Hear the story read by the author.
In the town of Normal, Pennsylvania, there’s a little church at the corner of Wilson and Elm. As a special treat for Easter this year Sunday School teacher Karen Winslow planned to take her class, the “Guppies,” on a field trip to a petting zoo.
She recruited Kevin Boyer, whose four-year-old daughter Mary was in the Guppies class, to drive the church van and assist in chaperoning. Karen assumed – wrongly – that Mary would behave better if her father was along on the trip. Kevin wasn’t anxious to spend the morning with seven preschoolers, but on the other hand it didn’t seem any worse than sitting through another of Pastor O’Donnell’s extra-long Easter sermons.
By the time they were ready to leave, Kevin was already suffering from a headache. Mary and his other daughter, Suzie, had gotten up an hour early to find out what exotic concoctions of sugar, food coloring and high fructose corn syrup the Easter bunny had left in their Easter baskets. For some reason this process was accompanied by wild screeching and running about the house. Kevin yelled repeatedly for the girls to “keep it down,” but apparently whatever the Easter bunny mixed into the candy also impaired his children’s hearing.
As the van made its way from the church to the edge of town, many of the occupants’ thoughts turned to God on this holy day.
“Dear Lord,” Kevin prayed, “please clear the streets of traffic and grant me green lights so we can get to the stupid petting zoo quickly and I can take a nap in the van while the kids play.”
“Heavenly Father,” Karen prayed, “please make Kevin slow down so we don’t get in an accident.”
“Dear God,” Mary prayed, “please don’t let Mrs. Winslow see me eating my chocolate eggs.”
Mary had smuggled a dozen chocolate eggs into her coat pockets that morning in direct defiance of her parents’ instructions to only eat one piece of candy and leave the rest on the kitchen counter until after lunch. She knew it was risky to enjoy her contraband in the packed confines of the van, but temptation was overruling her good sense – as it usually did.
She retrieved a single candy egg and quietly peeled the foil from the chocolate that was now a gooey blob from the warmth of her pocket. She slipped it into her mouth, smiling in satisfaction at her stealth. Disobedience made the candy extra delicious.
“Mrs. Winslow, Mary has chocolate!” Sierra Smith shouted from the seat behind her.
“Do not!” Mary protested. But the soft chocolate had left incriminating splotches on her fingers and lips.
“Empty your pockets, Mary,” Karen instructed.
Mary reluctantly produced the stash of chocolate eggs.
“If she brings candy she’s supposed to share,” Sierra pointed out.
“Normally that’s true…” Karen started to say. She didn’t get to finish the thought. The Guppies descended on Mary like a school of piranhas. In no time the chocolate eggs were gone, two thirds into the children’s stomachs and one third smeared across their hands which were now distributing it to various surfaces of the van.
Karen tried in vain to calm the feeding frenzy. Then a loud BANG silenced the children.
The right rear tire of the van had blown out. The momentary quiet was quickly filled by high pitched screams. A second later the children joined Kevin in his screaming.
Kevin managed to steer the vehicle over to the side of the road. Kevin and Karen both exited the van to examine the flat. Karen called for a tow truck to change the tire. “They’ll be here in forty-five minutes,” she informed Kevin. “It’s a holiday.”
Kevin eyed the van which was shaking from the chaos of the wild, screaming beasts inside. “Guppies” seemed like a less and less appropriate name with each passing minute. “We have a spare,” he said. “I’ll change it myself. You watch the kids.”
Karen also eyed the van. “Why do you get to change it? I know how to change a tire. You watch the kids.”
“I think watching kids sounds more like your job.”
“Why? Because I’m a woman? That’s sexist!”
“Okay, okay,” Kevin said. “Let’s flip for it.” He produced a coin and Karen called heads. It came up tails. Karen sighed and returned to the van while Kevin got the spare tire out of the back.
Kevin whistled while he loosened the lug nuts on the flat. It helped him drown out the screams and bangs from inside the van.
The last lug nut proved extremely difficult to loosen. Kevin had to stomp on the lug wrench with his foot to get it started. It finally budged a fraction of an inch. Then another. He grabbed the wrench with both hands and eased his weight onto it.
The lug nut popped loose. The wrench banged down onto the pavement, smashing Kevin’s fingers under it. Kevin did a little jig, clutching his hands between his thighs and expressing his pain verbally with a colorful and detailed string of profanity he usually reserved for watching sports.
He froze when he realized the noise from the van had stopped. He looked back over his shoulder and saw seven preschoolers and one fuming teacher staring out the window at him.
Kevin grinned sheepishly and told Karen that for safety reasons the kids should probably get out of the van before he jacked it up. He suggested she take them on a nature walk. Karen thought that was a good idea.
Kevin finished changing the tire while Karen pointed out a variety of ants, grasshoppers and weeds to the kids on their nature walk through the vacant lot across the street. Ten minutes later they were on their way again.
They reached the petting zoo and turned the kids loose on the animals. Kevin and Karen flopped down on a bench to watch. “Thank you, Lord, for getting me through that ordeal,” Kevin prayed silently.
Then Sierra got bit by a duck. She shouted out the same string of profanity that Kevin had used earlier, recalling it with remarkable precision.
Kevin looked at the sky. “Very funny,” he said.
(In loving memory of uncle Gene.)
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Sunday, March 22, 2009
LOL: Little Old Ladies
Hear the story read by the author
In the town of Normal, Pennsylvania, there’s a little church at the corner of Wilson and Elm. Every Sunday afternoon three of the women of the church go to tea at a little café called “Roger’s.” The trio consists of dour, 70 year-old lifetime congregant Henrietta Miggins; 75 year-old African-American choir member Celia Simmons; and 73 year-old Betsy Davis, a proper Southern lady who only recently moved to town.
This weekly tea party has been going on for thirteen years. Originally the group consisted of Henrietta, Celia and Marjorie East. After Marjorie passed away, Henrietta and Celia kept the tradition alive for about a year until Betsy arrived to restore their threesome, much to Celia’s relief. Celia and Henrietta were dear, long time friends but Celia found Henrietta a bit difficult to take one on one.
As they approached Roger’s one recent Sunday, Celia, who was a retired English teacher, said, “I hate when restaurants use apostrophes improperly. You would think before they spent all that money on a sign they’d consult someone who knew something about grammar.”
“It’s not incorrect,” Henrietta replied. “It stand’s for Roger’s café. It’s possessive.”
“That would be true if the word café was in the sign, but it’s not.”
“It’s implied,” Henrietta sighed. “Have you ever met anyone named ‘Rogers’?”
“Rogers is a common last name,” Celia said.
“But it’s not a last name. The café was started by Roger Anderson. It says so on the back of the menu.”
Betsy ignored the argument. Celia and Henrietta had been having it every Sunday for thirteen years. Neither was ever going to win.
When the three women entered they discovered an unknown woman standing behind the hostess station. She was a slim brunette with a large mole on her neck. She welcomed them to Roger’s with an Eastern European accent none of the ladies could place.
“Where’s Doreen?” Henrietta asked.
“She does not work here anymore,” the woman said. “I’m Sasha. There are three of you today?”
“Yes, there are three of us,” Henrietta said. “We come here for tea every Sunday and we always sit at that table.” She gestured toward a table by the window, only just then realizing it was occupied by a young couple. Henrietta noticed the man was wearing a baseball cap. Inside. While dining. She fixed him with a disapproving gaze though he didn’t seem to notice.
“I am sorry, that table is already occupied,” Sasha said. “Perhaps you will like this one?”
She indicated a table in the corner.
“Perhaps we will not,” Henrietta said.
“It will do for today,” Betsy quickly interrupted. Henrietta harrumphed but acquiesced and the ladies were seated.
“I didn’t think it was possible to find a worse hostess than Doreen,” Henrietta mused, “but they seem to have done it.
“She’s new, bless her heart,” Betsy said.
“She’s foreign,” Celia noted. They all nodded sagely in unison as if that explained everything.
It took a few minutes more than usual for their regular waiter, a young man named Keith, to come take their order. There had been an argument in the kitchen because the ladies were not in Keith’s section today. Keith thought that meant he was off the hook. But the waiter whose section it was insisted he take that table. After losing a game of rock-paper-scissors, Keith agreed.
