Like Grownups Do

by Nathan Roden

  “Keep your money,” Klaus said. ”Come at five thirty. Don’t tell anybody.”

  By six o'clock the customer’s television was set up in the back corner of the restaurant, as far from the front windows as possible. The customer had brought along his neighbor. Klaus was there with his two sons, Leo, who was twenty, and Lewis, twenty one. The boys worked at the restaurant part-time while attending college.

  During the National anthem there was a sharp rap at the front door. Klaus walked to the door and saw two more regular lunch customers with their noses pressed to the window. He said, “We’re closed,” in an exaggerated voice while pointing to the clock figure on the door. One of the men said something while clutching his coat at the collar. All that Klaus could make out was “the game”. Both men looked like hungry little boys standing outside a bakery window.

  Klaus opened the door.

  “Come in—make it quick.”

  The next time there was a knock at the door there were four faces pressed to the glass. Lewis, Leo, and the television’s owner stacked two tables together and put the television on top. By the middle of the first inning every chair in the small restaurant was full. Men, women, and children continued to turn up at the front window until the restaurant was standing room only. Two rows of people watched from the sidewalk outside. People throughout the inside crowd asked about food and drink. Klaus announced that there was no food and he was unable to sell any drinks or he would have none for the next day’s business. Within thirty minutes, people arrived with food and drinks bought elsewhere in the neighborhood.

  As the game progressed the atmosphere came to rival what was going on in sports bars all over town, and maybe even at Fenway itself. At one point during the seventh inning stretch, while the crowd swayed, high-fived, and sang “Take me out to the ballgame”, Klaus, Lewis, and Leo looked at each other. Their knowing smiles conveyed that they shared the same thought.

  Momma’s would never be the same.

  The next afternoon, Frieda looked around the living room at the faces of her three boys.

  “Klaus, we have our hands full just being open from eleven until three, six days a week. We get by with a small number of employees, and we live very well. And what about the three weeks a year we go back to Germany? Mama and Papa are so old,” Frieda said.

  “Frieda, I have discussed this with Lewis and Leo. They would very much like to be involved. Lewis is going to take a course in bar tending and Leo plans to do the same next year. They have many friends at school that are interested in working as well. This type of business will give them extended opportunities and options in their careers,” Klaus said.

  “We would have to borrow money to expand like this, Klaus,” Frieda said.

  Klaus smiled. He handed Frieda a stack of white cards.

  “For years I have collected the business cards of our customers who are bankers, and many have said to me, “Klaus, if you ever want to grow, please come and see me’.

  “I think we begin with being open late during baseball season. The boys are capable of running things on their own, so I see no reason to change ‘The Exodus’.”

  ‘The Exodus’ had been a popular nickname for years. The name was popularized by a regular customer in 1990 to denote the last three weeks of November every year when The Schroeders traveled to Germany to visit family and friends. This pilgrimage meant that since Frieda would not give her recipes to anyone or allow the meat to be frozen, she had to prepare huge batches of meat and sauce in a three day marathon session prior to their departure. The restaurant remained open in the Schroeder’s absence only until the meat was gone. The restaurant was then closed until their return.

  Reservations for the four hours of lunch service were made weeks in advance of The Exodus, and were considered a badge of honor.

  Babe and Tom joined Jordan at their reserved table. Babe snickered as he pulled out his chair. There was a large Styrofoam to-go container already on the table, which could only mean one thing at Momma’s.

  “The Sectional, huh Jordan? Well played. Feeling a surge of testosterone?” asked Babe.

  Jordan smiled and shrugged.

  The ‘Sectional’ was the signature burger at Momma’s—three rectangular patties on three rectangular buns arranged in a “U” shape, with the top buns standing open. The arrangement resembled a sectional sofa. This specialty was Klaus’s creation. When someone ordered the Sectional, the first thing brought to the table was the leftover box.

