Chapter 38

It didn’t take long for me to realize that Nancy and Teresa did not exactly see eye to eye as per The Langford Review. They were apparently good friends away from work, but once they crossed the threshold of the Review, they were mortal enemies, always worried about what the other one was doing or wasn’t doing.

Over the next thirty minutes, each one snuck over to report on something the other one was doing.

Nancy: “Did you know Teresa’s spent the last ten minutes shopping on eBbay?”

Teresa, only a short time later: “Hey, how come Nancy spends so much time in the bathroom? This is her third trip this morning?”

Probably to fix her hair, I thought. Figuring out why Nancy was in the bathroom was not high on my list of priorities. Her hair seemed higher now than it was when she came in. I know, I was supposed to be the boss, an entirely new situation for me, but there were other things bothering me.

The receivables were located in my father’s desk, the second drawer on the left. They were in bad shape, as to be expected. They were kept on an old pad, handwritten. Luckily, they were printed and not in his handwriting. There were accounts that were over six months late that were still advertising. Plus, it didn’t look like anybody had sent out statements in a month.

I walk up behind Teresa and see that she is shopping on eBbay for some of the strange clothes she chooses to wear. She’s taken an advance on her pay and will be working the next three weeks for free. From what I understand, she spends all her money either shopping on eBay or buying her husband his nightly six-pack of beer.

She is watching the clock on some hideous blouse. Apparently Teresa has the bid and time is running out! Less than two minutes are left! She’s sitting on the edge of her chair, chewing on her fake nails with one hand. The other hand is on the mouse, ready to bid again if somebody steals her blouse.

“What’re you doing?” I ask. She jumps for a second, but doesn’t seem too concerned.

“I’m buying this shirt on eBay,” Teresa answers. “It’ll be over in just a minute.”

“Why weren’t the statements sent out at the end of August?”

I am clearly bothering her. Teresa doesn’t have time for work-related questions, even though she is on the clock.

“You’ll have to ask your father.”

She leans forward in her chair. Teresa is actually bouncing in her chair. Time is about to run out and she will be the winner of this blouse, for $3.31, even though the shipping is stated at $9.99 in the continental U.S.

I guess she doesn’t understand how difficult it will be to get that information from my father, since he is currently on display at the funeral home. I’ve been meaning to go by there and see him, but I’m afraid it would be tough. Plus, I don’t want to deal with the people who show up just to sign the book, or who come just to see what a dead person looks like.

“From now on, you'll need to do your shopping after hours,” I add.

“Your father didn’t care!” Teresa fires back.

“Shop again during work hours and you'll get an unpaid vacation.”

This was my first real managerial decision. Ooh power, it felt good in some strange way. I’d cracked the whip! Yes, heads will roll! Now, where was Nancy. Back in the bathroom again, I detected.

I walked to the door and heard her talking, hopefully on a cell phone and not to herself. Now that would be more than I could handle.

“He’s old, but kinda cute,” she told the other party. Nancy was talking about me, I realized with a little surprise. This also needed to be stopped, but first I am curious to find out what she says about me. “No, he doesn’t act gay.”

There is a pause. Why would somebody question my sexual preference? I have never been attracted to another man’s hairy chest! The outrage!

“Just cause he’s not married doesn’t mean he’s gay,” Nance added. She was talking a little lower. I leaned closer to the door, only an inch away when it opened, striking me in the head. Good, now I’ll have two black eyes. She stuck her head around the door and put the phone to her shoulder. “What are you doing?”

Great, now I was the one who was busted while I was trying to bust her. This boss thing is tougher than it's cranked up to be.

“I needed to go to the restroom, but thought I heard voices in there,” I lied. She bought it!

“Sorry,” Nancy said, and smiled at me. She hung up the phone and walked back into the office. Teresa was glaring at her the whole time.

“Where have you been?” Teresa demanded.

“None of your beezwax,” Nancy retorted. “Did you win that ugly blouse?”

I stepped into the bathroom, mainly to fulfill my lie. I didn’t really need to use the facilities. The bathroom badley needed to be cleaned, just like the rest of the place. I waited the appropriate time and flushed the toilet. That waste of water would cost some money we didn’t have, but it was necessary.

When I emerged from the bathroom, Teresa was working on her fake nails that she had just chewed on. Nancy was actually working on putting together an ad. As I walked past, there was a bad feeling that she was checking me out. I thought about flexing my glutes, but decided bosses don’t do that sort of thing.

Besides, it was almost time to head to the bank. I was going to have to beg and grovel, two things I wasn’t good at.

I told the women where I was going and told them to mind the shop. Nancy smiled at me. Teresa gave her a dirty look.

