Kingdom of Heaven

I am old. Although, I must admit it was not until recently that I felt age move in and unpack its bags. Celia stays with me all day and I never want for nothing, except for maybe a little fire under her backside. She gets here every morning at six thirty on the dot but ain’t no good for nobody until about eight or nine. I always know when she arrives because of all the racket. Sometimes I think she does it on purpose just to wake me. I am already up of course, so it doesn’t really matter. My bladder has me going up and down like a carousel pony most of the night and that is just fine with me. All of my dreams are bad anyway.

The palsy makes my hand shake and I am always burning my fingers with the tea. I never yell because I don’t want Celia to know I burned myself again but my flooded saucer always gives me away. Most days I sit out in a little sun room with glass doors. There is a small black and white TV that I keep on just to have some noise. I have my chair positioned so I can see anybody that walks by but they cannot see me. Sometimes I sic my little Yorkshire terrier Dooley on the man that cleans my lily pond or the electrician or the painters. Dooley is such a funny little thing; he is about the only thing that makes me laugh these days.

My son Harlan stops by on Tuesday after the weekly board meeting to check on me and distract Celia. He runs my husbands company now and thinks he is a big shot. Every Easter he has his secretary send me some white lilies and little marshmallow chickens. Once I fumbled and dumped the whole box of chickens on the linoleum and Dooley ate six of them before you could say Jack Robinson. It upset Dooley’s stomach something awful. I told Celia that it was not Dooley’s fault, that he had a sweet tooth and not to be mean to him. Can you believe that Celia had the nerve to suggest that we rub his face in the mess? Like I could ever do something like that to such a sweet boy. I don’t even think that I could do it to Harlan.

There are always a lot of people coming and going at my house. My daughter Lula lives next door and likes to throw tea parties for her book club ladies in my parlor. Catering trucks full of petite fours and divinity back up to my front door every third Thursday of the month. Once Lula threw a cocktail party that I was not invited to and some lady with the last name of Pettigrew vomited in my geraniums. I never could get anything to grow in that container again except wild onions and chewing gum.

Audrey use to stop by and see me but she is in a home now and can’t get out of bed. Harlan once took me there to visit her but I got halfway down the hall and turned back. My son got irritated with me and told me to be strong. I told him to shut his god damn mouth and go get the car. What in the world would he know about being strong? That was my best friend in that horrible place. Since then, I have tried to call her but the nurse always picks up the line and tells me that Audrey is asleep. God knows what kind of dreams that she must be having in that place.

As long as I have Celia I guess that I will be alright. She knows how to fix good pimento cheese sandwiches and sometimes picks up a chili dog for me at the Varsity. Celia has been with me for forty-two years and her husband Tyrell has been with me for forty-five. Tyrell keeps my boxwoods in check and makes sure there is not a blown out light bulb in the house. He is getting to old to do much of anything anymore, so I just let him boss around whoever might be working at the house that day. Once he backed Harlan’s Cadillac into a lawn care van and swore up and down it was the other way around. The whole incident was actually video taped by our security system but I acted like I believed him anyway and now we have another lawn service.

Today I am waiting on the UPS man. I haven’t decided if I am going to sic Dooley on him or not. Dooley hopes that I do. I can hear Celia running the vacuum upstairs even though we just had the carpets cleaned. I almost tell her to turn off that noisy monster and split a hamburger with me but of course I stop short of it. Forty-two years and Celia and I still play the parts that God assigned us. It is hard to be sad about something that has always been the same way.

Usually Dooley has himself a barking fit whenever the door bell rings but today he does not stir from whatever dogs dream. I holler up to Celia to answer the door but the vacuum drowns me out like the big delivery trucks running up and down Peachtree Street. It was the UPS man. Harlan ordered me some antique glassware all the way from Edinburgh and now it was here. I grabbed my walker and depressed the accelerator. The doorbell rang again. “Ok, I am coming. Hold your horses.” By the time I get to the door, my arms are shaky and I barely have enough strength to open it.
“Hello ma’am and good day to you. We are with the Buckhead chapter of the Kingdom of Heaven and would like to speak with you for a moment about the nearing rapture and how Jesus Christ can guarantee you a spot in heaven.” I feel certain that my mind has gone round the bend. It is a hundred degrees outside and a small group of uncomfortably dressed men and women have chosen today to worry about my soul. I turn my head towards the direction of the sun room and yell “Dooley! There are some people at the front door to see you.”