“Your usual tea and basket of scones, ladies?” he asked after they had finished complaining to him about Sasha and her failure to sit them in their accustomed location.
“What are your specials?” Betsy asked. Keith rattled them off.
“What’s the soup today?” Celia asked. Keith told her it was French Onion.
“Is the salmon fresh?” Henrietta inquired. Keith assured her it was.
Several minutes later the ladies ordered tea and a basket of scones. Just like they had every Sunday for thirteen years.
Over the next hour as the three ladies drank their tea and ate their scones they critiqued that morning’s church service. Celia complained that Missy Moore had mangled the hymn she sang for the “special music” and shouldn’t be allowed to solo ever again. Henrietta bemoaned Thad Wheeling’s inarticulate delivery of the scripture. Betsy, who had been brought up not to say unkind things about anyone, expressed sympathy for the parents of the child who cried through communion. “It must be so hard to be a good parent these days, bless their hearts,” she said.
They all agreed the sermon was far too long, of course.
When they ran out of tea, scones, and things to criticize, the ladies split the check, leaving Keith their usual twelve percent tip.
“You know, the nice thing about this table is it’s not under the vent so the air doesn’t blow on you,” Celia observed.
“That’s true,” Betsy agreed. “And it has a nice view of the park.”
Henrietta stopped Keith on their way out. “That tip’s all for you,” she instructed. “Don’t give any to that horrid new foreign hostess.”
“You have a nice afternoon, now,” Keith replied.
“Oh, and make sure she seats us at the same table next week,” Henrietta said. “It’s better than our old one.”
In the town of Normal, Pennsylvania, there’s a little church at the corner of Wilson and Elm. Every Sunday afternoon three of the women of the church go to tea at a little café called “Roger’s.” The trio consists of dour, 70 year-old lifetime congregant Henrietta Miggins; 75 year-old African-American choir member Celia Simmons; and 73 year-old Betsy Davis, a proper Southern lady who only recently moved to town.
This weekly tea party has been going on for thirteen years. Originally the group consisted of Henrietta, Celia and Marjorie East. After Marjorie passed away, Henrietta and Celia kept the tradition alive for about a year until Betsy arrived to restore their threesome, much to Celia’s relief. Celia and Henrietta were dear, long time friends but Celia found Henrietta a bit difficult to take one on one.
As they approached Roger’s one recent Sunday, Celia, who was a retired English teacher, said, “I hate when restaurants use apostrophes improperly. You would think before they spent all that money on a sign they’d consult someone who knew something about grammar.”
“It’s not incorrect,” Henrietta replied. “It stand’s for Roger’s café. It’s possessive.”
“That would be true if the word café was in the sign, but it’s not.”
“It’s implied,” Henrietta sighed. “Have you ever met anyone named ‘Rogers’?”
“Rogers is a common last name,” Celia said.
“But it’s not a last name. The café was started by Roger Anderson. It says so on the back of the menu.”
Betsy ignored the argument. Celia and Henrietta had been having it every Sunday for thirteen years. Neither was ever going to win.
When the three women entered they discovered an unknown woman standing behind the hostess station. She was a slim brunette with a large mole on her neck. She welcomed them to Roger’s with an Eastern European accent none of the ladies could place.
“Where’s Doreen?” Henrietta asked.
“She does not work here anymore,” the woman said. “I’m Sasha. There are three of you today?”
“Yes, there are three of us,” Henrietta said. “We come here for tea every Sunday and we always sit at that table.” She gestured toward a table by the window, only just then realizing it was occupied by a young couple. Henrietta noticed the man was wearing a baseball cap. Inside. While dining. She fixed him with a disapproving gaze though he didn’t seem to notice.
“I am sorry, that table is already occupied,” Sasha said. “Perhaps you will like this one?”
She indicated a table in the corner.
“Perhaps we will not,” Henrietta said.
“It will do for today,” Betsy quickly interrupted. Henrietta harrumphed but acquiesced and the ladies were seated.
“I didn’t think it was possible to find a worse hostess than Doreen,” Henrietta mused, “but they seem to have done it.
“She’s new, bless her heart,” Betsy said.
“She’s foreign,” Celia noted. They all nodded sagely in unison as if that explained everything.
It took a few minutes more than usual for their regular waiter, a young man named Keith, to come take their order. There had been an argument in the kitchen because the ladies were not in Keith’s section today. Keith thought that meant he was off the hook. But the waiter whose section it was insisted he take that table. After losing a game of rock-paper-scissors, Keith agreed.
“Your usual tea and basket of scones, ladies?” he asked after they had finished complaining to him about Sasha and her failure to sit them in their accustomed location.
“What are your specials?” Betsy asked. Keith rattled them off.
“What’s the soup today?” Celia asked. Keith told her it was French Onion.
“Is the salmon fresh?” Henrietta inquired. Keith assured her it was.
Several minutes later the ladies ordered tea and a basket of scones. Just like they had every Sunday for thirteen years.
Over the next hour as the three ladies drank their tea and ate their scones they critiqued that morning’s church service. Celia complained that Missy Moore had mangled the hymn she sang for the “special music” and shouldn’t be allowed to solo ever again. Henrietta bemoaned Thad Wheeling’s inarticulate delivery of the scripture. Betsy, who had been brought up not to say unkind things about anyone, expressed sympathy for the parents of the child who cried through communion. “It must be so hard to be a good parent these days, bless their hearts,” she said.
They all agreed the sermon was far too long, of course.
When they ran out of tea, scones, and things to criticize, the ladies split the check, leaving Keith their usual twelve percent tip.
“You know, the nice thing about this table is it’s not under the vent so the air doesn’t blow on you,” Celia observed.
“That’s true,” Betsy agreed. “And it has a nice view of the park.”
Henrietta stopped Keith on their way out. “That tip’s all for you,” she instructed. “Don’t give any to that horrid new foreign hostess.”
“You have a nice afternoon, now,” Keith replied.
“Oh, and make sure she seats us at the same table next week,” Henrietta said. “It’s better than our old one.”
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Daylight Savings Time
Hear the story read by the author
In the town of Normal, Pennsylvania, there’s a little church at the corner of Wilson and Elm. One Sunday morning the Pastor of the church, Henry O’Donnell, was shaken awake by his daughter, Katie. “Dad, wake up!” Katie said. “It’s after eight.”
Henry blinked at his alarm clock, trying to get the digital numbers to focus. It said 7:03. “It’s seven,” he mumbled. “I have half an hour until my alarm goes off.”
“Did you forget Daylight Savings Time?” Katie asked.
Henry has not, in fact, forgotten Daylight Savings Time. The night before he’d changed every clock in the house save the one on his night stand which he figured he would reset just before he went to bed. But he’d stayed up late watching a movie and when he finally stumbled bleary-eyed up to his bedroom, he had forgotten that final, all-important clock. His wife Jennifer was on a business trip so she hadn’t been there to remind him, either. The shot of adrenalin as Henry realized all this brought him fully awake.
The first service of the morning started at 9:00. Henry knew from experience that the latest he dare leave his house was 8:30 a.m. That gave him twenty-seven minutes. Actually twenty-six. He’d used up one precious minute making those calculations.
Henry pulled on a clean white shirt and slacks. Having less than half an hour to get ready meant he had to set priorities. For Henry, breakfast was a priority. He could skip his shower, forget about the paper, but he was not a man who allowed himself to miss meals.
Henry elected for the quickest breakfast he knew how to make: toaster waffles. He wolfed down four with a glass of orange juice and cup of coffee.
Katie looked up over the comics section of the paper as Henry shoved the last enormous forkful of waffle in his mouth. “You’ve got syrup on your shirt,” she informed him.
Henry dashed upstairs to change his shirt.
The time was 8:22. Henry continued his mental prioritizing. Forget brushing his teeth – he had mints in his glove compartment. But he had to shave. He might get away with one day’s growth, but he’d last applied his razor to his dark beard on Thursday, the day his wife had left for her business trip. He could imagine the disapproving looks he’d receive from certain ladies of the church if he showed up sporting a three-day stubble.
In his haste, he dripped a dollop of shaving gel on the fresh shirt. Using language that would have made the ladies at church gasp even more than the sight of an unshaven pastor, he soaked a washcloth and dabbed at the spot. The small seed of gel bloomed into a large blotch of greenish foam. Henry’s rubbing was only expanding the area affected so he pulled off the shirt and got another clean one – wisely waiting until after he finished shaving.
