The Introvert -chapter three

Chapter Three


Buddy called on Friday morning. I had just stepped out of the shower and grabbed a cup of coffee. The house was quiet. By mutual consent, Rodney and I only worked four days a week. He used up the rest of the time, working at the hardware store for Karl. The kid was doing all right, money wise. I grabbed the phone to talk to my little brother.

“How’s things down in sunny Florida? Selling a lot of real estate to the snow birds?”

“I swear, Lowell, it’s the easiest job ever. People are so desperate to escape the cold that they will buy anything. I don’t get it, myself. This place is too hot and too flat. I miss Mill Valley.”

“So, move back. The town is growing like crazy. We’ve even got a Starbucks, now.”

“Wow, I guess Mill Valley has finally arrived. How have you been doing? Gone back to work?”

“Not yet. I’ve got some things in the works,” I lied. “I’ve been renovating the house. It’s looking pretty good around here.”
“That’s great. I’m thinking of coming up in the fall. Maybe I can stop by and have lunch.”

“Hey, I’ve got plenty of room. Bring the family and stay a few days.”

“Sure.” He paused and I knew what was coming. “Rosalee called. Said you got banged up pretty good and spent a few days in the hospital.”

“Most of the time, I wish that woman would mind her own business. What did she tell you?”

“She wouldn’t exactly say. Is everything okay?”

“I’m fine. Let’s just say that the next time I get cut off in traffic, I’ll think twice before flipping the guy off. Heard from Lilly lately?”

“You know how sis can be. I got a letter about six months ago. She’s in Paris and has met some guy.”

“I don’t suppose she asked about me.”

“Sorry bro. What can I say?”

He didn’t have to say anything. We both were tiptoeing around the subject of Lily and Grace. They had been close and confided in each other. My sister had her own notion about what had happened to my wife. Nothing I could say would ever change that.

I got off the phone to get dressed. The slacks and dress shirt were slightly musty and could have used a pressing but would suffice. Being freshly barbered and shaved I didn’t look half bad. Rodney’s drawing of Bigeloe One was framed and tucked away in my briefcase. I planned to stop by the museum after my appointment with the head doctor. An umbrella was added as insurance against promised rain and I struck out for the eight block walk to Main Street.

Downtown Mill Valley was undergoing a renaissance like a lot of the towns in America. In my youth there were no malls or outlying shopping complexes. Everything happened on Main Street. Appliance stores, movie theaters and ice creme parlors vied for customers. If you wanted to see anyone, you came downtown on Saturday afternoon. Eventually, out lying malls and big box stores lured people away but everything that goes around, comes around. People and business was back. It was now trendy to be on Main Street.

I walked past a Mexican and Chinese restaurant, one Sport’s bar and an Acoustic Cafe. Another place that once housed an honest to God shoe cobbler now touted itself as Bistro Seven. What the heck was a Bistro? Probably a fancy name for cafe. People were sitting out front, drinking and tapping at their smart phones. Joggers were out, showing off their thin bodies and a team of cyclists in matching gear, rode by in formation. The place did have a cosmopolitan air about it. Everyone seemed to have an agenda.

My own involved walking up to First and Main. The old Rexall Drug Store was the destination. According to my notes, Cierra Stoddard was doing business as a therapist on the second floor. I remembered the place. It use to be a Dentist office. Back then, I paid for milk shakes and teeth fillings, now I was forking out cash to talk to a stranger. Seventy five an hour, to be exact. Somehow, that didn’t seem right. Still, I was committed to a visit to appease Rosalee. Heck, I wasn’t even married to the woman and was having to bend over backwards. Just like going to the dentist, I took a deep breath and went to get it over with.

The Rexall now housed Lawyers and Architects. Two flights of stairs led upward. My footsteps echoed off the old and cracked plaster walls. I entered an empty foyer save for three chairs and a small collection of Bonsai trees and flowing Bamboo plants. I must have triggered a door bell in the back. The inner door opened and I met Cierra Stoddard for the first time.

I had an impression of a hot air balloon, gliding just above the ground. A few happy meals shy of being obese, she was clad in one of those floor length muumuus. This one was pale blue with long vertical green stripes. I caught a motion of hips beneath the fabric and a large softness at the chest as she came forward. Was she naked underneath? Her handshake felt like warm dough. She introduced herself, suggested using first names and invited me back.