  “I’ll be putting half the damn thing in that box. I’m not nearly as tough as MG. You ever see her use the box? Hell no, you don’t.” Jordan said.

  Jordan stared at Tom, who had changed into a wildly patterned tropical print shirt before leaving the office. “Tom, what the hell are you wearing?”

  “Christie and I are off to Jamaica next week, so I’m slip sliding into the mood. What do you think? “Tom asked, holding his arms straight out and twisting in his seat.

  “Looks like Jimmy Buffet binged on fruitcake and piña coladas and threw up on you,” Jordan said.

  “Exactly the look I was going for,” Tom said.

  Jordan stared at Babe’s head.

  “Is that…glitter? In your hair?”

  Tom laughed.

  “Oh, my. He’s on to you, Captain Fabulous.”

  Babe chuffed.

  “It’s donut glaze, Jordan.”

  “Well, of course,” Jordan said.

  “And why wouldn’t it be?”

  “All the cool kids are doing it,” Babe said.

  Jordan closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, but he was smiling.

  “Guys, here’s what’s happening. Sam— Samantha, has been offered a position in the State Department. Neither of us saw that coming. She’s just begun her third term in the State Senate. But it’s not really the kind of position you turn down, and I don’t expect her to. We’ll have to move to D. C.—and that presents a problem for RCI. We’re a tiny operation and we’re still on a short leash. I don’t know what to expect. You two are doing excellent work, but your youth still scares the hell out of the FBI—the politicians even more so. I don’t know if they’re going to want to shut it down or maybe move us to D.C. Maybe they just put someone in my place.”

  “I won’t be moving to D.C., Jordan,” Tom said.

  “If we’re shut down, I’ll just go back to teaching. Christie and I want to have a couple of kids. She researched school districts for two years and it took longer than that to find our house in the district that she picked out. But congratulations, to you and Samantha.”

  “Yeah, congratulations, Jordan,” Babe said, “but I prom— I mean, I don’t want to leave, either. I don’t want to go back to the probation office, but—”

  “Let’s not give up the ship just yet. Jack and MG are working on a contingency plan.”

  Klaus Schroeder pointed at Jordan’s empty beer bottle from two tables away. Jordan pretended to be studying a spot on the ceiling, and then smiled and said, “Hit me, Klaus. Three is my limit before sundown.”

  Dun dun dun dahhh.

  Jordan turned in his chair at the sound of the Monday Night Football theme coming from the lone big screen television in the adjacent bar area.

  “Hey, Patriots and Steelers Monday night, Babe. You going to be here?” Jordan asked.

  Tom crossed his arms and made a pouty face at this question, which made Babe and Jordan laugh.

  “Jordan,” Babe said, “let us observe a moment of silence for our poor comrade, who is being forced to spend two weeks in a tropical paradise—sleeping until noon and drinking himself stupid every night, and no doubt working on or at least practicing for that first baby he’s been talking about.” He gave Tom a playful but firm punch on the shoulder.

  “Yeah, Jordan, if MG doesn’t load me up for next week, I’ll be here. You going to try and make it?”

  “Yeah, I think so. I haven’t been to watch a game here this season, and I haven’t seen Lewis or Leo
in months. Hey, Klaus! Will your boys be here Monday night?”

  “Sure thing, Mr. Jordan. Frieda and I leave Monday morning and the boys will have it until we get back.”

  “Yeah, okay, okay, okay. I knew that. Where is my head today?” Jordan said.

  “Somewhere between the ‘Samuel’ and the ‘Adams’ would be my guess,” Tom mused, staring down at the table with a straight face until Babe and then Jordan laughed.

  “Goddamn it—who hired you two smart asses? I’m calling Jack this afternoon, and make him explain to me what the hell I did to deserve you little shits.”

  Jordan grinned into space and began to miss his old life already.

