“Thanks, Walter.”
“She’s got kids. You know I like kids.
“I know.”
Walter took a quicker drink. He’s on-board, and has decided to be a part. He’ll help.
“You really are a sorry piece of work, you know that?”
“Yes, I know.”
Walter kept staring at me across the table. Then he started laughing, and laughed a long time. I felt I could move now, and took a drink. My coke had gone flat.
“Kim!” he bellowed.
Kim showed up, Walter gave her some money for our drinks, and then he reached into his pocket for some coins. “Kim, honey, take this over there and play 4B.”
Kim looked at Walter, then walked over to the jukebox, popped in the coins, and headed back to the kitchen and cash register area.
Over the speakers, LeAnn Rimes sang the old Ted Daffan song, “Born to Lose,” and Walter just leaned back in his wood chair on the two hind legs and laughed and laughed and tried to sing along. I guess he was feeling good. I’m glad he was on-board.
Visiting Miss Planter
It was Monday, and I planned on taking a long lunch break. The bosses didn’t mind my being gone long, since they did the same thing themselves. I called it a “stress break,” and scheduled an appointment with my mental health counselor, Miss Planter. I would take lunch during the break, visit the counselor, and be back to work, usually within a two-hour time frame, still getting all the work for the day done. If I felt like it, I’d stay late at work just to let the bosses and fellow workers know that I “cared” about the current projects. That seemed to be the trend of the day, to show that someone actually “cared” about his work. Actually, I did, but didn’t like showing it; it’s just something that I was supposed to do, like breathing, eating, and sleeping. After working a full day, one sleeps with a clearer conscience.
Leaving the shop at 11 a.m., I drove over to the medical center, entered the mental health office, checked in with Phyllis, the young secretary, who offered me coffee and candy, and sat in the waiting room to read a magazine someone had left on the couch.
After a few minutes, Miss Planter opened her office door and welcomed me, pleasantly, and invited me into the question-and-answer room.
After I got comfortable, she asked how I’d been. Fine. How did I feel? Pretty good, I supposed. Had there been any recent developments in my life?
Well, for a moment I weighed an answer, then said, “Yes, an old flame came back into my life. She’s a married woman now, with children and a comfortable life.”
Miss Planter kept a blank face, but her eyes raised from her paperwork to look at me. “Tell me more about this old flame” she said.
I should have thought about her interest before I arrived. I cleared my throat and began, “When I was a much younger man, I allowed myself to become enamored and emotionally involved with a charming and beautiful young lady, a few years younger than me.”
“How much younger are we talking about?” Miss Planter asked.
“She was about three years younger than me, and I knew her both at both in high school and at college. At first, it was a worshipping her from afar affair, but then somehow I earned her friendship and then her trust, and her loyalty, or so I thought. It wound up very messy for me, because during the courting, I had geared up for marriage and the future, while she found another man with whom she felt more compatible.”
“I see,” said Miss Planter. “A heartbreak. Most of us experience that at some time or another. So far, this sounds within the bounds of normalcy.”
“Thanks for saying that,” I said, “because I don’t usually see myself as being a totally ‘normal’ type of person. I’ve never married. I have no children. I had my parents and siblings, but as you know my parents have both passed away, and the rest of my relatives are raising their own families in other cities. It's just me and my job now. I’m married to the job.”
Miss Planter replied, “You paint yourself as a dull and routine human being just because you’ve never married. I don’t think you’re dull.”
“Thank you again for saying that,” I said, and meant it. “But the truth is, I’m a confirmed bachelor, and my life is about exciting as tomorrow morning’s toothpaste.”
Miss Planter smiled at that, and started writing on her clipboard again. She paused long enough to ask, “Do you have any friends, Mr. Owen?”
I thought again, just for a moment, and said, “Yes, I have a few friends. Most of them are male friends, with whom I have hobbies in common. I know a few females also, but mostly they are acquaintances. As I’ve said earlier, I don’t date much; I don’t see the point of it anymore. That’s for people who plan on matrimony, or who want to have children. I’m almost too old for that, now.”
