Mr. Pelham Interuptis

Myrtle sighed. This was not a new problem. For the past three years, students had voted Max Pelham the worst teacher in the Commercial Arts Department, a dubious honour he chose to ignore. What students thought just wasn’t important to him. He believed himself to be superior to all students, and most everyone else as well, and apparently this was all that mattered to him.

But Myrtle knew such a haughty confidence only ever betrayed raging insecurities beneath the surface. She had at one time or another met people who had something to be arrogant about, and noticed they never were. She had figured out that any arrogance was only so much whistling past the graveyard at midnight ~ always a rather lame attempt to disguise quivering fear. Nevertheless, Pelham regularly insisted that his students didn’t learn because they were all stupid, despite the fact that some of these same students were among the department’s most promising talent. So the reality was, he only made himself look the fool, but apparently didn't realize it.

The girls sat down in Myrtle's office and the one who was already crying started pulling tissues from the proffered box. For Myrtle it was deja vu. But she threaded her fingers together on her desk and listened attentively to their complaints. Then she comforted them, explained to them what she'd learned about people like Pelham, and challenged them to make a complaint to the college administration. But the girls were afraid of repercussions if they did.

"There's only so much I can do then," said Myrtle, shrugging. "When people are afraid to face a situation squarely, it can't be resolved squarely either. You should give it some careful thought, but you should also keep it in perspective and not miss your next class," she said. Then she stood, gave them each a hug, and ushered them out the door.

Myrtle sighed, wondering why everything always happened all at once. Just then, Pelham himself strode through her door. She turned and glared at him from her one good eye as he took an aggressive stance in front of her. Without bothering with the formality of a greeting, pleasant or otherwise, he leaned toward Myrtle and declared, "I swear to God, Myrtle, they’re all too stupid to live!"

"Who?" asked Myrtle innocently.

"Why... the students!" he bellowed. "It’s too frustrating! I take the time to explain to them... I give them the benefit... and they don’t get it! We’re raising idiots these days!"

Myrtle sat back down in her chair and regarded him calmly. "Funny," she said.

"It’s not funny at all!" he blustered. Then he stopped and looked at Myrtle more closely. She had crossed her arms and wasn’t exactly looking amused. "What's so funny?" he demanded.

She uncrossed her arms. "It’s funny that a lot of these same students get good grades in their other classes. And it’s funny that the other teachers don’t complain about them being stupid," she said, gazing sternly at him.

He just stood staring haughtily back at Myrtle, but slowly turned red, and then an interesting shade of purple as he gradually realized that Myrtle was not intimidated by his attitude.

Simply put, Myrtle had no time for his pomposity, so she cut him off even before he could begin any rants. "I don't believe, Dick doesn't believe, the Dean doesn't believe these students are stupid. They helped pass these students through the admissions process." She paused to let that sink in a bit, then continued. "You may wish to consider, Mr. Pelham, that you are a contract instructor who has not yet been offered tenure by this college," she said quietly. "You may also want to bear in mind that past student evaluations of your teaching abilities have been less than favourable." Myrtle’s eye narrowed even more as she uncrossed her legs and leaned across her desk toward him. "One might wonder just how many enemies you can really afford to make."

Pelham backed up a couple of steps, his eyes slowly widening. He had expected Myrtle to be sympathetic, but something was terribly wrong. Suddenly he spun around.... "Of course," added Myrtle with a polite smile, as he strode to the doorway to leave, "if you want to complain to Dick about your students, I’d be happy to book you an appointment," she chirped. But by the time she’d finished, Max Pelham was striding away down the hallway out of earshot.

Myrtle sighed again and sat back in her chair, just as Dick came through the door, looking around to see who Myrtle was talking to. "Something?" he inquired.

"Max Pelham was just in here, complaining about his students again," she explained.

Dick’s eyes took on a slightly panicked look. "Do I have to listen to him again?" he asked.

Myrtle chuckled and shook her head. "No, I don’t think he wants to complain to you this time."

Just as Dick began showing signs of relief, she added, "but don’t get the idea this is the last you’ll hear of it, because I bet it isn’t," she smiled.

As Dick slowly digested this tidbit, Myrtle cheerfully reminded him that she was leaving early for a medical appointment. She handed Dick a file folder of work that some of the faculty might be looking for later in the afternoon - a quiz for Professor Ryan, a letter she’d typed for Mr. Dingman, and a reading list that Professor Syms might be looking for soon. "Keep them in your office, Dick, and I'll lock this one."

Dick nodded in agreement. It was he who hadn’t been happy with faculty rummaging around in Myrtle’s office when she wasn’t around, so he was grateful for her thoughtfulness.

More Bumfuzzled Than Usual

The next day saw Fred all bumfuzzled with one thing and another. He awoke tired and his neck, which had been feeling better, was all stiff and achy again. After shaving he wondered if he should have bothered, since it only made the fresh blue bruise on his jaw show up all the more, and of course, shaving hadn’t exactly been a joyful sensation, especially after cutting himself when he accidentally grabbed his mother’s razor instead of his own. He stood gazing at the huge thing, wondering how he could have made that mistake, until he noticed the blood dribbling into the sink and decided he should try to save himself.

Moreover, he was still in a cold sweat, terrified of all the turns his life was taking, seemingly all at once. It hadn't exactly been a restful weekend. Still, the previous night, he thought he’d feel better in the morning, but a bad nights sleep and the stress of the approaching surgery combined with everything else had him all in a turmoil and only going through the motions of his routine. As he drove down the road to pick up Myrtle, he vaguely wondered if he’d eaten anything for breakfast. He was sure he had, but he couldn’t remember what. Then he realized he’d forgotten his lunch. He could always stop for it on the way back, but didn’t want to face his mother’s taunts and it was only another bologna sandwich anyway. He just couldn’t bring himself to bother.

Myrtle had her own concerns that Monday morning. She had almost forgotten it was the day she was to see her Ophthalmologist too see how her eye was healing. So she climbed into the car with her own butterflies.

“I’ll need the car today, Fred, if that’s ok,” she ventured.

“Mmm,” he replied.

“Fred?” she said, suspecting that he hadn’t actually heard her. He glanced her way. “Fred, did you hear me?”

“Wha..,” he enquired, the car wandering onto the shoulder of the road as he tried very hard to focus on Myrtle.

“Oh good, you’re pulling over,” she smiled. “Stop right here, Fred” she instructed. Fred didn’t know why, but he obediently did so. “I’ll drive,” said Myrtle. “You change places with me,” she instructed again. And again, Fred obeyed.

Once behind the wheel, Myrtle at least felt it didn’t really matter that much if Fred was with her in body only. She had the keys, the wheel in her hands ~ the car. Even only seeing from one eye she was sure she was the better driver on this day. In fact, she really didn’t need to bother him further, except she wasn’t sure where to drop him off. It was a strangely eery drive up the highway. It was obvious Fred had a lot on his mind and she wanted to give him time to struggle with his thoughts. She knew where Soames Shipping was, but when she pulled in, the labyrinth of driveways, shipping ramps and buildings was very confusing to the uninitiated. She looked at Fred, who seemed to recognize his surroundings enough to look down as if wondering how he got into the passenger seat.

“Where do I let you off, Fred?” asked Myrtle.

He gazed at her mystified. Then he pointed at one building in particular. “Those are the offices,” he replied. “Myrtle...?”

“I need the car today, Fred. I have an eye appointment. And you seemed a little preoccupied anyway,” she answered, before he finished asking.

Fred nodded. “Ok,” he said agreeably as Myrtle stopped in front of the building he’d pointed to. “I’ll wait here later,” he offered, climbing out of his car.

“Ok, Fred,” she waved. “You take it easy today, OK?” she advised with obvious concern. Then she waved cheerfully again and drove off with his car, Fred waving back, still not quite sure what was happening. At least, he thought, he didn’t have to try to park his car between those two extended cab pickups this morning. It was always a bit of challenge to squeeze his car into the space they left for him. He wasn’t sure he’d have been able to do it without denting something on this day. With that relieved thought on his mind, he wandered into the building.

Fred stumbled rather distractedly and wide-eyed through the outer office, bumping into a filing cabinet as he did so. This seemed to jolt him back to reality. He stood staring at it for a moment, then it occurred to him that he really didn’t need to be hurting himself anymore. He also didn’t need to be making a spectacle of himself any more than necessary. Nor did he want to make any more mistakes in his work. He took a deep breath and gave his head a shake, causing a searing pain up his neck which only heightened his resolve to do only as much as he had to. So, hoping that there were no really complicated shipping orders for him to route, he squared his narrow shoulders and made his way to his office safely.

Once there, he needed to rest his head to be able to think clearly, so he laid his head gently on his desk for a moment. It was there that Helen found him over four hours later, fast asleep and snoring rather loudly.

Myrtle had her own challenges at work that day. It somehow figured, in the normal sticky irony of life, that nothing momentous ever happened on those sleepy, rainy days when she didn’t have that much work to do anyway. But of course, on the day she had to get her work done quickly so she could leave early for an appointment was the very day all hell broke loose.

It wasn’t enough that Professor Dilby chose this day to visit Myrtle twice, once to gaze fondly at her and request an envelope, the second time to ask which day it was, which he may have genuinely needed to know, though it had Myrtle wondering if he’d spent the weekend in his office or something. Nor was it apparently sufficient that Dick was in a wild panic all morning over another meeting of the Dean’s committee and an agenda that he didn’t understand, but was sure had something to do with him. No, to add to Myrtle’s burdens, it was on this day that Mr. Pelham decided it was time to be mindlessly mean to some of his female students again.

Mr. Pelham was an instructor with a reputation at Upton College that Myrtle knew full well was earned. So, in a way, she wasn’t a bit surprised when two female students, one of them already in tears, came bursting into her office with his name on their lips. Myrtle almost automatically pulled a box of tissues out of a desk drawer and steeled herself to hear the whole sordid story.

Fred Survives the Day

When their iced teas arrived, Myrtle thoughtfully suggested that Fred hold his against his throbbing jaw while they waited for their pizzas. This helped a bit and Fred was soon feeling a little better. His embarrassment waned as Myrtle sympathized and after a while his jaw didn't hurt nearly as much. All and all, they enjoyed their lunch, though Fred thought it better to not chew on the freshly bruised side, worrying that he may have loosened a tooth or two. But the pizzas were good and the waiter had been so accommodating, they were certain this was destined to become a favourite haunt. This made them both happy, yet it also worried each of them for their own reasons... Fred due to the design of the chair legs, Myrtle because she saw the potential for putting on weight. Nevertheless, they left the restaurant in good spirits.

Fred was even happier when Myrtle suggested they skip the curtain shopping for certain and attend to that another time. So they just strolled along Benton until they came across a thrift shop. They looked happily at each other and went inside where Fred found some CDs he wanted and a belt, and Myrtle picked up some kitchen gadgets, salt and pepper shakers, a vinegar cruit and a few mugs she thought Fred might like. This kind of shopping Fred didn’t mind. He thought it was kind of fun to explore thrift shops looking for unexpected treasures. And Myrtle just loved the idea of picking up some bargains, rather than buying everything new. Their purchases bagged up and in hand, they continued their walk until the shops yielded to houses, with more apartment buildings visible up the street. So they crossed over and walked back to Fred’s new apartment on the other side.

