Inn of the Last Home
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A Pirate Looks at Forty
<blockquote><span style=”font-style:italic;”>Mother, mother ocean, I have heard you call,
Wanted to sail upon your waters since I was three feet tall
You’ve seen it all, you’ve seen it all</span> </blockquote>Let’s get the basics out of the way first. On December 30th, 2006 I turn forty years old.
Several people have told me lately that forty is no big deal – it’s fifty, or sixty. Or just forty-one, because that proves your on your way to fifty. Whatever. After all it’s really just an arbitrarily ordered random number. It’s based on our base10 decimal counting system, which has its origins in the fact that we all have ten fingers and ten toes. As <a href=”http://www.schoolhouserock.tv/Little.html”><span style=”font-weight:bold;”>this guy</span></a> taught us, had we been born with twelve fingers and twelve toes our counting system would’ve been quite different, and our age milestones would come about (what we call) thirty-six and forty-eight. This wouldn’t even be the year 2006, it’d be… um, well actually I have no idea what 2006 would be in base12 but that’s not the point – the point is that just because forty, in human terms is a nice round number and starts off an other set of ten numbers, it really doesn’t mean a heck of lot different than thirty-nice or forty-one.<blockquote><span style=”font-style:italic;”>Watched the men who rode you switch from sails to steam
And in your belly you hold the treasures few have ever seen
Most of ’em dream, most of ’em dream.</span></blockquote>So what does this mean to me? I don’t really consider myself a “pirate” like the song says but I do see myself as a romantic, a dreamer, a creator – someone who enjoys the lure of adventure and drama.<blockquote><span style=”font-style:italic;”>Yes I am a pirate, two hundred years too late,
Cannons don’t thunder, there’s nothin’ to plunder
I’m an over-forty victim of fate.
Arrivin’ too late, arrivin’ too late.</span></blockquote>But I’ve not traveled the world, barely ventured beyond the borders of the U.S. I’ve not written a Great American Novel (though last month I sure tried). I’m not a captain of industry, not a great leader, not a person of any particular note outside my immediate sphere of family and friends.
I’ve never sailed a sloop through the Keys, never climbed El Capitan, never rode horseback in the Colorado plains. Never scuba’d the Great Barrier Reef, never watched the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace or walked the Great Wall of China.<blockquote><span style=”font-style:italic;”>I’ve done a bit of smugglin’, I’ve run my share of grass
I made enough money to buy Miami, but I pissed it away so fast
Never meant to last, never meant to last</span></blockquote>I’ve never started a business, run a business, been responsible for the management of a business. I don’t have a stock portfolio – if you ask me if I have Bonds, I’ll ask you “Barry or James?” I’m not sure what my future holds for employment – I’m still looking for what I want to be when I grow up.
I’ve had some small success in performance arts. I’ve created a small name for myself in musical directing plays, which certainly keeps me in theatre but it’s past time I move up and become a fully invested director.<blockquote><span style=”font-style:italic;”>And I have been drunk now for over two weeks
I passed out and I rallied and I sprung a few leaks
But I got stop wishin’, got to go fishin’
Down to rock bottom again
Just a few friends, just a few friends </span></blockquote>So now, at forty, where does this leave me?
I have a wonderful family. A wife who loves me, and whom I love. Two kids I think the world of and are growing up before my eyes. My parents still encourage me, my brother’s getting married. My church has given me a host of friends I will cherish the rest of my life – of which about 16-20 will be at our house Sunday night for New Year’s Eve. I’m comfortable, I can still get out and play a game of softball without keeling over.
Heck, maybe now that I have my thirty’s out of the way, I can start really living.
<blockquote><span style=”font-style:italic;”>Mother, mother ocean, after all the years I’ve found
My occupational hazard being my occupation’s just not around
I feel like I’ve drowned, gonna head uptown</span> </blockquote>Who knows? Guess I’ll untie from the dock and shove off – looks like the sea is smooth and the weather’s calm. I wonder what’s beyond that horizon?
Let’s find out. Wanna sail?
