by Vicki Batman
Opal nodded. “When do you think you could make it in on Saturday?”
I referred to my trusty phone calendar. “Ten-ish.”
She made a notation on her day-by-day calendar on the computer.
“I might as well tell you my latest news.” I noted the what now question in her eyes. “I have to go back to court next week. I’m expecting a call from the clerk.”
She flung her pen on her desk where it rolled around a bit before resting against her keyboard. “Hattie, this is outrageous. How much longer is this going to continue? If you had paid the ticket, you wouldn’t have to ask for time off. It’s inconvenient.”
Right. Like I did this to personally hassle you. My fists went squarely to my hips. “You don’t have to yell, Opal. I feel bad. I have a higher working standard than what you’re thinking. I told you I don’t have $190.00 to throw around, and hopefully, the judge will reduce the fine, or even better, I’d have no fine to pay. I didn’t know I would have to go back and forth, back and forth to the courthouse. Who knew Detective Wellborn wouldn’t show?”
A nosy gal expression crossed her face. “You sound as if you know the detective.”
“Yeah, well, kinda, sorta,” I said. “His sister’s my best friend, and our mothers are long-time friends; so you could say we grew up together. I hadn’t seen him in nearly four-plus years. After Detective Wellborn pulled me over and gave me the citation, we became reacquainted, and now, we’re seeing each other—a little.” Possibly, I divulged too much personal information.
Slowly, she shifted back in her desk chair, drilling a hard look on my face. making me uncomfortable. “Let me get this straight: You’re dating the policeman who wrote you a citation?”
Opal had a way of making me uncomfortable. “Kinda. Maybe. Sorta.”
“This sounds highly irregular.”
“He is.” Everything about A. Wellborn seemed highly irregular. Agreeing with her on something…anything sounded funny.
“Is this who you have a date with on Saturday?”
Could be, if he’d listened to his voice mail and called me, I would. “Yes...”
“Is this the same policeman you said could help us with the thefts?”
“Yes...”
“Hattie, your problem is getting in the way of our completing our work.”
Another tirade. I set my hands on the edge of her desk and leaned in. “Look. I said I would finish on Saturday. I will. Take it or leave it.”
“It’ll have to do.”
“I don’t see what your problem is.” Perhaps, I’d spoken a tad mean. I regrouped and in a lower register, said, “Next week, I’ll tell Judge Miller if this merry-go-round continues, I’m not accommodating my supervisor. Is that good enough for you?”
“Fine. I’ll go to Lester’s office and secure a key.” Once again, all five feet of Opal’s blubber swished-swished to Lester’s office, oozing her protest.
Usually, one of them arrived at work ahead of me; so I didn’t need a key. I didn’t know if June had had one. My finger stroked up the bridge of my nose. When I cleaned her desk, I didn’t recall finding anything in her belongings. Perhaps, someone had picked it up, or it was lying around somewhere on a key ring, lost.
On occasion, Lester traveled to present claims adjustment proposals to prospective clients. When he did go, Opal stood at hand with her key. I assumed being a temp didn’t entitle me to one. Not as if I would poke through their desks. I wasn’t rude. If Mom had discovered I’d snooped, she would have been outraged, imparting the Three R’s lecture—Respect, Respect, Respect.
Craning my neck, I watched my co-workers confer through the sidelight window next to Lester’s door. I quit blatantly staring when Opal exited and swished- swished back. She passed me the key. “I’ll see you on Monday?”
“Sure.”
Her hand touched my sleeve. “Hattie, if you don’t mind my asking, how long do you plan on temping with us? Did you decide to take the job?”
I had considered the work-slash-searching for work quandary regularly and understood her predicament. The truth was I didn’t feel overjoyed working at B.R.A. and would rather be somewhere else. But the almighty paycheck called.
“I’ll stick with Buy Rite until I’m more comfortable with my cash flow. If you feel it necessary to fill the position permanently, fine by me. My friend will place me elsewhere. I know you have to pay her weekly.”