Beginnings

Day One:

I played with my daughter, she built a fort and my job was to peek in a surprise her.

I slept.

I surfed the web.

I had a beer or two.

Being unemployed was something for bums, vagrants, not for me. After fifteen years at the same company, it feels weird.

I was going nowhere, the company is dying, in fact I don't even need or want to think about it. What I think about is....I'm free. I can do things. Anything.

Today I walked into the garage and thought "I need to clean this place up." And I can. I have time. I came across a couple of unfinished projects. Unfinished...not for long.

Before I started this career, I was always thin. I put on weight my first hour on the job and struggled with it for fifteen years. Who knows....now I feel thinner, stronger. And after turning forty just five days ago....younger.

Beginnings? No doubt.

Ginnie

We arrived at the camp and immediately got our dive gear together. Ginnie Springs was famous for its caverns and crystal clear water. There's something about the afternoon sun of summertime on a Saturday in June when you're 25 that makes the whole world seem fun, relaxing, and extremely carefree...especially if there's water and bikinis nearby. And there was some very nice ones there, sunning themselves on a towel. The curves were too perfect to be anything except too young....probably less than 20.

The water was unbelievable. Such amazing visibility I've never seen before, better even than the Caribbean. I followed a shaft at the bottom of the springs which lead to an opening. Through this opening I went and was in an enormous cavern, probably 100 feet wide and 30 or 40 feet high. Towards the back of it was another opening with bars across it and a padlock, this lead to the famous caves of underwater Florida, miles and miles long, only for experienced cave divers. You hold on to the bars and the force of the water being expelled from the cave pushes you straight back. You let go and feel yourself propelled through the water towards the center of the cavern.

After emerging and drying off, I notice one of my two buddies is chatting up the bikinis, and they certainly are lookers, both blonde, of course, but definitely young.

That night, just at dark, we are once again in our dive gear, holding lights this time, and some glowsticks. Now we have a fun plan, though. Once we're all assembled in the cavern, we all dowse our lights. Utter blackness reigns, and I feel myself floating in space, the only sound is my breathing through the regulator. My buddy, although I can't see him, is taking his knife out and cutting through some glow sticks. As the flourescent liquid comes pouring out he holds it to the cave opening in the back and tiny globules of light are sent to the far corners of the giant cavern.

I hold my breath. The sight is stunning. I'm floating through a galaxy of stars, flying, almost dizzy. I'm surrounded by little flashes of light, some going past me, others hovering nearby, nothing else is visible. I realize I can't even see my bubbles and have no idea which way is up. Panic almost sets in...almost...but the feeling of being so close to panic is a rush in itself.

I float for an immeasurable amount of time, winging through stars and planets, with an almost drunken feeling. I never touch bottom or top or another diver. I am completely alone in a universe of comets, stars, planets, moons, and hovering dieties.

It all ends abrubtly as another group of night-cavern divers enters our domain, spilling light everywhere. Then I see the cavern again, the top, the bottom, the other divers...I return from my jaunt through the Milky Way, and we exit.

Back at camp, we throw open the cooler and start downing beers as a roaring fire is prepared. The beers feel good, both relaxing and stimulating. Now and then I stumble into the darkness, grab a huge armload of pine needles from the ground, and drop them on the fire. For a moment the flames are gone, then a sizzle is heard, and then with a rush of heat they head skyward and the fire rises higher than ever as the needles are consumed.

It's about this time that the bikinis show up, this time wearing jeans. "Hot damn" I think, "These girls are looking for a good time!" Then I begin to wonder who they're here with and where those people are? But no matter, we sit and talk and laugh the night away.

I notice they never take an offered beer, and so I start hinting.

"So what do you two do?" I prodded.

"We don't work...yet," the tall one responds.

"Are you still in school," I asked, imagining which colleges might be nearby, FSU coming to mind.

"Yes," tall blonde replies. This seems odd, they didn't offer anything more.

"So you a Seminole or a Gator?" My friend asked innocently.

"High school...."

All was silent. I sipped my beer and stared into the fire, my friends probably doing the same thing. No one replies for what seems like ages as the realization of our folly sets in. But then one of my buddies makes some joke and the ice is cracked again. We talk at length about nothing in particular, all the while the three of us wishing these stunning girls were old enough to..well..you know.

Eventually it comes out that they're here with a group of people who are renting a cabin. My friend, sometimes a little too outgoing and always looking for a party, suggests we all go and party with them...after all, they must be party people...surely.