Flora’s Flowers was located just a couple of doors down from the Review. In looking over the receivables, I noticed she was well over sixty days late. I didn’t know this Flora and she didn’t know me well enough to run when I came through the front door.

There were some fake flowers in the window, just below the painting. Wow, you could send and receive money here, along with paying your electric bill. All while you were bought flowers, roses and home decorations.

The inside was filled with a bunch of flowers, cards and stuff to decorate your house with. One shelf was covered with some fuzzy little toys, all of different looks and sizes. A girl was sitting at the counter, reading what I presumed to be the latest People magazine.

She looked up to see who was disturbing her, then went back to reading about the latest celebrity divorce or drug problem. It was a younger woman, so I was pretty sure it wasn’t the Flora. Her hair was dyed pitch black. Her lips were roughly the same color, along with her fingernails and clothing. She had some kind of ring stuck in her lip. Some other shiny thing was sticking out of her nose.

Personally, I wouldn’t want to buy anything from this woman. I doubted the little old ladies would either, which was probably one of the reasons why Flora couldn’t pay her bill.

“Is Flora here?” I asked.

“There’s no Flora here,” she answered, without ever looking up from the magazine. She blew a bubble with her pink gum, a huge one that I hopped popped and got in her hair.

“Isn’t this ‘Flora’s Flowers’?”

She stared at my damaged face for a few seconds, right before giving me the look that all teenagers use on adults who they believe has asked a stupid question.

“Like I said, there’s not a Flora here. I might could call one in the phone book and get her here, if it’d make you happy.”

She obviously did not know who I am. Not that it would probably matter to her.

“Well, who’s in charge?” I asked.

“My mother,” the girl replied, right as she rolled her eyes.

“Is your mother here?”

“Depends.”

“What does it depend on?” I asked.

“Who you are and what you need.”

This girl could have used some more spankings as a child.

“My name is Michael Hunt,” that wasn’t worthy of getting her attention. “I’m running the newspaper.”

That also did not budge her.

“I need to send my mom some flowers,” I added. The goth chick closed up the magazine, got off the stool and walked to the entrance to the back. She poked her head through the plastic sheets and said something to her mother.

The mother emerged from the back, moving quite briskly. It might be a paying customer! She looked a lot like her daughter, without the goth look. Her hair had grey streaks in it, mixed with different shades. She had on some kind of robe and was without shoes. The woman grabbed an order book and pulled a pen out from behind her ear. I didn’t even notice one was hiding there.

“Howdy,” she said. The woman stared at my black eye. I was a stranger, probably from out of town. She was trying to impress me with her country charms.

“Hello,” I countered. “Do you own this place?”

A little of her smile faded.

“Uh, yes,” she glared at her daughter. I was probably a bill collector.

“My name’s Michael Hunt,” I said and stuck out my hand. She looked at it like I had just pulled it out of a cow’s butt or something. The woman took my hand for what I considered to be the shortest handshake in recorded history. “My father owned the newspaper.”

She brightens up a bit. The woman obviously knows that my father has kicked the bucket and assumes that I want to buy something. I do, but that’s not the only reason for my visit.

“Glad to meet you, Mister Hunt,” she responds. I hate that name. My name is Michael, not Mister Hunt. He’s getting stared at by a bunch of people so they can tell other people how good or bad he looks. “My name’s Sissy. Sorry to hear about your daddy.”

I nod, playing along. Why do people always say that? It is assumed, of course. I have never heard anybody tell a family member that they are glad that so-and-so croaked.

“Yes, it was quite a shock,” I say, knowing that makes me sound like a doofus. “I need to get my mother something.”

She guides me over to the most expensive gifts in the place, of course. I am from out of town and might have money, after all.

Sissy shows me a lot of crap that I wouldn’t get if it was free. I was looking for something simple. My mother wouldn’t let a lot of this stuff even in her house. I settle on some potpourri thing. It only sets me back nine dollars and some change. She looks disappointed that I didn’t dig a little deeper.

“Will that be all?” Sissy asks, braving a smile.

“I think so,” I add, then act like I’ve just remembered something. “Sissy, I’m going to be running the newspaper for a while.”

Sissy is still smiling.

“We’re going to put out a memorial ad for my father. Would you like to buy a spot?”

Where has the shame gone? I’m trying to make money off my father’s death. Sissy isn’t smiling so much now.

“How much would it cost?” she asks, now biting her lower lip. We have several sizes, the large ones that I will hammer the banks with, along with the smaller ones that are more affordable. I pull out a sheet of paper with sizes and prices. “I guess we can handle that one.”

