Time Off for Good Behavior (10 page)

I could hear Jennifer typing. She read the message back to me.
“
Now, we
’
re gonna need your credit card?
”

“
Fine,
”
I said, grabbing my purse.

“
That
’
ll be a total of fifty-six dolla
rs?
”

I stopped rifling through my purse.
“
Fifty-six dollars? What was that four-dollar crap you just quoted me?
”

“
Oh, that
’
s four dollars for the first week? With a three-week minimum? Each additional week is twenty-six dollars?
”

“
For crying out loud, you
people have no shame.
”

“
Do you have that credit card?
”

“
Not for fifty-six dollars, I don
’
t.
”

She sighed.
“
Okay, tell you what? I
’
ll shave it down to two lines, use a smaller font and such, we
’
ll run it for two weeks, I can do it for... twenty-two dollars?
”

I stared at the ad.
Do something meaningful.
Was I furious enough at this bastard to charge twenty-two dollars to a card with an interest rate of prime plus 5 percent? Did I really want him to call me just so I could ream him a new one? Was I really such
an angry, petty person as to waste my time on relatively fruitless pursuits?

Absolutely.
“
Ready for that card number, Jennifer?
”

***

The thing about sitting home being unemployed was that I was horribly bored and yet too depressed to do anything. I shoul
d have been out volunteering my time to the homeless, or the foodless, or the shameless. Something. Instead, I sat on the sofa with the remote control making imprints in my flesh, flipping between eight million varieties of crappy cable programming, playi
n
g them loudly to drown out the phantom music that hovered overhead, waiting for an opportunity to strike.

This isn
’
t how my life is supposed to be.
I cringed every time I heard myself say it, shuddered at the memory of the look on Walters face. He felt sor
ry for me. There was only one thing I hated more than being the object of someone
’
s pity, and I was too consumed with self-loathing to even remember what that was.

I would have gotten up and called the Mazda dealership, wooed them into hiring me with my
“
G
o get
’
em
”
grin, but the very thought of selling a replacement side-view mirror for a hundred and seventeen dollars only depressed me more. So I continued my interim occupation as a cable commando. It was me, Lucy, Ricky, Cousteau, and that guy with the sw
eaters hawking Amazing Crap You Just Can
’
t Live Without.

I was a few days into my self-pity wallow when the phone rang. I answered it instantly, not caring who it was. Even if it was George, it would at least keep me from ordering a Rocket Chef.

Her voice
was frail. Tired. Wispy.
“
Hi, I
’
m calling about your ad.
”

I hit the mute on the remote and shut up Sweater Guy.

“
My ad?
”
I scanned my brain for anything relating to placing an ad and came up dry. Albert was hell on short-term memory.

“
Yeah. Um... I
’
m Laura.
”

Laura. She sounded quiet. And a little sad. My mind raced. My ad, my ad...

My ad.

My indignation raged anew for a brief moment as I remembered the offense.
“
That was you?
”
I asked, hardly believing it. She didn
’
t sound like the self-righteous type. As a
matter of fact, she sounded like someone who was desperate for any human contact that might prevent her from ordering a Rocket Chef from the Amazing Sweater Guy.

“
I
’
m sorry?
”
she said. Sounded like a question. Just like Jennifer. Friggin
’
southern belles.
But it worked. My anger deflated. That was all I wanted, a simple apology.

And that
’
s what I got.

“
Look, don
’
t worry about it. Just think about it before you do something like that again, okay?
”

I hung up and tossed the phone into the corner with my pile
of dirty laundry and turned the sound back on the television. Amazing Sweater Guy was gone, replaced by someone selling spray-on hair color, and the world was once again proven perilous for idiots with disposable cash.

***

I
’
m in a rowboat with three bab
ies and a pig, none of which are mine, but all of which are looking to me to do something. I
’
m wearing my prom dress and a pair of really cute, strappy black shoes. I
’
m rowing, trying to save the lot of us, but despite the fact that we
’
re about ten feet f
r
om land, I can
’
t get us there. I try to reach the oar out and sink it into the beach and drag us in, but the boat stays where it is. The pig starts to bite one of the babies, and then the lot of them disappears. In their place sits Bruce Willis. Well, if
y
ou want to be technical, David Addison, Bruce
’
s character from
Moonlighting.
There has never been nor shall there ever be a man, fictitious or otherwise, as luscious as David Addison.

Suddenly, I
’
m not so anxious to get out of the boat.

“
Get out,
”
Dave say
s.

“
How?
”
I whine.

