Temporarily Employed

by Vicki Batman

  His hair distracted me, looking so cute, stuck up like Alfalfa’s from “The Little Rascals” television show I’d watched when staying overnight with my grandmother. My hands itched to get in the beautiful silkiness and mess it up. Preferably during sex.

  Oh My God in Heaven. First sexy, and now, sex? Where are these wild thoughts originating? Flicking a glance his way, I hoped he hadn’t heard that. “It seems to me, you need to call the police. The parts were lifted from your truck.”

  “It gets...tricky since the taillights and bumper are recovered stolen parts. This goes against all the rules about doing business with...” A. Wellborn’s finger rubbed his chin as he looked skyward, searching for the appropriate word, “interesting people.”

  “Oh.” Not being a total airhead, I understood very well the implication of what he’d done. Through friends of friends, a policeman dealt with “interesting people,” something he didn’t ordinarily do, to recover my car parts. I asked the question all inquiring minds wanted to know, “Why did you do it?”

  “I wanted to help. Cost me fifty dollars to recover the parts.”

  His quick look made me blush to my toes. Shoot. At the precise moment, my checking balance of $150.53—$150.53—$150.53 flashed off and on in my head like an orange neon sign on the fritz. I didn’t have an extra fifty dollars to reimburse him. Something else to sort out.

  Feeling humbled, I fumbled for an answer and said, “Umm, thanks for trying. I’m a little embarrassed to...ah...admit I don’t have the money right now to... ah...pay you back. I’m doing temporary work for a while.”

  A. Wellborn’s shoulders dropped. His anger seemed to have settled. “Which explains what you meant when you said you had a terrible interview. I hope it works out. I should’ve called and asked, but when the parts were located, I decided to surprise you.”

  “You’re so sweet.”

  Our conversation stopped, and a silence blanketed us.

  “Well, thanks for trying,” I said. “See ya.” Giving a small wave, I tucked the container of wasp spray under my arm and turned toward my apartment, pulling my keys from my pocket. Then, I overheard another loud “damn.” Swinging back, I said with a teasing tone, “Now, what’s wrong? Was calling you sweet a horrible thing?”

  He pulled his head from inside the truck cab. “No, my pizza was stolen off the front seat of the truck.”

  My head cocked to my right. Surely, he hadn’t said what I thought he had. “Your what?”

  His cheeks blazed fire-engine red. “My pizza was stolen.”

  “You left a pizza in your unlocked truck this whole time?” Amazing. What resistance. What willpower. Which were two characteristics I didn’t possess when thinking of pizza because pizza had been elevated to the sacred foods list.

  Extra-special foods, not normally eaten, but could be eaten, on a regular basis, like peanut M&Ms, cheesecake, homemade lemon meringue pie, whipped cream, even the canned kind. Consuming these selections seemed almost—I was mortified to admit—sexually orgasmic.

  Naturally, I regularly revised my list to add newly discovered items. “Why didn’t you lock your doors?”

  His look could best be described as condescending. Don’t go there, it read. I locked my doors. Maybe he forgot this one time, just like he forgot to lock the truck’s hatch.

  He said, “I brought a pizza along with the thought maybe...”

  This sounded good. My insides got a little excited. “Maybe what?”

  “Maybe,” he sighed, “you could join me.”

  My heart melted. Wow, car parts and pizza. Just like Mom used to preach, Allan Wellborn was sooo nice. I set a finger to my chin and pushed it up and down like I was in a faux deep thought. “I dunno. What kind did you get?”

  “Pepperoni.”

  My mouth curved into a girly grin. I ran my tongue over my lower lip. “I like pepperoni.”

  Eyes fastened on me, A. Wellborn swallowed deeply. One handed, he palmed his cell phone. “I need to make some calls.”

  “Who to?”

  “First, to the friend who has a friend to ask him to locate the bumper again. Second, I’m ordering another pizza. You want some?” He gave me a questioning squint.

  Staring at the darkening sky, I tapped my toes, deciding. The Funsisters and I have rules about food and guys:

  Rule One: Do not turn down food when unemployed.

  Rule Two: Do not turn down food when unemployed and invited to share by a hunky, thoughtful man.