<blockquote><span style=”font-style:italic;”>”A Pirate Looks at Forty”
— Lyrics by Jimmy Buffett</span></blockquote>
“Secret Identity” – Chapter Six
Chapter Six
The afternoon passed with no word from Morgan Kent so Jerry was resigned to waiting until tomorrow for news regarding the strange DVD’s. Occasionally as he worked he would think back to the previous evening and replay the events in his mind – watching his name in the credits, seeing himself get out of that car and continue on into the episode. It was him, or rather somebody that looked like him, he knew it. And he would be more comfortable thinking it was simply a dead ringer actor look-alike, except for the part about the opening credits. That he just couldn’t logically puzzle out.
When five o’clock finally came Jerry stood and stretched. Packing his briefcase with a set of files he intended to glance over at home he turned off the fluorescent light and pushed the chair under the desk. He glanced around the cubicle, noticing a few of his television and movie memorabilia for the first time in a while. Ever since high school this had been his passion and his escape. Books were fine, but they had never really captured his imagination like the work of a director, a cinematographer, and an actor. A poster of the classic action film In the Balance hung above his monitor and beside that was a signed photograph of Michael Hickson, star of the obscure British sci-fi import Out of Time, Out of Space with his arm around Jerry at a convention three years ago.
When he first started working there, he noticed quickly that many of his coworkers thought him a bit strange. On the rare occasion he visited one of their cubicles, they were always either pristine and neat without a speck of color or variety – or they were jam-packed with knickknacks, figurines, carvings and assorted detritus made by their little offspring in nursery school. There was rarely an example of creativity or appreciation of much besides entering figures, balancing ledgers, communicating with customers and examining claims.
As he walked the short hallway to the front door, not for the first time he felt a bit sorry for the others still working. Even some with families to go home to stayed here till seven or eight at night, sometimes later. He pitied the children that would rarely see their working parent except for a few fleeting moments in the morning between gulps of orange juice and a bagel. He also was saddened for those who were unwilling or unable to enjoy a simple, quiet evening at home immersed in a great movie or TV show. Ah well, he thought, they made their choices.
He reached the lobby and instinctively slowed, checking to see if Becky was still at work. She wasn’t, having apparently left a few minutes early. Good. I can’t embarrass my self any further tonight.
The outside air was crisp as he crossed the parking lot to his car. Standing next to his Spirit was Cal, who had apparently been waiting for him. Jerry glanced at the man as he unlocked his car, putting his briefcase in the passenger seat. He moved to the driver side and said, “Aren’t you going home?”
Cal, who had been leaning on the car next to Jerry’s, shrugged. “I just wanted to make sure you made it out ok. I didn’t want you to hurt yourself tripping over your ego back there.”
Jerry grimaced and slid into the car. “Your concern is touching, pal. Don’t you have some sheets to wash?” He started the car and began to close the door.
Cal reached out and put his hand on top of the open door. “Listen, hey, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t make fun, but…well, I’m just looking out for you.”
“I can look out for myself, ok? I’m a big boy. I actually have, like, a driver’s license and big boy underwear and everything. I don’t need you to watch out for me and I don’t need you feeling sorry for me!” Jerry had raised his voice at the end and regretted it a little. But just a little.
Cal backed away, raising his hands in a mock self-defense gesture. “Sure, yeah. Whatever. Say, you watching another one of those DVD’s tonight?”
Motor idling, Jerry said, “I hadn’t thought about it. Yeah, probably. Crime Doesn’t Pay is pre-empted tonight for the hockey game so I have some time. Or I may just go to bed. Who knows? Maybe I have a date. Later.” He pulled the door shut, put the car in gear and backed out of the parking place. He saw Cal watching him leave all the way out of the parking lot until he was out of sight.
The Nightly News was playing as he prepared himself a bowl of spaghetti. Usually a good-sized bowl would get him through almost a week of leftovers. He enjoyed Italian food more than any other kind, and ate it frequently. That and the fact that it was fairly easy to make was a definite plus. He was stirring the sauce and watching the daily casualty totals from Syria when the phone rang.
He reached over for the phone, checked the Caller ID. He clicked the button, “Hey mom.” In one smooth motion he also muted the TV.
“Jerry, how are you this evening?” The voice on the phone seemed faint, as if coming from long distance.
