Chapter 5

Wednesday morning, August 22nd {Bob}

When I got to work, I tried to concentrate on drawing perfect lines, spaced perfectly, in perfect scale. I was good at this, and rarely made mistakes, but I was distracted. I had a dog that belonged in a doggy asylum, and a peter that was worn out from its interaction with my hand. When I got up in the morning, and looked at it, it lay there, limp and exhausted. If it could have whined, it would have.

"Don't look at me like that," it would say. "I'm doing more than my part. You're supposed to find me a nice, warm pussy to slide into, where there are no calluses, except maybe a nice sensitive G-spot, and I'll be all warm and comfy when I spurt."

"I'm trying!" I'd snarl at it.

"Well try harder!" it would yelp. "I'm tired of Mother Palm, and her five daughters!"

"Well, you're lucky to get to spit at all, you ungrateful wretch!" I'd shout back at it.

"And if you're going to keep abusing me like that," it would say, ignoring me, "at least get a softer tissue. I'm getting rug burns from the cheap stuff you wipe me with!"

That's when I'd stuff the ungrateful little prick into my pants, where he could sulk ... and would ... all day long.

I know, I know ... a sane man wouldn't have conversations with his penis. That's my life, folks. Take heed. When that special girl comes along, don't give in to your insecurities. Go for the gusto! Grab for that gold ring!

I know what I'm talking about here.

Her name was Ruth Ann, and I was madly in love with her. She had curly brown hair, and sparkling blue eyes, and dimples on her cheeks. When I looked at her, I felt all gooey inside. She professed undying love for me too, and when she kissed me, I thought I had died and gone to Heaven.

But, I was insecure. I didn't think I had it in me to make a home for her, and keep her happy for the rest of her life. So I let things drift apart. It wasn't like I broke up with her. I just let it wither on the vine. A year later she was kissing Jimmy Hoskins, and didn't know I was alive. I'd been regretting it for two decades, and had been looking for another Ruth Ann ever since.

I hadn't found one yet, but I had her grocery list. I was sure of that. I was going to find her if it killed me. And I wasn't going to make the same mistake I'd made with Ruth Ann.

You may think I'm being too hard on myself. You're probably saying "Shit, man, you were only eight years old. Give yourself a break here!" But I'm telling you. I knew she was the one, eight or not, and I should have listened to my heart.

I'm not going to make that mistake again.

Wednesday morning, August 22nd [Chris]

When we left the cabin I'd used up the ten legal pads on my way to another hit with my readers and was feeling good about life and men. I decided to swing by the post office to pick up my mail and then go by Grandma's. She would be finished with her yoga by the time I got there and I'd take her out for breakfast and then we'd hit the thrift stores to see what treasures we might find. Grandma is determined to be on Antiques Road Show some day with one of those crazy finds that costs her nothing and ends up being worth a fortune. Personally, I think she just wants a chance to hug and kiss Leigh and Leslie Keno.

Grandma is the only one I know who watches Antiques Road Show and tells whoever is in the room how some of the appraisers don't know diddly-squat. Then she addresses the people who own the items she feels have been appraised too low and says things like "Go to them Keno boys for a second opinion. They'll steer you right."

"I'll get some typing done this afternoon," I commented to Lady who was stretched across the back seat -- the only position she was allowed when riding. "Then we can head over to the park for the practice game."

A couple of years back, I'd read an article on where to find the best guys and one of them suggested getting involved with sports. They suggested joining a local softball team, stating that men there are active, fun-loving, and spend their spare time doing something other than drinking and carousing. "Men love sports, and you love men. So run those bases, girl!"

Fortunately, I'd played softball in high-school and college. Thus, during the tryouts, I was spared several embarrassing moments that several women who obviously read the same article were not. One lady threw the bat and hit the pitcher, then on the next swing tossed it down the third base line and over the fence almost taking out a section of coaches who were observing the practice game they'd set up. When her third swing almost took out the umpire, it was gently suggested that her talent lay in other areas.

Another lady hit the ball but then took off to third base rather than first. Once that was straightened out, I figured she would do okay, but when I hit the ball long enough for a double, which meant she could have made it to third, she tried to slide into second base, but missed, taking out the second baseman who was too shocked to get out of the way. The infielder, who was a married guy, wasn't hurt too badly -- just some scrapes and bruises -- but the poor lady who did all the needless sliding broke her ankle. I heard one of the other ladies tell her that maybe she would get a nice handsome doctor who was single.

A couple of hours later, and couple of hundred moments that would make the Three Stooges proud, the coaches assigned anyone who could play, or play half-decent, on various teams which were already established and needed players.

Not all of the teams were co-ed, and when one lady was chosen for an all female team, I heard her mumble, "All this sweat for nothing." There were a few others who expressed similar feelings when chosen for female teams. And when I got chosen for a co-ed team, I felt several daggers come my way. I couldn't figure out why. I mean the teams would play against each other so there would be men and women on the field for some of the games. Not to mention, men being in the stands. After all, as the article pointed out, men like to watch women. Besides that, I was on a team made up of nuns and a couple of priests.

Anyway, we play April through September, practicing a couple of times a week and playing games mostly on Saturday. I love every moment. Softball and the AA fiasco are two of the best things I've ever done that didn't turn out as I'd expected.

I get fan mail forwarded through my publisher. They save it up and then send it to me every couple of weeks, which can overload me sometimes. Today was the day for the load and I knew I'd spend most of the next day reading and responding to mail. I always took the time to respond personally to each letter. If people could take the time out of their day to write me a note, I could do the same for them. Of course, if I ever reached the point of getting hundreds of the things in a month, I might have to change my philosophy, but 'til then I could do my thing.