At 8:27 Henry was filling up a travel mug of coffee and thanking Katie profusely for brewing it that morning. And then the cup slipped out of his hand, bouncing on the counter and splattering his shirt.
He was out of clean dress shirts but found one in the hamper that appeared relatively fresh to the eye if not exactly to the nose. At 8:30 he was pulling out of the driveway and resisting the urge to inform Katie that her coffee was a little on the strong side.
He made it to church at 8:54, much to the relief of choir director Shane Reed and church secretary Tammy Billings.
After church, Henry dropped Katie off at the movies to meet a couple of her friends. He then went through a fast food drive-through to get lunch. “Whew,” he thought, “thank heavens that’s over!” He ate in the car, dripping ketchup on his shirt, then drove out to the airport to pick up his wife.
He was an hour late. He’d forgotten to reset his car’s dashboard clock for daylight saving’s time.
In the town of Normal, Pennsylvania, there’s a little church at the corner of Wilson and Elm. One Sunday morning the Pastor of the church, Henry O’Donnell, was shaken awake by his daughter, Katie. “Dad, wake up!” Katie said. “It’s after eight.”
Henry blinked at his alarm clock, trying to get the digital numbers to focus. It said 7:03. “It’s seven,” he mumbled. “I have half an hour until my alarm goes off.”
“Did you forget Daylight Savings Time?” Katie asked.
Henry has not, in fact, forgotten Daylight Savings Time. The night before he’d changed every clock in the house save the one on his night stand which he figured he would reset just before he went to bed. But he’d stayed up late watching a movie and when he finally stumbled bleary-eyed up to his bedroom, he had forgotten that final, all-important clock. His wife Jennifer was on a business trip so she hadn’t been there to remind him, either. The shot of adrenalin as Henry realized all this brought him fully awake.
The first service of the morning started at 9:00. Henry knew from experience that the latest he dare leave his house was 8:30 a.m. That gave him twenty-seven minutes. Actually twenty-six. He’d used up one precious minute making those calculations.
Henry pulled on a clean white shirt and slacks. Having less than half an hour to get ready meant he had to set priorities. For Henry, breakfast was a priority. He could skip his shower, forget about the paper, but he was not a man who allowed himself to miss meals.
Henry elected for the quickest breakfast he knew how to make: toaster waffles. He wolfed down four with a glass of orange juice and cup of coffee.
Katie looked up over the comics section of the paper as Henry shoved the last enormous forkful of waffle in his mouth. “You’ve got syrup on your shirt,” she informed him.
Henry dashed upstairs to change his shirt.
The time was 8:22. Henry continued his mental prioritizing. Forget brushing his teeth – he had mints in his glove compartment. But he had to shave. He might get away with one day’s growth, but he’d last applied his razor to his dark beard on Thursday, the day his wife had left for her business trip. He could imagine the disapproving looks he’d receive from certain ladies of the church if he showed up sporting a three-day stubble.
In his haste, he dripped a dollop of shaving gel on the fresh shirt. Using language that would have made the ladies at church gasp even more than the sight of an unshaven pastor, he soaked a washcloth and dabbed at the spot. The small seed of gel bloomed into a large blotch of greenish foam. Henry’s rubbing was only expanding the area affected so he pulled off the shirt and got another clean one – wisely waiting until after he finished shaving.
At 8:27 Henry was filling up a travel mug of coffee and thanking Katie profusely for brewing it that morning. And then the cup slipped out of his hand, bouncing on the counter and splattering his shirt.
He was out of clean dress shirts but found one in the hamper that appeared relatively fresh to the eye if not exactly to the nose. At 8:30 he was pulling out of the driveway and resisting the urge to inform Katie that her coffee was a little on the strong side.
He made it to church at 8:54, much to the relief of choir director Shane Reed and church secretary Tammy Billings.
After church, Henry dropped Katie off at the movies to meet a couple of her friends. He then went through a fast food drive-through to get lunch. “Whew,” he thought, “thank heavens that’s over!” He ate in the car, dripping ketchup on his shirt, then drove out to the airport to pick up his wife.
He was an hour late. He’d forgotten to reset his car’s dashboard clock for daylight saving’s time.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Cranky
Hear the story read by the author.
In the town of Normal, Pennsylvania, there’s a little church at the corner of Wilson and Elm. As winter lurched toward spring with considerable backsliding, a rainstorm moved into town one Tuesday in late February. Church secretary Tammy Billings, normally an upbeat and optimistic person, hated rain. It put her in an inexplicably foul mood.
Her husband Ralph knew this about her, of course, and had long ago given up trying to brighten her spirits on such days. As he drove her to the church that morning he was careful not to say anything that might unleash her ill temper. Which meant they didn’t speak at all during the drive.
When he dropped her off, he reminded her that he’d be picking her up for their weekly lunch date at noon. Even that simple sentence resulted in a tirade to the effect that yes, Tammy was smart enough to know it was Tuesday and she did remember that they had lunch together every Tuesday for the last six years. Ralph was rather relieved when she slammed the car door.
Pastor Henry O’Donnell didn’t particularly love or despise rainy days, but on this particular day he was in an excellent mood. That morning he’d found a small game as a prize in his cereal box, the kind with a little ball that you had to roll through a maze without letting it fall into any of several holes. He derived great joy from such simple treasures.
Unlike Ralph, Pastor O’Donnell had not learned to avoid unnecessary interactions with Tammy on rainy days. He’d known her long enough to recognize the impact precipitation had on her spirits but he stubbornly believed he had the power to cheer her up despite all the historical evidence to the contrary.
He thought perhaps his good mood would rub off on her over the course of their day, but in fact quite the opposite proved to be true. By mid-morning all memory of the little cereal box game had been erased and he was stomping around snapping at anyone who crossed his path.
And then the light in his office burned out.
“Tammy!” he bellowed. “My light just burned out. Can you go get me another bulb?”
“Why? Are you stuck in a bear trap or something?” she shot back.
“No. But I’m right in the middle of doing my status report for the district.”
“Well you certainly can’t work on it while your light’s burned out so you might as well go get the bulb yourself.”
Henry grumbled under his breath the entire way to the supply closet. His grumbling rose several levels above his breath when he discovered they were out of the specific kind of halogen bulb his light required.
“We’re out,” he informed Tammy upon his return.
“Tragic,” she replied.
“Would you go out and buy me another with petty cash?”
“Ralph has the car today.”
“There’s a hardware store right across the street.”
“A nice stroll will do you good.”
Henry gave up. “It’s the middle of the day. I can work without a light,” he snapped.
Though it was the middle of the day, the heavy overcast meant only a gloomy gray glow penetrated the two windows of his office. He could use his computer without much trouble, but he was working from printed records and he found he had to hold them inches in front of his face to read the type.
“Having difficulty?” Tammy asked.
Henry looked up over the paper he had pressed to his nose. Tammy was standing in his door with an armload of files. “Not at all,” he replied.
Tammy smirked and went to the filing cabinets that were opposite the windows in his office. Unfortunately for her, the lack of light also made it extremely hard to read the file labels.
“Having difficulty?” Henry asked.
Tammy realized she was bent half over squinting at the labels. “Not at all,” she replied.
They went on like that for several more minutes, neither wanting to admit the lack of light was troubling them. Finally Henry could take it no more. But he did not want to give Tammy the satisfaction of winning their passive aggressive battle.
He claimed he was heading to the bathroom but in reality he planned to sneak over to the hardware store. He figured he could claim he found a spare bulb pushed into the back of the supply closet while he was getting a refill for the paper towel dispenser.
Meanwhile, Tammy was losing patience with the inefficiencies of filing blind. But she didn’t want to give Henry the satisfaction of seeing her give up, either. So she crafted a plan nearly identical to his. She would sneak out the back door and go across to the hardware store. She could claim the bulb was actually in the supply cabinet all along and the pastor simply hadn’t looked hard enough.
Henry grabbed a hooded jacket from the lost and found and went out the main entrance. As he stomped down the short staircase, he slipped on the last wet step and stumbled forward. His left foot landed smack in the middle of a deep puddle. Immediately he felt icy water seep in and soak his sock. He hopped back only to plant his right foot in another puddle.