When they were almost there, Myrtle looked up suddenly. "Oh Fred, we must remember to turn in the signed lease before we leave."

"Yeah, I thought of that," replied Fred. "It’s ok... I had a little look at it while you were cleaning the toilet and it seems pretty standard, so I signed it, but I left it on the bags we took in. We can just get it before we go and give it to the Super," he finished, wondering if he mightn’t have left out the detail about the toilet.

Myrtle wondered briefly if she oughtn’t take a look at the lease, then decided against even suggesting it. Too pushy, she thought to herself. She would just have to trust that Fred had signed leases before and knew what he was doing. So it wasn’t long before they'd handed in the lease and were headed back to her place.

Fred was just glad that it was all looked after and he had a new place to live. He was careful to not stay too late at Myrtle’s that night, in case his mother decided to lock the screen doors again. So after a small but yummy repast of toasted bacon and tomato sandwiches and tea, Fred excused himself saying he was tired and had to get up early in the morning. Myrtle understood completely and after a couple of dangerously amorous kisses at the back door that might have tempted him to change his mind under more favourable circumstances, Fred more or less tripped out the back door and headed down the path toward his car.

He made it home without incident that night and though he would have preferred to just avoid his mother, it was if she was laying in wait for him.

“I trust you’ll let me know when you won’t be sleeping here anymore,” she said sternly.

“Yes Mother,” he replied, slowly backing away. “I’m going into hospital on Friday, for that operation, if you recall,” he reminded her. “Myrtle will pick me up when I’m released and take me back to my new apartment.”

“So then who’s going to see to you?” demanded Flora.

“I guess Myrtle will look in on me,” he replied, defensively. He didn’t want to anger his mother, but he really didn’t want her ‘looking after him’ either.

Flora was actually relieved that she wouldn’t be responsible for his convalescence. Still, she was a bit hurt that Fred apparently liked it that way too. “So when do I get to meet this Florence Nightingale of yours?” she demanded. “This girl who apparently has nothing better to do than see to your precious needs?” she almost spat.

“I don’t know,” replied Fred, still backing away, feeling behind him for the entrance to his room. When his hand felt the door jam, he smiled at his mother, said “well, good night, Mom,” and ducked into his room, shutting the door behind him. He sighed deeply and decided to change into his nightshirt before using the bathroom.

He examined the new bruise on his jaw as he got ready for bed. It throbbed just a little when he laid on that side and sleep didn’t come easily. He was frightened of his mother, he was growing increasingly nervous about the pending operation, and he was scared to death of moving and relying on a new girl friend for his care. But even though he was restless for awhile, sleep was Fred’s refuge from reality, and he eventually drifted off into a fitful slumber.

A Discovery, and Another Bruise

They obtained the key from the bug-eyed Superintendent, who also handed Fred a sheath of papers with instructions to sign and return them as quickly as possible.

"What..?" began Fred.

"Your lease," said the man, rolling his eyes just a bit. "I’m not supposed to release the key till it’s signed, so get it back to me before you leave, ok?" he said sternly.

"Oh... right," agreed Fred, nodding his understanding. "I’ll be sure to do that," he said as he and Myrtle turned away and the Super rolled his eyes again.

Once inside Fred’s new apartment, Myrtle set Fred to work cleaning windows, starting in the bedroom. Then she whirled into action herself, cleaning the stove, fridge, cupboards, washing the floor, and scouring the bathroom thoroughly. Fortunately nothing was really all that dirty, so her cleaning moved right along.

Fred got through cleaning the bedroom window all right, but had a few moments of shooting abdominal pain in the living room when he stretched a bit too far to reach the top of the large window inside the small balcony. He bent double a couple of times to let the discomfort pass and as he did so it occurred to him again how awfully nice it was of Myrtle to be so helpful, vaguely wondering if he was actually going to survive her assistance. Blinking back the pain, he turned his head while still bent over and gazed out at the little balcony. It looked pretty clean, so he hoped they wouldn’t have to wash it too. Then it occurred to him slowly that it might be fun to get a small barbeque to put out there, along with a couple of lawn chairs... maybe a plant for Myrtle. As he slowly straightened, he conceded to himself that it was a good idea, but resolved to keep quiet about it for the moment. He just didn't want the idea to turn into more shopping right away.

He soon figured out just how far he could safely reach without hurting himself and since Myrtle had brought him the little step ladder, once she was finished the kitchen cupboards, he bravely climbed to the second step of that to avoid stretching too far. And so he was just putting the finishing touches on the living room windows when Myrtle finished her chores and sat down on the living room floor to watch him.

"The windows look great, Fred," she beamed. "When you’re done, I want to measure again for the curtains," she said. "Then I think that will be enough for today, don’t you?"

Fred looked at her in surprise. This house cleaning stuff wasn’t all that bad after all, he thought. He’d thought there would almost certainly be more to do. He stepped back and gazed proudly at the window he’d just polished. "It almost seems a shame to cover them up with curtains when I just got them all to shine," he remarked.

Myrtle chuckled tolerantly. "Well, when we want to admire them, we just need to open the curtains," she explained lightly.

"Are you hungry?" he asked suddenly.

"Getting there," she answered, rising slowly from the floor. "Let’s get this measuring done and we can figure out what we want to do for lunch.... and if we want to look for curtains today..."

"I’d like to go out for lunch," said Fred enthusiastically, not really digesting the last of what Myrtle had said. "I’d like to see what’s in my new neighbourhood... you know, stores, eateries... like that," he finished.

"Oh," said Myrtle, warming to the idea. "That sounds like a good idea, Fred. Maybe we’ll find a nice little coffee shop or something where we can lunch, then we can explore," she agreed.

Fred smiled happily, gave one spot on the window one last polish, then climbed down carefully from the step ladder. Myrtle immediately climbed up with the tape measure in her hand. She hooked the end over the curtain rod and pulled, then turned to hand it to Fred. But he had wandered away and was evidently distracted with peering into his wallet, so Myrtle just climbed down and finished the measure herself. Then she wrote the number down on a small pad she’d taken from her purse. She had to call Fred over to get him to hold the tape on one side of the window while she walked to the other. Her measuring done, she smiled and nodded at Fred, who grinned back.

They left the building arm-in-arm and strolled along Benton Avenue. The first block to the east was just more apartment buildings and so was part of the next, but then there were some small shops. Fred took Myrtle’s hand and went inside a small grocery to check out its goods. As he squeezed melons and felt tomatoes, Myrtle checked the "best before" dates on the breads and rolls. Then they both gazed into the freezer section and admired the range of goods for such a small store. They bought a lottery ticket before they left, just to buy something. Fred would have felt a little guilty about squeezing the melons if he hadn’t bought something.

They continued their stroll along Benton and passed a number of other nice-looking shops - Rick’s Flowers and Gifts, Phil’s Computers and Games, a fudge and chocolate shop, a deli, a bakery, a used book store, and a few antique and collectibles shops, and more. Then they came to a little Italian restaurant called Giovanni’s. They instantly turned toward each other and grinned, then went inside.

Myrtle was just about to exclaim about how picturesque the place was, with its little round tables, checkered tablecloths and old world atmosphere, when Fred suddenly fell to his knees.

Myrtle stared, first at the vacant space where Fred should have been standing, then down at the floor where he was. A waiter came toward them quickly. “What happened Fred?” asked Myrtle, gazing down at him.

His face turning the most remarkable shade of red, Fred turned to sit on the floor with one hand on his jaw. “I tripped!” he said, with some exasperation. “I tripped on the chair leg and hit the back of the chair.

“Oh my goodness,” said Myrtle and the waiter, almost in unison.

The waiter reached out a hand to help Fred up. “I hope-a you alrighta, sir,” he said, somehow managing to look concerned and suspicious both at the same time.

“I’m ok,” said Fred. “Thanks. I’ll just have another bruise.”

The waiter pulled out the nearest chair and motioned for Fred to sit. Then he went around the table and motioned for Myrtle to do the same, holding her chair for her as she obliged.

“Are you sure you’re ok, Fred?” she asked, putting her hand warmly on his.

He glanced up, very obviously embarrassed. “I’m ok, Myrtle. I just tripped. I wish I’d stop hurting myself,” he whined.

“For-a you sir,” interjected the waiter in his colourful accent, “a free personal pizza... ona the house, eh?”

“That really isn’t necessary...” protested Fred.

“I insist-a!” said the waiter forcefully. “You justa tell me whata kind you want...”

“There, there, Fred,” said Myrtle, patting his hand sympathetically. “I think that’s very nice of them. You order one for you, and I’ll have a plain cheese personal pizza too.... which we’ll pay for,” she added, looking up at the waiter, who nodded his approval. "And two iced teas," she added.

“Ok,” said Fred. “I’ll just have pepperoni and mushrooms on mine.”

With that, the waiter smiled and strode off to the kitchen.

“Oh Myrtle....” moaned Fred, letting his head fall to the table in his frustration, rather soundly whacking his forehead on the table top into the bargain.

Whoa....

Fred was wakened by a loud and persistent banging above his head. Pulling himself upright he gazed sleepily out the back window of the Toyota into the huge, red face of Flora Luckinbill. He closed his eyes again and gave his head a shake. It was a frightening sight. Then he sniffed, blinked and threw open the car door, his mother dancing out of its way with surprising agility for a woman of her girth.

"So, she came to her senses and threw you out, did she?" enquired Flora, loudly.

Fred slammed the car door shut. "No. I fell asleep there. I woke up in the middle of the night... ON THE COUCH," he emphasized, "and came home to find you’d locked the screen doors," he complained.

What began as an amused chuckle somewhere deep inside Flora slowly increased in turbulence and volume until it erupted in a series of quaking guffaws, punctuated by helpless coughing and wheezing. "You silly ass," she exclaimed, as soon as she could catch her breath. "Don’t you know she phoned? She called... said you’d fallen asleep on her couch... and she didn’t want to wake you... poor thing," she chuckled. "I told her to keep you... just as long as she wants... and do with you what she pleases."

Fred stared. Then he snorted, turned and marched toward the house, his mother’s laughter ringing in his ears. Here he’d tried to do the decent thing and wound up spending half the night cramped into the back seat of his Toyota for nothing. How was he to know Myrtle had phoned? He was asleep! He stepped into the house and slammed the door behind him. By now, Myrtle was probably up and wondering where he was, he thought. He strode into the bathroom and slammed that door behind him as well.

When he emerged from the house forty minutes later, he noticed his car had been moved and his mother’s truck was gone. He snorted again, realizing it was Sunday and his mother had probably been on her way to church when she found him. He climbed into his car and headed back to Myrtle’s, silently rehearsing a variety of possible explanations for his disappearance as he drove slowly down the road.