The carpet in her office was thick enough to sleep on. Bookshelves dominated one wall and diplomas hung beside a lone window that afforded a nice view of Main Street. She offered a leather high backed swivel chair and I settled across from her desk. And waited. And waited some more. Cierra had both elbows on the desk. Her chin rested on intertwined hands as if she needed to hold her head up. I stared back, determined not to break. Her eyes were gray. The crinkling at the corners suggested age. The lady definitely wasn’t spending her money at the beauty parlor. Devoid of makeup, her hair was dry, brown with a dusting of gray and cut in a Dutch Boy. The bangs came down and just met unplucked brows. She probably cut her own hair and didn’t shave. Anywhere.

How long were we going to keep this up? An Hour? Seemed like a bad way to spend seventy five bucks. The hell with it. I give.

“So, where’s the couch?”

“Should there be a couch?”

“I guess so. People lay on it and talk about why they hate their Mother. Stuff like that.”

“Do you hate your Mother?”

“Not at all. It’s a figure of speech. What most people think about shrinks, psychiatrists, whatever.”

“What else do you think?”

The lady was starting to piss me off. The staring routine had gotten old, five minutes ago. I decided to go for the shock value.

“I think that you do not shave your underarms, have a houseful of cats and a drawer full of vibrators.”

“Very good, Lowell. Actually, I prefer goats over cats, only have one vibrator and I also do not shave my mons or legs. Shall I go on?”

At least my verbal assault had broken her Buddha like routine. She sat back in the chair and began rocking side to side in small arcs.

I nodded and she continued.

“I like to employ a holistic, naturalistic approach in helping people. Zen, Yoga, music therapy, anything and everything that works. Don’t be disappointed, I’ve been the traditional route. I’ll even sprinkle in a bit of Jung and Freud from time to time. After all, knowledge is the beginning of wisdom. The world is full of sounds, colors, smells and tastes. Why limit yourself to any one? That’s so drab and uninspired. Don’t you think?”

“I do.”

Cierra swiveled around to stare out the window. Silence stretched between us. I checked my watch, surprised that thirty minutes had gone by. When she spoke, she didn’t turn but continued to stare out the window.

“Your aura is gray, Lowell. You’re coming out of a dark place but the journey has been long and painful. Much harder due to an introverted nature. You take the path of least resistance and consider yourself a coward. Tell me your greatest fear.”

“You first.”

“All right. My greatest fear is for anyone to see me naked. Being overweight is crippling on a young girl. My phobia was deep rooted and lasted for many years. It’s actually why I became a therapist. Also, a nudist. If you face your fears, the realization comes that it’s all just make believe.

It was my turn and I knew what I had to say. I didn’t want to but at the same time felt compelled to talk.

“My greatest fear is discovering that I’m a murderer. When my son dropped out of college, I refused to keep him up. My wife and I fought over it all the time. He needed tough love, that’s what I told her. I kicked him out. He found work in the construction business and fell off a high rise. My wife blamed me. His death sat between us for twenty years. One morning I woke up. You know how unnaturally quiet the house is when the power goes off? That’s what I noticed that morning. Grace wasn’t making a sound. I reached over to touch her shoulder and she was cold. They said it was a combination of booze and pills.”

I couldn’t go on. My throat was hurting and tears ran down my face. Pulling a handkerchief, I hid myself. Cierra came round to reach over the chair and embrace me from the rear. We both cried. As she said later, we faced and embraced the moment.


The moment didn’t seem so poignant once I was out on the sidewalk. I felt like a doofus for crying in front of a stranger. How had she done it? I was way too easy, spilling my guts like that. It had to be that stuff she told about being fat and overcoming her fears. By demonstrating her vulnerability, she validated my own. Hey, listen to me. One visit and I sounded like a shrink. I might just give this therapy stuff a go. At least she didn’t charge me for the first visit. Besides, Cierra was a bit of an odd one. I liked that.

Just across Mill River is Bigeloe One, the original mill. The bricks are faded and chipped, mortar joints, dry and crumbling. The renovation stayed true to the original construction. Inside, the wide slatted wooden floors once bore the footfalls of thousand of workers. My Daddy being one. Lily, Buddy and I would wait outside the gate for him to get off work. Whenever the door opened, a deafening noise would rush out from all the machinery running. I’m surprised that the workers didn’t burst forth, as well, to escape the din. Daddy was never in a hurry, strolling out swinging a lunch pail, his coveralls dotted with lint. Looking back, I realized what Daddy knew all along. No matter how fast you left work, you always had to come back. He was smart like that. The lint on his clothes? Mom would have cleaned them, each and every night but Daddy devised a game for us kids. We picked the lint during the walk over to Hatchett Street. Saving the balls of cotton, when they reached softball size, he would give us a nickel. I still had one in my foot locker at home. That and the pistol were the only thing I had left of Daddy’s. I had thought of donating the cotton ball with a brief written history to the museum but couldn’t really part with it. What I could part with was Rodney’s drawing. I went inside.