Against our better nature, we grab the cooler of beer and follow them to the cabin. The five of us enter rather loudly and in our best party mood and then stop. There, sitting in a circle, praying I think, was the group with which they had come. A Church group. And here we were, three young drunk dudes barging in with a cooler of beer. The girls had scurried off to a back room, apparently realizing too late how foolish the whole idea was. Our embarrassment is unbelievable, nothing else can compare. We made a hasty retreat. My friend tried to explain things and apologized. Then we all went back to our tents, crawled in, and slept the whole thing off.

Saving Ben

This was the second time that I had done it. The arm came off in my hand and Ben fell to the floor. I had to get it sewed back on before he died. The last time I did it my grandmother was able to reattach it while I paced in the living room nervous and unable to look. Now I needed her services again but she was not answering her phone. I grabbed Ben and ran upstairs to her apartment. I swung open the door without knocking and pleaded loudly for her presence. The room did not answer. I pulled Ben close to me to comfort him. “Don’t worry Ben; Nanny knows how to fix everything.” “She won’t let you die.”

I sat down in Nanny’s red easy chair and rocked Ben back and forth like a baby. “Shhh Ben, don’t cry…I am sorry.” Surely she would be home in a few minutes. I went to the kitchen and grabbed a big sugar cookie and fed some to Ben. The crumbs stuck in his mouth and a chunk of cookie fell on the linoleum. “I know, let’s see if Nanny’s car is here.” I climbed on top of an old cabinet stereo and looked out the window onto Rumson Street. The old baby blue Ford was not there. “Maybe she went to play Bingo with Aunt Becky or get some bread from Food Giant.” “She’ll be right back Ben, don’t worry.” I pulled a doily from beneath a jar of dusty ribbon candy and wrapped Ben’s severed arm in it.

I sat back down in her chair and turned the radio to WSB. I was hoping that I might catch them playing Buck Owens’s “A Monsters Holiday” but all I got was a Braves game. “Here come the pitch…the swing…STEEEERIIIIKE…this has not been a good year for Dale Murphy.” I looked at the clock and willed it to move faster. The minute hand was moving so slow that it seemed to be going backwards every other minute. “We can’t wait for Nanny anymore Ben.” “Looks like I am going to have to fix you up myself.” I cradled Ben like a baby and set out to find my grandmothers sewing kit. I looked in the living room in an old Easter basket but only found yarn balls and dusty magazines with pictures of ladies with big hats. I opened the drawers of the little table she kept her snuff can on and rifled through recipes clipped from newspapers and old dusty letters but I could not find a needle or thread. Ben and I went to every room, crawled into every cabinet and stood on our tippy-toes to see what was on the tops of high furniture. “Stop crying Ben… it is around here somewhere.” I stood in the exact center of the apartment and turned around slowly like the minute hand I had been watching. I was looking for a secret.
There was one room at the end of the hall that Ben and I had missed. It was Nanny’s ironing room. “Come on Ben, I bet it is in there.” The door was swollen and it stuck a little when I pushed on it. The room was cool and dry and sunlight streamed in from the windows from a happy day. A cedar chest brimmed full of homemade quilts and fancy dresses covered in clear plastic. An ironing board stood diagonal in the room with freshly pressed pants draping across it. An antique chest of drawers stood against one wall. There were black and white pictures of people that I did not know on top of it and a single spool of black thread. “I think we found it Ben.” I moved a pile of clothes in front of the dresser and used it as a ladder. I grabbed the spool of thread and rummaged through the drawers for a needle.

Halfway down the collection of drawers I found a photograph album hidden under an old candy box. It was made of black cardboard and covered with felt. There were words on the front written in a sweeping silver hand: “Memento Mori”. I pulled the book of pictures out and sat down on my ladder and started turning the pages. There were lots of pictures of people sleeping and babies in beds of flowers. I did not recognize anyone from this book until I got to the second to last page. There was a picture of Nanny all wrapped up in a white sheet and she was sleeping too. I turned the book to its last page and froze solid. It was a picture of my grandfather from his recent funeral. My dad had made me look into the casket and I had been having nightmares for a week. Pa was all dressed up in a black suit and wore an old fashioned white tie that looked like a scarf. I threw the book down, frightened to have touched such an ugly thing. Suddenly I came to a sickening realization…all of the people in that book were dead… including my grandmother. Clutching Ben I grabbed the door knob… but it was already turning from the other side. “What are you doing in my ironing room?” my grandmother said in a stern tone. I dropped Ben and ran screaming past her as she stood in the doorway.