“I’m good, mom, just fixing some spaghetti. Hey, are you on the upstairs extension?”
“No, I’m actually in the garage – I just finished changing my oil. Why do you ask?”
“Maybe that’s it. You just sound kind of faint. Maybe it’s on my end. Anyway, what’s up?”
“I just wondered if you’d remembered your father’s birthday is next Wednesday. I’d like to do something special this year, since it would’ve been his 75th.”
Jerry paused with the stirring spoon halfway to his mouth, preparing for a taste. He paused briefly, the years passing as if in an instant. His father had passed away suddenly eight years ago from a massive stroke. Jerry hadn’t seen him at that time for almost two years, having moved from home across country soon out of college. It was still somewhat of a sensitive subject between himself and his mother, but he believed they had come to somewhat of an understanding lately.
“Sure – what did you have in mind?” He hoped it didn’t entail him driving all the way out to Indianapolis, where she still lived after all these years.
“Well, you know how your father loved baseball and loved the Cubs – thought maybe you could meet me in Chicago next week and we could watch a game. The Astros are in town…” While his father’s death still evoked mixed feelings in Jerry, his mother had taken it a much different way. She had loved him very much, she had decided several months after the funeral to not play the poor widow role for the rest of her life and had taken the opportunity to better herself in a number of ways. She’d taken up woodworking and painting, and taught herself several home improvement skills including auto maintenance and carpentry. Their home looked better than it ever had – brighter, more airy, lived in…happier. His father had been a stern and quiet man, though fair, and tended to keep his distance from his family at times. Jerry’s mother missed him terribly in her own way, but took advantage of the moment to stretch out on her own.
Jerry finished tasting the sample, nodded appreciatively and piled spaghetti and sauce onto his plate. “I think that sounds great, mom. I can take a couple days off next week and meet you Tuesday night – how does that sound?” He picked up the plate and moved to the dining room table.
“Oh, I’m so glad, Jerry – they’ve picked themselves up pretty well even after losing the World Series last year. I think it’ll be a good game.” Baseball in the late summer as playoffs approached, especially at Wrigley Field, was always something special. “I’ll call you later this weekend to set up the details. Well, I’m a mess – I need to clean up and get in to dinner. Enjoy your evening dear – I love you.”
“I love you too, mom. Bye.” Jerry terminated the call and sat down to his dinner. He picked up his fork and paused for moment. Laying it back down he rose and moved to the TV where his stack of newly acquired DVD’s from Apollo Cable lay strewn haphazardly on the top. He moved the copy of Killer Instinct to the side and picked up the World Series disk. Opening the box and popping out the tape, he switched it for the crime drama disk still residing in the player. Returning to his seat at the table, he began to watch the recap of last year’s dramatic World Series between the Chicago Cubs and the Boston Red Sox.
The spaghetti was hot and delicious, and he enjoyed his dinner. While he kept half his mind on the TV, the other half was thinking about his father. For all the times his father was there for him – taking him to movies, quizzing him about his schoolwork and progress in grades – the other half of the time he was mostly left alone. His job at a local factory in Indianapolis kept him away from home sometimes twelve to fourteen hours a day, and there were weeks where Jerry hardly even saw his father.
“And the Cubs take the field in Game 1 of the World Series here in Boston…”
Years later after he’d gone to college and left home for good he’d lost reasons to even speak to his father. There was no fight, no heated discussion, no particular reasons to ignore each other – they simply had nothing really left in common to discuss anymore. Jerry had earned a Bachelor’s Degree in Accounting and a Masters in Business, while his father continued to work at the plant until his weary legs earned him an early disability retirement at 62.
He died five years later, and in all that time Jerry had spoken frequently with his mother, he never had a reason to talk to his father. And his father had never seemed to have a reason to talk to him.