“Mr. Lowell! Where have you been keeping yourself. I haven’t seen you in ages.”

Dee was the curator. Big, bold, black and beautiful, she had a penchant for hooped earrings, and spiked hair. Today, the tips of her do were tangerine. The color matched her belt and went well with the gray business suit.

“Dee, you get prettier every time I see you.”

“Honey, Dee always be looking good. What brings you to the poor side of the river?”

“This,” I popped the briefcase and offered up the drawing.

She took her time. “Who’s this Hot Rod? That what it say, right? Hot Rod. I know it ain’t you. Oh, I know, mens all got hot rods but the problem is they cool off too quick. Lordy, listen to me!” She slapped me hard enough on the shoulder to knock me off balance. “Ain’t nothing more fun than making a white man blush. So, who did this?”

I explained about Rodney and ended by asking if she would consider hanging it in the museum.

“So, you his agent? That’s what you got going down?”

“No. God no. I don’t know anything about art. I guess I’m a representative. How’s that?”

“That’s just another fancy word for agent. Of course I’ll hang it! He got anymore stuff like this?”

“Sure, lots.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what Dee’s gonna do since I like you and all. That fancy art gallery next door? They stand around, eating cheese and drinking wine, nodding like they be Picasso’s personal teacher. I might, just might mind you, get your boy his own exhibit. Course, I’d have to have ten percent.”

“Ten percent of what?”

“What he sells. You got prints, right?”

“Prints?”

“Jesus, Lowell. For an agent, you don’t know much.”

“I told you, I’m not an agent. Just a friend, trying to help out.”

“Yeah, well, friends don't need to work for free. If you’re gonna survive in this business, you got to get paid.”

She was probably right, I thought after leaving. Next up was a trip to Hatchett Street. Like Rodney said, the old place had changed. The yard was even sodded. I mourned the passing of my Willow. A woman came out onto the porch and began sweeping. I waved and thought of introducing myself but she simply nodded and retreated inside. I took a final look and crossed the street.

Granny Wayne took forever to come to the door. I knocked for the third time and looked around as I waited. The place was a typical mill house like all the others on the hill. I knew the layout without having to go inside. Kitchen off the main with two bedrooms on the left. Rear of the house was an enclosed porch that ran the length of the structure. This space housed the bathroom, washer and dryer. The remainder of the area was used for storage or a pantry and in some cases, turned into another bedroom. Hatchett Street had some of the first houses built by the mill. This one was vintage and still sported large square asbestos shingles. Not a surprise, the yard, while not doted on, was clean and kept.

Granny finally came to the door. I introduced myself and explained my relationship to her grandson. She invited me in for tea. The inside was dim, hot and stuffy. I followed as she maneuvered a walker straight through into the kitchen.

“Rodney’s not in trouble is he? He’s a good boy, really he is. He had that trouble in school but that’s all done with. You with the board? We got some letters awhile back. They’re around here somewhere.”

“No ma’am, Rodney works for me,” I reminded her.

“That’s right, you’re that fellow he’s always talking about,” she said and set the kettle on the stove.

With her back turned, I checked out the pill bottles on the table. High powered narcotics and I wasn’t surprised. The woman was struggling just to make tea. I suggested going in the living room and her getting comfortable. I would keep an eye on the kettle. She didn’t argue. I sat on the couch across from her.

“Does Rodney ever see his Mother or Father?”

“Oh no. We don’t talk about that around here. He use to ask after them when he was little. Lord forgive me but I lied and covered up for the scoundrels. I always thought that at least his own Mother would come back. How can a Mother abandon her child? She was raised better than that, believe you me. It’s nothing but the devil. Pure and simple.”

The kettle began whistling and I went to make tea. Granny wanted milk and sugar. She was forgetful and had only put enough water for one cup. I added the bag to let it steep and returned to the living room. She was asleep in the chair. I sat quietly, drinking her tea before letting myself out.