Myrtle was indeed up and somewhat perplexed that she couldn’t find Fred anywhere in her house. After lifting the crumpled blanket on the couch to make double sure he wasn’t under there, she had checked the bathroom and even her bedroom, thinking he might have sleepily wandered in there while she was in the kitchen turning on the coffee-maker. Finally realizing he just wasn’t in the house, she stood in the kitchen mentally debating whether to make breakfast for one, or for two, in case he returned. Fortunately, before she made a decision, she heard a tentative tapping at her back door. There was Fred, wearing a look of contrite bewilderment. Myrtle threw her arms around his collar and pulled him inside.

"What happened, Fred? Where did you go?"

He placed his arms around her waist and blushed. All his rehearsed words instantly vanished from his mind. "I woke up... it was late... I thought... I thought... I mean, it seemed like I should go home," he finished feebly.

"Oh," she said, not sure what else to say. After enduring a rather unpleasant phone call to Fred’s loud and unappreciative mother, Myrtle thought it was a just a shame that he hadn’t stayed put, but she knew he had no way of knowing what had transpired, so she smiled, grasped his hand and pulled him farther into the house. "You haven’t had breakfast yet, have you? What would you like?" she continued, without waiting for a reply to the first question.

Fred allowed himself to be led to the kitchen, then he said, "no... I didn’t take the time to eat, and besides, Mother doesn’t like me to cook in her kitchen...." his voice sort of trailed off.

Myrtle cheerfully led him to the kitchen table, where he plopped down onto a chair, feeling a little irritable that he couldn’t really whine to Myrtle about spending part of the night in his car, or about his nasty mother and the way she woke him. It just didn’t seem like the thing to do, and he would have felt a little foolish, although it would have been nice to get it off his chest. Of course, it didn’t occur to him that Myrtle was harbouring her own thoughts about his mother which she felt she couldn’t speak.

"Do you like French toast, Fred?" Myrtle asked, smiling.

"Sorry?" he mumbled, shaking himself awake. "Oh... um... yes," he said, before she could repeat the question.

"Would you like bacon with your French toast?" she asked.

"That’d be great," he replied gratefully, starting to feel a little better as Myrtle’s smile and the laugh crinkles beside her eye warmed him a little. He sighed and watched as she placed several slices of side bacon into a frying pan.

He felt even better after the hearty breakfast and some small talk about the weather and window curtains. He didn’t even mind wiping the dishes as Myrtle washed, and he grinned happily as Myrtle collected up some rags and sponges and threw them into a plastic bucket. She added a tape measure, a small bottle of vinegar and a box of baking soda, and handed the bucket to Fred with a smile. Then she picked up her sponge mop and a small step ladder and motioned toward two bulging shopping bags in the corner.

"We’ll put these in your car, and I’ll come back for those while you get the car warmed up," she said, in an instructional tone.

Fred simply nodded and followed Myrtle to the door, realizing only after he was in the driver’s seat that it was precious little warming up his car needed. He should have helped her with those bags, he chastised himself, but it was too late, because there was Myrtle back with them, putting them into the trunk. He shrugged and smiled sheepishly as Myrtle climbed in beside him. He decided to say nothing about it and just drive. And so they headed for Fred's new apartment.

Rough Day, Night No Better

Myrtle was a little taken aback by Fred’s question, but in a way, she understood that shopping wasn’t something Fred was really into. In fact, in that moment, she sort of realized that she might be expecting too much of Fred. She liked that he wasn’t a big, dumb, scruffy kind of man, but at the same time, she realized, rather suddenly, that he probably wasn’t going to jump at that chance to go to the mall with her either, like one of her girlfriends.

She smiled. "Yes… well pretty much done, Fred. Done enough for now anyway. I called the superintendent of your new building while you were resting," she informed him happily. "The apartment is officially yours and he says we can pick up the key tomorrow."

Fred smiled in surprise. He’d kind of wanted to hear the news himself, but he was more glad that they hadn’t done all that shopping for nothing. "Pick up the key... on a Sunday?" he asked.

"Well, I asked him if the apartment was already cleaned in readiness for the new tenant on the first of the month," she smiled. "That’s when he said we could get the key tomorrow if we wanted."

Fred put down his empty plate and picked up his mug of tea as the significance of her words slowly sank in. He glanced at her. "You mean.... you want to clean my new apartment tomorrow?"

"Well, if it’s all right with you, Fred, I thought it wouldn’t be a bad idea to get a start on it. I’d like to clean the fridge and stove anyway. Of course, if you’re too tired…."

"But Myrtle, I don’t expect you to clean for me," he protested.

"Oh I don’t mind, Fred," she chirped. "I don’t mind helping out at all."

He wasn’t sure what to say. He hadn’t scrubbed any of his other apartments before moving in and he didn’t feel any the worse off for it. He glanced again at Myrtle, who waited with an expectant smile. Realizing it was probably inescapable, he sighed. Then he nodded and smiled stoically.

Myrtle gleefully pulled him to her and planted a kiss on his cheek. "It won’t be so bad, Fred. You’ll see," she promised.

He was simply too tired to argue. He sighed deeply and put his head back on the couch. He was pleased that Myrtle was so eager to look after him this way, but he also couldn’t help wondering if he possessed sufficient strength and energy to be looked after by Myrtle.

The two snuggled together on the couch, lapsing occasionally into talk of matters inconsequential and before very long, the combination of fatigue, the satisfaction of a full stomach and the comfort of his surroundings caused Fred to nod off again. He was only distantly aware of Myrtle’s arms around him, settling him back into the pillows she fluffed up under his head and her soft lips on his forehead. He drifted off into a deep, contented sleep.

Sleep seemed to be Fred’s refuge whenever he felt overwhelmed. Myrtle couldn’t help thinking that he was certainly catching up on his rest. She puttered about tidying up, made a call, then turned in herself with a good book.

Unfortunately, Fred’s sleep didn’t last the night. He opened his eyes to a darkness broken only by a barely discernable and somewhat spooky glow from the wood stove and wondered where he was. He sat up, still trying to see into the blackness and slowly realized he was still at Myrtle’s. Remembering there was a lamp at his side, he groped for it, switched it on and gazed at his watch. Three o’clock. He looked around again. Unless there was a total eclipse of the sun or the end of the world was at hand, he was forced to conclude it was three o’clock in the morning. He jumped up and ran out to the hallway, switched on the hall light, went back to living room to switch off the lamp, returned to the hall, grabbed his jacket, remembering to check his pocket for his car keys, and made a hasty exit, snapping off the hall light as he went.

He was a little surprised to see the porch light wasn’t on at his mother’s. He had rather suspected she might actually be waiting up for him, if only for the singular delight of scolding and teasing him for being out half the night. Remembering his near fatal encounter with a damp jock strap the last time he tried to enter through the back, he fumbled his way up the front porch steps in the darkness, banging his shin and dropping his house keys twice as he did so. The screen door was locked. Though it was something Fred rarely did, he cursed. Then he tripped and fumbled his way around to the back door anyway, only to find that screen door locked as well. He cursed again and made his way back to the front stoop where he sat pondering the situation.

His mother’s house was locked up tight and he couldn’t get in. There was no point in going back to Myrtle’s because he’d very carefully locked the door behind him when he left. That didn’t require a key at Myrtle’s. He sighed, wondering if he mightn’t have at least thought to use Myrtle’s bathroom before rushing out into the night. Resignedly, he got up and wandered in the general direction of a bush he knew of behind his mother’s truck.

More Shopping?!

Saturday was a day Fred later felt in his heart of hearts he could have done without. Oh, the breakfast at Myrtle’s was nice. Poached eggs were kind of interesting, he thought, especially when Myrtle cut a hole in the toast and slid the egg into it. He was certainly full anyway. But then came more shopping. He wasn’t quite sure where he completely lost control. In fact, he wasn’t sure if he was ever actually in control. When he’d asked Myrtle to help with the shopping, he hadn’t had this in mind. But there were still a number of things he apparently needed for his apartment and Myrtle was set on getting it done so everything would be ready when he got out of the hospital.

Fred didn’t really care. The apartment was not even confirmed yet. And as long as there was a place to sleep, sit, eat and watch TV, he was going to be satisfied for the time being. Alas, Myrtle was not. They were probably only about ten or so minutes into the first store when Fred just lost interest. But not wanting to fall asleep amongst the stuffies again, he tried to stay on Myrtle’s trail as she moved about the store, deftly grabbing this, carefully assessing that. Fred didn’t want to hurt her feelings at all, so with one arm across his waist, the other elbow propped on it and a hand thoughtfully perched across his mouth, he offered up a chorus of squeaks, grunts, hums and other noises meant to convey his interest, agreement, approval, or curiosity when it came to whatever item Myrtle was showing him. He didn’t care that the shower curtain had ducks on it, or that the dishes had flowers on them. Somewhere in his mind’s eye, he pictured the dishes covered with food anyway. He didn’t care if his cutlery was made of silver plated white metal or tin. He would have been happy with a couple of boxes of plastic forks and spoons. A dish drainer? They actually had to drain? Visions of paper plates danced in his head. In fact, they swirled. He stood there gazing at Myrtle with vacant eyes whilst visions of some fellow spinning plates on rods invaded his brain.

“Fred,” said Myrtle again.

Fred jumped visibly. “Oh... oh... I’m sorry, Myrtle. I was thinking about something else,” he confessed, smiling rather sheepishly.

"Are you ok?” she asked, with genuine concern, also remembering Fred asleep amongst the stuffed animals. “Should we take a break? There’s a coffee shop in this store.”

Fred stood there for the longest time thinking about coffee and how he’d had enough already for one day. Then he decided he was really still too full for food. Myrtle watched, her one eye large with concern as she waited for his response. “No... no... it’s ok,” he said at last. “I don’t really want anything, Myrtle,” he sort of muttered. And yet, Myrtle took him gently by the hand and led him to the coffee shop, attempting all the while to steer their buggy with her other hand.

Before they got there, it suddenly occurred to Fred that he should help her with the buggy at least. “Let me push that, Myrtle,” he said, grabbing onto the buggy handle. Myrtle let him, but laid her hand on the side of the buggy, as if worried that she might lose track of Fred and his purchases if she let go completely. They made it to the coffee shop, parked the buggy at the cash desk, and found a booth where a dazed Fred slumped into the seat.

Myrtle found that regular breaks were necessary for Fred to stay with her on any level, and that a little snack, like a few cookies and some milk, had a wonderful restorative affect on him, though Fred only nibbled, and it was very temporary. So they shopped for a couple more hours, back and forth between the aisles and the coffee shop. Then Myrtle thought she really couldn’t ask any more of Fred. Moreover, she'd chosen for him as much as she could without knowing for sure if she had his actual conscious knowledge of what was being bought. It was time to pay up and take him home. She was glad she had when she did, because they no sooner entered her house with a scant few packages when Fred collapsed onto her couch and fell fast asleep, his head at at awkward angle because of his collar. Myrtle just gazed at him, her eye a little wide, for a full minute. When he really didn’t move, she decided he wasn’t just kidding around. She tucked a pillow under his head and covered him over. Then she went to the car for the rest of the packages.

