Temporarily Employed

by Vicki Batman

  The safety factor we consumers believed we had with alarms wasn’t reassuring after all. The thieves found a way around or weren’t bothered by them. “What about the system which can shut a car down via satellite?”

  “Like ConnectLink? It’s effective, but not all cars have the system installed.”

  Pretty interesting information about car parts thefts. However, I held the everlasting desire to pound the crap out of the guy who’d vandalized mine. Preferably with an umbrella and/or pointy-toed, spiky heels.

  Something seemed wrong, triggering a niggle deep inside me. Sure, other car models had been stolen; however, the preponderance of stolen cars and parts seemed to belong to Jeep vehicles. “All of these claims feel fishy,” I told Lester and Opal. “Why would so many claims be Jeep products?”

  Their reaction was to look at each other and shrug.

  “Sport utility vehicles are the car right now,” Lester said. “They’re an exciting and affordable SUV. More are sold, making the demand high, and when the demand is high, so are the cars and parts.”

  He was right about this information. Basic economics of supply and demand. Just the other day, I’d seen a special on local news station WSOM about four-door SUV’s being a popular target of auto thieves. Some years, the crooks favored small foreign sedans. Other years, something else. “Could a gang be stealing parts off the cars?”

  Lester and Opal’s spines elongated at my question. He said, “It’s possible, and considering the circumstances, probably true. Since the SUV is the hottest thing on the road, like I said, the demand is high.”

  My curiosity jacked up a notch. “What do we do when we suspect something is going on? What is normal procedure? Do we call the police?”

  “We’ve had thefts happen before on a smaller scale, but it has been—oh, let’s say—five years.” Lester took a hit off his icky cancer stick. “Normal procedure dictates we inform Buy Rite’s investigative squad for an internal examination. They consult with the local authorities.” He exhaled the gross smoke in my direction.

  Inhaling some of the fumes, I made a cough-cough in my fist. Ever so subtlety, I passed my hand in front of my face to clear the air. “I know a police detective. I could call him or give you his name and number. Maybe he could help.”

  “No!” Opal said. “That won’t be necessary. Excuse me.” After she blew her nose, she walked around Lester’s desk to sit in the chair next to mine.

  Lester and I glanced her way to see if she’d recovered. Then he refocused on me.

  “Opal’s right, Hattie. Law enforcement assistance isn’t needed.” He shook his head and crushed the butt in the ashtray. “But thanks for the idea. I’m sure your friend has more important cases to work. You’re right, though. Buy Rite’s best interest should be our main concern. I’ll call the internal division. Depending on what they say, we may need to bring in the police.”

  Sounded like a good, sensible plan.

  “Hattie, if you have too many claims for data entry, let me know. I would be more than happy to pick up some slack,” Opal said with her patronizing attitude.

  Leaning across the arm of my chair, she moved in so close, I could feel her breath on my face. Nasty. Garlic and coffee were her best friends. The woman needed a breath mint, maybe more like thirty.

  Opal patted my arm. “I began my career in claims and remember how difficult a new job is until the learning curve kicks in,” she added smugly. “Entering data is my specialty.”

  What isn’t her specialty? Opal’s offer to divide my workload could be an answer, but I didn’t want them to think I wasn’t capable of completing my job. Since I owed them overtime, I could catch up.

  “Thanks, Opal.” I made sure my voice oozed warmth. “It’s nice of you to be concerned. But for now, I have a handle on the situation.”

  Her finger stabbed the bridge of her glasses. “Humpf.”

  ****

  The very same afternoon, Lester called me into his office and astounded me by proposing a full-time position with Buy Rite Automobile Insurance Company, even though I’d been processing claims data entry for such a short period of time. I was pretty sure my jaw had smacked the floor in disbelief.

  “Hattie, you’re a great asset to Buy Rite,” Lester said.

  His inference being I was more than welcome to June’s job. Once again, he swiveled his chair from side-to-side, trimming his waist. He mentioned a salary which sounded highly desirable.