Throughout all that time, however, there was baseball. His father had grown up near the lakeshore in the Windy City and was a diehard Cubs fan. Although it was a lifelong dream of his to watch his Cubs finally make it to the World Series, he’d died before they finally achieved that goal last year. It was probably a good thing he hadn’t seen them blow that 3 game lead in Boston…
“…and while the Red Sox had recaptured hope for the city of Boston after taking two out of three in Chicago, their return home was met with a fevered frenzy…”
Jerry had hoped one day to understand more about his father, but that time was most likely gone. Some mysteries would likely never be solved. He picked up his finished plate and moved to the kitchen. He decided he was still hungry enough for another helping so he reached for the pot on the stove…
“…and here come the Cubs in the bottom of the first in Game 7 – once again hurling their ace from the mound, veteran Jerry Saifer…”
Jerry dropped the spoon on the floor, his head jerking back to the TV.
“…Saifer pitched a one-hit shutout here in Game 3 last week – can he repeat the magic here tonight and propel the Cubs to their first World Series win in 80 years?”
He ran from the kitchen and fell to his knees in front of the TV. Running from the warm-up area was a familiar face – it was himself, Jerry Saifer from Indianapolis, data entry operator at Gibraltar Insurance, in an actual Cubs uniform standing on the mound at Fenway Park.
This can’t be… he thought to himself. This can’t be happening…it’s not real. He moaned softly to himself and rubbed his eyes. There he was, and there were his overall stats: 175 wins, 92 losses. Lifetime ERA of 3.64. He – Jerry – whoever had gone 22-6 over the season with an ERA of an amazing 2.96. In his whole life, the Jerry sitting in the floor in front of his TV had never picked up a baseball in competition. He’d passed with his dad in the backyard on occasion, but that was the extent of his diamond career.
“..Saifer’s first pitch is low and in the dirt, ball one. If there were any indication of the pitching disaster to come, that may have been a sign. Saifer would give up two runs that first inning, and one more the second…”
Jerry closed his eyes and wished it away. It didn’t go away – “Saifer” was in a jam in the bottom of the third, two men on and no outs. The Cubs had fallen to three runs down, and the deficit looked to grow even larger.
“…and there’s a shot deep to center – Perkins is way back…back…and it’s gone!! A three-run homer for Miguel Sanchez and the Red Sox open up a six to nothing lead. The Boston Fans are going berserk!”
Jerry watched. He barely noticed his cell phone ringing behind him.
“..and it finally looks like the Cubs skipper has had enough of his veteran and Saifer leaves the field after a horrible outing. He gave up six earned runs off of five hits and a hit batter…”
Jerry stood and backed slowly to the phone as the camera on the TV zoomed into “Saifer’s” face, dejected and beaten, walking back to the bullpen. Every line on his face, every pore, every strand of hair peeking from under the Cubs hat – it was his. They were his. That was him. But it couldn’t be…
He pushed the button on the cell phone and said softly, “Hello?”
“Jerry? Hi – Morgan Kent here from Apollo Cable. Hey, sorry to call you on your cell, but it was listed on your work voice mail. Anyway, I’ve got some news for you about those DVD’s…”
His eyes were still planted on the TV as the announcers posted the history of Saifer’s long and storied career in Chicago. “Yes?”
“Well, I talked to both our mailroom people and the chick in programming who handles the disks. Both of them said that they didn’t remember any penguin documentaries or baseball videos, and they were sure there wasn’t a disk of Killer Instinct – like I said, CBS never releases those. If they were in the batch, they didn’t come from us….”
Jerry said nothing.
“Hello? Hello?” The line disconnected.
And the Cubbies lost Game 7, 12-5.
“Secret Identity” – Chapter Five
Chapter 5
Jerry sat back at his desk and picked up the phone. Glancing at the note Becky had handed him, he dialed the number. He could see the top of Cal’s head over the fabric-covered cubicle wall as he walked back to his own desk. Frowning, he swiveled the chair around the face away from the entrance and listened to the phone ring.
“Hello?”
“Hello – I’m calling for Morgan Kent…”
“This is Morgan.”
“Hi. My name’s Jerry Saifer and I work for Gibralter Insurance – I think we handle your company’s account.”
“Right,” Kent said, his voice carrying a slight nasal sound as if he were slightly pinching shut the bridge of his nose. “I was just over there yesterday.”
“That’s right, and we really appreciate the DVD’s you let us have. Me in particular as a matter of fact. And that’s actually why I was calling—“
Kent broke in, “Is there something wrong with the disks? Cause they come right form the cable companies and the networks, and I can’t just go around and ask for replacements..”
