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It all began when I went after the orange.
Well, not exactly. First, Mrs. Waxenberry came rushing out of the Fresh Market with her three kids trailing along behind her like baby ducks following their momma.
What I didn’t know at the time was that Mrs. Waxenberry’ period was upon her and she was paranoid about leaving a red trail in her wake. It had happened to her back in high school while she was dancing on stage with Jack Singletary, thinking they were Fred and Ginger, which they were decidedly not. Anyway, she was not about to let it happen again, and so, ignoring her children who had piled up on one another when she reached her BMW and abruptly stopped to fumble in her purse seeking the elusive car keys which had (as usual) hidden themselves from her grasping fingers.
It would be kind to say that Mrs. Waxenberry merely panicked, however, due to her state of pending menstruation, to reduce her to an emotional condition relating to, or induced by the god, Pan would be putting it mildly. In short, she was a heavy bleeder.
Dread, fright, alarm, horror and outright terror come to mind as better descriptors of her state of mind at that precise moment. Irrational, awkward, bad-tempered, and difficult to deal with would also be considered factors within that same state of mind.
And I chose that moment to make my unkempt presence felt. Bad timing? It couldn’t have been worse. All I wanted to do was what I had been doing for several weeks – helping out with the grocery bags while she opened the car, set the kids in and hand the goodies to her so she could place them into the back of her SUV.
“Hi,” I said. Thinking it as good an opening line as a homeless person might use to reduce the obvious prejudices’ people seem to have against us when they actually see us.
Her subsequent scream, and those that followed, could have been used as new models for alarms in Kansas, Texas and Missouri to warn the good folks in those places of approaching tornados.
Needless to say, Mrs. Waxenberry dropped the groceries, along with her purse on my foot. Wonder of wonders, the car keys plopped out and landed by my toes.
Still screaming, she snatched the keys and jammed them into the car’s lock, promptly snapping the key off without having opened the door.
People took note of her actions and began approaching. To their credit, none of them saw me as Jack-the-Ripper, or any of his descendants. But Mrs. Waxenberry never stopped wailing. I took her hand in mine and pressed the button on the remote she held clenched in her fist.
The door lock sprang up and I opened the door for her. Once she was safely seated in her car she shut up.
The first of the by-standers arrived as I ushered the children into the back seat; leaving it to Mrs. Waxenberry to set them straight as to which car seat which child sat in.
Of course I hadn’t reckoned on her state of mind, she had stopped screaming, but was still in full panic mode.
I did take some consolation in the fact that I hadn’t done anything wrong, other than utter the singular word, “Hi,” and set about gathering her spilled groceries.
I still think that the first arrivals thought I was her husband and we had had some marital confrontation. And as I think about it now, the kids – all three of them – seemed decidedly unperturbed about matters. That would indicate, or seem to at any rate, that they had witnessed similar exhibitions on their mother’s part in the not too distant past.
But I digress.
After placing her groceries into bags as best I could and placing the bags in her BMW, I spied an orange just under the wheel of the car next to hers. I knelt down and reached for the orange – and at that exact moment – the driver of the car took off, running over my hand and making orange juice out of the orange.
It was my turn to scream. For some reason my outburst caused the driver to put his vehicle in reverse, and he ran over the hand a second time. I passed out at that point and am still grateful for having done so.
The driver, one Warren Klugman, was if possible, more horrified than me, and rushed to my side, spouting words of encouragement.
“Call a fucking ambulance!” I murmured.
“Yes, yes, of course,” he replied, and a moment later he was shouting for someone to “Call a fucking ambulance.”
I blacked out, and on awakening, found a paramedic at my side, asking if I had medical insurance.
I refused to answer him. I, of course, had no such thing. I had been unemployed for seven months at this time and any funds that I might have had were long gone. I had been working at the local newspaper in the advertising department, but when the ads began to dwindle, people were let go; and I was one of the first to go.
Suddenly in my right ear I heard a voice saying: “I’ll pay. Don’t worry, I’ll pay for everything!”
It was an angelic voice with what I thought a certain heavenly quality to it.
I passed out again when the paramedic did something to akyurt escort my hand, and woke up in the hospital only to see Klugman standing at my bedside.
