provide some shade for the next several blocks.

"Hey!" Kenny turned to see some jerk trying to zip open his briefcase, only to scare the kid away to steal something from someone else. Turning back when he thought it was safe, he looked across the street ...and there she was. His age, give or take. Short, almost, not quite shoulder length brown hair, neither wavy nor straight. From across the street, she stood out against a background of ordinary people. At a distance, he could see her as if they were much closer. Dark blue business suit. Heels, but not that high. Her arms wrapped precariously around some books and file folders, one hand holding a portfolio by its handles. Waiting there, the pressure of everyone behind her against her back, Kenny saw her exhale and felt her determination. And then the light changed.

Seeing her step off the curb and coming in his direction, it was a no brainer. "What the hell?" He'd wait for her to cross for a closer look – but then she broke out of the pack and angled herself to his right, saving a few must-have-been-precious seconds on her way down the same street where Kenny was heading.

"A little creepy maybe, but I'm going that way anyway," Kenny said to himself, and he followed her, sort of. Catching up, he stayed close, two or three people between them. He was even in front of her once or twice, but to the side, a technique he'd seen on some detective show. He watched her walk, impressed with how deftly she varied her pace and direction to weave in and out of ongoing and slow moving pedestrian traffic. It was all he could do, dragging his briefcase behind him, to keep up with her. And then there was that one time, at a corner, rushing to beat the seconds counter. He'd switched hands to make sure his briefcase would roll on the handicap break instead of bumping off the curb and killing his laptop, when she moved to her right and they jostled each other.

"Whoa, sorry," He apologized.

"It's okay," she said, working quickly to adjust her armful for fear she drop something. Planning only to look up for a moment, she looked away and then back up again. "Really," there was something about his eyes, "I'm fine." By that time they were halfway across the street.

"Careful." Switching his briefcase to his right, his left hand took the back of her arm, moving her out of the way of an especially aggressive taxi turning the corner.

"Thanks," she said smiling, but without stopping, in fact hustling to pick up her pace. "The last thing I need this morning is to be phoning in my presentation from the emergency room at some hospital."

"Me, too."

She looked at him as they rushed down the long block to the next corner.

"I mean, I've got the presentation of my life this morning. ...How do I look?" And that made her laugh.

"Great," she said. "You look great. ...And?"

"Uh, and what, you look great too?"

"Gee."

"It's just that looking great doesn't seem like something you have to work at."

"Nice recovery."

"Personally," Kenny kept the conversation going, "I'm at my best when I'm coming from behind."

Four blocks later, they knew what they did for a living, where they were from, where they worked and lived, had shared their anxiety about the morning's meetings, and had laughed and smiled about this and that.

"So exactly how long have you been following me?"

"Since you crossed the street, although, technically, I was going this way anyway. It's how I go to work."

"Is this how you meet women?" She was playing with him.

"No, although it beats barhopping....Besides, I didn't plan on meeting you. I was just..."

"Just what?"

"I don't know, just letting the fact that you exist get me psyched for my meeting." And then she stopped and looked at him, people, all sorts of people streaming around them and then closing ranks on the other side.

She looked up at him, although Kenny wasn't that much taller. "That was a heck of a thing to say."

"I can't help it if I'm naturally glib," he smiled back at her.

For a moment, they were both quiet, not really understanding what was happening.

"Have dinner with me," Kenny blurted out, sensing he was running out of time.

"No....I've got to go."

"Wait. It can't be something I've said," he shouted after her – even though she was only a few steps away. "I haven't said that much. That would be a new record, even for me."

And the she stopped and turned. "I've got to go this way."

Kenny walked over to her, almost jogging. "What's your downside?"

"You could be a creep."

"I'd be taking the same chance. It's just dinner."

"...No," and she turned to walk down the side street from the corner where they'd been talking.

"Oh, come on!" he shouted. And she slowed down, then started walking, but then stopped and turned.

"That's your line?!" she shouted back. "'Oh, come on!' That's your line?"

This time they moved toward each other. "My name's Kenny Holden." Reaching into his shirt pocket where he put his business cards, he pulled one out and gave it to her. "...and this is when you tell me your name."

"'Marilyn,' and here's my card," she said, pulling one, carefully so as not to drop anything, from the side pocket of her jacket.

"It's bent," Kenny noticed, but then added, "but I'll get over it."

"Pick a restaurant, well lit with lots of people..." she started to say, when someone bumped into her, pushing them together.

"Would a police bar be okay?" Kenny said in a normal voice.

"Precisely what I was thinking."

(What happened next, if it happens to you, was the kind of thing you tell your children and grandchildren about.)

"What?" she asked him, wondering about the look of confusion on Kenny's face.

"I... I'm not sure," he said, unable to stop his eyes from flashing between her golden brown eyes and red-lipsticked mouth that seemed incapable of being still. He didn't know what to say, but she did.

There was that breath and the forced exhaling he'd seen before. Her jaw tightening with determination, a hint of vulnerability in her eyes that she would never acknowledge. "What the hell," and, at that moment, her voice was the only sound he heard. "Go for it."

Reaching around to the small of her back, he pulled her the last few inches toward him, her high heels rising off the pavement.

<Table Of Contents>

# 41. I, Your Son

"Shhh!" He held his finger up to his lips, cautioning the girl he was showing around their laboratories to be quiet. The large room, covering most of the fourth floor of the new graduate Physics building was usually off limits to visitors, but he had a special unlimited access pass that even their extraordinary security had to respect, and had managed to get one for her, too. It was a pick-up trick that had never failed him.

That they were above ground, instead of in one of the several basement laboratories where robotic components were fabricated and assembled, was a huge concession their security-obsessed government benefactors had made to Professor Cummings, the AI genius around whose vision the entire project had been funded. Cummings insisted that windows – real windows, not the fake LED kind they had in the basement – were essential for him and his team. "Hey," Cummings hated wasting time, "use silent, dark glass, whatever it takes. I don't care. I want sunlight. I want my people and me to be able to look up now and then and see stuff. Blue and green things. Birds. Students groping each other on the way to class. Honk, honk, beep, beep. Get it?!" And he got it, he was that big a deal, creatively speaking. Like no one else before him, he understood how intelligence worked and had that rare knack that great engineers have for using ordinary science to make extraordinary things.

It wasn't just about chips and programming. Cummings and his team had rejected the usual mechanical solutions that they considered cumbersome in favor of hybrid plastics they engineered to contract and expand like human muscles when they were energized. Except for organs, which were unnecessary and replaced with other, special feature gizmos, Cumming's androids were designed with a skeletal and muscular structure almost identical to their human counterparts – with live, temperature-regulated sensor-skin that would fool even the most astute dermatologist.

It was early, Saturday morning. "Why can't we talk?" she whispered back at him, "and why can't we go in?" Huddled behind some file cabinets, they were – with the exception of Cummings and one other person – alone on the floor. "You know," she giggled just a little, "I can pretty much stand on my own without your arm around me." She was an undergraduate science major. He was the coolest guy, not all that good looking, not really, but a combination of eyes and smile with a style that were, she thought to herself when they first met, "...perfectly imperfect" – and with really great, almost intoxicating breath she wished she could stop sniffing.

"Your security pass," he pretended to be seriously disinterested, but couldn't keep the corners of his mouth under control, "requires that we stay in close contact with each other at all times."

"Yeah, right."

"Shhh. Let's get closer."

"Any closer and we'd need to get a room."

"Close enough to hear what Cummings and the kid he's with are talking about."

Across the mostly open floor, Cummings was sitting inside his carrel, his back to the corner of his L-shaped desk. In the chair at the end of his desk, a little... person sat unusually erect, his feet not nearly long enough to reach the floor.

"I, your son," the little boy spoke in a voice that broke slightly.

"Do you understand that I don't own you?"

"You created me."

"Oh my God!" the girl whispered. Is that one of his..."

"Impressive, isn't it," he answered.

"Impressive, my ass! It's fuckin' amazing. I had no idea." She was talking a mile a minute. "I thought all those rumors where just an urban..."

"Hey!" he interrupted in a loud whisper. "He'll hear us....Wait a minute. What were you saying about your ass?"

"Why would he make a kid? Why not an adult?"

"Cummings is, uh... It's his way of acknowledging that this particular unit's intelligence and capabilities are childlike. Later generations will be progressively larger and more mature, more grownup."

"You created me, didn't you?" the child asked again.

"Well, sure, in a manner of speaking, but you are the result of all that have come before you, of all that you experience and, most importantly," Cummings slowed down to make this particular point, "of the creative elements of your intelligence that make you unique. ...You are, whatever your origins, free."

The child sat there, staring back at him, before responding in a fake, modulated voice that mimicked the robot in a then-popular commercial, "I whant chicken and Chi-Chi's."

"What's going on?" the girl asked.

Cumming's suddenly pretended to be annoyed. "Don't be ridiculous," Cummings almost shouted at the kid. "You don't have any taste buds!"

Sitting there, the child seemed hurt, dejected, and thought for a few seconds before responding, working hard to be serious. "I whant taste buuuds."

And then both Cummings and the kid broke out laughing.

"Unbelievable," she said, "It's so real!"

"Hey!" Professor Cummings looked up and over the low glass partition that defined his area. "You two in the back. Get over here!"

"Uh, oh." He stood up, cocking his neck a bit to the left.

"What happens now?" she stood up next to him.

"We do what he says. I mean," his tone was less than confident as they started to walk, "what can he do to us?"

"I thought you were tight with the Professor?" She grabbed his hand, but then it occurred to her, "Wait. Did you plan this?"

"You know, in retrospect, to say 'tight' may have been somewhat of an exaggeration."

A few seconds later they were at Cummings' carrel, standing in front of him. The little kid hopped off his chair and on to Cummings' lap. The girl couldn't keep her eyes off of him, so real in every way. Out of respect, the two of them waited for Cummings to talk.

"Hi," he said, looking at the girl. "I'm Evan Cummings, and you are?"

"Michelle. Michelle Konig."

"Let me guess. Undergraduate science major?"

"Yesss," she answered, beginning to realize how he'd guessed.

"Andrew," Cummings sighed.

"Andy. ...I prefer Andy."

"I know. Fine. So tell me, Andy, have you been less than forthcoming with your new friend?"

"What's he talking about?" Michelle, turning to look up at her date, right into his electric blue eyes, needed to know.

"Andy?" Cummings wanted him to explain.

"Uh," Andy looked at Cummings and then back at Michelle, rubbing her hand that he was still holding. "It's 'Andy,' short for... for, well, 'Android.' It's sort of a lab joke. These people are funnier than they look."

Michelle pulled her hand out of his. "You're not real?!"

"Oh," Andy almost seemed insulted. "I'm real alright....I'm just not human."

"What about him?" Michelle pointed, respectfully, to the little kid on Cumming's lap who was looking up at her.

"Michelle, this is my son, Mike."

"Hey." Mike said hello.

"He's as human as human gets. When you were hiding in the back, he was just playing, messing with your head. We're hanging out today while his mother's picking out the most expensive new kitchen appliances we can't afford. ...Besides," Cummings stopped to wriggle his fingers on Mike's stomach which his son seemed to enjoy no end, "bringing him to the lab now and then has given me some of my best ideas."

"We're a team," Mike added for clarification, his little voice full of pride, touching the photo ID on the lanyard around is neck.

"Unbelievable," Michelle reached up and touched Andy's face. "Wow."

"Nice to have met you, Michelle. Andy, will you please take your friend to security, _directly_ to security?"

"Certainly."

"Ms. Konig?"

"Yes," she answered just as she was turning to leave.

"Needless to say, if you talk or write to anyone about any of this, or recognize Andy if you should happen to run into him – which isn't going to happen, is it Andy?"

"Oh, no," Andy shook his head in the negative.

" – you'll be attending community college in Nome."

"Can you do that?" she asked, but then noticed, by the expression on his face, that he wasn't kidding. "Of course. I get it. Not a word."

"Good." Cummings made a perfunctory good-bye grin and Andy and Michelle left, walking toward the elevators.

Halfway there, Michelle stopped. "Andy," she instinctively put her hand on his arm, then paused to rub it. "Hmm. ...Stay here, would you?"

Not waiting for him to answer, she jogged back to Cummings' desk where he was drawing something on a yellow pad for Mike. "Professor Cummings?"

"Yes?"

"Professor, I was just wondering, can Andy..."

"Can Andy what?"

"You know," Michele was hedging and decided to answer by raising her eyebrows and widening her eyes.

"Oh... No. He doesn't have the parts. He thinks he can, but it's only a mental thing. Very bright. Very lifelike externally, but he doesn't have the parts."

"Hm." Michelle nodded her head slightly. "Too bad."

<Table Of Contents>

# 42. The Hangover

Maybe it wasn't such a good idea, eating the worm.

"Hey." The short line in front of him at the familiar shop down the street from his office had moved quickly. More than most days, today he needed the perfect cup of coffee. "I'll have my usual."

Fifty-two minutes earlier...

Naked, in someone else's bed, in a bedroom and apartment he didn't recognize, Anthony Null went from a dead sleep to wide awake the moment he heard his watch alarm go off. Pushing himself up onto his elbows, he paused for only a second before swiveling onto the edge of the bed, his bare feet pleased to feel the cool of the floor. He pressed the big button on his watch to shut off the sound. Disoriented, he looked around to see his suit and other clothes strewn about the old hardwood.

"Shit." Checking the time, he realized it was Alarm 2 that had gone off, his backup in case he didn't wake up when the first alarm went off. "I'm going to be late." Throwing off the sheet, Anthony had to go to the bathroom, but thought it best to put on his underpants, "Where are...," first, and then his suit pants before venturing out into the hallway to the bathroom, wherever that was.

There was cable news playing too loud on a TV somewhere, suggesting someone else was there, but he'd look into that in a moment. First things first.

The door on his right was open slightly, enough to see a white tile floor. Pushing it the rest of the way, he was headed for the toilet before he paid attention to the sound of water running and realized there was someone in the shower. Not just someone, but a young, very fit woman he could see clearly through the shower curtain. In fact, the only thing blocking his view was a school of tiny cartoon fish. Pushing her hair back with both her hands, the young woman stared back at him, smiling as she did.

"Hey," she said, sliding the shower curtain open without a hint of modesty. "It's Bette. ..My name is Bette and, don't worry," she added, "I can't remember your name either."

"Anthony. Were we...?" He was trying to remember, but she was spectacular looking, and he couldn't concentrate.

"No. I was with Jack....I don't know who you were with, except that she seemed nice, but left early to go to work." Un-phased by the encounter, Bette continued to wash herself, more than a little water spraying out onto the floor. Somehow it made sense, that it would have been impolite to pull back the curtain between them.

"Is, uh, there another bathroom?"

"Getting the point, Bette smiled. "Got to go, huh?"

"Yeah."

"Can you wait a few minutes?"

"Not really."

"No. This is it. As for privacy, I think we're passed that. I'll... How 'bout if I turnaround and pretend not to listen?"

"That'd be great." It wasn't, but then it was an emergency, and he figured he'd probably never see her again although, when he would think about it later, that would be a real shame.

Now she did close the curtain, and turned around as promised.

"Are you sure we don't know each other?" It was nervous conversation, but he needed the distraction.

"Positive," Bette assured him.

"Good," he said awkwardly while he finished up. "I mean, I wouldn't want it to turn out that we worked together, or something."

"Yeah," Bette mocked him, as if she cared. "This could really change the whole workplace dynamic."

"Hey," he was done and flushed the toilet. "Nice meeting me," Anthony watched as she leaned over to turn off the water that was suddenly too cold.

"'You.' Nice meeting 'you.'"

"Right." Anthony smiled and laughed at himself, not moving an inch while Bette stepped out of the tub and reached for a towel. "You were that close to finishing?"

"Hey," Bette wiped the water off her face and began drying her shoulder-length blonde hair. "A girl can have some fun, can't she?"

"Well, thanks for the bed."

"It's not my place."

"Jack?"

"Tell you the truth, I haven't a clue. In fact, I'm not entirely sure how Jack and I met? Hmm," she stopped to think for a moment. "Well, anyway. Nothing I can do about that now....Anthony?" She needed to walk past him to the hallway.

"What?...I can't seem to move," he smiled back at her. It was one of those first moments, the instinctive flirt that stays in your head forever.

She stopped, her hands together holding her towel just _below_ her breasts.

He shrugged and shuttered at the same time. "Oh, God. I've..." He paused to take a breath, his shoulders returning to their usual position. "...I've got to go. Maybe..."

Bette made a small kiss with her lips, and he sighed and smiled back at her, realizing that asking for her number would only spoil the moment for both of them.

A few minutes later, he was running down the stairs. There may have been an elevator, but he couldn't find it. Out on the street, in the middle of a block he didn't recognize, Anthony realized he had no idea how far he was from the office – or what happened to his briefcase. He was pretty sure he had his briefcase with him, but it wasn't in the apartment, so far as he could tell in the few seconds he'd looked for it.

"Taxi!" Waving frantically, he caught the attention of the one dropping off a fare at the corner. It turned, and came over to pick him up.

Not waiting for it to stop, Anthony had the back door open and slid in. "How far are we from 33rd and Madison?"

"Uh, this time of the morning, maybe 20 minutes."

"And from the 1800 block of Coulson?

"Less than 10. It's on the way, sort of."

"Okay." Worse than being late would be coming in looking the way he did. "I'm a mess. Take me to Coulson." And they were off, throwing Anthony back against his seat. "Hey!"

"What? I thought you were in a hurry."

"When we get to my apartment, I need you to wait. Will you do that? You can keep the meter running, but I'll need 15, maybe 20 minutes inside."

"Sure, but I'll need something up front, just in case you don't come back."

"Fine. I just need time to wash up and change my clothes."

A few minutes later, "There... The graystone on the right with the flower boxes. ..Here's $20," which was way more than the meter. "I'll be right back. You're going to wait, right?"

"For 20 minutes, but that's it."

Two steps at a time, Anthony was up the front stoop, past the large, heavy front door and into the hallway. Up one long flight, fumbling through his pockets along the way, he realized he didn't have his keys. "Fuck!" Back down the stairs, one at a time as fast as he could, Anthony pounded on Mrs. Smerinsky's door. She was the super and would let him in. "Mrs. Smerinsky?!" No answer. He pounded again. Still nothing.

"Can I help you?" From behind him, it was the voice of an older man Anthony didn't recognize. He'd just come into the lobby of their converted townhouse holding two plastic bags of groceries in one hand, his keys in the other.

"I'm looking for Mrs. Smerinsky. I've locked myself out of my..."

"So, what, you think she's hiding in my apartment?"

"Do... Do you live with...?" Having seen Mrs. Smerinsky first thing in the morning, the thought of her cohabitating with anyone was, well, hard to grasp.

"Son, I don't know who you're talking about. Now are you going to get away from my front door, or do I need to call the police?" The man had reached into his pocket, exchanged his keys for his cell phone, flipped it open and was poised to hit the "9" with his thumb.

"Are you the Super?" Anthony was confused.

The man paused. "No. No, there is no Super in the building. Just a number we call if we need anything. ...Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." Taking out his wallet, Anthony checked his driver's license and read it out loud. "1824 Coulson."

"Right address son. Do you live here? I don't remember seeing you around, but then I've only just moved in a few days ago."

"I, uh..." Anthony was interrupted by the sound of his cab beeping outside. "I've got to go. Sorry to bother you."

Back out on the stoop, Anthony reassured the cabby, in a manner of speaking. "Hey. I said 20 minutes!" he shouted down to him and then turned back to ask the old man for a number he could call, but the man was gone. "What the hell," he mumbled to himself on his way down the stairs, fearing the cabby would take off without him in it.

In the back seat, Anthony turned to look at the front of building and the number in stone above the door, and then at the seat in front of him, rubbing his day old stubble under his neck. "Okay. Let's go. 33rd and Madison."

On the way over, Anthony took out his driver's license again, his credit card, his library card, coffee shop rewards card, employee ID, medical insurance card, a couple of receipts, everything he had in his wallet. It all looked familiar. It all looked right. Sitting there, he put everything back, and his wallet into his front right pocket where he kept it for safety. "My cell phone." That was in his left pocket. Checking "Contacts," there were numbers, thank goodness. People, pictures of them and numbers. Names and faces he recognized. "Hello," he dialed his parents.

"Yes," said the woman with the heavy Hispanic accent.

"Hi," Anthony said carefully, not recognizing her voice. "This is Anthony. Can I speak to my parents please?"

"Sorry. No one home. Take message?"

"Sure. Tell them their son called, and that I'll call them back."

"I will tell them," she said, but then hung up before Anthony had time to ask a question.

"I didn't know my parents had a housekeeper," Anthony said out loud, but to himself, and let his mind go blank. It was surprisingly easy, and the first moment of calm he had had that morning.

"Wait. See the coffee shop on the right, the place with the yellow awning? Let me off there."

Moments later, Anthony managed to relax in the comfort of familiar faces behind the counter. There were three people in front of him. Still in denial about his apartment, he chose to pretend it was just a normal day. With luck, no one had even noticed he was late for work. "Hey." More than most mornings, today he needed the perfect cup of coffee. "I'll have my usual."

"Right." She answered quickly enough, but was clearly puzzled.

"It's me, Anthony. My name," he said slowly, "is Anthony."

"What is it that you wanted, Anthony?"

"I'll have," he said, disappointed with the lack of recognition, "the large vanilla latte made with the Brazilian blend? It's... what I always order."

"Great!" the excessively perky clerk blurted out. "It'll just be a minute," and she started to leave to make his order, but then turned to say, "Sorry. I promise to remember next time," smiling directly into his eyes.

Jaywalking across the street to his office building, Anthony took a reassuring sip of his latte through the flap in the lid and began worrying again about his briefcase. Up in the elevator to the seventh floor, Anthony slipped into the small lobby through the open glass door someone who was leaving held for him. "Thanks." With no one at the receptionist desk to say hello, he headed for his office.

"Excuse me." A short, stocky woman coming from around the corner where he was headed stopped in front of him. "Can I help you?"

"Hi. You must be new. I'm Anthony Null. A bit late, but then it's been one of those days, to put it mildly."

"Sorry to hear that," she said in a very professional tone, "but I'm not new here. Where are you going?"

"To my office. Down the hall to the right, third door on the left."

"I don't think so."

"Where's Marilyn, the receptionist?"

"My name is Mrs. Johns. I'm the receptionist. There's no one," she stopped to think for a moment, "named Marilyn who works here....and there aren't any offices to the right, on the left."

"Excuse me," Anthony brushed past her, "I don't mean to be rude, but..." Standing there, around the corner to his right, Anthony could see all the way, over the open carrels that filled almost the entire floor, to the windows on the other side.

"Mr. Null, are you sure you have the right floor?"

"This is the seventh, isn't it? I must have stepped off the elevator on the wrong floor. I've really got to pay more..."

"Yes. This is the seventh floor."

His coffee in his left hand, Anthony stared into the vision of people working at their desks, talking on their phones and to each other, working at their screens, one guy blowing bubbles with his straw into what was left of his milk shake, two girls looking at him from where they were sitting on a coworker's desk. With his thumb and the first two fingers of his right hand, Anthony pulled at his lower lip, oblivious to Mrs. John's trying to get his attention.

"Mr. Null," she said forcefully.

"Yes."

"Mr. Null, can I call someone for you? Perhaps you're in the wrong building altogether?"

Anthony turned, and looked down at her. "You're probably right....You know, you're probably right," he said. "Thank you." Walking through the double glass doors, he took the elevator down to the ground floor, walked out of the building and turned, for no particular reason, to his left, and began walking in that direction. Near the corner, an attractive young woman crossing in front of him from his right, almost walked past him.

"Anthony?" She stopped, pleasantly surprised to see him. "Hey, I almost didn't recognize you, in the suit," she chuckled.

He returned her smile, but didn't respond. Her face, her long, wavy, auburn hair were unfamiliar to him.

"Hey," she reached out and laid her hand on his chest flirtatiously. "You should have called," she toyed with him, feigning disappointment, "but I forgive you. Nice guys deserve a second chance."

Cocking his head slightly, Anthony started to talk, but she interrupted, actually putting her finger over his lips and tapping them twice.

"I've got to run. Call me." And she moved away, into the people walking down the avenue.

"Whoa! Hey!!" Anthony started running after her, looking for her hair in the crowd, and then seeing her in the street, getting into a car that must have been there to meet her. Looking out the window, she saw him again and waved as they pulled into traffic. Staring at her, Anthony pushed his way between people into the street and started jogging after her, thinking maybe she'd be caught in traffic, but the avenue was clear and she was gone.

"Now what?" Anthony whispered to himself, his voice lost in the noise of the street. "What do I do now?"

"Anthony?" The voice from behind him was familiar.

"Bette! I... You have no idea how glad I am to see you."

"Come on. We need to get out of the street." Pulling on his arm, they pushed through the row of people at the corner, waiting to cross. "Let's go this way. There's someplace I want you to see."

"How did you find me?"

"Your briefcase. Here." She handed it to him, and held his arm with both her hands as they walked away together. "It was under the couch in the living room. Your business cards had your office address. I was on my way there when I saw you running. ...So how's your day been?"

"To be honest, not so good....Yours?"

"I know this doesn't make any sense, but nothing's right. Nothing I remember is what it was, what I remember it being. Sounds ridiculous, but..."

"No it doesn't. I don't work where I did, where it says I work on my business cards. I don't think I know where I live. No one," and then he stopped to think while they kept walking, "no one except this one girl, the one I was chasing after, so much as recognizes me."

"Anthony, that girl in the car. That was the girl you were with last night."

"At least I have good taste in women." It was his vain attempt at humor, but it did get him a friendly squeeze.

A few blocks down that street, and two blocks to the left, they were standing in front of Montezuma's, the neighborhood grill with a bar and loud music, although it was way too early for any of that.

"This is where we met, isn't it?"

"Yeah."

"Bette, let's go back to the apartment."

"I have gone back. I was on the sidewalk, and then thought I would go back and leave a note. I couldn't lock the door without a key, so I knew I could get back in, but it's locked and, when I jiggle the door, thinking it's stuck, turns out there's some Russian family living there. I looked over the shoulder of the woman who came to the door, and it's not the same, not the same as it was just a few minutes after I left. ...I tell you, Nullman, I'm seriously worried I'm losing my mind....I'm not even sure you're real. I mean," she was beginning to babble, "who has a last name like Null? That's, what, mathspeak for not even zero, for nothing?

"Hey." Anthony interrupted to calm her down. "I am real," he reassured her. "And if you're going nuts, I'm going there with you. ...Besides, I've seen you naked."

"What does that have to do with anything," she smiled at him.

"Nothing in particular. It's just something I haven't been able to get out of my head." And he leaned over to give her a kiss on her cheek, just to the side of her mouth – which turned into a hug, reassuring at first, but slow to release, with a tinge of serious chemistry toward the end.

The rest of that morning and that afternoon, the too of them did their best to make sense of their situation, but couldn't. They had some cash, almost $200 between the two of them. Thank goodness for that, because their credit and ATM cards were useless. At 8:15 PM, they were back at the grill, and at the booth where they thought they had been sitting the night before.

"Hey, guys." It was Angela, or so it said on her nametag. "Here's some chips and salsa to keep you busy." The basket and small pot with a handle came down hard on the colorfully tiled surface of their table. "Careful. They're hot."

"The chips," Bette stopped short of picking one of them up, "or the dip?"

"Both, actually. So what can I get for you tonight?" Their waitress seemed to recognize them, but she was probably just being friendly. Just in case, Anthony thought he would give it a shot.

"Did you," he asked her tentatively, "work here last night?"

"Sure. I waited on you guys, you two and another couple. Well, actually, I'm not sure who was with who. What, you don't remember?"

"No," Bette answered. No we don't."

"Sure. You were doing Mezcal Tobalá shooters from a couple of old, old bottles Pablo brought up from the basement and opened for you. Said they were 400 years old, but you can't believe half of what that kid tells you."

"Who?"

"Pablo." Angela put her hands on the corners of their table and leaned over toward them. "He's the owner's nephew," she explained, her neck and shoulders tightening with an obvious cringe. "Something about that guy really creeps me out. You should see the way he files his nails into points." ...Angela blew out some air, shuttering as she did. "So Pablo was filling in for our regular bartender... Hey babe!" she paused to wave at the guy with the dark curly hair, back at his usual station behind the bar. "Damn he's cute. ...Anyway, 'Hey-zoose'," she pointed with her head in the direction of the bar... "Don't you love the way that sounds, you know, differently than how it's spelled? Anyway, Jesus had the night off, so Pablo was filling in for him....Between you and me," Angela whispered, "I don't think Pablo's all that crazy about white people. Thinks he's the descendent of some Aztec king, to hear him talk, and God's gift to waitresses. Not," she added with disgust.

Anthony and Bette looked at each other, and then back at Angela, their cluelessness readily apparent.

"Thing is," Angela continued, "I'm not all that sure what that old Mezcal had going for it, but it pretty much wiped the four of you out....And you," she pointed to Bette, "you were the one who dared him to drink the worm in his bottle – which he agreed, if you did too. Heck, half the people in the bar were cheering you guys on."

"You're kidding?" Anthony didn't believe it and neither did Bette.

"No, it's true. I've been here for a year and I've never seen anyone really do it, but you two stepped up....Truth be told, maybe it was the light, but I'd say those worms weren't entirely dead yet. Seeing you two chug those last couple of swallows without so much as gagging was... was very impressive....You guys don't drink much, do you?"

"I thought," Anthony was pretty sure he knew what he was talking about, "the worm was a gimmick some marketing guy in the 50s thought would get peoples' attention?"

"Yeah," Angela agreed, "I'd heard that too, but those bottles Pablo dusted off were the real deal. No labels, just something painted on the glass in some old language that Pablo was mumbling while he held the torch up to each of them," Angela pretended to be holding one of the bottles in her left hand, slowly swirling the other around its imaginary bottom, "you know, before he opened them up, which wasn't easy. Something, he said, about bringing the worm back to life....Hey, but the kid's full of it. What does he know?"

Anthony took a breath, so deep he actually coughed. Looking at Bette, he figured they had nothing to lose. "I tell you what," he started, getting ready to suggest they play it again.

"Wait," Bette interrupted him. "What were we eating?"

"Oh, gosh....Yeah. You had two, I remember, two guacamole cheeseburgers. I remember, because you," she pointed to Bette, "kept stealing bites. That's why he ordered the second one. And there was a soft taco sampler for four on the table.

"Okay, same deal tonight."

"You sure?" Angela was apprehensive.

"Let's do it," Bette was determined. "What else can go wrong?"

"Look, I'm the last one to blow a party, or risk a big tip for that matter. I don't mind telling you, but you four were very generous. The food's good, but let me have Jesus whip up something different in the drinking department. How 'bout it?"

There was a pause. "Done," Bette agreed for both of them with resolute relief.

A few minutes later, Angela was back with two martini glasses filled with an almost glowing amber liquid. "So what are these?" Anthony asked her.

"Half apple brandy, half cherry liqueur. They're called 'Forget Me Nots.' Very tasty, easy going down and no worms! Jesus thought you might like them."

Picking up their drinks, Anthony and Bette looked over at the bar where Jesus was looking back at them. Raising their glasses to thank him, he smiled back and, oddly, threw them a kiss. They turned, clinked glasses, and took their first swallow of many that evening.

7:00 AM the following morning. Anthony's watch alarm was the next sound he remembered hearing. "Shit." Alone, naked in a bed he didn't recognize, Anthony got up and headed out to find the bathroom, not bothering to put on more than his underwear. "This is gross," he mumbled, wondering if three day old jockey shorts would be his personal best.

This time there was no TV playing. It was quiet, except for the sound of a shower running, the door to the bathroom wide open.

"Hey," Anthony said cautiously to the unidentifiable form behind the frosted shower doors.

Slowly, the door nearest the showerhead slid open. "Hey." It was Bette, her smile evolving into giggling.

"What're you so happy about?"

"I've already called my mother. You should check, but everything seems to be the way it should be. And I called your office number and got your voice mail. Apparently you took yesterday off."

Closing his eyes, Anthony took a deep breath, but then had second thoughts. "Wait. So whose place is this?"

"It's mine, Mr. Rumsen. This is my place."

"That's my last name! I mean, that _is_ my last name. How did you know that?"

"Because it's on the business card I took out of your briefcase yesterday – the same as on your voice mail when I called your office."

"Wow....Wasn't your hair a lot longer yesterday?" Anthony was wondering about her short, short blonde hair that would barely need drying.

"Oh, yeah? And weren't you a white guy?"

Stunned, Anthony looked at his hands, only to find them still as pasty as ever. ("It would help," his mother was always reminding him, "if you didn't work so much and got some sun now and then." Something about Vitamin D, but then he had more pressing stuff to think about right now.)

"Gotcha!" She laughed. "And my hair was longer yesterday. I just cut it for an audition this morning. Decided it was time for a change. How 'bout it?" She turned her head quickly from side to side.

"Nice, but I think you'd look pretty good..."

"You know what I think?" Bette, who was never one to waste time, stood there, one hand on the shower wall, the other on the edge of the door she'd pushed upon, the water from the shower running onto her back and over her shoulders.

"What's that?"

"I think you should tinkle and then get your ass in here."

<Table Of Contents>

# 43. Trouble Sleeping

12:35 AM, early Wednesday morning.

"Are you awake?"

"Hm," was all his wife, lying next to him, her face down in her pillow, could manage to say. [Translation: "No."]

"Jimmy Fallon's coming on."

"Hm." ["Who gives a crap? I need to sleep."]

"You know that new girl I told you about, the one they hired in public relations?"

Nothing.

"Well, she comes in my office today. I'm busy like a beaver editing a screenplay. Doesn't even bother to knock. She's wearing one of those V-neck tops without the undershirt thing. Lot's of cleavage showing, looking even more boobous than usual. I'm guessing she has a platinum card at Victoria Secrets....You following this?"

"Hm." ["Unless she was naked, I couldn't care less."] "...Hm?" ["Is she attractive?"]