“Great,” Henry thought, “Just great. Stupid rain.” He tromped down the path, not bothering to avoid the puddles anymore since his feet were already wet. In fact, as he went, he made it a point to splash into every puddle no matter how small. “There, does that make you happy?” he shouted at the muddy water.
About that moment Tammy trudged around the side of the church huddled under an umbrella someone had left in the social hall and discovered Henry jumping up and down in the puddles like a five year-old, water splattering everywhere and soaking his pant legs.
Tammy began to laugh.
She laughed deep belly laughs. She was so consumed by the laughter she let the umbrella fall to her side, completely ignoring the drizzle that dampened her hair.
Henry, startled, stopped his prancing. He stared at her for a few seconds then began to laugh himself. He wasn’t even sure why. When Tammy was finally able to speak again, she gasped out, “What in the world are you doing?”
“I…” Henry started to say. Then he just shrugged. This sent Tammy into another fit of laughter. Henry was heartened by this and did a little jig in the largest puddle. He hooked Tammy’s arm in his and spun her around. She was laughing so hard tears were mixing with the rain rolling down her cheeks.
When Ralph pulled into the parking lot ten minutes later to pick his wife up for their lunch date, he was shocked to see her dancing in the rain with Pastor O’Donnell, their soaked hair pasted against their foreheads, kicking water at each other.
“Well, I guess that’s that,” he said. “The rain has finally made my wife completely bonkers.” He couldn’t imagine what Pastor O’Donnell’s excuse was.
In the town of Normal, Pennsylvania, there’s a little church at the corner of Wilson and Elm. As winter lurched toward spring with considerable backsliding, a rainstorm moved into town one Tuesday in late February. Church secretary Tammy Billings, normally an upbeat and optimistic person, hated rain. It put her in an inexplicably foul mood.
Her husband Ralph knew this about her, of course, and had long ago given up trying to brighten her spirits on such days. As he drove her to the church that morning he was careful not to say anything that might unleash her ill temper. Which meant they didn’t speak at all during the drive.
When he dropped her off, he reminded her that he’d be picking her up for their weekly lunch date at noon. Even that simple sentence resulted in a tirade to the effect that yes, Tammy was smart enough to know it was Tuesday and she did remember that they had lunch together every Tuesday for the last six years. Ralph was rather relieved when she slammed the car door.
Pastor Henry O’Donnell didn’t particularly love or despise rainy days, but on this particular day he was in an excellent mood. That morning he’d found a small game as a prize in his cereal box, the kind with a little ball that you had to roll through a maze without letting it fall into any of several holes. He derived great joy from such simple treasures.
Unlike Ralph, Pastor O’Donnell had not learned to avoid unnecessary interactions with Tammy on rainy days. He’d known her long enough to recognize the impact precipitation had on her spirits but he stubbornly believed he had the power to cheer her up despite all the historical evidence to the contrary.
He thought perhaps his good mood would rub off on her over the course of their day, but in fact quite the opposite proved to be true. By mid-morning all memory of the little cereal box game had been erased and he was stomping around snapping at anyone who crossed his path.
And then the light in his office burned out.
“Tammy!” he bellowed. “My light just burned out. Can you go get me another bulb?”
“Why? Are you stuck in a bear trap or something?” she shot back.
“No. But I’m right in the middle of doing my status report for the district.”
“Well you certainly can’t work on it while your light’s burned out so you might as well go get the bulb yourself.”
Henry grumbled under his breath the entire way to the supply closet. His grumbling rose several levels above his breath when he discovered they were out of the specific kind of halogen bulb his light required.
“We’re out,” he informed Tammy upon his return.
“Tragic,” she replied.
“Would you go out and buy me another with petty cash?”
“Ralph has the car today.”
“There’s a hardware store right across the street.”
“A nice stroll will do you good.”
Henry gave up. “It’s the middle of the day. I can work without a light,” he snapped.
Though it was the middle of the day, the heavy overcast meant only a gloomy gray glow penetrated the two windows of his office. He could use his computer without much trouble, but he was working from printed records and he found he had to hold them inches in front of his face to read the type.
“Having difficulty?” Tammy asked.
Henry looked up over the paper he had pressed to his nose. Tammy was standing in his door with an armload of files. “Not at all,” he replied.
Tammy smirked and went to the filing cabinets that were opposite the windows in his office. Unfortunately for her, the lack of light also made it extremely hard to read the file labels.
“Having difficulty?” Henry asked.
Tammy realized she was bent half over squinting at the labels. “Not at all,” she replied.
They went on like that for several more minutes, neither wanting to admit the lack of light was troubling them. Finally Henry could take it no more. But he did not want to give Tammy the satisfaction of winning their passive aggressive battle.
He claimed he was heading to the bathroom but in reality he planned to sneak over to the hardware store. He figured he could claim he found a spare bulb pushed into the back of the supply closet while he was getting a refill for the paper towel dispenser.
Meanwhile, Tammy was losing patience with the inefficiencies of filing blind. But she didn’t want to give Henry the satisfaction of seeing her give up, either. So she crafted a plan nearly identical to his. She would sneak out the back door and go across to the hardware store. She could claim the bulb was actually in the supply cabinet all along and the pastor simply hadn’t looked hard enough.
Henry grabbed a hooded jacket from the lost and found and went out the main entrance. As he stomped down the short staircase, he slipped on the last wet step and stumbled forward. His left foot landed smack in the middle of a deep puddle. Immediately he felt icy water seep in and soak his sock. He hopped back only to plant his right foot in another puddle.
“Great,” Henry thought, “Just great. Stupid rain.” He tromped down the path, not bothering to avoid the puddles anymore since his feet were already wet. In fact, as he went, he made it a point to splash into every puddle no matter how small. “There, does that make you happy?” he shouted at the muddy water.
About that moment Tammy trudged around the side of the church huddled under an umbrella someone had left in the social hall and discovered Henry jumping up and down in the puddles like a five year-old, water splattering everywhere and soaking his pant legs.
Tammy began to laugh.
She laughed deep belly laughs. She was so consumed by the laughter she let the umbrella fall to her side, completely ignoring the drizzle that dampened her hair.
Henry, startled, stopped his prancing. He stared at her for a few seconds then began to laugh himself. He wasn’t even sure why. When Tammy was finally able to speak again, she gasped out, “What in the world are you doing?”
“I…” Henry started to say. Then he just shrugged. This sent Tammy into another fit of laughter. Henry was heartened by this and did a little jig in the largest puddle. He hooked Tammy’s arm in his and spun her around. She was laughing so hard tears were mixing with the rain rolling down her cheeks.
When Ralph pulled into the parking lot ten minutes later to pick his wife up for their lunch date, he was shocked to see her dancing in the rain with Pastor O’Donnell, their soaked hair pasted against their foreheads, kicking water at each other.
“Well, I guess that’s that,” he said. “The rain has finally made my wife completely bonkers.” He couldn’t imagine what Pastor O’Donnell’s excuse was.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
The Investment - Part Two
(If you missed part one, it is available below this story on the blog)
Hear the story read by the author.
In the town of Normal, Pennsylvania, there’s a little church at the corner of Wilson and Elm. Recently, a con man who called himself Gerald Huntsman III came to the church. Gerald claimed to be an investment manager who had come to Normal on behalf of a group of venture capitalists to organize financing for a start-up that owned the rights to a mysterious new technology which Gerald described in a flurry of meaningless terminology.
This mission was supposedly top secret, of course, but Del Winslow, a member of the church choir, and Pastor Henry O’Donnell had managed to weasel the details out of Gerald with surprisingly little effort one evening over a game of pool in Del’s rec room. Del, sensing an opportunity, begged Gerald to allow him to invest his life savings in the venture. Pastor O’Donnell wanted to invest as well, but his naturally skeptical wife Jennifer wouldn’t hear of it. Gerald finally relented and allowed Del to invest, admonishing everyone present that evening to keep the matter completely confidential.
Which is why Del was nearly apoplectic when he cornered the pastor during coffee hour the following Sunday.
“In the last twenty minutes five different people have told me about Gerald’s secret investment opportunity!” Del hissed. “Did you tell anyone?”
“No, of course not,” Henry said. “Well, Tammy. And Shane. And I might have mentioned something to Walter. But I swore all of them to absolute secrecy.”
Del buried his head in his hands. He felt like crying. “What will Gerald say? You might have jeopardized the whole thing!”
