by Mark Gilleo
His mother was in her bedroom, ironing clothes that she hadn’t worn since her husband’s death. Clark listened to her sing to herself as she ironed, the song out of tune and the words a little jumbled. But it was his mother, and her voice, bad singing and all, had a pleasant psychological effect on him.
The sound of the car door shutting made his heart skip a beat and he checked himself in the mirror on the wall on his way to the door. It was time to shine, to dust off the old Hayden charm that he and his father were famous for when the need arose.
Clark flung the door open with a smile, and a wrinkled skin IRS auditor on the other side of the storm door flashed her tobacco stained teeth. Excitement ran from Clark’s face as he opened the door.
“Good afternoon Mr. Hayden. My name is Patricia Moody. I am the IRS auditor taking over the case for Auditor Prescott.”
Clark didn’t hear another word for the next hour until the replacement agent was safely back in her car, the cloud of tobacco stench that followed her finally removed from the living room.
The comic stepped onto the small stage to a smattering of polite applause. His face turned slightly red, the color accented by the lighting system that focused its rays towards the stage and those bold enough to step on it. A hand-me-down suit from his older brother hung loosely off the comic’s shoulders, the sleeves a tad too long, the pants a little baggy in the waist. Something he could grow into. A dab of hair gel was perfectly sculpted in the front of his black wavy hair. There was no pretense in the comic; he resembled what he was — a teenager in a borrowed suit. In his left hand was a small notebook, crib notes for the crib he was in. It was his first crack at stand-up and the sparse crowd was hoping for something better than the one-man-band-without-an-instrument performance they had just suffered through. The fact that the performer was tone-deaf didn’t help with the audience who was typically forgiving in nature.
Clark walked in off the sidewalk and swiped at the droplets of rain on his gray wool overcoat. He approached the cashier and ordered a hot black tea, something to take the chill off. The male cashier with the pierced eyebrow and red hair handed him his change and said, “It’s open mic night in the back. Free of charge. Take a look if you like. We are booked through the first hour, but after that we still have openings.”
“I don’t sing or dance.”
The cashier leaned forward. “Neither do most of the people coming on stage.”
“Maybe next time,” Clark said, grabbing his cup and a cardboard insulation sleeve with Jammin’ Java printed on the front.
The young man on stage was hitting the microphone with the palm of his hand, expertly exemplifying the surefire way humans have devised to jumpstart sensitive electronic equipment.
Clark worked his way from the well lit service counter in the front of the shop to the darker back area where a few rows of folding chairs were haphazardly lined up facing the stage. The tables on the edge of the room were occupied and Clark found a seat in the back row of chairs as the young comedian in the borrowed suit moved past his introduction into his routine.
“I would like to start with a joke that is short but sweet. A man comes into the bedroom with a sheep under his arm. He wakes his wife and says, ‘Honey, this is the pig I have been sleeping with.’”
“His wife opens her eyes and says ‘That’s not a pig.’”
“The husband quickly replies, ‘I wasn’t talking to you.’”
The crowd snickered. Clark laughed out loud. He looked around the room, and the light emanating from an open notebook computer illuminated a face he recognized. The comic launched into a series of infidelity jokes, and Clark approached the small table and the woman who had her nose in her notebook computer.
“I missed you today.”
The young lady with the auburn hair and button nose looked up and said, “Clark Hayden.”
“Auditor Prescott. Or may I call you Lisa?”
“No, you may not,” she answered smiling.
“Your replacement told me you had moved on to bigger and better things.”
“I got a job as an IRS special agent. Criminal investigator. I put in for the position over a year ago.”
“Criminal investigator? Do you get to carry a gun with that title?”
“Government issue.”
Clark stumbled. “You’re kidding.”
“Not at all. But I haven’t been trained yet. Range practice starts next week.”
“Then I guess it’s safe to sit down.”
“This week,” Lisa said, far more friendly than she had been in his mother’s house, grilling Clark and his mother over mystery money.
“Are you working?”
“Not really work. I had a few things to finish up and didn’t feel like sitting at home.”
“So you came to open mic night?”
“Sure, why not? I told you I love this place. But I’m guessing you remembered this and that’s why you’re here.”
Clark blushed a little. “You left me little choice when you pulled the ol’ switcharoo with Ms. Moody.”
“Mrs. Moody.”
“She’s married? That’s hard to believe.”
“Be nice.”
“How can you work in here?”
“It is pretty quiet, really. Despite the fact you have people reading poetry, telling jokes, playing the guitar, usually acoustic.”
“There’s a piano on stage.”
“Who doesn’t like a piano? Besides there are usually some characters in the crowd. Someone interesting to talk to.”
“Do I qualify as interesting?”
“The evening is young. We’ll see.”