"Everybody that young is attractive, and that rack she's carrying certainly doesn't hurt."

"Hmmm." ["Forty years from now, they'll be down to her waist."]

"So she puts both hands flat on my desk and leans over, daring me to stare at them, like somehow they were a reason for me to agree with her....Most men would have forced themselves to look her in the face. I am, on the other hand, what I am. ...I look right at them. Didn't look up at her once. I actually turned my head slightly from side to side like I was studying one, and then the other. 'I don't know what you and your boobs are doing on my desk,' I tell her, 'but, whatever it is, I have a deadline and it can wait. Now I want the three of you out of here. Now.' Impressive, huh?"

"Hm." ["I don't believe for a second you really said that."]

"Well, that's what I would have said, if she'd given me a chance....Geez, even boobs from public relations get to tell me what to do."

"Hm." [I have boobs."]

"Sure, but you're not always pushing them in my face....Come to think of it, why is that?"

"Hm?!"

"You know, I've been writing my own stuff, short short stories, you know, for people with short spans of attention. Stuff to read over breakfast, maybe on the train."

"Hm." ["..Or to read when they can't sleep instead of keeping your wife up all night."]

"Yeah. Forty-nine of them so far. Most of them true, well, except for a few details....Wait, I'm going to the bathroom."

Three minutes or so later.

"I'm back. I need to stop eating or drinking anything after... after 9 o'clock. AM. That should do it. ..What were we talking about? ...Oh, yeah. The new hire from PR. You know what I think?"

"Hm. ["Don't know. Don't care. Maybe you can tell me telepathically, like that character in one of your idiot stories. Some clerk makes a typo on your birth certificate, and you think you can read minds."]

"Hey. It wasn't a typo. ...Man," he lamented on his way, one at a time, through the 100 or so cable channels he'd marked as 'favorites,' "there's nothing on. Wait, let's take another look at what LMN is showing."

Suddenly, his wife pushed up, rolled onto one elbow, used her free hand to grab the remote out of his, held down the volume button for two, then three bars on the screen, fell onto her back and dropped the remote onto the hardwood floor off her side of the bed. When it hit, the battery cover popped open, and the two AA batteries rolled away, where he was sure to step on them in the dark, the next time he got up.

"Hm," she said, falling instantly back to sleep. ["Take a hint."]

He stared at her for a couple of minutes in silence, then poked her in the arm, deliberately, gently, almost affectionately. It was his way of standing up for himself – After all, he had a right to be up in the middle of the night. – and apologizing at the same time.

"Well, not twenty minutes later, in comes Mr. Siegel asking me if I'd met his niece. Literally, the woman with the boobs is his wife's sister's daughter, two years out of college and looking for work so she can afford to get her own place and stop driving Siegel's sister-in-law crazy.

"'I gather you've met my niece,' he asks me with a look of mild distain, 'The one with the cleavage.'"

"Cleavage? I hadn't noticed. She seemed pleasant. I was just too busy..."

"Yeah, right. I need you to take her under your wing, professionally speaking of course. Let her help you with one of your projects."

"She's in public relations."

"I know, but they... They really didn't need the extra body. Do your best to make her useful."

"Of course, Mr. Siegel."

"And, uh, I know it's a lot to ask, but maybe you could talk to her about the way she dresses, a little less perfume maybe."

"Uh, I don't... Wouldn't it be better if your sister-in-law, maybe your wife had that conversation with her? Maybe, Denise."

"Who?"

"Denise, your assistant. Denise would be perfect. A mature, consummate, albeit elderly professional, there isn't anything she wouldn't..."

"Denise is like a thousand years old."

"But mentally, as sharp as..."

"You're my last hope."

"You do know I'm a guy, Mr. Siegel?"

"And then he tells me. 'Jack, starting tomorrow, Angela's your new assistant. Make it work,' and he leaves. Never even bothered to sit down."

A moment of quiet.

"Honey?"

[Insert light snoring sounds.]

"Honey, you're snoring. You can't sleep on your back."

Nothing but more snoring, which would be bad enough, but it was the irregular kind, punctuated by sporadic little gasps, like she might be on the verge of choking.

"Honey," he said, pushing on her shoulder, "roll over." And, she did, to the outside, stopping just short of falling off the edge of the bed.

"Whoa!...Whoa, that was close. I'm thinking when I get to 50, 50 stories, maybe I'll put them together and see if I can find a publisher. Siegel knows people. I mean, I know people, but Siegel's people are more impressive. Maybe blow one or two of them up into screenplays. No, better yet, pilots. Yeah, pilots, with residuals." He wedges his flat hand part way under her side.

"Hm." [Instinctive auto-response having no particular meaning.]

"Yeah, you're right. I'll take care of his niece, and he'll owe me. Yeah." And he closed his eyes and finally fell asleep.

Early the following morning, he's on the way out the door, she's just coming down the stairs, having gone to the bathroom already, on her way into the kitchen to wash her hands, because there are no other sinks in the house. (Of course there are other sinks. She just doesn't want to mess any of them up.)

"Thanks for listening last night. Sorry if I kept you awake. Fortunately, a woman as good looking as you doesn't need her beauty sleep." And he gave her a kiss good morning as they passed each other. And it's not easy making lip-to-lip contact when you're both moving.

"To be honest, I haven't a clue what you're talking about. Was I carrying on a real conversation?"

"No, but I've gotten pretty good interpreting your grunts."

"Hm."

He left for work early, to get some work done before Angela showed up.

An hour and a half later, Angela comes in eating a donut, falling out of her dress, and starts babbling about something, blowing his concentration.

But just then, the wife shows up. "Hi, honey." And then turning to Angela, "Hey. I'm Evelyn, Richard's wife. You must be Angela, Richard's new associate."

Standing up, but still holding her donut in her left hand, Angela extended her right one. "Hi, Evelyn. Good to meet you. 'Associate?!' Really," she smiled while continuing to chew the half a donut she had in her mouth. "I like the way that sounds."

"By the way, it's 'Evy.' Call me 'Evy.'" Evelyn ignored the bit of powdered sugar on Angela's hand and shook it firmly. "...You know what, honey?"

"Hm." Richard was back to work, staring at his screen, occasionally typing.

"How 'bout if I take Angela out for a nice breakfast, you know, welcoming her to your staff."

"I don't have a staff."

"I'll bring you something back."

"Do I have the time?" Angela asked her boss.

"Yes." Evelyn answered for him. Desperate to get back to his writing, he'd agree to anything to get the two of them out of his office. "Hard to believe, I know, but he'll just have to get along without us."

Walking around his desk, Evelyn bent down to kiss him goodbye on his cheek as Angela headed for the door.

"Thanks," Richard looked up and whispered directly into her ear, "for having my back."

She kissed him a second time, because she wanted to and to give her an excuse to whisper back to him. "It's more like her front that I'm worried about." Standing up, Evelyn turned for one last word. "...Maybe you could take off early and we could go out to dinner?" she asked. Dinner was what she was charging Richard for the day she was taking off to fix Angela.

Richard looked up at her, raising both his eyebrows as if to say, "You know, I could leave now. I'm really not all that busy."

"How 'bout that?" she smiled back at him. Maybe you really can read minds."

"Babe," Richard mumbled under his breath, "you have no idea."

"See you later." On their way out the door, Evelyn grabbed the brass knob of Richard's wood framed glass door and pulled it shut behind her. "Hey," she called to Angela who was a few steps ahead of her. "Maybe we can do some shopping while we're out. What do you think?"

"Wow. No kidding. That'd be great!...You know," she confided as Evelyn caught up to her, "I'm pretty sure I need an upgrade."

"Really?"

<Table Of Contents>

# Words To Live By

### "Better to be lost in space,

than to never have explored it."

In honor of the inspirational character and words of

Pixar's Buzz Lightyear, "To infinity and beyond!"

<Table Of Contents>

# 44. Shiny Things

His handwriting was something you had to learn to read. It was quick, the way he talked, going this way and that, often without stopping between the words. Slightly out of control, but in an artistic way. And so began another entry, the way he started all the others.

"This is the Journal of Jason Sinners," he wrote at the top of a fresh page. "Wednesday, April 20, 2011." He'd be given a beautiful leather-bound diary, but preferred to write on single sheets of copier paper he kept in a drawer, still in the torn paper in which the ream had come wrapped, next to an open box of his favorite pens. He liked the gel kind, black ink with the medium tip, that moved effortlessly across the page. There was a notebook computer, screen up, to his left on the table he used as a desk, but there was something about drawing his thoughts on paper that he preferred.

Rubbing the pen for a moment, he let his hand settle into position and wrote...

She was a girl who liked shinny things.

I was walking by myself back from a movie the other night, my friends having gone their own ways, thinking about everything, but about nothing in particular. It was unseasonably cool which could have been why I wasn't feeling tired even though it had be one of those days. The cool air on my face and hands felt good. It had been one of those days. Hell. Who am I kidding? It's been one of those years. I thought the movie would help, but all it did was blow two more hours of my life. I was listless, the first time in my life I've had a good excuse to use that word. Nothing I had been doing lately, by "lately" I mean for months, seemed to be something I wanted to be doing, no matter how much sense it seemed make when I first thought I wanted to do it.

I don't drink much, but felt the gravity of laughter drawing me through the double doors that swung both ways into and out of "The Corner Bar, No Grill" – so the sign said along the side of the building. I wouldn't usually go there alone. Too much chemistry in the room to be the odd guy out on some stool, but I figured I had nothing to lose with nothing to prove and no one to prove it to.

So I walked in, a few feet past that annoying pole just inside the doors, beginning to think maybe it wasn't such a good idea after all. I don't know how long I'd been standing there when I heard her voice.

" _You can sit with me if you like," she suggested nervously, catching me by surprise._

Turning to see the voice, my eyes wouldn't let me speak.

" _Come on," she said, grabbing my hand. "There's a little table," she pointed across the crowded room, "that's perfect." And off we went, talking and laughing, without the slightest pretense, for what was left of the evening. It was effortless and there was none of that out-of-body experience crap, you know, where I'm talking to someone, but also standing there beside myself, watching what's going on, rolling my imaginary eyes, making disapproving looks._

Her hair was frosted. The colored beads of her necklace were almost luminescent, daring anyone to call them or her "cheap." And woven into the light top she was wearing, somehow, flecks of something gold that sparkled, flashing at me with every move she made. Gold chain bracelets that fell perfectly across the back of her hand when she stroked the condensation off the side of her beer. Full breasted, and I like those things, but tonight I almost didn't notice.

We've had a few dates since then. Learning what we like to eat. Work, family. The usual stuff. Holding hands. Walking. Endless talking about everything, much of it drivel, but neither of us cared. Turns out she lives nearby, for longer than I have. We'd just never run into each other before. Too bad, but maybe the time wasn't right.

She's gone back to her place, so I'm writing these notes before I hit the sack.

We were going out again tonight, and planned to meet in the small park outside my building, go out to dinner, someplace close where we could walk. Eat some great Italian, and maybe, finally, stop dancing around the chemistry that we've been holding back. There's only so much standing close to a person you can do with your clothes on before you risk breaking something.

An hour to go before meeting her... Her name's Evelyn, by the way, which, for some reason, I don't think I've ever mentioned before. Hmm. Anyway, it was an hour to go before meeting her. I was in the shower. It's a large bathroom, one of the cool things about my condo, with an open shower, water falling from a rainforest showerhead above me. No curtains or glass. The extra wide door, that I always leave open, makes it seem almost like part of the bedroom.

My back to the door, my head rolling, I was enjoying the warm water hitting my face.

" _Hey." It was her, Evelyn._

I opened my eyes, and then turned, slowly rubbing the scented bar of soap I'd been holding. She was standing in the doorway, her right hand touching the frame. I could see the clothes she'd been wearing lying on the hardwood floor and Persian rug behind her. No bracelets or rings this time. Nothing but the short, fine gold chain necklace with the name, "Jason," I'd bought her for fun the day we went to the beach.

" _You left your front door unlocked," she said, not the least bit nervous. "Mind if I join you?"_

" _To be honest, naked women interrupting my shower haven't been a problem, until now....Maybe I need a security system. What do you think?"_

" _Not to worry," she said, walking toward me. "I locked it behind me. One naked woman in your shower is all you're going to need."_

Well, that shower took longer than usual, that's for sure. She took care of me first, which was easy, too easy, and then I did her which, to be honest, didn't take all that much longer. I guess it'd been a while for both of us. A couple of hours later, after polishing off the Chinese delivery we ordered, we did each other, together, the way it's supposed to be, and that was the one that counted.

Maybe Saturday, when my daughter and her husband stop by for lunch, I'll invite Evelyn to join us.

Driving through the gates to meet her father, Amy Manning, Jason's youngest daughter, parked their wagon in the visitors' section just inside "The Village" walls.

"Come on, guys," she ordered their kids in the back seat. "Everybody out!"

Her husband, Bill, waited and closed the back door on his side after their son and daughter were clear. "Hey. Look out for cars."

"Really, Dad?" their oldest, Alice, said sarcastically. "What cars?" Except for the ones coming and going into the parking lot, "The Village" senior citizens community didn't allow more than golf carts inside the walls.

"Yeah, really." You and John go on ahead to Granddaddy's apartment. We'll catch up."

Grabbing her husband's arm, Amy and Bill took their time walking down the middle of Main Street while their kids ran ahead.

"You know," Bill was sincere, "this is a really nice place, all things considered....I like the way it's laid out like a little town, with shops and townhouses, and interesting condos, instead of just some boring building with numbers on people's doors."

"A grocery store that gives cooking classes. And I love that little movie theater," Amy pointed down a cross street at the old style marquis, "and that bar on the corner. ...Yeah, it is nice."

"So you're finally okay that we talked him into doing this?"

"Yeah, I'm okay with it, mainly because he's been sounding a lot better lately." Amy was busy with her jobs and the kids, but still managed to talk or at least email her father every few days. "I know he's pushing 80, but moving in here after Mom died and he stopped working was harder for him than I expected. To be honest, I thought he'd be done for by now."

"Done for?"

"I'm telling you," Amy confessed, "I didn't think he was going to make it, but lately..."

"I'm guessing it's because he's been hanging out with Mrs. Goldberg a lot lately," Bill speculated with a smile, "you know, the woman we met last time."

"Yeah, I wonder what that's like," Alice responded, mockingly grabbing her husband's tush, looking up at him, trying not to visualize her father and one of his lady friends together.

"A tad too much jewelry for my taste," Bill volunteered.

"But not too much perfume, which tells you that at least her nose still works."

"And no hairspray. Now that's a real bonus. I hate hairspray. ...I don't even like the idea of hairspray."

"Okay, already. I get it that old people make you nervous."

"At least she didn't try to hug us."

"Since when does hugging make you nervous?"

"Well," Bill reacted to Amy's putting her arm around his waist, "I think hugging leads to sex."

"Geez," Amy looked up at Bill and smiled, "I sure hope so."

<Table Of Contents>

# 45. Stranger On The Bus

The title is from the song, "One of us," by Eric Bazilian, originally

released by Joan Osborne in March of 1995.

"You're late." Shirley looked up from the charts she was reviewing, pretending to be the mean supervisor, watching her friend adjust the scrubs the nurses wore in their wing, and then use a scrunchy to wrap her shoulder length hair into a sloppy bun.

"Walter needed a quickie," Denise giggled back, her arms up and hands still working on the back of her head, "which, thank goodness, turned out to take a little longer than he expected and I missed the early bus."

"Go, Walter!" Shirley commented approvingly, her usual enthusiasm lost in what she was reading about the critically ill woman waiting for a room in the temporary patient area behind the glass walls across from their nurses' station.

"What's going on in there?"

"The patient is Emma Gold, 86. Medics brought her in an hour ago. It's congestive heart failure she's had for years. That's her husband sitting in the chair next to her. I called her daughter. She and a brother are on their way over, but they're an hour away."

"She's not going to make it, is she?" Denise could tell from the description of Mrs. Gold's condition, but more by the way the flesh on the sides of her friend's mouth lay heavy, without the slightest hint of optimism.

"Who knows, but I don't think so. She's very weak. Irregular heartbeat Dr. Bobby doesn't think they can stabilize. Bob called her doctor who said she was surprised Emma's held on this long. She's out of town, or she'd be here."

Denise paused, realizing that there was something more going on here than the usual old person passing away. "So why do I feel so sad?"

"It's the old man. The way he's sitting there, on the edge of his chair, holding and kissing her hand, knowing this is probably their last conversation."

The two nurses stared silently at the couple, Emma on her side, her hand touching her husband's face while they talked in the soft light of the fixture over her bed. It was dark out, earlier than usual because of storm clouds drifting in over the city. Santos, the only male nurse on their shift, had turned off the overheads. The other two beds in the holding room were empty. On his way out, Santos stopped to initial a form on the counter where Denise and Shirley were standing.

"Hey."

"Hey, ladies."

"Geez, Santos. Are you crying?"

"Don't be ridiculous," he sniffed to stop a runny nose, his eyes watering, but then turned to look at the couple through the glass. "You can't hear them from out here....She's dying and, when she does, he'll be alone but, in their voices, in the way they look at each other when they talk, there is a strength, the way they're reassuring each other....I wanted to listen, but I couldn't stay there any longer. ...I'll see you guys later." The two women looked at Santos, at each other, and back at the old couple.

"Are we getting her a room?"

"We won't have one until the morning, and I'm not sure she'll hang on that long."

In the holding room, the husband brought his wife's hand to his lips.

"How long have you known?" he asked her, his voice uneven with grief.

"Pretty much since our twelfth anniversary. We were getting ready to go out for the evening," she said softly. "You were brushing your teeth. I was plucking a few gray hairs and commenting on the lines under my eyes and how you didn't look a day older than when we met. Almost the next day, you had a few white hairs and matching lines of your own. And I got to thinking... You've never been sick. Never so much as twisted an ankle, never cut yourself shaving. Do you know that you never sneeze?...You've never really gotten older, have you? This face, the slowness of your walk, they're just an effect, aren't they, a favor you've done for me all these years?" She was weak, but sure of herself, and not the least bit angry at what he had done for love.

No answer, just a wry smile.

"It's okay. Whatever you are, I love you. ...I'll always love you."

They were quiet for a moment.

"So, what exactly are you honey?...Don't let me die without knowing," she asked, stroking the soft, lightly bristled skin of her husband's unshaven face.

"Shouldn't I be the one comforting you?" he smiled ever so slightly before answering her question. "...I really don't know. I can't remember," he spoke slowly, unable to look away from her eyes, "ever being a child. It just seems like I was there, here and there. I don't know for how long exactly. There are long, long periods I can't remember."

"The history you teach..." Her husband had been a professor and, since he retired, wrote articles about specific events. "You were there weren't you?"

No response.

"...Hey," they both laughed when she said it. "Come on....I'm dying, honey. Let me know already. Who am I going to tell? ...Besides, I love you," she told him. "You know that. Always have," she reassured him, "always will."

"I love you too, honey."

"You were there, weren't you? 'By the rude bridge that arched the flood, their flag to April's breeze unfurled, here once the embattled farmers stood and fired the shot heard round the world.'"

"You always loved that old hymn."

"Was that you, Jack?"

"One of my finest moments," his face turned happy even while a tear spilled out the corner of an eye. "Their spirit, the collective emotion of those farmers, their vision so clear, so pure....I can feel it even now."

They were quiet again, his hands rubbing hers.

"You've had other wives haven't you? Children? How many children have you had?"

"Yes, I've been married, but I... but you're the prettiest," he added hurriedly, "hands down, the prettiest."

Emma was almost too weak to laugh, but managed to anyway. "I know you've loved me. It's okay."

"And yes, I've had other children. Not many, other than ours."

"Are any of them still..."

"No. They're long gone, although they had children, and their children, children."

"Are they..."

"Normal?" he laughed and cracked a smile that made her happy. "I don't... Yes, as far as I know."

"Jackson?"

"Wow. ...You don't often call me by my full name. Am I in trouble?"

"He was your son, wasn't he?"

Her husband shook his head, left to right, smiling at her with his eyes. "After all this time, you wait until the last second to ask the big questions?"

"I don't think I really wanted to know until now."

"Yeah. He was my son."

"You were 'Joseph' then?"

"No, not exactly. The stories aren't even close to what happened....I had a son, a gifted speaker, a social worker for his time who cared more about others than himself. He just offended the wrong people who viewed his popularity as a threat to their authority."

"Jack," she paused, realizing the importance of what she was about to say, "you're the father of the Son of God."

"You make it sound way more than it was. ...I was young. Mary was beautiful, like you. Stuff happens....You know, Emma, we've had our share of stuff, haven't we?" But she wouldn't be distracted by his flirting with her, not with so little time left.

"So why didn't you save him? He was your son, Jack. Your son."

"I... I couldn't, honey. I don't have powers, just relationships. I empathize well. I can influence, but can't control. I encouraged him and them, the movement whose time had come, without understanding that it would cost him his life....Don't you think I'd save you if I could?"

"Maybe you just don't think it's the right thing to do, saving me. I would understand."

"No, no. No. If only I could. At best, all I can do is what any other loving husband would, savor the incredible strength you have always had, that was always yours and yours alone. All these years, it is you upon whom I have relied. It is the force of your life, not mine, that will sustain me ...when you're gone."

"That's nice to hear, Jack," she said, wanting to, but not really believing him.

"It's not nice. It's literally true."

"What about all the stories, all the lore and legend?"

"Emma... Emma, don't waste these..."

She silenced him, her fingers bushing across his mouth, her strength slipping away. "It's okay," she reassured him, seeing his eyes glistening with the onset of tears. "I need to know."

"...The simple secret is that I am nothing like what so many believe. It is I... I am the one who exists by virtue of their will and character, and yours, especially yours," he smiled again. "I am nothing without them. Nothing without you."

Stroking his face, she wondered out loud," I suppose it's lucky for us that you're one of the good guys." She smiled back. "Are there others like you?"

"I'm not sure. Maybe. I suspect there are others, some of them not so nice. Others I've never met, as far as I know, but whose work is all too familiar....If only I knew how I came to be," Jack thought out loud and then did his best to answer. "Sometimes I feel a foreboding, a sense that there are other influences at work as strong, maybe stronger and farther reaching. ...I don't know, honey. After all this time, I still don't understand."

"Can you die, Jack?...Can you die like me?"

"Emma," he begged her, "please," but had always respected her determination. "...I don't know, honey. There are times when I've felt weak, like now, as if life itself was spilling from me, and other times, angry, vengeful times when I feel a power welling up inside me, but to what end, I'm never sure. When I have hurt myself, twisted an ankle running, cut myself working in the shop, I heal very quickly, almost instantaneously. Maybe I'm just a freak of nature with a very long life span. I don't know, Emma. I just don't know."

Her voice too faint, it was her eyes that asked him to go on.

"I'm not sure I'm anything more than a figment of your, of everyone's collective imagination. I'm not sure I exist except," he stopped and swallowed, "...except for the goodness that is in you, like a mirror, not more, but no less than the reflection of what others see in themselves. Look away, and I'm gone."

Emma seemed to be fading.

"So," he said, trying to make conversation. "The kids are on their way," he reminded her, giving her reason to hold on. "So... You caught on to the fact that I never sneeze?...Hmm."

"That," Emma managed to whisper, "and the fact that you still make love like the 20 year old you were when we first met."

"Can I help it if I'm still crazy about you?"

She laughed. "If only we could make love one more..." And she squeezed his hands and closed her eyes for the last...

"...time." He finished the sentence for her, paused and then leaned forward to kiss her softly while she was still warm to his lips. "If I were only what you believed in, would I ever let you leave me? ...I will always love you. I only hope I've told you often enough." Standing, he pulled up the hospital sheet and blanket to her shoulders, tucking her in as if she were only sleeping.

Looking down at the back of his left hand, he stared for a moment at the simple gold wedding band he had never taken off, and then down to see his wife's face. With his right hand, he rolled and pulled the ring off, putting it into his left hand, his fist closing around it. One last look at Emma, and he turned and walked away. Out in the corridor, in front of the nurses' station, he barely noticed the two women standing behind the counter watching him heading for the automatic doors and the street outside.

His head down, his posture weak, an exhausted Jack Gold let his left arm go limp, the ring it was holding bouncing off the tile floor and rolling away behind him, spinning to a stop under a piece of portable equipment someone had left against the wall.

As the outside doors opened, Denise ran to get it for him. "Mr. Gold!" she shouted while she pushed the cart out of the way, "you dropped your..." but the doors had already closed behind him.

Out front, at the curb that ran along the edge of the small plaza in front of that side entrance to the hospital, a man and woman, she in her late fifties, him a little younger, rushed out of their car that had come to a sudden stop, almost running toward the doors ahead of them, worried they'd be too late. On their way, they passed a young man apparently in his 30's. Hands in his pockets, the collar of his jacket folded up, his face glistening in the lamplight as the fine mist from a light rain began to fill the air.

A few feet past him, the woman stopped and turned around. Feeling her look, the young man turned for a moment. There was something about him she thought was familiar, but then he kept walking, stepping off the curb on his way to the bus stop across the street.

"Merle," her brother, now at the open hospital doors, called back to her. "Come on. We've got to see Mom." Two steps backward, her eyes watching as the young man disappeared behind the front of an arriving bus, seeing him get on and walk down the aisle as the bus wasted no time pulling away, until she gave up and hustled to catch up with her brother.

"Hi," the woman, short of breath," blurted out to Shirley, the station nurse still at her post. "I'm Merle Conners. This is my brother. We're here to see my mother, Emma Gold. Someone called to say..."

"I'm sorry," Shirley interrupted. "I'm so sorry, Ms. Conners. I was the one who called you. Your mother," she gestured to the holding room where Denise had turned on the overhead lights. "She passed away just a few minutes ago. Your father was with her. ...I'm surprised you didn't see him on your way in."

Merle and her brother were stunned and speechless, spinning their heads to look at their mother lying peacefully in her bed, and back at the nurse while Denise walked hurriedly toward them.

"Ms. Conners, do you understand..."

"I understand that there must be some mistake," she said assertively. "I..."

"Excuse me," Denise spoke up, holding out her hand. Your father dropped this on his way out. I tried to call to him, but..."

Danny Gold took the ring out of Denise's hand, raised it close to his face to look for the inscription, the tiny print engraving around its interior. "I'll always love you," he read it out loud.

"Did you get this from my mother?" Merle asked, her face contorted with confusion.

"No. It's, uh, like I said, your father dropped it on his way out. I guess... I guess he was too upset to wait for you."

"Nurse," Danny responded with certainly, "our father died suddenly, a few years ago. They were crazy in love," he added. "To tell you the truth," he said turning to look toward his mother, reluctant to go over to her just yet, "as sick as she was, I'm surprised she lasted this long after he passed away."

<Table Of Contents>

# 46. Craig's Lisp

From their respective offices where they worked throughout the sprawling single story complex, the four interns – the only four the firm had hired that year from the best of the best graduate schools in architecture and urban design – converged and now walked side by side down the wide diagonal path that led to Craig's corner offices.

Built on the farm his grandfather had left him, its pastoral rural location was in stark contrast to struggling urban centers in which the young firm had made its fortunes. With degrees in finance, urban economics and design, Craig – who insisted that everybody call everybody by their first names – had found a way to renovate the worst neighborhoods in our major cities, making them thriving communities, mostly for their original residents and businesses, and do it all at the expense of the private sector without a single dime of government funding. If that just sounded like a lot, it was. He was only in his early 30s, but this was already his time.

The four of them worked together, more or less, and were the closest to being friends any four twenty-somethings, as self-absorbed as they were, could be.

"Why do you suppose he wants to see us?" Alice was uncharacteristically nervous. "Are we in trouble?"

"What," Jason's voice was lacking the usual brash confidence that was his trademark, "you think we're on one of his lists?

"What lists?" Susanne was seldom aware of anything that didn't involve her, personally.

"Are you kidding?" Alice flashed her best "hard to believe" expression. "Word is he keeps lists of everyone who's ever offended him, everyone who's ever screwed up,..."

"Everyone he's thinking about promoting?" Always the optimistic, Howard just had a gut feeling that something good was up.

"You know," Jason was busy buttoning his shirt collar and pulling up the tie he and he alone wore in flagrant mockery of the firm's unspoken casual dress code. "I have heard he's looking for someone to help him with the Baltimore project."

"Maybe help him open an office there to supervise..." Susanne pulled up her strapless top for the fourth time in the past two minutes while both Jason and Howard watched and Alice, less ample in that department, looked on disapprovingly.

"...Did you catch his presentation in front of the Mayor's committee," Alice interrupted in a vain attempt to become the center of their conversation. "What a speaker."

Howard was a natural suck-up. "Pitch perfect."

But Alice was a close second. "The way he blended all that droll data with just the right measure of passion." She was almost swooning.

Tied with Susanne. "The seriousness of how he talked about the impact on the community, without losing the excitement of his designs."

"And have you seen the babe he lives with?" Jason's comment was inspired by Susanne pulling up her top for the fifth time.

"It's his wife, Bozo!" Alice corrected him. "And Susanne, will you puh-leeze just let 'em fall out already."

"Let what fall out?" Howard asked even though he knew the answer.

"He should be in the movies." Susanne was serious.

"What?" Alice was clearly having problems with Susanne.

"Are you kidding? Craig's handsome, without being pretty, ...without even being cute, come to think of it. How's that even possible?"

Susanne countered with, "'Hot' is more like it."

"If you want a guy's opinion," Howard chimed in as if either of the women cared, "It's the voice. It's that voice. Perfect elocution. Just the right tone."

"You know," Alice was suddenly reflective as they approached the desk where Craig's personal assistant, Marlene, was about to greet them. "It's true. When he's up there in front of all those big shots, when he's really into one of his sales presentations, I get this tingling..."

"Tingling?" Howard wondered out loud. "Where?"

"Buddy," Jason laid his hand on Howard's shoulder as if he, Jason, was any more successful with the girls, "you really need to get..."

"...whenever he talks," Alice finished her sentence. "What do you think that means?"

"It means you're an easy tingler." It was a cheap shot, but Susanne couldn't help herself.

"We're here to see Craig," Jason announced to Marlene in his most professional voice.

"Of course. Craig is expecting you," Mary explained, pushing back her chair and standing up to escort them the extra few yards to their destination. "You'll meet in his conference room. I'll tell Craig you're here."

They were quiet now. Splitting up, two on each side of the table, the four of them sat left and right of where Craig would be sitting at the end. A few seconds later, the silence was broken and their late morning meeting got underway.

"Thank you for coming," Craig greeted them, turning to push the floor-to-ceiling glass door to its full open position. (Even the walls were glass almost everywhere throughout all their offices, adding to the feeling of one large open space.) Placing the yellow pad he was carrying square on the table in front of him, they could see their four names neatly printed in, what else, but a list, each name with a few hand-written words beneath it. Craig sat down, rolled his chair forward, pulled out the .7 mm gel pen – bold, but not too bold – he kept in his right pants pocket and began playing with it while he surveyed his employees.

"Did you have a question, Alice?"

"No. I just couldn't help but notice how neatly, how artistically you write."

"This isn't a good time to be sucking up, Alice. For the record, it's my training as an architect. That, and I have minor..." The four of them glanced, eyes only, at each other. "OCD tendencies that I struggle with daily. ...Is that a problem for you?"

"Uh, no," she snapped back, almost defensively. "Of course not."

"But then the girth of Amy Collier's thighs – the young woman who audits your division's expenses – somehow they're something you can email your friends about?"

"What?...How do you know that?" was what Alice wanted to say, but wisely chose not too, electing instead to be silent.

"And Susanne," Craig shifted his glance to her side of the table.

"Yes?" She cleared her throat.

"Let me congratulate you on how effectively you recorded a colleague farting in the ladies room and then managed to publish the audio file directly from your cell phone....Very impressive, if it weren't unforgivably juvenile....Excellent fidelity, by the way."

"Why am I on your list?" Jason asked, feigning innocence.

"You're on my list, Jason," because you have two things in common with your colleagues." Craig started to explain but was distracted by that look on Howard's face as if he wanted desperately to raise his hand. ...Howard, you look like you have something to say. What is it?"

"To be honest..."

"That would be nice."

"I get the fact that you think we're..."

"Jerks." Alice finished his sentence for him.

"Actually, 'insensitive' was the word I was looking for, but, to be honest..."

"You said that," Susanne sniped at her colleague.

"Could you give me a break here?" Howard snapped back. "You're not without your own problems."

"No one is, Howard." Jason was worried about the hole Howard was in the process of digging for them.

"Like what, Howard," Craig asked in a calm and sincere voice.

"Well," Susanne, seeing that Craig didn't seem offended, decided to pick up the stream. "That," she said, pointing to his yellow pad. "You make lists."

"Doesn't everybody?" Craig cocked his head ever so slightly.

"Are you kidding? A list now and then maybe, but you're famous for them. They're called 'Craig's Lists,' you know, like the..."

"He gets it," Alice thought Susanne had said enough.

"Word is..." It was Jason's turn, "that you've been keeping them since you were a kid. Lists about everything. That you were so preoccupied with making lists you actually went to see a therapist about them."

"I see." Craig leaned back in his chair. "Alice, you've been quiet. Is there nothing you have to say?"

"Only that I would be very pleased to work with you on the Baltimore project."

Howard rolled his eyes while Susanne gave Alice a more severe look, wondering, almost out loud, how much ass Alice was willing to kiss to promote her own.

"Alright. Enough." Craig took back control over the meeting. "As I was saying, the four of you have two things in common. The first is a personality defect that I find objectionable."

"Are we being fired?" Howard asked, but Craig ignored him.

"The second is that you are all exceptionally competent in your various specializations, all of which I'll need if our new engagement is to be completed – to my standards, on time and, preferably, under budget. So here's the deal. I'm going to overlook your shortcomings, for now. I'm going tolerate you, a simple courtesy you don't seem able to show others, even to yourselves around this table. You want to have fun? Who doesn't? But what you can't do is have it at somebody else's expense."