“Who are you?” I said.
“I’m the crazy nut who ran over your hand.”
“Twice,” I said.
“Warren Klugman’s my name… did you say ‘twice?'”
“You ran over my hand twice. Forward and back. If I hadn’t screamed louder than that nut job in the BMW, you might have run over it again. What’s wrong with you people?”
“Oh,” he said, and then seemed to brighten somewhat. “That woman…” he said, and reached into his pocket and handed me two-one dollar bills.
“She wanted you to have this,” Klugman said. “For helping her with the car and all,” he finished lamely.
“I… um, want you to know that I’m taking care of your medical bills,” he added quickly. “So, don’t worry about a thing.”
I saw several beads of sweat on his upper lip, and decided to test him. “You think I won’t sue? You look like you’ve got money, why wouldn’t I sue?”
“Sue? I… I hadn’t thought of that. Should I call my lawyer?”
“Why ask me if you should call him?”
“I… I… I….” Klugman appeared incapable of responding and so I closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep. Whatever they’d given me for the pain in my broken hand was wonderful stuff, and I hoped I could find out what it was and where I might get more of it. But the clouds of sleep came and off I went.
When I woke up I was still in the Emergency Room, with the usual accelerated activity going on around me. I lay on a gurney, surrounded by a closed curtain. My hand hurt like hell. The first sounds that were recognizable came from the crazy klutz, Klugman.
“What should I do? I mean, what could I do? I ran over the guys hand… Of course someone called an ambulance… I panicked and told him I’d pay his medical costs… I don’t know… No, it was the right thing, I mean; it is the right thing… No I haven’t… Is he a good lawyer?”
And so it went. I guessed it was Mrs. Klugman on the other end, bombarding her husband with questions he had no answer for. A few short minutes later the curtain parted and an Indian doctor stepped up to the gurney and told me I had a badly broken hand, needed lots of bed rest and would be fine in about four or five weeks.
Klugman overheard him and chirped, “Great, that’s great, wow, it’s not all that bad.”
“What do you mean, it’s not that bad?” I said. “I’m a homeless guy. I need both hands to eke out any kind of subsistence in this fuckin’ city.”
I think it was my use of the word subsistence that threw him off balance, I never asked so I don’t know that for a fact, but what followed certainly convinced me it was.
First of all, he apologized over and over, he hadn’t seen me. He had no idea I was picking up an orange. He hadn’t known he’d driven over the hand twice until I told him, and he couldn’t understand how he’d managed to do it.
“Mr. Klugman,” I said mustering up as much sincerity as I could. “I appreciate your picking up my medical bills. But might I suggest something to substantially lower your costs?”
“Sure… certainly… what?”
“Every day I stay here in the hospital will cost you a small fortune. All I need is bed rest. Why not let me stay at your place?”
“That… that’s a great idea! We have plenty of room and my wife shouldn’t mind too much.”
“But she would mind my coming home with you?”
“She minds anything I do, except the paycheck I bring home.”
“But I like it! Your idea, that is. I could use someone to talk too. Someone to bounce ideas off of, you know?”
I nodded; words might only have served to defeat my purpose.
And so it came to pass that an hour or so later, I left the wheelchair at the entrance to the hospital and stepped into Klugman’s Mercedes.
Off we went, with him chattering all the way, telling me about the members of his family who would no doubt, welcome me with open arms.
It didn’t quite work out that way. Sheila, the wife, a slightly overweight brunette I guessed to be in her mid-forties, greeted me as if I was bringing the bubonic plague into her home.
Klugman ignored all the signals she was sending and ushered me into the nearest chair which was in his living room.
We, Mrs. Klugman and I, studied one another. I don’t know what she thought of me… well I can guess, but can’t see myself writing about it. On the other hand, Sheila, as I came to call her, when I wasn’t addressing her as the Goddess of Bitching; had distinctively Jewish features. That is to say, her nose had been straightened and was now long and delicate. She had a heart-shaped face, long black hair that bobbed over her forehead. Her eyes were set wide apart and slightly tilted and her gaze was direct, frank, unabashed, one might say, filled with daggers that failed to pierce my heart but had ripped Klugman’s ayaş escort to pieces many times over.