  “This isn’t a life or death answer, just say yes or no.”

  He sure sounded impatient. What the hell. I won’t have to scrounge for something to eat, and A. Wellborn had proven to be interesting, a nice note to end a complicated day. “Yes.”

  He punched a number on his cell. “What do you like on yours?”

  How considerate. “I like pepperoni, but my fav is Canadian bacon and crispy bacon.”

  He frowned. “Aren’t you concerned about cholesterol?”

  “Not today.”

  Chapter Four

  Since A. Wellborn had asked if the pizza delivery could be dropped off at my door, I had about two seconds to get my apartment ship-shape. I wasn’t going to let the perfect opportunity to get to know him better go to waste. I raced to the kitchen and snatched poster boy from the wall, burying the paper in the trash under Frito pie remains. No-no-no, would not do for him to see his picture hanging on my wall with divots puncturing his face. I surveyed the kitchen for any other tale-tell items. All looked good.

  With a plan of attack in mind, I got to work. I stacked white dinner plates on the table, silverware, cloth napkins embellished with blue stripes, and matching placemats discounted fifty percent from a Bed, Bath & Beyond clearance sale.

  When he came in, I looked up.

  He asked, “Can I help?”

  “Set the table?”

  “Okay.”

  I searched the fridge for drinks. “What’ll it be? I have soda, water, lemonade, old wine...” I took the bottle from the fridge and sized up the well-aged contents “…but no beer.”

  “Soda’s fine.”

  I dumped the beyond-drinkable vintage down the drain and threw the bottle in the recycling bin. I squished the two cans in coozies, laying straws on the placemats. After the pizza had been delivered, which A. Wellborn kindly paid for, he sat at the table. The place settings had been arranged neatly with the dishes, forks, mats, and napkins. Before joining him, I added a pizza seasoning jar and parmesan cheese, the kind in the shaker can.

  While unfolding a napkin across my lap, I admired his stellar effort at table decorating. “Thanks for fixing the table. You do this often? I might consider hiring you.”

  He grinned and put a couple of slices on his plate, after which he lightly licked his fingers. “My mama told me to always mind my manners.”

  I knew this was true because his mom had polite little talks just like my mom. Only his mom had seemed way scarier than mine.

  Snagging a slice of pie, I took a bite. I closed my eyes and sniffed, savoring another nibble. Mamma and Pappa’s Italian Bistro consistently made the very best pizza. The crisp, thin crust had been covered with the right amount of richly spiced tomato sauce and not too much cheese, loaded with thinly sliced Canadian bacon and liberally sprinkled with coarsely chopped, crispy bacon.

  “Mmm,” I moaned, not realizing the sound had slipped out.

  “You really like Canadian bacon and bacon pizza.”

  His comment broke my reverence. Heat covered my cheeks. How did a girl explain the whole sacred foods-being-orgasmic theory? And while eating, she might overtly enjoy the experience?

  One more item to add to the ever-increasing embarrassment list.

  To disguise my discomfort, I ignored his comment and proceeded with the standard conversation breaker. Drawing a deep breath, I fired out questions like an automatic weapon: “So, what have you been doing the past few years-I didn’t know you were a policeman-How long have you been one-I think
I remember my mom saying you were an accountant-Why the change-Was accounting unbearable?”

  Staring at me, he washed down a substantial mouthful with soda.

  “Where did you go to college-Was it the same place as Sarah Anne-I can’t remember-Do you hear from her regularly-She used to call, but not much anymore-Now, I get the rare email-She’s so busy with the baby-How are your parents?”

  His hands rose. “Whoa, lil’ lady. Let’s start at the top.” Using the napkin, he swiped his kissable lips and dusted off his hands.

  Kissable? When did I start thinking of A. Wellborn having lips? An all-too-familiar warmth flushed my face.

  “I attended Southern University on an academic scholarship. A top-ten accounting firm recruited me. After a couple of years, crunching numbers didn’t interest me. The accounting background didn’t turn off the police department. I was hired.”

  I’d always known accounting wasn’t exciting. And his explanation solved the mystery of the disappearing pocket protector.

  “I was a patrolman and recently, made detective.”

