Living Right on Wrong Street

by Titus Pollard

  Delvin gripped the outer edge of the table. “I didn’t realize that for you to secure these items, you had to know what I want them for.”

  “I only need the reassurance that your undertakings are upright; that they won’t afford me additional incarceration time.”

  “You needn’t worry.”

  “Storm, I want you to know that—as I’ve heard some inmate say in a broken slang—the buck will end with you. This is, of course, with the assumption that there’s any trouble.”

  Delvin took a few seconds to let Murphy’s words sink in. He knew that the list of items in and of itself wouldn’t yield him any trouble. It would take someone who had known him on a past, personal level to put all the sections of his enigma together. Nobody fit that bill at Ashland FCE. “You’re in no danger.”

  “Excellent.”

  Delvin snapped his fingers. “Let me see that list again right quick.”

  Murphy pinched the paper between the fore and middle fingers of his left hand and reached over.

  Delvin grabbed it, whipped out a pen, wrote down a few words and handed it back to Murphy. “I added a toy for you. Stinson told me to.”

  “He made that proposition, did he?”

  “Yeah. Some malarkey about every man needing a toy. Boy, I tell ya. You guys have the weirdest thought patterns—”

  Murphy interrupted. “Piaget. You should do more reading. That is, on a more philosophical level. Piaget, the French educational theorist, resolves that you can learn tremendous things from an individual when you observe them at play.”

  “Funny. Stinson said the same thing. Well, sort of.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Thus, we have toys. It’s very simple.”

  Delvin listened to Murphy’s intellectual dissertation, wondering how such a diverse thinker could land himself in prison. He was beginning to believe that great thinkers could have a criminal side, too. “I didn’t think you would be the contact, but I shouldn’t be surprised. You were the one mouthing off about having information.” He then thought about the day he was elbow-deep in suds and the inmates’ dishes. “Speaking of information; you know anything about some corn cobs Stinson told me not to throw away?”

  Murphy sat back in the chair, patted the paper in his pocket as if he was giving Delvin some sign of assurance, and then he sneered. “Ahh. The remnants of our maize.” He laughed.

  “You’ll see.”

  Chapter 8

  Give her of the fruit of her hands; and let her own works praise her in the gates.

  Proverbs 31:31

  Morning traffic didn’t bother Monica as she drove through Maricopa County’s traffic grid, taking the time to make Pastor Harris’s sermon personal. “And I will do better in the present than at my beginning.” God, I hope so.

  Monica surfed radio channels, settling on KPXQ, 1360 AM, and programmed it on her Camry. Chuck Swindoll was giving an inspiring message on his Insights for Living broadcast . It was her sequel to yesterday’s religious experience. She pulled into Nine Iron Golf Resorts, certain that she would have a great day.

  At nine o’clock, she walked in through the clubhouse entrance where she stopped at the rotunda and admired her surroundings.

  In the center of the rotunda was a desk where a receptionist greeted her.

  “Ms. Wright, the CEO would like to meet with you before you see your office suite. Please, have a seat,” the lady said.

  Monica had never seen so many tanned, taut bodies in one place in all her life; not in person anyway. Men and women were arriving at every moment. Some dressed in dull but pricey business attire and many in designer sportswear prepared to go onto the golf course, the pool and spa, or the exercise suites. These same individuals would be making reservations for friends and associates through her office, she figured.

  Minutes that seemed like eternity passed. She took a glance at her watch. Nine-fifteen. She snapped open her briefcase, a stainless steel piece given to her by fellow employees from her former job. She decided to spend the next few moments perusing the Nine Iron Golf and Resorts full-scale brochure and handbook, but the endless chatter and laughter hindered her concentration.

  “Mrs. Wright?”

  She looked up after getting over her slight shock. Cory Drummond, the CEO, had sprung in from nowhere it seemed, which couldn’t have been difficult given the veil of hall noise that covered him.

  “I’m sorry to have you waiting so long, which is the reason I came out to greet you myself instead of having my admin to show you in.” He sounded sincere.

  Cory wasn’t a complete stranger to Monica. She had interviewed with him in late May, a process that lasted four hours and was spread over two days. During that time she looked for, but didn’t detect, arrogance, self-pity, alcoholism, or any other sociological offenses in him. He appeared to be charming, professional, and committed to Christian beliefs. He was careful to point out that he took hold of his position in the company despite the reservations of other prominent and respected shareholders who wanted a chief officer with more experience.

  “On my first day,” Cory told Monica during her interview, “I had five voice mail messages from elite club members saying they would be watching me and reporting back to the board of directors on how I was doing. That was seven years ago.” He told her that since those first days, he has earned the establishment’s respect. He ended the conversation by telling her that was his expectation of her.

  During those next few moments, Monica had to pinch herself because Cory Drummond was leading her to an office inside of the building.

  They terminated their walk at the very end of the hall, in a conference room where six men were seated. There were three Caucasians, two of Asian descent by appearance, and one African American. All of them were dressed in Brooks Brothers-style suits with drab ties and glowing white shirts. Before them were thin black portfolios with Monica Wright plastered on them in dead center with no other writing.