She also had dazzling white teeth, no doubt caped, whitened and paid for by my new buddy, Warren Klugman. And did I already mention she was about fifteen pounds overweight?
After tempering several scathing remarks about bringing home riff-raff, she left Warren and me to, “sort things out.” By that I assume she meant for him to find me a flop house to reside in while I recovered from my hand injury.
Warren, who I was finding to be a genuinely nice guy, bade me sit down in his favorite easy chair, gave me what he professed to be a bona fide Cuban cigar, took one for himself, and carefully lit both of them.
I mimicked his actions as he smoked the cigar. I smoked cigarettes when I could, but being among the vast group of unemployed, it wasn’t all that often that I had enough money to buy them. Thus far, I had been able to resist picking butts off the street and relighting them like some of my acquaintances were fond of doing.
All in all, I thoroughly enjoyed the Cuban cigar, although I can’t say that I was able to distinguish the superior qualities Klugman kept referring to. But I nodded and grunted when appropriate and he seemed satisfied that I was enjoying it as much as he was.
“So…” I said, after a minute or so had gone by without Sheila’s reappearing. “The wife lets you smoke cigars in the living room, eh?”
“Oh, no!” he said quickly, as he looked around to make sure Sheila wasn’t about to return. Then pointing to a strange looking device implanted in the ceiling just over our heads, he said, “I had that odor remover put in a year ago. Cost me $5000, but it’s worth every penny. Sheila has no idea that I smoke the occasional Cuban in the room.” He paused, and then added, “She’d take my head off if she knew.”
“Aren’t you taking a chance right now?”
“I don’t think so. She’s pissed at me bringing you here. She’s off sulking, or going on a shopping spree.
I nodded understandingly and took in my opulent surroundings. I could see a rather large swimming pool through one of the many over-sized windows in the room and wondered if I would get to make use of it. (I loved to swim, and was fairly good at it, having been a lifeguard in high school and early college years.)
“Pretty big place you have here, Warren.”
“Um, about 5500 square feet,” he offered.
Since we were in Beverly Hills, I knew my best buddy had to be loaded with dough, and so I put it to him: “You must be loaded, Warren. Just what do you do for a living?”
He smiled happily, and replied, “I’m a logistical middleman.”
Well that took me back. “I don’t understand, what exactly is a logistical middleman?”
Warming to the subject, Warren put down his cigar and began a lengthy explanation, which I will try to summarize for you, the reader.
“I spent my early years after college working in the Purchasing and Transportation organization of a major 500 corporation. While there I came to become involved in international shipping. It’s a complicated process, requiring either extensive logistical knowledge, or being able to rely on capable personal in organizations specifically trained in international shipping regulations.
“I should explain by adding that each country has its own rules and regulations as regards allowing materials in and out of their respective countries. This, of course, complicates things for anyone wanting to ship, or receive goods from a variety of countries around the world.
Obviously, years before, groups were formed that could deal with such matters. Where I saw a niche, was in all the Fortune 500 companies that were rapidly downsizing their organizations and all but shutting down their own logistics departments.
I had experience in dealing with the presidents and vice-presidents of many 500 companies. I approached them, needing only one or two to listen to my idea. It was a simple one. Inasmuch as they had no logistical personnel, I would fill that void on their behalf… for a fee. They had no reason to run out and hire replacements for those they’d let go.
I acted as intermediary for them with the major international shipping organizations, alerting them as to when and where shipments needed to be picked up, and in some instances, directing the 500 companies to deliver the material to them.
I handled the billing, directing the 500 companies to pay the international shipping organizations, who would then pay me a percentage of each and every shipment, usually 10%, sometimes even 15%.
“It worked so well that soon the other 500 companies lined up wanting me to handle that aspect of their business. And as international trading mushroomed, so did my little enterprise.
“When you realize that there are hundreds of ships going out and in on a daily basis, you can begin to understand the volumes of freight and amount of money involved.”
“You became a multi-millionaire ankara escort in a hurry,” I said, looking him in the eye.