"Fred woke up slowly, vaguely conscious of the smell of something baking, and of wood smoke in the air, the faint, almost distant crackle of the fire and the cozy warmth of his surroundings. He opened his eyes to a softly lit room and saw Myrtle gently rocking in the chair across from him, intent upon her reading. It was all so comfortably domestic, he wanted to just close his eyes again and go back to sleep. But he was hungry and he had to relieve himself. He noticed there was also the faintest odour of some sort of other food mingled with the baking and wood smoke, so he sat up. He sniffed, rubbed his eyes and stretched. This alerted Myrtle and, smiling, she got up and went to him.

"Did you have a nice nap," she inquired. She pulled away the blanket she’d put over him and flung it across the back of the couch. He smiled sleepily and nodded. "You must be hungry," she ventured. Again he nodded. "Well, you go now and freshen up," she instructed. "I’ll go get your dinner. I’ve been keeping it warm for you."

The two departed the living room, each on their own mission. When Fred returned there was a plate of macaroni and tuna casserole and a glass of milk waiting for him on the side table at the end of the couch and Myrtle was once again rocking gently in the chair by the stove.
"I hope you like tuna casserole, Fred."

"Oh yes," he said with a smile, "I do. In fact, it’s always been a favourite of mine. I haven’t had it in a long time." As he was evidently being permitted to eat in the living room, he snuggled cozily back onto the couch and picked up his plate. He mushed the food around with his fork and lifted a fork full to his mouth.

When Fred was through his dinner, Myrtle brought him a piece of fresh-baked pie with a cup of tea and curled up on the couch beside him.

“Wow, Myrtle! Cherry pie! One of my favourites! Where did this come from?”

“I baked it, Fred,” she said, giggling. “I cheated and used frozen pastry, and just opened a bottle of sour cherries and sweetened and thickened them. Easy peasy,” she smiled.

"It’s really good,” he grinned, holding the wee plate under his chin and scooping up another piece. “I suppose we should get the things from the car when I’m through," he offered, his mouth still a little full.

"I did that while you were sleeping," smiled Myrtle.

Fred offered a hurt look. "All by yourself? Myrtle, the car must have been stuffed! You should have waited for me!" he scolded. He knew his lifting ability was limited by his injury, but he could still have carried some of the lighter items.

Myrtle squeezed his arm and smiled guiltily. "I took it easy… honest. I just opened the front door and took the short route into the house. That way I could also get the stuff in without disturbing you. You were so tired, Fred," she sympathized.

It was difficult to maintain his indignation in the face of her thoughtfulness. All and all, it had been a tough week with quite a bit more stress than Fred could really handle. He smiled, then ventured a question. "Did we get the shopping done, Myrtle?"

Too Much Is Just Too Much

Friday was a much better day for Fred. He had only just settled down to dig into his work, for however long it was still his work, when he was informed by Helen that the accident of the previous day wasn’t as bad as they had all feared. Both drivers were already released from hospital and the damage to the trucks was considered "reparable" and "minor," respectively. A recovery crew had been dispatched straightaway to the scene for the contents of the trucks and, while the engine parts were on their way to be inspected for possible damage it was thought they would likely be fine, and the heavy ovens, remarkably, were found to have survived the crash unscathed. Due to a shortage of vehicles available on short notice, the ovens had been loaded into a truck already half full of mattresses. The chief of the recovery crew expertly pronounced some of the mattresses a righteous mess and just as expertly judged the ovens undamaged. They were then labouriously transferred to another truck and were now, presumably, in the possession of the irate restaurateur.

Helen was confident that if anything should turn out to be wrong with them, Soames would hear about it

The news had an almost magical, restorative affect on Mr. Grieves and by lunch time, Fred was assured there was nothing untoward in store for him, although he did suspect any future raises normally due him might be deferred to offset increases in the company’s insurance premiums. However, his position with the company was secure for the moment, so by the time he left to pick up Myrtle he was in a positively light-hearted mood.

Myrtle, meanwhile, was eagerly anticipating more sales at Pricemart. The linens sale that began that very day was next on their shopping agenda and they’d decided to go straight there after work, then head for Myrtle’s afterwards for a late supper. On the way to the store, Fred filled Myrtle in on the events of the day and she clucked over him and offered her heartfelt congratulations in return. Then, scarcely out of the car, she hurried into the store prepared to take on the expected crush of eager shoppers attending the sale. Fred caught up with her at the towel bin. It wasn’t quite the melee Myrtle had foreseen, but there was still a small group of jostling, no-nonsense women around the bins, each intent upon getting her hands on the best towels first. Fred stood back and watched in an odd combination of horror and amazement as Myrtle plunged confidently into the sea of human elbows.

He was a little surprised when she emerged intact only a few minutes later with four of the bound sets in colours he wasn’t sure about, but decided he could live with. Myrtle placed them in the cart and marched on, leaving Fred to assume custody of the cart and keep up with her.

Unfortunately he didn’t. The events of the past couple of days had actually taken a lot out of Fred and he just wasn’t used to this kind of shopping. Oh, he sort of kept up with Myrtle for a couple more of the sale bins, then stood aside as she dived into the fray. But then, dazed and confused, he sort of wandered off alone, eventually leaving the cart parked at the end of an aisle where something had caught his eye.

When Myrtle finally realized she’d lost her companion, she didn’t have the slightest clue where to look for him. Her arms loaded with sheets, pillow cases and dish towels, she hurried along a main aisle looking in both directions for any sign of Fred. Suddenly she bumped into an abandoned cart. Looking into it, she recognized the towels she’d already picked out. This was a clue, she thought. So she looked down the first aisle, which was in the toy section, and saw no one. She dumped what she had in her arms into the cart and moved on to the next aisle, but something made her hesitate. She backed up and looked down the first aisle again. While there were no people shopping in that aisle, there was a pair of legs in brown suit pants and two feet in brown shoes sticking out of the bottom shelf that didn’t seem to belong. Taking the cart with her, she went to investigate. There, quite asleep amongst a gaggle of stuffed animals, was Fred. He reminded her of the toy closet scene from E.T.

“Fred,” she said quietly.

“Smufffledup,” he said, jerking awake. “Huh? Wha...” He sat up and looked around. “Oh Myrtle... I was... I mean...” his voice trailed off.

Myrtle couldn’t help chuckling. “C’mon Fred,” she said, again quietly, hoping no one would come down the aisle at that moment. “I guess this was all a bit much for you. Let’s check out with what we have.”

Fred, looking as if he barely comprehended, only nodded, and struggled to his feet.

Once again Fred seemed unsure where the car was, but this time Myrtle was in the lead pushing the buggy with their bags. She put them in the trunk, then turned to Fred and suggested he give her the keys. Surprised, Fred nevertheless handed them over. It would be nice just to sit in the passenger seat for a change, he thought, and let Myrtle drive them home. Indeed, he snoozed part of the way, which had Myrtle congratulating herself on a good call.

Also at Myrtle’s suggestion, Fred settled onto one end of her couch and sighed contentedly. They had carried all the parcels in from the car and carefully stowed them in her bedroom. Myrtle had agreed to hang onto Fred’s purchases pending access to his new apartment, pointing out that it would be easier for her to get his apartment ready for him coming out of the hospital if she had everything at hand. Fred immediately and gratefully accepted her offer. He was certain his mother would have found an excuse to peep into every bundle he had taken home. He also suspected she might feel compelled to offer critical comment on his choices and was a little concerned that during the inevitable verbal onslaught, he might blurt out in his own defence that most of the choices were actually Myrtle’s, providing his mother an opportunity to prematurely criticize his girlfriend.

He thirstily gulped his milk while making up his mind to bring the parcels he’d taken home back to Myrtle’s. Draining his glass, he had just sat back to gaze out the window when Myrtle called him to the kitchen for toasted western sandwiches and oven fries.

They chatted as they ate, and afterwards they snuggled back on the couch. Fred was getting these funny, urgent feelings when he sat next to Myrtle. He wanted very much to get closer ~ close enough to smell her hair and nuzzle her ear. But he got a warning twinge in his side every time he strained to get closer. So he tried to content himself with putting his arm around her and snuggling with her, at least when Myrtle wasn’t getting up for coffee, or to put wood on the fire, or to get a catalogue out of the magazine rack. Fred was a little worried that Myrtle might be hurt by his seeming reluctance to be amorous, but she was plainly quite excited and content for the time being with the shopping, cooking and planning.

He left that night after some kisses he would very much have taken further if he could, but Myrtle only pushed him away playfully and told him he should go home and come back for breakfast in the morning. Then, as he headed out the door, she listened for that tell-tale bang or thump that meant he needed her. But there was none. Apparently Fred made it to his car safely.

Shopping? What?

Myrtle was waiting outside by the time Fred pulled up and she noticed immediately that he looked quite pallid and rather gloomy. As soon as she was inside the car she laid one tiny hand against his cheek and gazed sympathetically into his mournful eyes. "What’s wrong, Fred?"

He looked away and sighed. Part of him wanted to keep all the sordid, embarrassing details from Myrtle, and part of him wanted to confide all. The latter part was winning. "I had kind of a bad day," he confessed.

"Pull the car over there and tell me about it," she instructed firmly, pointing to an open area at the side of the building.

Fred obediently parked the car and shut it off, then turned to look into Myrtle’s one good eye. "Yesterday my boss told me to send out a truck to exchange two shipments and I sent out two trucks instead… ‘cause I thought it would be quicker… and today they got into accident," he explained quietly.

"Both of them?"

Fred nodded. "With each other," he clarified.

Myrtle stared. "But… but… that’s incredible!":

Fred sniffed and nodded resignedly. "The boss was pretty upset with me for sending two trucks. I don’t understand why these things always happen to me," he groaned.

"But surely he can’t blame you for such a thing," she comforted. "Oh Fred, it wasn’t your fault," she insisted. Moving as close as she could without inadvertently leaving her bucket seat, she slid an arm across his shoulders and gently stroked his temple with the other hand.

Fred moved a bit closer to her. "That’s what I told him and he didn’t fire me. I thought for minute there I’d lost my job."

"Oh you poor thing," she sympathized, kissing his cheek.

"I fainted," he confessed, shamefaced.

"I shouldn’t wonder," said Myrtle. Then she gazed at him curiously. "When?"

"Right in Mr. Grieves’ office… when they told me what had happened… I couldn’t believe it and I… I passed out."

"It must have been quite a shock." she surmised.

He nodded, then with head bowed as much as possible with the collar, he toyed with a bit of fluff on his pant leg and glanced only furtively at Myrtle. "Luckily I was sitting down at the time… but I guess it wasn’t a very game reaction," he mumbled guiltily.

