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"And just how long, my blushing bride, is this mankiller to remain precisely in the middle of our bedroom?" complained my husband in an extremely aggrieved voice. George was trying -- and failing -- to sound reasonable and understanding as he massaged the big toe of his left foot which one more time, Oh, Lord, had managed to make a valiant attempt to disassociate itself from the rest of that massive foot on the cold, hard, black steel base of my newest craze for fitness, a Cardio-Glide. It took me a moment to answer that not-quite-rhetorical question. It required great personal effort to refrain from answering with one of my own: "How the hell many times are you going to trip over something that big in plain sight, sweetheart?" or something equally as unfeeling. What I actually said, however, was "Just the minute we get some guy who's handier with lumber, hammer and saw than you, my precious one." That, of course, was not a whole lot better than my earlier urge, but it was considerably more to the point. This contraption had been on a direct line between bed and closet for more than long enough, and I already knew that George was up on his feet for at least ten minutes every morning before his brain and eyes were engaged. Unlike some of us, you know. Right. Once my bathroom scales had informed me in a stentorian voice that lately the dreaded it was finding its way back to thighs, posterior, upper arms and belly, I could no longer convince the rest of me that taking a six-pound Chihuahua on a long walk twice a day was going to cut it. Of course, to Fuzz with his tiny little legs, a "long walk" meant around the block. Truth be told, his walks usually consisted of at most to the corner and back, about a fourth of the distance of the "long walk." Ergo, we decided . . . that's an editorial "we," you realize -- we decided to set up an exercise room in the cavernous garage into which would eventually go a stepper, George's set of Olympic weights which were at present in storage, a treadmill, and this odd creature now in the bedroom on which I would sit, pulling with my arms while I pushed with my feet, and thereby hoisting myself up and down about twice every three seconds until I panted like a steam locomotive. There was more than enough space for a room devoted to such equipment downstairs, but to avoid the possibility of chilblains on unmentionable places, a partition would have to be built, a false floor needed to be put in to create a sub-floor six inches or so off the present concrete, carpeting added to that floor, some kind of ventilation-heating system installed, and so on. All this meant hiring a contractor, and old Sheila felt about most of them like many feel about lawyers -- probably an undeserved rep in both cases. Since procrastinating in some circles is regarded as my highest accomplishment, I was living up to my reputation and putting it off again and again. "I swear, George, I'll take care of it this week -- promise." He smiled a little as he hobbled away to disappear into the bath, too much of a gentleman to make any reference to just how much he actually believed me when I said it. No longer on the grill, I rolled out of the waterbed and threw on some sweats in preparation for, one, walking Fuzz just to the parking area to take care of his morning requirements and, two, hopping aboard my gadget to take care of my own. I felt amazingly virtuous these days, managing to get my lazy body actually out of bed by seven for this regimen which would allow me time to eventually shower, have my breakfast -- which usually easily made up for the exercise -- and still be downstairs or out on business by my regular time of nine, the hours that Barbara Fox arrived to run the whole show. Barbara would be late this morning, however, thanks to an elderly houseguest she wanted to take to Denver International Airport herself rather than have her visit spoiled perhaps by the confusion of finding her way to her concourse and plane through this enormous airport. Therefore, I really had to hustle today. The first job I did upon arriving at my desk was to write down the wording of an ad for the local papers regarding a carpenter. Perhaps I'm in error in thinking it's cheaper to hire someone who reads an ad for work than hire someone who places an ad for work, but I don't think I am. That conviction seems perfectly logical to me. As soon as Barbara arrived, that's the first thing I'd have her do, call both daily papers and a couple of the throw-aways to run the ad for, say, three days or so. Sure to get a nibble, I thought. "George," I yelled up the elevator shaft, "I want you to know I've actually written the ad for a carpenter." I waited a moment for his replying holler and was just about to yell again when his voice floated down to me. "Not a minute too soon, kiddo. I really think I broke my toe this time." I was at once contrite, jerked open the door to the elevator cage, and was ready to shoot upstairs and at least kiss it. Until he spoke again. "Of course, it's not so badly broken that my golf game this afternoon will have to be canceled." "You are a rotten, rotten person, George," I said, exiting the cage again and smiling. "I know," he said. "That's why you think I'm cute." Nauseating -- positively nauseating. But I do, you know -- think he's cute, that is. As I turned to go back into my office, a man was just then entering through the front door. He was an older man, closely-cropped gray hair which appeared as soon as he with old world gallantry saw me and whipped off his hat. And he was a pretty big dude, quite broad in the shoulder, huge square hands, and a bull neck. Looked like he knew a good deal about hard work. His clothes were dated but clean, well-pressed, and neat. His shoes were polished. He reminded me almost painfully of the uncle who had willed me this building plus my car and a couple of houses, a man I missed very much to this very day. He smiled and so did I. "Are you Mrs. Casey?:" "Yes, I am," I replied. "How may I help you?" |