CHAPTER FOURTEEN: Meet Miz James

My downstairs #tenant Greg called again at the beginning of August.

"Uh, we're gonna be a b . . . b . . . bit late wiv' the r . . . r . . . rent this month," he finally managed.  "W . . . we'll b . . . be able to p . . . p . . . pay it in ab . . . bout a week."

"Oh.  Er, o--kay," I said.  "Is anything wrong?"

"No, w . . . we've j . . . j . . . just had a f . . . few expenses to p . . . p . . . pay," he stammered.

"All right, I suppose a week's okay," I said.  "You do know that after ten days there's a late fee, don't you?"

"Y . . . yes, we know.  Th . . . thank you," Greg stuttered, and hung up.

I didn’t start to feel a mite suspicious until ten days had passed and I hadn’t yet received the promised #rent.  I called the threesome's number a couple of times but there was no answer.

Finally, after another few days, I asked Wim to go over to Schemmerhorn to collect the rent for me.  He kindly obliged. 

No one answered the door when he rang the bell but he knew they were home because he could hear them.  I wouldn't have been so bold, but after a few more ignored knocks and rings, he let himself in.

Not surprisingly, he found the three huddled together in their favorite spot on the couch, indignantly staring at him for having dared to invade their apartment uninvited.

"I've come to collect the rent," Wim announced.

"We're moving," Greg said, "so we're not paying.  We've had it with Natasha, and this area's too dangerous.  You can use our #securitydeposit for the rent."

“There didn't seem much point in arguing with them,” Wim told me when he got home.

I received the news with some equanimity.  "It's not too bad," I said.  "At least we've got a couple of weeks to find another tenant, and their security deposit was six hundred.  The rent is four seventy-five so I'll make a hundred and twenty-five on the deal. 

"And last time I saw their place, it didn't look too bad.  A touch up here and there with a paint brush should do it."

The next day I paid the local newspaper $14.00 for a week-long advertisement.  My ad briefly described the apartment’s features and listed the rent as $475.00, with one month’s deposit required.  I was quite looking forward to playing at real estate agent and showing prospective tenants around the apartment.

The word "Jacuzzi" prompted several phone calls almost immediately, and I made some appointments to show people around that weekend.  I asked Wim to go with me, as I was new at this and felt I could do with a second opinion.

Saturday arrived.  The first few appointments did not.  Maybe they had changed their minds or found another place.  Nice of them to call!

Wim and I spent a few boring hours sitting in my car outside 51 Manson Street. 

It wasn’t the most comfortable of times. 

Melissa, Greg or Tom occasionally peered out the window at us while I steadfastly pretended not to notice.  I don’t know how Wim felt but, being so shy, it was a very painful couple of hours for me.

Eventually, the last appointment decided to show up and did so in a regal, white monstrosity of a Cadillac-type vehicle.  The door opened and a large woman with lots of tight black braids sticking out all over her head eased herself out onto the pavement and walked in a jerky fashion across the street to meet us.

"Hi, I'm Miz James," the woman introduced herself rather nasally in a self-important but friendly manner.  Wim and I shook hands and said hello.

I showed Miz James around the apartment, and Wim tagged along behind.  Melissa, Greg, and Tom were naturally seated on the couch and, thankfully, the place looked neat and tidy.

 Miz James surveyed the small bedrooms doubtfully. 

"Hmm, my bedroom set'll never fit in here," she stated.  "But, maybe I could make the living room into a bedroom.  I've got all my own closets.  Black enamel, you know." 

She looked expectantly at me, obviously waiting for some comment.

"Oh," I said.  "That's nice."

"Yes," Miz James agreed and jerked her way into the bathroom where she stood, hands on ample hips, appraising the slightly grubby bathtub.

"Hmm."

“I’ll get that cleaned up for you,” I hastened to assure her.

We then proceeded to the kitchen.

"Now, this I like," Miz James announced.  "Nice and big.  I can have my table in here."

We followed her out the back door and onto the deck.

"Very nice," Miz James approved.  "I like it.  Now, I have some questions for you, if you don’t mind?"