  Eleven

  Jordan and Samantha Blackledge had been married for ten years. They sold both of their condos for sizable profits and bought a home in Wellesley. That home was a steal of sorts, having been owned by the playboy son of an oil-rich Middle Eastern businessman. The questionable tastes of the son not only inflamed nearby home owners, but left real estate agents at a loss for how to unload the property. Outlandish color schemes, huge murals, and giant statuary were spread throughout the interior and exterior of the large home—most depicting vulgar attempts at eroticism. Undaunted, Samantha Blackledge had watched Madeline Gerard’s interior design company revamp a co-workers’ home during the previous year.

  After the first day observing MG and her staff at work on their new home, Jordan called Jack.

  “Jack,” Jordan had said. “Clear your schedule for tomorrow morning. You have got to meet this woman.”

  Jack, Jordan, and Samantha approached MG, who was lining up a demo crew in the massive, vaulted, great room. Samantha introduced Jack to MG, who gave him a hearty smile and handshake. Jack promised to stay out of her and her crew’s way as he winked at Jordan.

  When MG turned her back to speak to her crew, Jack whispered to Jordan.

  “That was like shaking hands with a linebacker that has one finger in a light socket.”

  “My friend, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet,” Jordan said.

  Samantha kissed Jordan on the cheek and left for her office. For the next two hours, Jack and Jordan followed MG throughout the home, where crews were at work in seven of the home’s fourteen rooms. A large landscape crew, three large delivery trucks, a backhoe, and a front end loader/excavator arrived within a half hour, complete with two more crew foremen. Jack and Jordan frequently caught each other’s eye. They exchanged chuckles, head shakes, and gaping jaws.

  MG moved between projects with an ease that gave the impression that her running shoe shod feet were gliding inches above the ground. She effortlessly juggled two cell phones, a clipboard, a large notebook, and a couple of catalogs, all while directing the different crews and foremen. Occasionally she jumped in to help lift or hold something heavy. The crews must have been used to this because they made room for her when she moved in.

  Jordan took Jack’s coffee cup for a refill. Jack was about to speak to MG, but as he turned toward her and opened his mouth she turned a corner into a hallway and was gone. Jack laughed and chased after her. He approached her as she paused in the doorway of the master bedroom, and before she could disappear again, he said,

  “Excuse me, Miss Gerard?”

  MG turned to face Jack at a speed that made the move appear instantaneous, which caused Jack to stop mid-stride and jump backward a step.

  “Call me MG, Jack. Everybody does,” MG said with a smile.

  “Okay, MG. I need you,” Jack said.

  MG, with some effort, said slowly “I’m sorry? You—”

  Jack interrupted her, holding up both hands while vigorously shaking his head. He ran a hand through his hair to the back of his neck.

  “Wow, I made that uncomfortable, didn’t I?” Jack said. “Let me start again. MG, I head up the Boston FBI office. I have lost two business managers in the last three years and have yet to find a competent replacement. We have a good staff, but organization and operation are… well, let’s just say, we fly by the seats of our pants on a daily basis.”

  Jack continued, “I’ve been watching you for the last two hours and I— I’ve never seen anything like this. I would love to talk to you about working with us; on a flexible basis, of course. You are obviously very good at what you’re doing. No, that’s not true. You are incredible at what you’re doing.”

  “You are too kind, Jack,” MG said. “Leave me your card. You have me intrigued.”

  “Excellent,” Jack said. “Call anytime. My cell number is on there. I…don’t sleep a lot.”

  “I can relate,” MG said.

  Madeline Gerard entered the office of Research Consultants, Inc. the only way that she was capable of—like an explosion. Fifty-one years young and as electric as any human being is capable of, she was impossible to ignore. She was five-feet-eight, with skin that appeared to be stretched on, thanks to her brutal exercise regimen. She wore her platinum hair in a smart, short, care free style. She wore little makeup with the exception of her eyes. Her eyes were large; a blazing green, the whites more vibrant than seemed humanly possible. She added extremely long eyelashes, and the look was hypnotic. Today she wore a pair of running shoes along with a pin-striped business suit. When MG wore pin-stripes they appeared to be alive, like an electrical grid. When MG, sometimes referred to as Miss God, entered a room—she was in charge.