Myrtle couldn’t help smiling. "There now, Fred," she comforted. "It’s not as bad as that. It was terrible news… and you might have done worse."

"How?" he challenged.

"Well… if you were the hysterical type, you might have burst into a fit of giggling or something." She patted his arm. "Now Fred, if you’d done that, you would have been fired," she smiled. "Just as well you quietly fainted instead." Fred looked into her twinkling eye and couldn’t help smiling himself. Myrtle planted another kiss on his cheek. "Now, if you don’t feel like shopping, I quite understand. We could go to my place and I could whip up a quick dinner…"

He shook his head. "I don’t mind shopping, Myrtle. I feel better now… and I don’t want to put you to the extra trouble."

"It wouldn’t be any trouble, Fred," she admonished. "But, if you think you wouldn’t mind shopping, perhaps it would take your mind off your awful day for awhile."

"Yeah. Let’s go to Tim Horton’s," he replied. "I’d like some of their chili."

Myrtle gave him an encouraging little squeeze, then slid back into her seat properly as Fred started the car.

Myrtle had soup and a sandwich as Fred slurped down his hot chili. It was a dubious choice with the soft collar on, but he made it through the quick meal with only a few fresh stains. Then they began their search for Fred’s new bed at the Western Furniture, which happened to be next to the Pricemart.

The rest of the evening was pretty much a blur for Fred. He just wasn’t used to the rigours of shopping, the thrust and parry with salespeople, the rifling through bins of sale items and searching... searching the aisles for just the right shade of the right colour or the right size of throw cushions. As Myrtle happily shopped and variously asked him questions about what he liked, which he couldn’t really answer, and prattled on happily about the merchandise, Fred just tried to keep up to her so he wouldn’t get lost in a store.

When they finally left the last store, a dazed Fred looked up and down the rows of cars in the parking lot, vacuously wondering where his might be. Unaware that Fred was having difficulty finding a car that looked familiar, Myrtle strolled along beside him chatting merrily. "I think we did very well tonight, Fred," she announced.

Fred stopped and looked at her. "Myrtle, I just spent well over a thousand dollars in there… all at one time," he said with obvious awe, and in a rather shaky voice.

"And money well-spent too, Fred," she assured him. "The car is over here, dear," she said helpfully, pointing.

He made his way to the car and unlocked it as Myrtle went on happily. "Now, except for two small lamps and two bedside rugs, you’ve got your entire bedroom furnished and you’ve got a 20-inch colour television besides," she recounted joyfully and after putting the parcels in the trunk, they both climbed into the car.

He only nodded and somehow got the key into the ignition. After starting the car he looked around, sort of wondering what to do next, then fumbled to put the car in gear. He’d just never experienced anything like this before. Refusing to pay $4.95 for the bed legs, Myrtle instead ordered him a bed frame with wheels that cost $29.99. Fred wasn’t sure why he needed wheels on his bed. For just a brief moment he visualized driving to work in his bed. He gave his head a shake. Apparently he needed the frame in order to attach the headboard to the bed and he had to have the headboard because it went with the bedside tables and chest of drawers she picked out for him. He was well enough pleased with the dark pseudo wood grain furniture and it was available at substantial savings because of being slightly damaged, but it had all seemed to happen so fast.

"Myrtle, why did you pick the chest of drawers with the scratches on top, instead of the one with the gouges on the side?" he asked.

"Because the gouges were on the side facing out in your new bedroom," she explained. "If they’d been on the side against the wall it would have been different. Anyway, we can cover up the scratches on top by setting something over them… like a jewelry box," she suggested.

"I don’t have a jewelry box," said Fred quietly.

"We could always get you one," she said.

"I don’t have any jewelry," he countered.

Myrtle chuckled. "Oh Fred, I’m sure those scratches will wind up covered with something. Dresser tops always wind up covered with things."

Fred sniffed. She was right of course. He could always put his brush and comb set on the chest of drawers and he was sure a great many miscellaneous items from model ships to loose change would eventually accumulate there. He sniffed again, pondering the delivery arrangements for the furnishings. It was all a lot for Fred to absorb at once. He was confused, but he just couldn’t let it go. "Are you sure you don’t mind waiting at the new apartment for the furniture," he asked, concerned. The sales people hadn’t been very flexible about the delivery date, and the one they’d been given coincided with Fred’s hospital visit, so Myrtle had volunteered to wait for the delivery instead.

"Not at all, Fred," she assured him. "I know you wanted to be there yourself, but I’ll make sure they put everything where it belongs, Fred. And I’ll even make the bed for you. Think of it, Fred… when you get out of the hospital, you’ll be coming home to your own apartment and a freshly furnished bedroom."

Fred smiled gratefully. It would be nice to be able to climb into his own, freshly made bed after his operation. "Thanks Myrtle. I appreciate your help."

Then he grinned again at the thought of being picked up and taken home by Myrtle, who would have his car anyway. And then tucked into his freshly made bed by her. It was a lot nicer than the prospect of having to go home to his mother’s and rely on her for his care while he convalesced. When he pulled up outside Myrtle’s house, he turned off the engine in anticipation of an invitation inside, and of course, Myrtle obliged.

Oh Fred

Fred was still basking in the warm glow of his new relationship when he got home. Unfortunately his mother was standing in the kitchen when he entered.

"Well, look what the cat dragged in," she observed.

"I found an apartment tonight," he informed her. "Available October first."

"Well I’m not returning any of your board money for the next two weeks," she stated firmly. "Even though you’ve scarcely eaten here in the last week, I still had to shop for you. I’ve got a pound of stew beef in the freezer I don’t know what to do with."

Fred gazed at her askance and cleared his throat, biting his tongue at the same time. "Fall Fair coming up," he said finally. "You could make up a bunch of meat pies for the Ladies’ Auxiliary table," he suggested helpfully.

His mother only snorted in response, but Fred knew from experience she’d give the matter some thought and probably do just that. The Ladies’ Auxiliary would be pestering her for something and his mother, he well knew, could stretch a pound of stew beef to a lot of little pies.

"You want anything before bed?" she demanded, obviously reluctant to leave the kitchen until he was gone from it.

"No thanks. Had dessert and coffee at Myrtle’s."

"And just who is this Myrtle person? And when will I meet her?" she demanded again.

Fred shuddered slightly at the thought. "She’s just a friend," he replied. "And we’re a little busy just now… she’s helping me get stuff for my new apartment," he explained. "G’night Mom," he added quickly, just as she’d opened her mouth to speak. He retreated hastily down the hallway to his room.

After getting ready for bed, Fred snuggled in and lay thinking about Myrtle. He hummed happily to himself as he recalled the events of the evening, then his mother’s words to him about meeting Myrtle intruded upon his reverie. He wondered how Myrtle would react to his mother, and vice versa. He had no way of knowing for sure since the situation had never come up before. His mother did usually assume a reasonably civil manner for Cynthia’s benefit, despite disliking her intensely. But Fred suspected this was a special effort for Bill and didn’t think the same consideration would be extended to him.

Then again, Myrtle wasn’t at all like Cynthia. Was it possible his mother would like her? He snorted and immediately dismissed the notion. His mother didn’t like anybody ~ except Bill. He was quite sure of that.

He jabbed absently at his pillow as he lay ruminating on the matter. His mother’s attitude toward Cynthia might have been entirely different had they met prior to the marriage ceremony. It must have been somewhat surprising, even for his mother, to be called suddenly to Bill’s penthouse apartment by an unfamiliar female voice and rush into town dreading injury or worse to her fair-haired boy, only to find him fine, though somewhat whoozy for the consumption of spirits, and waiting for her in the company of a buxom blonde and Judge Bickford Waldo.

Fred had certainly been surprised. But Bill had requested that his mother and brother witness the ceremony and Cynthia had simply called them to hurry right over. Fred thought it rather curious that his mother hadn’t raised an unseemly fuss the moment she’d arrived, especially given Bill’s condition at the time. But to the contrary, Flora Luckinbill had seemed flustered and somewhat intimidated by the presence of Judge Waldo, particularly with Cynthia being so chummy with the venerable widower, calling him "Bicky" as she did. It was the only occasion Fred could recall his mother actually rendered speechless by another human being. The judge had seemed to sense a certain disquieting aura in the small gathering and attempted to relax everyone by joking that with Bill married, his principal competition for Upton’s pretty girls was effectively removed. Unfortunately, his well-meant light-heartedness had fallen flat on everyone but Cynthia and only heightened Flora’s tension.

Fred yawned. He was sleepily pondering just how he and Myrtle might get married some day when he drifted off.

On their way to work the next morning, Fred and Myrtle discussed their shopping ideas and decided to get started that evening after work. They would eat first at a fast food restaurant, then do the rounds of the local department stores. When Fred pulled up outside her building, Myrtle leaned across and kissed him gently on the cheek before climbing out. He grinned happily and waved as she disappeared into the building, then drove on.

Myrtle endured a rather dull day at the office. Dick was in a state of disgruntlement when he returned from delivering his report to the Dean’s Committee and, at Myrtle’s suggestion, he departed before noon. There was only one student needing her help throughout the day and even the faculty didn’t bother her that much. Not even Horace Dilby.

Fred would have given anything for a dull day. Oh, he breezed through the morning all right, taking just enough notice of what he was doing to feel reasonably confident he’d done it properly. And he fairly floated to the lunch room and back, consuming his bologna sandwich in the interim without even observing that it was the same old thing. It even appeared for awhile that his afternoon might pass as agreeably as his morning, until precisely 2:50 when Mr. Grieve’s secretary, Helen, entered Fred’s office in an obvious state of panic. She stood just inside his door in something of a crouch, staring wide-eyed at him, her hands flapping up and down beside her head and before Fred could enquire about the nature of her affliction, the words "Oh Fred!" escaped her lips, then she turned and departed his office as suddenly as she’d appeared.

Curious, Fred followed her. This was obviously what she’d expected him to do, for as soon as they reached the threshold of Mr. Grieves’ office, she stepped aside and allowed Fred to enter first, offering a look of unqualified pity as he passed. He stopped just inside the door and gazed in wonder at the scene before him. There sat Mr. Grieves at his desk, staring straight ahead, his face a pasty, frozen mask betraying only the likelihood of some calamitous occurrence. Gathered protectively around him were the Safety Supervisor, the Personnel Director and the Assistant Transport Manager. They all glanced at Fred as soon as he entered, then looked away and began a conspicuous cacophony of coughing and throat clearing. This seemed to break the spell Mr. Grieves’ was under and, as Fred stood there wondering who’d died and what he had to do with it, Mr. Grieves’ slowly raised his eyes to gaze at him.

