My Redacted Life: Chapter 19

Come Wednesday afternoon I wasn’t in a good mood. Things seemed to be a mini-second off two-four time, a typical “hump-day.”

At work, the engineer was showing his ass, to put it bluntly. He was insisting that we move our printing and supply trade to a company where a friend of his worked. This meant leaving the company where Bob French and Bob Wilson worked. If one remembers, these two had guided me through the trying days of multiple deadlines when I had only the scantest idea of what I was doing.

My protests escalated until my original bosses reminded me that the company had changed its name to that of the four owners. In fact, those names were now on the front door. They invited me to check, whereupon I would confirm that my name wasn’t included.

Message and smirk delivered simultaneously.

I walked over to see the two Bobs during the lunch hour. They understood. I was grateful but still aggravated at the thought that it might take me up to a month of careful deceit and treachery to straighten the mess out so we could return to normal. In actuality, it took only a week and a half. I was getting to be that good.

I saved two friendships and escaped any blame whatsoever.

But back to the Wednesday. I drove home with the intention of enjoying the last “two-fingers” of the single-malt my neighbor had given me. I carried a briefcase with me that my Sainted Mother had given me for Christmas. I didn’t plan to do any work, but a successful businessman carried a briefcase everywhere back in those days, even if one had to put a book in it to make it appear loaded.

Before leaving my parking spot at work, I had removed and stored the top of the car, expecting to tool around town later, the epitome of cool. When I arrived home, I parked facing away from the apartment building. Before I could move, the radio began to play the old Johnny Cash hit, written by Kris Kristofferson, “Sunday Morning Coming Down.” I sat and listened to it.

When it finished, I backed out of the Porsche like a crawdad, straightened up, did an “about face” and looked. There, standing like they were guarding the sacred fire in the shrine of Vesta, stood my neighbor, her sister, and the Redhead. They were lined up in formation, staring past me at the car.

All three were wearing jeans, but my neighbor had neglected to zip hers and a flash of pink underwear fought its way through. She spoke first, “Get us a new car, did we?”

“Nice,” her sister said.

“What in the world is that?” the Redhead said.

“It’s a mini-Porsche,” I said. “A 914.”

None of the three spoke. I suppose I became emboldened out of shear boredom. I looked at the three standing there like celestial judges and said, “Anyone want to take a ride?”

“Can’t,” my neighbor said. “Just had my hair done.” True, it looked like she had been hooked up to an electrical current.”

“Maybe next time,” her sister said. Then, as an afterthought, she flashed a grin. “Why don’t you take Brenda?”

Was I going to impress her,
or what?

I looked at the Redhead. She pursed her lips. “Maybe later.”

It was “in for a penny, in for a pound” time. “How much later?” I asked, startled inwardly at my spunk.

She looked at the horizon and thought. “Give me 20 minutes,” she said. “Just knock on the door.”

Oh … my … God.