The rain had finally arrived and my umbrella was at Cierra’s. I did a brisk walk back over the bridge and stopped by the library to check out the arts section. True, modern technology is a marvel. Everyone reads online. Still, nothing in the world could replace the physical feel of the pages in a book. I selected two and struck out for my final stop, Dickey’s Hardware. Karl was on the front desk, going through catalogues.

“Hey man, don’t come in here dripping all over the place. Ever heard of an umbrella. We got a nice selection in the back. I’ll only charge you double since you a friend and all.”

“Funny, K. And I’ll tell your old lady you’re running an extortion scheme around here. She’ll set you straight.”

Karl laughed and slapped the counter. “You wouldn’t. What are you doing, running around like a fool in the rain?”

“Looking for Rodney, I need to tell him something.”

“Yo, Hot Rod! You got company,” Karl yelled.

The kid appeared carrying a box. He was clad in red apron and hat, both emblazoned with the Dickey’s Hardware logo. The hat rode low, on top of his ears. They appeared to be keeping his headgear from falling down to his chin. He needed to learn to wear his gear at the jaunty angle that Karl favored. Dress code aside, I explained about meeting Dee and the possible exhibit. Karl was more excited than anyone else at the news.

“Hot damn! My man’s gonna be famous. I knew it! Don’t forget the little people when you’re living up at that mansion on the hill. By the way, if you decide to buy me a new Caddy, I won’t turn it down.” He turned to me, “Way to go, Low, my man!”

I slapped five with my friend but was looking at Rodney. “What’s wrong Hot Rod?”

“Well… it’s just that…I get kind of nervous around people I don’t know. This exhibit thing you’re talking about, would I have to go?”

“Not if you don’t want to,” I answered. “But it’s what you want isn’t it? Making a living from your art?”

“I really do but didn’t know it would have to be this way.”

“Look, take things one step at a time. I’m not going to leave you stranded out there by yourself.”

“Hey, I got this,” Karl butted in. “Give me that box, kid,” he nearly jerked it from Rodney’s arms. “Now. Stand up straight and look me in the eye. Repeat after me. I am an artist.”

“…I am an artist.”

“Louder. Make me believe it.”

“I am an artist.”

“Louder!”

“I Am An ARTIST!”

“Good. Now say this. I will buy Karl a Caddilac.”

“I will buy…”

He couldn’t finish due to a fit of laughter. We joined in. Before leaving the store, I asked Rodney to step outside for a word. We huddled under the awning and watched the rain. I told him about meeting his Grandmother.

“You went to my house?” He tilted his head back in order to look at me from under the hat brim.

I paused, seeing the twin laser eyes. They were lighter than usual, almost glowing. Maybe it was an anger response. He wasn’t smiling.

“I hope it was okay to drop in. I was in the neighborhood.”

“Yeah, sure. She don’t get much company.”

“Well, I was kind of wondering about that. I don’t mean to pry but she’s old and shouldn’t be left alone. I know you’ve got your hands full, working all the time.

“So?”

“So maybe you need help.”

“What? Stick her in one of those homes where people go to die!That’s an awful thing to do. I’m not like that. I don’t abandon…family.”

“Whoa kid. Cool down. I agree with you on that. I was talking about hiring a sitter. Your Grandmother would never have to leave her house.”

“Oh. Right. I got you. Yeah, I’ll think about it. Sorry about taking it wrong.”

“No problem,” I assured him and suggested he get back to work.

I dashed through the rain and came in the house shucking wet clothes. The temperature had fallen with the rain and I dug out a set of sweats. Rufus was ready to cuddle and hopped up in my lap as soon as I sat down with my books. I got through a couple of pages and we both fell asleep. I woke after seven. It was dark, outside and inside the house. Perfect. Time to get to work.

I fried three thick cut pieces of baloney in the pan. Two sandwiches were built on wheat with mayo, lettuce and tomato. Wrapped in foil, they were added to a back pack that contained two bottled waters, cell phone, flashlight, pad, pen and as an afterthought, my twenty two pistol. I dropped the last piece of baloney into the dog’s food bowl and grabbed a rain coat. Tonight, I planned to pull recon on the parking lot of the Roadside. With any luck, I might get the tag number on the black Lincoln.