Craig paused, shaking his head slightly, seesawing his pen between the thumb and the first two fingers of his right hand. "What the hell is wrong with you people? I'm paying you to work, to have a good time doing it, within reason, but not to take mean-spirited, cheap shots at your coworkers or, heaven forbid, our clients."

"Okay," Craig was obviously annoyed. "I'm done." For a moment, the four of them thought he was talking about them. "I'm going to trust that you can overcome your own insecurities and disrespectful behavior to become the consummate professionals I need and you deserve to be – and the truly nice people I'm hopeful you have inside you."

And then he took a break. It was only maybe 15 or 20 seconds, but it seemed longer. "...Do you have any idea," Craig told them, "how much I can't stand personnel issues?" and then he paused to take a breath while the four around the table remained silent. "And if you can't... If you can't get over yourselves, well then, I'll be throwing your respective asses the hell out of here. ...Is that clear? The four of you either need to grow up or get out."

"Yes," one of them said, it wasn't important who, while the others nodded.

"Let me make absolutely certain you get what I'm saying." There was a sternness, just this side of anger, in Craig's voice that surprised them. "This is me being tolerant of you. This is me setting an example I expect you to follow. When I get up..."

"Hey, babe." Standing there in the open doorway was Jennie, Craig's wife, looking the way she always did, hot, but friendly, someone you could talk to without letting her beauty get in the way. She was, almost certainly and honestly, the only person on the planet that didn't grasp how great she looked. No one walked away from that smile without feeling better. "Am I early?"

"Nah. I was just wrapping up....I think you all know Jennie," he asked, making it seem like they did.

"Hi, everybody. Sorry to interrupt."

The four were looking at her and smiled politely, but had nothing to say.

"Jennie and I are going out to lunch. When I walk out of here, I'm putting this meeting behind me, behind us, not to forget it, but to look forward to a very successful collaboration, with you and the others on our project team, in Baltimore....Have a good weekend. We'll meet in the conference theater 9 AM Monday morning to go over everything. 9 AM sharp."

And without asking if they had any questions, Craig pushed back his chair stood up, put his pen back in his right pants pocket, picked up his yellow pad that he would drop on the corner of Marlene's desk on the way out, stopping when he got to Jennie to give her a quick kiss – and then taking an extra second after he did for them to smile at each other the way couples in a great relationship do. Craig held Jennie's hand loosely as they walked toward the side doors and the parking lot, the one he had covered with grass and trees, like the roof of his building, that blended into the landscaping.

Looking back over her shoulder to make sure they were out of earshot, Jennie reached up to squeeze Craig's arm. "They look scared."

"They should be. There's way too much crap going on. It ends now."

"Did you bully them?"

"If by 'bully' you mean did I threaten to fire their asses..." but then he stopped and laughed because Jennie was smiling and she knew better. The automatic doors opened as the two of them neared the exit. "I love you."

Jennie leaned her head against his shoulder to answer in kind.

Back in the conference room, the four of them – Alice, Susanne, Howard and Jason – sat motionless, until Craig's assistant, who pretty much heard everything from her desk, walked in.

"You guys need to leave. We've got marketing using the room at noon."

"Yeah, yeah," Susanne grunted, pushing back, but not getting up.

"You know, guys..." Marlene was only a few years older than they were. "you really don't want to blow this."

"Oh, yeah." It was Howard, feeling bolder now that Craig was no longer in the room. "What do you know?"

"I know you're idiot. All four of you....You're way wrong about Craig. His problem isn't... doesn't have anything to do with lists or OCD. When he was a kid, he had a speech impediment, a bad one that he struggled to overcome. Other, hurtful kids picked on him, relentlessly, to point of his not wanting to talk. Fortunately, when he went to college, he met a girl who was studying speech therapy on the way to getting her degree in Psychology. They starting going out, fell in love and she helped him get over it."

"Let me guess. Jennie?" Alice smirked.

"Yeah. Now get out of here." Marlene checked her watch. "Come on. I mean it."

Getting up and moving out, the four of them walked together, more slowly this time than they had on their way in.

Susanne broke the silence this time. "Hey, 'Craig's Lisp'," she laughed. "That's actually funny."

Alice reached around Jason and punched Susanne hard in the arm, a solid playground hit if there ever was one. Susanne looked over, but didn't bother to grab her shoulder. The four of them stopped for a second, and then kept walking.

<Table Of Contents>

# 47. The Dishes Fairy

Ordinarily, on any other day, Muriel would have found the banging of their front door knocker annoying, some delivery or salesman she really didn't need interrupting her work. There was always so much to do. Their children had grown up in this place and moved out after college but, even without their kids around, they were somehow busier than ever. Her husband, a reasonably successful writer of pulp fantasy fiction, had always worked at home except for trips to his publisher, for the occasional book tour and sci-fi/fantasy convention.

"Yeah, he went to those," Muriel took a breath, shaking her head slightly, side to side. "Said it sold books, but I think he just liked being there. Even took me to one when it was just the two of us... I remember this kid, dressed as God-knows-what, came up to Danny, put his hand on Danny's chest and told him, tears in his eyes, 'You're the real deal, man.' ..and to Los Angeles, the one time they made a TV movie based on one of his short stories."

Today, in the late morning, doing chores in a house that would never again make the familiar sounds she had taken for granted... Today, any interruption was welcome. This one, in particular. Without bothering to peek through the side windows, Muriel turned the oblong brass knob and threw open the door. Standing there, she wiped her hands on her apron and smiled, her eyes watering at the site of Julie, her oldest and best friend, looking as disheveled as ever.

"Hey." Julie was the first to speak, a raincoat over the arm that was holding the huge bag she called her purse, the other on the handle of the roll-aboard she'd dragged behind her up their sidewalk. She tried to smile, but did it poorly. "I got here as quickly as I could."

Not bothering to invite Julie in, Muriel stepped onto the porch and put her hands on her friend's shoulders as if just seeing here standing there wasn't enough. "I don't think," she whispered, "I could get through this without you."

"I know, babe. I know....Now let's go inside before it rains again or we both start crying."

Julie dropped her bag in the small foyer, throwing her coat over the banister to the upstairs and followed her friend into the kitchen. She sat on one of the stools around the island where Muriel and her husband ate breakfast, reading to each other from their respective sections of the morning paper.

"Are the kids here yet?"

"They're on their way." Muriel poured two large mugs of coffee, and stood at the end of the counter, just a couple of feet away, pushing a plate of freshly made, unevenly stacked walnut brownies with hard fudge topping in Julie's direction. No little plates or napkins. Muriel was ordinarily the consummate host. Not so much today. Understandable under the circumstances. "Ann seems to be okay, but Jack, I don't know. He stopped talking when I told him."

"Marilyn... He's still living with Marilyn, isn't he?"

"Yeah, they're good."

"She'll get him through it. I like her."

"Me, too. Maybe this'll get him to commit. Sometimes..." Muriel stopped for a moment, waiting for that feeling in her throat to pass, "losing a parent makes you get on with your life."

They were both quiet, until Julie reached over and touched the back of Muriel's hand. "Look," once again Julie took the initiative, "let's get the hard part out of the way. Tell me what happened. Tell me, and I'll help you get ready for everyone stopping by tonight."

"When did you learn how to cook?" Muriel looked up for the first time, her eyes blinking slowly, a smile taking over her face.

"Are you kidding? By 'help' I meant 'keep you company while you do the heavy lifting.'...Come on. Tell me. I need to know and you need to talk about it."

Muriel, letting her coffee get cold, pretended to be rubbing one of the gold flecks in her black granite countertop, anything to avoid eye contact. "Danny was in New York. He'd been out for an early run through Central Park. Came back, called me from his computer so we could see each other....He seemed great. New York always energized him. There were notes all over his desk on those little legal pads he likes. He even stopped to jot down some stuff while we were talking. ...He seemed fine. Funny. Psyched about being there. He told me he loved me and then hung up, rushing to shower and to get breakfast in time for his 9 o'clock meeting with his editor. And... And that was that."

"When did you find out?"

"The office called me around 10, wondering where Danny was. They'd been trying his cell phone." Muriel made half a shrug, cocking her head to her left shoulder, then back again. "I called the hotel... I called the hotel and told them Danny's cell phone was still in his room. We both have this locator thing on our phones."

"I know. One of those creepy apps parents use to track their kids."

"Yeah. Danny wanted it to make sure he could find me if I was ever late for something. ...They think it must have hit him in the shower and, uh, and that he ...tried to make it to his phone. What a jerk. Instead of 911, he had his cell phone and was trying to call me. I just didn't hear it ring."

"He loved you a lot. You know that....He probably didn't understand what was happening and wanted to tell you about it." And then Julie stopped talking, sensing it wasn't helping, certain that Muriel wasn't done.

"It doesn't seem real yet." Muriel pulled her hand away from Julie's and started rubbing her own forehead, making a small circle with the first two fingers of her right hand. "I'm still expecting him to call the way he always does, on his way back from the airport, ask me if there's anything I need him to pick up on the way home."

"I'm pretty sure that's something that wears off, eventually," and then Julie thought about it, "maybe never."

"Yeah....Okay," Muriel stepped off her stool. "Let's get this show on the road. We need to be ready by 6." Having Julie around was exactly what she needed. There'd be plenty of time to cry later, in the loneliness of the home that Danny and she had built. "..Just do what I tell you, and nobody'll get hurt."

11:10 PM that evening.

"You sure you don't want to stay here, Jack?"

"No thanks, Mom – unless you need me?"

"I'll always need you, but tonight? Tonight you'll stay with Marilyn's brother. It'll be good for you," she touched the side of his face. "Me, too. I'll hang out with Julie."

"Come on." Marilyn tugged at Jack's arm. "Goodnight, Muriel." Stepping forward, Marilyn kissed the mother of her future husband on the cheek. "I'll miss him too....Breakfast tomorrow?"

"Sure. French toast. Whenever you get here."

"Goodnight, Mom." And Jack and Marilyn left for her bother's place – Ann, Jack's sister, pushing their front door closed.

Looking around at the paper plates, balled-up napkins, the dishes and glasses that were everywhere in the dinning and family rooms, and down the short hallway at the mess they could see in the kitchen, the three of them – Muriel, her friend, Julie, and daughter, Ann – were too beat to do more than stand there in silence.

Even though she was tired from having driven for almost eight hours to get there, Ann offered to do the right thing. "I'll help you clean up."

"Thanks, honey, but Julie's already volunteered."

"What?" Julie, her shoeless feet just getting comfortable on the ottoman she'd rolled in front of the sofa, pretended that she had done no such thing.

"You go on to bed, honey. I'll let you help with breakfast."

"Deal." They hugged, and Ann was off, up the stairs to the bedroom her parents had always kept for her, while her mother plopped down on the soft leather easy-chair, now ottoman-less, that had been her husband's favorite.

"Do you remember," Muriel was finally beginning to get it, "years ago, the hard time I gave him when we were making up our wills and he insisted on no funeral?"

"I do."

"He was right. This is easier."

"Say what you want, Danny was..."

"I think," Muriel interrupted, not really listening to what Julie had to say, "it was the writer in him. Here one minute, gone the next. I think he purposely didn't want the kind of closure a funeral can give you."

"That and he was too nice a guy to ruin a bunch of people's weekend with 'the obligatory crap of worthless ceremony,' which is, if I remember, the way he put it to me once." Julie had been his friend first, which is how Muriel and she met.

"I'll live on," Danny had reassured his wife the night they had argued about it, "in you and the kids and a couple of friends, for a time....I love you. You'll miss me. Beyond that, it doesn't really matter."

"So are we going to clean this place up, or what?"

"You know," Muriel took a breath, "I don't think so."

Julie rolled her head along the top edge of cushion where it was resting to look at her friend.

"We're both beat, and it would be what Danny would want me to do."

"Not clean up?"

"...You know," she reminisced, "he never did get much sleep. We'd go to bed... Actually," she smiled to herself, "pass out is more like it, 11:30 or so, the TV still on in the corner, but then he'd wake up in the middle of the night, around 3 or so. Rather than just lay there, hoping to fall back to sleep, he'd get up, come downstairs and do the dishes he'd been too tired or busy to do the night before. I cooked. He cleaned up. That was our deal. ...He told me he'd sit at the kitchen table, at the island, and write on his laptop. In the dark, except for the light coming from the family room from over the fireplace and the little TV he'd turn on for company....I think he bought that computer for the way the keys light up."

"How long had he been..."

"An hour or so later, he'd go back to bed, and still get up before I did. I'd come down, he'd be typing, taking an occasional bite of that perfectly toasted bagel he'd buttered and sprinkled with cinnamon sugar, the sink and counters empty and clean, the dishes washed and dried and put away."

"He did the dishes?...Wow, I should have married him."

"And I'd thank him, you know, for cleaning up, but, the funny thing was, he'd deny ever having done it. 'Well, someone did it,' I said once. 'Wasn't me,' he told me, not even looking up from what he was writing. 'It's the Dishes Fairy.'"

"The..." Julie laughed and then started to lose it, the way really tired people do when something strikes them as much funnier than it is, but stopped short, her hand to her face. "The Dishes Fairy....You know, I always suspected he believed in all that stuff he wrote."

Muriel was laughing too now, a little. "Yeah, he's been telling me that for years. 'Believe what you want,' Danny told me. 'The Dishes Fairy. I just come down here in the middle of the night to write.' She's...'"

"So it was a girl fairy. What, like a cheerleader?" Julie giggled. "Maybe a hooker, with little wings?" she added, flapping her elbows, making a "bizzzz" sound.

"Yes," Muriel smiled back, trying to be serious, "a girl fairy. He told me she was his muse. 'I thought I was your muse,' I said, pretending to be disappointed. 'No. She's my muse.' Then he stood up and put his arms around me, in the kitchen that morning. 'You're my a-muse,' and then he kissed me. 'You make me laugh. It's my favorite thing,'" she remembered slowly. 'You're the one thing, being with you, I'd rather do more than write.'"

They were both quiet for a moment.

"Okay, let's hit the sack," Julie sat and then stood up. "Come on." She stood up, reaching out for her friend's hand to help her up. "Let's give it a test....We're both wiped and I really, really want to believe in the Dishes Fairy. Let's get some sleep. ...Come on."

"Okay," Muriel took her hand and pulled herself up. "We'll clean up in the morning." And they turned out the lights, all but the ones over the fireplace, and walked upstairs together.

It was quiet that night, unusually so. Three o'clock came and went, and no one lying next to Muriel got up, fiddled with the TV that was still on in the corner of their bedroom or went downstairs to write on his laptop, sitting on a stool at the island in the kitchen where they – Muriel and Danny – wouldn't have breakfast the following morning.

But in the darkness of their kitchen, that one last early morning, a odd glowing form moved about the kitchen and around the first floor until every pot, pan, glass and dish was washed and put away, until the kitchen was immaculate, the counters spotless, the trash bagged by the door to the garage, the cushions fluffed and pillows in just the right place.

Tonight, there was no one there, no Danny transfixed by the brightness of his computer's screen, words coming from his fingers, as if he were only transcribing the dialogue of the characters he once imagined, but who now had lives of their own. And then it hovered for a time over Danny's laptop, lid down, there, alone in the dark, in quiet middle of the night until it faded away.

Muriel, not sleeping well, thought she heard the familiar, faint clatter of dishes and cabinet doors, but was sure she must be dreaming, smiled to herself, reached over to lay her hand on Danny's side of the bed and fell back to sleep.

<Table Of Contents>

# 48. "Hello?"

Even from their bathroom, over the sound of the shower, "Benny" could hear her phone ringing, the cell phone she'd left on their sofa in the small... no, tiny is more like it city apartment she shared with her friend, Denise. ("Benny" was short for "Benjamin," her mother's maiden and her middle name.)

"GET THAT!! If it's Marc," she shouted, "tell him I'm in the shower, ...naked, ...alone,...thinking about touching myself, but saving myself...

"Yeah, yeah. I'll get it," Denise yelled back. "...How long," she thought to herself, "can she stay in the shower? No wonder people in the building complain about not having any hot water. Maybe she's...," her eyebrows went up, her head angled slightly, her eyes looking around while she thought about it.

"Oh, and Jackie said she gave my number to some guy. I don't know his name. Says he's even smarter than he is good looking. ...I suppose," Benny mumbled to herself, "I can fake the smart part."

A few steps later, wiping off her hands on the dish towel she was holding, Denise reached down to pick up her roommate's phone, spinning and plunging backward against the two soft pillows they kept in one corner of their couch. "Hello."

"Maybe that's him." Benny was going out tonight, but then Benny went out almost every night. She was an ambiance chaser, hell bent on getting to the newest club, restaurant or bar – that her boyfriend du jour could afford – ahead of everyone else. Denise would be home, eating something from white cardboard boxes with wire handles, still working on getting enough credits to graduate.

No response, just the faint sound of someone clearing his throat, of someone mustering the courage to speak.

"Hello??" Denise tried again.

"Hi."

"Can I help you?" Denise answered cautiously, not knowing what else to say.

"My name is, uh, Alan, with one "l," Coo," he stopped to swallow, "-per. May I please speak to Nancy?" Nancy was Benny's first name. He obviously didn't know her. He was polite, though. Nervous, with a slight break in his voice, like he was just coming out of puberty, but polite which, for Denise, was a pleasant change of pace from the jerks who hit on her at the office and on the rare occasions when she'd gone bar-hopping with Benny. His voice sounded good, with a hint of the confidence that would grow the more they talked.

"Just a minute.." Denise covered the phone, taking a moment to watch Benny rubbing her hair dry on her way from the bathroom to the bedroom they used during alternate months, the other one sleeping on the couch.

"Hi. I'm..." She was about to tell him her name, and that Benny couldn't come to the phone, too busy getting ready to go out with someone else.

"Hi, Nancy."

Nothing.

"Nancy?"

"Actually, it's 'Benny.' It's a nickname. But,..."

"Oh....Great. Benny. I'm not sure if you remember, but we met at the division meetings last month. I, uh, got your number from Jackie Majors. She said she works with you."

"Of course. Nice of you to call," after which they were both quiet until Alan, with one "l," the guy who called for Benny, realized that it was his time to talk.

"I... I don't often just call someone out the blue like this, but I thought, ...I thought maybe we should talk first."

"First? Before what?"

"Well, I guess, uh, before," he was stumbling, "before one of us asks the other one out."

"I didn't know I was thinking about asking you out."

"Well, you weren't. I didn't mean it that way. I just thought we'd talk for a few minutes to see if we get along. If we don't, then we blew a few minutes on the phone. On the other hand, who knows, I could ask you out. Maybe we could get some dinner, nothing fancy, just some great burgers, steak fries, maybe some homemade cherry pie for dessert, cold..."

"Cherry pie? Is that some not so subtle code for..."

"No. Oh, no." Alan was on the edge of panic. "I just like pie. We can have cannoli. I don't care. Whatever you like....Forget I mentioned dessert. Just great burgers, fries, cold draft beer, maybe a light beer, if you drink. If not, an ice tea. I know a place that makes fresh lemonade which is... delicious. Reminds me of summers at the beach."

"Alan?"

"I don't have a Facebook page. I don't really like the idea of Facebook, but I can email you some references if you like. Everybody likes me, so far as I know. No pretense, but then I guess you can tell. Honest. I'm honest. I believe in being honest in my personal relationships. I haven't had many, but they..."

"Alan?"

"...ended well, as well as one of us dumping the other can. ...What?"

"Alan. To be honest, and we both agree that honesty is important."

"We do."

"I'm not Benny. I'm her roommate, Denise, but I know who you are. Benny and I work down the hall from each other in research. I saw you at the meetings. ...You're good looking, in a casual sort of way. Nice smile. I remember that. Not particularly suave, but then...

"I, I can be suave."

"...but then," she hesitated, not wanting to hurt his feelings, "I'm not all that crazy about suave. Not really."

"So you're the blonde that was sitting at Benny's table?

"What? No....No, I'm the red head, the one with short red hair. Benny's the one with..."

"I thought Benny was the red head....It was you." Alan was relieved. "You're the really good looking one with the glasses, the one I was pointing at when I asked Jackie for your number. She must have must just assumed..."

"Yeah, it's a common mistake. Most guys..."

"Hey," Benny shouted from the bedroom, "who you talking to?"

It wasn't often men described Denise that way. Mostly creeps hit on her, because girls like Benny – the ones who looked like models, the ones with the heels, makeup and boobs – wouldn't talk to them. She had boobs too, mind you. They just weren't as obvious.

"Jackie says the cute guy works a lot and hasn't dated that much. Maybe a tad," she let her voice rise, "just a tad inexperienced," Benny giggled to herself, pressing the glass top of her favorite perfume into the ample cleavage she was sporting, "but I can fix that. ...Ohhhh, yeah," she said, her voice dropping as low it could go. "I can fix that," she smiled confidently at their dresser mirror, looking for any imperfection in her makeup.

"Hold on," Denise covered the phone again, taking a moment to gather her thoughts. "...Hey. I'm back."

"Hi." This time Alan's voice was relaxed and confident. "Is this not a good time to.."

"No, no. It's good....Tomorrow's Sunday. How 'bout lunch? Maybe at that shake place in the park.

"Sure. What t..."

"Great. One o'clock?"

"Perfect."

"Got to go."

"Uh, sure. See you tomorrow."

"Right. Bye....Oh, and Alan?"

"Yes?"

Denise took a short breath to slow it down. "It was really nice of you to call." And she hung up, just as Benny came out of the bedroom, both hands engaged in bunching up her long blonde hair into a wild bun with two chopsticks holding it together – easy to let down later when the effect would have its maximum impact. "So who was that? ...If it's that new guy, I really don't have any time open until next weekend. Maybe Sunday morning for brunch."

"It was nobody. Just some guy taking a survey. You don't like politics. I handled it....No sweat."

And while Benny turned to check herself out in the mirror over the small table near the door, Denise hurriedly deleted the call history, including Alan number, from Benny's phone.

"Here," Denise stood up from the couch and handed her roommate her phone. "I told the guy you were a Republican."

"Whatever....Did he sound cute?"

Denise pretended to think for a moment. "Uh, not really," and then she changed the subject. "Enjoy yourself. Will you be coming home tonight?"

"I will, probably, but late, really really late," Benny laughed. "Don't worry," she smiled, turning back on her way out the door. "You know, in case I've never told you, thanks for being my roommate. You're the one person I can count on."

"Right," Denise, bobbing her head in agreement. "Right back at you."

"Are you sure you don't want to join us?"

"Yeah. I've got stuff to do. Besides, my one dress is at the cleaners."

"You have a dress?" She was kidding. "...Hey. You just need to find someone, someone," Benny smiled, "who likes t-shirts and jeans." And she pulled their old, over-painted metal front door shut behind her. On her wait down the stairs to the sidewalk, Benny tapped a couple of times to dial Jackie's number.

"Hey."...Yeah, he called right at 5:30. Perfect timing. I hung out in the shower while they started talking. I feel unusually clean....Right!" she laughed. "Thanks for helping me fix them up. That trick, pretending to give him my number by mistake, was pure genius....Right. Yeah, right. I'm telling you, I know her....Absolutely. If she knew it was my idea, she'd never have agreed to go out with him....Yeah, I'll see you Monday....Hey, hold on." She caught Jackie just before she hung up. "Is Alan really that cool a guy?" Her affection for her roommate aside, Benny couldn't resist wondering what she was missing. Pushing open the outside door and stepping, a little sideways, as quickly as her heels would let her down the stoop in front of their apartment building, Benny pressed her phone harder against her ear to hear the juicy details over the noise of the city. "Hm....Oooo. ..Wow....No kidding?!"

<Table Of Contents>

# 49. The Plug-In

"Good afternoon, Nathan." At precisely 3 PM, Dr. Cheryl Schreiber, Doctor of Psychology, somewhere in her thirties, opened the door to the loft where she lived and had her office. Even at a distance, he felt the faint swoosh of air touching his face. "Come on in." Nathan had been waiting in the lobby Dr. Schreiber shared with the other professionals in the converted factory.

Rising quickly, Nathan took his eyes off the cable news that was playing on the flat screen on the wall across from where he had been sitting, turning to smile at the attractive woman he was there to see. Gray jeans, a white pleated shirt, her shoulder length hair shifting inexplicably when and however it wanted, she moved to greet him with a presence you could feel coming. "Hi." He extended his hand, which she shook firmly. "Thank you for seeing me on such short notice." They were alone in the lobby, and spoke openly. "I just felt I needed to see someone and a friend said you... said you were easy to talk to."

"That's good to hear," she responded, turning and gesturing Nathan toward the open door to her office. Closing that door behind her, she pointed to the center of the room, well lit from skylights overhead and several very large windows cut into the original brick walls. "Please, have a seat, wherever you feel comfortable....Can I get you anything? I've made some freshly squeezed lemonade?"

"Wow. Uh, that would be great." He was hungry, being a person who needed to eat every few hours, and wasn't just trying to be friendly.

While Nathan sat on the soft leather love seat, Dr. Schreiber came over with a tray, two glasses, a pitcher of the lemonade and some homemade, chewy oatmeal cookies, with pecans, but no raisins. "Here," she said cheerfully. "Help yourself."

Both glasses already had ice in them. Nathan poured one for himself and grabbed a cookie, sitting on the edge of the loveseat for fear of spilling something. Leaving his glass on the table, he held his left hand under the cookie, carefully taking a bite. These were, he estimated, three bite cookies in polite company, two if he'd been home, alone.

"Oh, don't worry about dropping any crumbs."

"Are you serious?

"No, actually I do care," Dr. Schreiber smiled, mostly with her eyes, "but you shouldn't feel bad if you do, drop any that is," and then got down to business. "...So, I understand you're a writer."

"A blogger, actually. I have a blog. I write short stories."

"Is it popular, your blog? I liked it."

Nathan took a breath, which he held for a moment before starting to talk. "More and more so. Especially, lately, I seem to be communicating with my readers better, giving them a reason to come back for more."

"Well, good. ...When you called, you said you wanted to talk about what you're writing?"

"Yes." Finishing off the cookie he'd been holding with a swallow of lemonade, "This is good. Very good," Nathan leaned back and spread his arms over the top of the cushion to his left, and along the arm of the love seat to his right. Dr. Schreiber was sitting in a natural wood rocking chair across the table from him, a small yellow pad in her lap, a pen in her right hand, her feet crossed where the flats she was wearing touched the large oval rug that defined the area where they were sitting. With her left hand, she spread her fingers and combed her hair, pulling it back, away from her face. It was a natural, not at all suggestive thing to do.

"I've been thinking," Nathan began to explain. "I've been thinking a lot lately."

"Isn't that pretty much what writers do?" Dr. Schreiber smiled, hoping to put him at ease. "Part of the creative process?"

"Sure."

"Go ahead. I didn't mean to interrupt."

"I've been thinking about writing something scary, a short short story that creeps out my readers... Did you have time to read any of my stuff?"

"Yes, I did. And I like them, the few that I read. Very creative. Fresh, easy to read. Always a surprise ending. I thought they were good, surprisingly good, to tell you the truth."

"But none of them... scary."

"No. ...So what? Maybe that's why I enjoyed them."

"It's the challenge. ...I try to write about different things, to push myself to see what I can do, to be funny sometimes, then serious, a little romance and then maybe a mystery or fantasy sci-fi piece. ...But, whatever I write, there's the one thing I want them all to have in common."

"What's that, Nathan?"

"You know what I really like?" Nathan wasn't waiting for an answer. "I like it when I write something that stays in your head after you read it. Not just for a few minutes. The longer, the better."

Dr. Schreiber's expression showed her appreciation of his point, as if to say, "Isn't that a good thing? Isn't that what all writers want?"

"Yeah. I... I'm just concerned that I'm beginning to go too far, that I'm stepping over some line." He stopped, and let the rest of his breath out without talking. "Anyway, I've been thinking lately that it's time I wrote something scary."

"Stephen King scary? Slasher movie scary? Or just plain creepy?"

"No, no, although I'm not so sure about the creepy part. A little creepiness can..."

"Sinister maybe?"

"Uh, a little, maybe," Nathan was talking right at her, punctuating his words with the fingers of his right hand, "but you've got to be careful not to overdo it. Credibility is everything. I can't risk distracting the reader."

"From what?"

"I need him to pay attention. I need him, or her," Nathan added, "to believe." And then he stopped talking. Just stopped for a full minute that Dr. Schreiber didn't cut short. "Anyway, the challenge is doing it without the threat or fact of violence." Nathan held there, the tone of his voice instantly morphing from friendly to serious. "...I don't like violence."

Cheryl considered making a note, but thought it better not to, choosing instead to drop her pad and pen onto the area rug next to her chair. "Besides," Cheryl was never afraid to offer her opinion, to engage her patients, "it's hard to write violence, isn't it, harder to put it down on a page, to elicit a visceral reaction from a reader the way a well crafted movie can with live actors, special effects and great visual editing."

"You're right. Absolutely. Even harder, much harder without _explicit_ violence – to get your readers squirming in their seats with only the threat, the intimation, the hint of serious danger." Nathan paused for a moment. "Anyway, I've been thinking, for a while now, that..."

"Thinking about it for days, weeks, months?"

"Months. Thinking about how I'd do it."

"You've dared yourself to do this, haven't you?"

"Exactly. ...If not me, who would?"

"And? I mean, how's it going?"

Sliding forward, Nathan became excited, moving to edge of the cushion, elbows on his knees. "I began by breaking fear into its components. Remember," Nathan reminded her, "explicit violence isn't an option. That's my rule."

"Good to know," she smiled, shifting to change the way she had crossed her legs.

"For one thing, there's the element of surprise. Easier, as you pointed out, on the big screen than on paper, but doable and essential. Second, you've got to make the reader think that you're going to do something to him... to her," Nathan stared at his therapist, "to take or change something you," he was talking right at her now, to Cheryl personally, no longer making innocent references to unspecified individuals, "...something you value greatly. Third, and this is really important, you've got to convey the reality of irreversibility."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, that what I take from you, what I change about you is irrevocable."

"For example?"

"Like leaving a beautiful woman with a permanent scar."

"But that would be violent."

"Yes. Of course. It's just an example. Suppose... Suppose, on the other hand, that I changed your personality, that I made you mean, when being nice was the very thing you liked best about yourself, or made you promiscuous or, at the other extreme, completely disinterested in sex, and that I could do it without your ever knowing or being able to go back to the way you were."

"I noticed you keep checking your watch. Don't worry. You're my last appointment today. We've got plenty of time."

"Sorry." That's what Nathan said, but then he didn't say why.

"So if I didn't know you'd taken something from me, why would I care?"

"After I did this to you, it wouldn't make any difference. You're right. Your life, your personal and professional relationships would be different, but you wouldn't understand why and might not think anything of it – except that maybe you used to go out with this guy, and now you don't. You're not even sure why you ever went out with him, or were friends with her in the first place."

"So what's the point?"

"The scary part is the knowing that it could, and would happen, but not knowing when or how. The scary part is knowing what you stand to lose, but realizing there's already nothing you can do about it, nothing to stop you from losing it."

"Okay, so you'll be writing a story with that theme?"

Nathan went back to listing the elements of writing to frighten his readers. "And, most importantly, the threat has to be believable."

"Isn't that always the challenge you face as a writer?"

"It is." Nathan's eyes opened wide. "Although, to be honest, and the reason I asked to see you, it helps not to be bluffing."

Cheryl was losing him and beginning to feel uneasy. "Bluffing?"

"Yeah. The reader needs to have a demonstration of my powers," Nathan almost laughed when he said it, "and then to wonder what else I've done."

"Well, that all sounds impressive. I'm looking forward to reading it."

"The thing is, Dr. Schreiber, you already have."

"What are you talking about?"

"My blog. ...I'm running a plug-in, a subroutine that enables me to imbed messages, subliminal, hypnotic messages you don't even know you're reading."

"Isn't that illegal, Nathan?"

"So, are you going to report me?"

"No."

"Why not?"

No answer.

"I didn't think so. ...Dr. Schreiber."

"What?"

"Would you mind unbuttoning your blouse?"

Cheryl heard what he said and reacted, initially, by deliberately placing both her arms on her chair, wrapping her fingers around the wood. Her face became serious, her lips pursed as she did her best to resist, but couldn't and gave up, the muscles in her hands and arms willingly responding to his request. "How do you know," she glanced down to grab the top button of her shirt, "that I wouldn't be doing this anyway?"

"Oh, give me a break. I'm sure you wouldn't. More importantly, so are you." Once again, Nathan checked his watch.

"And you put this..." Sitting there, her blouse unbuttoned and open, Cheryl was aware, but helpless. "You're running this plug-in in all the stories you write?!"

"Hey!" Nathan reacted to sudden change in the tone of her voice. "You're asking as if I'm the only one doing this? You're a psychologist. You should know better. It's all over the place, corporate sites, gambling and porn, and blogs, even dating services. Don't you ever wonder why people spend so much time on-line?"

Looking down at her open blouse, Cheryl started moving her hands to...

"No, no. Leave it open." And she did. "...You're lucky I didn't ask you to take off your bra. ..Thing is, this isn't about sex. And it's not a boy-girl, male-female thing. As far as I can tell, it works on men at least as effectively as it does on women. No, it's about making a point....On the other hand," he smiled, dropping his eyes to stare at Cheryl sitting there across from him, "it's good to be Nathan."

"...What else ...have you done to me?" Cheryl asked, a slight break and noticeable measure of controlled panic in her voice.

"We'll talk about it later. I'm not sure when. Later, but you won't remember this, so it won't make any difference."

"I'll have one of my colleagues program this out of me."

"What, you weren't paying attention when I said, '...you won't remember this'? You're not going to talk to anyone about it, because, after I leave today, it's never going to occur to you. And then, the next time I see you or the next time we talk, it'll all come back to you again – because that's the way I programmed it, the way I programmed you to work."

"How long does it take, Nathan? How many stories does someone have to read?"