“Do you believe in marriage, Mr. Owen?”
“Oh, yes…marriage is great! For married people.”
Miss Planter smiled again. “But what do you think about the state of matrimony? Have you thought about its merits?”
“Yes, I think about marriage every day, Miss Planter. What are your thoughts on the subject?” I asked, hoping to take a little heat off of me.
“Now Mr. Owen, I’m not the counselee; I’m the counselor. I’m just fishing for information so as to ascertain whether you have certain views on certain subjects.”
“Yes, I know,” I remarked. “I was just being funny. Sorry. Here are my views concerning marriage: It’s a union of two people, as created by God in the Garden of Eden, so that Adam, and other men after him, would not be alone, but have someone for a companion with whom to make it through life. Marriage is the best situation in which to raise children. It’s not perfect, because people aren’t perfect, and stable marriages help to create stable societies.” I looked over at Miss Planter, who was looking at me as though I had just stepped out of the Middle Ages, or even a pre-historic time. I added, “And based on what I’ve just said, our society has just about had it, it seems.”
After a long pause, during which Miss Planter wrote on her tablet, she looked up and said, “Would it be safe to say that you are a religious man, Mr. Owen?”
“What do you mean by religious?” I asked, looking for clarification, since I’d found that “being religious” means different things to different people.
“Are you affiliated with a local church or synagogue?”
Now I smiled, and said, “Yes, I’m a member of the Reformed Church of the Savior, a local church near my home. I wouldn’t say I’m super active, but I go to church every Sunday and sit on the back row.”
“If you sit on the back row, why do you attend?” asked Miss Planter. “Don’t you want to be near the front, where you can see and hear the minister?”
“I can hear the sermons just fine,” I said. “We have a good sound system; I don’t need to see everything, just so long as I can hear it. Plus, the church now has the capacity to display the words of the songs on the wall. I love singing the songs, and this makes it easier for me to participate.”
Miss Planter followed up with, “You’re not a member of the choir, are you?”
“No, I’m not although I’ve thought about becoming a member.”
“Why don’t you join the choir then?”
“Well, I’m employed. And like I said, I’m pretty much married to my job. It’s not a good wife, but I’ve got to eat. Anyway, many times I’m tired when I get home, and rehearsals are on Wednesday night. I’m very tired in the middle of the week, and need to get enough rest for the remainder of the week. Plus, I’ve noticed that the choir stands up during the first half hour of the service; I’d rather not stand up that long.”
Miss Planter was looking at me as though she couldn’t believe anybody would make up so many excuses. Her poker face was slipping; I felt I was being sized-up.
“Also, I prefer singing songs I know, along with the choir; any new songs or those I don’t care about, I’d rather just listen.”
Miss Planter sat still, writing f
or a little while, then asked, “Why do you sit in the back of the church? Don’t you mix with others in the congregation?”
“No,” I said. “I’m not what you’d call a mixer. I hate mixing. I don’t like acting happy when I’m not. In fact, there’s a time in church when I really can’t stand being there.”
“And what time is that, Mr. Owen?” asked Miss Planter, putting her notes aside, as though this information was important to her.
“It’s the time, usually at the beginning of the service, when the minister asks us all to stand and greet each other. The music will play, and all the talking starts; people stand up and turn around to meet and greet and shake hands. Well, while this is good for most people, it’s hell on earth for me.”
“You’re saying that you have a reserved personality, Mr. Owen?” asked Miss Planter.
“Yes, I suppose that I do. I mean, I like all the people, but I just prefer to meet them one-at-a-time, on terms I’m familiar with. I don’t like meeting people just because it’s time to meet people. I’ll shake someone’s hand, then stand there and listen to what they have to say, smiling as though I’m thrilled to hear what they’re saying. With all the talking and music, I really can’t hear a darn thing, so there I am, with a grin on my face, nodding my head to something I can’t quite decipher. I’d rather not be doing that.”