The rain had relented to a heavy mist, swirling on a faint breeze. I took my time driving South, knowing that the crowd at the bar wouldn’t get hopping till later. I was determined to stay all night if necessary to get my information. While driving I racked my brain, thinking of cop shows I had seen. What would, say Dirty Harry do on a stake out? Wait five minutes and go in guns blazing. Colombo? No, that guy just walked around, acting stupid but always managed to get his man. I didn’t even know if he carried a gun. Speaking of which, what if I had to use mine? I really didn’t know if I could pull the trigger. Sure, I might be a killer but words and deeds could be as fatal as a bullet. Great, I could just talk Julian and crew to death!

The Roadside’s parking lot was half full when I pulled off the black top. A slow circling of the building didn’t produce the Lincoln. I chose the front right corner of the lot and parked. The place didn’t have the best outside lighting save for bare bulbs on the building itself. Couple that with the dark misty conditions and surveillance was going to be dicey. If necessary, I could circle the building every hour, looking for the car. For now, it was wait and wait some more. People were coming and going. Every time the heavy steel door opened, faint strains from the juke box wafted out into the night. It became a game to anticipate the moment and try to name the tune. I ate a sandwich. Two drunks stagger out, take a few swings at each other and walk off, arm in arm. My mind wanders and I began to think about women. Something I had been doing more of lately.

I once saw Rosalee naked. It was one of those routine weekends with the four of us, sitting around with pizza. Someone suggested driving to the coast. We drank wine and sang songs all the way to the beach. It was the next morning and me, stumbling hungover to the bathroom. I barged in on her, standing naked in front of the mirror, washing her face. She didn’t scream, simply jerked back into a ball and tried to cover the important parts with arms. I stared. Her beautiful, sleep deprived eyes stared back. With a nod of resolve, she straightened and spread her arms wide. I suppose my jaw dropped to the floor. With a hint of a smile, she told me that now I had seen the goods and close the door behind me. I never cheated on Grace. Not once. I would have that morning. One word, one raised finger and we would have crossed the line. Over the years, we sometimes came close to the margin, felt the heat and backed off. You can feel good about yourself but still, always wonder.

Which was what I was doing when I woke up. Damn, it was after midnight! I checked the lot and reached for an empty water bottle. I had to pee bad and scooted forward to deployed the container. Just as a nice flow began, the lights from a car raked my position. I looked over and watched the Lincoln roll in. Holy shit! I bolted upright and peed on my hand. Dropping the bottle, I scooted back down. The car pulled up beside the building and sat, idling. I waited with my heart pounding. What were they doing? Waiting for someone to come out? I reached for my bag and fumbled for the gun.

Finally, the driver’s door opened. A hooded figure came out and around to the trunk. They paused and pushed the hood back to get a cell phone to their ear. It was Edie. I swear she was looking right at me. Was she calling Julian? I almost paniced and peeled out. Edie dumped her phone and popped the trunk. I expected her to come out with a gun. Instead, she had a package the size of a shoe box. With a quick look around, she disappeared behind the back of the building. It was now or never.

I started the car. The plastic bottle was on the floor board. I tried to kick it out of the way and caught the pedal. The car lurched forward and raked the side of a Honda. I stabbed the breaks and forced myself to take a breath. I let the car creep up beside the Lincoln. It felt as conspicuous as a chicken, walking into Kentucky Fried. With the window down, I stared at the plate. Someone yelled to my rear. I stomped the accelerator and caught a glimpse of Edie around the corner. She was looking right at me. I sawed the wheel hard right to avoid another car. The rear end began chewing gravel and got out into the weeds. I took out a fence post, shot back onto the lot and hit black top, headed North.

I almost lost it in the first curve before getting myself and the car under control. It was best to do the speed limit and try to get home in one piece. The rain had picked up again and visibility was terrible. Hunched over the wheel, I realized that the front left head light was out. That’s just great, I thought as a car came up behind, raking me with bright lights. I slowed further to let them pass. They stayed right where they were, on my bumper. Was it Edie? I hunched down further, expecting my back windshield to explode in a hail of bullets. We rode like that, all the way to the city limits where the four lane started. I eased over to the right hand lane. The car on my tail roared by with a kid, hanging out the window and giving me the finger. He tossed out a beer can for effect and they were gone. When I turned into my driveway, I sat in the car for a long time.

I was livid with myself. As soon as the pressure was on, I went off like a string of firecrackers. Nothing like jumping into the fire to find out what you’re made of. How was I ever going to confront these characters if I couldn’t pull a simple recon job? The path of least resistance had always worked in the past. Yet, as bad as I had reacted, I was still pumped up. Handling the car while out in the weeds had been pretty slick. Pure instinct and reaction. I had the tag number, too. As ugly as it was, mission accomplished. Consider it a good omen and stay the course. I grabbed my bag, went in and had a double scotch and tossed and turned the rest of the night.