  “Millie!” MG squealed. “How’s my best girl?”

  She crossed the office floor in a flash and the two women embraced in what looked more like a tackle than a hug.

  “I’m good, MG. We’ve missed you” Millie said.

  “Well, I was just supposed to be gone for a week for my numskull little sister’s wedding, but she made sure I saw that wretched place they were moving into. The next thing I know, I’m lining up contractors and putting up cabinets. Conniving little bitch knew exactly what she was doing,” MG laughed.

  MG reached into her satchel.

  “I hope you have room left after lunch, Millie. My sister knows me well enough that while I was working on that wreck of a house, she went out and bought meeeee— this!”

  MG continued in a mock Southern Belle voice,

  “Simply the most divine chocolate in the whole state of South Carolina, I do declare.”

  “Oh, God, MG,” Millie said. “Is there a fucking conspiracy to see me in a muumuu?”

  MG threw her head back in laughter.

  “Muahaha. Don’t be ridiculous, Millie. Chocolate is how the baby Jesus shows us that he loves us. But I can’t eat it alone because that would imply that I have a problem. Now, hold out your hand, and say, ‘Thank you, Baby Jesus’.”

  Millicent Vandermeer was the newest member of RCI. MG had performed the secretarial duties in the inaugural phase, and then began the search to fill the permanent position. She held the initial interviews with the applicants and then the applicants were interviewed by a panel that consisted of Jack, Jordan, Babe, and Tom. The position was posted as secretarial with a pathway to office management. Applicants were told to expect very strict requirements concerning background checks and the requirement of a NDA, or non-disclosure agreement. Millie’s credentials and resume were the weakest of all the applicants. MG interviewed Millie and then followed her into the foyer of the office. She stuck her head into Babe’s office and flexed a forefinger twice, beckoning Babe to follow her. She did the same to Tom. When the three of them arrived in Jordan’s office where Jordan and Jack waited, MG handed a file folder to Jordan and looked all four men in the eyes.

  “Miss Vandermeer is the last interview you will need to do—unless you are collectively brain dead.”

  Babe and Tom returned from lunch and caught the two ladies with their mouths full. MG hugged them both.

  “So, MG,” Tom said, “what’s the latest casualty?”

  “Hang on,” MG said. She reached inside her jacket and pulled out her wallet. She unfolded a piece of paper and read from it.

  “Treadmill. Ironman 3600.
Incline motor and roller bearings.”

  “Awesome!” Tom said. “Hold on a second.”

  Tom walked quickly into his office and returned with a large dry erase board. The board was numbered vertically one through ten and listed various treadmills, stationary bikes, ellipticals, and weight training machines. Tom added a number eleven, followed by the words ‘Ironman 3600 Incline motor and roller bearings’. The heading on the board read, “MG’s Fitness Machines of Death”. There was a record of the now eleven pieces of fitness equipment that MG had murdered.

  “Jesus, MG. What do the guys at the sporting goods store say to you?” Babe asked. “You have to be a legend over there.”

  “We don’t exactly have long conversations,” MG said.

  “I call them and they show up a couple of hours later with a better machine than the one I paid for. They’re getting their money back from the manufacturers anyway. I ask them which parts are toast and they always tell me. When I break a machine, they quit stocking that model. It’s a win-win.”

  “Tom, you have one interview in the morning and then off on vacation, correct?” MG asked.

  “Dat’s right, boss lady. Christie and I are off to Jamaica, mon.”

  “Have a good time, Sunshine. Watch out for the local recreational pursuits. Bob Marley music—good. Bob Marley cigarettes— not so much.” MG motioned toward Babe’s office.

  “When you’re ready, Babe.”

  Twelve

  “Anything you want to talk about?” MG asked.