My Redacted Life: Chapter 23. (Cont._4)

Instead of going back to my apartment and trying to find Brenda, my Redhead and maybe girlfriend, I was going for a beer. And I wasn’t going for a beer with a couple of friends, I was going with two partners in the firm. That meant I was to keep my mouth shut, sip on my beer, no matter how many they drank, and listen to whatever they wanted to talk about. Oh, and I was to show my appreciation for being included.

That, as they say, really promised to “red-line the old fun meter.”

We walked to Capitol and Center streets, then crossed over to the northwest corner and entered a place on the corner called The Volkshaus, a faux-German place that served good Polish Sausage sandwiches and St. Pauli Girl beer, made in Breman, my ancestral hometown. That’s what I ordered. They drank American.

Most of the talk centered on our development project, Wellington Village. First, the land had to be, in the Engineer’s parlance “topo’d” meaning surveyors had to shoot elevations at specific points so that a map showing contour lines could be prepared. Then Jack would have to adjust his design to accommodate any undiscovered features.

The land was fairly flat, Jack observed, so there shouldn’t be any problems.

“We’ll see,” said the Engineer.

After that, the Engineer and his aid would begin work on the actual engineering drawings. They talked about a schedule and how much of a hurry the head of the firm was that they get into construction as soon as possible. They made a few disparaging observations about how little the president of our firm knew about the complexities of engineering and construction. Then they talked about how much money they would make when the lots were all sold, probably within a day or two after they went on sale. A cash flow analysis using that schedule of sales indicated the return would be substantial.

It would be nice, I suppose, if cash flow analyses ruled the Universe instead of ugly reality. I sipped my beer and tried to appear interested but not involved. They ordered another beer but I said I was fine.

The talk turned to military service. I stayed quiet. Jack had been a line officer in the Navy, which impressed me. The Engineer was an officer in a National Guard unit which, in those days, was the next best thing to avoiding the draft completely. I didn’t let on that I had ever heard of military service.

After what seemed like 50 years, the talkfest broke up and we left. The cheap bastards didn’t even pay for my beer, and it was expensive, being imported and all.

That didn’t really matter now. I fairly ran the five blocks to where my car was parked and rushed back to the apartment. What luck! I pulled onto the parking lot just as Brenda did and I parked alongside her car. That would make more tongues waggle. I jumped out and ran to her driver-side door and opened it for her. She looked at me a bit funny, but climbed out and stood in front of me.

Understanding women is
like trying to taste the wind.

Neither of us spoke for a moment, then I said, “Funny running into you. I was just going down for a hamburger. Want to go?” Then I noticed her eyes were red.

“I don’t want to talk to anyone right now,” she said.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.” That’s woman-talk, I had discovered, meaning something major was the matter. She took in a deep breath, and said, “I’m okay. I just had to have a sad talk with someone and I don’t feel like being around people right now.”

“A sad talk?”

“Delivering some bad news.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“You should be,” she said. “It’s all your fault.” Then she took two steps, rose on here tiptoes, and kissed me. Before I could respond, she had pivoted and was running toward the apartment.

I guess I have been more confused in my life, but I can’t remember when.