Saturday, it was wet and raw with no sun in sight. I slept till noon. After making an egg sandwich, I picked up the phone and called Willie. He and I had been best buddies during my entire career at the post office. It was me that got him the job in the first place. Running sorting machines in the back room isn’t very glamorous but the pay and benefits are good and you don’t get hassled much. Sadly, our friendship had nose dived after Grace passed. He never so much as came right out and said it but it was clear that he questioned my innocence. It had been two years and I was hoping that he would talk to me.

“Willie, my man. How have you been doing?”

“Lowell? Uh…fine. Everything’s good.”

“Glad to hear it. The job going okay?”

“Oh, you know, same old thing. Machines always breaking down. They say we’re broke and everyone expects to get laid off.”

“Yeah, some things never change,” I agreed. “Look, I’m going to get right down to it. Does your niece still dispatch down at the police station?”

“Sure. They just had their first kid.”

“Congrats on that. What I was wondering was if she could run a license plate for me.”
The pause stretched way too long. “Why are you asking me that? Two years and you call up asking for a favor? Jesus, you’re a piece of work.”

“So I’ve been told. Can you do it, call the niece?”

“I don’t think so.”

“What? Come on, man. You owe me. I’m the one that got you the job in the first place.”

I waited and listened to silence. “I’ll throw in a hundred bucks for your trouble.”

“All right, dammit. We’re even after this. Don’t call here again.”
I assured him I wouldn’t and recited the number. I thanked him but was talking to a dead line. So much for friendships. With business out of the way, it was time to tackle the loft. Grace and I had used the space for storage. Dusty boxes were piled to the rafters. It would make a nice studio for Rodney to work in if he wanted. If not, an office for me. Either way, it was time to clean out the junk.

Think what you will about junk. Sometimes you go looking for it and find treasure. Jeff’s lego collection that we had spent hours on the floor, constructing buildings and bridges. The G.I. Joe with the missing arm. Jeff had burned it off, letting the flaming plastic drip onto helpless ants. I confess, I joined in on that one. One box contained nothing but high school year books, Grace, Jeff’s and mine. I couldn’t bear to look at their pictures and shoved it aside. It was clear that I needed two piles. One to go out and one to keep. Rufus was underfoot, rooting around and sneezing against the dust we were raising. I pulled an old heavy sweater from a pile and tossed it over him. Let him wrestle with that a while, I thought and dragged out a boxed up artificial tree. Behind it was a footlocker that belonged to Grace. She kept it at the foot of our bed for a long time. I couldn’t remember us bringing it up here. I tried the latches and raised the lid. Her old coin collection was there, still in plastic sleeves. A long stem rose, brittle and dry, small jar of four leaf clovers and diaries, four to be exact. Moving them, I came across a photo. I blinked and looked closer.

Grace and Rosalee were standing together. Both were in low cut cocktail dresses. Rows of slot machines stood in the background. When had they ever gone to a casino? One thing was for sure. Their pose was highly suggestive. Grace had an arm around her friend’s waist. Rosalee was touching Grace’s elbow. They weren’t looking at the camera but at each other. With the parted lips, you got the impression that they had just kissed or were going to. Holy crap! It was hot if a little confusing. No way the two of them were up to that kind of action. Grace barely tolerated an alternative lifestyle. Still, how would I feel if they were? Jealous? Betrayed? Titillated for sure. It was easy to imagine me in the middle of that sexy sandwich. It was probably just a goof. Rosalee had a wicked sense of humor. I decided to keep the picture out and maybe ask her later. For now, I was on overload from all the sensory input and needed to get out of the house. It seemed like a good time for a margarita.

The Pero Rojo is one of those new joints downtown. I decided to walk, stopping long enough to admire the lawn and rue my beat up car. The sun was trying to come out and I resolved to stay positive. Saturday mid afternoon is happy hour, all across America. I planned to jump right into the middle of it. What’s not to admire about a Mexican Restaurant? The wait staff, smiling and helpful, ethnic music in the background, colored lights strung from the ceiling and always, a soccer game on the television. I didn’t get the Latin passion for that game. To play sports without using ones hands seemed sacrilegious to me. Karl despised the game also. I decided to stop by and see if he wanted to go.

“Lunch, what you talking about lunch? I had mine three hours ago. I’m thinking of supper now.”
“Okay, call it supper.”

