Technically it is Geoff's day to post and I hope I am not treading on his toes (ouch), but I owe you two posts and I hoped this would do it.
Wednesday was Pioneer Day locally and we had a frightening moment. One of the aerials blew out the side of the box and instead of going up went sideways and nailed Irene in her side. The shell then dropped into her lap and the secondary explosion (the blossom part) blew up in her lap.
She is fine, but she was traumatized and had some burns and abrasions, not to mention the huge bruise caused by the initial contact from the shell.
Anyway, that was the first night I missed, and last night I was in the process of smoking 30 lbs. of pulled pork for the farewell of my cousin Julie's son and working on this short story for my new writing group. I'm never going to get the grease stains out of my keyboard.
I hope you like it, feel free to leave a comment if you are so inclined.
.........
Always Prepared
The park bench bowed beneath Nigel’s
massive frame. Park goers nearby turned as the resin slats argued loudly with
metal screws over who would give way. The screws won this time, but something
about their cry indicated the spat was far from over.
Nigel enjoyed this park bench for many
reasons, but only one that really mattered. If you asked him, he might tell you
it was because of the shade provided by the spreading branches of an elderly
oak tree, a truly majestic specimen and anyone could see that the oak tree did
indeed provide a delightfully shaded spot when the weather was warm in the
summer.
Ask him in winter and he might tell
you that the brick wall along the bench’s back provided shelter from the
blustery cold of a winter wind and that would be true as well.
He could tell
you, should you be interested, that the building across from the park was
Weatherby’s best example of Egyptian Revival architecture. This was
closer to the truth that Nigel never told anyone.
There
were many such reasons Nigel had archived for why this particular bench was
supremely suited for him. In truth, nobody had ever asked, although Nigel was
prepared for just about anything. He had actually used the line about Egyptian
Revival architecture once, though he had to manufacture a situation in which he
could casually mention it. He felt it made him sound educated.
The
hidden truth was something that Nigel only whispered, even in his own mind lest
it leak out, was that this particular park bench gave him a perfect view of the
Sinclair Insurance Agency. And through the perfectly clear glass (the cleaner
came every Tuesday afternoon, precisely at 1:05 pm unless he’d eaten at the café
by the highway, in which case it was 1:13 pm) was a desk, and at that desk sat
Agnes Whipple.
She pronounced it in the French style, Ah-nyay. One might
think she was pretentious or came from that sort of family, though
neither was the case. In truth, Agnes was named for her paternal grandmother
Agnes Bellecouer whom she had never met.
Nigel knew this as he knew so many things. He listened.
He had in fact been a frequent visitor to the agency, always dropping off
documents in person, rather than simply emailing them. He had pored over his
policy in order to find questions to ask his slightly annoyed agent. Agnes was
never annoyed to see him and he always prepared something interesting to share
with her and something funny, when he could manage. She laughed often
enough that he suspected it was due more to her generous nature than his sense
of humor.
Nigel could talk, and did, when the situation called for
conversation, or speaking, but he didn't like to speak unless he was prepared.
Even the simplest chat was something Nigel rehearsed in his mind over and over
before speaking.
"Yes, I would like fries with that." or,
"Yes, I would like fries with that." or perhaps, "YES! I
would like fries with that." was one such rehearsal that led to the
grease spotted bag sitting next to him on the bench.
The white bag with bright yellow and red accents was
hardly noticeable against the vast girth of Nigel's white, button-down,
collared shirt and newly acquired ketchup and mustard stains.
Nigel reached into the bag and drew out one of the last cold
and greasy potato bits, munching on it quietly as he watched Agnes read, while
eating her own lunch at her desk.
Many times Nigel rehearsed a conversation for a situation
that he had never encountered and likely never would. Answers to slights never
offered, and verbal jabs at targets never met were a recurring theme in the
constant patter of his mind.
"Perhaps I am fat, but with a schnozz like
that it's a wonder you can see well enough around it to notice!" he might
offer to a rude somebody with a large sneezer, or, "Come on Jake, put the
gun down, everybody wants to walk out of here alive, let's find a way to work
this out." he might offer to an armed man name Jake.