  All my monetary worries could be dissolved with a simple yes. However, saying yes would mean saying no to the dream job in retail—if it ever showed.

  “I appreciate the offer; however, I’d like to think about it,” I said, still in shock.

  “Take your time,” he said with a tap of his hand, dropping ash on his paperwork. He flicked it away before a fire could start. “Take your time. It’s a good idea to consider one’s future. We’re not in any hurry.”

  The Buy Rite proposal didn’t put me off, and the job was easy as long as Lester didn’t burn down the joint. On the other hand, the thought of working with Opal and him for forever needed…digesting. I could get cancer. I could end up wearing polyester outfits.

  Standing, I said, “I’ll get back to you in a day or two,” and left his office.

  As I passed Opal’s desk, I found her peering over her glasses’ rim, studying me in an almost menacing way.

  “So...” she said, “Lester talked to you about the position.”

  Obviously, nothing escaped Opal’s supersonic hearing. “He did.”

  “I told him you weren’t ready.”

  Not surprising. “Oh?”

  “Taking it?”

  “I said him I wanted a few days to think about it.”

  “Humpf. It’s a good job, and a girl like you should be considering all options,” she said not too kindly. “Nice men come into the office, and maybe you could meet one of them. It’s been known to happen.”

  Opal’s turn of the phrase a girl like me sounded derogatory. So far, the only man I’d met was the UPS guy and—I’d checked—he was married.

  ****

  Another day done and another dollar pocketed. My Jeep hummed along the road to my refuge from the insane world: Home Sweet Home.

  When the signal turned red, I stopped. At the same light, a police car drew even with my auto on the passenger side. I glanced over the way folks do while waiting for the light to change. Catching my fleeting look, the policeman smiled. As he held the steering wheel with his right hand, he fashioned his fingers in an up wave.

  A nice cop. Relief surged through my limbs, relaxing my bunched shoulders. Thank goodness, he didn’t appear interested in giving me another ticket considering my parts hadn’t been replaced because the insurance check had yet to appear. We, meaning all citizens, should make every effort to be nice to the boys in blue.

  Smiling, I made an up-wave back.

  Astonishingly, the policeman pointed behind him.

  Weird. I glanced over my shoulder, wondering what he’d pointed to, but I didn’t see anything. Could he be—No, what a wildly stupid thought. But I couldn’t shake it. Could he be hitting on me?

  I continued to smile, the light changed, and I drove on, careful not to exceed the speed limit in case he trailed me.

  As I made my way merrily down the road, singing along with rock tunes from the seventies and eighties, I pulled my vehicle to a stop at the next red light. Fed up with the endless waiting, I looked around, only to find another police car next to mine.

  The policeman driving made a finger-up gesture while his partner saluted from the passenger side. They pointed over their shoulders.

  What the hell? Looking in my rear view mirror, I couldn’t see anything. My body twisted and turned as I tried to determine what they were indicating and I hadn’t seen. Nothing was noticeable, and no emergency vehicles were in sight.

  Maybe they were being sociable.

  Once again, I returned the smile, the light went green, and the cop
s drove off. Still feeling confused, I hit the accelerator with caution, and the Jeep proceeded through the intersection.

  At the next light, and for the third time, another policeman gave me a finger-up wave. I wondered in exasperation if a cop tradition existed I didn’t know about.

  After I waved for a fourth time, I gripped the steering wheel tighter when the friendly policeman pointed over his shoulder. “This is outrageous!” I mumbled to no one in particular. My head crooked to the rear with a small hope I’d discover something, but I didn’t see anything. “Why are these policemen waving and pointing?”

  Are policemen stalkers? The idea sounded far-fetched, but in this day and age, who was to know? Or perhaps somebody had attached an unknown tracking device to my car which flashed Follow Me.

  I sat at the light and reviewed the events with deeper thought. With my right hand, I did a cops waved. With my left, I waved back. Right—cops pointed to something unidentifiable behind me. Left—baffled.