“That’s right, we do pay her a little something, but so far, it isn’t a problem. We’re very”—Opal searched the ceiling for the right word—“pleased with your performance. Consider the job yours for now.”
“Thanks. I’ll see you Monday.” Un-be-lieve-able. Turning away, my jaw slacked in shock. Opal had bestowed an off-handed compliment about my work at Buy Rite! I removed my handbag from my desk drawer and then walked to the office door, closing it behind me. What’s up with her?
****
I woke early Saturday and took a short run. Once, I’d had a gym membership where I danced aerobics and ran on the treadmill. By canceling my membership, much-needed cash had been saved. I didn’t consider myself a big runner, but I tried every now and again to counteract my chocolate consumption. I could tear through a pounder bag of chocolate-covered peanut candy bits like the Tasmanian Devil. My shoulders were burdened with guilt.
For now, foot action seemed to be the only athletic action coming my way. I dressed in baggy black shorts and a white v-neck athletic shirt, a pair of white socks, and running shoes. After a few warming stretches, consisting of lifting my knees like a drum major and side bends, I headed out. Tunes blasted through the headphones stuck in my ear.
The morning air felt refreshingly cool, the sky looked clean and clear, and combined with no traffic, I faced ideal running conditions. Avoiding the potholes and uneven sidewalk, I found my way to the neighborhood park with a quarter mile track around the perimeter.
I admired people whose running style mimicked graceful gazelles. But no matter how hard I tried, I didn’t excel at running. I started with the idea of hoping to surpass a mile, reaching a little farther and farther each day. I tried everything, even Maggie’s suggestion of interspersing the run with a walk.
My thoughts diverted to A. Wellborn and why I hadn’t heard from him regarding tonight’s date. Maybe he was playing games with me—the rat. Maybe he was working on his big case—double rat. Maybe he thought I wasn’t worth it. The idea sounded depressing. My head bobbed from side-to-side and my limbs wiggled in a jiggly dance as I shed the gloomies. Whether or not he showed tonight, I would go with the flow.
Afterward the run, I took a restorative shower, rubbing a towel through my hair. Slipping on my robe, I opened my closet’s louvered doors. While scrutinizing my wardrobe for little black dress options, shoes, and the perfect accessories, I considered, which one, which one, all the while praying for divine intervention.
Rules existed for selecting the right little black dress. I didn’t invent them; they were understood by all women.
1. The right little black dress caused jaws to drop, making a show-stopping entrance.
2. The right little black dress caused scandalous talk and hopeful passes.
3. The right little black dress was debated for weeks by envious women. And horny men.
While detangling my hair, I reviewed my choices. Balancing the hanger of the tailored-to-fit, black linen sheath high on a finger, I flipped the dress from front to back.
Nice. This dress fitted my curves and the knee-high slit enhanced my lengthy legs. The black heels with little black bows across the toes completed the desired look.
I pulled out a new purchase, a short dress with no sleeves in black silk, I’d found on sale in the couture department at Tuckers. The square neckline, cut low, revealed a bit of bosom. The back tapered to a V where a small bow nestled at the waistline. This dress sexily beckoned follow me. Even I let rip a wicked grin. This, indeed, might be The One.
The small, teensy weensy problem: I h
ad to be my skinniest to wear it. Rotating the hanger to view the back, I toyed with the idea of starving myself the rest of the day in hopes for the ideal fit. But one day of starvation didn’t really work. I decided the bow shoes looked perfect, too.
Since no girl should limit herself to only a few options, I went back to the closet and found a couple of combinations which I laid on the bed as emergency backups.
I consulted with Ms. Know-It-All for her opinion. Jenny selected the number two dress, agreeing with me the follow me thought was the possible mantrap I most desired. She also agreed I had to be skinny to pull it off, suggesting the newfangled foundation garment which squished one’s lumps and bumps into place.
Pushing aside my shoes, she sat on my bed and watched while I organized. “Have you heard from Allan yet?” she asked with tender concern as she smoothed away the nonexistent wrinkles with her hand.
I sensed a flush creep up my face at the mere mention of his name. “No.”
