Crap.
When I could stand it no longer, I thought up an excuse to
knock on the door of my next-door neighbor and pal, Rita, Vernell’s sister. She
answered wearing her favorite garment, a flowing peignoir decorated with gorgeous
floral designs, sheer, and extending almost to her knees. It fit her perfectly,
but no one, it seems, had ever told her that you could see right through it
when the light hit a certain way.
I didn’t feel it was my place to tell her.
She answered my question while I stared. The question
concerned something about the management of the condo to which I already knew
the answer. For a couple of reasons, I stayed and attempted to carry on a more
extended conversation.
“Big plans for the weekend?” That was an imaginative
conversation-starter, right?
“Doing it,” she said waving her arms to illustrate a relaxed
and casual plan of action. She made the peignoir flow like a silk sheet in the wind
and I forgot what I was going to say next. I thought of it finally and mumbled,
“You and Vernell aren’t going to visit the parents?”
“Vernell and her friend Brenda went to see Brenda’s folks.
Won’t be back until tomorrow.”
“Oh.”
Rita gave me that that cute, mysterious smile that she used
so well. “She wanted to know who you were, too.”
Be still my beating heart. “Who wanted to know?”
“You know who. I told her you were on a work-release
program.”
“You what?”
“Just kidding. I told her you were a rising star in the
urban planning business.”
“Oh?”
“Yes.”
“Did that impress her?”
“Not really. She wanted to know what the ‘urban planning
business’ amounted to.”
“Oh.”
“You really need to rescue her,” she said, “from all this,” she
waved her arms with a grand gesture and I saw what was either the gardens of
paradise or the pathways of hell flourish before me. Take your pick.
“From, … from what?”
“Well,” she said, “from that basketball coach for one thing.”
“She doesn’t like him?”
“Oh, she’s very fond of him and he’s a terribly nice man, a
good one, too.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“The problem is that she hates basketball.”
“Oh.”
“She says that in order to sit through a game on, as she
puts it, ‘those hard-assed wooden bleachers,’ she has to pretend the pirates
are torturing her and Sean Connery is coming to the rescue.”
“Oh.”
“She’s even calculated the number of games she would have to
sit through if she married him and he had a successful career.” She waved an
arm again. “Hundreds,” she said, and the peignoir beckoned me once more into
the chasms of sin.
“I see.” Oh did I see. Plenty.
“She plays the piano, you know.”
“I don’t know anything about her.”
“Time to learn,” she said, flashing a semi-lewd grin.
I could only nod.
“Go for it, Sport,” she said, closing the door. My final view
of her standing there in her casual weekend attire inspired me to spend the rest
of the day picking guitar, drinking beer, and imagining all sorts of things.
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| Rescue this precious thing? Well, if someone had to ... |
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