“Well, how do you avoid this, Mr. Owen? That seems to be a part of most large congregations in Protestant churches,” said Miss Planter, revealing that she also knew the usual workings of church practices.
I paused until my answer was clear in my mind. “Since it’s at the beginning of the service, I don’t walk into the auditorium until after this is all over. Then when they’re done with all the handshaking I can enter and sit and listen and enjoy the sermon in peace and quiet, and I don’t feel as though I’ve compromised myself. I know this sounds unusual, but that’s what I do. I’m a bit odd, I guess.”
“No, you’re not odd. I was just concerned.”
“Concerned? About what? My dated views on matrimony?”
“Well, possibly, but… I guess what I was really concerned with is how well you interact with others.”
“I don’t mix well, if that’s what you mean. Yes, I know. It’s one of my many faults, and here you’ve discovered one of them. You’re worried that since I don’t mix well, I’m a bit of an isolationist.”
“Yes, that’s… it sounds as though you’ve already thought of this!” said Miss Planter, who looked at me with puzzlement.
“Besides marriage, I think about other things every day as well,” and I grinned.
Miss Planter also grinned, and looked down to write on her clipboard. It’s good to see her smile; it’s better to make her smile.
Then she hits me with a whammy. “Don’t you think you have rather narrow views on the state of marriage?”
“Narrow views? I’ve thought about that a lot, and would have to say, yes, I do have rather narrow views. But I’ve had years to look at it from many angles, and have seen the social fallout we’re experiencing in our land, and I just can’t come up with anything better. I mean, this marriage business is important; I’ve come to a conclusion about it, which is, if you can’t do it right then don’t do it.”
I looked over at Miss Planter, who was looking at me over her clipboard, studying me.
“Hopefully I didn’t scare you with what I just shared,” I said. “This is extreme to some, I’m sure.”
“No, you didn’t scare me, Mr. Owen,” said Miss Planter, who started writing on her clipboard again. “It’s just that I don’t hear that very often in these sessions.”
“I don’t tell many people how I feel about this issue; some feel that it’s a bit out of date,” I said, hoping to let her know I hadn’t lost touch with reality.
“Being a single man, for most of your life, how do you feel about that?”
“I’ve been a single man for all of my life, and if you mean, do I feel as though I’ve missed out, then yes, I’ve felt that often. I still feel it, in fact. No wife, no companionship, no children, no future. It used to hurt worse, a lot worse, believe me, but I’ve slowly grown accustomed to it. And I do like the peace and quiet in the evenings.”
Miss Planter laughed here, even though this wasn’t meant as a joke. After my surprise, I laughed also.
“Raising children is a lot of work, Mr. Owen. Maybe your different life isn’t so terrible. Do you feel guilty about being single?”
“Now there’s another fair question,” I remarked. “Yes, I’ve felt guilt about my status many times. I haven’t taken care of a wife and I haven’t raised any children, which used to be the accepted norm, smiled upon by society. I wish life could have smiled on me here, but that’s not the way it worked out. I was, however, involved in the care of my parents for years.”
Miss Planter looked over at me.
“I’m proud of that,” I said. “I’d do it again.”
News from Walter
On Wednesday at work, my new cell phone rang; I looked and saw a number I didn’t recognize. I opened it up and said, “Hello?”
An electronic, tinny-sounding voice said, “Tonight, after work, take a walk. Same place. Same time.”
“What?”
“I have news you need to hear.”
Then it hit me. This was Walter.
“Okay, I’ll take a walk.”
The phone went dead. For the rest of the day, work dragged on, since now I was curious about the news that Walter had. I was glad to see five o’clock finally arrive.