It was a badly shaken Fred who exited Mr. Grieves’ office several minutes later. Doubting he would make it back to his own office without assistance, Helen accompanied him and left him sitting at his desk silently contemplating the ceiling. He moaned and placed a clammy palm across his face. Here he’d been expecting accolades from his boss for having dealt with the problem of the misplaced ovens so handily. What had happened could only happen to him, he thought miserably. Only for him could such a simple operation turn into such an unlikely disaster. Tucking his chin into his collar, he tried to be philosophical about the whole thing. At least he wasn’t fired. After all, Mr. Grieves couldn’t really blame him for what happened - it was just one of those things. Fred only wished he’d told Myrtle he worked at Soames without mentioning his position with the company. That way he might have survived the embarrassment of the demotion he feared Mr. Grieves had in store for him, without the added humiliation of having to explain it to Myrtle. He groaned and laid his upper body across his desk and was still in that position when Helen, concerned that he might not be conscious of the hour, or conscious at all, came by to inform him it was quitting time.

Fred is Pickled Tink

Fred was ecstatic. He had found a suitable apartment on his first try, it was available almost right away and he had a girlfriend. He glanced proudly at Myrtle. He was well pleased with her. She wasn’t a pushy woman. Fred didn’t approve of pushy women and hadn’t since the sixth grade when little Gloria Newton talked him into removing his clothes in the woods back of the school picnic. She had promised to remove hers too, so they could each see what the other gender looked like. But he was no sooner undressed than Gloria grabbed his undershorts and made off with them. Fred frowned as he recalled the incident. He found out later she’d done it on a dare and he had been subjected to an abundance of female giggling and tittering for several days afterwards. And he had never recovered his undershorts. He had been disinclined to trust women ever since and simply wouldn’t tolerate a pushy, forward one.

He gave Myrtle a little squeeze and she returned it, then she contentedly rested her head on his shoulder. He could feel the slight pressure of her head against his collar and he sighed happily into the cool evening air. It was the man who should make the first moves, he thought. Regardless of his sexual experience, or lack of it, he was in charge. And Myrtle, he was certain, was the kind of woman who appreciated that.

Actually, Fred wasn’t sure if he had any sexual experience or not. He knew Gloria Newton didn’t count, but he wasn’t sure about Hortense Lundy. He had just started at Soames Shipping and had attended that first office Christmas party wanting to make a good impression. Unfortunately, it simply hadn’t occurred to him that there was anything other than fruit juice in the punch. He remembered dancing with Hortense and he vaguely remembered wearing an orange rind on his ear for an earring. But he was never sure what happened after that, except that he woke up the following morning on an unfamiliar couch in an unfamiliar room certain that he’d been crushed to dust and was suffering the final moments of his ebbing life. He did notice in a detached sort of way that he wasn’t wearing his pants and he did wonder briefly where they were. But since he didn’t even know where he was, it just hadn’t seemed all that incredibly important.

He had lain there, a moaning mass of helpless human inertia, until Hortense appeared suddenly from nowhere, plucked him from the couch and hugged him to her, making sympathetic and very loud clucking noises in his ear as she did so. He remembered thinking at the time that it was an awful shame he’d survived all those years with his mother only to perish in the huge arms of Hortense Lundy. But she had released him before he passed out and as he plopped back onto the couch he only wanted to find his pants and get out of there. Both these desires were fulfilled when Hortense held a cup of steaming black coffee to his parched lips. As soon as the hot liquid hit his abused stomach, he was quite violently ill and Hortense quite suddenly produced his trousers, helped him into them and escorted him through the front door. He quite accidentally discovered his car on her front lawn and somehow started it. He didn’t actually recall all of the drive home, but somehow he got there safely.

For weeks afterwards he tried to ascertain if anything had happened between Hortense and himself by listening closely to office gossip. But despite prowling the water coolers and cocking an ear whenever he heard a snigger in any corner of the employee lunch room, all he was ever able to determine was that he’d taken Hortense home after the party, and barfed on her couch.

He glanced again at Myrtle and smiled inwardly. It was amusing, he thought, that a man who couldn’t seem to keep his pants on had no sexual experience he could recall. Then he frowned again, wondering suddenly why he’d thought that was funny.

As they approached the car, they each reluctantly released their hold on each other and Fred bent to open the passenger door for Myrtle. As she brushed past him to climb into the car, Fred gazed into her one good eye and asked, "how old are you?" almost instantly wondering if he mightn’t have approached the question with more tact.

Myrtle only smiled. "Twenty-six," she answered. "You?"

"Twenty-seven."

They smiled at one another in mutual satisfaction with this little revelation, then Myrtle climbed into the car and Fred went around to the other side.

"Penny for your thoughts," he offered, after they’d driven along in silence for awhile.

Myrtle giggled and patted his leg. "Oh Fred, you’re such a card. Actually I was just hoping you like ice cream with canned fruit on it, because that’s what I have for dessert when we get back to my place. I was sort of wishing I’d taken the time to bake you a pie or something instead," she revealed.

Fred grinned hugely. "Oh, I like ice cream all right, Myrtle. That’s what I usually have at home. But I like pie too, and y’know, I haven’t had any in a long time," he informed her meaningfully.

Myrtle giggled and patted his leg again, this time leaving her hand rest there. By the time they arrived at her place she had learned that Fred liked cherry or blueberry pie best, apple, raisin, pumpkin or lemon second best, and rhubarb pie third best. Since it seemed to her there was scarcely a kind of pie which wasn’t one of his favorites, she made a mental note to check her pantry to see if she had the necessary supplies to do some pie-baking soon.

As soon as they were inside, Myrtle lit a fire, then put on the coffee and served up their ice cream in the kitchen. When they’d finished that, she poured a mug of coffee for each of them and led Fred to the living room. He wanted to help with the dinner dishes, but Myrtle insisted she would do them later, so the two snuggled together with their coffee on the end of the couch nearest the wood stove and once again leafed through a catalogue. It wasn’t much attention they were giving it this time though, as Myrtle snuggled close and rested her head on Fred’s shoulder. She relaxed against him and had her eye closed much of the time, even as she flipped the pages of the heavy book in Fred’s lap. For his part, Fred was trying to keep his nose in the general proximity of Myrtle’s head so he might better enjoy the faint lilac scent of her hair.

Though he was almost always in bed by 11:00 on week nights, it was 10:45 before he reluctantly left Myrtle's. He shyly kissed Myrtle good night and waved as he backed away from her, then he turned and fell out the porch door.

Myrtle rushed to his side. "Are you all right?" she asked.

Fred nodded through the pain on his face as she sat down on the ground beside him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. She laid his head against her and soothingly stroked his cheek, gently rocking back and forth. It was worth the fall, he thought as he relaxed against her. Then he suddenly realized the softness he could feel against his ear was one of her tiny breasts and was embarrassed. He moved to get up and Myrtle released him.

She regained her feet as he did, then moved close and softly kissed his cheek. "Now, you watch where you’re going," she admonished.

He smiled sheepishly and once again waved as he backed away. Then he turned and disappeared down the path without further mishap.

Fred Finds an Apartment

"Were yous gonna live together?" enquired the building manager as they all stepped into the available bachelor apartment. Fred only gazed at the man in wide-eyed surprise and blushed furiously.

Myrtle cleared her throat. "No. Mr. Luckinbill is seeking an apartment for himself," she replied firmly.

The manager only shrugged and extended a hand toward the empty room. "It’s small, but it’ll do for one. It goes for $625. a month."

"Utilities included?" inquired Myrtle.

"Yeah, but it’s extra for parking and cable," replied the manager.

As soon as he’d glanced around and heard the cost of rent, Fred decided he could probably afford the larger one bedroom, so he wanted to move on. But Myrtle was in the tiny kitchenette opening all the cupboards and appliances. As Fred watched, he wondered absently what she was looking for, but he waited quietly until she’d peeped into everything, then he turned to the manager. "Well, this is okay," he shrugged nonchalantly, "but it is kind of small. I’d like to see the one bedroom, please."

The manager shrugged and grunted, then shuffled toward the door. They were no sooner inside the other apartment than Myrtle scurried to the little bedroom. Fred just stood in the doorway watching in amazement as she pulled a tape measure from her pocket and measured both dimensions of the small room. Then she turned to Fred with a satisfied smile. "It’s big enough for a double bed, Fred. You could have two bedside tables too if they were small. And you put a chest of drawers against that wall," she assured him, pointing to the outside wall with the window. "The closet is rather small, but at least there is one," she declared cheerfully.

Fred nodded as she brushed by him and marched into the living room. The manager was standing in the middle of the room rocking slowly back and forth and staring at the ceiling. Myrtle stopped in front of him. "How much?" she asked brusquely.

"This one’s $785. Parking and cable extra," he droned.

Fred peeped around the doorway and smiled gleefully at Myrtle. It was more than he’d hoped, but he could afford it… he was quite sure.

"How much is the parking?" Myrtle asked a trifle suspiciously.

"For indoor, forty dollars. For outdoor, twenty-five," replied the manager, yawning.

Myrtle glanced at Fred, who allowed a brief look of alarm to cross his face before replacing it with determination. He squared his shoulders and marched into the living room.

"I’ll take it," he announced. "With outdoor parking," he added, whereupon Myrtle scurried into the kitchen to peer into the cupboards and appliances and the manager stopped rocking and glanced at Fred in mild surprise.

"Well, you hafta fill out an application," said the manager. He pulled a wrinkled and slightly soiled piece of paper from his back pocket and held it out toward Fred. "And you’ll have to leave a cheque for the first and last months rent. If you check out, the apartment’s yours from October first… which is... um... well... it’s today. So it’ll be yours once this checks out. Of course, if you don’t want it so soon, you can leave a deposit and maybe get it if nobody else wants it right away."

Fred examined the application as the man spoke. "I’ll take it from October first," he muttered. "Got a pen?"

The manager shook his head and Fred gazed at him helplessly. Even as she thrust her head into the freezer compartment of the refrigerator in search of any foul odour that might be lurking there, Myrtle had been listening to the men. She strode back into the living room and handed Fred her pen. Then, as he glanced around in search of a surface to write on, she gently guided him toward the kitchen. As soon as he discovered the kitchen counter, he set to work on the rental application while Myrtle busied herself measuring the living room and bedroom windows, and assured herself that everything in the bathroom was in working order.

"If this checks out, you can pick up the key in a couple days," said the Superintendent sternly, once both the application and a cheque for the appropriate amount were in his hands. Then he shuffled to the door and stood slightly aside, allowing Fred and Myrtle to exit first.

As they strolled along the darkened street side by side, Fred breathed a satisfied sigh. Then he glanced at his companion. "I’m sorry if just taking it like that caught you unawares, Myrtle. I’m a little impulsive sometimes, I guess," he confessed.

"Oh no, Fred," she beamed up at him. "You were just being decisive and I think that’s a very admirable quality in a man."

He grinned and moved a little closer, so that his arm brushed against Myrtle’s. Then she stopped suddenly and turned to face him. "Fred, I’d like you to help me with a little shopping too… if you wouldn’t mind," she said hesitantly. "I’d like you to come with me to pick out a new car," she finished quietly.

His slightly alarmed expression turned to one of concern. "But Myrtle, you weren’t going to get a new car till you had your insurance money."