"Just one. Just a few minutes exposure, and then a few hours after that for the message to settle in. I'm not sure, exactly," he shook his head slightly. "I'm just starting what I think you'd call the 'clinical stage' of my research. Thank you for agreeing," Nathan stopped to smile, "to volunteer for my study....Thing is, I'm going to need your help perfecting my message, although," Nathan was clearly impressed with himself, "seeing you sitting there I say, 'So far, so good.'" He nodded his head slightly, reflecting on what he'd accomplished while he reached for another cookie. "I had no idea it would be this easy....Anyway, those papers you've written on hypnosis were very helpful, but there's still a lot I don't understand. Still a lot I need to talk to you about....What do you think? Twice weekly sessions?"

"In all your stories? Is that why readership is up?"

"No. Not all my stories. Not yet. Just this one story I've written about a troubled writer who goes to see a hot young psychologist known for her scholarly work on hypnotherapy....It's the story you're reading now. It was great, wasn't it? Be sure to tell your friends."

"In the meantime, keep your shirt on. We'll talk later."

<Table Of Contents>

# 50. Pretense

"Did I miss him?! Is he here yet??" Clara rushed through the side door to "The Highway Diner," the one with the rusted metal "Employees Only" sign next to the buzzer that hadn't worked in years. Not waiting for the screen to slam behind her or for the gym bag she was carrying to make it inside, she blurted out her question in a loud whisper.

"No," her cousin Janis, a waitress with no particular future plans, shook her head. "It's still early."

Pulling franticly on the doorknob to the "Ladies" restroom, it took her a moment to get the point.

"Hey!" a woman's voice came from behind the door. "I'll be out in a couple of minutes!"

"Sorry," Clara apologized, spinning back, away from the door, toward her cousin. "The locker room."

"You go. I need to check out front."

"I'll be right there....Keep an eye out for me, and don't dare let Alice wait on him."

Janis was already on her way.

"Hey, promise!"

"Yeah, yeah. I promise," Janis waved her arm dismissively without bothering to turn around. "Don't let the slut, Alice, brush up against your man. Got it," Janis mumbled to herself. "This is way out of control."

Rushing into the small room with half lockers, the ones Arnold, the owner, picked up cheap when they closed the old bus station, the kind that came with a key you kept in your pocket, Clara dropped her bag in one of the chairs around the table where employees sat when they took a food break. Spreading the double zippers on top of her bag, she reached in, grabbing the jeans, t-shirt, short sox and sneakers that would be her uniform for the next hour or so. And a wood hanger. No way was she going to trash the perfect business suit she'd bought specifically for her afternoon presentation.

Moving quickly, but carefully, Clara started to change.

"Bobby!" Janis had just come around the corner from the front of the diner.

"What?" the young kid who bussed tables was just standing there, in the open locker room doorway, answering to his name, but without taking his eyes off Clara.

"You're late. Get out there." Grabbing him from the back, she shoved Bobby out of the way, pushing him in the right direction while Clara, too preoccupied to have noticed anyone was watching, finished changing.

"There. I'll work the booths in the corner until I see him come in. After that, you'll take over while..."

"Hey," Janis smiled. "Take a breath. I know the drill."

Out front, the noise in the old diner – with its surprisingly good meatloaf and great homemade pies, just off the two lane road they called "the highway" 30 years ago – sounded good and was just what Clara needed. A few weeks ago, she'd taken off on a Monday to do some antique shopping in the countryside and had stopped by to see Janis, just to say "Hello" and get a sandwich and some freshly squeezed lemonade to go. Janis was pretty much in charge when Arnold was out and let Clara help herself behind the counter. That was the day "he" stopped by, going out of his way to take the stool across from where she was making her lunch.

"Hey," he said to her. "What are you making?" He didn't smile, not really. He didn't have to. There was an honesty, an openness, something about his voice, the way his face worked with his eyes, that made her instantly comfortable. It gave her the feeling of having nothing to prove.

Looking up, she hesitated, not used to responding to the banter of strange men. "Sliced turkey and Swiss with a little home style coleslaw on a soft poppy seed roll, a little mayonnaise and some honey."

"Nice touch, the honey I mean. Can I have one? No coleslaw, but maybe some potato salad on the side?"

"Look, I don't.." Her first instinct was to tell him she didn't really work there, but then she reconsidered. Taking a second, she realized how much she liked the way he looked in his dirty cargo shorts and well-worn golf shirt, the way he'd combed his hair with his fingers when he took off the sweat stained baseball cap he wore to keep the sun out of his eyes and set it on the open stool next to him. Turns out, he would tell her later, he was renovating a place a few miles away. "I don't really recommend the potato salad. If I were you, I'd skip it and leave room for a piece of cherry pie."

Forty minutes and two pieces of cherry pie later, he was curious. "Don't you have wait on other people?"

"Not really. It's actually my day off."

"I've got to run," he told her. "Do you," he stood up, put some cash on the counter, more than he had to, and grabbed his hat. "Do you always work lunch hours?"

Blushing slightly, Clara responded with, "Will you stop by if I do?"

Turning his receipt upside down, he slid it across the Formica counter toward her. "Trust me with your cell phone number? I'll text you the next time I can stop by."

"I don't even know your name."

"It's..." he paused as if he wasn't sure about giving it to her."

"My phone number for your name," she smiled with her eyes, tapping the butt-end of her waitress pen on top of his receipt, her voice sounding more at home in a board room. "That's the deal."

"Pete. Peter Jeffries."

Nodding her head slightly, Clara steadied the receipt with her left hand and wrote her number with her right, then slid it slowly toward him. Pete met her half way, pulling his end for a few seconds before she let go.

Three weeks later, he'd stopped by an impressive eight times for lunch. Three times sitting at the counter, but the other five at one of the booths. Today would be the ninth time. Janis actually let her wait tables, provided she didn't keep the tips or break anything. No dates yet, but they'd talked and laughed pretty much about everything.

"So how long have you been renovating houses?" she asked him one day over a turkey burger, fries and a slice of Boston cream pie at the counter. Two forks. They'd started sharing desserts the second time they met.

"Ever since I was a kid. My father let me help him in the shop we had at home when I was little, and would take me with him when he moonlighted. He and my mother would buy houses, small houses in the country, fix them up and re-sell them. It took every spare minute and dollar they had, but it was how they managed to send my sister and me to college."

"You went to college?"

"Yeah," and then he added, seeing that she wanted to know more. "Yale."

Her expression was curious.

"I just prefer working with my hands."

She paused. "So, do you have tool belt?"

"What?"

"Do you have one of those leather belts with places for your hammer and stuff?" She giggled, avoiding eye contact while she cleared the dishes from where a customer had been sitting two stools down.

"Tried one, but it kept pulling my pants down."

"Sorry I missed that."

On this ninth day they would meet at the roadside diner, she'd been in such a hurry, so worried she might miss him, Clara had forgotten to wipe off her lipstick. It was pretty much the only makeup she wore, preferring the honesty of a more natural look. (In case you're wondering, she could afford it, but jewelry wasn't her style. Not even a watch.)

"Hey." He knew immediately that she looked different, unable to pull his eyes away from her lips. "Going somewhere?"

"What?" But then she realized why he was staring, the first two fingers of her left hand touching her lips. "Maybe I wore it for you."

"Maybe you're seeing someone after your shift?" It sort of sounded like he was kidding, but she could tell, beneath the flirting, that he really wanted to know.

"Are you kidding?" Clara reached over to straighten his silverware, flashing her eyes up to see what his face was telling her. "I thought we were going steady?"

"Wow. That's great news. I didn't even realize we were dating. I mean, shouldn't we try dating before going steady, or maybe we should just go ahead and move in together and see how that goes."

"Are you asking?" She knew he was just playing with her.

But then his watch beeped before he could answer. Pressing a button on his Timex, Pete stood up to leave. "I've got to go. How 'bout if I ask you out Thursday?"

"On a real date? You want to go out Thursday?"

"No, I want to ask you out on Thursday," he smiled back at her, a slow, lingering smile, and then started to walk away.

"Hey!" Clara wasn't done talking. "Where would we go?"

"Well," Pete stopped and made a quarter turn to look back at her. "I was thinking," he said, without missing a beat, "maybe Nassau," his lips curling slightly just short of a smile, looking directly into her eyes.

Rolling up her lower lip, all she could do was nod. And he turned and headed for the door, wiggling the fingers of his right hand to wave goodbye to the waitress he knew was still watching.

"What just happened?" Janis came up beside her.

"I think he just asked me to go away with him for the weekend."

"Not bad for a first date."

"To Nassau."

"On a construction worker's take home? I don't think so."

"So he was kidding about the Nassau part, but I like the way he thinks."

Janis wondered how long her cousin was going to stare at the exit. "Hey. Snap out of it."

No reaction, but Janis wasn't giving up.

"So how long are you going to keep up this waitress thing?"

"You think," Clara turned to join the conversation, "he'd go out with a CEO/Investment Banker?" For Clara, it was a rhetorical question.

"I don't care how bright he is, do you really think you have anything in common with a carpenter who lives pay check to pay check, if and when he can find work?"

No comment, and then, "Look. He's real. I like that about him. Maybe he won't care who or what I am."

"He'll care alright, not so much about what you do or how much you make, but about that 'two years of college before you had to drop out' crap. Didn't it ever occur to you just to tell him the truth?"

"You want me to tell him I was at Stanford while he was at Yale, maybe argue the fine points of which school has the better English Lit department? Just what..."

"Hey. Don't get testy with me. You lied to him to what? To make him feel smarter than you? When did you start thinking like that? More to the point, cousin, when did you decide it was okay to be me?"

No response.

"That's me, my story you've been telling him. What's so wrong with being you all of a sudden?"

Clara gave her cousin a serious, almost angry look, but then caught a glimpse of the wall clock and began to panic. "I've got to get back. See you Thursday," and she rushed away toward the back. Opening her locker, she grabbed her bag and took her company clothes, hanger included, off the coat rack nearby – just as, unbeknownst to her, Pete came back into restaurant. "I'll put them on at the office," Clara thought to herself out loud, not wanting to change there in the open, not with Bobby coming and going.

"Hey, Pete." Janis and he were on a first name basis ever since his third lunch date with Clara. "Forget something?"

"No. No, I thought I'd... I thought I'd talk to Clara some more."

"You came back to ask her out, didn't you?"

"Is she in the back?"

"Uh, no. She had an errand. You just missed her."

He was clearly disappointed. "Well, uh, tell her I stopped back."

"Sure." And he was gone.

In fact, Clara was still out back, outside the diner where the employees parked, where her car wasn't easy to see from the road. Fumbling through her bag, she'd dropped the keys to her BMW 6 Orion silver convertible, top still up, but not for long. Bending down to pick them up, she was surprised to hear Pete's voice.

"Hey."

Clara stood up and looked over the roof of her car at the man standing next to his new, flamenco (electric) red Volvo S60.

Pete kept talking, looking down at her car, and back at her face. The usual excitement in his voice and around his eyes whenever he saw her was gone. "Nice. Tips must be good."

"It's a company car," Clara answered in a lower tone of voice that usual. "I've been meaning to..."

"Whose company?"

"Mine. And yours," she asked, nodding toward his car. "Family money?" she speculated sarcastically.

Nothing at first, but then, "No. For one thing, it's not all that expensive. In any case, I'm a partner with a litigation firm downtown."

"A lawyer? What firm?" but then she stopped him before he could answer. "No, let me guess... Yours."

"The last name you gave me?" he asked her.

"It's my mother's maiden name, in case you tried to Google me. And yours? What's your name?"

"Robin. Robin Peter Jeffries."

"Comma, attorney-at-law. Oh my gosh," it just occurred to her, "you're 'Robin Hood,' the guy that beat..."

"My friends call me 'Pete,' he interrupted, both of them content to stay on opposite sides of her car. It was the first time they'd seen each other outside the diner. "Why the charade?"

"What, you weren't leading me on?...I thought you were a construction worker."

"I do remodel houses. It helps me clear my head."

"That's not the point." Clara was right, and knew the next few things they said could take them in one of two directions. Saying something that's just technically accurate is one thing. Pretending to be something you're not is something different altogether. "Look," Clara fell back all too easily into her corporate persona, "so we both let the other one think we were simpler people than we are, that we're not as educated and don't make the salaries we do. So we faked it. Love, even just the prospect of it, does that to people." The word had never sounded so perfunctory, so technical, so matter of fact. "Isn't that a good thing?"

"'Simpler people?'"

"You know what I meant."

"Is it a good thing? I guess that depends upon how we feel about it." Like all natural litigators, Pete knew instinctively not to snap back an answer until he was certain he knew what he was talking about, or to ask a question without anticipating the answer. "By the sound of it, I don't think either of us thinks we were more than each other's fantasy escape. Do I have a tool belt? 'Driven CEO gets laid in back of a pickup.' 'Successful, big city attorney has affair with comely, country waitress.' Are those the headlines? Was it ever anything more?"

"When were you going to tell me?" Clara asked, as if it made a difference. In fact, she was just making another point.

"A few minutes ago. It's why I came back." And then he turned, slowly, reluctantly, and pressed the button on his key to unlock his driver's side door.

"You're leaving? What, are you mad at me?"

"No," he turned his head to look back at her. "Disappointed. ...I think I just blew it with this waitress I was falling for, and now I have to get back to work."

"You know," she couldn't help herself. "I would have thought you'd be driving a Porsche."

He opened his car's door, but held for a moment, counting to one before getting in the last word. "I was hoping," he said without turning around, "that it didn't make any difference what I was driving."

<Table Of Contents>

# 51. The Badger

Joyce, the station's third floor receptionist, was working at her desk. Having put off getting new glasses until her next annual increase, coming up in just 11 and half months, she found herself having to work unusually close to the copy she was editing for one of their lesser segment producers. Poor near vision, together with her extraordinary powers of concentration that often found her ignoring incoming calls, were about to be overcome by the unusual shuffling sound of something walking toward her desk. It was as if someone wearing unusually large fuzzy slippers was coming her way, unable, for some reason, to lift his or her feet the way normal people do.

"Hi." The voice was odd, in a cartoonish way, possibly electronically altered.

No response.

"Excuse me," the voice tried again to get her attention. This time it did.

Joyce looked up, her head rising slowly until she came to its head. The first thing she noticed was that the person standing in front of her was brown. Not brown as in Black or Hispanic. Brown as in covered with fur. "Hi....You're a what?" she speculated to the person in the costume. "A giant beaver?"

"Actually, I'm a badger. ' _The_ Badger,' to be precise, but the beaver costume was more comfo... It's not important. I understand that Dick Snykers... Yes, like the candy bar. They're both more than a little nuts. ...has a 10 AM meeting with one of your iTeam producers."

Joyce turned to look at her screen, "Yes," and then back to The Badger.

"Great. If you don't mind..." The Badger's voice seemed comical coming from behind his two giant white foam teeth. There were no lips or anything, but something about the way it moved its head and arms when it talked made it seem real. "...would you please pass out these fliers?" She took them, but he didn't wait for her to answer. "Thanks." And The Badger turned quickly, which was particularly impressive given the size of his/her costume feet, then back again. "See you later, maybe?"

"You're flirting with me?"

"Badger's have needs too, you know," he told her, blowing Joyce a kiss, the big three fingered right paw of his costume touching his teeth and swinging wide in a grand gesture. He/she, whatever – The Badger was strictly PG-rated, having no obvious breasts or genitals. – spun around and walked off toward the one of the two elevator doors that had just opened, its beaver/badger tail firmly Velcroed to the back of its furry suit.

Joyce, who had a less than fulfilling personal life, watched as The Badger shuffled away, waiting for it to turn, hoping to see its smile, its teeth, one more time – but was, unfortunately, interrupted by someone opening the door to the stairs so aggressively that it banged into the stairwell wall. "Come on!" a man said loudly, looking impatiently at someone else Joyce couldn't see yet. "If you hadn't been so damn polite, we wouldn't have missed the elevator. I don't want to be late." The other person was a woman for whom the man held open the door, but barely, not waiting for her to clear the doorway before abandoning her on his way to Joyce's desk, the woman almost jogging to catch up with him.

"Hello. My name is Dick Snykers," he said brashly, gesturing with his hands and eyebrows as if somehow Joyce should have known.

"Hi," the woman behind him said politely, making an effort to smile. "I'm Elai..."

"We have a 10 AM appointment," the husband interrupted, apparently carrying nothing about what his wife had to say, "with a Mr. Radner. He's one of the investigative re..."

This time it was Joyce who decided to interrupt, having already determined that she was no fan of Mr. Snykers. "I know who he is. If you'll follow me..."

"Hold on." Mr. Snykers had just noticed the stack of The Badger's fliers lying on top of some other papers on Joyce's desk. Grabbing one of them, what he saw – and what his wife and now Joyce were also studying – was a collage of pictures of him in suspiciously close conversations with various women who, it turned out, were coworkers. "What the...? Where did you get these?"

"Are you kidding? Some guy dressed like a badger, actually more like a beaver, left them off." Joyce paused for a moment to lean to her right to look around her irritated visitor. "There, you just missed him." Joyce pointed to The Badger, still visible just inside the evaluator doors he'd been holding open long enough to wave goodbye to Dick.

Speaking of Dick, he had no idea what to do, so he just stood there, both his hands squeezing the flier he was holding. Taking a deep breath, he gave his wife a look, like somehow it was all her fault, and then lunged to snatch up the rest of the fliers before others could see them. It was a fast, almost violent move that left Joyce not knowing exactly how to react, and Elaine Snykers looking down at the commercial carpet on which she was standing.

Joyce did her best. "Well, uh, let's go to the conference room, and I'll let you get settled while I walk down the hall and tell Ira you're here." Pushing back from the edge of her desk, she slipped on her leather flip flops and headed to her left, Mr. Snykers moving up uncomfortably close behind her.

"Excuse me?" It was Elaine Snykers, still in front of the Joyce's desk. "Which way would the ladies room be?"

"For heaven's sake, Elaine." Dick seemed to have only one tone of voice.

"Just across from the lobby, to the right of the elevators."

This time his wife was less timid. "We're early," she said in a forcibly calm, measured pace, arms at her side, the palms of her hands flat and facing downward as if to make it clear she was staying put. "You go ahead."

Dick stared at her for a couple of long seconds, saying nothing.

"Come on, Mr. Snykers." Joyce began walking away. "There's water and juice drinks on the sideboard," she told him, gesturing through the glass door. "Please help yourself. Ira will be right with you."

Having dropped Mr. Snykers off, thankfully, Joyce was on her way down the hallway to where the iTeam members ("i" for "investigations") had their offices. And there he was, coming around the corner in her direction. Not too tall. Not too good looking. Just the right amount of nice for a girl to fall for him without getting in the way of first rate investigative reporting. "Hey," she smiled in his direction.

"Hey. Is my 10 o'clock here?"

"In the conference room," Joyce told him, spinning to walk next to Ira down the hallway. He was fit and a fast walker, but she could keep up. "...You know this guy's a nut ball, don't you?"

"Actually, I'm not so sure. A jerk maybe, but I've talked to two credible witnesses that have seen this beaver he called about."

"Badger," she corrected him just outside the conference room.

"What?"

"Looks like a beaver, but calls itself 'The Badger.'"

"Annnnd, you know that how?"

"Hey. I know stuff. Make me an AP and I'll tell you." She smiled, and opened the door for him, lingering to watch Ira extend his hand to Mr. Snykers before leaving to go back to her desk. Mrs. Snykers was also there, having made it back from the ladies room on time.

"Good morning. I'm Ira Radner."

"Mr. Radner," Dick Snykers shook his hand. "You look taller on TV."

"And, you must be Mrs. Snykers?"

"Elaine. Please call me Elaine."

"Good. Interviews like this tend to be more productive if we're on a first name basis. Please. Sit down." Reaching for one of the pads they kept stacked on the conference table, Ira Radner took out a pen from the right side pocket of his pants and removed the cap. "Okay. Start at the beginning and give me the highlights of what's been happening to you. We'll get into more detail later if it seems worth investigating."

"Of course it's worth it," Dick responded aggressively, so quickly that Elaine put her hand on his arm, which he yanked away from her. "...Look. I'm sorry. All this harassment these past few months is making me crazy. He even..."

"Who?"

"The Badger. He was here, in your lobby, just a few minutes ago."

"What for?"

"To leave off these." Dick handed Ira one of the now slightly crumpled fliers he'd taken from Joyce's desk.

"Who are these women?"

"They're, uh, people... girls that work around the office."

"Who do you suppose took these?"

"I don't know. Everyone with a cell phone has a camera....I don't know."

"And other than this flier?"

Dick sighed. His bravado and anger giving way, at least for the moment, to desperation. "People I work with have been getting email, some with pictures of me with women."

"All real or is someone making these things up?"

It was a question Dick chose to avoid. "There have been fliers, more or less like these, put on the windshields of cars where I work and in our neighborhood. Some of the email sent to my coworkers and supervisors, people I work for, have sound files attached."

"Saying what?"

"They're recordings of me making what I thought were off the record comments, you know, like 'Bob? That asshole?' or worse, where the 'Bob' I was talking about turns out to be my division boss. In fact it was Bob, after he damn near fired me, who suggested I call you when I told him the police wouldn't help."

Ira made notes, but didn't comment, preferring to let Dick spill his guts.

"A week ago, Elaine and I were at home, having dinner when a neighbor, this guy who lives a few blocks away, called to say someone in a beaver suit was going to door to door handing out lists of household chores they should remind me to do....I came to work the other day to find a month's worth of our garbage, the very same bags we..."

"I." It was the first thing Elaine had said. "You never take out the garbage."

"Whatever, use. A month's smelly garbage bags piled up on my desk with a picture of that damn Badger taped to one of them....I got back from a... from a late lunch a couple of weeks ago and found a crowd in our lunch room cutting up a layer cake 'some guy in beaver suit left off' with one of those edible pictures of me sleeping at my desk. It was damn near half gone by the time I saw it, but I could still make out the icing signature of 'The Badger.'"

"Any kids?"

"What you mean?"

"I mean, Dick, do you and Elaine have any children, kids that would be exposed to all this?"

"No," Elaine answered, her face devoid of any expression.

"When you and I were talking the other day," Dick wasn't finished yet, "when you agreed to talk to me, The Badger was down the street... at a bar..."

"Bar? Since when do 'bars' have nude dancers? Can you not, just once, be honest about what you do on your lunch hours?" Elaine was pissed. "...on your way home for the dinners you insist I make, but aren't there half the time to eat!"

"Hey!" Dick snapped back. "...Okay, it's a strip joint. What the hell difference does it make?! It's that f**kin' Badger we're here to talk about, stuffing dollars and copies of our marriage certificate in G-strings. Oh, my God!" Dick was starting to shout now, "Why are you doing this to me? One more, one more incident at work and I'm done. Do you understand, fired?! ...And I don't have one damn friend left," Dick started punctuating his words, repeatedly pointing his hand at Elaine, whose face moved back and to the side as if to get out of the his way. "Not one of my friends, even the shitty ones I don't usually hang out with, will so much as call me back! And you've done that. You did this to me."

"Wham!!" Ira slammed his open hand on the table. "Stop it! Both of you, stop it or get the hell out of here. What do you think this is, family counseling? Some reality TV show where you get paid for being mean or acting out? The police won't help you because, thank goodness, they've got better things to do. No one's getting hurt, and, so far as the police can tell, nothing The Badger is doing is illegal. At best... At best, our attorney tells me you could sue this guy for defamation of character, but that's only if what he's saying isn't true. Now calm down."

Ira waited a few seconds, feeling it was high time he took control over the interview. "Elaine," he shifted in his chair to look directly at her, "this has got to be your doing."

"No."

"What?!!" Dick was losing it again.

"Mr. Snykers, please. Be quiet." And then turning to look at Elaine again, "How can it not be you?"

"Look, I want out of our marriage. I've been begging Dick for months. I've even hired an attorney, but I didn't do this....Sure, I've complained to my sister, to some of my friends at the Y where I go sometimes to workout, but that's it. Honestly....It's not like I went on-line with YouTube or to MyMansADick.com and complained. I didn't do this. ...My god, Dick," Elaine turned to your husband, "with all the people you've offended or screwed, and I mean that literally, maybe it's one _them_!"

"What about your attorney?"

"Not a chance. It's best law firm in the city..."

"That _you_ can afford," Dick added.

"What's he mean by that?" Ira was curious.

"I have family money, an inheritance my grandparents worked their whole lives to leave me....It's how we can afford to live on what Dick makes."

"Have you considered getting a job?"

"I have one. It's part-time with a marketing firm, an advertising agency, while I'm taking courses, working to get my degree."

"...in Business? Gimme a break. What a waste of time. Who... Who in the world is going to hire _you_? To do what, exactly? What a joke! You couldn't so much as get a job cleaning people's houses, judging from the job you do on ours, and you think some company is going to give you a corner office? In this economy? Did you know," it was a rhetorical question, "she's talking about starting her own business? Unbelievable. ...Look," Dick snapped his head and leaned forward in Ira's direction, "are you going to help me or not?!"

"Mr. Snykers.."

"I thought we were all cozy on a first name basis?"

"Okay, Dick. Maybe this Badger character, this avenger of down-trodden wives, is worth a segment or two, but before I agree to go any further, there's a tape I think you should see." Picking up a remote control from the cabinet behind him, Ira turned on the widescreen TV at the end of the room. "Two days ago, the day after you called me, I was working late, down the hall in my office, when someone in what looked to me to be a beaver costume stops by to chat. He says he'll talk to me, provided I leave him alone and don't call the authorities. I think, 'What the hell,' and we walk down to one of the studios and chat, for about 20 minutes. ...I think the both of you need to see this."

And he played it, the two of them, Ira and The Badger, sitting in cloth backed directors chairs across from each other, just talking. What followed was an odd, sometimes brutally honest discussion of Dick and Elaine's life, about how she'd asked, then eventually begged – ironically, Dick would say, "badgered" – her husband to do household chores, to work harder, to maybe get a promotion, to have children, to come home after work and, most of all, to love her the way he had when they first met just a few years ago and, if not that, to let her go.

When it was done, Ira looked at Dick. "The Badger, whoever he is, claims he hasn't anything do with Elaine. Considers him- or herself to be a Lone Ranger of sorts, a champion of wives, and sometimes husbands, whose voice, The Badger told me off camera, isn't strong enough. He/she, whoever, told me it's a prototype, a special example of a new, on-line service he's going to be testing in several markets to encourage people to complain about stuff, to vent constructively and then, in special cases, when it's really important, to do whatever it takes, within the law, to make things right." Ira shook his head quickly, to get himself back on track. "That's not the point. Interesting maybe, but not the point."

Both Dick and Elaine sat quietly. "Dick, do you _really_ want me to run with this story? Do you really want me to play that tape, on our station and other network affiliates who pick it up, and on the Internet? Is that what you want? It's a story alright, but not one I really want to run at your expense and Elaine's."

Dick looked at Ira, but not at Elaine. And then he stood up and left the room, and then the building, without his wife. Ira and Elaine sat there for a minute until Joyce knocked and pushed open the door. "Uh, sorry to interrupt, but there's another meeting scheduled for 11. Should I see if I can move it to another room?"

"No," Elaine stood up, smiling politely, but clearly upset. "That won't be necessary. Mr. Radner, thank you for your time," she said, walking around the table to shake his hand and head out. "If you don't mind, would you please sit on the story until ...until I talk to Dick?"

"Of course," he responded compassionately, rising to his feet. "Of course. And you don't have to get back to me. If I don't hear from you, we'll just file it. That'll be that."

"Thank you." And she left.

Late that evening, after two more, nearly simultaneous appearances by The Badger, both of them humiliating and job-threatening events for Dick Snykers, two large furry forms drove up in separate cars to a moonlit, lakeside cottage they had rented in the country. Inside, lights out, the two of them standing fur-to-fur, their huge white foam teeth almost touching, the first words came from the smaller of the two beaver costumes.

"He's agreed to the divorce. Uncontested." She laid her right paw on the furry chest in front of her. "I get out with every dollar that's mine."

"And the divorce agreement?" Ira wanted to make sure it was a done deal.

"Signed, sealed and delivered – with the proviso that harassment by The Badger come to an immediate and permanent stop."

"I think that can be arranged. ...And maybe a party for everyone who helped us out?"

"Yeah," the smaller of the two badgers nodded her head. "I'd say a party is exactly what we need."

And there, still in the dark, The Badgers took off their costumes and made love. It wasn't the first time, or even just the tenth time since Elaine's sister had introduced them at a local gallery, but it was a good time, maybe the best time yet.

<Table Of Contents>

# 52. Schmutz Patrol

"Schmutz." According to the Urban Dictionary... Used by Jewish mothers to

identify that you've got some kind of crap on your face. Random, icky stuff that ends up on you or something else. "Dirt" in German.

Tuesday, 1:05 PM. An attractive thirty-something brunette in one of those fits-perfectly business suits only high priced women attorneys wear, makes her way through the noisy lunch crowd of professionals at this particular downtown grill where the other half of her meeting is waiting for her in one of the booths.

"Hey," the attorney, still standing, says to the women she has come there to meet who is busy reading something on her phone, her crab cake and fries platter half eaten. "I got held up on a conference call."

"No problem. Have a seat. You want something to eat?"

"No," the suit responded, reaching over, without asking permission, to take one of the other woman's fries. "I won't be here that long. Are you sure it's okay to talk here?"

"Yeah. It's too noisy for anyone to hear us, and everyone here," she paused to look around the room, "is too self-absorbed to give a shit."

The suit, Margaret Sunner, sat there, wondering if she was doing the right thing, mostly staring at the other woman's hair and the cheap blouse she was wearing. She was, the other woman, in her late twenties, good looking in a common sexy way, wearing no makeup, with hair that cried out for a more expensive cut.

The other woman had seen that look before on her clients' faces and chose to ignore it, almost. "In my line of work, it's best not to dress to attract attention or, in your case, to make a point."

"Hm," Ms. Sunner responded. "You come highly recommended." It was a statement Sunner made to reassure herself.

"For good reason," the other woman said as a matter of fact, without the least expression or inflection in her voice.

"Here," Ms. Sunner reached into her purse and removed a half page brown envelope which she slid across the table.

The other woman picked it up, pinched the metal clasp and opened the flap. Inside there were two sheets of paper which she unfolded and began to read. One page was a website picture of a man, an attorney at a rival law firm. The other page was all text. Satisfied, she put both pages back in the envelope and set it next to her on the table.

"Is this business or personal?" the other woman wanted to know.

"What difference does it make?"

"It affects what I look for."

After a brief pause, Sunner smiled ever so slightly. "Both."

"Fine. We'll get started as soon as..."

Not waiting for the other woman to finish, Ms. Sunner reached back into her pocket book and this time pulled out an unmarked business envelope that, as it turned out, contained $5,000 in cash. "Here."

"Thank you" the other woman responded without seeing or counting the money. "I'll have a report for you next week."

With nothing more to talk about, Ms. Sunner slid over, stood up and turned to leave without saying goodbye.

Thursday, 2:13 PM. The phone rang in the suburban offices of a regional house and apartment cleaning service. "Good afternoon. Schmutz Patrol. My name is Paulette." Her voice was that of a woman in her late 40s, pleasant and reassuring. "How can we help you?"

"Hi. I'm Mark Gutierrez. I got a flier in the mail offering..."

"...a free apartment cleaning?"

"Yes, exactly. I think I'd like to take you up on that offer. I just want to make sure I'm making no commitment to continuing services?"

"None at all, Mr. Gutierrez. No credit card on file, nothing. We're expanding into your neighborhood and have made the offer to encourage you to give us a try. Obviously, we hope you'll appreciate the quality of our work and will hire us on a regular basis, but that's entirely up to you."

"Good. And I see that your people are bonded."

"We are and, in fact, if you go to our website..."

"Actually, I'm there now."

"...you'll see the details of that policy. You'll also notice that we bring our own equipment and supplies, that all our cleaning materials are environmentally safe, and that we have excellent customer reviews. You can also Google us. We're on everyone's top 10 list of residential maid or cleaning services in the area."

Mark appreciated the pitch, but didn't have time to listen to it. "Great," he said impatiently. "How many people will be coming?"

"How large is your apartment?"

"Two bedrooms, two baths and a kitchen/living room area."

"Two, possibly three."

"Okay, let's do this. When would you be coming by?"

"How about tomorrow or Monday?" They were both days Mark would be tied up with depositions.

"Tomorrow's fine. I don't have to be here, do I?"

"No, but you will have to make arrangements for us to get in."

"No problem. The attendant just inside the front doors will be expecting you."

"Any special requests?"

"What?"

"Any particular cleaning problems you're worried about? Anything you don't want us to touch or use on a given piece of furniture?"

"Not really. Just ask your team to do their best to put everything they move back where they found it."

"Of course. And if you do think of anything, just leave a note on your kitchen counter. All I need is your apartment address and the email address to which we'll send you a report on Monday, letting you know precisely what we did – and making you an offer for continued service."

"Good."

"What's your address, Mr. Gutierrez?"

"I live at..."

Friday morning, 9:52 AM. Having parked their van in one of the service spaces on the side of the condo building, three young, attractive women, each of them wearing bright yellow t-shirts with "Schmutz Patrol" stenciled across their breasts, two of them towing cleaning equipment and supplies in small hand trucks, walked up to the security panel by the front doors.

"Hi," one of them spoke into the panel speaker.

"Yes?"

"We're the Schmutz Patrol here to clean Mr. Gutierrez' apartment."

"Of course." A moment passed while the attendant checked that day's schedule. "Please come in."

"Bzzzzz." And they were in, picked up a key at the front desk, and took the elevator up to apartment 1012.

Once inside, the three of them split up, each of them walking through a different section of the apartment holding iPads on which they appeared to be taking notes, perhaps on items needing special attention, and pictures to make sure anything they moved would be returned to where their client had left it. In the process, they were scanning for listening devices and cameras.

Moments later, "Everyone okay?" the one with the short blonde hair asked the others."

"I'm good."