Dave rolls his eyes. He seems angry. I
’
m annoyed. All I want is a little Motown and some dream time shimmy, and Addison is giving me attitude.

“
Step out of the boat. Your feet will get wet, but you
’
ll survive.
”

I look at the beach. It
’
s
pretty, all palm trees and golden sand. But no one
’
s there. It looks lonely. I turn back to Dave.

“
What am I going to do when I get there?
”

He smiles at me. Now, that
’
s the Addison I know and love. He takes my hand in his. I sigh. I know I
’
ll be hearing so
me Temptations soon. I lean forward, smiling and waiting for a kiss from a fictional man, which, as everyone knows, are the best kind.

Suddenly, the boat tips over and I
’
m flat on my ass in a foot of water with various marine nastiness slurping around my a
nkles. Dave stands in the boat, arms crossed in front of him, stern face glaring down at me. Now he
’
s starting to look more like my dad.

“
This isn
’
t how my life was supposed to be,
”
I say, sounding as pathetic as I feel.

“
Then change it,
”
he says, and disa
ppears, taking the boat with him, leaving me alone wading in oceanic gunk and wondering how I will ever replace my cute, strappy black shoes.

My alarm went off, roaring at me with AM talk radio. I sat up in bed and looked around. My Exercycle was invisible
beneath a mound of laundry. More dirty clothes gathered in clumps, which had taken over my bedroom and were casting greedy glances toward the hallway. The edge of the plate I
’
d eaten pizza off of last week was peeking out at me from behind the veil of th
e
navy-blue sheets that hung over the side of my bed. My toothbrush was on the carpet next to my closet, lying beside an empty bottle of Albert.

“
So this is what rock bottom looks like,
”
I grumbled as I got out of bed.

I started with the windows, pulling th
e shades up and yanking them all open as far as they would go. The fresh air was a start, but there were only three windows in the whole place, so I had to leave the door wide open to get any sort of cross-breeze. I put a red bandanna over my hair and sli
p
ped a Motown CD in the stereo, letting the Supremes tell me how it is.

The apartment was passably clean by noon, and I was hearing it through the grapevine when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I screamed and whirled around, banging the CD player off the kitc
hen counter. My heart jumped out of my body and hightailed it out the door, bouncing down the stairs and jumping over the fire hydrant on its way to someplace sane. The rest of me stood with my hand over the hollow space in my chest, trying to regain my b
r
eath as Walter Briggs looked down at me, his face soft with amusement.

“
Sorry,
”
he said. He didn
’
t look terribly sorry to me.
“
I knocked. Your music was too loud. I could have been a psychopath, you know.
”

I raised an eyebrow.
“
Who says you
’
re not?
”

He saw
my eyebrow and raised me a grin.
“
Only time will tell.
”

We held each other
’
s eyes for a moment. My heart leaped back into my chest and did a wild tap dance for a few beats before I dropped my eyes, losing the game of romantic chicken.

“
The place looks goo
d. Definitely smells better.
”
He turned back and grinned at me.
“
Wish I could say the same for you.
”

“
Bite me, Briggs.
”
And my mother thought that charm school money had been wasted. I walked over to the fridge and pulled out a pitcher of freshly made iced
tea.
“
Want some?
”

He eyed me suspiciously.
“
Is there alcohol in it?
”

“
No. I
’
m on the wagon for the moment.
”

“
Glad to hear it.
”
He grinned and my heart gave another little tap.
Ba-doo-boom-chaaaa.
I busied myself pouring two glasses of tea and leaned over
the counter in my best pseudo-seductive stance, then caught a glance of my reflection, wearing an old Huey Lewis concert T-shirt and black sweats, in the mirror by the front door. I also caught a whiff of Lysol and Scotch. I leaned back. There would be no
seduction today, pseudo or otherwise.

“
What brings you here?
”
I asked.
“
Am I being sued?
”

“
Not unless you know something I don
’
t.
”
He pulled an envelope out of his coat pocket and placed it on the counter.
“
Actually, I
’
m making a delivery
”

I gave him a cur
ious look and opened the envelope. In it was a check made out to me for ten thousand dollars, signed by Edgar Dowd. I sucked in more air than my lungs could handle and dropped the check back on the counter, taking a few steps back. Walter laughed.
“
It
’
s a
check, not a snake.
”

“
How...?
”
I looked up at him.
“
How did you...?
”

He held up his hands.
“
Don
’
t blame me. You
’
re the one who mentioned my name to Blaine, or so the story goes.
”