“If you’re concerned about going solo, you can always go with me.”
And her date? No way. Three is a crowd. I waved one hand. “It isn’t as if I’ve never gone anywhere by myself before. If he comes, I’ll go with him; otherwise, I’ll go alone. I’m a big girl and can handle it.” My voice sounded full of confidence as I patted my selection. All was arranged.
Jenny pushed off the bed. “I just thought I’d ask.”
“Really, I’ll be okay. Thanks for caring.”
At the bedroom door, she turned and blew me a kiss. “Don’t chicken out. Go with that little black dress.” She pointed to the short, silky selection.
I nodded.
“You’ll blow his socks off.”
Maybe I’d rather blow his boxers off?
****
The key Opal lent me unlocked the office door without difficulty. After turning the knob, I peeked around the door’s edge and, when finding no boogey bears, exhaled a huge sigh of relief. This was my first time at the office all by myself on a weekend, and it seemed spooky, probably because of the lack of light. I dashed to the main switches and flipped on the overheads, illuminating the entire area. I skimmed my way to my work station and turned on my desk lamp. Shaking off my scary thoughts, I settled at my problem computer.
Recalling my frustration from yesterday, I said to my monitor, “You had better work.” I pushed the desk top’s main button. The appropriate lights pulsed in the right places and at the right times. Surprised, I keyed my name and password in the login boxes. The screen went through its warm up stuff, and the different programs’ operational icons blinked.
“So far, so good.” I rubbed my hands in anticipation. I selected the shortcut housed on the favorites bar for the claims data program. With a click, it opened easily. I picked up a claim from the top of the pile and began to enter the necessary information.
#500125: Ted Norris, address, date, etc. Red 2001 Jeep Cherokee missing mirrors.
#500126: Debbie Harms, address, date, etc. 2003 black Wrangler, missing front left fender.
#500127: Cliff Turner, date, address, etc. 2000 black Isuzu, in a wreck at the intersection of South and Pearl Streets.
I reflected on the completed entries for a moment. A funny feeling hit my gut. Like I’d told Lester and Opal, a lot of Jeep claims had been processed. What if…
My fingers scrambled over the keyboard as I ran the program to search by car manufacturer. Approximately fifty cars with missing parts or stolen vehicles—a lot in a few weeks time—were listed. I scrolled my finger over the screen as I read through the itemized list.
After examining all the claims entered over the past three months, I found other SUV claims. But on the whole, most of them were confined to different Jeep models. This seemed extraordinarily interesting.
I entered a print job to create a hard copy. As I stuffed paper in the printer, I wondered if I should ask Lester about this list on Monday. Of course, Opal would say, “Oh, Hattie...blah-blah bluh-bluh blah.” She had an answer for everything.
As I waited for the print job to finish, I wandered over to my co-worker’s desk. A stack of mail in her inbox caught my eye. After picking up the envelopes, I flipped them round, rationalizing what could it hurt? The mail needed to be opened, and I could get a jumpstart on Monday.
I rifled through the letters, locating the envelopes already printed with our address. I sat in Opal’s chair and extracted her prized letter opener from the pencil jar. It sliced through the envelopes with such ease, I nicked my finger accidentally.
“Ow!” I dropped the instrument of torture to the floor while blood flooded the cut. I reached behind me for a tissue and dabbed at my finger. I tucked another in a makeshift bandage around it until I could get a strip from the first aid kit. Once done, I finished my examination of the envelopes’ contents and identified about fifteen additional claims for data entry.
Taking my stack, I returned to my desk. I typed in the required information for the new claims. I decided to reprint my list to include them. Afterwards, I scanned my report, feeling pleased with my resourcefulness which called to my mind Buy Rite Guideline number 3: Show initiative. I placed the report in a file folder. I would be fully informed, report in hand, ready for a conversation with Lester on Monday.
I clicked the mouse to shut down the computer, switched my desk light off. Turning ever-so-casually to survey the room one last time, I found nothing. No boogey man. No ghosts. No body parts. No one. With that thought, I speedily locked the door and ran to the elevator. I had a date—okay, a possible one—and just in case, didn’t want to be late.