The comic on stage started on a long joke that kept Clark and Lisa at rapt attention. “A man comes home early from work and busts through the door of his condo expecting to find his wife having an affair. The man goes room-to-room looking for his wife’s lover and finds nothing. He stops in the kitchen, looks out on the balcony, and sees a pair of hands holding on to the railing. Infuriated, he goes onto the balcony and smashes the fingers of the hanging man with his fists. After a few seconds, the man hanging on the rail falls ten stories and lands in some bushes. The husband looks down and sees the man has survived. Still in a rage, the husband goes into the kitchen and pushes the oversized fridge across the floor and through the balcony railing. The refrigerator falls ten stories and lands on the man in the bushes, killing him instantly.
“A few seconds later the dead man is standing before the Pearly Gates with St. Peter. There is another man in line and St. Peter is checking the list in his Godly notebook. St. Peter says, ‘Well, unfortunately, we only have room in heaven for one more soul today. So what I am going to do is have both of you tell me how you died, and the one who died with the most unusual story gets in. The other guy has to wait in purgatory until tomorrow, and let me tell you, purgatory isn’t that nice.’
“The two recently departed looked at St. Peter and then at each other. Each man shrugs his shoulder in agreement and St. Peter nods towards the first man.
“The man who appeared first began. ‘Well this afternoon I was out on the balcony of my eleventh floor condo washing the windows of the sliding glass door. I tripped over a potted plant, lost my balance and fell over the railing. Amazingly I caught myself on the rail of the balcony below me. Being a good Christian,’ the man said with a wink, ‘I thanked God for saving me. The next thing I know the neighbor from the floor below me comes out onto his balcony and starts smashing my hands. I try to hold on, but eventually I fall ten stories and hit the ground. Amazingly, I live, and once again I thank the Lord for saving my life.’
“St. Peter has stopped writing in his notebook and is staring at the man in disbelief.
“‘So I am lying in the bushes and I look up and I see a refrigerator coming over the balcony. The next thing I know, here I am.’
“St. Peter looks at the man in amazement. ‘That is one hell of a story. I think that’s going to be hard to beat.’ He turns to
ward the second man in line and says, ‘Let’s hear what you got.’
“The other man clears his throat and looks at St. Peter. ‘Imagine this … you’re naked and hiding in a refrigerator…’”
Clark and Lisa looked at each other and she laughed first. “Interesting material for a high school kid,” she said.
The sophomoric comic went on for another five minutes and walked off the stage to a standing ovation. Clark turned towards Lisa. “You interested in grabbing something to eat?”
“I have to get going.”
“Where do you live?”
“Pentagon City. Arlington Ridge Road.”
“If you don’t mind going over the bridge, I know just the place.”
Lisa thought about the offer. “No discussing your parents’ case.”
“Come on, you aren’t working on my parents’ case any longer. You’re out of reasons.”
“Maybe I don’t like you,” she said, revealing her dimples.
Clark smiled as he stood. “We both know that’s not true.”
Chapter 17
Clark and Lisa walked into Zed’s Ethiopian restaurant in Georgetown twenty-five minutes later. Traffic was at a standstill on the bridge over Rock Creek Parkway and brake lights stretched the five blocks towards the Key Bridge.
Two groups formed a semi-circle around the unmanned podium near the entrance to the restaurant. Clark looked at the photos on the wall while everyone else waited for a waitress to appear. The prominent picture on display near the door was then Governor George W. Bush with his chimpanzee smile standing next the Ambassador of Ethiopia.
“Who is he?” Lisa asked, pointing at another picture.
“That’s Sugar Ray Leonard, former boxing champ and local sport product. He grew up in Maryland somewhere.” In the photo the boxer had his arms up in a defensive stance with the owner of the restaurant, the picture taken on the sidewalk just outside the glass door from where Clark was standing.
A smattering of pictures of famous politicians and TV personalities ringed the small waiting vestibule. A group picture of an unidentified sports team was on the wall near the first step of the stairway that led to the private dining room on the second floor. Clint Eastwood, Mike Tyson, Rudolph Guiliani. Zed had a following. The food was good, the atmosphere unique, and everything on the menu was under twenty bucks.
The groups in front of Clark were seated, and when the hostess returned Clark spoke, “A table for two, please.”
Long fingers wrapped around a gold-colored pen and checked a table off the map of the restaurant. “This way, please,” the hostess said, her dark Ethiopian features contrasting with her traditional headdress.
Clark and Lisa followed the hostess through the crowded restaurant to a table next to the window overlooking the action at the convergence of M Street and Pennsylvania Avenue.
“Your waiter will be right with you.”
“No hurry. Thank you.”
Moments later, the waiter appeared as promised and set two menus on the table along with a set of napkins, sans silverware.
Clark opened the two-page menu and eyed Lisa. She was wearing a button-up white sweater, the mid-region attracting the attention of Clark’s eyes, if only for a moment.
“I’m glad I was able to see you again,” Clark said.
Lisa looked around the restaurant. “Thank you for the invitation to dinner.”
“Thank you for accepting the invitation.”
“Thank you for agreeing to my ground rules. There will be no discussing the case.”
“I think that is enough thanking each other for one evening.” Unless I get really lucky, Clark thought. Then I might throw in a prayer to boot.