Jerry rolled his eyes, “No, it’s not that. They work fine…at least, well – let me ask you a question. The batch you brought yesterday. Do you remember where they came from?”
Kent was silent for a moment. Jerry could hear sounds of traffic on the other end of line and honking of horns. He had apparently reached the sales rep on his cell phone in the middle of a traffic jam. “Um…what? I didn’t hear that last,” Kent said rather loudly.
“I said where did that last batch you dropped off here come from? Was it all from one distributor?” Jerry had the distinct impression he was fairly far down on Mr. Kent’s attention priority list at the moment. Between the muttered curses and invectives coming from the other end of the phone, he assumed he would soon slip all the way off the list and get cut off.
He was surprised to hear Kent speak up, “I think so. That was the batch with the Mike’s Friends DVD’s in it, wasn’t it?”
Jerry recalled seeing numerous copies of the children’s classic in the batch, although he had declined to take one. “That’s right. There were about eight copies… but there was also a single disk with four episodes from Killer Instinct. Do you remember where that one came from?” Jerry sat up straighter in his seat, his hand reaching for a pen. This time it closed on one that commemorated the 20th anniversary of the premiere of the espionage classic, The Molotov Manhunt.
“Well, let me see. Our company gets them individually in the mail all the time. Probably, I don’t know, 10-15 a day. From all over the country – movie studios, TV studios, cable channels and their owners. Even private channels that want us to carry their content. One of the guys in programming takes a glance at them and usually tosses them in the break room. I gather the leftovers up and bring them around to some of my business partners. Killer Instinct came from CBS, of course, so I suppose they sent that one. I don’t know – I don’t keep track. What do you need to know for? Is that not what was in the package?”
Jerry could sense Kent was losing interest. “No, honestly the disk was fine. I just wondered where those particular set of disks had come from.”
Kent broke in, “Now, it did just occur to me that there were about five or six DVD packages that came in at once from somewhere new I hadn’t heard of before. It was….it was… I’m sorry, I can’t remember. I just didn’t pay attention.”
“Who at your company might know where those DVD’s came from” Jerry began to feel a small tingle in his temples and the tips of his fingers. What was that?
Kent replied, “I think our mailroom people might remember, or the receptionist in the programming department who receives the mail…”
Jerry waited a moment, expecting Kent to offer to check for him. When the line remained silent, he sighed and asked, “Do you think you could ask one of them if they remember? It’s really nothing, just…just sort of a bet I have with another guy here at work.”
“Yeah, sure, I guess. It’ll have to be later today – I’ve got several other calls to make and I won’t be back in the office until 3. And even then, I don’t know if either of them will be there. You really need to know this that badly?”
“Listen, if you can find out where these came from,” Jerry said excitedly, “I’ll buy you lunch the next time you stop by the office. How’s that?”
“Deal,” Kent replied. “How can I get in touch with you?”
Jerry told him his direct line number, thanked him again and hung up. Now maybe I can get to the bottom of this mystery… he thought, then caught himself. Did I actually use the word “mystery”? Shaking his head and grinning he replaced the phone in the cradle and turned back to his computer. Glancing at the clock on the PC, he saw he still had lunchtime plus about five hours before Kent might – might – call back. Better be productive…
Before he could touch the keyboard however, the phone rang again. Caller ID showed Morgan Kent’s number. That was fast, Jerry thought and picked it up.
“Hey Jerry,” – they were apparently good buddies, now – “did you say the DVD you were wondering about was one with a couple episodes of Killer Instinct? The one that’s running right now on CBS?”
“That’s right…why?”
“You must have been mistaken – that show wasn’t in the batch I brought over. We don’t get stuff from CBS as a rule. Something about some kind of feud that’s going on between them and some of the cable operators around the country – it’s been going on for years, whatever it is. Anyway, I can’t think how it got in there. The only thing really in the batch I brought in were that kids show I mentioned earlier, a Broadway Bound PBS performance of some musical and a couple of cooking shows.”