****
In the parking lot, I found a not-so great story—a flat tire. Unaware, I’d climbed in the car and had driven a few feet, sensing the car pull to one side with a whumpa-whumpa sound. Upon inspection, I discovered the tire lay flatter than a pancake, and no way could the car limp to a gas station for repair. A half-inch wide puncture was in the sidewall, not a nail or screw in the tread. So much for not being late.
I didn’t have one of those flat fix-it cans, and I had doubts as to whether it would work in this circumstance anyway. With hands pressed against the fender, I considered my dilemma. I had no time to spare. In the past, when the rare car problems had required mechanical aid beyond my skill set, I’d called my dad who could fix everything.
Dad never admitted, but he loved to drop what he was doing and rescue his daughters. Daughter Rescuing was his last link to his off-spring for coping with the age-old problem of them as grownups. Knowing the lug nuts would be factory standard tight, and since I needed a change expediently, I sighed, pulled out my cell phone, and hit speed dial 3.
“Hi, Hattie,” he said. “What’s new?”
“I need a daughter rescue.”
“Oh?”
“Seems I have a flat tire and can’t undo the nuts.” I heard Dad grumble, which was all show.
“I’m on my way.”
Disconnecting, I searched the parking lot for a place to park my carcass while waiting. The lone oak shading my carbaby looked best. I sat on the curbing to pass the time. I fished around in my handbag and took out my latest read, a hysterical romance about a hysterical shopaholic. I didn’t have enough cash for the shopaholic category, but the obstacle didn’t deter this heroine. On occasion, I did fit the hysterical characteristic.
Searching for something to snack on, I found a box of breath mints. As I popped a few, I thought at three calories each, I’d have to consume six boxes to feel full. Then, I’d get gas.
Dad’s large SUV turned into the lot. He’d broken land speed records for my rescue. After pressing a quick kiss to my cheek, he gathered his tools and squatted by the wheel. He fingered the slit. “Could be some kind of knife cut. Wonder what did that? Give me your keys.”
I handed them over. “Probably some prankster.”
“I don’t find this funny.”
“Me, neither. More like expensive.” We loosened the lug nuts, making an uh over the tight ones. Once d
one, we jacked up my baby. The damaged tire was lifted off and set to one side.
When we daughters had first learned to drive, Mom had insisted we assist Dad with car maintenance to become familiar with what was required. While hanging over the fender, we were taught how to change the oil, which we never had to do with him around. Check the brake fluid, radiator level, and whatever else he wanted to tinker on. Pride filled our scrawny chests as we held his sacred tools like the adjustable wrench. And when he asked for a screwdriver, we knew which one to hand him, Phillips or flathead.
On Saturdays, we’d washed the cars with a soapy sponge and scrubbed the tires with a stiff brush. We were intrigued by the lambskin chamois used for drying. Dad would wipe away the water, and after a while, he would wring it out. To a kid, the material seemed like...magic.
I believe Dad had enjoyed these exchanges. We talked about all kinds of stuff, me asking questions about why “this” was “that” way. He’d asked about school, friends.
We shifted the spare into place, me handscrewing the nuts on as far as I could. He used his adjustable wrench to secure them firmly into place. He cleared his throat before softly asking, “You want me to pick up a new tire this week?”
I smiled at his offer. He’s so sweet. “No, thanks, I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you.” Looking down his nose, Dad’s expression read this sort of inconvenience would never be an inconvenience causing funny, odd feelings to consume my insides. To pacify him, I said, “I can get one at the discount tire place.”
“You need some cash?” he asked in a casual tone. “I know you’re still job searching—”
“No, Dad, I can put the new ones on my credit card. Quit worrying. The card has nothing on it—I know, I know, a miracle.”
Dad and I shifted the damaged tire to the front seat to rest on an old towel.
I gave him a peck on the cheek while cleaning my hands on the wet wipe he’d handed me. “How about I pay you in chocolate chip cookies?”