Zed’s chicken and beef sampler with chicken Doro Watt, beef Kaev, and Alich came on one large plate. “Enjoy,” the waiter said as he left.
“Where are the forks?”
“It’s Ethiopian. We eat it with our fingers.”
Lisa’s eyes widened slightly, her eyebrows jumping momentarily.
“Never eaten beef with your hands before?” Clark asked.
“Why would you say that?”
“You flinched a little.”
“Flinched.”
“Yeah, flinched. You flinched a little when I said we eat with our fingers.”
“I don’t think I’m much of a flincher.”
Clark let it go, and ripped a piece off of the small spongy bread that served as an eating utensil. “You have to use the bread to scoop up the food.”
Lisa watched as Clark wrestled with a sauce-covered piece of chicken before popping it into his mouth. Lisa pulled up the sleeve on her white sweater and cornered a piece of beef near the edge of the plate.
After the meal, Lisa leaned back in her chair. “Taking someone to an Ethiopian restaurant on the first date is a make or break strategy.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, you’re eating with your hands, which can turn some people off right away. Then you are eating off the same plate, not exactly the most hygienic thought. Then there is the fact that not many people even know what Ethiopian food is. It conjures up images of a desert country … eating rice and whatever.
“I figured, why waste time to see what you are made of. If you can handle this as a first date, you must be pretty adaptable.”
“Adaptable? Is this what you are looking for in a woman?”
“It’s right up there with cute and smart.”
Lisa laughed and Clark knew things were going places. Maybe not tonight, maybe not to her place, but in his mind the launch sequence had begun. All he needed was patience, the right coordinates, and a nod from Mission Control.
The walk along the frozen C&O Canal was brief. Another small rain shower forced them into Teaism for some warmth. They worked their way to the back of the restaurant, Clark gently steering Lisa with one hand on her waist. They sat down in a dark corner on large wooden tree stumps that had been converted into chairs.
After several minutes of perusing the tea list, Lisa spoke. “So tell me, what kind of man was your father?”
“I thought we weren’t discussing the case?”
“I wasn’t asking for the case.”
“I guess we have been working this backwards. First you find out about my parents’ finances, then you meet mom, and now we are on a date. Not exactly the normal progression of things.”
Lisa listened and her blues eyes sparkled under the low hanging lamp over the hand-crafted table.
“My father was a good man. He didn’t always know what to do with me, but he was a good man.”
“Were you trouble?”
“My father was in his fifties when I was born. He’d spent most of his adult life believing a physician who had told him that he would never have children. I came along and kind of ruined his retirement plans.”
“You weren’t close?”
“No, we were close. It was just different. You can’t play ball in the backyard with your father when he starts pushing seventy.”
“No, I guess not.”
“But we learned to have a relationship in other ways. You know, the first time I understood what my father did for a living, I saw him in a different light. I was thirteen and my father proudly sat me down on the sofa in the living room in front of the TV. On the screen was a picture of the Space Shuttle orbiting the Earth with its payload doors wide open. I listened as my father explained the sequence of events and when the satellite separated from the fuel module, my dad jumped to the television and pointed, ‘There. That big circular piece right there was made in our very garage.’”
“Not many people could say that.”
“That’s what he said. Until then I had never thought much about what my father did. I had never really understood all those hours he spent in the garage with blueprints and metal and wires. And those huge machines. For me, the garage was just a room in the house I went to when I needed a screwdriver or a hammer. But after that, I started paying attention.
Satellites became a common thread of a lot of conversations.”
“Satellites? Not your everyday conversation.”
“My father knew everything there was to know about satellites and model airplanes. The former was his job, the latter was his hobby. Quite a combination, really, and not one that many kids are interested in. Still, those conversations about satellites kept us close through the spring and summer when the Redskins weren’t playing.”
“So, what do you know?” Lisa asked, moving her body forward a little as if she were going to hear a secret.
“About satellites?”
“That’s the topic.”
“I know more than I should. Satellites fly around on different orbital paths and at different altitudes depending on what the satellite is designed for. Equatorial satellites fly between a hundred and a thousand miles up. Stationary satellites, by comparison, are positioned over twenty thousand miles above Earth. A lot of satellites used by TV stations are in stationary orbit, just sitting up there beaming back info for a growing couch potato population. The first communication satellite in stationary orbit was used to broadcast the 1964 Olympic Games from Japan.”
“I did not know that.”
“A good Jeopardy question.”
“I guess so.”
“The Space Shuttle flies at an altitude of about two hundred miles above Earth. At that altitude the shuttle acts like a satellite, from a law-of-physics perspective. It travels around the Earth at over 17,000 mph. At that speed, the astronauts on board experience a sunrise or sunset every hour. The International Space Station also flies at an altitude of two hundred miles, which makes sense given that the Space Shuttle services the space station.”
“I’ve seen that on TV.”
Clark smiled. “Spy satellites, often referred to as spysats, and military satellites fly considerably higher, in the range between 600 to 1,200 miles.”