  Without doubt, his fast rise to detective was due to him being an exemplary policeman, which could also explain the confusing part of my phone conversation with the woman at the station. Reminded of my exchange with her, I asked, “Why were you writing citations the other day?”

  “I did a favor for a friend who needed a few days off.”

  Isn’t A. Wellborn nice? He did me a favor and a friend a favor which would score points in Mom’s tome of Desirable Characteristics in Men. Tilting my head, I examined him further. Migh-tee fine.

  “You’re staring.” A. Wellborn’s eyes and hands examined his shirt for possible dropped sauce.

  “Sorry.” I shook my head. “I can’t help it. You look different, not anything like your senior photo in the Sommerville yearbook. No glasses, no trombone, no protector sleeve with pens.”

  His eyebrows elevated. Glints of amusement twinkled in his eyes.

  “And was the other item a pocket level?”

  “Busted. Sarah Anne constantly teased me about that and the trombone. In college, I discovered weights. Gained some height and changed glasses for contact lenses.”

  I screwed my napkin into knots with the notion his potential appeared very satisfying—Huh?

  “You looked me up?”

  My gaze flicked to where poster boy had hung. I was embarrassed to admit I had, but once again, I’d been caught red-handed. This appeared to be the story of my life anyway. “I read the citation and my head went ding-dong. So, I found the old Sommerville annual and checked.”

  A corner of his mouth quirked up. “Have I improved?”

  Fishing, fishing. As if I would tell all. My gaze shifted to the ceiling as I sipped soda. Interested in discovering more, I entered the uncomfortable, but Necessary For All Girls Getting To Know Single Guys part of our conversation. I toyed with the straw. “So, how’s your love life?”

  He choked, spewing soda everywhere.

  Unperturbed, I mopped the table with my napkin. “Are you okay?”

  He coughed. “F-fine.”

  Truth be told—I pressed my hand to my lips, holding my girly giggles—perhaps, he felt ill-at-ease being asked personal questions. Maybe my inquiries were a little abrupt and from left field, but nosy me just had to know. “Seeing anyone special?”

  His face colored pink. “I keep busy.”

  A nice side step.

  He stabbed a finger at me. “How about you?”

  Now the proverbial shoe seemed to be on my proverbial foot.

  “I mean, what have you been doing?”

  So, I gave him the song-and-dance version of my life, omitting the social part. Interestingly enough, I hadn’t experienced much of a real love life before college. In high school, geeks rarely dated, the exception being geeks dating other geeks.

  They didn’t ask me either.

  I’d invited seven different guys to escort me to a club dance my senior year. Talk about a real blow to a girl’s ego as one after another they turned me down.

  And for my senior prom? My date dumped me two weeks before the big event. Incredibly furious, I came close to punching him over and over like an inflatable rock’em sock’em boppin’ clown toy. Teaching the moron a lesson before he dumped another girl in the same manner would have been extremely satisfying. Women world-wide would have thanked me for this, too.

  The real lesson was, on occasion, I’d picked loser guys. Inexperienced me didn’t know what lay hidden under their handsome facades.

  At State Tech, I’d been involved for a couple of years with College Boy. But at age twenty-two when he’d proposed, I’d said no. Deep inside, I didn’t feel ready for a long-term commitment and possessed a desire to explore on my own. I had no regrets.

  Anyway, that twenty-two year old wasn’t the person I was at... I could say… a little past a quarter of a century. I liked the age I am now better.

  I’d dated a reasonable bit since college, but nothing resembled anything like a long-lasting relationship. Right now, I experienced the natural consequence of having an unwanted, dating dry spell: Nundom.

  Nundom wasn’t self-imposed; rather, these random interludes came and went. The Funsisters and I reckoned guys in the same rowboat went into Monkdom.

  Like A. Wellborn, I believed I’d improved over the years in the looks department. My pleasantly shaped face had an upturned nose. A wide, impish grin complimented by straight white teeth and smiley brown eyes. I didn’t think my looks broke any mirrors, and I thought myself to be a fairly interesting conversationalist. Sometimes, I could be a little quiet.