Gerald, of course, would have thanked the pastor. He was counting on the “secret” getting out. Every time someone approached him at coffee hour with that conspiratorial look in their eyes he knew he was about to make more money.
Meanwhile, Gerald had been charming a trio of older women from the church – Henrietta Miggins, Celia Simmons and Betsy Davis. He had become a regular at their Sunday afternoon tea, much to Celia and Betsy’s delight and Henrietta’s consternation. However, over a three week period he had also fixed Henrietta’s toilet, dragged some large furniture items down from her attic and shoveled her walkway several times – not to mention countless smaller chores like changing light bulbs and taking out the trash. So Henrietta tolerated the temporary male intrusion into the previously all-girl teas.
During that Sunday afternoon’s tea, after they’d gone through the routine criticism of the café’s scones which somehow still never went uneaten, Betsy said, “Gerald, I understand you’re handling some investments for members of the church.”
“Why yes,” Gerald replied. “A few of the nice folks here have asked to buy into the start-up for which I’m arranging financing. Why? Were you interested in investing?”
“Is it a sound investment,” Betsy asked.
“I think so,” Gerald replied. “In fact, I’ve put a good deal of my own money in it.”
“Well, if you’re that confident then it certainly must be worthwhile.”
“I would be delighted to include you,” Gerald said, then looked over at Celia. “How about you, Celia? Would you care to invest?”
Celia shook her head. “My son handles all my money,” she said.
“I see. And you?” Gerald asked Henrietta. From his time in her house doing odd jobs he knew the old bag was loaded. He was determined to get some reward for all the work he’d put in.
“Hm. I’ll think about it.” She said. “But I don’t believe this is an appropriate topic of discussion for tea. If I may change the subject, you won’t believe what I found when I went into the garage this morning. My Ford has two flat tires!”
“You never drive that thing anyway,” Celia snorted.
“Whether I drive it or not I like to keep it in good working order. I’m not operating a junk yard.”
“Would you like me to come over this evening and fix the tires?” Gerald asked.
“That would be very kind,” Henrietta replied. “Thank you. And while you’re there, perhaps you could help me change the filter on my central heat. It would give us a chance to talk more about this business venture of yours.”
“I’d be delighted,” Gerald said.
As Gerald gradually secured interest from two dozen members of the congregation, he gave each of them paperwork to look over and asked them to return it along with cashier’s checks on the final Sunday of the month. He warned them that in good conscious he couldn’t accept any money they couldn’t afford to lose. Which only caused everyone to promise an even larger investment.
Pastor O’Donnell was feeling pretty miserable as he watched Gerald collect paperwork and checks from a quarter of the congregation during coffee hour that final Sunday of the month. He tried once more to convince Jennifer to let him invest a few thousand dollars, offering to spend the proceeds on a luxurious vacation in Hawaii which he pitched to her as a second honeymoon, though in his mind it would be a golf getaway. Jennifer cut him off by pointing out that their bank was closed on Sundays so he couldn’t get a cashier’s check even if she relented.
The pastor tried to console himself with a brownie and the idea that the church offering plates would be well filled once his flock became incredibly wealthy. But it wasn’t much consolation.
Gerald, on the other hand, was feeling pretty good as he put the checks and paperwork into his briefcase. The checks were going into a private bank account and the paperwork was going into the trash. In three weeks Gerald would be long gone and the bank account closed.
He was a little annoyed to find that Henrietta was absent from church that day. After all the time he’d put in he felt she would have been good for at least a few grand.
Then Betsy walked up and handed him her paperwork and check. “Thank you,” she said. “I’m very excited to be a part of this.”
Gerald gave her a big, warm smile. It was only his years of con man experience that allowed him to maintain the smile when he looked down and discovered the check was for $100.
Gerald hadn’t done as well as he’d hoped, but he had still taken in over $200,000 by the time he said his goodbyes and made his way toward the door. That would be enough to lie low for at least a year before he had to find another church full of nice, naïve folks.
That’s when his plan went completely awry.
When he stepped outside he found a dozen policemen arrayed around the building. Henrietta Miggins was standing next to the commanding officer.
Within a few minutes the whole congregation had spilled out into the parking lot. “What’s going on?” Del bellowed as the police handcuffed Gerald and eased him into the back of a squad car.
“That man’s a con artist,” Henrietta said. I did a search for his company online and got all kinds of warnings. There are seven warrants out for his arrest. The police were very interested to hear from me.”
Del huffed and sputtered and wondered why he hadn’t bothered to check Gerald out online himself. He tried very hard not to think about how long he’d worked to save up the money he had intended to bet on the phony investment.
The congregation erupted in a panic of accusation, confusion and gossip. In the middle of the chaos, Pastor O’Donnell crossed his arms and nodded sagely. “I knew it,” he said. “His whole pitch never sounded quite right to me.” Jennifer O’Donnell, who was standing next to him, just rolled her eyes and went back inside.
And Henrietta was happy to realize that her tea would be free of any masculine intrusion that afternoon.
Hear the story read by the author.
In the town of Normal, Pennsylvania, there’s a little church at the corner of Wilson and Elm. Recently, a con man who called himself Gerald Huntsman III came to the church. Gerald claimed to be an investment manager who had come to Normal on behalf of a group of venture capitalists to organize financing for a start-up that owned the rights to a mysterious new technology which Gerald described in a flurry of meaningless terminology.
This mission was supposedly top secret, of course, but Del Winslow, a member of the church choir, and Pastor Henry O’Donnell had managed to weasel the details out of Gerald with surprisingly little effort one evening over a game of pool in Del’s rec room. Del, sensing an opportunity, begged Gerald to allow him to invest his life savings in the venture. Pastor O’Donnell wanted to invest as well, but his naturally skeptical wife Jennifer wouldn’t hear of it. Gerald finally relented and allowed Del to invest, admonishing everyone present that evening to keep the matter completely confidential.
Which is why Del was nearly apoplectic when he cornered the pastor during coffee hour the following Sunday.
“In the last twenty minutes five different people have told me about Gerald’s secret investment opportunity!” Del hissed. “Did you tell anyone?”
“No, of course not,” Henry said. “Well, Tammy. And Shane. And I might have mentioned something to Walter. But I swore all of them to absolute secrecy.”
Del buried his head in his hands. He felt like crying. “What will Gerald say? You might have jeopardized the whole thing!”
Gerald, of course, would have thanked the pastor. He was counting on the “secret” getting out. Every time someone approached him at coffee hour with that conspiratorial look in their eyes he knew he was about to make more money.
Meanwhile, Gerald had been charming a trio of older women from the church – Henrietta Miggins, Celia Simmons and Betsy Davis. He had become a regular at their Sunday afternoon tea, much to Celia and Betsy’s delight and Henrietta’s consternation. However, over a three week period he had also fixed Henrietta’s toilet, dragged some large furniture items down from her attic and shoveled her walkway several times – not to mention countless smaller chores like changing light bulbs and taking out the trash. So Henrietta tolerated the temporary male intrusion into the previously all-girl teas.
During that Sunday afternoon’s tea, after they’d gone through the routine criticism of the café’s scones which somehow still never went uneaten, Betsy said, “Gerald, I understand you’re handling some investments for members of the church.”
“Why yes,” Gerald replied. “A few of the nice folks here have asked to buy into the start-up for which I’m arranging financing. Why? Were you interested in investing?”
“Is it a sound investment,” Betsy asked.
“I think so,” Gerald replied. “In fact, I’ve put a good deal of my own money in it.”
“Well, if you’re that confident then it certainly must be worthwhile.”
“I would be delighted to include you,” Gerald said, then looked over at Celia. “How about you, Celia? Would you care to invest?”
Celia shook her head. “My son handles all my money,” she said.
“I see. And you?” Gerald asked Henrietta. From his time in her house doing odd jobs he knew the old bag was loaded. He was determined to get some reward for all the work he’d put in.
“Hm. I’ll think about it.” She said. “But I don’t believe this is an appropriate topic of discussion for tea. If I may change the subject, you won’t believe what I found when I went into the garage this morning. My Ford has two flat tires!”
“You never drive that thing anyway,” Celia snorted.
“Whether I drive it or not I like to keep it in good working order. I’m not operating a junk yard.”