We sat on a wooden bench that ran along the left side and back of the deck. In her self-important, fussy manner, Miz James proceeded to ask me questions, some of which I couldn’t answer, such as how much did the monthly electric and gas bills amount to.

"Now, are you planning on painting?"  she asked.

"The place isn't too bad but I do plan on doing some painting, yes," I answered confidently. 

I had never painted a room in my life.

"Good.  Now, I didn't notice any washer/dryer hook-up.  Would it be possible to have one put in in the basement?"

I looked to Wim for that one.

"Yah, tha’s possible," he said.

"Good.  I'd be moving in a few days after the first of the month ‘cause I have to pack my stuff.  Would that be all right with you?"

I barely opened my mouth to answer, before Miz James continued on.

"If you'd like a reference, you can call my landlord.  I live over a doctor's office.  It's a real big apartment but I just became guardian of my niece Princess and my nephew Desmond.  Their mother -- she’s mah sister -- is useless at looking after them.  My landlord don't want children above the office, even though they're eleven and twelve years old and really good, quiet kids, so we have to move.  I bring the kids up right, though.  They go to private school, you know.

"Also, my mother died a short while ago and left me her house near here, but I'm going to sell it.  I don't want to live in that part of Schemmerhorn -- on the 'Hill' you know? -- so I'm gonna be a landlord too.  I got me a book of rules 'n regulations for landlords.  You should look at it some time, or I could get you a copy.  They're free from the City."

"Okay, yeah, sure," I hastily interjected, getting up and dusting off my butt.  "Is there anything else?  If not, I think we're about done."

"Yes, though may I make a leeetle suggestion?" 

Miz James heaved herself to her feet and patted my arm conspiratorially.

"Sure," I said.  "What?"

"If I were you -- and I don't mean to tell you your business -- but I'd put a closet in the front hallway.  Silly to have all that space and not use it, don't you think?"

"Yes, I suppose so.  Something to think about, anyway.” 

I had had enough of Miz James's pompousness for one day and attempted to salvage some control. 

"I'll call the reference you gave me," I told her, firmly ushering her out, "and I'll let you know."

With a wave goodbye, Miz James made her jerky way across the street to her big, white car.  It took her five minutes of easing the car backwards and forwards, a few inches at a time, to complete a three-point turn at the end of the street.  She almost knocked down the neighbor’s fence in the process but eventually managed to turn the car around and drove away, looking down her nose at us as she passed.

As Wim and I were leaving, I almost fell over a small, furry animal in the hallway.  Since when did my tenants have cats?  Just then, another kitten peeped out from behind the front door.  I distinctly remembered a clause in the lease, which stated that tenants may not introduce pets into the house without notifying the landlord first. 

Oh, well.  They were leaving anyway.

Wim and I left without saying goodbye to Tom, Greg, or Melissa.  They didn’t bother saying goodbye to us, either.

Wim and I discussed Miz James as we drove home.

"What did you think?" I asked.

"She's certainly very bossy," Wim said.  "I’m afraid she's the type that'll find fault with everything and keep wanting me to come over to fix this, that, and the other thing."

"Yes, I didn't like her manner very much," I agreed.  "Right from when she introduced herself.  Miz James, if you don't mind.  I don't even know what her first name is.  I'm sure she'd keep the place spick and span, though, and the kids sound okay."

"What does she do for a living?" Wim asked.

"She told me she just found a job as a counselor at a center for the mentally disabled.  Not the outfit you work for, though.  But, can you imagine?  She probably bosses her clients around to her heart's content.  She gets money from the County, too, for being the children's guardian."

"Sounds like she'll be able to afford the rent, then," Wim said.  "But, I tell you, she'll be trouble if you let her."

“I agree,” I said, down-shifting to turn a corner.  "Let's see what her landlord says about her."

That evening I called the number Miz James had given me.  The doctor wasn’t home, but his wife gave her a glowing reference and verified the reason Miz James had to move. 