Nigel had rehearsed lines for virtually every conceivable
situation, should it arise, and at times he wondered what he might do if he
encountered a situation for which he hadn’t prepared.
He had learned
early on in his development that he was unsuited for impromptu speaking. In the
3rd grade he had run for the class treasurer, drawn by the part of the word that
said treasure (he was reading The Gold Bug at the time) and the fact that
nobody else was running for the office. He did not read the instructions for
candidates thoroughly and missed the part that read, “… every candidate is
required to give a speech...”
"But... but - nobody else is running!" he
stammered out to his teacher as she led him up to the front of the auditorium.
"Didn't you read the rules for entering your name
Nigel? Everyone is required to give a speech, you only have to talk for three
minutes." she said calmly.
He didn't last much more than three seconds, "Vote
for me....." he blurted out, "I'll do my best." he finished
weakly, staring into the sea of faces. Dark, liquid fear began filling him up
and when it reached his outer extremities he fled. All he remembered was the
bright burst of sunshine as slammed against the crash doors at the side of the
large room. That, and the laughter that buoyed him to a speed he had likely
never seen before or since outside of a mechanical transport.
Sadly, the bright spot of the day was that though he was the only candidate he managed to lose, and so was able to fade into ignominious anonymity.
Now Nigel prepared for every word he uttered.
Lost in the memory of that day and working on the
masterful speech he would deliver should he ever again run for class treasurer,
he did not notice when Agnes left her seat. He might have noticed her exiting
the building, passing between the scarab lined mini-obelisks he had commented
on exactly once before, but he was reaching the crescendo of his triumphant,
though silent speech.
His eyes regained their focus as the whistles and
thunderous applause were fading in his manufactured memory. Movement caught his
eye and he saw her coming across the grass directly towards him.
He
couldn't even conjure her name. His mind was filled with the vision of her
auburn hair lit afire by the bright afternoon sun. Her forest green dress with
a pointed collar, gathered waist and tiny black polka dots was open to display
just the barest hint of cleavage. A splash of light freckles decorated the both
the bridge of her nose and décolletage. The black embroidered hem of it swirled
in curlicues around her knees and occasionally kicked up enough for him to see
a flash of pale skin above the knee. Nigel saw the grass part way for the
pointed toe of her slingback heels and could think of nothing else, the details
of every movement flooding his senses.
That same dark liquid fear began to swirl inside his
core, but the time to run had passed as she covered the last fifteen yards in
fifteen sharp strides.
"Hello, Nigel!" she offered brightly and with a
wide smile that creased the corners of her seaglass eyes.
She waited, standing casually, but for what, Nigel could
not imagine. OH! Him, it was him she was waiting for, "H-hi." he
stuttered out.
"Would you mind if I sat with you?" she asked.
Nigel simply stared for a moment before again realizing
that she was, in fact, speaking to him.
"Right... uhh, yes. That would be fine." he
said
Agnes waited, still with a smile on her face.
Nigel jerked a little, as he realized there was not space
for her to sit, and he snatched the bag containing the remains of his lunch
wadding it quickly and sliding left while stuffing it under his generously proportioned
bum.
Agnes stepped up, spun gracefully into a prim seated
position as though she had been practicing to sit on a bench just such as this.
She did not turn to look at Nigel, but just sat perched on the bench, her body
leaning forward with her weight on her hands and looked out at the park.
Nigel turned his head to watch her as she sat down and
jumped a little when he realized he was still staring at her profile, then
quickly turning to face forward as she had.
After several moments she took a deep breath and leaned
back against the bench, folding her arms beneath her breasts. She asked,
"Do you know I have worked at Sinclair's for almost five years now, and I
have eaten my lunch every day at my desk?"
"Really?" said Nigel honestly, because, though
he knew she had been eating there for at least the last year, had no personal
knowledge of the time previous to that.