She picks the cheapest one available, the $10 ad. It will be so small that if anybody actually looks at the advertisement, which I doubt they will, Flora’s Flowers will hardly be visible. My first sell! I’m feeling a high.

“It’ll be ten dollars,” I say. Her smile has left the building.

“Just bill me,” she counters.

“That was something else that I wanted to talk with you about.”

Sissy is now frowning.

“Uh, what about it?” she asks.

“I noticed that you were three months late.”

“Yeah, uh, times have been a little tough.”

Like she needed to tell me how hard things have been. I wouldn’t be here otherwise.

“We need to get some money in.”

“I hope to do well on the funeral and…”

She figures out the funeral is for my father. She also wants to profit off my father’s death. It’s a sad world out there. Nobody will profit as much as the funeral home, I realize and dread going out there later on.

Sissy gets in the cash register and gives me twenty dollars.

“That’s all I can pay,” she offers.

Ten dollars is money I just gave her. I’m up ten now. I’m surprised, somebody actually gave me money. I stick it in my pocket and bid farewell. Sissy looks glad that I’m leaving. They are talking about me as I leave, carrying my potpourri thing in a sack.

There are several other stops I need to make, but it is time to go to the bank and visit with Allen Woodard. My pace slows as I approach the place. I have never had a problem with banks before and it has never bothered me to enter one. Most banks would be happy to have me as a customer. I carry a decent balance and always pay my bills on time. But I was afraid this wouldn’t be that good of an experience.

The Bank of Langford is the largest building in town. It is a large, two-story structure that takes up almost half a block of downtown. There are only two trucks parked out front. I open the door and walk inside. There are a few women in the lobby. Most of them don’t bother to look up and see who has entered.

It’s a pretty building, I guess. The teller line is to the right. There are offices to the left with windows so people can look in and out. I stand at the front desk until the secretary finally looks up. She looks like the typical secretary, hair fixed to perfection and dressed as nice as her meager salary allows. The smile looks real, and I am surprised.

“Can I help you?” she asks, then grimaces after seeing my eye.

“I have an appointment with Allen Woodard,” I answer. That doesn’t impress her, not that I care. She picks up the phone and buzzes back to the big guy. I look around and spot him in one of the offices at the back of the building. He is talking to her on the speaker phone. Aw, too good to actually pick up the phone.

“You can sit down,” she says. “Mister Woodard will be with you in a few minutes. He’s rather busy at the moment.”

She called him “Mister Woodard”, like it was the way I should also address him. I see that he is busy reading a newspaper. Well, we certainly don’t want to interrupt him so I can get on back to work, do we?

I watch the second hand pass by the 12 over fifteen times. Every few minutes, I look back at his office. Apparently he reads every word of every article. An older man comes in and heads in my direction. I feel like I’m in a doctor’s office instead of a bank. He’s the type of guy who obviously doesn’t get out of the woods very often. The man is wearing old overalls, a long-sleeve shirt with holes where his elbows are, along with a hat that should have tossed aside several years ago. He also has on a pair of tennis shoes that don’t go well with the rest of his outfit. He’s a skinny guy with huge ears and a bunch of whiskers on his face.

He has his mouth open all the time. The man moves a little slow, but shuffles his feet very quickly, almost like he was dancing. He sits down and stares at me. I want to give him the old “Take a picture, it’ll last longer” line, but I don’t.

“Awful hot out thar,” he says, very loudly. I pick up a magazine and start looking at it. I don’t realize that it is some woman magazine until it is too late. “Need some rain!”

I nod and look around. Surely the people don’t think that was me.

“Ya got a pretty good shiner, boy!” he adds. I wonder if the people can hear him across town.

I nod and want to thank him for shouting that out so everybody can stare at me.

“Who ya here to see?” the man asks. I point at Woodard without looking up. I’m reading about getting rid of that fat in the back of an arm. I have never had that problem, but now know what to do if I ever have fatty arms. “You look familiar. Do I know you?”

This was another one of those stupid questions people always ask. How the heck would I know if he knows me? I can’t get in the old geezer’s head and do a google search in there.

I shrug and wish he would be quiet. The secretary gets buzzed and picks up the phone. She mumbles something, hangs up the phone and walks over in my direction.

“Mister Woodard will see you now,” she says, then turns around and goes back to her desk.

I rise and slowly walk in the direction of the big guy. His hair is again combed back toward the front. His outie is not as prominent today, thanks to a looser shirt. He doesn’t bother to rise and meet me. I’m not all that surprised.

He nods at a chair. I guess this means that I am allowed to sit. Woodard waits until I am seated, then drops the bomb.

Chapter 39