I went home, made a snack, took a shower, read my computer e-mails, caught up on the news, cleaned up the kitchen, then put on my shoes and went for a walk. It was a nice stroll down past the Dairy Queen and around the corner to the post office. I stopped and waited, but not for long. The large and slow recreational vehicle came down the street, but from the opposite direction than before. It stopped, and with no invitation I walked across the street and hopped in.
Walter was wearing his disguise, so I didn’t say anything until we left the city and made our way south, back to Estella’s bar and grill. We sat at the same booth, far from the other people; there were more customers there that night. There were some bikers I had been worried about; they appeared to be mostly in their mid-fifties, maybe even into their sixties and seventies; either that or they’d all had a rough life. I really had nothing to worry about, since they seemed to enjoy each other’s company, and their fighting and hell-raising days were far behind them now. At least a quarter of them appeared to be vets, based on the tone of their dress. American flags were sewn into their clothes, their bandanas, and even painted on their motorbikes in the parking lot. They seemed to know Kim and Walter, and were also comfortable in this setting.
We got comfortable, ordered some drinks, and Walter started talking. “I did a little research on your old sweetheart, Helen Ceraldi, or Helen Ceraldi hyphen Burke,” lowering his voice when saying the name a second time. “Guess what I came up with.”
I had some idea what he was talking about, and was extremely curious. I tried not to appear too anxious, but Walter knew me. “What did you come up with?” I asked.
Walter looked pleased, like the cat who ate the canary. “You know she married that doctor, right? Franklin Burke, M.D. They’ve got four kids: three girls, and one boy. Got that?”
“Got it. I knew that.”
“I did a little research,” he said. “A little fact-checking, and… did she tell you they’re broke, up to their necks in debt, practically one paycheck away from bankruptcy?”
I let this sink in for a moment. It didn’t make sense. Why would she keep this from me?
“No, she didn’t tell me this. In fact, everything I know about her tells me the opposite. Married to a doctor, four kids, sports car, a house…”
“Not just a house, a mansion!” Walter said with glee. He was enjoying this. “In the rich part of town!”
I started naming their k
nown assets. “Kids, a mansion, a car…”
“And not just a car, an Italian sports car, an import!” Walter said. “That’s not their only car…”
I interrupted, “You better let me write all this down; let me get situated. This might get heavy.”
I borrowed a piece of paper from Kim. Fortunately, I usually carried a pen, so Walter talked and I wrote down everything important. It turned out that Helen and Dr. Burke owned an old, beautiful mansion near a gated community; it would have been included inside the gate, but was built many years before modern developers came along. The two oldest children had a car, which made a four-car family. It only made sense for Mindy to have a car since she needed to get around while at college. Their mansion had a five-car garage, located near the house; they all drove into a little courtyard area, between the house and the garage, the kind that used to exist back in the horse and carriage days, among those who could afford it.
Walter rattled off all what he found they owned, which included a swimming pool, a maid and a cook (but they were only part-timers). Well, nobody really owns a maid and cook, but they were employed. When the cook was off, the family ate out, especially on weekends, and many times at the country club, which brought even more expenses. They belonged to the Lovely Country Club, which, I suppose, is expected if you want to hob-nob with the movers and shakers.
Helen was on different community boards, including being a patron of the local arts, a sponsor and board member of the local public television group, and active with the local pet shelter. Oh yes, they had pets, and more than one. Sometimes they brought home dogs and cats no one wanted to adopt, until they could find homes for them. Many times they’d become attached to the pet, and keep it as one of their own, one more mouth to feed.
The children went to private schools, with Mindy attending an Ivy League school, with a declared degree in journalism. Since she was a beauty like her mother, she could be hired as a television reporter or news anchor at any station in the country.
Franklin Burke drove a Mercedes convertible, and liked to speed around with the top down when weather permitted. They used to own other houses, homes, properties, even a private plane, but these had been sold off and let go, probably due to “financial reverses.” They still owned their own boat, though, which was parked at the nearest marina.
The Lovely Chocolate Mob Page 7