“Would you like me to come over this evening and fix the tires?” Gerald asked.
“That would be very kind,” Henrietta replied. “Thank you. And while you’re there, perhaps you could help me change the filter on my central heat. It would give us a chance to talk more about this business venture of yours.”
“I’d be delighted,” Gerald said.
As Gerald gradually secured interest from two dozen members of the congregation, he gave each of them paperwork to look over and asked them to return it along with cashier’s checks on the final Sunday of the month. He warned them that in good conscious he couldn’t accept any money they couldn’t afford to lose. Which only caused everyone to promise an even larger investment.
Pastor O’Donnell was feeling pretty miserable as he watched Gerald collect paperwork and checks from a quarter of the congregation during coffee hour that final Sunday of the month. He tried once more to convince Jennifer to let him invest a few thousand dollars, offering to spend the proceeds on a luxurious vacation in Hawaii which he pitched to her as a second honeymoon, though in his mind it would be a golf getaway. Jennifer cut him off by pointing out that their bank was closed on Sundays so he couldn’t get a cashier’s check even if she relented.
The pastor tried to console himself with a brownie and the idea that the church offering plates would be well filled once his flock became incredibly wealthy. But it wasn’t much consolation.
Gerald, on the other hand, was feeling pretty good as he put the checks and paperwork into his briefcase. The checks were going into a private bank account and the paperwork was going into the trash. In three weeks Gerald would be long gone and the bank account closed.
He was a little annoyed to find that Henrietta was absent from church that day. After all the time he’d put in he felt she would have been good for at least a few grand.
Then Betsy walked up and handed him her paperwork and check. “Thank you,” she said. “I’m very excited to be a part of this.”
Gerald gave her a big, warm smile. It was only his years of con man experience that allowed him to maintain the smile when he looked down and discovered the check was for $100.
Gerald hadn’t done as well as he’d hoped, but he had still taken in over $200,000 by the time he said his goodbyes and made his way toward the door. That would be enough to lie low for at least a year before he had to find another church full of nice, naïve folks.
That’s when his plan went completely awry.
When he stepped outside he found a dozen policemen arrayed around the building. Henrietta Miggins was standing next to the commanding officer.
Within a few minutes the whole congregation had spilled out into the parking lot. “What’s going on?” Del bellowed as the police handcuffed Gerald and eased him into the back of a squad car.
“That man’s a con artist,” Henrietta said. I did a search for his company online and got all kinds of warnings. There are seven warrants out for his arrest. The police were very interested to hear from me.”
Del huffed and sputtered and wondered why he hadn’t bothered to check Gerald out online himself. He tried very hard not to think about how long he’d worked to save up the money he had intended to bet on the phony investment.
The congregation erupted in a panic of accusation, confusion and gossip. In the middle of the chaos, Pastor O’Donnell crossed his arms and nodded sagely. “I knew it,” he said. “His whole pitch never sounded quite right to me.” Jennifer O’Donnell, who was standing next to him, just rolled her eyes and went back inside.
And Henrietta was happy to realize that her tea would be free of any masculine intrusion that afternoon.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
The Investment - Part One
Hear the story read by the author.
In the town of Normal, Pennsylvania, there’s a little church at the corner of Wilson and Elm. Recently, a con man came to the church. The con man’s name was Gerald Huntsman III. It wasn’t his real name, of course, but it was how he introduced himself at coffee hour that first Sunday. “I find the ‘third’ at the end of my name a bit pretentious,” he told everyone. “So you can just call me Gerald.”
The so-called Gerald Huntsman III was a short man in his mid-forties with salt and pepper hair and just enough of a paunch to appear truly ordinary. He wore brown leather loafers and a brown belt that didn’t quite match. He also wore a gold watch that looked quite expensive as long as you weren’t in the watch appraisal business.
Gerald often found his marks at churches. People trusted folks they met at church…as long as they didn’t know them very well. And the congregation of this little church was quite warm and friendly. When Gerald, in an upbeat voice, described the dreary, lonely hotel room he was staying in, he immediately received an invitation for dinner at Del and Karen Winslow’s house for that Thursday evening.
Thanks to a fortuitously overheard conversation shortly thereafter, Gerald learned that a group of the older women at the church consisting of Henrietta Miggins, Betsy Davis and Celia Simmons had tea every Sunday afternoon at a little café. That afternoon Gerald just happened to drop in at the same café. He went over to the women’s table and greeted them, expressing his amazement at the odd coincidence of the encounter.
Upon learning Gerald was alone, Betsy, a gracious Southerner, invited him to join them. Henrietta frowned, certain this strange man would ruin their afternoon, but refrained from commenting on that belief in his presence.
Over the next hour Gerald charmed Betsy with his gentlemanly manners and flirted shamelessly with Celia, a proud, seventy-three year-old African-American woman. The only one he couldn’t seem to win over was Henrietta. He thought he might have found his in when the conversation turned to the troublesome plumbing in Henrietta’s upstairs bathroom.
“I used to work for a plumber,” Gerald said. “Perhaps I could be of service.”
Gerald had indeed worked for a plumber for several months, embezzling the poor fellow out of several tens of thousands of dollars. But he had picked up a few tricks of the trade as well, one of which proved useful when he went by Henrietta’s house the following evening. He quickly solved the problem of her running toilet. He also managed to ascertain that Henrietta was quite well off.
He volunteered to help with many other chores for her over the following weeks.
But before that came dinner with the Winslows. Del had also invited Pastor O’Donnell and his wife Jennifer. Karen Winslow made a lovely pot roast which was the best meal Gerald had eaten in several years – at least if his compliments were to be believed. In truth, Gerald was so accustomed to giving false compliments he wasn’t even sure himself whether he actually liked the dinner or not.
Afterwards, the group retreated to Del’s basement game room to play some pool. Karen would have preferred to have tea with Jennifer in the living room, but Jennifer’s father had owned a pool table and she was delighted at the prospect of a game. As Karen watched and Jennifer methodically slaughtered the men, Del’s curiosity got the better of him and he worked the conversation around to Gerald’s business in Normal.
“Well, I suppose I can trust you folks to keep a secret,” Gerald said. “After all if I can’t trust people from church, who can I trust, right? I’m handling an investment pool for a group of venture capitalists. We’re funding a company that’s acquired rights to a patent on a new wireless social networking interface application. It’s already been released in Norway and reached 85% penetration in only eighteen months.”
Del and O’Donnell nodded in unison. Neither quite understood what Gerald was saying but it sure sounded impressive.
“You know,” Del mused, “I have a little bit of a nest egg just sitting in a money market account. I’ve been thinking about moving it into something more aggressive. Is there any chance I could get in on this?”
Gerald pondered. “Well, the fund’s fully subscribed. I might be able to work some things around, increase the shares. But there’s a half million dollar minimum.”
“Oh,” Del said, his face falling. “I don’t have that much.”
They each took a few more shots. Del seemed distracted and scratched when it was his turn. Finally he broached the subject again. “If I came up with $100,000 do you think there’s any way you could make an exception?”
Gerald frowned and furrowed his brow. “Well…” he finally said, “I’ll probably take some heat, but hey, you seem like such a great guy and you’ve made me feel so welcome I guess I owe you one.”
Del beamed. “Excellent!” he said.
Gerald looked over at Henry. “How about you, pastor?”
Pastor O’Donnell’s face reddened. “That’s a little out of my league.”
“What league are we talking about?” Gerald asked. “I could always merge your investment with Del’s in a side fund.”
“I might be able to scrounge together something like $10,000.”
“I could work with that,” Gerald said.
Jennifer took a shot, hitting the cue ball extra hard so it cracked loudly off its target.
“What do you think, honey?” Henry said, having gotten his wife’s hint.
“We should discuss it when we get home” Jennifer replied. Everybody in the room except the pastor knew at that moment that the O’Donnells would not, in fact, be investing in Gerald’s fund.
“Okay,” Gerald said. “But let’s keep this absolutely secret. I don’t want to be bombarded with a bunch of people begging to get a piece of the action.”
Which of course is exactly what happened the following Sunday…just like Gerald had planned.
(To be continued in two weeks)
In the town of Normal, Pennsylvania, there’s a little church at the corner of Wilson and Elm. Recently, a con man came to the church. The con man’s name was Gerald Huntsman III. It wasn’t his real name, of course, but it was how he introduced himself at coffee hour that first Sunday. “I find the ‘third’ at the end of my name a bit pretentious,” he told everyone. “So you can just call me Gerald.”