“What on earth has gotten into that child” Ruby thought before settling her eyes on the photo album. She frowned and bent down to pick up the book and the teddy bear. She sighed sadly and opened the book to a place that she knew by heart. “Poor Emily” Her heart ached as she looked down on the image of her sleeping twin sister. “Got to put you somewhere else” Ruby said to the book. “Somewhere high and lonesome”

And I thought landscaping was bad

I get talked to like I am in idiot. Eight and one half years in the software business and I get no respect. When I started this profession, one only had to mention the letter C and allot of assumptions were made about you. The letter C commanded respect. The hiring manager knew that anyone surviving the learning curve of such an unfriendly language could easily pick up on anything else that they needed to know. Unfortunately this logical assumption is no longer made by the hiring party.

Recently I have found myself wandering the crowded streets of Job Search Alley. I actually technically still have not been released from my current employment but with each day I inch closer to the inevitable. In a pre-layoff panic I have begun my foray into the insecure twisted little world that is the Information Technology industry. I have submitted the obligatory lengthy online resumes with Monster.com and ComputerJobs.com and am dealing with the sporadic interest of various employment agencies. So far I have suffered through one in person interview and three phone screenings. I am actually waiting on my fourth phone interview as I write this rant.

I am beginning to get a feel for what kind of person the IT industry is hot for and it is not me. They are looking for the elusive, Hollywood stereotyped super-geek; someone that stays up all night setting up IP spoofing on his Linux box, laughs while he is reading technical papers, and lives for his 24/7 on call pager to go off. Here is a sampling of some of the questions I have been asked:

“Given (String a = b + (“car”);), what does the call stack look like ?”
The correct answer: Who gives a fuck?
“What is your favorite thing about the new Java 1.5?”
The correct answer: It makes me feel fresh.
“What should be added to the servlet spec?”
The correct answer: A little more rum and a lot less Coke.

The truth is that over the years I have learned that being a programmer is more about being able to find out how to do something, than how to remember to do something. As a matter of fact, many languages when coded in IDE’s (like WORD for programming languages), have a feature that not only reveals all the methods on an object but the parameters as well. In fact the power of modern programming languages is that you do not have to be computer science nerds to build powerful applications. Kernigan and Ritchie invented the C language because Assembly language was so verbose and syntactically complex that the programmer lost focus on the problem at hand and worried about memory locations. Stroustrup invented C++, to further the effort started in C and created objects to wrap functionality that was not important to the task at hand. These guys knew what being a programmer really meant. It meant being able to apply logic and the tools at hand to solve problems and anything outside of that was just proprietary syntax and methodology. Even software architects immersed in object oriented design and analysis base their objects on the logical organization of things. Languages, databases and other tools are required to build the car but those skills can be acquired or enhanced as needed. What is really important is that the programmer knows how to follow the plan to build the car. If a new wrench or screw driver is needed to assemble the carburetor, he either researches the tools or takes advice from a fellow mechanic. Anyone that says he knows how to use every tool in the tool box is either full of shit or trying to sell you something. There are several good programmers out there looking for jobs in an industry that does not have the sense to appreciate them. I had forgotten what a vicious insecure little world development can be and the skies appear to have darkened... and I thought landscaping was bad.

Pascagoula Shuffle Chapter #3

Kat rolled over one morning, propped herslf up on one elbow and said,"Hey I need to go home next week to see my grandma and pick up some stuff I left in storage..., ever
been to Pascagoula?...."Well..uh " I said , blinking in the morning light,"No.. not ever ,I mean I've been to Natchez and some other places". "We'll", she said getting up and walking away from the bed, her heart shaped ass stiring primal desires from my sleep numbed brain .Putting on her chinese gown she continued,"I've got to drop the 'Cuda 'off at the paint shop monday, let's take your convertible down to Pascagoula and see the sights".You might remember Kat had a 68' Barracuda that had been in primer for two years, she had scrapped together enough money to have it painted metallic lime green with a gold metalflake racing stripe running from the nose all the over the roof and down the decklid.Vintage sixties drag racer.
And yes she had already been up before me putting on her makeup and the bitter coffee she used to fuel herself.100 octane mixed with a dash of Nitro.
As I stumbled into the kitchen and sat in one of those vintage chromium breakfast chairs, she busied about making us toast and eggs.All the while reeling off a list of things we would do on once we got to Pascagoula."We'll stop and see granmma,then we can go by my mom's house and pickup my photo albums, I was so cute when I was a baby, you'll get a kick out of them"."And my uncle Danny has got a shrimp boat up the river, maybe he'll take us out to the shrimp'in, grounds ,ever been out on the gulf before?"
"Not on a shrimpboat", I said swallowing her strong coffee and trying to keep up with her shotgun monlogue.Looking up in the sudden quiet I saw her looking back at me smiling.."we're gonna have a great time, you know".....