"Well, I know Fred, but you’ve just taken an apartment… and you can’t drive all the way from here to my place to pick me up every morning and deliver me to work. Then take me home every evening too," she ventured.

"Sure I can, Myrtle. I don’t mind. You can get the gas money from the insurance company. And I really don’t mind."

"Oh no, Fred. It isn’t reasonable," she declared. "Anyway, you’ll be going into the hospital at the end of next week. I’ll have to make other arrangements for those few days afterwards anyway. I might just as well get my own car again, Fred."

He moved closer and took both her hands in his. "You can use my car while I’m in the hospital, Myrtle," he suggested.

Myrtle shook her head slowly. "I couldn’t do that, Fred. I’d just feel awful if anything happened to it."

"But Myrtle, it’s insured… and I’m sure you’d be careful. You can see okay out of one eye, right? Please… it’s just a car… and I really don’t mind," he pleaded. "I really don’t want you to rush out and buy a car."

"But mightn’t your mother need your car while you’re in the hospital?"

Fred's eyes widened at the thought, but he just shook his head solemnly. "She has her own transportation," he replied in a low voice. "Now Myrtle," he said sternly. "I insist! I’ll still drive you to and from work for now, and you’ll take my car while I’m in hospital."

Before she could protest further, he leaned over and kissed her. Though he’d meant to plant a gentle yet firm kiss on her lips, he actually only managed to graze her right nostril. But despite being a little startled, Myrtle was certain of his intentions and she moved a little closer and softly kissed his cheek in return. "All right, Fred. We’ll try it your way first," she relented.

He grinned his approval and slid an arm across her shoulders while she slid hers around his waist. Then the two continued their stroll toward his car in what would soon be his new neighbourhood.

A Delicious Stew

As soon as they were inside Myrtle’s house, she asked Fred what he’d like to drink while she finished preparing supper. Fred politely informed her that he always had a glass of milk after work and Myrtle happily supplied it. Then she handed him the catalogues they’d been going through the previous evening and disappeared into the kitchen. Fred sat back and leafed through one of them, turning to the section on bedroom furnishings to review the various sizes and prices of beds.

"That one’s nice," said Myrtle, having quietly slipped up behind Fred. She pointed over his shoulder at a picture of a double bed with exquisitely carved wooden head and foot boards.

Fred gasped. "Yeah… but Myrtle, I can’t afford a bed like that!"

Myrtle patted him on the shoulder. "Oh, I know Fred. But isn’t it nice just to look at them sometimes? What size bed did you have in mind?" she probed casually.

"Oh… I thought maybe a double bed… a little extra room would be nice… you know, not so cramped… if I can afford it," he stammered as he conscientiously avoided turning toward Myrtle.

"I think it’s a good idea," she encouraged. "What kind of bed did you have in your old apartment?"

"Bunk beds," he replied quietly.

"Bunk beds?" she repeated.

"Yeah. Well, I got rid of my pull-out couch when I moved to the larger apartment and I found the bunk beds on sale in the kids’ furniture section at Price Mart. I thought it would be kind of nice to have the extra bed… in case I had a guest… and you don’t have to use them stacked one over the other… you can set them side by side. Of course, there wasn’t room in my apartment to do that, but that’s what I had in mind when I bought them," he finished feebly.

Myrtle smiled and patted him on the shoulder again. "Dinner will be ready soon," she assured him, turning back to the kitchen.

When she called Fred to dinner, he entered the kitchen realizing it was the one room he actually hadn’t been in before. To his left was the kitchen sink and counter, then the refrigerator, with the front entrance hall at the far end, which Myrtle used as a laundry room and pantry. On his right was a counter and the stove. At the far end of this was the kitchen window, under which sat a small, drop leaf table and two chairs. Myrtle was just setting their plates on the table.

Once he was seated, Fred peered over his collar at his plate. "It looks and smells delicious," he observed, smiling. Indeed, he was well pleased with the food on the plate before him: chunks of beef swimming in a thick tomato sauce with mashed potatoes and peas. It was sort of a stew, but with a difference, he thought cheerfully. He was accustomed to eating stew of some sort quite often at his mother’s. But her stews were always brown and Myrtle’s was red. As an added bonus, there were mashed potatoes instead of just the boiled chunks his mother usually served.

"I hope you like it," said Myrtle quietly.

"Which is the salt, Myrtle, the hen or the rooster?" asked Fred.

"Oh… please Fred, taste it first if you don’t mind. I put quite a bit of seasoning in it… you may not want any more," she suggested.

Fred blushed. "Oh, of course… sorry Myrtle. Just a habit I picked up at my mother’s."

Myrtle just chuckled and watched with a sort of morbid fascination as Fred lifted a forkful of food past his collar and into his mouth. That was the one problem with the soft collar, thought Fred. Its fabric exterior couldn’t be as easily wiped off as the plastic exterior of the neck brace. The front of the soft collar was beginning to look a little soiled despite his best efforts to avoid spillage. "This is delicious," he proclaimed as he chewed one mouthful, then smushed some of the tomato sauce and some peas into his mashed potatoes.

As they ate, Myrtle prattled on about sales on linens and towels that were coming up. "The reason I asked about the size of the bed," she explained as Fred chewed, "is so we know what size sheets we’re looking for."

Fred nodded his understanding as she spoke. Then put down his fork and reached for his glass of milk. He took several gulps, then with practiced savoir-faire, tucked his upper lip beneath the lower, neatly and quickly removing all trace of the white residue. Sighing with satisfaction, he raised his eyebrows at Myrtle. "I was going to ask my mother if I could borrow more sheets from her, but I wasn’t looking forward to it. I mean, I still had some of her sheets when my apartment burned down," he explained. "I also had four pillow cases, two washcloths, three hand towels, two bowls, a saucepan and a cheese grater of hers. Y’know Myrtle, I thought she’d given me some of those things… you know… to keep… but she won’t let me forget they were all lost in the fire... as if it was my fault. I’m not sure she’d be willing to loan me anything else."

Myrtle shook her head and offered a sympathetic smile. "Well, hopefully we’ll be able to decide what size bed you can have tonight… after we’ve seen the apartments," she comforted. Then she offered him the choice of dessert now, or dessert later with coffee when they returned from viewing apartments. Fred eagerly opted for the latter and as soon as Myrtle had piled the dishes in the sink, the two took off for town.

Fred Scores a Triumph

Fred glanced at the open page of the log book and recalled that he’d been about to dial the phone when Bill came in. He found the number on the page, then picked up the phone and dialed. Only when the phone was ringing did it occur to Fred to wonder what his purpose was in calling.

"Receiving," growled a voice at the other end.

"Ahh... did you people receive anything you weren’t supposed to?" enquired Fred uncertainly.

"Who is this?" demanded the gruff voice.

"Oh, I’m sorry," trilled Fred. "This is Fred Luckinbill at Soames Shipping. We’ve sort of lost track of ovens... two of ‘em. Got sent to the wrong place... wondered if you’d seen them."

Fred heard a distinct rumble in the phone. The other man was laughing. "Yeah, we got ‘em," the man finally replied. "You know, we outfit semi-trucks pretty good these days. Cabs even have microwaves in ‘em. But these ovens are huge suckers, son!"

Fred couldn’t help tittering, mostly in delight that he’d found the wayward ovens. "I know," he replied. "They were intended for a restaurant in Milburn. We somehow got two shipments mixed up. We’ll send a truck for them... and you’re probably missing some engine parts?" he ventured.

The man was still chuckling merrily. "Yeah.. we figured it was a mix up, but we’re a little behind in production anyhow, so we weren’t panicking about it just yet. "Course, it’ll be nice to get these huge suckers out of here... and the boys’ll sure be relieved they don’t have to install them in a truck!"

As the man continued to amuse himself, Fred suddenly realized he didn’t know what company he’d called. He frantically searched the page where he’d found the phone number for a company name, but there just didn’t seem to be one. "Who is this?" he asked desperately.

"Joe Phillips, Assistant Receiver," came the reply. "But any of the boys know where those ovens are."

"Yeah, but Joe, what’s the company?" moaned Fred.

Joe’s rumbling laughter burst through the phone again. "Ya mean ya don’t know who ya called, son?" he surmised gleefully.

"Well, it seems to have escaped me," Fred confessed awkwardly.

Joe sniffed and cleared his throat in an effort to stop laughing. "Well, this is the Wilmer Truck plant in Burlington, son. My goodness, we wouldn’t want you to lose track of these ovens again, would we?"

"No," agreed Fred, his voice cracking with embarrassment. "We’ll... we’ll send a truck for the ovens tomorrow, Joe... and we’ll get those missing engine parts to you as soon as we can."

"Well that’s fine, son," confirmed Joe. "And we’ll get those ovens crated back up for ya too. They’ll be on loading dock C... okay?"

"Loading Dock C," repeated Fred carefully. "Thanks Joe."

As soon as Fred hung up the phone he felt like cheering. He had found the missing ovens! He immediately grabbed two shipping manifests and began filling them out to get the transfer completed as quickly as possible. Mr. Grieves had told Fred to send out a truck to recover the ovens - wherever they were, take them to Milburn, pick up the engine parts and return them to wherever. Mr. Grieves had been clear that he didn’t care if it took the truck all day and half the night to accomplish the exchange, just as long as it was done. In his glee at finding the ovens so quickly, Fred decided to do his boss one better. He would dispatch two trucks. One would go to Milburn and the other to Burlington for the pickup. Then they would exchange places and loads. Fred was sure this would get the job done more quickly, even if it was more expensive, and he was equally certain Mr. Grieves would appreciate his reasoning in the matter. He was in a positively gleeful mood when he went to pick up Myrtle.

Superman Bill

Fred, meanwhile, was frantically leafing through the log book of shipments from two weeks back, telephoning anyone who was supposed to have received a shipment of engine parts and had actually received two restaurant ovens with grill attachments instead. Fortunately it wasn’t Fred’s mistake. But the shipping clerk who had erred was no longer with the company, so when the angry restauranteur had demanded his ovens and offered Mr. Grieves a pointed suggestion concerning what might be done with the unwanted engine parts, Mr. Grieves had suggested to Fred in rather strong terms that he locate the ovens and affect a transfer of shipments immediately.

Fred had called the receiving departments of three automotive plants, two of whom derived obvious amusement from his quest for ovens gone astray, and had just placed his hand on the telephone to call a fourth plant, when a bronzed hand covered his, preventing him from lifting the receiver. Fred recognized the hand instantly and slowly raised his eyes to gaze into the handsome, grinning face of his younger brother.

"How are you, little brother?" bellowed Bill.

Fred cringed. He hated it when Bill called him that. Even though Fred was the physically smaller of the two, he was also the elder and to him that unquestionably meant Bill was the little brother.

"Let go of my hand," he said patiently.