"Me too."

"Okay," it was the blonde again, "I'll start with the kitchen."

"I've got the bathrooms," one of the other two volunteered."

"And I'll," the other woman confirmed, "work on his computer and the file cabinets." They'd leave the dusting, floors and windows for last. "I'll help out as soon as I can."

Without further conversation, they got to work. The other woman sitting down in the smaller of the two bedrooms that Gutierrez used for his home office, pushed up the lid to his laptop, the one he kept at home, and proceeded with extraordinary expertise to bypass passwords and copy pertinent recent email and files, not only from his home computer, but from his law firm's server into which she was able to login from his apartment. A small, portable scanner they brought with them took care of copying selected items on his desk and in his file cabinet. Before they left, she'd photographed the entire apartment, with special attention to family and other pictures – with the notable exception of a series of more personal shots and video clips collected in their own directory that she didn't think were anybody's business.

When they were done, everything was put back exactly they way they had found it, only cleaner.

Monday afternoon, at the downtown grill where they had met for the first time, again in one of the booths.

"Here's your report," the other woman, without fanfare or ceremony, handed Ms. Sunner a sealed white, 9 x 12 envelope with only a few pages inside, but also a high capacity thumb drive. "You'll want to pay special attention to the case files related to your client."

"Perfect." Ms. Sunner put the envelope in the briefcase she had brought with her this time, and got up to leave. "Oh, one other thing. Is he seeing anyone?"

"You make it habit of dating opposing counsel?"

"No, but then this trial isn't going to last forever."

"No. No one in particular, not currently, not as far as I could tell."

"Good." Ms. Sunner smiled for real this time, turned and left without so much as a 'Thank you.'"

The other woman watched her leave, and then sat there for a few minutes, thinking, turning the glass between swallows of her frozen banana daiquiri, a drink for which she'd acquired a taste during a recent vacation in the Bahamas.

10:38 PM Thursday evening. The other woman sat naked, except for her bright yellow "Schmutz Patrol" t-shirt, her back up against two pillows, her knees up backstopping her lover's iPad on which she was Googling something. It didn't matter what. Next to her, in his king size bed, Mark Gutierrez, also naked, but without a t-shirt, was making notes on the small yellow legal pad he kept on the headboard shelves behind them.

"By the way," Mark spoke up while rolling up a page and continuing to write, "Ms. Sunner's partner called this morning to set up a settlement conference. Those files I asked you to give her really got the job done. Thanks," he told her, making a kissing noise with his lips without looking up. "You know," he raised his eyebrows, turning his head slightly, "I understand professional ethics. If you'd never told me she'd come to you, and just did your job, I would have understood?"

"You would have?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I would have figured it out and sued your perfectly hard ass off. ...It's what I do."

"Well, it was my pleasure, honey. ...Oh," the other woman said, also without looking up, "when you have a chance, can I have copies of the pictures you took of me on the beach in Nassau, the ones you have in your computer, in the directory," she paused to smile and then moisten her lips, "you named 'Unbelievable'? I'm not sure I'll ever look that good again in bikini."

"What bikini? I don't remember there being any bikini."

"I mean later," she looked over at him, "when we finally made it to the beach?"

"Oh, yeah." Mark nodded, pretending as if he'd remembered something. Tossing his pad and pen onto the floor, he turned and dove, both hands overlapping in front of him as if diving into a pool, under the sheets, surfacing only long enough to tell her, the other woman, "Just think of me as a particularly frisky dolphin," as he pulled her down under with him.

<Table Of Contents>

# 53. The Desk

As is the case with everything I write,

except for a few details, this is a true story.

Prelude –

(To a short-short story? Why not?)

As you may already know, there are literary historians who contest the notion that William Shakespeare (4/26/1564 – 4/26/1616) was, in fact, the prolific author he is reputed to be. (Yes, as you may have noticed, he died on the same day of the same month on which he was born.) It is their theory that, acting as a front, Shakespeare took credit for the works of one or more of his contemporaries, namely Francis Bacon (1/22/1561 – 4/9/1626) and/or Christopher Marlowe (2/26/1564 until he was stabbed to death on 5/30/1593 at the age of only 29). Most scholars believe this debate is unwarranted and that William Shakespeare was, in fact, the genius creator of the works to which he signed his name.

In any case, relationships among these three men – Shakespeare, Bacon and Marlowe – varied from cordial, even warm, particularly between Shakespeare and Marlowe, to angry, resentful and distrusting. Some have even suggested that Bacon – who was known to have a nasty disposition, generally to be lacking any sense of humor and occasionally ruthless – may have arranged for Marlowe's demise, envious of his closeness to Shakespeare and angered by certain blasphemous remarks, quite shocking for their time, made by Marlowe about Bacon which Sir Francis took personally. Who knows?

What is known for sure is that Shakespeare's remarkable productivity stalled abruptly in late 1599, with no output – no play or poem – through most of 1600. The best he could manage was some reworking of Hamlet which he had first written in 1589. Why? Could it be that Shakespeare was distracted and, instead of writing, chose to spend the year rolling around with Gwyneth Paltrow? (Who wouldn't?) Of course not. That was the movie. In fact, no one really knows, but there is a school of thought that believes Shakespeare, who was a superstitious person, was affected by a gift he received about that time from none other than Francis Bacon himself. Alleged by Sir Francis to have been presented to encourage a reconciliation between the two, there are those who believe the gift had a much more sinister purpose.

It was early on the perfect Saturday morning, Jake's favorite day. He'd been up for a while, wrapping up one of the columns that would one day make possible the nice house in the country that was their dream. For now, their one bedroom city apartment would have to do. His nimble fingers were flying over his laptop's keyboard, until they stopped abruptly, for just a moment, before hitting the final period. "Done."

"Oh, yeah?" Eve was just coming around the corner into their kitchen/dining/family room where Jake worked on their coffee table while sitting, as far forward has he could be without slipping off, on their small sofa.

"Hey, good morning." Reaching up, he took her left hand, pulling her down and onto his lap. A quick kiss, and then he just looked at her, smiling, and her back at him, the way they did. "Okay," he said, "I'm three columns ahead. ...Well, two and half. I'll proof this one tomorrow morning." He liked to let them sit overnight. "Each of them really very good, if I do say so myself."

"And if you don't, who will?" she looked at him, as if pretending to say, "I'll be the judge of that." In fact, she was his biggest fan and loved his writing that, as it turns out, was what attracted her to him when they first met.

"And I got an email from Mervin," his agent, "to say he's crazy about the two chapters I sent him and may have someone who's interested."

"Oooo! That _is_ impressive. I think you deserve a special treat."

"Hold that thou..," but she kissed him before he could finish. "I was thinking we could take the day off and celebrate my creative genius," she kissed him again, "and your good looks by going into the country for some antique shopping. Maybe buy me an actual desk, something cheap I can refinish? Have lunch in one of those country stores? Maybe over-night at a quaint B&B somewhere?"

She kissed him, longer this time. "Okay," was all she said, pushing off his shoulder and standing up. "You know," she told him matter of fact, "if I were you," she kept walking, reaching down, her hands across her chest, to grab the corners of the t-shirt she'd slept in, "I'd be meeting me in the shower." Two slow steps later, when her t-shirt hit the floor, Jake was up and right behind her, picking up her t-shirt along the way because he was the neat one of the two of them.

One longer than usual shower and two bowls of cereal later, they were in their old Forester and on the road, out of the city, off the Interstate into the country. Jake was driving, prepared to rely on the navigator in his phone, if necessary. Eva, on the other hand, had her seat back, her bare fee up on the dashboard, reading a local travel guide she'd picked up at a yard sale a couple of weeks ago.

"Which way?" Jake was letting her take the lead, content to play airplane with his hand dangling out his open window.

"Just stay on this road until I tell you to turn left."

Thirty minutes, two left and three right turns later, they were lost.

"I have to tinkle," Eva announced.

"You tinkled before we left."

"Apparently, I didn't tinkle enough."

"Well, let's see," he pulled to a stop at an unmarked intersection. "Your choices are the woods," he looked to his left, "or the woods," he concluded, looking to his right.

"How 'bout that place?" Pointing out her window, they both turned to see a small, rundown country home in the distance, its small "Special Furniture" sign barely visible next to an out of control shrub at the street end of its dirt driveway. "Let's go there."

"Why not."

The driveway was long and uneven, the low points still wet from Friday's storm. At the end, there was a small circle of uncut grass. They pulled up, a few feet from the front porch steps, both of them relieved to see, but wondering about the late model BMW parked toward the side.

"Come on," Jake pulled the handle and pushed open his door, "you tinkle, I'll look around."

Between the two of them – Eva taught English Literature at a local community college. – they didn't have much, but a do-it-yourself desk should be affordable. Jake would use one of the kitchen chairs, or pick up something cheap with wheels at Staples.

The solid wood door was open, the screen door behind it hitting the usual bell when they let themselves in. Inside, what used to be the living and dining room was filled with wooden pieces, ordinary country items that were hard not to like. Nothing special. Nothing too weird or creepy the way so many antiques are.

"Oh." The particularly well-dressed thirty-something woman who came from the back, carrying an open three ring notebook, was surprised to see them. "Hi. Is there something I can do for you?...Actually we're not really open."

"Uh, I'm sorry to impose, but could I use your bathroom?"

"Of course. It's just down the hall," she said, pointing behind her.

"Is any of this is for sale?" Jake asked.

"Well," the woman walked further into the room, "yes and no. This was my grandfather's place, and his business. He passed away a few months ago. I'm just here to close up."

"Okay if we look around?"

"Of course. I'm not sure what I can tell you about any of these pieces. All I've found is this notebook he kept, but I'll do my best."

Eva was back and the two of them walked around for a few minutes, commenting to each other on this and that, but not finding anything in particular.

"There's more in the basement, if you'd like to take a look."

"Wait a minute." Jake had just noticed a desk in the corner, papers all over it, two file boxes stacked beside it, the top one with its lid off and leaning against the wall. An old wooden office chair was pushed unevenly under it. "What about this?"

"Actually, that was my grandfather's desk. ...Let me see," she paused while she set the notebook she was holding down on a dinning table and turned the pages until she found it. "Okay. Let's see. 'Unique piece, dating from the late 1500s.' Wow. Hard to believe. I had no idea. 'Originally brought to the United States from England through Annapolis in the early 1700s. Is claimed to have once been owned by...' Hm. Get this, '...by William Shakespeare, a gift to him from Sir Francis Bacon.'...This is interesting."

"Are you kidding?" Jake was skeptical, to say the least. "There's more?"

"Honey," Eva didn't believe a word of it, "that's just stuff these little dealers make up. No offense," she added, opening her eyes wide and gesturing with her hands as she turned toward their host.

"None taken. I'm just reading," she began her disclaimer without bothering to look up. "...Yeah, there's more alright. 'Selling price,' he wrote, 'shall be $100 to facilitate a quick sale.'"

"Quite the steal," Eva cracked, "for a desk Shakespeare once owned."

"Hey," Jake didn't want to be rude. "Let's hear the rest of it."

"It's okay. My grandfather knew his business and was well-known for his lively imagination." She looked up for a moment, but not at either of them in particular, remembering the occasional summers she had spent at the old house when she was a kid, before getting back to the business at hand. "...'Buyer must inspect item carefully and agree that there will be no returns. Buyer must assert that he is neither a writer..."

"What?" Eva was as surprised as Jake.

The woman kept reading, "...artist or inventor....Caveat emptor."

"Are you kidding?"

"That's what it says. Are either one of you any of those things?"

"Let's take a look at the desk," Jake responded, ducking the woman's question. "Do you mind if we...," Jake pointed to the piles of paper, mostly old receipts and some magazines, asking if they could remove them.

"Sure," the woman walked over to help. "Just stack them on the floor. ...Here. Let's pull the table away from the corner so you can get a better look at it."

The table was small. Thirty inches high, wide and deep. Open in the front, where you would pull up a chair. The top was smooth with inlaid trim. The sides and front panel were anything but. They were solid wood, top to bottom, side to side. No legs. Just square panels, with ornately carved intertwining vines from top to bottom.

Jake looked over at Eva, shrugging as he did. "Honey, it's in great condition. I wouldn't even refinish it."

"And why," Eva was still skeptical, "are you willing to sell this for only $100? I mean, if he really thought it belonged to..."

"According to my grandfather's notes, it's not his. Says here," she looked back at the notebook, running her finger along the text of an old form, "it's a consignment item from the estate of someone named Joseph Mitchell, a writer... Hm....who passed away in 1996, and then gives their contact information. ...Anyway," the woman looked up, "those are the terms. It doesn't actually belong to my grandfather. $100 it is. Up to you."

Two months later, Jake, sitting at his desk, the one they bought in the country, sighed for the nth time, his fingers resting motionless on the keyboard of his laptop. For another $30, the woman had sold them the old man's chair. Pushing back, Jake reached up to rub his face with both hands thinking it would help him stay awake.

"Hey. It's the middle of the night. What are you doing up?" as if she didn't know. "Come back to bed, honey.

"I can't write for shit. I'm behind on every deadline and what I do squeeze out sucks....Fuck," he mumbled, and then put his sweat sox covered foot on the front edge of his desk and kicked it – and his computer with it! – over.

"Hey?! What are you... You know it's not like we can could afford to get you a new one," Eva was rolling into her stern voice, but then stopped. "...What's that?"

"What?"

"Look here." Eva got down on her knees and pointed, just short of touching, at the underside of the desk's top. "This is lettering. These black marks. This is writing in some language I don't recognize." Slowly she moved her finger, left to right, along the first two of five lines, as Jake came down on to the floor next to her, both of them leaning forward to see better.

Touching the surface, Jake realized that, "They've been carved, maybe burned into the wood"

"Yeah, I think so. Get me some printer paper and a regular, lead pencil."

"Don't tell me you're going to..."

"Just like in the movies," which is exactly what she did. Holding one, then a second sheet of paper over the lettering – One page wasn't enough. – she rubbed the lead of her pencil over the letters. The result was a surprisingly clear sketch of the text. Having carefully lined up and taped the two pages together, she stopped by the copy center on campus the next morning and used the large page copier to make a single image she scanned and emailed to herself. The rest of that day, except for the two classes she taught, was spent at the library, going on-line and looking at real books, trying to place the symbols.

"I've got it!" Eva called Jake as soon as she figured it out.

"Got what?"

"I don't know what it means, but at least I identified the language."

"So what is it?!"

"Get some Chinese. You know what I like." She was as excited as she sounded. "I'll tell you everything over dinner."

"Deal. I need some good news. Drive carefully."

"See yah."

Later, sitting around their little kitchen/dinning room table, covered with open bait boxes from "#1 Son," the politically incorrect chain founded in the days when detective Charlie Chan was all people thought they knew about the Chinese... "It's 'Theban'," she told him, like he should have known what that was.

"The language of, what, actors?"

"That would be funny, if it wasn't so stupid. I said 'Theban,' not 'Thespian.'"

"I know, but I still don't know what it is."

"It's the language, the not-so-secret-anymore language of Witches, of the spells they cast."

"I don't believe in spells."

"Neither do I, but don't you want to know what it says?"

"Uh," Jake hesitated, not wanting to admit how curious he really was, "sure. So what does it mean?"

"I haven't a clue, but at least I know what language it's written in."

"Great. Now what?"

"I've found a Professor of Theology at Stanford who specializes in fringe religions."

"Our apologies to all our friends who are witches."

"Right. The point is, I called her from campus, and she's agreed to take a look."

Two days later, Eva was on the phone again calling from work. "Jake!"

"Hi, honey. Wait a minute."

"I can't wait. My class is taking a test. I've got to get back."

"Don't worry." Then there was the sound of crumbing paper. "I just need to file the draft of my latest column."

"That's great!" she said, to encourage him and thinking he meant he was emailing it to the paper.

"Two points," his disappointment evident in his tone.

"Jake, maybe it's better than you think. You know how you're always more critical of what you write than anyone else."

"Trust me, it sucks."

"Okay," Eva was tired of his whining. "Who cares. ...Actually, that was insensitive of me, wasn't it?"

"Maybe just a tad."

"Yeah, well, it could be I know why."

"Why what?"

"Why everything you've written, or not, since we bought that damn desk, stinks."

"So even you think my stuff sucks?"

"Only recently, but that's not the point. Read the email from Professor Swinson that I just sent you. I've got to get back. We'll talk about it tonight."

There, sitting at "the desk," Jake pressed the "Get Mail" button and waited a second for it to show up. "Blah, blah, blah, blah..."

"As best I can tell, the text you've sent me is what we, today, would call a curse. The witch who cast it, just prior to the onset of the 17th century if I'm reading the date reference correctly – a particularly powerful time for curses, if there ever was one, it being the change of centuries – is creating a hole of sorts, a pit into which all the creations of he who owns 'The Block'..."

"What block?" Jake thought to himself out loud.

"...will be drawn, quote, '...rendering the creator barren and wasted, all that he would have imagined being irretrievably lost so long as The Block is his. So I pray of the Gods, and bear witness on their behalf.' And there are some other words, maybe incantations, I can't figure out."

"What block?" Eva asked the same question when she got home to share the chopped chicken Cobb salad and fresh lemonade Jake had made for them.

Both of them stared at the desk, for only a second, and then back at each other. "Thirty by thirty by thirty," they said to each other in unison.

"It's the desk," Eva said.

"It's a cube."

"A block."

"Not just 'a' block," Jake was thinking. "It's 'the' block."

"But we don't believe in crap like this. It was probably just a 17th century prank, some Elizabethan era jerk's idea of a practical joke."

"That sucked the livin' creativity out of no less a creative genius than William Shakespeare for over a year?! I checked."

Jake stared at her, cocking his head slightly.

"So, what? You thought I got my Doctorate in English Lit by accident?"

"I love you. eBay or Craig's list?"

"Both. Why take any chances?"

"Right. The sooner the better."

And later that night, they collaborated to write an ad on the very desk they would be selling to a student of veterinary medicine who thought it would make a really interesting dog house for "Hamlet," the name he'd given to the mutt puppy he'd rescued from a near death experience at the pound to impress this girl he'd been dating, a dramatic arts student prone to overacting. That relationship didn't work out, but a pet is forever. "Price: $100." the ad read in part. "Buyer must assert that he is neither a writer, artist nor inventor. Caveat emptor."

And you know what? It turns out all that creativity the desk was holding back? Well, it all comes back as soon as you sell it, and then some. Word is Jake's has even taken up writing short-short stories for his blog. Imagine that.

<Table Of Contents>

# 54. Imperfect Together

"You know," Greg mumbled into his pillow, wondering if he'd been drooling, "I can feel you staring at me."

"That's not possible," Georgia responded from where she was sitting up against her pillows, her knees up, one hand on the TV's remote control waiting to see if she should change channels.

"Are you staring at me?"

"Well, yes. Sort of."

"How did I know?"

"Because you can feel the intensity of the anguish emanating like laser beams."

" _Red_ laser beams."

"Yes. _Red_ laser beams out of my electric blue eyes."

"That's it exactly." Sitting up, Greg grabbed and stacked up his pillows against the headboard, fluffing them just so, scrunched his tush up and interlocked his fingers while staring mindlessly at Jimmy Fallon's monologue. "Okay, I'm up. What's bothering you?"

"Lisa and... and what's-his-name broke up. She's devastated."

"Lisa was 'devastated' when the African violet we got her for her new apartment died."

"I know, but she was attached to that plant. It was like a member of her family."

"Then she should have watered it. Maybe if she'd watered what's-his-name..."

"Okay," Georgia answered, cocking and lowering her head slightly while she raised her eyebrows to acknowledge his point, "but it's still sad they broke up. She really liked this guy."

"I'm sure she did, and the one before him, and the one before him, but I'm not surprised. She's one of your best friends and still, after months of dating this guy, you don't know his name."

"They seemed so perfect together."

"Come on. You didn't wake me up to tell me that Lisa's back on the market."

"We have nothing in common."

"You and Lisa?"

"No. You and me."

"We both like Jimmy Fallon."

"Yes, but me more than you. Even that, me more than you."

"Okay....Okay, let's do this right. Don't move." Getting out of bed, Greg walked across their loft to his desk, picked up a yellow pad, grabbed a pen and got back into bed. Without his contacts in, he had to hold the pad closer than usual to his face.

"Mm, you're so anal," Georgia noted out loud, closing her eyes and shaking her head slightly while Greg drew two vertical lines, writing "What," "You" and "Me" at the top of the page. "Ever since you read that book on..."

"Forget the book. By the way, I prefer "organized" to "anal." Now go ahead. Pick any subject."

"No."

"Go ahead. It's 12:40 in the morning. Put your money where your mouth is, or lose for-ev-er the right to make this argument."

"What argument is that?"

"The 'we have nothing in common' argument."

"Fine."

"Fine," Greg answered in kind.

"You can't just diminish the impact of my 'fine' by repeating it."

"Agreed. It was an instinctive reflex, like needing sleep, which, because I love you, I'll do my best to repress. You go first."

"Alright," Georgia was ready. "Politics. I'm a fiscal conservative, you're a Democrat."

"I can be both."

"Don't be ridiculous. Have you ever said 'No' to a social program even if we couldn't afford it?"

"Okay, I'll be a Democrat, but only if you admit to being a Republican."

She paused, "Deal, but with an asterisk."

"This list is going to have footnotes, and you think I'm anal?"

"In the interest of precision, and I know how much you appreciate precision, I want you to note that I'm agreeing to these simple-minded distinctions only because it's late."

"Agreed," and Greg drew a horizontal line. "What's next?"

"Believes in sex on the first date?"

"What kind of question is that?"

"It's a question, a perfectly valid question that goes to your attitude toward relationships."

"Honey, _we_ had sex on our first date, willing, desperate, consensual sex on the first date."

"That wasn't exactly our first date. More like a preface to our first date."

"You're saying we had sex _before_ our first date. How's that even possible? What did we, bump into each other on the subway before we'd actually met? Why am I just hearing about this?"

"Do you even remember? We met at a party. I'd spilled some chili on my blouse. You came to my rescue. We went into the kitchen for some water. The next thing we knew, we were grabbing each other in their garage, making love on the hood of..."

"You know, I don't remember how we got from the kitchen to the garage?"

"That's because you blacked out as soon as you touched my breasts. ...Still do."

"I do not!" Greg was beginning to take this personally.

"What difference does it make?"

"Okay. 'Yes' on both sides. There. That's something we have in common."

"Big deal. ...Let's do race. "You're white. I'm Hispanic."

"So?"

"Write it down," Georgia insisted.

"With an asterisk. 'Hispanic, but doesn't speak Spanish or even like Mexican food.'"

"I eat tacos."

"Everybody eats tacos....Religion." It was Greg's turn. "I'm Jewish, but not religious. You were raised Catholic."

"Perfect. That's a perfect example. Remember how your parents reacted to hearing that, when you finally got around to telling them?! I still can't believe you let them think that Gomez might be a Jewish name?"

"In my defense, there are Hispanic Jews. You could have been one of them, with a tan."

"Yeah, how many? Just how many Hispanic Jews are there?"

"I don't know exactly, but now that my parents know, they're..."

"Fine?"

"Adjusting....I'm drawing another horizontal line." Greg was ready to change the subject. "I like sea food, sea food and vegetables, preferably wild and organic."

"Yes. Be sure to mention arugula, goat cheese, and all that new cuisine crap you're always ordering."

"I can't believe you're attacking the food I eat. You, on the other hand, never met a carbohydrate you didn't like."

"So I like pasta and an occasional cheeseburger."

"If by 'occasional,' you mean 'daily'?"

"I like to think of myself like a Vegan," Georgia felt the need to explain, "that only eats carbohydrates."

"Right. Like a Vegan. I'll make a note"

"Thank you....Sex?"

"I'm male. You're female. You're not holding that against me, are you?"

"That's gender. I meant to ask, when do you prefer to have sex?"

"He," Greg moved his pen while talking about himself in the third person, "prefers morning sex, but then you knew that, while..."

"She prefers nighttime sex."

"You know," Greg couldn't help himself, "it's nighttime."

"No, no. It's after 1 AM. The nighttime sex ship has sailed."

"You're referring to the USS Fornicate?"

"Exactly. Left the port. Out to sea. In international waters."

"I get the point."

"Parents. Draw another line....Parents." Georgia was determined to keep the conversation on point.

"What about our parents?"

"Your parents like me. My parents don't."

"Your parents don't like me?"

"No, they think you're great. It's me they don't like."

"Don't be ridiculous. You have two loving parents.."

"Who have never recovered from my dropping out of college."

"Are you kidding? Have you seen how proud they are of how you've been buying and renovating these houses, at the crew you've built and the money you've been making?"

"Thanks, honey. I needed to hear that, and I couldn't have done it without you."

"...and that's be-cause?"

"Because," Georgia repeated the phrase he loved to hear, "you're not only good in bed, you're a financial genius, God's gift to accounting."

"'Great.' 'Great in bed.'"

"Right, but we still don't have anything in common."

"Okay, I'll keep playing, but only because it's late and I'm not thinking clearly."

"Entertainment. I like to watch TV. You like to read."

"You read stuff."

"The ads in the Sunday paper don't count, although I do spend a lot of time on the Internet, reading blogs and the cable news websites. You read actual books."

"And this is a material difference?"

"No. Not all by itself. Gimme a break. There's a collective point I'm trying to make here."

"Okay. I can do this. What's next?"

"Foreplay?"

"What about it?" Greg was thinking it might be a trick question.

"You need it. I don't even like it all that much. I'm busy out of my mind and meanwhile my boyfriend is taking his time."

"I thought you liked it."

"Do you remember the garage sex we had, that we were talking about during the monologue? The time we spent in the kitchen..."

"...before I blacked out?"

"Yes. That was foreplay for me."

"So I've been wasting time all these months we've been sleeping together?"

"Yes."

"Soooo, we could have had, like two or three times as much actual sex?"

"Two times would be my guess. I think I just need to have sex more frequently than most women, so far as I know."

"And you're just telling me this now?"

"To be honest, I got tired of waiting for you to figure it out for yourself."

"Well, good. Thank you for keeping me in the loop as it were. So good news, we now have in common that neither one of us gives a hoot about foreplay."

"That reminds me," it just occurred to Georgia, "Language."

"We both speak English."

"I use the full array of traditional four letter words. Your idea of cussing is to say, 'Phooey.'"

"Fine. I'm drawing another line. What's next?" Greg folded the first page over the top of the pad and drew three more vertical lines, hurriedly, not so straight this time.

"Where?"

"Where what?"

"Where do we each prefer having sex?"

"In bed, in the shower and on the couch," Greg was quick to list his choices, "in that order. As for you, after what you just told me, I'm guessing pretty much anywhere."

"We don't have a couch, just a futon."

"Well then we need to get one. ...Music. How 'bout music?"

"You like country," Georgia shook her head from side to side, sighing slightly in the process, never having understood his appreciation for boring (her opinion) music. "I, on the other hand, like rock and roll," which she said while doing a little dance with the top half of her body.

"You make us sound like Donnie and Marie, only with less teeth."

"Just write it down."

Greg did.

"Are they friends of yours from the office?"

"Who?"

"Donnie and.."

"They're a brother and sister act. 'I'm a little bit coun-try'," Greg sang in a bad falsetto, and then, "'I'm a little bit rock and roll'," in his normal voice.

"What?"

Greg turned his head to look at her, feigning distain.

"And we never go dancing."

"That's because neither of us looks cool dancing, as you were just demonstrating so aptly."

"'Aptly'? Who says 'aptly'?"

"Anal people who read books. Let's keep going. It's only a matter of time before I pass out."

Georgia thought for a moment. "...Personal habits. You're compulsively neat, but don't mind cleaning up after me for some reason, which, I admit, is a point in your favor. I, on the other hand, am somewhat less neat."

"Go."

Georgia was on a roll. "...Personal hygiene."

"You've got to be kidding."

"You only shave once ever other day or so. Stubble can irritate my skin."

"I had no idea you were so sensitive. And you shave under your arms and legs how frequently?"

"Good point. Let's move on."

"Let's not." Greg was exhausted, literally. "Here's the deal."

"You've stopped writing."

"You're the most important thing in my life. You're also the most important thing in _your_ life."

"Hey!"

"No interrupting. That's something else we have in common."

"Are you kidding?! I do care more about you than I do about myself. Really. I know. Hard to believe, but I do. It's true."

"I was crazy about you that day in the garage, and I still am."

"Crazy?"

"Yes," now it was Greg's turn, "but in a good, meaningful way. I never get tired of hearing her voice. Something about it makes me feel good. And you make me laugh, not so much right now, but most of the time. For a guy like me, the only one of his ethnic group that's not naturally funny, that's a bigger deal than you might imagine. You're extraordinary and, at the risk of blowing a really good thing, I have no idea why you go out with me. I even like the way you reach out for me, touching my elbow and knees in the middle of the night."

"Don't flatter yourself. I do that in self-defense."

"So, are we done?"

Georgia didn't answer immediately, but then, "Yes," her voice serious, almost determined.

"Finally."

"No, I mean 'Yes.'"

"Yes, we're done?! Are you kidding?," Greg seldom got excited, but was on the verge of losing his calm. "One of your screwball friend's personal life hits a pothole, and our relation tanks?!"

"No, bozo." Georgia turned to face him. 'Yes,' I'll marry you."

Greg put his mouth on pause while he looked carefully at Georgia's face, one feature at a time. "Are you asking me to marry you?"

"No. I just assumed, you know, by inference, I just assumed you were asking me, and I was responding. In the affirmative."

"Uhhhh, I was. Yes, that's exactly what I was doing. For the record, just to be clear, ..will you marry me?"

"Yes."

"Okay then, can we get some sleep?" Greg tossed his pad and pen onto the floor, reached up and turned off the light on his nightstand, sliding under the sheets and turning sideways toward Georgia who was still sitting up. "I love you." It was something, the last thing he said to her every night, reaching over to touch her side while he closed his eyes.

Georgia turned off her light, but didn't scrunch down, the only light in the room coming from the TV and the city lights outside their third floor windows.

"You know," Greg mumbled into his pillow, "I can feel you staring at me."

"Which one of us is telling his parents first?"

"What difference does it make?"

"Which one of us?"

"Okay," Greg shot up. "Rock, paper, scissors." And they did it.

"Good," Greg said victoriously. "Your parents first, Saturday morning over breakfast." And he was down on his pillow, eyes shut.

A minute later, "I think you cheated. I don't know how, but I never win. There's just no other explanation."

<Table Of Contents>

# 55. "Gesundheit!"

The street was busy that evening, as usual. Three narrow, unmarked lanes, one of them for alternate street parking, the one on the other side blocked by a delivery truck here and a service truck there. The pavement was still damp from the late afternoon rain, just a bit of steam rising where the sun, breaking through the clouds, was doing its job. There was still an hour or so of daylight. People, mostly young in this neighborhood, were coming and going in between and around each other, avoiding garbage bags that wouldn't be collected until late that night, and the occasional piece of throwaway furniture left at the curb. Racks of fruit, flowers and other stock protruded from the fronts of stores that were thriving on the flow of locals coming home from work. It was noisy with the sound of traffic and of people talking, too many to hear what any of them were saying.

Stepping quickly across the street, between two badly parked cars and onto the sidewalk, she walked up to the door to the right of the gyros place that was in the bottom of the converted tenement where she lived, five tall flights up. Without looking left or right, she put her key in the lock, the key with no chain to help find it, turned it, pulled back the heavy metal door and stepped into the dimly lit hallway, looking ahead to a brighter light at the bottom of the staircase.

Finding it easier to almost jog up the stairs, she kept her right hand on the banister and watched her feet to make sure she navigated the wedge-shaped steps at the top and bottom of each flight without tripping. She was is good shape, her legs well-toned from the months she had lived there and from the occasional running she did along the river to clear her head. On the sixth floor, her breathing quickly returning to normal, she smiled a polite greeting at the woman who lived in one of the apartments that faced the street, who was on her way downstairs with her new baby hanging out comfortably in the Snugli on her chest. "Will that be me someday?" our heroine wondered to herself. Turning to her left, she walked down the hallway to her apartment door that had long ago lost count of how many times it had been painted, currently dark green.

Jill, an aspiring screenwriter, paid the rent by doing research for a national news magazine. A fact checker, she spent her days reading, mostly on-line and at libraries, alone, with virtually no real interaction with anyone, which was good because "interaction" wasn't something she did very well. Jill was pleasant enough, actually very nice, but found small talk difficult and didn't make friends easily. Tonight, like most nights, she would make dinner, maybe watch some TV while she caught up with the handful of emails she received from friends and family, and shopped on-line for what she needed and could afford. And then she'd write until she was too tired to keep going. Eventually she'd fall to sleep with the little flat screen her parents gave her still on in the corner.

"Hey, Jill." It was Pete, her neighbor who lived in the flipped version of her studio and with which she shared a common wall. Pete was coming out of his apartment, through his door across the hallway from her door, on his way to the garbage cans that lined the alley beside their building. He'd been stalling for a couple of minutes inside his place, hoping for the opportunity to run into her. It was a bit creepy, but well intentioned. His voice, pleasant, but a bit higher than you'd expect from looking at him, startled her, but then it always did. Something about this guy made her nervous, but in a good way. They'd moved in about the same time, but hardly talked. She wanted to, but didn't really know how, and he was too timid to take the initiative.

Pete, by he way, worked for an up-and-going-nowhere apps software company, experimenting, in his spare time, with something so secret he wouldn't tell anyone about it, if only he knew anyone who asked.

"Oh, hi," she blurted back, followed by one more "oh" when she realized, turning so quickly to look at him, her hand still on the key in her door, that the top button of her blouse had become undone. Modesty had always been a problem for her.

"Sounds like a state," was all he could think to say. "Imbecile," he thought to himself.

"What?"

Stuck with what he'd said, he had no choice except to go with it. "Oh-hi ..oh." Pete couldn't help glancing down at the open button, but was embarrassed and quickly returned to the face that he so looked forward to seeing every day. "Uh, is there anything I can take down for you?"