Wally's Words of Wisdom

While watching a few minutes of Leave It to Beaver as I rocked the baby to sleep, catching up on some good old fashioned boyhood words of wisdom, I came upon this tidbit.
Wally: "You can't just come right out and ask for something you want, if it's something really good."
Beav: "Gee Wally, why not."
Wally: "Because if they say no, you're dead."

This is a valuable life lesson we shouldn't overlook. My wife and I, in order to assure our financial security, never make major purchases without consulting eachother. This usually results in me never getting to waste money like only I can do. To her, a good time out includes spending 2 dollars on a bean burrito at the mall. To me, if it doesn't plug in, boot up, use a subwoofer, involve front-end suspension, use high-test, come in light and amber varieties, taste best medium-rare, require a remote, or take advantage of bluetooth...then it's not likely to stir my interests.

For years I've wanted a laptop, and my wife finally agreed! Woo hoo!! But there's a lesson I've learned. There are various ways to ask for something. I'll outline three, the first is my favorite. I call it my "shoot yourself in the foot" method.

1) "Honey, I've made a decision, and you're not going to like it!". This not only states up front you're aware of how she'll feel and you don't care, but has the added advantage of letting her know you kept her out of the decision making process.

2) Bit by bit method. You don't actually ask outright, you just mention things about laptops over and over, until the idea slowly forms in her own mind. This could also be the "Wally" method.

3) Guilt method. In the end, this is what worked for me. Use it sparingly! It's best when something bad has just happened in your life and she feels sorry for you, like losing your job. "Honey, I'll be 40 in a couple of weeks, I just lost my job of 15 years, I need to get started on my writing career, I'm tired of putting it off, I just got a big severence....I want to get a laptop." It came off without a hitch. She never knew what hit her.

This last method is very powerful, but like I said, use it sparingly!

A Brief Conversation

"So I was talking to someone at work about an interview they went to," I said.

Wait ten minutes as my wife and I look at eachother.

"So anyway, what did they say?" my wife replied.

Wait ten minutes as we look around, patiently.

"Well, she said what a lot of people are saying, that the technical interviews are pretty tough. I'd better brush up a bit," I said.

Ten minutes more. We look at eachother, out the window, at our shoes.

"So do you think you need to read a book, or take some classes or anything?" my wife asked.

A few minutes more, staring at nothing, nodding, smiling, zombie-like.

"Yes I might read up a bit, but don't need to retake any classes. I'm fairly fresh on most of it," I said.

This two-way conversation went on this way for quite some time, only it wasn't just two-way, there was actually a third person involved. To a fly on the wall it would have sounded more like this.

"So I was talking to someone at work about an interview they went to," I said.

"I remember once in college I had an interview that I had to study for I stayed up all night with a guy who had the same major and blah blah blah blah blah and my friend Kim that I used to date once worked for a company that blah blah blah blah blah blah blah..." my sister-in-law interjected.

"So anyway, what did they say?" she replied.

"That reminds me of a show I was watching um last week or was it last month, anyway it was about finding a job and how to interview and the guy was not prepared and it showed him trying to answer questions and yammer yammer yammer and so on and so on and listen to me everyone..." my sister-in-law again interjected.

"Well, she said what a lot of people are saying, that the technical interviews are pretty tough. I'd better brush up a bit," I said.

"blah blah blah listen to me everyone yammer yammer cluck cluck..." my sister-in-law again interjected with a story of her own that revolved around her or something of interest to her.

"So do you feel you need to read a book, or take some classes or anything?" my wife asked.

"yammer yammer yack yack..."

You get the idea. And you can probably deduce that, once again, I have a sister-in-law visiting. How wonderful, I'm really looking forward to hearing more of her interesting life.