"You won't find a speck of dirt anywhere," she told me.  "You're lucky to get her, and her kids are wonderfully behaved.  We're sorry to lose her, but with two more pairs of feet overhead and the doctor's office downstairs  . . . you understand?"

"Yes, I do," I assured her.  "Thanks very much, then.  It seems your tenant has found a new home."

I phoned Miz James to give her the news, and we arranged to meet a couple of days later to sign the #lease.

 

The next evening, I received a telephone call from the left-hand next-door neighbor in Schemmerhorn.  She was a blonde, buxom woman named Shirley, whom I had met a couple of times and given my phone number.

"There's really loud music coming from Natasha's place," she told me.  "Natasha's away, though.  I've called the #cops, but I thought you might wanna check it out."

I let out a huge, disgruntled sigh.  What now?  "Thanks for letting me know, Shirley." 

“Oh, Wim?” I called as I put the phone down.  “Fancy another trip to Schemmerhorn?”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: Mowing Mix-Ups

This time the phone call came in the early afternoon.  It was Greg again: the apparent spokesman for the downstairs threesome.  God knows what the others were like on the phone, if he was the best.

He didn’t bother with preliminaries and must have been rehearsing all day because without a stammer or stutter he launched forth. 

"When you gonna cut the grass?"

"Huh?  When am I going to cut the grass?" I exclaimed, taken by surprise.  This was a new development, sprung on me out of the blue.  It had never entered my head that I would have to mow the lawn at 51 Manson Street.  Having lived in apartment complexes for so many years, I’d never had to do it, myself.  The only people I knew, who rented an actual house, were my parents.  They always mowed their own lawn and wouldn’t dream of asking the landlord to come and mow it for them.

Heavy breathing reminded me that Greg was still on the other end of the telephone, waiting for an answer.

"It's gett'n pretty long," he ventured.  "The old #landlord used to come twice a month to cut it."

I floundered back to life.  "Well, I don't recall it saying anywhere in the lease that I have to cut the grass," I tried.

"It's the landlord's job," Greg insisted.

"But I don't even own a lawnmower.  How am I supposed to cut it?" I asked, indignantly.  "I've never heard of anyone #renting a house and not mowing their own lawn.  My parents rent a house, and they don't expect the landlord to come every month to cut their grass for them.”

Silence at the other end.

"Okay," Greg said at last in a just-you-wait tone of voice, then he hung up.

A bit taken aback at the abrupt "Okay," but seething with indignation, I told Mummy about the phone call.

"Whatever next?" she agreed, reinforcing my conviction that tenants of houses should be responsible for cutting their own lawns.

However, a small doubt was niggling in a far corner of my mind, telling me I probably wouldn’t win this battle because my #tenants might very well decide not to pay any more rent until I mowed the grass. 

I also felt a little bit guilty because the Fourth of July was rapidly approaching.  I imagined Greg and company attempting to enjoy a holiday barbecue with  guests while wading through knee-high grass, slapping at bugs. 

I should just burn the damn grass, I thought.  Burning grass, either on purpose or inadvertently, was a common occurrence in South Africa where I grew up.  Hardly a day went by in the summer when a veldt (pronounced felt) fire wasn’t burning somewhere.  I’d often driven through rural areas and spotted a line of fire advancing down a slope towards the road, which acted as a natural fire break.  We had to be careful not to set our own back yards on fire.  A dropped cigarette or a spark from a barbecue – braai (pronounced br-eye) – was enough to start blackening the grass as the flames rapidly spread, invisible in the bright sunlight. 

One day when I was about twelve years old, my sister Frederica was being particularly irritating, constantly nagging me to play with her.  All I wanted to do was to keep reading an exciting book I’d recently borrowed from the public library. 

“Oh, go build a camp fire,” I told her to get rid of her. “Pretend you’re marooned on a desert island.” 

“Ooh, really?” Frederica thought this was a great idea.  She went running off, and I buried my nose in my book again. 

Fifteen minutes later Frederica came dashing back inside.  “Stacy! Stacy!” she cried. 

“What now?”