“Man, get a job. I’m slammed here. We got inventory to get out before closing. Where you going anyway?”

“That Mexican joint on main street.”

“Shoot, I love that stuff. Get out of here before I kick your butt.”

“I like tacos.”

We both turned to look at Rodney. He had a bundle of conduit over one shoulder. The load didn’t look too stable.

Karl rolled his eyes. “Everybody likes tacos, Hot Rod. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you wanting to go down there and get you one of them enchiladas.”

Karl turned to me. “The kid ate two ham sandwiches, chips and three Little Debbie cakes for lunch. Where’s he putting it?”

“He’s a growing boy,” I shrugged. “Come on Hot Rod, let’s go get some Mex.”

“Hold on a minute,” Karl boomed. “ I don’t remember you being the boss.”

“Easy K. You’re going to have a heart attack. We’ll be back in an hour.”

“All right, dang it. Kid, put that pipe up before you go. You’re doing overtime today if I need you.”

“Yes sir,” Hot Rod grinned and spun to go down the aisle.

The pipe swung out behind him. I ducked but K only had time to throw up an arm. The bundle smacked him and began falling everywhere. Rodney was dancing in place, arms frantically trying to snatch them.

Karl rolled his eyes and looked at me. “You better help him pick up every piece.”

I did. It was everything I could do to keep from laughing as we walked downtown. The kid was miserable from his screw-up. His eyes had darkened along with the freckles. Red faced, he walked along slumped shouldered.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “Everyone messes up. This won't be the last time for you or me.”

“I just don’t want to get fired. I figure the job at your house is about done so…I need to work.”

“We’ve got plenty to do around the place. Monday, we’re working inside. How would you like to have your own studio?

“You mean to draw and stuff?”

“Of course,” I answered and explained about the loft.

“It seems too good to be true.”

“Kid, don’t ever limit yourself. You need to expand your vision. Speaking of expanding, did you see Karl’s face when the pipe went everywhere? The eyes popped out and his cheeks were puffed like a chipmunks.”

I did an impression that got a snigger from the kid. He tried his own and we entered the restaurant, laughing. I found out soon enough that Karl wasn’t kidding. Rodney knew his way around a fork. He ordered one of those combo plates and water. I opted for fahitas and in deference to the kid, water as well. He began shoveling as I paused to let the steam settle from my sizzling plate.

“Well, well. What do we have here?”

I looked up. Dee was standing there as big as life. She was resplendent in a shiny silver blouse and black slacks that hugged her hips. She was doing a silver thing, today. The tips of her hair, eyeliner, lip gloss and nails.

“Dee, this is Rodney, the artist.”

“You Hot Rod?” She pointed a finger at him.

“Yes ma’am,” his mouth was full and he choked down the bite.

“Ain’t you the polite one,” she smiled and hip checked me to get in the booth. “I was worried your agent’s bad habits would rub off on you.”

“Agent?”

“Dee seems to think that I’m your agent. You know, business manager.”

“Oh. That sounds smart.”

“It is. You got that portfolio together yet?”

“Port…folio?”

Dee was glaring in my direction. I didn’t have to turn to know it. I pecked at my food, trying to spear a piece of chicken, onion and pepper on the fork.

“Am I gonna have to teach you how to eat fajitas, too?”

She laid out a warm tortilla and ladled in the filling. After topping it with hot salsa, sour cream and guacamole, she rolled it up tight. I expected her to hand it over but she began taking bites. I made my own. Rodney was finished. I knew he was anxious to get back. I told him it was okay to leave. Dee didn’t offer to move across the table. Sitting close to her felt a little weird but good at the same time. She flagged down a waiter and ordered margaritas.

“Lowell, that boy has some real talent. Don’t you mess this up. You in over your head, you know.”

“That’s what I have you for.”

“Oh, do you now. Sounds like we gonna be renegotiating my percentage before this thing is done.”

“Maybe. We’ll see.”

She gave me the eye. “Let me tell you a story. I met this guy one time who was a sculptor. He was a hunk, for sure. His body was sculpted, too. Abs, glutes, tight ass and that stubble on his chin. Lordy, I get flustered just thinking about it! We go back to his place and you know what I’m thinking?”

“Booty call.”

“Damn straight. I kick my shoes off and he pulls out a bucket of water and a hunk of clay. He wants to do a piece of my….bosoms.”
“No way.”