  Then truly, Bing! I flinched, grasping a gigantic, light-bulb revelation, probably the biggest, most enormous eye-opener of my entire lifetime. My hands slapped my cheeks, mimicking the “Home Alone” kid screaming. Actually, I wanted to scream.

  They knew. The policemen knew about A. Wellborn and the citation. They knew about my bumper and taillights. And to make things worse, they recognized I knew they knew. I stole another glance only to find this guy rocking with laughter.

  All the cops in Sommerville knew about my car and the stolen parts. And the only way they could have known was when A. Wellborn—I whacked the steering wheel—had told these guys about my taillight and bumper mishap. Whack! Whack! Undoubtedly, he’d shared my problems in the locker room.

  Could I be any more embarrassed?

  Thank God, the light changed. I stomped the gas, racing for home with an eye open for the police who seemed to materialize out of thin air.

  While I pondered the fun-waving, but not-so-funny predicament, I felt my embarrassment evolve into hysterical rage. When faced with my hysterical rage, A. Wellborn should be really, really scared, maybe even terrified. Verbally armed and certainly dangerous described me best.

  After I threw open the apartment door, I stalked through the living area to the kitchen. I flung my canvas handbag, and the bamboo handles clattered on the counter. I stared at First Fish who floated in lazy circles around his bowl.

  I wanted to kill—No, too easy.

  Maim—No, I’d carry a huge guilty burden. And how would my mother explain to his mother what I had done?

  I’d-I’d—I’d figure out something.

  Jenny popped out of her bedroom to investigate. “What’s up, sweetie?”

  She laughed and laughed after I’d told her the sordid details. She laughed so hard she clutched her ribs and doubled over. I expected more sympathy. I lived to be funny for my roommate, friends, and now, I could add cops.

  “Should I make another A. Wellborn poster?” She grabbed a box of cheese crackers and tracked a hasty retreat to her room.

  “Hey, no fair,” I protested. Cheese crackers and milk made an excellent dinner. “I want some.”

  I turned my attention back to First Fish who fluttered to the bottom of his bowl at my touch. Why is this stuff happening to me?

  Lately, nothing seemed to be working easy. Certainly, not the life I’d planned. Not the car. Not the job. Not the romance department. I did all the right things like my parents had advised me and look what came my way—a big, fat nothing. Nothing—except a stupid job at a stupid company.

  Stupid.

  “I am a good girl,” I muttered. I contemplated overdosing on peanut M&Ms, desperately needing the restorative and curative powers they contained. Funsister Maggie had quoted a recent study which said chocolate stockpiled antioxidants. Good, because I needed preventative saving.

  The doorbell rang, cutting short my pity party. I stalked to the door, accompanied by my friends of frustration and irritation. Ignoring my self-defense training by not checking thru the square door viewer, I flung the door wide and found A. Wellborn and another unsolicited visit.

  Did I look surprised? Hell yes. In all probability, the police fraternity informed him they’d seen me, and I seemed a little out-of-sorts.

  “What. Do. You. Want?” My hostile stance blocked the open doorway. I knew I didn’t sound very nice, but then, I didn’t feel very nice. Mom wouldn’t be pleased with the yelling, trotting out a variation on her “Nice Girls Don’t” little talk.

  “Not the normal kind of greeting.” A. Wellborn removed his sunglasses. “From the tone of your voice, I’m guessing you’re a little…upset.”

  “‘A little upset?’ Yeah, you could say that. A little upset doesn’t begin to explain how embarrassed and humiliated I feel right now, thanks to you.”

  His hands opened to show everything. “What did I do now? Why would you be embarrassed? Is this because I didn’t call before coming over?”

  I craned my neck forward and gave him the evil eye. “Aren’t you funny? As if you don’t know.”

  After thinking about this for a sec, he shook his head with a negative. “I haven’t a clue.”

  “Don’t mess with me; you know.”

  “Nope.” He sighed. “For the first time in my life, I’m clueless.”

  “I’ll give you a hint. Cops.”

  His right eyebrow lifted in question, and once again, his head shook.