“The grass is burning!” 

“What?  Where?”

“Come, quick!”  Frederica tugged on my arm.

I followed her out into the front yard and saw smoke seeping up from the grass dump at the bottom of the yard by the road.

“Oh, gosh!” I said.  “Frederica, what have you done?”

“I built a camp fire, like you told me to.”

“I meant build a little fire with a few twigs on the patio, not light the grass dump on fire!” I yelled.  “Are you crazy?  Look at it!  It looks like it’s getting out of control!” 

I ran down the slope towards the smoke.  The grass dump was a big compost heap, full of dried grass cuttings and bamboo.  It was smoking in several places, though we couldn’t see any flames because of the bright sunshine. 

Luckily a long garden hose lay nearby, attached to a faucet on the patio. 

“Go turn that tap on, quick,” I told Frederica. 

She ran to turn on the tap, and I picked up the end of the hose and aimed it at the smoldering grass, which was steadily blackening in the direction of the fence.

I sprayed and sprayed, drenching the grass dump in all directions.  It took me a long time.  As soon as I had thoroughly drenched one area, another patch would begin smoldering.  I thought I was never going to get it under control.  If our parents came home and saw us fighting a grass fire in the front yard, we’d be in big trouble.  They’d probably ground me for a week for endangering the life of my little sister. 

Half an hour later, the fire seemed to be out at last.  There was no smoke to be seen, but the grass was obviously charred in places and smelt smoky and damp.  Frederica and I hurriedly scuffed some unburnt grass over the burnt patches and managed to make the dump look almost normal by the time our parents came home.  For hours afterwards, I worried that the fire would rekindle.  Fortunately, it didn’t, and I don’t believe my parents ever found out until years later what we had done.

 In the end, I needn’t have worried about my tenants’ Fourth of July activities, because it rained most of the day.  I had the Andrea and Bronwyn that weekend, and Allen and I had made plans with my parents to go to a local lake, a picturesque spot with a sizeable sandy beach and picnic areas dotted around beneath the trees.  Determinedly undaunted by the rain, Allen and Wim erected a tarpaulin between some trees so that we could barbecue in relative dryness.  Mummy and I sat huddled at the picnic table overlooking the beach, enduring occasional drips down the backs of our necks, while Allen and the girls played an energetic game of Frisbee on the damp sand below.

“You’ve got a good one, there,” Mummy observed, watching Allen running after a wildly-thrown Frisbee with an ungainly Frankenstein-ish lope, pretending to be spastic to make the girls laugh.

“I know,” I said.  “He’s the nicest man I ever met, and he’s great with the girls.”

“I think you got it right, at last,” Mummy said.  “I was starting to doubt your taste in men.  Of course, anyone who can put up with you has to be some kind of hero . . . ”

“Gee, thanks a lot, Mom!”                                                                       

            The niggling doubts as to my obligation for lawn mowing didn’t stay suppressed for long, especially when a couple or days later Tom called to say that he, Greg and Melissa weren’t going to pay the rent until I cut the grass.  I knew by now in my gut that, yes, in a ghetto neighborhood like Schemmerhorn, some landlords probably did mow what little grass was allowed to grow in the motley assortment of back yards I had glimpsed from the road, if only to have an excuse to visit their properties once or twice a month to keep an eye on their tenants.

The thing was, who could I get to cut the grass?  I guess I could ask trusty old Wim to do it.  He conveniently worked in Schemmerhorn at a group home for mentally disabled adults.  I didn’t feel comfortable asking him, though.  He had more than enough on his plate already.

At that moment, the local Pennysaver caught my eye.  It was a free, weekly newspaper comprised of a few articles and lots of advertisements for anything and everything, including handymen and contractors of all kinds.  I’d often seen ads for lawn care services.  Of course, now that I needed one of these people, I expected all the ads to have disappeared; a fateful attitude stemming from past experience.

I found the Pennysaver.  Incredibly, it hadn’t been thrown out with the trash the night before.  I gingerly opened the paper and peered shortsightedly at the newsprint.  If I sneaked a peek, maybe the paper wouldn’t realize, and the ads would still be there. My strategy proved successful because I soon found several advertisements, all grouped in their own little section entitled Lawn Care.

