My Redacted Life: Chapter 21 (Cont._3)

 It was Monday and I fairly cake walked into the office. I had spent a good portion of the weekend with the Redhead. Wow! “Things are looking up in my world,” I thought, “To hell with yours.”

We had talked, Brenda the Redhead and I, about more rides in the evenings when I got off work. The days were getting longer and she was off from school until the fall. Oh man. In another week, I could, if I played my cards right, have her convinced that I was a man of substance and the life of a basketball coach’s wife wasn’t for her.

Here was my plan. I would ask my neighbor or Brenda’s roommate what kind a music the Redhead liked. I would walk down to Moses Melody Shop in the 300 block of Main Street and buy a phonograph album suited to her taste. I would stop at Pfeifer-Blass while I was there and get a nice ashtray, maybe even something tasteful to hang on the living room wall. I would buy the latest James A. Michener book and leave it lying around somewhere conspicuous. I would rescue my sister’s old electric typewriter and put in on the kitchen table as if I were just starting on my epic.

I would have her “snowed” in short, wanting to find out more about me and what had obviously been an interesting and adventurous life. I would be quite eager to share, aggrandize, and redact as necessary. As I formed my character, it would be one of Sean Connery’s looks, Paul Newman’s physique, John Paul Jones’s heroism, Ernest Hemingway’s intellect, and Erich Segal’s sensitivity.

The poor girl would never know what hit her, but I had to get busy so I wouldn’t lose the momentum I had going. The world literally would be “my oyster,” to borrow from The Bard.

When the boss called me into his office, I didn’t suspect a thing. Within ten minutes, my world lay ruined and devastated at my feet.

No, he didn’t fire me. It was worse. Had I been fired, I could have put my courting plans into action while I drew unemployment.

It, as I say, was worse. We were supposed to make a team visit to the City of Hope to interview business owners about plan proposals for the renovation of the central business. Four were scheduled to go: the two bosses who were planners, Ron McConnel and I. Plans called for completing the assignment in one long day in a veritable blitzkrieg of action.

But, said the boss with a smile. They had gotten busy. Ron was needed for engineering. And, he said with doom fairly dripping from his mouth, they now felt that having one person do all the interviews would improve the consistency of results.

Want to guess who the one person would be?

“But,” I said, “that’s a lot of driving back and forth.”

“No, no,” he said. “You’re to stay down there until you finish. Christie has already booked you in the local motel. Now you’d best get moving so you can get at least half a day’s work done today. The questionnaires and other materials are packed and waiting in the lobby. Load them up, go home and pack, and get going. Time is money. Tell that new girlfriend of yours that you’ll be back Friday.”

New girlfriend. How did he know?

Have you, dear reader, ever seen films or photos of the tall, failed, public housing in St. Louis being demolished?

That was my world at this moment.