Bill chuckled and only reluctantly complied, then Fred sat back and stared at his brother in wary anticipation. As he gazed upon Bill’s flawless features, blindingly alight with the usual perfect yet churlish smile, Fred marvelled again that it was even possible they both sprang from the same loins. At six feet, two inches and a muscular 225 pounds, Bill was the paragon of youthful manhood in the community of Upton. As if that were not blessing enough, having graduated from the Business Administration program at Upton College only a few years ago, followed by a physical fitness course, he now owned and operated Upton’s only health and fitness club. He also owned a piece of Upton’s only health food store and worked regularly as a sports consultant with both sporting goods stores in town. At the tender age of 24, Bill Luckinbill was an Adonic entrepreneur who was the envy of many young men in town and, keeping fit and tanned as he did at his own club, he was also the object of much female adoration, despite his recent marriage.

"To what do I owe the dubious honour...," began Fred.

"The usual," interrupted Bill with a crooked smile. He winked as he pulled off his wedding band and held it out toward Fred. "I’m taking a scuba diving course in Florida... be away two weeks. I’m taking the red-eye out tonight."

Fred extended his hand with obvious reluctance and as the ring fell into it, he noted once again that Bill’s ring finger was just as tanned as the rest of him. One would never know Bill owned a wedding band, he thought disdainfully. "How’s Cynthia?" he asked pointedly.

"Okay," replied Bill with evident disinterest. "How’s Mom?"

"Why don’t you ask her yourself," responded Fred testily.

Bill offered a dark look of warning. "You know damned well why. Every time I call she only wants to know if Cynthia’s pregnant yet. Damned if I know why she’s so eager for a grandchild," he complained.

"She wants to take it for a ride in her truck," snorted Fred.

Bill chortled loudly. "Y’know Freddy, Cynthia won’t even call Mom for a recipe anymore, ‘cause Mom only pesters her about how come she isn’t pregnant yet."

"Well, why isn’t she?" inquired Fred innocently.

"How in hell should I know?" said Bill in exasperation. "We’ve been trying... off and on. God knows I’d love for her to be preoccupied with a kid. She just doesn’t take, for Chrissake." Bill sighed and ran his fingers through his freshly styled bleach-blond hair. "Cynthia is enrolled in a cooking course at the new kitchenware shop in town while I’m away. I’ve invested in the place and Cynthia thinks she’s checking out business in the shop and the course enrolment for me, but of course... you never know, maybe she’ll absorb something useful," he suggested a little contemptuously.

Fred, as always when Bill spoke of his wife, was torn between disapproval of his brother’s tone and outright pity. Cynthia had simply been the conquest that wasn’t. An exotic dancer of notable beauty and dubious talent, she had performed nightly at the exclusive night club where Bill spent many of his evenings. During her contract with the club, many of Upton’s leading male citizens had called on her in her dressing room after her evening shows and plied her with compliments, flowers and other gifts. Most, however, had struck out. Not so Bill. Having listened to the woeful stories of the men who’d failed to impress the much admired dancer, Bill had arrogantly strutted to her dressing room one evening intent upon conquest. But conquest simply hadn’t been necessary, for the instant Cynthia laid eyes upon her incredibly good looking caller, she had simply disrobed and invited him to do the same.

Denied the challenge of the thing, Bill had afterwards proposed marriage, hoping to at least establish some exclusivity with Cynthia during what he envisioned as an engagement lasting precisely the length of her contract with the club, at which point he’d simply break up with her. But Cynthia refused him. She considered Upton only a brief stop on her way to the big time where she would doubtless encounter an older, wealthier and therefore vastly more suitable suitor.

So Bill had encountered an element of challenge in his relationship with Cynthia that he could relish. He persisted over the course of several weeks in pestering the woman to marry him. Though she was always pleased to see him whenever he called on her, Cynthia was just as tenacious in her refusal - until she absorbed the fact that the handsome young man was actually well on his way to becoming quite wealthy. Then she evidently decided it was unfair to hold his youth against him and not only accepted his final charming and touching proposal, but hauled the slightly inebriated Bill in front of a Magistrate with such swift suddenness it was only several days after the happy event that Bill realized he was actually married to the most talked about girl in town.

No one knew what changed Cynthia’s mind about making the big time, but to her credit she endeavoured to settle down and become a model housewife, despite the fact that she hated housework and couldn’t boil water, much less prepare the kind of meals Bill expected. Nevertheless, she discarded her scanty dance costumes in favour of a June Cleaver style house dress and did her very best to acquire the skills necessary to be a homemaker.

To his discredit, the libidinous Bill had quickly graduated from roving eligible bachelor about town, to roving married philanderer about town. Cynthia, however, was so busy devoting her energy to her new lifestyle, she had so far failed to notice her husband’s lapses of attention.

"Well, gotta go," said Bill, turning to the door. "See ya in two weeks."

Fred only shook his head as his brother disappeared through the door, then he glanced again at the ring as he dropped it into the paper clip compartment of his desk drawer. He certainly didn’t approve of what Bill was doing, but each time Bill went away, Fred held onto the ring for him. He just hadn’t been able to refuse. He sighed and tried to remember what he’d been doing before Bill interrupted.

Cereal and Reports ~ Food for Thought?

After they exchanged their morning greetings, Fred gazed intently into Myrtle’s eye. "Are you all right, Myrtle?" he inquired with evident concern.

"Why yes, Fred. Why?"

"Your eye is kind of red and puffy," he observed, wondering immediately if he might have found a more tactful way of putting it. "You haven’t been overworking it, have you?" he asked to demonstrate that his motives for asking were pure.

Myrtle smiled and patted his arm. "No, Fred. I’ve just been chopping onions."

"At 7:30 in the morning?" he squeaked.

"Yes," she chuckled. "For dinner tonight. I browned some brisket and chopped onion and put that along with a can of tomatoes and some herbs and spices into my crock pot. It’ll simmer all day while we’re at work and when we get home, dinner will be practically ready. I’ll just have to boil some potatoes and peas," she explained proudly. "I hope you like it."

"Sounds great," he said, trying to sound eager. It sounded fine to him, but he found it difficult to enthuse about a hot meal with onions in it at 7:45 a.m. He was a cereal man who could only rarely entertain the notion of bacon and eggs in the morning. Too greasy, he thought. The morning after his apartment burned down he had tried an egg breakfast out, but he hadn’t liked it and wished he’d just bought an ordinary bran muffin somewhere.

"What do you usually eat for breakfast, Myrtle?" he asked suddenly, instantly wondering if the question hadn’t sounded abrupt.

"Cereal," she replied.

Fred smiled in approval. "Me too. I particularly like Cheerios," he announced.

"Oh, I like those too, but I usually eat bran flakes... for the roughage," she said, wondering if she'd actually needed to say that. "Sometimes I have Cheerios or Rice Krispies for a treat though," she added. "What do you like for lunch, Fred," she asked, sort of trying to change the subject.

"Oh, I generally take a sandwich," he said without enthusiasm. "I’m tiring of it though. My mother has packed me a bologna sandwich every day since I came to stay with her."

"Why don’t you ask her for something different?" inquired Myrtle with a tone of disbelief.

"I did. I mean, I mentioned one day that bologna every day was a bit boring. The next day I got two unbuttered slices of bread with a piece of paper between them. She’d written on it, "violets are purple, roses are red, it isn’t nutritious, but it’s different, Fred."

Myrtle couldn’t help laughing, but Fred could only manage a half-hearted snort.

"Your mother sounds like quite the practical joker," ventured Myrtle.

"I guess so," he responded uncertainly. Actually, Fred was of the opinion that his mother did such things out of sheer meanness, but he had to admit he’d never really considered the possibility that she possessed a sense of humour. "Anyway," he continued, "I wound up buying a sandwich out of the vending machine. I thought it would be better than two slices of dry bread."

"Was it?" asked Myrtle.

"No,” he said simply. “Probably lucky it didn’t kill me,” he added, sticking out his tongue. “I don’t think people should buy food from machines.”

"Couldn’t you make your own lunches?" she ventured.

"I’d actually like to... I’m used to looking after myself," he assured her. "But my mother won’t let me use her kitchen unsupervised.” He suddenly realized how that sounded. “I mean, she’s just like that," he added hastily. "She doesn’t trust anyone else in her kitchen.”

"Oh. I’ve heard some women are like that," remarked Myrtle almost feebly. But she noticed that Fred had already drifted away on the current of his own thoughts. That was ok, she thought, pondering her own habit of buying a salad lunch in the college cafeteria. Not exactly exciting conversation, she thought, yawning. So they drove the rest of the way to the college in silence and said their usual smiling goodbyes at the door to her building.

Dick was standing in her office looking thoughtful as Myrtle came in. "Oh Myrtle, have you had a chance to do that report on the computer system?" he asked fitfully as she hung up her jacket.

"Good morning, Dick," she said calmly. Then she made herself comfortable at her desk, pulled her work file from the drawer and put away her purse. "Yes Dick, it’s done," she answered finally, pulling a paper-clipped sheaf of papers from her file and holding it out to him.

Dick nervously flipped through the papers. "Oh good," he sighed. "It isn’t too long."

"Of course not," she replied. "But you’ll be wanting to go over it carefully before you present it to the committee," she cautioned.

"Okay. Are we for it or against it?" he asked.

"For it, with certain reservations," she replied.

"Fence-sitting again," he observed with obvious delight. "But then, I guess that’s why we have cracks in our asses," he giggled.

Myrtle smiled tolerantly. Dick very often indulged in silliness unbecoming a man in his position whenever he felt relieved, yet still tense about something he had to do. "You should go over the last page in particular, Dick... to make sure you’re comfortable with the language prior to the meeting," she advised.

Dick turned to the last page. He looked over it and settled on a spot to begin reading out loud. "There are still some problems, large and small, to be resolved, but this is to be expected when in transition from one system to another. The college should encourage cooperation and patience from all employees working with the new system, and this committee in particular should take care to separate constructive criticism, which may help us overcome the problems we encounter, from petty complaints motivated only by self-interest." He glanced up at Myrtle. "This is strong stuff. It could upset the Dean," he almost whimpered.

"No, it won’t," she assured him gently. "It might embarrass him a little, but don’t worry, the rest of the report is quite boring."

"But, if I’ve lulled them to sleep, why wake them up at the end?" he anguished.

"Well, for one thing, Dick, it’s the kind of thing that will keep the Dean from asking you for any more reports for awhile," she smiled.

Dick returned a slightly uncertain, yet conspiratorial smile and sighed with some measure of relief. "All right then. I’ll go over it all before I read it to the committee tomorrow morning," he promised. Clutching the report in both hands, he turned to leave. "I hope they have donuts at the meeting instead of those stale cookies," he muttered as he wandered out the office door.

Myrtle chuckled softly. Dick would come to work tomorrow dressed in his most funereal suit, looking very dignified and ready to stand before the Dean’s Committee to offer an important perspective on a subject of some controversy throughout the college. Of course, Myrtle’s report would have him actually commit to nothing more than a general concept of collegiality. Myrtle breathed a sigh of relief herself and began thumbing through her work file in search of some ordinary task to perform. She came across some faculty correspondence which needed typing and decided to tackle that next.