I called a couple of the contractors.  Both charged $25.00 a visit.  I really didn’t have any idea what the cost should be, so I figured I’d call all of them and compare prices.  The third lawn care contractor, whose name was Pete, said he thought he could probably mow the lawn for $25.00.  As this was $5.00 cheaper than the previous quotes I’d gotten, I asked him to visit the house and give me an estimate.

“All you have to do is go down the side alley and take a look over the fence,” I told him.

"Righteo, will do," he sang over the phone line – one of those irritatingly ever-cheerful people.

The fourth and last contractor I called – his name was Bill – was a definite contrast to the friendly Pete.  With a grumpy, gravelly voice, he sounded like the Grouch on Sesame Street, but said he would probably charge $15.00.  This was even better.  I asked him to go to the house and give me a quote.

"I'll get back to you," he grumped, and hung up in the middle of my thank yous.

The next afternoon, Mummy called me at work.

"Someone called Bill just phoned," she reported.  "He said he went to your house to look at the lawn, but someone was already there mowing it and told him he's got the contract to do it."

"Like hell he has!" I exclaimed, suspecting the over-friendly Pete.  "Blimmin' cheek!  He just wants to make a quick twenty bucks!"

I slammed down the phone.  This was the last straw – just one more unpleasant thing to add to the tough day I’d been having at work so far.

Writing has always helped me get things out of my system, so I jotted some notes down for my journal during my coffee break and titled it Job Jitters.

Job Jitters

Work’s been hell, especially today.  Supervising secretary has the week off.  Assistant supervising secretary can’t handle pressure.  Tantrums galore.  Huffing and puffing.  Sighing.  Holding back of hand against anguished brow.  Sitting down.  Standing up.  Need coffee.  Need cigarette break.  Hard done by.  Procrastinating.  Too much work.  Panic.  Screaming at the attorneys.  Embarrassing.  Tiresome.  Unending.

We secretaries try to keep going but are unwillingly drawn into the theatrics.  Productivity’s down.  Air rife with tension.  Hostility.  Frustration.  E-mail secret comments to one another.  Swop Advils and Tylenol.  Can’t take any more.

Go home for lunch.  Try to give Pusskin the cat his tapeworm pills, wrapped in tissue, smeared with meat paste.  Uncooperative.  Squirming.  Clawing.  Scratched hands.  Try gloves.  Only ones found are bulky suede: too big and clumsy for ramming pills down Pusskin’s throat.  Little bits of soggy tissue and pill fragments everywhere.  Give up.  Growl at Pusskin.  Pusskin shoots downstairs like a rocket.

Back to work.  Darn!  Missed it!  Another tantrum just over, but this time witnessed by personnel manager.

Talk of weekend overtime.  Why should certain procrastinators get paid time-and-a-half for work they should have done during the week?  More coffee.  More cigarette breaks.  More e-mails.  More Tylenol.

 

After a day like today, did I really want to remain a secretary my whole life? Another secretary had recently quit her job to go back to school full time to study psychology.  Hm, I thought to myself.  That psychology class I’d taken back in the day, when I was thinking of becoming a nurse, had been interesting.  Psychologists were respected professionals.  I’d even seen one a few times when I was having a hard time getting over my divorce.  All the psychologist did was to sit in his chair across from me and nod empathically from time to time as I described my woes.  I could do that.  I wasn’t prepared to go so far as to quit my job, but I wrote in my diary, Visit college to find out about night classes.

“I’m going back to school to become a psychologist,” I announced to my surprised mother when I got home that night.  I put on my best Kramer from Seinfeld accent. 

“I’m changing careers, baby!”

Meanwhile, pronouncements over, I needed to call the offended Bill.  After reluctantly allowing his ruffled feathers to be smoothed by my apologies, he told me he’d mow the lawn for $15.00 per visit and would send me a contract in the mail.  I hung up and wrote a quick letter to the cheerful Pete, advising him I would not be needing his services and enclosing a $20.00 check.