  “Please, Ms. Wright, have a seat,” Cory said, keeping a tedious facial expression and tone.

  There were two seats available, one at the end of the table with a clear view of the others. She decided not to take that one.

  She sat, positioning her briefcase at her feet and looked around. There was silence.

  Cory slid an envelope near her. It was sealed with no writing on the outside. “We’ve run into a serious problem, Ms. Wright. I had to assemble as many directors as I could for this person-to-person meeting, with the others consenting to give me their thoughts, et cetera, by proxy.”

  They’re terminating me already.

  Cory continued. “Our management situation has shifted, causing a tremendous gap in our company that has to be resolved. I’ve looked the situation over carefully, taking into consideration all of the angles and repercussions that could come up.”

  Monica uncrossed her legs, sighed and crossed them again.

  “We have made a difficult, but needy decision.” Cory broke out with a wide grin. “We can’t offer you the reservations manager’s position. Given your obvious qualifications, talent, skill, and strong willingness to learn, the board has consented to accept my recommendation of making you the new Vice President of Operations. Congratulations!” The entire room, minus Monica, chorused in laughter.

  Her body had tensed like a wire, but loosened with her gasp of breath. “Why did you do that to me?” she asked in a shout. “I wondered why the plate on the office door had a different title than what I’d interviewed for. I was too scared to ask you why, Mr. Drummond.”

  “Mr. Drummond is my dad. Call me Cory,” he demanded playfully.

  The board members dispersed in sporadic fashion, still falling into fits of laughter when they exchanged glances with Monica. With her new position revealed and her tension eased, she could return the humor.

  Cory sat on the edge of the conference table, flipping through a set of memos that his administrative assistant handed him. He smiled at some of the messages, frowned ov
er some and then tossed them all at an empty ashtray. “Monica,” he said, “don’t leave just yet.”

  Her mind was on getting to her office and settling in. Maybe grab a relaxation snack. Instead, she opted to smile and sit.

  “Open the envelope I gave you.”

  She had forgotten about it. “Should I be afraid?” she asked.

  Cory pulled out a Mont Blanc from an interior coat pocket and began twirling it through his fingertips as he molded a sly look on his face. “Depends.”

  She broke the seal of the envelope and pulled out the folded sheet. It had her name on it, and a salary figure that made her feel like holy-dancing and praise-shouting. She swallowed to assemble her nerves, and asked, “Is this for real?”

  “Think you can be happy with that? Hubby should feel all right too,” he said.

  She peered at the paper again, folded it and returned it to the envelope. She calculated the salary to be thirty-five thousand more than the previous position she’d been offered. “This has been confirmed?”

  “With health, life, and 401K. Of course, complimentary membership. Welcome to the life. Work. Enjoy.”

  “Thanks, Cory, for your confidence.” Thank you, Lord.

  When Monica arrived home and saw Job with his feet propped up and his behind resting in a recliner, she wanted to strangle him. Four disassembled boxes appeared to be the only work he had done all day while she slaved at the corporate plantation. She brushed by him and looked into the kitchen, where she smelled food cooking and saw pots on the stove. She turned and looked at Job, whose grin disarmed her anger.

  “Mmm. You cooked, so you’re forgiven,” she conceded.

  She unfolded the details of her first day, which included her express ride up a rung on the management ladder. “Eighty-thousand dollars,” she exclaimed with emphasis on every syllable, and then she repeated the amount with less bravado.

  Job’s eyes glinted, then immediately did an opposing expression that Monica couldn’t read with any certainty.

  It was a facial snapshot she’d never seen from him before. A portrait she hoped never to see again.

  “How are the people?” he asked.

  Her mind reversed to that morning assembly with the CEO and board members. “They seem to be pretty easy to work with, but they can be jokesters at times. They love to laugh, so I guess it’s a good thing.” She went on explaining that she had to hire her own assistant. “I’m treating everybody with kid gloves right now.”

  “Which is the very reason I don’t give out my past to folks who pry.”

  “I know I’m on a honeymoon with my job right now. The real in people will eventually come out. That’s why I’ll go slowly, choose my friends carefully, and make sure I’m always truthful.”

  Monica was not as concerned about the behavior or responses of friends or co-workers as she was about Job’s truthfulness, and whether any of his truths or lies would ever resurface.

  Chapter 9

  ... Therefore suffered I thee not to touch her.

  Genesis 20:6b

  School had been in session for several weeks and Job’s teaching space, he thought, was shaping up. His computers, internet, intranet and all, were up and running. Brand new text and workbooks were on the shelves. Posters with vocational messages and class rules had been strategically placed around the room. He even had a peace lily and an aquarium to liven up the place.

  “I have a proposition for you,” Bianca said as she walked into Job’s classroom.

  The door wasn’t open. Can you knock? Okay. You are the principal.

  He stopped jotting the next day’s lesson on the dry erase board and swallowed the shock of her presence. He wanted some clarification out of her quickly, before he got the wrong impression.

  “Wow.” She strolled along the walls of his classroom, turning on occasion, giving an approving look.