"It's true." she said, "And then I looked
up today and saw you sitting here, just enjoying the summer and the park and...
You know come to think of it I think I saw you here a few weeks ago too. Do you
come here often?" she asked turning to look at his profile.
A bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face, but
Nigel feared wiping it away would only draw attention to it. His heart was beating
erratically and forcefully, loud enough from him to wonder if she could hear
it. He nearly jerked again as he realized he hadn't answered yet and he was
still fighting down the initial adrenaline surge her arrival had precipitated.
"Yes." he offered weakly, and then quickly
followed that with, "Sometimes, I mean."
"Well I can see why, this is a very nice park, I
look out at it sometimes from my desk and wish I was here instead of there, do
you know what I mean?" He feared, he couldn't bring enough air through his
vocal chords to make sound so he just nodded weakly.
"It's funny" she said thoughtfully, "I
mightn't have even noticed you if I hadn't finished my book before my lunch
break was over and didn't have another one to start. I usually do that, I'm sort
of a chain reader. I finish one book and put it down with one hand while
picking up my next book with the other. Do you like to read" she asked.
Nigel did indeed like to read and read quite a lot. In fact
it was what first drew his attention to his insurance agent's secretary. His
mind had recently been flooded with new input and he seemed unable to find the
traces of cogent thought amidst the spaghetti like pile of vivid images. Every
detail of her approach across the park was jangling in his mind for attention.
The sense of her being so close set all of his nerves on edge. He could touch
her be simply leaning too far to the right or lifting his elbow.
"Salt!" he exclaimed.
"Salt?" she asked.
The field of freckles peppered across the bridge of her
nose wrinkled quizzically. When no new information appeared to be forthcoming
she added, "Salt?"
He stared at her wondering if her eyes had always been
that same luminescent shade of sea glass... "Salt!" he exclaimed
again. "I mean, that is, Salt is the name of a book I read recently."
he said faintly.
"Salt." she said, sounding both more and less
perplexed.
"Yes" he said, "You see, it's about how
salt shaped world history and...." he trailed off, ”It, uh" he
started again, "Well, salt is a really important resource and wars were
fought over it and innovations in science were rooted in finding more of it
and... well it's more interesting than I am making it sound."
"Salt." she said again this time as though
rolling a new flavor around in her mouth tasting it for the first time and
wondering if she liked it." Ok, I get it. That does sound sort of
interesting. I hadn't thought much about salt beyond putting it on cucumbers."
The mention of such healthy fare made Nigel uncomfortably
aware of the greasy wad of paper and mashed, congealed potato beneath his ample
thigh.
She faced forward then and said, "Mine was a novel.
It was a mystery, but yours sounds much more ... Educational. I should read
more books like that, but I admit, I'm addicted to novels." her voice
rising at the end.
Nigel had in fact read Salt, but in truth he read a dozen
novels for every non-fiction book he read, but he was afraid saying so would
make him sound like he was just saying it for her. He said nothing instead.
The silence passed between them as they both stared
forward at the best example of Egyptian Revival architecture Weatherby had to
offer.
"You know" she said, "I bet if I were
sitting at my desk you could see me from right here in the afternoon, when the
sun wasn't reflecting off the windows."
He said nothing for a moment and then, "Probably."
Suddenly she stood up and spun to face him, "It was
nice chatting with you. Maybe I'll see you here again sometime?" she said
with her hands behind her back.
Nigel just nodded still not trusting his voice enough for
long sentences, "Maybe."
Agnes brought her hand up in a slight wave and then
headed back across the grass. He watched the hem of her skirt sway gracefully
back and forth with the swing of her hips and memorized the bounce of her
coppery hair.
Nigel sat for several moments processing the events of
the previous ten minutes. The slats and screws sniped weakly at one another in
relief as he heaved his corpulent form aloft.
As he wandered back to his day it occurred to him that he’d have to find
a new place to eat his lunch and he began formulating what he might say if he had
a chance to talk to a woman who might be interested in a fellow like him.