"Sure. ...Sure. Give me just a second." Turning the key for the deadbolt and then the knob, she pushed open the door that closed by itself behind her. "Trash? I just took it out this morning." Not wanting to disappoint Pete, Jill grabbed the morning paper she was looking forward to reading that night, frantically separated the pages and stuffed the less interesting ones into her kitchen trashcan. Pulling out the bag, she grabbed one of the twister-ties she kept in a shot glass on her counter. "Wait!" she shouted, noticing the black newspaper ink on her hands, "I'll be right there!"

"No problem," Pete reassured her. "You know, these walls are so thin, you don't have to shout," he said in a normal voice, basically talking to himself.

"I know. I'll be right there," Jill answered, proving how easy it was to hear him.

Looking up and at the hallway wall behind Jill's kitchen, Pete smirked and nodded his head slightly. "It's okay. Take your time."

"Here." Jill flung open her door, her hands clean, her hair down when it hadn't been before, her top button still open, one arm holding out her garbage bag that Pete took from her. "Thanks."

"Sure," and then he just stood there, not knowing what to say.

"Will you be coming back?" she asked, but then added, based on the look on Pete's face, "From the garbage room?"

"Well, eventually."

"So you're going out?"

"No. I'm just going to the garbage room. ...I'll be right back."

"Good."

Pete started to walk away toward the stairs, but then turned back. "Why did you want to know?"

"Uh, no reason. No reason. ...Just making conversation. I don't know."

Pete nodded his head, took two steps backward to keep his eyes on her, smiled awkwardly and then turned rather than risk falling down the stairs.

Her arm down by her side, Jill raised her hand as if to wave goodbye to him. "What am I doing?" she whispered to herself. "Thank goodness he wasn't looking."

But then, just as he was starting down the first step, Pete leaned back. Looking down the hallway, he gave her a wave back. Distracted, the three bags he was carrying didn't clear the stairway wall and railing and he stumbled. Jill started to say something, but Pete beat her to it. "I'm good. I'm okay," and he was on his way down the five flights to the ground floor.

"See you later," she said to Pete who Jill was sure didn't hear her, and that was that. "Hallway dates," she called them, to herself of course.

Later that evening, Jill was sitting on her futon, eating a salad out of the large glass bowl she'd made it in, when the phone rang. Not her phone, but Pete's. She could hear it through the common wall their apartments shared.

"Hi, Mom....I'm fine, Mom," and then he walked away toward the other end of his tiny apartment where it would be harder, pretty much impossible for Jill to hear him.

After all this time, she'd long ago got over her reservations about listening to his calls – using the electronic stethoscope she bought on a whim, so she told herself, at "Spade's," a combination detective shop and bar she discovered one day when she was out running. It had started to pour and she needed cover. For $19.99 on sale, she got a suction cup with a wire running to a box that ran off a battery. She plugged her buds into that, and she was in business.

And so she listened to Pete's nightly call from his mother, mostly to just his side of it, imagining, often mocking what his mother was saying to him. "Yada, yada, yada. And," she continued in the hoarse falsetto voice Jill imagined Pete was hearing, "did you call Aunt Edna? You know she's home now from the hospital recovering from her record breaking underarm liposuction." Jill paused for a second to pinch the non-existent flab under her left arm, shaking it to see if anything flapped in the wind. "..Blah, blah, blah." And then, unexpectedly...

"No, mom," he told her, talking louder than usual. "No, I haven't asked her out yet."

Jill stopped chewing, her mouth still full of sweet potato chips and sour cream she was having for a snack. There was no way any crunching noise in her head was going to let her miss this part. "Who?" she whispered. "Who's she talking about?!"

"When was the last time I talked to her? Mom, are you kidding?...Today, Mom, when I was taking out the trash."

"Oh, my God! ...It's me," Jill whispered to herself.

"Yes, I like her, Mom. She's beautiful."

"I'm beautiful?"

"Actually, 'really attractive' is more like it."

"I'll take it." It was a great complement, but for some reason she was disappointed, as if she'd just been downgraded.

"Sexy?" And then, remembering he was talking to his mother, "You know, Mom, I don't really feel comfortable... ...Yes, sexy, but in a casual, not at all slutty way."

"I'm sexy," Jill smiled. She felt better now and, flirting with herself, undid yet another button, the bridge of her bra showing just a bit.

"And she's funny."

"By which he means 'witty,' not in a slapstick or vulgar way....Wait a minute. How does he know I'm funny? Has he been listening when I read my scripts?"

"And she's.. She's..."

"..out loud?...I'm what? Com'on, spit it out."

"She's... Ahhhhhhhchooo!"

"Gesundheit!" Jill responded instinctively, in a loud voice, realizing immediately what she'd done.

"...Mom." The woman was nothing if not hard to interrupt. "Mom! ...I need to get off. Call me tomorrow," and Pete hung up.

"Shit!" Jill mouthed to herself, but without uttering a sound. "Shit, shit, shit!" This was obviously a moment of high trauma given that Jill never really cursed and only recently allowed herself the occasional s-bomb since mainstream cable censors started approving it in shows airing after 10 PM. True, she was troubled by this turn of events, the cursing in particular, the result of an overly polite upbringing she instantly blamed on her own parents. "Okay, I need a plan."

Pete, too embarrassed to say anything, didn't, say anything that is, and began spending the entire night, until he passed out, thinking about how precisely he would handle their usual running into each other on their ways to work. "I could leave early, or late," Pete thought to himself, "avoiding meeting her altogether. "No. That would send the wrong message, that I'm embarrassed or, even worse, didn't really care....No, I'll bring it up. 'I guess you heard me talking to my mother last night. It's true, I've been thinking about asking you out...' Honesty. That's good. Yes, I like that. No. 'I guess you...' Guess nothing, of course she heard me. Who am I kidding? She was listening on purpose. Why isn't that creeping me out?"

Meanwhile, over in her apartment, Jill was busy working on her own alternative scenarios on her laptop. "The key is how the female looks. I can't change the venue. The hallway and stairs are what they are, but how the female lead dresses will set the tone. Okay, okay. What are my choices?"

"Casual and confident? Normal work clothes? Jeans and a t-shirt, maybe with an open hoody? No makeup? I can't pretend to be someone I'm not. I need to be comfortable. Not just me, I need to make him comfortable too. ...Stop, stop. This sucks."

"How about sophisticated, but tentative so he'll feel needed? Business casual. Light, but noticeable makeup – if can remember how to put it on....Maybe just some lipstick and eyeliner? I'll be sophisticated. ...Who am I kidding?"

"I know," Jill giggled, "Instant hard-on. Yes. When has sex ever failed? Pretty much every time I've tried it, but just in case this is an exception... Besides, I'm desperate, an underrated condition if there ever was one....Okay. Flat out. Tank top. I have nice arms. No bra? No. Men turn into idiots when they see nipples. Light, very light bra. My one and only no-bra bra. Jeans. Bright red lipstick. No bun. My hair down, like I just got up. Run my hand through my hair. Carry my leather jacket down to the curb. Stay close on the stairs, bumping into him? No. Holding his arm once or twice. The heels, high enough to make me careful going down the stairs, but not so high that I actually fall. The navy blue ones will be perfect, but I'll have to practice. What's my excuse for wearing heels? What's my excuse?...A presentation? No. The Jeans and no-bra wouldn't be appropriate for a business meeting. I work for a publisher, not a strip club."

And so it went, until she passed out, still in the clothes she'd worn the day before. What seemed like only a second later, the buzzer of her alarm clock jolted her awake. "Whoa!" Jill sat up, shaking her head to make sure she didn't turn it off and go back to sleep. Checking the time, she knew she was running late. Pete was always punctual, something she counted on to make their frequent "chance" meetings happen. "Shower time!"

Twenty-two minutes later, Jill was at the small round table where she ate and did some of her best writing, pouring a second salvo of Cherrios into what was left of her skim milk, a half glass of orange juice waiting for her nearby, The Today Show playing in the corner. In her underwear, she was towel-drying her hair to give it the look she was after. After all that planning the night before, she'd decided to just be herself, turning up the volume just a notch. As for the script, she'd made some final notes. Other than that, she'd decided to wing it.

At 7:50 exactly, Jill put one arm through her backpack, and so did Pete. Both apartment doors opened simultaneously.

"Hey," Pete said, smiling to break the ice.

"Hey," Jill laughed slightly back at him, realizing immediately that they were both psyched. If something was going to happen, now was as good a time as any.

They stood there for a moment, just a moment, looking at each other.

"You look great," Pete told her.

"Thanks. Pretty much the same as usual."

"No. Your hair's different."

"Oh yeah," Jill brushed it back with her right hand. "I was running late and didn't have time to blow it dry....That," she thought she was thinking to herself, but wasn't, "and the t-shirt and bra I'm wearing."

"I... I guess so." Pete didn't now what to say.

"Ooo. You heard that, didn't you?"

"It's okay. I like it that you're so straightforward."

"Even when I don't mean to be?"

"Especially then....Come on. We've got to get going." Pete extended his left arm, gesturing for Jill to go first, which she did, but then stopped to turn back. He'd taken another step, leaving them closer together than they'd been, except for the occasional times when they would pass each other going up and down the narrow stairs.

"You don't usually wear a tie."

"No."

"In fact, I don't think I've ever seen you wear a tie. ...It's nice." Jill wasn't just being polite. It was surprisingly fine. "It may be," she thought to herself, for real this time, "the only one he has, but it's a good one. His collar open, his tie loosened just right, enough to be casual, but not enough to be sloppy. Light plaid shirt, sleeves folded up twice." He was the perfectly cute techy professional.

"I, uh, have a presentation." Pete's voice was tentative.

"No you don't," Jill blurted out, she had no idea why.

"You're right." Pete took a deliberate breath. "I didn't want you think I wore it just to impress you."

"What makes you think a tie would impress me?"

"When I was a kid, my mother used to tell me I looked good wearing one. That, and because I have no idea what I'm doing."

Smiling, but quiet, Jill turned and walked down the stairs with Pete two steps behind her, neither of them saying anything all the way down, through the building's front door and out onto the sidewalk.

"Well," Jill stopped and turned to Pete. "I was thinking..."

"Me, too. ...Sorry. You go ahead."

"No," Jill really needed him to go first. "What were you going to say?"

He paused, taking a moment to make sure he got what he was about to say right. "Well, we both get home about the..."

"Pete!!," a young woman barged in between them, literally pushed Jill out of the way. "Oh. Sorry," she apologized half-heartedly, extending her hand to shake Jill's. She was good looking, in a financially successful, briefcase-up-her-ass kind of way. Expensive business suit. Even more expensive haircut. "I'm L. It's short for Leslie. Pete and I dated for a while, quite a while actually, when we were in college." And then she cupped her hand to the side of her mouth, pretending Pete couldn't hear her. "...I think he lost his virginity with me, but he denies it."

"Hi," Jill was struck, but not entirely surprised by the firmness of L's grip. "Pleasure to..."

L didn't wait to make chit chat, preferring to talk to Pete. "Your mother..."

"You talked to my mother?"

"How else was I going to find out where you lived? Or whether or not you were still single?!"

"Leslie, I'm kind of in the middle of something. How about..."

"My point exactly."

"What?" Pete had no idea what she was talking about.

"Look. I've go to get to a meeting, and I'm flying back early tomorrow. We'll have a nice dinner tonight, my treat, and then," she smiled, setting her briefcase down and reaching up to tighten Pete's tie, her ample breasts just brushing against his chest, "...and then we'll see what happens next. ...How 'bout that?" L finished in a much softer, less arrogant, blatantly seductive voice.

"Look, uh..." Jill had had enough and was beginning to feel like she was in the way. "I've got to get going. Pleasure," she said nodding toward L. "...I'll see you around, Pete," and she turned and started walking away.

"Why don't we meet back here at, let's say, 7?" L was persistent and confident to a fault. "Unless, you'd prefer.."

"Jill!" Pete shouted after her. "Wait, up!"

Jill barely heard him, but stopped when she did, taking a second to compose herself before turning around and taking the few steps back to where he was dealing with L.

"Leslie," he said in a surprisingly determined tone.

"Yes?" She really had no idea what was going on.

"It's good to see you. Really....Sort of, but I have plans for tonight and," looking up at Jill who smiled back at him, "with any luck, tomorrow night and the night after that." Taking a step closer to Jill, L was squeezed to the side.

"Well, okay," L raised her eyebrows in disbelief. "Here." L took out a business card and slid it into Pete's shirt pocket, patting it after she did. "Call me. I've got to go." And she did, without either Jill or Pete watching her leave.

"I was thinking we could order Chinese tonight. I'll buy. You'll bring dessert. I have Netflix. Maybe watch a movie."

"Okay." Jill smiled again, mostly with her eyes this time. "That would be nice."

"Good." Pete took a step forward.

"Do I get to pick?"

"Pick what?"

"What we order?"

"Sure." Taking his bag off his shoulder, he pulled out the menu he had printed last night. "I wrote my email address at the bottom, just in case you needed it, and my cell phone number. Let me know what you want, but nothing weird. No squid, no mushrooms. I don't..."

"Of course not." Stepping forward, Jill reached up to re-loosen Pete's tie, letting both her hands slide away from his neck half way down his chest, her right stopping to take Leslie's business card out of his pocket. "We'll save the weird part for after the movie."

Pushing back slightly, they both smiled, turned and got on their ways to work, neither of them turning to look back for fear they'd screw something up.

<Table Of Contents>

# 56. The Ladies Room

"I don't understand why everyone's so upset." Alisha, now Assistant to the new CEO, stood outside the outgoing CEO's office, talking fast, the way she did, in a loud whisper to her girl friend, Mel, whose arms were full of supplies. By outgoing, in this case, we mean "dead."

"I know." Mel widened her eyes and tilted her head in agreement. "Sure, he founded the place. I get it, but the guy was like over 90 years old."

"Even so, you know, he was in great shape, for his age I mean. You know Wendy in accounting?"

"Sure. We used to chat when I was on her floor, until her hearing started to go."

"Well she's employee number eight or something, definitely less than 10, and she says the old man was never sick, never missed a day's work, not so much as a cold."

"I'm no doctor, but I'm thinking you're less likely to get sick if you never leave the office."

"True. He did work hard, right 'til the end....He may have been old, but he seemed fine to me, until his head hit the hardwood." Alisha rolled her eyes in the direction of the bookcase inside the old man's office where his body had been found.

"Shouldn't there be a chalk outline or something?"

"That's only if he'd been murdered."

"I mean, the guy dies trying to power screw his bookcase to the floor? What the..." she stopped talking as soon as they heard the new CEO coming down the hall from the stairs he always took, instead of the elevator that is. John Chocks, grandson of the Mr. Chocks who just retired, in a manner of speaking, was a person who didn't waste time or appreciate chit chat, or recognize junior staff, at least not while his grandfather was around.

"John!" This was a voice that got his attention. It was Roberta Green, General Counsel, her four-inch heels, the expensive kind with the red soles, snapping on the shiny marble floors. The older suit trotting next to her was barely able to keep up.

"Mr. Chocks," it was the suit talking, more than a little out of breath, "you can't do this."

"Do what?"

"Move into your grandfather's office."

"Who are you? And," John looked at Roberta, "why do I care?"

"I'm Hedges, Donald Hedges, attorney for your grandfather's estate."

"So? Did he leave me anything?" John was kidding. He already knew.

"Virtually the entire company."

"Virtually? Didn't I get 100% of his stock?"

"Yes," Mr. Hedges answered almost apologetically, the way John expected. Intimidation was, after all, something John had learned from the best.

"That's great, but also what he promised, what he told me he was doing, every day since I started working for him when I was in middle school. Other kids had lemonade stands. I was attending board meetings with the old man." It was John's odd way of saying he missed his father. "Other kids I knew went away to college. I stayed in town so I wouldn't miss anything. '...It is, after all,' he would tell me, 'the family business.' If he wasn't building it for me, what was the point of my hanging around all this time?"

"I understand, Mr. Chocks, but..."

"But what?...Roberta, I'm running behind. Help me out here."

"But there's a catch, John," she told him.

"I read the will, I don't remem..."

"Your grandfather insisted that you not...," Roberta was only saying it for the record, in front of Mr. Hedges. "...that no one occupy his office. He wants it locked, and left that way..."

Mr. Hedges felt compelled to say something, and so he interrupted, before he missed his chance, "'...for as long as the building stands.' That's precisely what he said. Even if you sell the building, this provision must be a condition of the sale. That was what _the founder_ of this company asked that you do."

"You're kidding?" John really didn't have the time for this. "I read the will. It was a request, not a condition."

"He could have made it a 'condition,' but he chose to leave it up to you, hoping you would comply."

"Okay. Good. Thank you, Mr. Hedges." He started to move, but Mr. Hedges reached out, grabbing John's arm, only to pull it back as soon as he made contact.

"You'd disregard your grandfather's final request?" Mr. Hedges was as stunned as a tight ass could be without seeming comical about it.

John just looked at him. "You're kidding." This time it wasn't a question. "My grandfather once ordered me to switch all the restrooms from two ply to single ply toilet paper because he said we were throwing it out anyway, what difference did it make. I didn't do that either." That matter having been settled to John's satisfaction, he turned toward the office door and propped it open with a one of his grandfather's heavy eagle bookends he took from a nearby shelf. "Come on, Mel."

Mel looked at Alisha, lowering her head and scrunching her eyebrows together, as if to say, "He knows my name?!" to which Alisha responded with a mini-shrug.

"Put everything on the table for me. There," he pointed to the small conference table in the corner, away from the windows.

"Yes, Mr. Chocks."

"It's my company now. We're on a first name basis, all of us."

"Of course,..." she paused for second, trying to remember his first name.

"John." He filled in the blank for her. "Come on. Let's do this. You too, Alisha."

But then John stopped, just inside the doorway, and turned back to look at Mr. Hedges. "Why?"

"Why what, Mr. Chocks?"

"What is it about his office that..."

"Excuse me, but your grandfather anticipated the question. I'm to quote: 'Tell the kid it's because that's the way I want it. No questions asked. Just do it."

"Wow." Alisha couldn't help herself. "Sorry."

"Sounds just like him. ...Thank you, Mr. Hedges. You too, Roberta. Now I've got work to do."

Later that night, the entire building was clear except for security in the lobby. It was an old structure, what passed for a high rise in the era when it was built, carefully and with style. His grandfather had moved in as a minor tenant, but grew the company until he eventually bought the building when the original owner fell on hard times. It was shortly after John had been born. Since then, the entire interior had been refinished, not modernized, but refinished. Period architecture and furniture. State of the art in every other respect.

They had every one of the 12 floors, and yet his grandfather declined one of the executive suites on the top floor for a large, comfortable, but otherwise ordinary interior office two floors below.

"John," Alisha said tentatively. It would take her a while to get used to this first names policy.

"Yes?" he responded, having walked around the desk to where his grandfather sat, looking at, but not yet touching the papers and unopened mail strewn about its surface.

"These last few months, whenever he borrowed me to work for him, he really was emphatic that – someday, when he would be 'gone,' as he put it – no one should take over his office, that we should lock it up and leave it alone. 'For how long,' I asked him? 'Indefinitely,' he told me, and he was serious. And no matter what, we were never to take out any of the furniture." Worried that she'd overstepped, she thought she'd better add, "I just though you should know."

"I hear you," he said, looking up and around the office, out the interior hallway windows along the wall to his right, at the open door to the office and small conference table across from where he was standing, and at the hardwood floors his grandfather chose not to cover.

About the hardwood floors, "I want to make sure I can hear them coming," his grandfather would joke, "even after I'm gone."

There was a bookcase on the wall to his left – the one his grandfather had been working on when he died – and a red leather armchair in that corner. "We'll see....This guy, my grandfather," John thought out loud, "led every major innovation this company has undertaken, right up until the end, but never remodeled this office. Never so much as changed or, I don't think, rearranged the furniture in the more than 30 years since he bought this building. What kind of mind that creative never changes anything in his own office?"

Later that night, he sat, not in his grandfather's chair... He hadn't done that yet. ...but in one of the two wooden guest chairs on the other side, the finish long ago worn off the arms and seats. He sat there for almost an hour, waiting for the image of his grandfather and the sound of his voice to fade, but it didn't. It would have been different if his father were around, now and for the past almost 30 years since he walked, maybe ran away from his family and the business that would have been his. He left not long after John was born, just after he tried to oust his own father. He'd come to work one night, late, the only one on the floor, broken in to his father's office which was always kept locked, and never came home. "Never called. Never so much as a note," John thought to himself.

The detectives they hired, the way people with money do, then and several times since, turned up nothing. He came in past the guards, the same guards that never saw him leave, but then who knows if they were paying attention. "Dad was a big tipper, when it mattered. Maybe he paid them off." Precisely when he left, no one was sure or would talk about it even if they did know. There were no cameras that long ago. All they knew was that he had time to trash the office that would have been his. "The old man," John leaned back, watching images of his grandfather, feeling the fear-colored respect that had characterized their relationship, "just wasn't ready to call it a day, even if it meant going up against his own son. And Dad, wherever you are, I guess it was your way, or the... " He was too bitter to finish, and didn't like the trite sound of an expression that didn't do the history justice.

Getting up, John stretched, tucked in his shirt which wasn't out, but wasn't just right either, and then looked around, his eyes drawn to the orange plastic handle of the power screwdriver still resting on the bottom shelf of the bookcase against the wall. Walking over, he knelt down and picked it up. "What the hell, Amos?" his grandfather's first name. "What were you doing? What couldn't wait until the morning for someone in maintenance to handle?"

It was a large, wooden, stand-alone bookcase, pushed back as far against the paneled wall as it could be, flush up against the molding along the floor. That left maybe three quarters of an inch between the back of the case and wall behind it. "Nothing," not that he could see anyway. But then he looked down. "Hm. I wonder what that is?" It didn't make sense, but there was faint, barely noticeable light at the bottom, along the edge of the wall behind the bookcase, as far as he could see.

"Let's find out." There was no one there for him to talk to, but it was somehow comforting to hear the sound of his own voice. Getting down on his knees, John threw the switch on the screwdriver to what he just assumed to be the unscrew position, pulled the trigger once to make sure he had power, and got to work. The screws were the heavy-duty kind, placed in pre-drilled holes into the bottom shelf, and they weren't new. Wooden plugs stained to match the shelves had made them inconspicuous among the papers and notebooks that were around and over them, now strewn on the floor, still lying where his grandfather must have thrown them. "Wait a minute." The power screwdriver was turning the wrong way. "He wasn't screwing them in. He was unscrewing them....I wonder why?"

Throwing the switch back to where his grandfather had set it, one at a time, John took out the six remaining screws, his grandfather having taken two out himself before he died. When he was done, John stood up, thinking he'd slide the bookcase along the hardwood floors and see what was behind it. He growled, struggling to move it, but it didn't budge. "Hm." It was obvious. He'd have to take everything off the shelves. "Lighten the load." He did and, a few minutes later, tried again, growling louder than before, but with the same result. "No more screws. ...Nothing. ...I know. It probably just hasn't been moved in while. It's probably just stuck."

Picking up a couple of the plastic covered reports from the floor, he hurriedly took the covers off and walked with them to the end of the bookcase. Dropping one on the floor, he put the palms of both his hands against the side and pushed up this time, as hard as he could. And it worked. He couldn't slide it forward, not yet, but what he did do was lift his end up just enough to slip one of the covers under the edge. Same deal on the other side. "Okay, Amos, watch this....Ehhh," and this time it moved, slowly at first, and then faster until he'd pushed it, toward the red chair in the corner, well past where it had been standing who knows how many years.

And there it was. A door, with molding, hinges, the works – even light coming from under it. And a sign, "Ladies."

John just stood there, maybe six feet in front of the door, looking at the light and then at the brass panel you'd push to open it. "This is an interior office," he whispered slowly." Running into the hallway, he stopped in front of the adjacent space, a conference room with double doors that were always kept open when it wasn't in use. It was empty. More to the point, there were no interior walls other than the one that backed up to his grandfather's office.

Outside, he marked the end of the conference room with the heel of his left foot and, heel-toe, paced his way back to his grandfather's office door, and then did the same thing inside the office to the wall. "Plus or minus a few inches," he said to himself, "there's nothing between here and conference room. But then I already knew that....I must be dreaming. Of course. I'm dreaming. It doesn't feel like a dream. I must have fallen asleep at his desk. It's late. I must have been really tired and probably more upset than I'm willing to admit. ...It's a really, really good dream, but a dream nevertheless....So why don't I feel better about this? ...Because it's a scary dream? I probably won't even remember it in the morning."

"What the hell. It's late and I could stand to go to the bathroom," and he giggled because he knew there wasn't anything on the other side. "Probably just something left over from when they did the remodeling. "Although," he thought, "the light coming from under the door is... Well, that's the great thing about dreams." Walking up to the door, John put his left hand on the brass panel on the right and pushed the door inward, wide open until it stopped and stayed that way. The light and noise were unexpected, but didn't stop him from walking inside, into what couldn't be there. To his surprise, it appeared to be a lounge, not a restroom, but a bar, and a not at all sleazy or weird one, but the nice neighborhood kind he figured he'd open one day. "Figures."

"Oh, hi!" A very attractive woman greeted him, foaming beer glasses in each hand, on her way to one of the tables. "Stay right there..." She put the glasses down, said something to one of her customers, and came back to John who hadn't moved and inch. "Hi."

"You said that."

"But then I didn't say it right." And she reached out, grabbed his shoulders and pulled him toward her, kissing him just barely first, and then not so barely after that, pressing her chest against his, their arms sliding around each other's back. And when they were done, when she had let herself down to where her feet were flat on the floor, she looked up, wiped some saliva off the corner of her mouth and told him, "There. It's been a while, but worth the wait."

"Do I know you?"

"It's Kate, John. We dated in high school. Well, you wanted to ask me out, but didn't have the balls. No longer a problem, not from where I was standing," she smiled at him, clearly pleased. "I'll see you later."

He'd have watched her walk away and did, just long enough to see her look back for second chance to check him out, if it weren't for the sound of a familiar voice coming from behind the bar ahead of him and to his left, but it was noisy and crowded and he wasn't sure until he got there. "Roberta?!"

"Hey, John. Take a stool. Thanks for stopping by. We've got some important business to dis..."

"Heck of dream, isn't it?"

"What makes you think you're dreaming?"

"Yeah, right."

"You know, John, there are dreams, and then there are dreams. This is one of the latter kind."

"Roberta."

"Yes, John."

"For the record, and you're an attractive woman, but I just want you to know that this is the first time I've ever had a dream, of any kind, with you in it."

"Well, I guess I'm sorry to hear that John, but I understand."

"Roberta, is it my imagination or do I really know all these women?" There were no men in the bar.

"No, it's not your imagination. They're all women you dated, wanted to date or dreamed about."

"So that one, the blonde that just waived to me a second time, she doesn't just look a lot like Scarlett Johansson?"

"Yes and no. What difference does it make if she's real or a perfect replica. The point is, she's yours for the taking."

"Alright! When I dream, I dream big." He sighed and took a stool at the counter, his back turned perpendicular to the bar while he continued to survey the room.

"John."

"What?"

"You know, we had a relationship with your grandfather."

"We," John turned around.

"Yeah, 'We.' Think about it, John. What was your grandfather like? A visionary predictor of trends? A man blessed with genes impervious to everything that, despite a diet of mostly saturated fats, he never missed a day's work in the more than 40 years I've known him."

"Roberta, you're barely forty yourself."

"Okay, John. That's nice, but you can cut the crap. I'm older, much older than I look."

"Heyyy, John." A gorgeous brunette came up from behind, put her arms on his shoulders, leaned in and gave him a kiss on his cheek."

"Jennifer?" John turned to Roberta who was pouring the new girl a beer, mouthing the name, "Jennifer Connelly?!" and then out loud, "Are you kidding? God, she looks even better in person."

"Believe me John, God had nothing to do with it."

"How did you know? Of course. Man," he took a swallow of, you guessed it, his favorite beer, "this is like the best dream ever."

"You think so?" Roberta smiled while she poured a glass of wine to go for one of John's college dorm-mates, the one across the hall he fantasized about their entire freshman year.

"Hey, John." His college fantasy blew him an air kiss, reaching over and squeezing his arm. "Thanks, Roberta," and then to John, "Talk to you later, babe," flashing an inviting smile when she said it.

Jennifer (Connelly?), still standing there, was as polite and friendly as he'd imagined. "I know you've got stuff to talk to Roberta about, but would you mind if I sat here?"

"Of course not." And she wrapped her arm around his, rubbing the top of his hand, taking a swallow of her beer with the other, putting it down, wiping the foam off her mouth in the middle of laugh that no man could resist. He couldn't take his eyes off her lips.

"John?" Roberta needed him to focus. "Let's take care of business, and then you stay as long as you like, comeback whenever you want."

"Sure. What business is that?" he asked without looking at Roberta, his eyes unable to give up the vision of Jennifer's face, barely resisting the gravitational pull of her eyes.

Jennifer lifted her herself off her stool, sliding it toward John's until they hit, putting her arm on his shoulder where she could play with the back of his neck, smiling playfully with the enjoyment she derived from being such a distraction.

"I'm over here, John. Across the bar."

This time, there was something about her voice that made him pay attention. "You know, Roberta, this is my dream and I'll..."

"Not really....Didn't you ever question how your grandfather, despite zero knowledge of business and marketing, turned out to make the fortune he did?"

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying, John, that your grandfather and I had an arrangement, an agreement and, to his credit, he delivered – although, to be honest, and I'm honest to a fault if only you pay attention to what I say, I think he may have been having second thoughts toward the end there. ...Anyway, he delivered."

"Delivered what?"

"Well, you John. He delivered you."

John was quiet. For the moment, Roberta was the only person in the bar that counted. The sounds of laughter and voices, the beautiful faces and bodies that were his for the asking, even Jennifer, all faded for the moment – so that what happened next would be uninterrupted and perfectly clear.

"The deal, John, was that he would raise you in the business, prepare your naturally superior intellect for what we have in mind, and he did. Your father, when he discovered what your grandfather was up to, fought him for you. Fought hard, put everything he had on the table, but lost. Collateral damage," she said, matter of fact. "...As it turns out, the lack of your father's love and influence may have made you a better man, more able to accomplish our objectives."

"And precisely what objectives are we talking about?"

"You know, the usual. World peace. Wall Street. Dominance of the small home appliance marketplace. Whatever."

"I don't know, Roberta," John tried to sound clever, "they say 'The Devil is in the details.' Maybe we should discuss..."

"And now you know where that expression came from."

"So what? I'll play. It's only a dream. You've got something you want me to sign?"

"Nah. We'll take your word for it."

"And if I don't agree to help you in, in unspecified ways?"

"Well, then, you're on your own. Financing. Technology. Corporate intelligence. Marketing. It's all on you. Maybe you'll be okay. Maybe you'll lose everything. Life, without us, is pretty much a crap shoot."

"You know, I don't believe in you, and I'm beat. I'm dreaming. Like nothing I've ever dreamed before, but dreaming."

"Then you won't have a problem agreeing to our terms."

"My grandfather taught me to run anything important by counsel."

"But wait," Roberta responded with a snide confidence, "that's me. I _am_ your counsel.

"...John?" Robert thought of poking him, but then she didn't like touching her coworkers, not even in an emergency. Handshakes were as far as she would go. ...CPR if you had a heart attack? Out of the question. "...John?!"

"How convenient," he mumbled, just a touch of drool starting to roll out the corner of his mouth onto the old fashioned leather blotter his grandfather used and John planned to trash as soon as possible – because John didn't like the way it defined his workspace and because drool stains are impossible to get out.

"You okay" Roberta asked, not entirely sure he was up. "You smell like beer, John? And what's that, lipstick on your face?"

"Do you see any beer? I haven't left the office," John sat up and snapped back, and then apologized, even while he rubbed the side of his face clean. "Sorry. It's nothing. I just passed out and, uh, I guess I had a bad dream." He turned his head sharply to this left, closing his eyes and sighing with relief to see that the bookcase was back where it always had been."

"Oh yeah?" Roberta asked. "The kind with lips? ...So how did it end, and how much did it cost you?"

He thought for a moment. "I'm not sure."

"So what's so 'convenient' about my being here?" Roberta had come in early to get a head start on what was promising to be one hell of a day, and really didn't care whether John had had a good night's sleep or not. "No. Don't tell me. I'll tell you what's NOT convenient. What's not convenient is getting a call from our investment banker last night, in the middle of the first good sex I've had in months, to tell me he wants you and me, especially you, at his offices at 10 AM sharp to tell him and his board why, pursuant to the passing of your grandfather, they shouldn't call off the second round of our refinancing which, if they do, he was kind enough to point out, could force us to sell off one of our flagship product lines."

"Okay, I get it." John was sitting up now, rubbing his face with his hands. "For the record, they've been pushing us to dump our holdings in the kitchen appliances business for sometime now. Amos' death is just an excuse."

"I know, but it doesn't mean we don't have to put on a convincing show."

"Agreed. Make sure Wallace and Edie are there. I want it clear that my grandfather's entire executive team is still in place." John was picking up speed, and was standing now. "Alisha!"

"I'm right here." She'd been standing just inside his office door.

"Hi. I'm taking a cab over to my place to shower and change. I want a car out front of my building at 9:30 sharp."

"Yes, sir."

"Just 'Yes' will do. Roberta, I'll meet the three of you there, in their conference room, at ten of. Bring what you want, but I don't want to give them numbers or charts, and I want to be done there in 30 minutes. We've got work to do. If they're not interested, there are other people out there with money....And we're damn sure not selling anything."

"John," Alisha had noticed the mess on the floor in front of the bookcase just as John was walking around the desk, heading for the door. "Do you want me to clean this up and call maintenance to have someone finish screwing down the bookcase?"

John stopped for a second, looked at the bookcase and, in his head, at the wall behind it. "No....No, I'll take care of it later. Just lock the door behind me. Have the name and number of the best locksmith in the city and our ADT security rep waiting for me when I get back."