  I thought I’d given him a good clue, but obviously not. So I reached into my bag of tricks and found another. I demonstrated the finger-up wave. “Several cops in police cars pulling up next to me at red lights gave me a friendly gesture.”

  “Not the finger?”

  A. Wellborn really should work on his wit when dealing with irrational women. His dismal example of cop humor left me feeling unamused.

  “Maybe they’re friends of yours?”

  His finger rubbed across the dent above his chin. “Maybe. I think I need another hint.”

  “They all pointed behind me.”

  “Pointed behind you?” He paused over this nugget for a moment. His finger did a back and forth wiper thing in my direction. “Uh oh, now things are making sense. You were driving around, and some of the guys saw your SUV with its missing bumper and taillights.”

  Quite agitated, I tapped my foot while I observed him using his unbelievable deduction skills. No doubt his little brain cells had worked overtime on this one. No wonder he’d made detective. No wonder he’d been promoted so quickly. “You think?”

  “You’ve been a very busy boy.” I launched into the promised hysterical rage. “You haven’t been talking. You’ve been gossiping. Thought girls were the only ones who, for lack of a better word, gossiped. I wasn’t aware cops talked about that kind of stuff. I thought men’s locker room discussion centered on who, what, when, where, and how satisfying.

  “Is your life so boring you have to chat about my problems with your band of brothers in blue? I’ve never been so humiliated in my whole life. Four times today, different cops pulled up next to me, waved, and pointed to the back of my car. I wondered what the hell they were doing. I was afraid they would throw me in the slammer. But duh...”

  At this point, I jiggled my arms up and down like a marionette, dancing a lame imitation of ho-ho-ho, look how stupid Allan Wellborn’s friend is. “Silly little ol’ me couldn’t figure this one out.

  “I looked like an idiot.” I fisted hands on my hips. “Then after they drove off laughing, I finally had a Thomas Edison moment. Their good buddy Allan Wellborn told them what had happened to my car and the stupid citation you wrote me.”

  “Look.” I lowered my voice to a he-man’s depth. “There’s the girl Wellborn ticketed. How stupid can anyone be not to notice missing car parts?” I stabbed my finger on his chest. “They were laughing hysterically at me and my poor car. Did you think I needed an extra kick in the butt? Did you think I needed to be shamed by every policeman in town?”

  He j
ust stared.

  He was probably glad I ran out of breath. In exasperation, I threw my hands in the air. “What?”

  Instead, to my amazement, A. Wellborn slid a hand over his mouth to stifle his amusement.

  Apparently, no sympathy would come from him, and obviously, my hysterical rage had little effect.

  Sobering somewhat, he shifted his feet a bit, then crooked his head to his right and choked back another laugh. “Sorry, Hattie. I didn’t mean for you to be embarrassed. I was thoughtless and tactless. You’re a little shy, and I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m really, truly sorry.”

  “Yeah, right. Nice try.” An edge of sarcasm edged my words. I continued to remain planted in the apartment doorway, arms crossed. Tap, tap went my toes.

  He stood on my apartment threshold grinning.

  Nice. Polite. His being sensitive wasn’t easy to extract much hysterical rage on. No wonder Mom thought him perfect. I didn’t quite know how to feel or what to do; so I continued to stand in the doorway, my gaze focused on the ground while I pulled my act together.

  “Hattie, I’m sorry.”

  “If that is all,” I emerged from my black hole and said in my best prim and proper voice, “I’m going to overdose on my favorite chocolate right now. They’re full of...” I searched the porch ceiling for the right word, “antioxidants.” Distressed with my lack of cognitive thoughts, I added, “And peanuts.”

  “My sister eats lots of chocolate, especially when it’s...”

  Now, this intrigued me, mainly because his sister was my best friend, and I knew every freakin’ thing about her. “Go on. Finish. When?”

  Putting his hands in his pant’s front pockets, A. Wellborn rocked back on his heels and his eyes rolled heavenward.

  Apparently, he needed God’s help.

  “When?” I asked pointedly again. “Girls bond through chocolate and chocolate stories.” This was a tried-and-true fact.