The so-called Gerald Huntsman III was a short man in his mid-forties with salt and pepper hair and just enough of a paunch to appear truly ordinary. He wore brown leather loafers and a brown belt that didn’t quite match. He also wore a gold watch that looked quite expensive as long as you weren’t in the watch appraisal business.
Gerald often found his marks at churches. People trusted folks they met at church…as long as they didn’t know them very well. And the congregation of this little church was quite warm and friendly. When Gerald, in an upbeat voice, described the dreary, lonely hotel room he was staying in, he immediately received an invitation for dinner at Del and Karen Winslow’s house for that Thursday evening.
Thanks to a fortuitously overheard conversation shortly thereafter, Gerald learned that a group of the older women at the church consisting of Henrietta Miggins, Betsy Davis and Celia Simmons had tea every Sunday afternoon at a little café. That afternoon Gerald just happened to drop in at the same café. He went over to the women’s table and greeted them, expressing his amazement at the odd coincidence of the encounter.
Upon learning Gerald was alone, Betsy, a gracious Southerner, invited him to join them. Henrietta frowned, certain this strange man would ruin their afternoon, but refrained from commenting on that belief in his presence.
Over the next hour Gerald charmed Betsy with his gentlemanly manners and flirted shamelessly with Celia, a proud, seventy-three year-old African-American woman. The only one he couldn’t seem to win over was Henrietta. He thought he might have found his in when the conversation turned to the troublesome plumbing in Henrietta’s upstairs bathroom.
“I used to work for a plumber,” Gerald said. “Perhaps I could be of service.”
Gerald had indeed worked for a plumber for several months, embezzling the poor fellow out of several tens of thousands of dollars. But he had picked up a few tricks of the trade as well, one of which proved useful when he went by Henrietta’s house the following evening. He quickly solved the problem of her running toilet. He also managed to ascertain that Henrietta was quite well off.
He volunteered to help with many other chores for her over the following weeks.
But before that came dinner with the Winslows. Del had also invited Pastor O’Donnell and his wife Jennifer. Karen Winslow made a lovely pot roast which was the best meal Gerald had eaten in several years – at least if his compliments were to be believed. In truth, Gerald was so accustomed to giving false compliments he wasn’t even sure himself whether he actually liked the dinner or not.
Afterwards, the group retreated to Del’s basement game room to play some pool. Karen would have preferred to have tea with Jennifer in the living room, but Jennifer’s father had owned a pool table and she was delighted at the prospect of a game. As Karen watched and Jennifer methodically slaughtered the men, Del’s curiosity got the better of him and he worked the conversation around to Gerald’s business in Normal.
“Well, I suppose I can trust you folks to keep a secret,” Gerald said. “After all if I can’t trust people from church, who can I trust, right? I’m handling an investment pool for a group of venture capitalists. We’re funding a company that’s acquired rights to a patent on a new wireless social networking interface application. It’s already been released in Norway and reached 85% penetration in only eighteen months.”
Del and O’Donnell nodded in unison. Neither quite understood what Gerald was saying but it sure sounded impressive.
“You know,” Del mused, “I have a little bit of a nest egg just sitting in a money market account. I’ve been thinking about moving it into something more aggressive. Is there any chance I could get in on this?”
Gerald pondered. “Well, the fund’s fully subscribed. I might be able to work some things around, increase the shares. But there’s a half million dollar minimum.”
“Oh,” Del said, his face falling. “I don’t have that much.”
They each took a few more shots. Del seemed distracted and scratched when it was his turn. Finally he broached the subject again. “If I came up with $100,000 do you think there’s any way you could make an exception?”
Gerald frowned and furrowed his brow. “Well…” he finally said, “I’ll probably take some heat, but hey, you seem like such a great guy and you’ve made me feel so welcome I guess I owe you one.”
Del beamed. “Excellent!” he said.
Gerald looked over at Henry. “How about you, pastor?”
Pastor O’Donnell’s face reddened. “That’s a little out of my league.”
“What league are we talking about?” Gerald asked. “I could always merge your investment with Del’s in a side fund.”
“I might be able to scrounge together something like $10,000.”
“I could work with that,” Gerald said.
Jennifer took a shot, hitting the cue ball extra hard so it cracked loudly off its target.
“What do you think, honey?” Henry said, having gotten his wife’s hint.
“We should discuss it when we get home” Jennifer replied. Everybody in the room except the pastor knew at that moment that the O’Donnells would not, in fact, be investing in Gerald’s fund.
“Okay,” Gerald said. “But let’s keep this absolutely secret. I don’t want to be bombarded with a bunch of people begging to get a piece of the action.”
Which of course is exactly what happened the following Sunday…just like Gerald had planned.
(To be continued in two weeks)
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Trustees
Hear the story read by the author.
In the town of Normal, Pennsylvania, there’s a little church at the corner of Wilson and Elm. One Sunday during coffee hour Pastor Henry O’Donnell approached Kevin Boyer to ask him to serve on the church board of trustees. The pastor explained that he liked to rotate new blood onto the decision making organs of the church from time to time to keep things fresh and involve the younger generation in leadership.
Kevin was reluctant. He told the pastor that he wasn’t sure if he had the time to give proper attention to such an important position (by which he really meant that he feared serving as a trustee might cut into his time watching football on TV or playing basketball with his friends on Sunday afternoons). Besides, Kevin added, he didn’t even really know what a trustee was.
“The trustees are responsible for the physical plant,” Pastor O’Donnell explained. “They approve repairs and improvements to the building, buying new furniture, that sort of thing. The church office handles all the actual contracting and so forth. The trustees simply oversee it. They meet every two months for an hour or so after church.”
Kevin hemmed and hawed but Pastor O’Donnell was persistent. Finally Kevin admitted that it sounded like something he could handle. “Good,” Pastor O’Donnell replied, slapping Kevin on the shoulder. “I think you’re going to enjoy it.” The pastor wasn’t above the occasional little white lie when recruiting church members to service.
A few minutes later 70 year-old Henrietta Miggins stomped over to Kevin. “So,” Henrietta said, “I hear Pastor O’Donnell put you on trustees. As chairwoman I need to explain a few things about your duties.”
Neglecting to mention that Henrietta was chair of trustees was another one of Pastor O’Donnell’s recruiting strategies.
“Our job is to make sure member’s tithes are wisely spent,” Henrietta continued. “There are people who would throw church money around like it has an expiration date. You wouldn’t believe the crazy stuff folks want to buy when they don’t have to pay for it out of their own pocket. This generation has no sense of thriftiness or responsibility. In my day people knew the value of the dollar. I expect you to show similar restraint. Do you understand me?”
“Yes ma’am,” Kevin said. He didn’t customarily use the word “ma’am” but somehow it seemed to fit Henrietta.
“Good.” Henrietta replied with a stern frown. “We’re meeting at noon next week. Be punctual.”
The following week, Del Winslow came up to Kevin in coffee hour and offered him a donut. “Just wanted to welcome the newest trustee,” Del said. “Don’t worry, it’s not so bad. Just be careful not to get Ralph going on some long rant about healthy snacks at coffee hour.”
“Frankly, I’m still not quite sure what trustees do,” Kevin admitted as he bit into the jelly donut.
“It’s not hard,” Del told him. “For example, notice how the linoleum in here is chipped and peeling?” He gestured around the room. The floor was in pretty bad shape.
“Today we’re voting to replace it with a hard wood floor which, incidentally, will improve the acoustics dramatically. The choir performs in here from time to time, and let me tell you, it’s pretty awful.”
Kevin nodded sagely trying not to let on that he knew about as much about acoustics as he did the chemical composition of the soil on Venus.
“Mostly it’s pretty straightforward stuff like that. That old crow Henrietta Miggins throws a fit over every dime we spend but I just ignore her. It’s our job to keep this place in good order. We can’t have it falling down around us now, can we? Enjoy your donut.” Del clapped Kevin on the back and headed off to refill his coffee cup.
As Kevin dabbed at a jelly spot on his shirt with a napkin, his wife Jill returned from retrieving their two girls from Sunday school. She asked if he was ready for his first big trustees meeting.
“I guess,” Kevin said.