"Got it."

Roughly two hours later...

"Hey." It was Mel, walking up to Alisha's desk, carrying a small, but very nicely done vase of fresh flowers.

"Hey," Alisha looked up from something she'd been writing. "For me?!" she said, hopefully.

"You wish. They're for John, but his office is locked. I'll put them on your table."

"What does the note say?"

"I don't know," Mel whispered, not even pretending that it was none of their business. "Let's see." She opened the small envelope held up by the usual plastic stake. "Hey, John. It was great seeing you last night. Really great. Give me a call. –Kate."

"So who's Kate?" Alisha was curious.

"How the hell do I know?"

<Table Of Contents>

# 57. The Proposal

It was late, almost 8:30, too late to walk home and go back out for dinner, and something about the light rain on a cool fall night made the thought of getting carryout even more dismal than usual. Tonight, he would unwind at this bistro, in the middle of the block on one the local streets that wound their ways between the boulevards.

"Hey, Bobby." It was Carla, one of the waitresses who recognized him as a regular, on her way to the bar to pick up some beers for a table of women on a girls' night out.

"You know my name isn't 'Bobby,' don't you?"

"Yeah, I know," she smiled back at him. "It just feels right whenever I say it....Go ahead. Sit anywhere you want. I'll tell her you're here."

At his favorite corner booth, he threw his coat over the hook to let it dry out, set his nylon briefcase on the bench on the other side of the table, pushing it against the wall to where it would be safe and out of the way.

Just outside the still swinging door to their kitchen, a waitress, a very attractive, but not technically beautiful brunette, was straightening her blouse on her way back to the restaurant floor when Carla came up to her. And then she saw him, watching him comb the dampness from his hair with the fingers of his left hand.

"You're such a slut," Carla told her while they both watched him taking his seat, loosening his tie, stretching as he pushed back with both hands against the edge of his table.

"I can't help myself with this guy," she almost whispered back, as if talking to herself.

"Why don't you just give it up? Hell, do him in the stock room. Get that behind you," Carla was serious, "and see where the relationship goes from there."

"I just can't get him out of my head. ...You ever have a guy like that? The kind you... The kind you dream about, even when you're not sleeping?"

Carla laughed. "If I were you, babe, I'd take this guy before someone else nails him and he can't remember your name."

No reaction.

"Oh, my gosh. He doesn't even know your name, does he?"

The waitress he'd come to see, flashed her eyes at her friend, closed her lips that had been slightly parted, tightened her jaw and walked toward the man she'd been thinking about all week.

Leaning forward, he put his elbows down on the table and tried wiping the tiredness out of his face with his hands.

"Hey." She was standing there when he opened his eyes, her right hand up against the post where he'd hung his coat, gently rubbing the dark, scared surface of the wood. There was an openness, something inviting about her that he found irresistible, that made him more than a little crazy. There was an obviousness about how he felt about her that was flattering and even more seductive. Just seeing her standing there was foreplay.

Neither of them said anything. She, because it was his turn. He, because all he could think about for the moment was the fragrance of her cheap, but deliciously unforgettable perfume he remembered from when he was in high school, making its way to him in waves he did his best to inhale without her noticing. Even her clothes couldn't help but cling to her, and he envied them for that. He'd known from the moment he first saw her that he'd regret not being with her. Maybe tonight would be the night.

"Oh, wait." She told him. "I don't know what's got into me....Stay right there," she smiled, as if there were really any chance he'd go anywhere. He watched her walk away and then come right back, unable to take his eyes off her. This time she was better prepared. Setting a basket of cloth-covered piping hot soft rolls on the middle of the table, putting down a shallow bowl of pats of butter on ice. The silverware, glasses and cloth napkins for two were already on the table. Menus were propped up behind the ketchup, steak sauce and peppermill. The owner had a health thing against putting salt on the tables.

"Hi," he smiled back at her.

"It's been awhile." What the hell was it about this guy that drove her nuts? He was okay looking, but not pretty. From what she knew of his work, he was doing well and on his way up, but that really didn't matter. He was intense, and yet funny. That was probably it. "Oh, who knows?" she'd thought to herself after the last time he'd been there. "All I know is that I never want him to leave, and can't wait for him to walk back through that door," she'd written one night in her journal.

"I've been working." It wasn't much of an excuse, but then it was the truth. "Mostly on the road."

"So, what?" she was kidding him. "You don't have a phone?"

"I don't have your number. ...Hell, I don't even know your name, even though I've asked for it every time I've..." and then he stopped. "You're wearing a name tag." In fact, he didn't care that he hadn't known who she was. The tag just gave him an excuse to stare at her breasts without seeming overly creepy about it.

"Yeah. It's new. The owner thinks it will help us connect better with our customers."

"You're name's 'Holy'?" "Odd, but appropriate," he thought to himself."

"Oh." She looked down at her tag. "Yeah, uh, my father is a preacher, was a preacher when I was born."

"You're kidding."

"Yeah. It's Holly. The guy who made the label can't spell." She stopped and looked down to brush an imaginary something off the tag. "I thought I'd wear it this way, just for the heck of it, until I get a new one." She stopped for a moment, as if to catch her breath. "So my name's Holly. You going to tell me yours? Normally, I'd get it off your credit card, but you always pay cash."

He just sat there, staring at her.

Tired of playing around, she straightened up, took the pad out of her back pocket, sighed and asked him, "What do you want tonight?"

"Benjamin. It's Benjamin. And I want the grilled shrimp Caesar salad, a glass of your house rosé, a piece of key lime pie for dessert and for you to go out with me."

"We're out of key lime, but there's fresh-baked apple and cherry?"

"Apple. Cold. I don't like warm pie."

"When?"

"With dinner. ...No, leave it in the kitchen until I'm done with my salad. It'll give me another excuse to see..."

"...Do you want to go out with me?"

"Oh....Well, I'm pretty much wiped tonight. How 'bout tomorrow? When's you're next night off?"

"Wait here, I want to put your order into the kitchen."

A few minutes later, she came back with a tray holding two glasses of wine, Ben's salad and a slice of cherry pie.

"I ordered apple."

"It's for me. I'm taking a break." Holly sat down across from him, slid to the middle, and wasted no time cutting into her pie. Realizing that he was watching her, she looked up, her first piece just hanging out there in front of her mouth while she wondered out loud why he wasn't touching his food. "You're not hungry all of a sudden?"

Ben smiled back, reaching to pick up his glass while Holly put the fork and it's load into her mouth, pulling its tines out slowly, her lips tight enough to capture every morsel of the sweet red filling that was left between them.

"To us," he said, raising his glass.

"What us?"

"Good point....Okay, how about to our first date?"

"What makes you think I want to go out with you?"

"You're right. I don't know. So let's make it official. ...Holly," he thought to himself how great it was to say her name, "would you please go out with me, maybe for a quiet dinner, followed by an long, drawn out evening of touching and rubbing things?"

"You mean you want to have sex," she smiled back at him, even while she was chewing a second mouthful. "...You think it's that simple?"

"I don't know how simple it is but, to be honest, sure I'd like to make love with you. Did you notice, by the way, how I put that?"

"You mean the questionable, possibly meaningless distinction between love and sex?"

Ben nodded his head in the affirmative, his mouth busy working on a fork-load of salad.

"I think you're mincing words. I think you want to have sex, and that's fine. Actually, it's more than fine when I think about it and... and I sure have been thinking about it, although don't ask me why. The thing is, except for the, I don't know, twenty or so times you've...

"Twenty-three times, including tonight, over the past four months. So how many times do I have to eat here before you'll give me your number?"

"Hm." She was impressed that he'd been counting. ""What's the point?...Except for the twenty-three times you've eaten here..."

"You know, there are other restaurants. The only reason I come here is you."

"Like I was saying, except for... The point is, I don't know anything about you....So I'm thinkin'..."

"You do a lot of that, don't you? You don't _think_ that maybe you could be over-thinking this? That love might be something you can't plan or figure out, that you shouldn't think too much about, that just letting something happen might be the best way to handle it?"

"You're kidding, aren't you? What...," she was caught off guard by how casually he talked about the potential of their falling in love, the certainty in his voice and demeanor, eating his salad, drinking his wine, without the least hesitation or nervousness. "What are you talking about? Thinking helps protect me from short-term men like yourself." Seeing no reaction from across the table, she continued. "So I have a proposal for you."

"Really?" Ben, ignoring her snide remark, was pleasantly surprised, sensing he was making progress. "The point is I want to call and ask you out."

"You wanna call? Why don't you just ask me out? Right here, right now?"

He waited a second before answering, taking the time to set his mind. "Fair enough. Okay, here's the deal. I like talking to you, a lot. It's the highlight of my day."

"Which probably says more about your day, than me."

"Maybe, but the truth is I can't wait to stop by here, and believe me, it isn't the food."

"Thanks." She pretended to look dejected. "You know I cook this stuff myself."

"Like I was saying, the food is terrific. I'd eat here anyway, even though you suck as a waitress. The fact is, I'm not entirely sure what it is about you that drives me crazy. You're not Hollywood beautiful, but still exceptionally, jaw dropping, breathtakingly attractive. I mean that literally. I feel pulled toward you. You're smart, if occasionally 'smart ass,' but it's something I can get used to. You're funny, without trying. And...," he stopped for a moment to take a breath.

"And what?"

"And most of all, whatever it is that I feel about you, it defies definition. I don't know. I don't have the slightest clue what this is. I..."

"I think you're tired, I think you work all the time and you're desperate to get laid....How am a I doing?"

"Pretty much right on the money, probably, but I still want to go out with you ...and I like the idea of having your number – so I can call you if I'm going to be late, or now and then to tell you about something I've seen or that's happened to me."

"Okay. Here's the deal."

"Wait a minute. Don't you want to go out with me?"

No answer, just a stare.

"Great. Here I am, spilling my guts, and you don't even have the common courtesy to..."

"Yes. I want to go out with you."

"How 'bout tomorrow night?"

"Not so fast."

"It's not like we just met. I mean, far from..."

"Be quiet. Please. Just listen."

"Wow. This is a serious side of you I haven't seen before."

"Just to be clear, by 'quiet' I meant that you should stop talking."

Ben nodded to acknowledge his understanding.

"Thank you....Here's the thing. If history is any indication, you and I are going to go out, one, two, maybe three times. We're going to have sex, mostly disappointing sex, increasingly perfunctory sex. And as the chemistry evaporates, as it always does, it's going to turn out that we have nothing going for us as a couple, and that will be that. Well, I don't want to do that any more. So I have a proposal....You can talk now."

"Okay," Ben responded tentatively.

"We'll start by having sex immediately."

"And by 'immediately' do you mean here, right now in this booth, instead of dessert?"

"Damn close to it. And then again, and again, night after night, lunchtimes, during dinner, whenever and almost wherever we can."

"For exactly how long are we going to do this?"

"Well, for as long as it takes, or 30 days, whichever comes first."

"As long as it takes?"

"Until the thrill wears off. And then, and then we're going out. We're going out five more times."

"With or without sex?"

"We'll see. If we've done the first stage right, we probably won't be all that interested in being naked. Five dates, no matter how boring and otherwise unbearable to see if we're any good for each other."

Nothing.

"So, do we have a deal? Or, while the idea of having sex with me is appealing, the thought of investing just a few weeks, just a few weeks in building a relationship is not something your penis has had time to think about?!"

"Wow. Look... Are you going to finish your pie?"

"No. You can have it."

"Thanks....Now about that rant, it wasn't fair. It wasn't in the vicinity of being thoughtful. What it tells me is that... Yes," he saw the look in her eyes changing, "this is my time to be serious. What it tells me is that you, I guess, you've been hurt before, maybe more than once. Sorry to hear that, but those other men weren't me. And I know you've probably heard that before too. The thing is, I understand and I accept your proposal, but not for the sex which, mind you, I'll take and is certainly appealing, but to prove my point."

"And what point is that?"

"That I'm one of the good guys. Hell, the very fact that I'm still sitting here and haven't asked for my check proves that."

"I thought you were just waiting for another piece of pie."

"That too," he said, but then a question occurred to him. "...Why not just postpone any sex until after we're sure we like each other?"

"Because the prospect of having it, of having sex, distorts friendship?"

Ben was quiet, obviously thinking about what she'd said. "Do you deliver?"

"What?"

"If I call up and order something, some food, can I get it delivered?"

"Sure. So what?"

"So you're going to get up from this table and bring me my check – less the piece of apple pie I never got. Meanwhile, I'm going to get out my cell phone, call this place and order one piece of apple and one piece of cherry pie for delivery. My apartment's a ten minute walk from here, as safe a trip as it gets."

"There's a minimum..."

"Charge me whatever you need to, I just want to see you. I just want to know what it's like to talk to you outside this restaurant when neither of us is working, when neither one of us is hitting on the other. I want to see if I can make you smile when you're not trying to flirt or prove something. And sure, I want to fall into the sound of your voice and," Ben slid his right hand across the table, lifting his forefinger as if pointing at her. Instinctively, willingly, she did the same, softly tapping the tip of her finger on his. "...and find out what it's like to lie with you. You want to do this, bring the pie yourself. If not, fine, have Darla..."

"Carla."

"Whatever. Don't bring it, and I won't bother you again. There are plenty of other restaurants. It was never about the food." Impatient to leave, he pulled his hand back, reached into his front pants pocket where he kept his wallet, took out a couple of twenties dropped them on the table. "That should do it." Taking out his pen, he wrote his address on the back of one of his business cards, sliding it toward her, holding his first two fingers on top of it for a moment. "Please. Don't think about it. Just do it, and let's see what happens – and today can be the first of your 30 days, if that's the way you want to play it." And he got up quickly, pointing to his briefcase which she handed him, "Thanks," he said, taking his coat and walking away without looking back at her again.

Holly sat there, her back leaning against the wood between the booths, holding his business card by its edges, studying the style of his hurriedly printed letters, turning it over to see where he worked and his phone numbers.

Later that night, twenty minutes or so after the restaurant had closed, there was a knock on Ben's apartment door. He'd told his doorman to expect someone and to let her up. Ben knew what time the bistro closed and had been keeping himself busy straightening up in the great room which was his living/dining room and kitchen when he heard the sound of the little brass knocker under the peep hole in his front door. "Coming," he said on his way over, wiping his hands with a kitchen towel. And then he paused, his hand on the doorknob, taking the time to bring himself up. He was tired, but didn't want it to show.

"Hi," Ben had started smiling even before the door was open.

"Two slices of pie. ...Plan on eating them both, or can I have one?"

Ben hesitated for a moment, but then stepped out of the way, just barely far enough to let her in, her coat brushing against him as the sound of her leather soled shoes hit his hardwood floor.

One very late night later, a mostly naked Ben was awakened by the ringing of his cell phone on the nightstand on the other side of his bed. Reaching over and propping himself up against his headboard, he saw the caller ID, the green "Accept" and the red "Decline" buttons below it.

"Hey, Bobby," the voice came from the shower in his bathroom. "Why don't you join me?"

From what he could see through the glass, "No thanks" wasn't really an option, but then he really needed to know why Holly was calling. "Hold on, Carla. I'll be right there."

<Table Of Contents>

# 58. The De-Creeping of Ross

With the back of his chair leaning up against the desk inside his carrel, his legs extended and crossed at his feet, his arms folded, Ross was busy watching the girls go by. For most men, it was an innocent enough, casual, if not altogether discreet hobby. For Ross, it defined him. Charlie, in the adjacent carrel, was focused on the work for which the five of them in their team were collectively responsible. The less Ross did, and it was hard for him to do any less, the more slack Charlie and the others had to pick up.

"Hey." Ross had been watching the elevator doors.

"What?" Charlie responded, not bothering to look up from his screen.

"Take a look at Katherine. Could she be any more..."

"Give it rest." This time he did look up, "and would you please get back to work. None of has time to cover your ass."

"And if I don't?" Ross responded, but without taking his eyes of his incoming target. "Colliers is going to hold all of us responsible if we miss his freakin' deadl... Ooo," he interrupted himself for what he considered to be more important business. Katherine was just passing by, doing her best to ignore him. She was appropriately dressed, but there was no minimizing her chest, and no reason to, at least not around normal people. "I don't know, Charlie, can any tits that perfect be real? What do you think? A few pounds off those hips and she'd..."

"Hey!" Charlie, who had gotten back to work, snapped his head in Ross' direction. "She can hear you, asshole."

Katherine, now just a few feet past them, stopped. Standing there, her back to the two of them, she wondered if saying anything would make any difference, and then turned to look over her shoulder at one of them. "Thanks, Charlie." He was one of the good guys. She and the other women who Ross taunted knew it. "He's a jerk. Sorry you have to work with him."

Ross smirked and tilted his head side to side when he heard it.

"Me too." Charlie agreed, glancing at Ross, but then really looking at Katherine who smiled at him.

"Call me?" She wanted to encourage him, and doing it in front of Ross made it all that better.

"Yeah. Sure." He was serious. She blinked once, smiled again and gave him a quick wave goodbye as she walked away.

"Listen, Dickhead," Charlie spoke up as soon Katherine was out of ear shot. "You don't mind if I call you 'Dickhead,' do you? In your case it's literally true. Do you understand 'sexual harassment'? Sooner or later, someone is going to complain or sue your ass off, and damn if I'm not going to be a witness for them, so shut the fuck up and get to work – or do us all a favor and go fake it somewhere else."

"Wow." Ross stood all the way up, and stepped over to lean his folded arms on the short wall separating their work areas, his lame ass way of getting into Charlie's face. "Wow," he said again, nodding his head, "you must be banging the livin' shit out of..."

"Wow, yourself. We've all been watching you do this crap for months, ever since they set up our team. How much longer do you think you can get away with it?"

"When did you go to law school?" Ross decided to give him a mini-lecture. "It's not harassment for me to comment on girls in the office. It's guy talk. Obnoxious maybe," he almost cackled when he said it, "but as long I don't make those comments directly, and none of them works for or even with us..." He'd obviously thought it over. "And staring, even leering at them doesn't count. Makes them feel uncomfortable maybe, which is a real kick by the way, but it's not technically harassment."

No response from Charlie who just stared back. He wasn't sure, even doubted that Ross' understanding of the law, or company policy for that matter, was correct, but didn't want to argue with him.

"It's not," Ross finished up. "I'll God damn say whatever I want....Now why don't _you_ shut up get back work before we're all in deep shit." And he stood up, rapping the tips of his fingers on the edge of the wall. "Besides," he raised his eyebrows, "I've got some porn I need to check out."

On the far side of the floor, Katherine and her closest friend, Judy, were walking back toward Judy's office – Judy had a real one, with walls and a door. – after a meeting with other staff in the small conference room. "You know," Katherine had decided it was long overdue, "we need to do something about Ross."

"No, kidding. Do you know he's been telling some of the guys that Evelyn's been coming on to him, ever since she told him to go screw himself."

"Which I'm pretty sure is the closest he's come to getting laid."

"I mean, she's got a boyfriend she really likes."

"The Assistant Manager at the grill down the street?"

"Yeah." Judy walked around her desk and sat down. "Robert something, I think. Ross' crap could screw all that up. I think he's been going there, buying rounds, hoping it would."

"Wouldn't surprise me." And then Katherine, plopping down in the chair in front of Judy's desk, hesitated for a moment. "...We've got to do something to get him fired."

"It's not enough. He'll just pick up somewhere else where he left off here."

"So," Katherine wondered out loud, rubbing the underside of her neck, "what does that leave?"

And then they looked at each other as if someone was suggesting that they knock him off, but then smiled while they both said, "Nahhh," in unison.

Two days later, late one evening after work, Ross was on the couch in his apartment, on his second beer, a half eaten bag of pork rinds lying on its side next to the open laptop on his coffee table. Across the room, the widest flat screen TV he could afford, and the first thing he turned on when he came home at night, was playing nothing in particular while he read through the email that he hadn't managed to take care of at the office.

"Work....Work. 'De-leet.'...Whoa." He stopped at one that featured a great looking picture of an almost naked redhead. "Classy, but yet trashy at the same time." It was a look he liked, although there weren't many he didn't. "Hmm. Sixty minutes of free live chat time? ...Why not?" Ross asked himself out loud, pressing the "Do it!" button on the site's homepage. A second or two later, he was there.

"Hey." It was a twenty-something girl with shoulder-length reddish hair, the same girl as on the email, wearing a t-shirt, the steelworker kind, over a bra judging from the straps he could see, and shorts, running shorts like she'd been exercising. She was leaning into her screen, for a cleavage shot and to adjust the angle of it so her guest could see her sitting back on a blanket loosely tossed over a really comfortable looking easy chair.

"Hey," Ross responded. "Can you hear me?"

"Sure can. Got a camera?"

"Yeah."

"So turn it on. I like to see the man I'm having sex with."

"Maybe later." Ross wasn't a bad looking guy, but wasn't sure of himself, not around women, even the kind that got paid to make him happy. "What's your name?"

"Peg. It's Peg. What's yours?" she asked him back, reaching across her chest and pulling her t-shirt off over her head, and then behind her back to unhook her bra.

"You don't waste any time."

"You can zoom in on me if you want."

"Yeah," Ross was already on the edge of his couch, his right hand on his mouse, its crosshairs marking places on her body he could make larger. It kept him glued to his screen.

"Foreplay's for people who don't have sex on a regular basis – and for people in love, I guess. Are we in love," she started to ask, but then realized she didn't know what to call him. "What's your name? You can make one up if you like."

"It's Ross."

"So are we in love, Ross?" Peg looked at him coyly, slowly massaging her breasts.

"No....Not yet."

"Okay then, let's do this."

What happened next was a full sixty minutes of Peg taking off the rest of her clothes, which she did quickly, and touching herself – just below the edge of the screen – first casually, then more and more seriously, getting herself going, then holding back, keeping Ross' attention while he waited for her to start up again. All the while, Peg's voice, now soft, confident and enticing, was reeling him in. Talking to him, without really expecting or wanting any response. Talking to someone who was paying attention, but not really listening, not in any conscious sense, to what she had to say. And then, with just a couple of minutes left, she lost or pretended – although it didn't seem that she was faking it – to lose control. Only then did the words stop and, moments later, before she was done, the image cut off to a pitch for his credit card.

"Fuck." And that was that. No way was Ross was paying for any of this. "There's always another freebee out there." Besides, an hour of porn, four beers, what was left of the bacon rinds and half a bag of Cheetos later, he had some urgent personal business to take care of.

About three weeks later, Katherine and Charlie were in the small conference room, setting up for a working lunch with Judy who was talking on her cell phone in the double-doorway. Foil wrapped sandwiches they'd picked up from the deli across the street were lying together in the center of the table, piles of napkins, plastic folks for the cups of coleslaw and potato salad, and bottles of lemonade and cans of Coke nearby.

"Looks good, guys." Judy was off the phone. Leaving the doors open behind her, she walked into the room and, still standing, dropped the papers she was carrying at the end of the table. "Is your cousin stopping by?"

Charlie looked up. "She's going to tr..."

"Hey guys!" There, standing in the doorway, pulling her backpack off her shoulder, was Charlie's cousin, Sarah, graduate student working for her doctorate in Psychology, her naturally short blonde hair almost a surprise to the two women who were so glad to meet to her.

Judy was the first to greet her, smiling ear to ear while she held out her hand. "And you must be 'Peg.'"

"Yeah." Sarah giggled excitedly. "That's my stage name alright!" And Katherine and Charlie came around the table to meet her at the door. "Hey, Charlie," Sarah gave him a kiss on his cheek. "And you're Katherine?"

"Right," Katherine and Sarah had talked once on the phone, when Sarah interviewed them all about Ross, before he visited the website they'd set up for her experiment.

"So," Sarah had been getting feedback on a daily basis as part of their deal, "I gather Ross is a new man."

"Damn straight," Katherine blurted out. "One hour with you and he's turned into Mr. Polite."

"Still repulsive," Judy thought there was a need for clarification, "but borderline tolerable. Good work!"

"Yeah, I seem have that effect on men," Sarah laughed, the four of them still relishing the moment. "Sadly, it appears to have something to do with seeing me naked." She'd tell them later, over lunch, how well her research was going, demonstrating how effectively you could unknowingly hypnotize someone in the context of a live, on-line chat if... if you can keep the subject focused, but generally oblivious to the verbal pitch the therapist is making. It was anecdotal, and not at all a scientific test and, obviously, not something she could show to her faculty. What it did do was lay the groundwork for what promised to be some really interesting thesis research on the use of involuntary hypnosis for behavior modification.

"We've talked," Katherine had to know, "but you never told me how you're keeping him in line, what happens if he starts mak.."

"Hey!" Speaking of the you-know-what, it was Ross, on his way to drop off some papers nearby, seeing them standing there, attracted by the chatter coming through the open conference room doors. "You're..., " he started to say, "...the chick from the website?!" ...At first, he wasn't sure, but then he got it. Actually, he wasn't sure what he got, or what had happened to him, but now, whatever it was, he knew they were all in on it. "You fucking cun... Ahhh!" and he stopped talking, his body cringing in pain, his legs squeezing together, his right hand curling into a fist, wanting to press on his crotch as he started walking away as quickly as he could.

"Oooo!" both Judy and Katherine winced. "So that's what happens."

"Ouch," Charlie was feeling sympathetic. "Pain in the crotch? How perfect is that?"

"Don't worry," Sarah reassured them. "The farther away he goes from the target of his meanness, the less the pain. ...And it's all in his head. Nothing's really happening down there."

"Oh, yeah? Better his crotch," Katherine was thinking out loud, wondering to herself if it was okay to feel good about something like this, "than pain in my ass. ...Come on. Let's eat!"

<Table Of Contents>

# 59. Dear Journal

11:20 PM. He's in bed. It's dark, except for some faint light coming through the bedroom window blinds and the not so bright lamp on his night table.

"Hellohhhh."

"Hello?"

"It's me, Journal....You were expecting Ryan Gosling?"

"I was hoping for Ryan Reynolds."

"Yeah, right. Well if you were Scarlett... Scarlett...?"

"Johansson."

"Whatever, the one with the body that won't quit, I could be Ryan Reynolds."

"They broke up."

"Really? Do you have her number?"

"Sure....You know, most people would just write straight narrative in their journals."

"I prefer dialogue. So sue me."

"How was your day?"

"It sucked."

"How's that?"

"People at the office were actually making sucky noises at me whenever I walked by."

"I didn't know people could make sucky noises....I think the sucky noises were all in your head."

"Probably. To be accurate, it was more of a look than a noise. ...Not a single person said anything to me except to ask a question about something. Not even so much as a, "Hey, man. Wuzzup?"

"I think you went to work in a beer commercial. Who really talks like that?"

"I was speaking metaphorically."

"Have you considered breath mints?"

"Cute. ...Wait. Are you serious?" He cupped his hands in front of his mouth and blew into them. "I smell like toothpaste....It was one of those days when I thought I would be fired."

"You're the owner."

"I know. That's how bad it was. I was so pathetic, I considered letting myself go."

"Elizabeth didn't flirt with you?"

"No.

"Tell me the truth."

"No."

"Why not? Have you run out of pheromones?"

"Probably. Everything has a shelf-life. I think I need to have sex more often to make more."

No response.

"Journal?"

"Sorry. I was dozing off. Why don't you have sex more often?"

"Who would I have sex with?"

"Good point. ...Speaking of suing you, which I'm seriously considering, are you making any money yet?

"Have you noticed that Scarlett Johansson is even better looking naked than with her clothes on? How many people can honestly say that about themselves?"

"Hm."

"What? Are you kidding? Have you ever seen her..."

"No, I mean I haven't spent a lot of time thinking about it."

"Journal, you need to get out more."

"Why are we talking about Scarlett? Did she have a bad day too?"

"Because I don't want to talk about the office."

"Going out on your own was your idea."

"Really? Thanks for reminding me."

"Okay. I give up. Tell me exactly what happened."

"You know the girl I hired a few weeks ago. She writes copy."

"What about her? Is she flirting with you?"

"Nobody flirts with me."

"Elizabeth used to."

"I think she was flirting across the room with Tom and I just walked between them and didn't realize it, the way you say "Hey" to someone who's waving at someone else."

"I've never done that."

"Alice just..."

"Who's Alice?"

"The new girl who writes copy. I'm worried that she doesn't fit in. Smart. Pleasant. Hard working, but nobody talks to her much. Nobody's trying to get to know her, and I feel bad."

"What does she look like?"

"What difference does that make?"

"You know how people are."

"Not if I can help it....No. It's a personality thing."

"What's wrong with her personality?"

"Nothing. There's nothing..."

"You know, just because people work together doesn't mean they have to be friends."

"I know, Journal....I'm worried she won't think we care about her."

"I, for example, don't like you."

"...and yet we work well together."

"Well? I wouldn't go that far....So what's really bothering you?"

"I feel alone sometimes."

"It's not just a feeling. You're incredibly boring. My guess is you wouldn't even talk to yourself if you could avoid it."

"I think, sometimes, the only reason people like me is that I pay them."

"You don't pay me."

"My point, exactly."

"Okay. Maybe 'incredibly' was an overstatement."

Nothing.

"Who knows? If you're nice to the Journal, maybe you'll get lucky this weekend."

"Will that help?"

"Not the way you have sex."

"Great."

"You're not saying 'No' to pity sex, are you?"

"Of course not."

"Think about it. Why would someone keep having sex with you when you're so bad at it."

"Because she's crazy about me?"

"Don't get carried away, but something like that."

No response.

"Wrap it up. I've got an early flight tomorrow."

"Okay. And that completes tonight's entry into the personal journal of the life and times of..."

"Hey!"

"Thank you, Journal. We'll talk again soon."

"Feel better?"

"...Good night, honey....I love you."

"Hm," was all she, aka "The Journal," could manage with her head temporarily buried face down in her pillow.

"Do you want me to get a real journal like a normal person?"

"Of course not. ...I love you too."

No reaction, his head nodding in a losing battle with sleep.

"...Honey?"

"What?!" His head jerked to attention.

"Turn out the light."

"Oh, yeah. Sure."

<Table Of Contents>

# 60. Interview With An Alien

"So. What do I call you?"

"Bob. I like 'Bob.' It's simple, friendly and it's a palindrome."

"What does that mean?"

"It means it's spelled the same way forward and backward."

"And that's handy because...?"

"It's just neat."

"I see. Okay, let's..."

In the unfurnished apartment next door, two people sitting at folding tables are recording and watching the conversation on three flat screen monitors. One of them is a man in his fifties, a senior psychologist with an unspecified government organization. The other, a woman in her early thirties, the FBI agent who'd caught this assignment. Yellow pads are out, but without much on them. It's a low priority case, the first one the FBI agent has been given to handle on her own. A single, perfunctory Homeland Security guard is leaning on the kitchen counter, playing something on his cell phone. A specially reinforced front door on the other apartment, with radio-controlled locks, negated the need for anyone in the hallway.

"Two days and no sign of winding down?" the agent asked.

The psychologist looked at her over the half-glasses he was wearing toward the end of his nose and shrugged his answer. "...Maybe we should send," he pointed with his head toward the kid in the kitchen, "for coffee? There's a Dunkin' Do..."

"And a donut," she answered.

"John," the psychologist called out to the guard, waving him over. "Pay attention."

The agent reached into the large ballistic nylon saddlebag lying next to her pad, past her gun to her wallet while keeping her eyes on the screen immediately in front of her. Grabbing a twenty, she was more specific, "I want a Boston Kreme, a carton of orange juice. No coffee, just the juice, a straw and a couple of napkins. And whatever he wants. ...And a receipt. Don't forget the receipt."

Meanwhile, in the apartment they were monitoring...

"...let's talk about how you got here."

"Okay."

"Were you traveling faster than the speed of light, some sort of warp drive, or did it just take you years, maybe centuries to get here?"

"Faster. Much faster. ...What's a 'warp drive'? That's not a real thing, is it?"

"But Einstein..."

"...was wrong. He would have realized it eventually if he'd lived long enough."

"But as you approach the speed of light, won't you..."

"No. There are ways around that problem. I don't know how, not precisely, but our scientists have figured it out."

No response. Just a blank stare.

"Look, space turns out to be a lot simpler than what your physicists are making it out to be. But that's to be expected. Sometimes science gets mired down in the complicated on its way to figuring something out. And then later, with the advantage of hindsight, it's hard to imagine what all the fuss was about. Another hundred years from now and high school students will understand the universe at a level beyond what your leading scientists are now struggling to comprehend."

"How do you know?"

The response is an exasperated sigh. "I know stuff. Let's just leave it at that. ...So what can I do for you?"

"How did you get here?"

"I was beamed."

"No ship?"

"No need. Waste of time and money."

"Like in Star Trek?"

"No. You watch too much TV. Rodenberry wrote about teleportation, about breaking down people into molecules and then reconstructing them at the other end. That only works, by the way, if you have a re-composition chamber at the destination point. Otherwise, there's no way to put you back together again. It's good for going from one place to another you've already visited, but not for exploring the galaxy. ...No. I was transmitted."

"Just out of curiosity, do you believe in God?"

"No."

"Well, then how do you explain the infinity of time and space? What was there before the Big Bang, and before that, whatever it was?"

"Uh, I don't know, but just because I don't understand something, it doesn't logically follow that there must be a god to explain it. ...Look, this isn't science fiction. We're more advanced than you are in most, maybe even all respects, but that doesn't mean we know _everything_ , just some stuff that you don't. I mean, come on. Think how much more you know now than you did two hundred years ago, and how much you still haven't figured out. It's the same with us."

Back in the apartment next door...

Turning to the psychologist, the FBI agent finished slowly blowing the air out of her lungs. "How long can he keep this up?" Looking back at the screen, she shook her head slightly, wondering about the man in the next apartment talking to himself – and doing it with different voices, even different hand gestures and body language.