Pascagoula Shuffle Chapter #2

A few days later I found out that Kat was one of those girls who wouldn't let you see her in the morning without her makeup.Up before me she'd jump in the shower and be sitting there in the kitchen with a habitual cup of coffee and her cigarette dangling from her lips like Ava Gardner waiting for Frankie to fire up the 51 Eldorado so they could go down to Chez Nou and have that first morning martini.Sitting at breakfast at the Pancake House on Lavista she chatted away while I contemplated her mole under her right eye and her left handedness I've always found irresistible in a woman.Eventually over her third cup of coffee she talked about her family in Pascagoula, their run ins with the law and her narrow escape from her genetic trajectory.Well, they weren't all bad, her grandmother doted on her and she had lived with her cousins while going to college.Now I'm a good listener a if a Dame is a good looker I can sit entranced for hours and watch her lips move, their mood changing throughout the dialogue and yes,...I can learn a lot from a gal if they just keep talking.So far so good , just the usual neurosis of the modern woman.She was to young to want kids but old enough to recognize their value,to young to be burned out yet ,but old enough to know the score.
I walked her back to her Barracuda and we leaned up against her car for a while and made plans for dinner a couple of nights later.She had a way of tossing her Betty Page bob over one eye and winking as she reved the old V8 before she pulled away from you that made you feel like you had just walked into the screen of American Graffiti and weren't a bit player anymore.Hurtling down the road like Steve Mcqueen, coming to that big curve ahead,keeping on the gas pedal to hold the front end down as you started that drift into the curve.

Pascagoula Shuffle Chapter 1

On A summer day much like this one , I swung out of the driveway onto a roadtrip to the deep Delta. My two traveling companions were a 69 Cutlass Convertible and a sexy but duplicitious cupcake I had meet at the Star Bar.5 feet tall, a betty page haircut,curvy, and with a collection of form fitting clothes pulled from a 50's exploitation film
like "HOT ROD HELLCATS" or "BAD DRAGSTRIP GIRLS GONE BAD".Ever see a Russ Myer film?
I met her two weeks before on a July night at the Star Bar when the Blacktop Rockets were playing a double bill with Redneck Greece.Rockabilly heaven baby!
Downstairs in the bar between sets, I slithered through the crowd and called to Mike, the bartender, for a cold PBR(The only drink of choice for any self-respecting hep cat at the Star Bar).My eyes as usual were trawling the crowd for eye candy when a bump at my shoulder focused my attention to my left side, my dead ear side that is.Smiling back at me with an expression reserved for those who have made some whitty observation or ironic comment and are waiting for the perfect comeback, were a pair of big green eyes and a cupie doll mouth.Maybe just a little smirk hanging back there too."I said how about a drink"
She leaned in a little more as I turned my deaf side away."Sure what can I get you"
I said with an expansive sweep of my hands across the vista of liquor lining the wall."Vodka Martini dry, oh and by the way I'm Kat".As I shook her hand a vague recollection of all the girls I'd ever known who went by "Kat" should have set off a few alarms...but I was on my third beer.We talked a while and she later mentioned that she had seen me arrive in my Marina Blue convertible and how much she liked old cars .With the leather racing jacket with the white stripe across the the sleeves, Lucky 13 patch on the back and the fact that she also owned a 68 Barracuda fastback ,and that she was wearing a pair of stilletoes usually reserved for strippers and bondage fetish pictorials in Maxim didn't hurt the vibe either.Houston we look like a GO here.
The conversation rolled on until the Blacktop Rockets finished upstairs but you might guess that I was no longer interested in the music up there but specifically in the girl from Passcagoola.Soft delta accent without a hint of the debutante,nor of the trailer either.She said she had come to Atlanta to get away from the family and started out as a secretary in Dunwoody for a small law firm I had by coincidence worked with a few years before (so we got to laugh over the eccentricities of some of the attorneys there).Later she had quit and bought a share in a small store in the area that sold things like skull and crossbone lunch boxes,bobbel head Elvises(ELVI PLURAL...?)and latex bustiers with mad kittys on them.And so the conversation rolled like a new set of wheels.Smooth......
A couple of hours later we where standing out on the hot 4am concrete, leaning against her Barracuda and saying amorous goodbyes.4:35 A.M..ohh you get the picture....It was the begining of a brief but torrid affair that would end in the Delta hundreds of miles away and improbably involve a shrimp boat and a jumped bail bond.