  Job didn’t want to be overconfident of his teaching at that point. Compared to the rest of Mountain River’s Business Ed faculty, he was a veteran in the corporate community, but an apprentice in the classroom. A critique of his instruction techniques had to be around the corner. Even more, he wanted to know, with some reservation, the basis to her proposition.

  Bianca concluded her parade around the classroom. She stopped and leaned against a corner of his desk with her arms folded and her legs crossed at the ankles. “How’re you adjusting here? Is everything all right?”

  He walked over to the opposite corner of the desk and put his pen and lesson book down. “Truthfully, I’m making out pretty good. No real problems to speak of.”

  “Making out pretty good,” she repeated.

  Job wasn’t sure whether the soft, pampered look she gave him was real or a daydream. “Yeah.”

  Bianca eyes seemed fixated on him. “I’m glad. I don’t want you to ever think that we don’t care about our employees. We want you comfortable. To feel like you can talk to us when you have a problem. Work-related or otherwise.”

  Job could do nothing but drift. Bianca’s body movements and words seemed premeditated. Not a syllable wasted. She took charge in a corporate, but boudoir sort of way.

  “I know you’re in your first year teaching here, Mr. Wright. But I’ve been watching you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “As is normal procedure, and for your protection, your duties have to be limited in your beginning years. It gives you time to hone your skills as a teacher. So, I’ve decided to give you only one assignment that pays one-fifth above your regular salary.”

  “I appreciate it, Ms. Rizzo.”

  “It’s just us talking right now. You can call me Bianca,” she declared. Her face showed that she meant just that. “Anyway. I’ve decided to assign you to the VOES program.” She unfolded her arms, revealing a large envelope that strained at the folds. She placed it on the desk in front of him.

  Job opened the package and pulled out the contents to a point where he could glimpse, but not take the materials out of order. Student application forms, parental consent, course descriptions—much too much for a five-second look. Each sheet or pamphlet had the initials VOES at the top. “What in the world is that?” he asked about the program name.

  “It’s the Vocational Occupational Educational Series. Our students receive opportunities to get hands-on training and compete in contests from the regional to national scale.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because your résumé includes years of practical business experience. You were the obvious choice.”

  Job’s heart rate leaped. His hands began clamming up, fingertips dropped in temperature. “Résumé?”

  “Why, yes. Your workforce experience can be a testimony to the students who will participate in the group.”

  I can’t seem to get away from my real estate mess.

  “Not every student is college material. But every student needs practical preparation, which is the whole purpose of the VOES program.”

  Job mentally let off some tension. “Oh. I see.”

  “Superintendent McManus and I have discussed this extensively. You’re the man for the job. Being the freshman Business Ed teacher is irrelevant to us, so come see me tomorrow during your planning period. There are regs in this program that have to be followed. We’ll discuss them.” Bianca pulled at the top of her two-piece suit and then reached out her hand. “Congratulations.”

  Job shook her hand, meeting her eye for mysterious eye. At the same time, his body heat raised to levels he didn’t want to go. He would have to wrap a belt of discipline around himself when it came to his boss. She was sending confusing signals. Was she business, pleasure, or a mixture of both? He had had enough trouble to overcome without creating something new.

  Job had to give her a firm grip then let her go.

  “Remember,” she cooed, “My door’s always open.”

  Oh Lord, Job thought after Bianca left. The way she moved and talked struck him in a manner that sent his gears moving in ways he hadn’t felt since th
e beginning of his marriage. I can’t refuse to be in her presence. She is fine, but she’s my boss. He slumped in his desk chair, relieved that particular sensations were fleeing.

  He only wished Monica had the capability of tingeing him like a desert wildfire, but she was always fussing and focusing on his shortcomings.

  Ms. Rizzo’s—Bianca’s—words don’t hold criticisms. “Gotta stop thinking like this,” he said out loud. Only the classroom’s echo answered back. He sprung up from the chair and left the room, slamming the door behind him. The safest place for him right then would be 2333 Rong.

  Job spent every second of the twenty-minute drive home trying to clear his head. Help me shake this. He had little faith that his sound bite prayer would give relief because little, if any, ever came his way.

  He walked through the door that afternoon to the sounds and smells of stir fry, thinking Monica had stopped by the Golden Buddha on Forty-fourth Street, a high-end bistro that Larry and Fontella had introduced them to. That would have been good. No. Monica was busy doing her slave-over-the-stove Chinese food thing. That was better.

  “You know we’re supposed to begin attending couple’s class this evening.” Monica rolled her eyes and smacked her lips. “And don’t tell me you forgot.”

  Job gritted his teeth. He wouldn’t have to make up stories to get out of all the churchgoing, if it wasn’t for Fontella’s sales pitch on how wonderful the church’s ministries are, and for Monica’s desire to be involved in some religious activity.

  Above all, when it came down it, he had forgotten about the couple’s class for that evening. His mind was busy creating a game of its own. Should I? Shouldn’t I? Tell. Don’t tell. Is there something to tell? Is there not? “I’ve really got a lot of work honey. Can we skip tonight?”

  Degrees of Disgust was the portrait on her face. “You start missin’ one thing and then you’ll want to miss another. Before you know it, you’re not going to church altogether.”