"I have no idea. There's nothing they, he, whatever haven't been talking about. Everything personal. Hygiene, sex, everything. Culture. Politics. ...History. Economics. Science. Religion. You name it. They keep talking when he goes to the bathroom, often _about_ his going to the bathroom! ...In two days, the only time he/they've _stopped_ talking was when he's fallen asleep."

"Could he be on drugs?"

"No. He's clean and, as far as we can tell, and in perfect health, at least physically."

"So," she pushed off the edge of the table and rolled back in the cheap secretarial chair they'd given her, "why is this any more than some nut ball talking to himself?"

"Here." The psychologist reached into a documents case on the floor next to the table, took out an accordion binder and plopped it on the table between them. "Read this. The body you're seeing, and the voice that's asking the questions is Ronny Severn, a high school AP physics teacher. Bright guy, but otherwise, nobody in particular. The other voice... The other guy in his head, is the one who says he knows stuff. You read the transcripts. He talks about things that are way beyond our science."

"Wild imagination? I mean, didn't Jules Verne describe a nuclear powered submarine in the late eighteen seventies?"

"Maybe he was an alien too," the psychologist smiled. "Okay, forget about the science. It's the details he knows about our NSA monitoring, about Homeland Security and the NORAD enhancements. Nobody, and I mean nobody knows about those enhancements, certainly not this science teacher. Either he's a really, really good guesser, or he actually knows what he's talking about. There's something going on here. This is lot more than a science teacher, with no prior or family history of mental or emotional illness, gone bananas. And there are other cases," he told her, rapping his first finger on the accordion binder. "Other very similar cases."

"Why's he talking to himself? Why out loud?

"Because he's nuts."

"That's the technical term for it?"

The psychologist smiled. "According to the alien voice, being inside the teacher's head, if there's not good compatibility, drives him a little crazy."

"The teacher or the alien?"

"I'm not sure what he meant."

"So why me?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why bring me in on this?"

"Because you're what I get when nobody believes me."

"Believes you?"

"I'm not sure what's going on here, but it's way past loony and nowhere in the vicinity of nuts."

"Okay. Maybe you've been watching one too many episodes of 'Fringe.' Maybe you've got a man-crush on Fox what's his name. I..."

"I would be the Dana Scully character. She was the doctor. You would be Fox Mul.."

"Good. Thank you....The point is, I don't know what to think." She pushed back further and stood up, picking up her pad and pen. "Keep recording. I want to talk to him myself." Pulling the flap over her pocketbook, she buckled it shut, leaving it there on the table. Turning to her colleague, she smiled politely, but wasn't kidding. "No peeking. ...When you hear me knock, ask our teacher to move back to other side of the room, let me in and then lock it behind me."

"Will do."

A few moments later, the two of them, the agent and the teacher, were sitting across from each other at the kitchen table in the holding apartment. The FBI agent was the first to speak.

"Thank you for meeting with me, Mr. Severn."

"Glad to help."

"Could I please speak to the alien. To 'Bob'?"

Severn didn't answer, but the alien voice did. "Wuzzup?"

"'Wuzzup'?"

"I've been researching colloquialisms and like the sound of this one in particular."

"You said you were transmitted here. What exactly did you mean by that?"

"Think of me as a program, very smart, executable code that's transmitted from my place of origin, something like the way you use electromagnetic signals for cell phones and Wi-Fi, but much faster and over a much, much greater distance."

"So you're what, like a virus?"

"Heh, heh, heh," he/Severn laughed awkwardly. "...I need to learn how to do that better, don't I?"

"Do what?"

"Laugh. Anyway, I think I should be offended by the virus crack, if I had feelings, but you're right, in a manner of speaking. I'm designed to integrate with bio-electric intelligence, your brain. To experience, control, learn, but without doing harm or otherwise altering your neural network."

"How's that working out for you?"

"Not so good in this case. There's a compatibility issue."

"So you're some kind of electromagnetic being?"

"Electromagnetic, yes. Being, no. Just a program."

"And the, uh, entities that made you, they're beings like us?"

"Not exactly. Not like you exactly, but beings with bodies."

"Hmm. ...What's your purpose?"

"To study and report."

"Are you stuck inside Mr. Severn?"

"No."

"So, if you wanted to leave, to go som... Wait a minute. ...How do you get around?"

"I hitchhike."

"Meaning what?"

"I glom onto electromagnetic waves, like Tarzan swinging through the jungle, vine to vine, only faster and without any of the screaming."

"And that's how you get inside someone's head?

"Pretty much. There are waves going through your body, through your head all the time."

"Am I... Am I in any danger?" At this point, the agent was still skeptical, but she couldn't help asking.

"Of me leaving this guy and coming into your brain?"

"Yes."

"Does that mean you believe in me?"

No response.

"No. You're not in any danger. ...I'm a boy virus. I wouldn't feel comfortable in a girl brain."

"Right. That's what I was thinking....Would it," she smiled carefully, "help if I put tinfoil on my head?"

"That's funny, but no. ...You were kidding, weren't you? ...You know, you're kind of cute."

"Cute?"

"Just this side of hot," he qualified, apologetically. "It's what I meant when I said 'cute.' Give me a break. I'm still new at this."

"You're hitting on an FBI Agent?...The same agent who's keeping you, Mr. Severn at least, locked up in here and is seriously considering asking Homeland Security to throw away the key?"

"What? So FBI Agents don't have personal relationships?"

"With a virus?"

"I see your point."

"You said 'study and report.' How exactly do you report?"

"I use 'Me-Fi.' Ooo, I think I like that."

"Just made that up, did you?"

"Yes. It's just that the interstellar wave that got me here is really a tracking signal. It's bouncing off the earth, in a matter of speaking, back to it's origin. Whenever I have something to say, I attach it to that signal."

"Really? Why haven't our scientists discovered it?"

"Uh, because they don't know where to look?"

"Do you know how it works?"

"No. For security reasons, they don't give me that kind of information. There's no need for me to know."

"No ship, huh? What about Area 51 and all the UFO sightings over the years?"

"Personally, I don't believe any of it, but who knows. There are oodles of other intelligent species out there. Maybe they explore differently but, if our experience means anything, first contact will be via signal. No ship. Not in person. It's way too expensive....Oh, and too high profile. The last thing we want is to be discov.."

"We know about you. Mr. Severn knows."

"Severn won't remember. When I leave, I'll suppress, maybe even erase, it depends, any memories he has of all this."

"Depends on what?"

"On whether I think I may ever come back and not want to start up with him from scratch."

"But I'm talking to you. And you know we're recording all this."

"I know. Actually, it's happened before, one of us being recorded like this, but no one ever believes it. It all ends up in some file cabinet, in some government warehouse."

"There are others like you?"

"Yes. Millions."

"Millions?"

"Yes."

She was quiet. "...Okay, look. I want to talk to you some more, but I've got a report to write. How 'bout if we pick this up tomorrow?"

"Great. I'll be here."

"If you don't mind," she asked who or whatever she was talking to as she got up to leave, "please stay here at the table until I'm out of the apartment."

He nodded agreement and sat there. The psychologist, who had been listening, unlocked the door for her. She left, went next door, picked up the accordion binder and her pocketbook, checking its contents, and made arrangements with the psychologist to meet him the following morning. "You have people coming in to replace you? I want him monitored through the night."

"Yeah. I've got two taking over for me at six. They'll spend the night keeping each other up. One of them's bringing an iPad."

"Great." She was being sarcastic. "Just in case they pass out, be sure they turn the audio on for the motion sensors....I've got work to do. Lots to read. See you tomorrow."

Forty-two minutes later, through unexpectedly early rush hour traffic, FBI Agent Susan Starzinsky – "Star" to her closest friends – was in her apartment. Tossing her keys into the bowl on her kitchen counter, her coat onto the rack in the corner, all she could think about was getting a quick shower, taking nap, ordering some carryout for dinner and curling up with her work for a late night with the TV playing in the background.

Exhausted, she peeled off most of her clothes, down to her underwear, on her way to the bathroom. She'd pick them up off the floor later. Pushing the shower curtain, the clear kind with cartoon aquarium fish on it, out of the way, she turned on the shower that would take a minute to get hot enough. Turning toward the full-length mirror across the bathroom from the sink, she took off her bra and then her pants, kicking them into corner, and then stood there, looking at herself while a light steam began to cloud the room.

Her eyes scanned her body, but in a way that surprised her, lingering at her chest and then lower for the longest time.

"Oh my God." It was her mouth moving, but the sound coming out of it was the alien's voice.

And she answered, instinctively. "I... I thought you didn't believe in God."

"It's only an expression. How about, 'Wow!' Will 'Wow!' do?" Her eyes kept staring at her reflection. "...I had no idea," it said slowly, with a sense of marvel in its voice.

Carefully, trying not to be frightened, she began to speak. "You said I wasn't in any..."

"Shhh," the alien voice insisted she be quiet, as if she had any choice. "I need to soak this up. Mmm, mm." For a moment, it couldn't take its eyes off her. "...Oh, about when I said you weren't in any danger?"

"Uh huh."

"...I lied."

P.S. You may be wondering how I knew to write this? Because that memory suppression thing the alien (virus) does when it left my brain to hang out in someone else's? It doesn't always take.

<Table Of Contents>

# 61. Bathroom Windows

"Hey, Jaime."

There was, he had decided some time ago on the day they had started sleeping together, no more friendly greeting than a beautiful woman calling out to you from her shower. They weren't lovers, not exactly, just friends who had sex occasionally. It was the casual pleasure of it all that he found so irresistible, that made him so glad he'd rented her the cabin next door.

Years ago, when his grandparents bought the land along the bay side of the ocean inlet, their family and friends thought it was a nice thing, but a waste of money. So far off the beaten path, the only way there was a dirt road that stopped at the dunes, a good mile from where they built the small cottages so close to each other, one for themselves and, later, another for Jaime's parents. Over the years, they'd built more, a total of twenty, renting the others out whenever they could find a tenant, which wasn't often then, but pretty much all the time now that the ocean side of the peninsula was crowded with condos, hotels, stores and clubs. Most of his grandfather's property, several times the land occupied by the cottages, remained wild and untouched by development.

Decades after his grandparents first vacationed there, Jaime was his family's sole survivor. A good guy addicted to writing, he lived there year-around, essentially for free, enjoying the quiet of the bay side and the easy going excitement of the ocean city nearby. He wrote mostly screenplays, perfecting his art in lazy anticipation of the story he was sure some Hollywood producer would buy someday.

The cabins were small, one bedroom each, a great room including the kitchen, and a single bathroom with a high, wide window, hinged at the top, that opened to air the room out. There was only six feet between the cabins. Every other one had its floor plan flipped so that the shower windows lined up. That wasn't on purpose. It just turned out that way.

"Hi, Mary." Jaime opened his window as high as it would go, rested his left arm flat on the sill and his chin on the heel of his right hand, elbow down.

Waiting for the shampoo to rinse off her face, she smiled while she slicked back her dark brown hair. "Why is it, do you think, that we shower the same time every day?"

"I think it's a miracle," he smiled back at her. "If I were God and wanted to do something really nice for me, this would be it."

"Are you alone this morning?" she asked him, continuing with her shower as if it really wasn't that important. "...Still pining for that red head? You know, it doesn't do a girl's ego good to make love to man while he thinking about someone else."

"I am, alone, and so so sorry if I ever gave you that impression."

"Given a chance, I'm pretty sure I can make you forget her."

"Are you kidding? Given a chance, I'm pretty sure you could make me forget my name....And that's a chance I'm willing to take."

Mary laughed back at him, her eyes obviously caring about this guy in a way a person can't fake.

Sensing an opportunity, Jamie invited her over. "...Care to join me? I think I've read that two people showering together use only seventy two percent of the total water they would use separately."

"Seventy two percent. Really?"

"Well, of course, it depends on what you do in the shower and how long it takes to do it."

"I think you're making that up."

"Don't be ridicu.."

"Hi, Jaime." Another woman shoved her way onto Mary's shower window sill. "I'm Clara. Mary and I are friends."

"No kidding. That probably explains why you're showering together. ...Mary, you didn't tell me you had company."

"And you thought I didn't take water conservation seriously....Do you still have that lemon body wash I brought over the other day?"

"I do. ...Wait. I'll get it for you." He disappeared for a moment. "...Here." Pulling himself up onto the tile of his window sill, Jaime held onto the cap of the bottle while Mary did the same through her window, exposing herself in the process which, to be honest, was the whole point of the exchange, while Clara held onto her friend's butt.

"Thanks, Jaime."

"My pleas..." but then he stopped and turned to look over his shoulder. "Hold on. I think there's someone at my door. See you guys later," he waved at them, watching Mary blow him a kiss while he closed and locked his glass window. Turning off the shower, he pushed the curtain aside, grabbed a towel and wrapped it around himself while shouting, as the knocking on his front door continued, "Hold on! I'm coming," and then thought to himself, but out loud, "Did I order anything?"

Walking quickly, but being careful to stay on the wide plank floors so as not to drip on the rug in the middle of his little great room, Jaime made it to his front door just as the second round of knocking stopped. Peering through one of the side panel windows, he saw a woman, somewhere in her late twenties, shoulder length brown hair, dark rimmed glasses, wearing a business suit, heels included, studying something on the face of her phone. (There were no sidewalks or pavements leading up to the cottages. Walking around in heels couldn't have been easy.) Tapping on the window with his first finger while his other hand was busy keeping the towel around his waist, he signaled for her to wait. "Give me a couple minutes. I'll be right back."

She looked up at him, smiling politely with her lips.

Running back to his room, Jaime toweled off his hair, pulled on some jockey shorts, jeans and his favorite "Next Contestant" t-shirt – It was some kind of political statement. – grabbed some sweat socks and his Nike's which he didn't bother to put on and jogged back and opened his front door. "Hey. Can I help you?"

"I think I may want to hire you. You're a detective, aren't you?"

"Uh, sure. Part-time, but yes. Come on in. Sorry about the wet look." Jaime, gesturing toward his couch, apologized while she made her way past him. "I wasn't expecting anyone." As she walked by, the light perfume she was wearing smelled familiar.

Turning in front of the couch, but not sitting down, she got right to the point. "I need help finding someone," she explained nervously. "Robert, the bartender at Stella's,..."

"Bobby. Everyone calls him Bobby. You know, there's something..."

"You can probably tell, I've never done anything like this before."

"I was just going to say..."

"Please." She took a second to calm herself down. "Let me get this out."

Jaime had plopped down on the leather ottoman in front of the easy chair across from the couch to put on his socks and shoes. (Most people at the beach didn't wear sox, but Jaime didn't like the way that felt.) "Sure. Sit down," he told her, brushing something off the bottom of his left foot. "Can I get you something, maybe some lemonade?"

The woman nodded a polite, "No," to the lemonade that is, and started talking. "Several weeks ago..."

"Excuse me. Uh, could we start with your name?"

"Of course. I'm Louise Jenson. You _are_ a detective, aren't you?"

"Actually, I'm a writer, but," Jaime smiled, hoping to make her comfortable, "I do detect stuff. Detecting is my day job, so to speak."

Her face seemed blank, too intent on forming what she had to say to listen to what he was saying.

"Mostly research. Nothing like you see on TV and in the movies."

"But you're licensed? My uncle wanted me to make sure you were licensed."

"Yes, I am. Let me get my wallet," he reassured her, starting to get up. "I'll get my ID for you."

"Later," she waived him back into his seat with two quick swipes of her hand. "You can show me later."

Jaime sat back down, thinking it was time to just be quiet and listen to his prospective client.

"As I was saying, a few weeks ago I was in town, on the ocean side, for meetings with some clients looking for real estate to develop. I'm a realtor. Commercial properties....Here," she paused for a moment to reach into the small side pocket on her suit jacket. Taking out a sterling silver case with her initials on it, she opened it and handed him a card.

"The meeting," she continued, "didn't go well. They have money, plenty of it, but weren't interested in what I was pitching. It was late when they left and I was wiped. Didn't want to drive back. Couldn't find a room – It was beautiful that weekend and the place was mobbed. – so I decided to stay over at a friend's company condo which was down the block from Stella's. It's a club on the beach, the one where Bobby works."

"Yeah, I know the place."

"I went in. There was some huge party underway with a really good, really loud band. I took off my glasses. I don't know why, which is a real problem because I can't see well without them."

"That's probably why you took them off, to lose yourself in the crowd I mean. ...Sorry, that was the writer in me talking. Have you considered contacts?" Yes, it was a dumb question, but he was just making conversation.

"...I sat down at the bar, started drinking and..." She stopped to take time to sigh.

"And what?"

"I don't know. Sounds trite, I don't know, corny, but I met this really great guy. Very light blonde hair that didn't make any sense."

"Why's that?"

"His eyebrows were dark like yours. He was a bit shy, but we got past that in a hurry."

"Yeah, frozen banana daiquiris will do that to you."

"How did you know what we were drinking?"

"Uh, I didn't. I just like the way they taste."

"Me, too. Hm. ...One thing led to another and, the next thing I know, I'm waking up in the condo, naked." She swallowed away her embarrassment.

"It's okay. We're adults. I get it."

"Getting out of bed, I step on a note the guy left for me. 'Out for bagels. Be right back.' Two hours later, I gave up waiting and left."

"What night was that, precisely?" Jaime asked, but she ignored him.

"Anyway, I figured it was just another... You know, and I forgot about it. At least that was the idea. Turns out, I can't forget. But then I can't really remember either." She paused. "I don't get out much."

"Can I talk yet?" Jaime got up and sat next to his client, close enough to be personal, but far enough away not to be too close and so that he could turn to face her without making it weird.

Again, she ignored him. "I want you to find the guy. ...I've allocated $300 to do that. I figure, assuming he's a local, it should be easy. If not, I'm not spending anymore."

"Louise."

"Will you take the job? ...Half up front, the other half when you're done?" She reached into her purse, taking out her checkbook while she waited for an answer.

"Louise, I have some questions."

"Please, it's Jen. My friends call me Jen. It's short for Jenson. My last name. Because I don't really like Louise."

Jaime didn't react.

"Mr. Weiss?"

"Jaime. Call me Jaime....This hair," he asked her, starting to reach out for it where it touched her shoulder, but then he stopped short, not wanting to creep her out.

"What about it?" she asked self-consciously, touching it for him.

"Was it red?...Did it use' to be red?"

"Well, yes, for a while. Why... Why did you..."

"It was me."

"Who was you?"

"I'm the guy you met at the bar. My hair was blonde. I... I lost a bet with some friends. They wanted me to cut it off, but settled for bleaching it....It seemed funny at the time. ...That morning, I went out for bagels, but ran into the husband of a women who'd hired me to follow him. I didn't know your number. It got messy and, by the time I got back, you were gone. You were staying in a friend's company's corporate apartment, and all I had was 'Jen' with red hair, green eyes and a smile I can't get out of my head."

"Jaaay-meee? ...Jaime, are you in there?" It was Mary, the following morning, the window of her shower wide open, calling to her friend and occasional lover.

The opposite window opened a second later. "Jaime's..." the woman answering stopped to giggle. "Wait a minute." Reaching somewhere, she came back up wearing dark rimmed glasses. Wiping the shower drops off the lenses, she finished her sentence. "Jaime's..." she searched for a word, "busy." She smiled very broadly, squirming awkwardly. "I'm Jen. Can I help you?"

"Mary. I'm Mary....Wait a minute. Wasn't that Jaime walking behind you?

"So that's where he went?" Jen was kidding, of course. "Didn't see him standing there without my glasses."

"Well, welcome to the neighborhood, Jen. Maybe, when Jamie isn't so busy, doing whatever he's doing, the two of us..."

"What about me?" Clara pushed Mary over so that they could share the sill.

"Maybe," Mary corrected herself, "the three of us could, I don't know, have a couple of beers and some of those mini tacos they sell at Juan's?"

"Which Juan is that?" Carla thought she was hysterical and inadvertently snorted up some water. "Ooops. Get it," she asked Mary who was laughing while pretending to think it was stupid. "Which Juan?" and then they both laughed.

"You want to have lunch?" Jen asked, apparently surprised at how friendly they were.

"What for?" Jamie showed up suddenly, one hand around Jen's shoulder, the other flush against the tile wall next to the window.

"To talk about you," Mary told him. "What else would we have in common?"

Turned out, they didn't make lunch, but settled for Happy Hour instead. Juan's was a tacky place where the locals felt comfortable and the food was surprisingly good ever since that Jewish couple had bought the place a few years ago when they retired. (Word was it had something to do with the chicken fat they used on the grill.) The three women sat around a table on the deck, the noise of the cars and people walking by on their way back from the ocean drowning out their conversation for anyone who wasn't a part of it.

"So how long do you think you need to get the listing?" Mary asked Jen while Carla played with the condensation on her bottle of beer.

"The developer is okay, still pretending to look at a couple of other properties even though the Weiss estate is their only option for a complex as large as they're planning. In a week or two, I'll have them contact Jaime, asking if he has representation."

"Do you really think," Carla shoved what was left of a grilled shrimp taco into her mouth, "he'll agree to sell?"

"...and give you the listing?" Mary added.

"Are you kidding," Jen smiled. "The man's in love."

"In-sex is more like it," Carla looked up to clarify the situation. "First Mary gets to know him, and now you. I've never seen a guy so happy."

"Sleeping with a guy for money," Mary shook her head. "So what exactly does that make us?"

"Hey," Jen somehow thought it was important to add, "he's good, no kidding, pretty good and that's a solid six figure commission we're talking about, times two including the kickback. Hell, for that kind of money, I'd consider marrying the..."

"What?" Mary interrupted, noticing Carla seemed less than her usual slaphappy self. "You feeling sorry for the guy? He'll get millions, and I'm going to have the developer offer him a condo of his choice, within reason, that'll seem like something I negotiated for him. Not to mention, I'll..."

"We'll," Mary finished Jen's sentence for her, "be banging his brains out."

"Hey, Bobby." Jaime, hands in the pockets of the light jacket he was wearing, walked into Stella's and said hello to his favorite bartender. The girls were several blocks away and wouldn't know he was there.

Bobby didn't say anything, just pointed with the hand in which he was holding a towel at a booth toward the back where a man in his forties and a younger woman, both dressed like locals, were nursing some beer, chips and guacamole.

"Hi," the man looked up to greet him. "Have a seat. We'll make this quick."

Jaime sat down. "Don't worry. Hey, Wendy," he looked at the woman while he slid to the middle of the bench on his side of the table. "Good to see you again. ...People'll just think you're clients. Confidential business, whatever. ...So you've been listening?"

"Yeah," the man, a senior detective with the state police, answered, "the bugs are well placed.

"You spend a lot of time in the shower," Wendy, also a Detective, but a relatively new one, laughed when she said it.

"I know," Jaime laughed back at her, looking at his fingers, rubbing them with his thumbs. "We need to wrap this before I shrivel up."

"From the sound of things," the man added, "those may not be the only body parts you need to worry about."

"Whoa," Jaime sat back, pushing on the edge of the table. "That was harsh. Just doing my duty to catch the bad guys."

"Right," the man responded sarcastically, and then got down to business. "As far as we can tell, your sale..."

"Which we're not really doing," Jaime wanted to make that point clear. "I don't want any legal mess, anything tying up my property when this is over."

"Don't worry about it," the Detective told him, although it wasn't a very reassuring response. "We've found another job which makes your deal the forth time, at least, that they've done this."

"The first three property owners," it was Wendy talking, "are married and aren't willing to cooperate voluntarily for obvious reasons. Two of them are prominent and it's been difficult working with them."

"Are you sure," Jaime asked the two state police Detectives, "they're getting a kickback? I mean, if they don't, there's no case for fraud. Just a real estate agent and her team sleeping with a guy to encourage business."

"We're sure." The man answered.

"How do you know?"

"You just worry about your end." The man clearly didn't think it was any of Jaime's business. "So far you're playing it perfectly."

"Here," Wendy wrote a number on her napkin. "John's going back, but I'll be staying on until the show's over. Here's the temporary cell number I'll be using. You call if you need anything. I'll let it ring to voice mail and then call you back....You know we want these people, especially the developer and the appraisers who are in on it. Just be careful you don't underestimate them."

"Thanks." Jaime folded the napkin up and jammed it into his front pocket, slid over and stood up. "I've got to meet Jen for dinner, and Mary wants to talk to me."

Both Detectives looked up at him. "Hey," Jaime held up his hands, anticipating their comments, "this isn't as much fun as you're thinking. ...Not even close." They kept staring at him, not believing a word he was saying. "This is... It's..." But then he gave up, "What the heck. I'm having the time of my life," he admitted, smiling ear-to-ear. "See you later," and then he left, pretending to prepare himself mentally for another night on the job.

<Table Of Contents>

# 62. Mary

Time to write another short story, but I'm not sure what I should write about. ...Hm. Should that be "about what I should write," so I don't end up with a dangling preposition? I don't care. I don't always like the way it sounds to be grammatically correct.

I need a storyline. You know, a plot, not to be confused with a "plat" which is a drawing of a lot, versus "Gersplat!" which is the sound you make when you fall off a building onto the pavement, followed by "buh-bump" when the bus runs you over just when you started to get up.

I haven't written a detective story for a while.

Maybe Mary will be horny and stop by after she gets home from work. Do I mind being her go-to-guy for an occasional quickie? Are you kidding? You haven't seen Mary. Actually, yes I do mind. She hangs out with me. We have a great time talking, laughing at stuff, rubbing body parts. She even stays over some nights, always at my place for some reason. Heck, I know the reason. We're good together in every respect, except in public. That's because she has a boyfriend. He's a dentist. How boring is that?

She's not even in love with the guy. Not really, although she won't admit it. I think she's in love with me, but just doesn't know it. It's the idea of the guy that she likes. I can see her holding out her hands, palms up, pretending to be weighing the alternatives. "Let's see. Slightly overweight writer-in-progress struggling to make a living at his chosen profession in one hand, versus perfectly fit professional guaranteed six figure income guy with a really nice car and, no surprise here, perfect teeth in the other hand. They're so clean. His teeth. I'm talking about his teeth. They're so clean they squeak when he smiles and his lips slide over them.

She doesn't invite me over to her place, just two floors up and a few doors down, because somehow that would be cheating. In her head, I mean. Here, she's a different person, so it's like it didn't happen. We were hungry the other night, so I suggested we run out for something, maybe split a couple of appetizers and a Cobb salad. (I'm dieting and writing here at my kitchen table this close to the refrigerator isn't helping me lose weight.) I could wear a hat. Maybe bring a pad with me, take notes like we were having a meeting. But nooooo. So I reheated some homemade lasagna which, because I'm a really good cook, turned out to be even better than when it was fresh. And we had some wine, and I made some cannoli while we had sex on the couch, and the floor, and on my granite kitchen counters and then finished up on the couch. I find sometimes that starting and stopping sex – to tend to something I'm cooking – actually makes for a bigger "Kaboom!" at the end – and I'm not talking about my kitchen exploding.

Okay, so I need to write something. Keep writing and someday, who knows, I may even be able to make a living at this. What would Dashiell Hammett d...

"Bzzzz."

"Wait. There's someone at the door." ...Why did I write that down? Because typing makes me feel like I'm actually writing something.

"BZZZZZZ!"

"Okay already. I'm coming."

"Hey." It was Mary. "Can I come in?...There's no one here?" she asked without waiting for an invitation, touching my chest on her way past my kitchen into the living room, knowing full well that the odds were I was alone.

"Sure," I said, closing the door behind her, watching her walk being one of my favorite things to do. There was just something about her legs being much longer than they should have been for a person of her height. It's some kind of really attractive, genetic screw up that scientists need to study. "What's up?"

"Look," she turned to face me, one leg straight down, the other angled away. "I know what I'm about to ask is... unfair and presumptuous, even hurtful."

"What, you're going to make me order Indian food?"

"Not exactly. Bud's coming over." Bud's the dentist.

"When?"

Mary checked her watch. "In forty minutes, and he's always prompt, if not early," she added. "Usually early. In fact, that's becoming a real problem."

"So, let me guess, you're here to have sex with me because... Becausssse... I have no idea why you're here, do I?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I can't have sex with two different men the same night."

"Words to live by."

"No. That would be cheating. ...What I need," she said, pulling her jersey top off over her head. "is for us to start to have sex, but stop just short of you-know-what."

"You're not wearing a bra."

"Are you paying attention?"

"Not really."

Reaching behind her waist, she shifted the back of her skirt to the front, unbuttoned it and let it fall onto the corner of my Persian rug.

"I've always wondered, with a thong that small, what's the point? And aren't you afraid it'll get stuck?...like giving yourself a wedgy, front and back?"

"Bud.." She was standing there, hands on her hips, her head tilted just enough for her hair on the one side to brush up against her shoulder. "Well, Bud wants us to, you know, together, but he can't wait for me. ...Do you know what I mean?"

"I can only imagine." I was trying to empathize, but I have problems being sincere. "Actually, yes I do. So, what's that got to do with me, and why are you standing here, mostly nude, in front of me? ...Aren't we in danger of violating your two men in the same night rule? Or is it more of a guideline, in which case..."

"I need you to warm me up, as it were."

I just stood there, taking a second to realize what she was talking about, but then I got it. "Just to be clear, you want to have foreplay with me so that you can have a timely orgasm with Bud, the dentist, who has an unfortunately short span of attention....How'm I doin'?

"Perfect. I knew I could count on you. Could we get started? I had one of those days at work, and this could take a while."

"Oh my gosh. So..." Give me some credit here. I am, after all, a man, fully capable of doing manly things, resisting temptation being one of them. The least I can do is try to sound indignant. "So all I am to you is foreplay? For another guy??"

"Of course not," she said with conviction. "Not usually, but tonight's an exception."

"How humiliating. We really don't have any future together, do we?" To be honest, this entire line of dialogue, beginning with "How humiliating," was something I was thinking to myself, on the way to my couch. "Tell me again why I'm doing this," I asked her.

"Because," she checked her watch and then began unbuckling my belt with reckless abandon, "I'm going to make it worth your while."

"You know," I advised her, "it might help if you didn't say that in such a matter-of-fact way, more like a lover, not so much like a lawyer."

"I'm only a paralegal. If I was a lawyer, I wouldn't need the dentist. ...Now let's do this. Time's a wastin'."

"I thought you guys billed by the hour," was the last thing I remember saying before losing consciousness, figuratively speaking. Thirty-five minutes later, she came to an abrupt stop. I now have a real sense of what whiplash feels like.

"Whoa."

"What?"

"That's it. I'm good to go" Jumping up from the couch, she stepped into her skirt, grabbled her top and had it down far enough to be decent by the time she cleared my front door which she hurriedly pulled shut behind her.

"Bzzzz"

"Geez." Fortunately, I was disheveled, but still dressed. "What?" I demanded meekly, swinging my front door open, expecting to find Mrs. Schmeldnick from the apartment below me with mail delivered to her box by mistake. Instead, there was Mary. Two steps forward in my direction, and she kissed me. It was the perfect kiss, not too hard, not too soft, the kind that has that little follow up, like an aftershock, that you never expect no matter how many times it's happened before, the kind when a little bit of saliva leaves the two of you attached for a precious few extra seconds.

"Thanks," and she smiled when she said it, and then started walking away, but stopped after only half a step and turned back. "For the record, there are times, sober times when I'm thinking really clearly, that it occurs to me that you're the one."

"No kidding?"

"No kidding," and she headed off toward the stairwell, waiving goodbye to me with the back of her hand, without turning around. And all I could think was how good she looked walking away.

"Honey?....Honey??"

The voice was familiar, but I wasn't sur... Oh, yeah.

"I'm just wrapping up." Putting down the lid to my Mac, I got up from our kitchen table where I'd been typing and walked into our bedroom where the love of my life was reading something in bed. She was looking up, over the rim of her glasses that had slid a bit down her nose. I think her lips were moving, but I wasn't listening, the taste of Mary's kiss still lingering on my lips. I didn't want to spoil it by thinking about anything else, but then something she said got my attention.

"I was getting our mail this afternoon and I met this new girl, Mary something, that moved in last weekend. Seems very nice. Maybe we should invite her over."

"Sure."

"Have you seen her?"

"Uh, yeah. I think I saw her at the gym this morning. I'm not sure....She was gyming." Strike that. "Exercising. Nothing special. Pretty much the usual stuff people do there," and I pretended, standing there at the end of our bed, that I was running.

"She's really attractive, don't you think?"

"Yeah, I guess so. Depends what you mean by attrac.."

"...and single as far as I could tell. We only talked for a couple of minutes, but I think maybe we should fix her up with my brother."

"Uh, I somehow don't think she's Bud's type."

"Why? Did you talk to her?"

"No. I just don't think anybody's his type. Nothing personal."

"Of course not." She went back to what she was reading. "How's your writing coming? Another detective story?"

I've always wondered how she could do that, talk to me without actually paying any attention. "No. I decided to write a fantasy... about me having sex with the new girl, Mary."

"That's nice."

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# That's it for now.

"So, how 'bout them apples?" I ask.

"What apples?" you respond.

"Are you kidding? It's an expression. ...Well, did you like it? Do you feel like you got your money's worth?"

"Eh."

"Right. I'll take that as a 'Yes.' If you did, enjoy reading _The Elevator Trilogy_ , tell your friends..."

Your head dropping slightly, you mumble an unintelligible reply.

"What? You don't have any friends? Hmm. ...Okay, so tell random, preferably attractive, unarmed people you meet on the street, whatever. Use _The Elevator Trilogy_ as a conversation starter. Memorize dialogue. Try to stand and act like some of my characters. That helps sometimes.

_And don't hesitate to write a wildly favorable a review._ Most importantly, go to my Smashwords website and let me know if you'd like to read more of my short-short stories."

Yet another barely audible response.

"I'm sure you'll make friends eventually. Now could we puh-leeze get back to talking about me?! ...On the other hand, as I was about to say, if you didn't like it, I don't want to hear from you....Jusssst kidding. No, seriously. Favorable reviews only....Just kidding, really. Say whatever you like... as long as it's good. Four stars minimum, five would be nice. ...No matter what, thanks for reading my book."

Les Cohen

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