Jerry blinked, “What? How about the World Series retrospective disk? I also pulled out a Chuck Norris film and a documentary on penguins…”
“No way,” Kent said. “I didn’t put any of those in there.”
Jerry was perplexed. “Are you sure? I got those out of the box yesterday not long after you left them with Becky, our receptionist.”
“Well, unless something happened and they got mixed up somehow. But that doesn’t explain Killer Instinct because I swear, the only way we could have gotten that one is for it to come in from an individual. But I tell you what, I’ll go ahead and check with those folks and see if I can’t track them down for you. How’s that?”
Jerry could sense what made Kent a good salesman. He thanked the rep again and hung up the phone. Finally he was able to turn to the keyboard and resume working uninterrupted.
Above the head of the now-busy Jerry Saifer, a small whirring sound could have been heard if not for the whistle of the air conditioners. The security camera mounted in the corner of the large office wall zoomed out, moved back to its original angle and resumed its security surveillance of the area.
Safety and security, of course, was Gibralter’s first priority.
To Be Continued
The previous material is protected under the full extent of American and International copyright law.
“Secret Identity” – Chapter Four
Chapter Four
The next morning Jerry came to work as usual. The preceding night’s events still weighed heavily upon his mind but he managed to keep his mind on his work, quantifying this and that as the insurance company directed him. He had always discovered that hard work pushed thoughts of the fantastic and extraordinary to the back of his mind, but they were always there waiting for him.
He’d always wondered about his seeming obsession with the adventure, the strategy, the chase, the conflict, the contest. He was never a participant in the struggle, only a spectator and at times it rankled him – but from his earliest days soaking up James Bond and Indiana Jones movies, through science-fiction, fantasy, adventure, he’d understood that those worlds would always be apart from people like him. His job was to be a spectator on the action, a commenter. Analyzing the methods characters like McGiver, Spenser, Peel, Kirk, Solo, Starbuck and other action heroes solved problems became a hobby to him and he began to invent new ways for these people to get out of the scrapes in which they found themselves.
As he sat at his chair, he refastened the corner of the Countdown to Infinity one-sheet he had tacked up in his cubicle. The movie poster was always popping loose and he’d considered numerous times taking all the various TV and motion picture memorabilia down from the walls and moving them back home. After all, they were somewhat expensive on the collector’s market and who knew what kind of sticky fingers worked here on cleanup crew. But as he gazed at the swirling time vortex graphic in the center of the poster that depicted his favorite movie, he understood why he always talked himself out of it. They were the things that kept his mind from being consumed by the mundane details of his work. They were reminders of the creative ideas and possibilities that, while existing only in fiction, were real enough to him to keep alive the possibility that someday he, too, might do something meaningful and heroic.
The phone next to his desk buzzed, breaking Jerry from his reverie. He sighed, slumped back in his chair and picked up the phone. “Jerry Saifer..”
“You know, Jerry,” said the voice on the line, “I hear there’s an special on The Science Channel tonight about guys who go crazy and start hallucinating that they see themselves on TV…kind of a self-perpetuating thing, if you think about it, really.”
Jerry sighed, “You don’t have to rub it in, Cal. I’ve decided I must have dropped off while I was watching it the DVD last night, or something like that. Don’t worry, I’m watched the rest of that episode and the next before I went to bed and didn’t see myself once. I made sure to not even look in the mirror in the bathroom…”
Laughing, Cal continued, “That’s great. I got to remember that. Say, wasn’t one of the other DVD’s you got the highlight disk from last year’s World Series?”
“Yeah, it was. Why, do you want to borrow it? I thought you still hadn’t forgiven the Cubs for blowing the 3-0 game lead.”
“No I don’t want to borrow it. I just saw it sitting on the table with the others last night and wondered later why you wanted it? I didn’t think you liked baseball.”
Jerry picked up his The Paranormalcy Chronicles pen and idly clicked it open and shut. “I like baseball just fine. Not every baseball fan has to obsess about one favorite team or another to the point they wear a Cubs jersey every day under their work shirt for a week during the Series last year.”
“Yeah, well if I hadn’t washed it when they were 3-0, we woulda won…” Cal grumped.