Bill's contract arrived a couple of days later.  It was a simple agreement, and I signed it and sent it back.  Crisis over.  My downstairs tenants would be happy. 

Apparently, however, the tenants were not happy.  Apart from the one overdue rent check, which arrived promptly after the lawn was mowed, I would never see another cent from them.

CHAPTER TWELVE: The Phantom Flooder

"Uuh . . . we . . . uh . . . we got water comin' down from the . . . uh . . . ceiling," my downstairs #tenant Greg stammered.  "It's running down the . . . uh . . . walls in . . . in  . . . the . . . uh . . . bathroom."

"Oh no," I groaned, blearily peering at my bedside clock.  "Where's it coming from?"

"Mmmmmust be N . . . Natasha's #apartment.  Sh . . . sh . . . she must be havin' a . . . uh . . . f . . . f . . . flood up there."

"Okay, we'll come over," I told him, then I picked up the phone and called Wim.

Wim wasn’t too happy at being woken up in the middle of the night to make a trip out to Schemmerhorn but realized he didn’t really have a choice.

"No point you coming," he told me, to my immense relief.  "You can't do anything, anyway.  Natasha’s probably left the bath running or something.  I'll check it out."

I thanked him wholeheartedly and wished him well.

He called later the next morning.

"What did you find?" I asked eagerly.

"Nothing," Wim said.  "Agh, there was water coming down from upstairs, but when I knocked on Natasha's door, she said she was sleeping and hadn’t been running a bath.  I reckon she's lying so she won't have to pay for the #damages."

My heart sank at the word damages. 

"How much?" I asked quickly, keen to get the bad news over with.

"Well, a couple of ceiling tiles and some paint on the wall should do it," Wim said.

"Oh, good.  Not too bad then," I breathed in relief.

"No, no, not too bad, but you've got to watch that Natasha, you know."

We arranged that Wim would buy a few ceiling tiles and slap some paint on the wall when it had dried: a small expense of about $75. 

Not too bad for this #landlord.

* * * * * * * * * * *

            It was getting close to July.  The #lease was up on my apartment, and the #school #district had #re-zoned our #apartment complex.  To my dismay, this meant that Andrea and Bronwyn would have to switch to another school, which had a less than stellar reputation.

“Why don’t you move in with us, then?” Mummy suggested.  She and Wim were #renting a little #house in a good #neighborhood ten minutes down the Interstate.  “It’s one of the top school districts, and there’s a gymnastics school just down the road.” 

This would mean less traveling for my mother, who drove over to my apartment to babysit every afternoon and ferried Andrea to gymnastics lessons twice a week.  Wim had already renovated the attic in their house to make a bedroom for the girls when they stayed over, and there was a spare bedroom for me. 

“We could turn that little sunroom we’ve been using as a dining room into a living room for you,” Mummy urged.

“Sounds like a good idea,” I agreed.  “We can try it.  At least it’ll save us some money, sharing the #rent.”

Andrea and Bronwyn weren’t too keen on the idea of moving because they'd have to leave all their friends behind.  They would just have to make new ones.  I tried to console them with the reminder that they would now have constant access to Grandma’s candy tin.  Another plus for me, which I naturally did not voice, was the fact that the telephone was located in my parents’ bedroom, so Wim would be the first one taking any middle-of-the-night phone calls from my #tenants.

The next crisis was just around the corner . . .

CHAPTER ELEVEN: Dinner Date - With Kids

My #relationship with Allen had progressed to the going-steady phase.  It sounds harsh but in the beginning I'd continued to date him because I had nothing else to do.  After a while, though, he started to grow on me.  He was such a gentle, kind, genuinely nice guy.  He was also fond of extended kissing sessions, especially after I told him we both had to have AIDS tests before we could move beyond that.

Andrea and Bronwyn hadn’t met Allen yet, but often saw the physical evidence of our time together. 