“Well, I’m proud of you,” Jill beamed. “Missy was just telling me how you guys are going to put hardwood flooring in here. That will be so pretty. I’ll take the girls to get some lunch and we’ll pick you up when you’re done.”
She kissed him and headed out. Then Ralph Billings came over. “How do you feel about the environment?” Ralph asked.
“I guess I’m for it,” Kevin said.
“Good. I’ve been trying to get the trustees to approve several green initiatives for the church. I hope I can count on your support.”
Kevin began to suspect he’d wandered into a minefield without being aware of it. As he considered how to reply, Henrietta Miggins called for them to come to the church office.
“Our first item on the agenda is the floor in the social hall,” Henrietta said once all seven committee members and Pastor O’Donnell were seated. “We have to make a decision today – replace the linoleum that has served us well for twenty years with newer linoleum or switch to more expensive hardwood flooring.”
Within seconds a heated debate had erupted. On the one hand Del Winslow, choir director Shane Reed and Missy Moore wanted hardwood flooring for its acoustic value and attractiveness.
Henrietta of course thought hardwood was far too extravagant. She was supported by Celia Simmons, a 73 year-old African American woman who was a member of the choir but shared Henrietta’s opinions on thrift.
When Ralph’s turn came to talk he said, “The choir always gets whatever it wants. I think we should put in linoleum and use the savings to buy energy efficient lighting.”
Pastor O’Donnell declined to take a side, reminding them that as clergy he was not technically a voting member of the committee.
Kevin discovered he was the swing vote. As the two sides lobbied him on their respective points of view, he tried to give Pastor O’Donnell a dirty look but the pastor’s attention seemed focused on his cuticles and he never met Kevin’s gaze.
Finally Kevin said he needed to use the restroom and beat a hasty retreat.
As he was returning, he encountered Jose, the church janitor, mopping the social hall. “Hi Jose,” Kevin said. “Hey, can I get your opinion on something? We’re going to replace this floor. Do you think hardwood or linoleum would be better.”
Jose pondered the question then shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess linoleum. It lasts longer.”
Kevin thanked him and returned to the meeting. After another twenty minutes of debate, Henrietta called for a vote. It came around to Kevin tied 3-3. “Linoleum,” Kevin said. “It lasts longer.”
The hardwood camp groaned and protested but Henrietta declared the matter decided. Del glared at Kevin and he suspected he hadn’t heard the end of this subject. But for the moment he didn’t care. He was due at a basketball game with his friends.
In the town of Normal, Pennsylvania, there’s a little church at the corner of Wilson and Elm. One Sunday during coffee hour Pastor Henry O’Donnell approached Kevin Boyer to ask him to serve on the church board of trustees. The pastor explained that he liked to rotate new blood onto the decision making organs of the church from time to time to keep things fresh and involve the younger generation in leadership.
Kevin was reluctant. He told the pastor that he wasn’t sure if he had the time to give proper attention to such an important position (by which he really meant that he feared serving as a trustee might cut into his time watching football on TV or playing basketball with his friends on Sunday afternoons). Besides, Kevin added, he didn’t even really know what a trustee was.
“The trustees are responsible for the physical plant,” Pastor O’Donnell explained. “They approve repairs and improvements to the building, buying new furniture, that sort of thing. The church office handles all the actual contracting and so forth. The trustees simply oversee it. They meet every two months for an hour or so after church.”
Kevin hemmed and hawed but Pastor O’Donnell was persistent. Finally Kevin admitted that it sounded like something he could handle. “Good,” Pastor O’Donnell replied, slapping Kevin on the shoulder. “I think you’re going to enjoy it.” The pastor wasn’t above the occasional little white lie when recruiting church members to service.
A few minutes later 70 year-old Henrietta Miggins stomped over to Kevin. “So,” Henrietta said, “I hear Pastor O’Donnell put you on trustees. As chairwoman I need to explain a few things about your duties.”
Neglecting to mention that Henrietta was chair of trustees was another one of Pastor O’Donnell’s recruiting strategies.
“Our job is to make sure member’s tithes are wisely spent,” Henrietta continued. “There are people who would throw church money around like it has an expiration date. You wouldn’t believe the crazy stuff folks want to buy when they don’t have to pay for it out of their own pocket. This generation has no sense of thriftiness or responsibility. In my day people knew the value of the dollar. I expect you to show similar restraint. Do you understand me?”
“Yes ma’am,” Kevin said. He didn’t customarily use the word “ma’am” but somehow it seemed to fit Henrietta.
“Good.” Henrietta replied with a stern frown. “We’re meeting at noon next week. Be punctual.”
The following week, Del Winslow came up to Kevin in coffee hour and offered him a donut. “Just wanted to welcome the newest trustee,” Del said. “Don’t worry, it’s not so bad. Just be careful not to get Ralph going on some long rant about healthy snacks at coffee hour.”
“Frankly, I’m still not quite sure what trustees do,” Kevin admitted as he bit into the jelly donut.
“It’s not hard,” Del told him. “For example, notice how the linoleum in here is chipped and peeling?” He gestured around the room. The floor was in pretty bad shape.
“Today we’re voting to replace it with a hard wood floor which, incidentally, will improve the acoustics dramatically. The choir performs in here from time to time, and let me tell you, it’s pretty awful.”
Kevin nodded sagely trying not to let on that he knew about as much about acoustics as he did the chemical composition of the soil on Venus.
“Mostly it’s pretty straightforward stuff like that. That old crow Henrietta Miggins throws a fit over every dime we spend but I just ignore her. It’s our job to keep this place in good order. We can’t have it falling down around us now, can we? Enjoy your donut.” Del clapped Kevin on the back and headed off to refill his coffee cup.
As Kevin dabbed at a jelly spot on his shirt with a napkin, his wife Jill returned from retrieving their two girls from Sunday school. She asked if he was ready for his first big trustees meeting.
“I guess,” Kevin said.
“Well, I’m proud of you,” Jill beamed. “Missy was just telling me how you guys are going to put hardwood flooring in here. That will be so pretty. I’ll take the girls to get some lunch and we’ll pick you up when you’re done.”
She kissed him and headed out. Then Ralph Billings came over. “How do you feel about the environment?” Ralph asked.
“I guess I’m for it,” Kevin said.
“Good. I’ve been trying to get the trustees to approve several green initiatives for the church. I hope I can count on your support.”
Kevin began to suspect he’d wandered into a minefield without being aware of it. As he considered how to reply, Henrietta Miggins called for them to come to the church office.
“Our first item on the agenda is the floor in the social hall,” Henrietta said once all seven committee members and Pastor O’Donnell were seated. “We have to make a decision today – replace the linoleum that has served us well for twenty years with newer linoleum or switch to more expensive hardwood flooring.”
Within seconds a heated debate had erupted. On the one hand Del Winslow, choir director Shane Reed and Missy Moore wanted hardwood flooring for its acoustic value and attractiveness.
Henrietta of course thought hardwood was far too extravagant. She was supported by Celia Simmons, a 73 year-old African American woman who was a member of the choir but shared Henrietta’s opinions on thrift.
When Ralph’s turn came to talk he said, “The choir always gets whatever it wants. I think we should put in linoleum and use the savings to buy energy efficient lighting.”
Pastor O’Donnell declined to take a side, reminding them that as clergy he was not technically a voting member of the committee.
Kevin discovered he was the swing vote. As the two sides lobbied him on their respective points of view, he tried to give Pastor O’Donnell a dirty look but the pastor’s attention seemed focused on his cuticles and he never met Kevin’s gaze.
Finally Kevin said he needed to use the restroom and beat a hasty retreat.
As he was returning, he encountered Jose, the church janitor, mopping the social hall. “Hi Jose,” Kevin said. “Hey, can I get your opinion on something? We’re going to replace this floor. Do you think hardwood or linoleum would be better.”
Jose pondered the question then shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess linoleum. It lasts longer.”
Kevin thanked him and returned to the meeting. After another twenty minutes of debate, Henrietta called for a vote. It came around to Kevin tied 3-3. “Linoleum,” Kevin said. “It lasts longer.”
The hardwood camp groaned and protested but Henrietta declared the matter decided. Del glared at Kevin and he suspected he hadn’t heard the end of this subject. But for the moment he didn’t care. He was due at a basketball game with his friends.
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