I was about ten minutes from Grandma's when a siren went off behind me, nearly giving me a heart attack. I'd been talking to Lady about going to Piggly Wiggly the next day to give my special grocery list another shot and watching the road ahead of me. I'd only just glanced in my rear view mirror a few seconds before I heard the blast behind me.

Cursing and glancing up, I saw the cop car with flashing lights. I slowed-up but no effort was made to go around me, so I pulled over and rolled down my window. Seconds later I said, "Son of a bitch," and felt my cheeks flaming as Officer Huntley grinned at me.

"Good Morning, Miss Bryant."

He'd removed his cap, mussing up his sandy-brown hair and he looked absolutely dreamy -- even if he was a royal pain in the butt.

"Officer Huntley," I said, rather grimly.

His dimples deepened and laughter sparkled in his green eyes.

"In another hurry, are we?"

There was no way in hell I'd been speeding. I spent my life going five miles below the limit -- other than last Tuesday when things went to hell for me. But I held my tongue and simply responded, "No, Sir."

"Would you care to join me for breakfast, then?"

Wednesday morning, August 22nd {Bob}

I managed to stop thinking about Ruth Ann, and tried firmly to think about things other than my dream woman. It was beginning to affect my work.

I did pretty well, actually. When I'm drawing, it's like I'm in my own little world, where I am the lord of wind and sea. Actually, it's line and eraser, but you know what I mean. I get so into it, in fact, that it could explain why I have such a miserable social life. I mean who wants to go out with a guy who does pencil sketches of walls all day long?

But it wouldn't do to get fired. It's hard to go looking for Miss Right if you have to look for work instead.

Wednesday morning, August 22nd [Chris]

Taking a bite of cantaloupe gotten from the breakfast buffet at Kathy's Cafe, I watched Lady playing with a couple of younger kids -- a boy and a girl -- who were wearing braces on their legs. She would run around them and then go in to kiss their faces. They were all having the time of their lives and I saw their mothers wiping tears away a few times.

Having determined Officer Huntley wasn't an alien in disguise -- I asked him and he assured me he wasn't -- I agreed to have breakfast with him, knowing if I didn't Grandma wouldn't let me hear the end of it for the rest of my days.

We were in Brookside Park, where he'd suggested we eat breakfast since Lady was with me, which gained him a hundred points in my book. He got three hundred more for picking up the kids and riding them around on his shoulders before sitting down with me at a table a few yards away from where the kids were.

"They have Muscular Dystrophy," Officer Huntley said as he took a swallow of his water. "They were diagnosed last year."

"Dad's mom died from Lou Gehrig's disease when I was ten," I said. "She was a fantastic artist and held several shows a year where all the proceeds went to Jerry's Kids."

"Did she pass her gift on to you?"

Smiling, I shook my head. "My older sisters Paula and Lacey got that. Mine came from Mom's dad Grandpa Sparks. I'm a writer."

"Bill Sparks the columnist?"

Grandpa, who also wrote a series of mysteries set during the 1930s, had written a column for twenty-five years in The Banner, the same paper in which Evan's proposal was printed. He'd written about family life and other things catching his fancy in a similar fashion to Garrison Keillor.

"The one and only," I replied.

"His Tom and Edith Blanchard series is one of the best. I have all of them in first editions and have read them at least half a dozen times."

The Blanchards were the husband and wife team in his books. Tom was a pastor in a small Southern town where his wife Edith managed to stumble across dead bodies every which way she turned. Grandpa had written the final and thirty-fifth book for them a year and a half before he was diagnosed with Alzheimer's.

"He got a kick out of me using Edie Blanchard as my pen name for my romance novels."

He stared at me. "You're the Edie Blanchard?"

"For the past six years."

"My sister has every one of your books. She'll freak when I tell her I ate breakfast with you."

"And lunch," I reminded him, grinning.

Wincing, he blushed and said, "I'm sorry for being such a jerk. I was only going to flirt with you and then got so nervous I shifted into my tough cop mode. Then, I was actually only teasing about charging you with bribery at lunch and well -- you know what happened."

I giggled and we ate in companionable silence until he said, "Would you like to go to dinner Friday?"

My brain over-loaded and my mouth opened and said, "A real date?"

Chuckling, he replied, "I think that's what it's still called."

I was telling him I'd love to when his radio went off. Telling me he'd call me tonight, he began speaking to the dispatcher as he ran toward his car.

"Holy cow," I said half an hour later to Lady as we made our way to pick up Grandma for shopping. "A real goodness to living date with a drop-dead hunk. Think I should write an article about how I got a date driving to Grandma's?"

Thursday afternoon, August 23rd {Bob}

The intelligent part of my brain said I was engaging in lunacy, but I tried the supermarket surveillance program one more time.

I know I was supposed to forget about her, but I couldn't, okay?

I got a near miss. I was hanging around the black olives again, trying to look inconspicuous, and saw a woman turn into the aisle. I checked her left hand ... no ring, and then looked in her basket. My heart lurched when I saw a can of whipped cream lying in the bottom of the cart, and a little green plastic bucket of fresh strawberries up where a kid could ride. Right next to them, though, was a package of short bread cakes ... you know, the little round ones, with a depression in the center, for the strawberries and whipped cream. Obviously, she intended to make strawberry short cake, and my heart settled back down. I checked her butt as she pushed her cart on down the aisle. No dog hairs. Bandit goes with me lots of places, and whenever I'm not in the car, he curls up on my seat. I always have dog hairs on my back side. My dream woman took her dog everywhere too, at least in my imagination.