“Mom, you’ve got beard burn again!” they would comment reproachfully when I opened the door to them after their weekend visitations with their dad.  “Eeuuw, gross!”

The first time Allen spoke to the girls was during an evening phone call.  I’d avoided introducing him to them because I was terrified that he wouldn’t want to date me for long once he discovered what hyperactive, manic, little terrors they could be at times.

Meanwhile, I built them up to be some kind of super children – probably not a wise tactic.  While Andrea and Bronwyn could be trusted to be on their best behavior for a while, high spirits wouldn’t allow them to keep it up for long.  It was just a matter of time, and then Allen would surely witness the squabbles of intense sibling rivalry and the effect that these had on their impatient, low-frustration-tolerant mother, who, when she’d had enough, was prone to give a good imitation of a shrieking harpy.

And so it was that I greatly lauded Andrea’s sweet shyness, sense of humor, and gymnastics and dancing prowess, and Bronwyn’s vivacious personality, clever tongue, and talent for making funny faces.   Being that Allen was a scientist, I also delighted in describing how Bronwyn was gifted with a superior intellect for math and science and wanted to be a chemical engineer when she grew up.  Neither she, nor I, had the faintest idea what a chemical engineer actually did.

Anyway, Andrea answered the phone that night, but was too shy to make much of an impression.  She quickly passed the phone to me. 

Bronwyn, however, was hankering to say hello.  When I handed her the phone, the first thing she said to Allen was, “I’m interesting to talk to.  Don’t you want to talk to me?”  She then proceeded to chatter away to this man she had never met, which at least confirmed to Allen the validity of my enthusiastic description of her outgoing personality and sense of humor.

The next test – now I had caught the bug from Allen – was to have him meet the girls in person.  We met at a nearby #Pizza Hut.  Pizza was Andrea’s favorite food, so I’d avoid the inevitable challenge of trying to get her to eat vegetables.  Bronwyn, on the other hand, was quite happy to load up on the salad bar, which should impress the fruit-and-veggie-loving Allen.

On the way to Pizza Hut, I made dire threats to my daughters to be on their best behavior and implored Bronwyn to be especially careful around liquids.  She was prone to spilling containers full of drink on a fairly regular basis.  Her most famous and dramatic accomplishment was when she knocked over an entire pitcher of Coke at a busy Chuck E Cheese restaurant.  The pitcher exploded like a bomb, drenching our pizza and splashing everyone in close proximity.

“Is that Allen?” Bronwyn asked, trying to change the subject as we pulled into the Pizza Hut parking lot. “He looks just like Daddy!”

“Oh, no!  Hardly!” I exclaimed.  “Must be the beard.”

Dinner went quite well.  The girls chatted to Allen about school, Andrea talked about gymnastics, and Bronwyn executed math equations on napkins and asked interested questions about Allen’s science lab. 

Towards the end of the meal, however, the conversation began to deteriorate somewhat when Andrea described with relish how Bronwyn had once vomited scrambled egg all over the back seat of my car, just as we were pulling into the parking lot of a liquor store where I had an appointment to give a sales presentation.  Since Bronwyn didn’t seem to be any the worse for wear after her explosive purging, the girls had to wait in the car, enduring the smell of sick and mopping up the curdled mess with paper towels donated by the surprised liquor store owner, while I made my sales pitch. 

Whether from sympathy, or due to my incredible talent for sales, the owner quickly signed on the dotted line.  Hoping the girls had managed to clean up the worst of the vomit, I trotted back to my smelly car and resigned myself to spending an evening with a large bottle of fabric shampoo.

Anyway, back to Pizza Hut . . . after the vomit story, the girls’ high spirits began to break through and things started getting a bit rowdy.  It was time to leave.  Fortunately, Allen had apparently enjoyed his first experience of my children, and they seemed to approve of him.  We parted in the parking lot, with Allen inviting Bronwyn to tour his lab some day to try interesting experiments with liquid nitrogen.

            My euphoria over our successful dinner with Allen lasted a couple of days until two a.m. one morning, when I received a phone call from my downstairs #tenant, Greg.