“Eighteen months in I made my first million, after expenses. After all, I had to hire some people to handle the paperwork involved and accountants to track the money from 14 Fortune 500 companies now using my service.”
Warren was on his way to becoming a billionaire, but as I was soon to learn, he was unhappy. His family life was in tatters. His wife ruled the roost and he saw no way of wresting control away from her, nor did he want to. He had two children, Noreen, his 19 year old daughter, and Johnny, his 18 year old son.
I sensed that Warren was enjoying himself as he told me all about his family and dysfunctional attributes; although he himself didn’t quite see it that way.
His daughter was into the Goth scene. He was concerned about her recent interest in the drug culture, having successfully protected her through her high school years, he was now worried about her falling in with the wrong crowd and becoming addicted to heroin or something similar.
Johnny was another matter. Warren thought his son withdrawn, an introvert, as he put it, but what he didn’t say, but revealed in other ways, was that he thought his only son and heir to the family fortune might just be a little gay.
I didn’t contradict him and say there is no such thing as a little gay, but merely nodded in understanding.
Warren rang a bell and suddenly an attractive… no, a stunningly attractive Hispanic maid appeared, and he requested she bring us some Glenfidich, with a pitcher of ice water and some glasses.
I saw her glance at me with interest and puzzlement. Evidently the Klugman’s didn’t have all that much company. And I was certainly not dressed properly in any event.
But she (I would soon learn her name was Consuela, and that she was a 26 year old Guatemalan immigrant.) quickly complied with Warren’s request and placed a bottle of expensive scotch on a small side table, along with the requisite glasses and ice water.
I took note of her generous chest as she leaned over to place the scotch and other items on the table, and was rewarded with a brief smile before she turned away and left us alone.
“She’s quite good-looking, Warren,” I said just to confirm my suspicions.
“Indeed she is,” he replied, leaving it there. But it was apparent that he wanted to say more on the subject, but probably felt he didn’t know me well enough to trust me with that particular information.
We finished off the scotch and I declined a second Cuban cigar. My hand began to throb painfully and I asked him where I would be sleeping.
I have to say I liked his response. “We have a second master bedroom on the second floor. I want you to use it. There’s an adjoining bathroom with just about anything you might need. Of course, if there is anything, anything at all, just pick up the phone and hit the intercom. Consuela… you just met her… will answer. Tell her what you need and she’ll get it to you ASAP.”
I went upstairs, found the bedroom he’d mentioned and laid down. Moments later I fell fast asleep.
I woke up feeling better than I had for some time. My hand didn’t hurt so much thanks to the Percodan and aspirin I had taken before falling asleep.
I took a shower, being careful to keep my damaged hand out of the water. It wasn’t all that easy, but I was in no hurry and managed it, although my mother would have complained that I was only wasting water and not doing a thorough job of cleaning myself.
But I was cleaner than I’d been in a few weeks and therefore a much happier guy as I slipped into an expensive robe and chucked all my clothing, including my shoes, into the trash, and headed downstairs, only to pause outside a slightly open bedroom.
Dare I peek inside? Of course I would, and did.
I was rewarded with the sight of a lithe beauty who had to be the Klugman’s daughter, standing before the bedroom mirror, darkened eyes aglow, glinting and reflecting her Gothic makeup preference for black fingernails, hair so black it had to be dyed, silver rings on each and every finger, and as the robe she was wearing slipped down until it hung loosely from her waist, two Gothic type tattoos on her back and shoulder.
I stood riveted to the spot as she began to examine her firm young breasts in the mirror. After ensuring that I was at an angle from which I couldn’t be seen by her without her moving to her left, I took stock of what was being reflected back to me from her mirror image.
There were no apparent piercings on her body. But I noted vivid red scratches on her back, several of which were still seeping blood, and I wondered if she had inflicted them herself. Then I saw light pink scratches and darkening bruises on her shoulders, neck, and inner arms and knew someone else had caused them. Taking a longer look at her face, I became aware that her lower lip was a little puffed, and looked as if it hurt.
She waved a hand in front of her face and stared at her large, softly up thrust breasts in the mirror, cupping one and lifting it, then letting it drop free quivering sensually before becoming still.