  Guys noticed when they saw how tall I stood while wearing high heels. At an Amazing Adventureland employee reunion, a co-worker had said, “WOW! You’ve grown,” and followed that with, “What happened to your glasses?”

  Based on those remarks, I felt certain I’d improved. Did I relay any of this information to A. Wellborn?

  Not me. No way.

  Besides, Mom had lectured, “You shouldn’t talk about yourself.”

  “I can’t believe you haven’t been snatched up,” he said. “You look fantastic, even better than you did in high school.” At his gaffe, he shaped his nose and mouth into the classic uh-oh. “I didn’t mean, uh, you know, you might have been ugly in high school. Never thought you were—”

  “Thanks,” I interrupted. I knew what he meant, and my whole being felt flamey.

  Not acquainted with anyone employed as a police officer, I had to know more. With undisguised interest, I leaned closer. “Is being a policeman dangerous?”

  “Yes.” A somber glint tinted his eyes. The crinkles disappeared. “But I’ve been lucky—so far. No weirdoes have shot at me. I know other cops who have been though.”

  I tucked in my lower lip before saying a small, “Oh?”

  “It’s part of the job, and we know it going in. Mom isn’t happy, but accepts this is what I want.”

  I wished my mom was as understanding as his. “You don’t miss accounting?”

  “Not really, certainly not on a day-to-day basis. I file tax returns for a few friends and keep books for Daisy’s Dress Shoppe.”

  “Small world. I know the owner. Her daughter went to school with us.”

  “Yea,” he chuckled. “Kristi hits on me every month when I go to the store.”

  “Really? How”—I scrunched my nose—“awful.”

  “Yep. She’s loud, really loud. A huge turn-off.”

  “Poor thing. But why the need for a change?”

  He shrugged. “I wanted to do what interested me. I can always go back to accounting later.”

  Mom had said something similar to me the other day. “It’s never too late to take up accounting.” She presented me with a course catalog and outlined a plan to help pay for more schooling.

  Not in this lifetime.

  We finished our pizza in silence. Call me a pig because I devoured four slices. Afterwards, like long-time compa
nions, A. Wellborn and I cleared the trash, collected the dishes, and tided the kitchen. When finished, I said, “We could watch a movie, maybe Strictly Ballroom?” I could quote all the lines and sing the songs, although it wasn’t exactly a guy picture.

  “I should go.”

  Rats. Sure would be nice if he could stay longer. “Something else? Unfortunately, I mostly have what you he-men call chick flicks like Pride and Prejudice.”

  With laced fingers, he stretched out his arms in front. “Some other time. I want to think about the missing part issue.”

  Darn. Maybe if I’d suggested Die Hard or Terminator or The Great Escape, he would have stayed. I accompanied him to the door.

  Before turning the doorknob, he stopped and pivoted my way, tilting his head. “Would you like to do this again?”

  “Again? Which part?” I asked with a teasing voice. “Writing me a citation? Stealing of the bumper? I didn’t like those parts. I like eating pizza best.”

  “Eating. The bumper’s already stolen, and I don’t think you want another citation.”

  I stared into his eyes; the liquid essence mesmerized me—Mesmerized? I blinked and shook my head. “No. I wouldn’t want another citation, but I would like pizza.” I meant it, too. He was interesting and fun. He may have always been fun to be around, but I was too shy to notice back then.

  “Or maybe a movie,” he said.

  I smiled. “Or maybe a movie. Thanks for dinner and for helping with the table and stuff.”

  “You’re welcome.” His fingers touched the strands of my hair near my temple and followed the length to my chin. “I like your haircut.”

  “Thanks.” Waves of discomfort rippled over my body. Desperately, the need to fan my flushed face hit me. Pleased with his touch, I tried to maintain my cool, a certain j’ne sais quoi. “And thanks for trying with the bumper and taillights. You might get into heaven for being so nice.”

  He snorted. “I could use the extra boost.”

  I seriously doubt A. Wellborn required additional help. His mom thought him a saint, and my mom thought him the ultimate in perfection.

  After exchanging polite good nights and closing the door behind him, I jumped up and down in delight. My toe caught on the carpet, causing me to trip and I collapsed against the wall. No wonder I hadn’t been a cheerleader.