“I’m serious. They call it a sitting. If you ask me, just a fancy way of getting an eyeful. I give him one, too. He gets in close to turn my shoulders at the right angle, seems like the right time for a kiss. What does he do? Jumps back like I got cooties!”

She paused to dab at the glass rim with a finger, getting the salt. Took a long pull from the straw. I couldn’t resist a comeback.

“Well, did you?”

My one liner got me an elbow in the ribs. “No silly. He said he was gay. Got all huffy like I should have divined it or something.”

“I suppose that put a damper on the evening.”

“You bet but the point of the story is this. People aren’t always what they seem. Artists are a temperamental bunch. With Hot Rod being so young, he might wake up tomorrow and decide he wants to be a D.J. or something. Don’t get overly vested in this thing like I know you already are.”

“All right. Any other words of wisdom?”

“Yeah. Get the kid a decent haircut. He looks like a ragamuffin.”

Business was concluded. We ordered another round and talked for an hour. It was her idea to cross the bridge. There was a lounge on the second floor of Bigeloe One, over the museum where she worked. The place was a nice hang, as she put it.

Of course, we ran into some of her friends. They were a diverse lot. About what I expected of people in Dee’s orbit. One guy was doing the Armani suit thing and sporting a mohawk. Several of the ladies were tattooed and pierced. A guy with bushy gray sideburns sat with a pipe, reading a book. They talked shop and I watched a jazz combo, setting up on the bandstand. We did a round of tequila shots and Dee grabbed her purse, whisking us out of there.

Back on the ground floor, I automatically started for the exit. She snagged my arm and steered us over to the museum door. It was closed but she produced a key.

“Got time for a nightcap?” She looked at me.

“Uh…sure. Excellent idea.”

She locked the door behind us and produced a boom box, bottle and paper cups. We went out the back door. The small patio was fenced in with wrought iron and looked out over the river. A single shaft of light from the side of the building cut across the trees overhead. Otherwise, it was fairly dark out here. I hung at the rail, listening to the sound of moving water. Dee lit a candle and poured drinks. The sweet liquor was pungent and filled my head.

“Mind if I smoke?” She asked.

“Not at all. It’s nice out here. Very peaceful.”

“I knew you’d like it,” she answered and bent over the candle to get a light.

It looked like a joint and moments later the smell confirmed it. When she passed it over, I figured a few small tokes wouldn’t hurt. I was riding the edge of a good buzz but didn’t want to fall off the wrong side. I still had to walk home. The silence was comfortable between us. My senses softened and an old familiar mellow state oozed in and around me. I couldn’t figure out why I wasn’t smoking pot ten times a day.

“This almost seems like a date.” My voice sounded a million miles away.

“Honey, we’re just living in the moment. Don’t be one of those guys that falls in love at the drop of a hat.”

“Oh no. Sure, I got it. I’m just feeling good, that’s all.”

“Me too, sugar. Let’s dance.”

She had Jazz on the player. The song was a slow and sultry blues. The sax player was tearing it up and I couldn’t believe how good the music sounded. I should learn to play, take lessons.

“Lowell, you gonna dance with Dee or what?”

“Sorry, I must have spaced out.”

I took her hand and kept a proper amount of space between us. We began moving to the beat. But not for long.

“Is this how white guys dance?”

“I’m not much of a dancer.”

“I don’t believe that. Everyone can at least slow dance. It’s like making love, only standing up.” She pulled me in.

“Are you trying to seduce me?” I whispered in her ear.

“Yes. What you gonna do about it.”
I kissed her ear and neck. Pressed myself against her, breasts squashed against my own. Hips ground together, moving to the beat. My hands dropped down, pulling her into me. Her lips tasted like gloss, smoke and fire. I pulled back to caress her breasts and fumble with the buttons. She threw off the blouse and bra, reached for my shirt. No time now for buttons, she ripped it open and stooped to step out of her slacks. I followed suit and we came together, bare skin and heat. We danced in a slow, delicious circle for moments, ages. She spun around in my embrace, bent over the table. I stepped into the moistness and we made love.

Afterwards, we sat by the candle, cooling down. We finished the bottle. The liquor was the perfect drink for love. It was sweet, warm and intoxicating. Later, I walked home holding my torn shirt together. I felt lighter than air and better than in a long time. The euphoria lasted right up until I stood before my front door. I had my key out but it wasn’t needed. The door stood open two inches. The wood around the handle and frame was gouged and splintered. Someone had broken in!