“Right, whatever. Anyway the reason I picked it up was because I was thinking about starting a collection of World Series sets and I figured I might as well start somewhere…” He tossed the pen back in the holder and straightened up. “Listen, do you want to borrow the DVD or not?”
“Yeah. No…well, maybe. After you get finished looking at it? I’ll give it back – I promise.”
Jerry grimaced, remembering the number of his own videotapes that had taken up permanent residence at Cal’s, to the chagrin of not only himself but Cal’s wife. “That’s fine. I’ll let you know.”
“Thanks, man. Later”
“Bye.” Jerry hung up the phone and contemplated his computer screen. Sometimes he envied the infinite patience of the blinking cursor, never insistent, never ambitious, willing to wait an eternity on the next command as long as the unit maintained power. The ultimate servant, the simple cursor. In the process, he made up his mind on a course of action he hadn’t realized he’d been considering.
Taking the well-known path toward the front entrance, Jerry stopped just inside the door to the back area. There was Becky in her usual spot, talking on the phone to a customer. She hadn’t arrived yet when he’d first come to work so this was his first glimpse of her today. He wondered briefly what perfume she was wearing, mustered up his courage and approached the desk.
Becky glanced up as he approached, a fleeting smile flickering across her lips, as she continued her conversation on the phone. Jerry waited, glancing around at the various motivational posters decorating the walls. What this place could use would be a vintage Wizard of Oz poster. Or maybe something from Working Girl—.
“Did you come out here to critique the decorations or did you need something, Jerry?”
He started, looking back to see Becky staring at him with a faint puzzled look in her eyes. He rewound his memory slightly to play back what she’d just asked him. “No, no.. thanks, though.”
She blinked.
I can’t believe I just said that, Jerry thought. Why don’t you just start muttering and drooling to yourself and complete the Incoherent Oaf Trifecta. “Oh, I’m sorry Becky. I was just thinking about….never mind. Not important. Hi!”
Becky smiled, “Hi yourself” and laughed softly. Jerry’s heart leaped.
“Say,” he said, “I wanted…um, I wanted to tell you I really like that sweater you’re wearing.” He actually hadn’t noticed whether she was wearing a sweater until he’d opened his mouth and the words tumbled out.
Her brows furrowed in confusion. “Well, thanks, I guess. It’s about 10 years old though – I had it in college and it’s one of those things that’s so comfortable you hate to throw it out.”
“Yeah,” he nodded. And looked at her silently. Her eyes widened slightly as she silently encouraged him to get to the point of his visit.
“Oh, right. Well, so…I was wondering. Could I – could I get you a soda?”
Becky frowned, and her face clouded. Trouble on the horizon. “No thanks, I’m trying to cut back on my sugar and I don’t like the diet drinks. Listen, I appreciate the offer but I really have to get back to work… It’s been nice talking to you, Jerry.”
“Oh wait! I remember what I actually came up here to ask…” Jerry began to sweat. This wasn’t at all the way he’d pictured this scene in the movie of his life. He imagined himself leaning on the counter, his face in close, the dazzling smile mesmerizing her like the legendary stars of the 40’s. She would have breathlessly intoned the words of endearment he so longed to hear. But as usual he’d screwed it up. Best now to cut your losses and regroup. Take what you came for and run. “Do you have the number of the guy who brings the DVD’s from the cable company?”
She glanced down at her PC, typed a few commands and wrote down a phone number on a sticky note. Tearing it off, she handed it to Jerry. “His name is Morgan and he works for Apollo Cable.”
Jerry took the note, dropped it on the counter. As he reached down to retrieve it his hand brushed a cup full of pencils and pens and sent it reeling, scattering writing utensils all over her desk. “Oh, I’m sorry! Can I help you pick those up?” He started around the other side…
She held up a hand, stopping him. At that moment the phone began to ring, so as she answered it she handed him the note. Jerry took it and trudged toward the back office.
Disaster. Complete, utter, total freaking disaster, he thought as he passed through the door.
“Nice job, “ said Cal, silently standing on the other side of the doorway, coffee cup in hand. “I never really realized you were the Cary Grant type…”
“Shut up,” Jerry muttered and continued down the hall.
To Be Continued
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Inn of the Last Home 
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