Geometry & G-Strings: When College Is Not an Option, Perhaps the Strip Club Is.

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Chapter 1

Countdown to Summer

Carsyn Ziegler locked his classroom door, slung his backpack around his shoulder, and headed down the hallway toward the exit. As he weaved through the crowded corridor of bubbly adolescents conversing and making plans for the weekend, he saw Katie Berninger, a senior in one of his geometry classes, heading his way.

Have a good weekend, Mr. Z, she said, displaying a girlish smile.

You too, replied Ziegler, giving everything he had to keep his eyes off her bouncy boobs.

Noticing she was without any books, Ziegler stopped her in her tracks. Are you remembering the test we’re having on Monday?

With all due respect, Mr. Z, in case you haven’t already figured it out, I’ve given up on geometry.

Katie, I know senioritis can strike hard, especially around this time of year, but you’ve got to hang in there. Graduation is only two months away. You’ve come too far to quit now.

Katie sighed and tucked her thin T-shirt further inside her jeans, which made her boobs appear even more prominent, if such a thing was possible. Mr. Z, I’m so ready for school to be over. You have no idea.

I hear you, replied Ziegler, but until then, there’s still work to do. It’ll all be worth it in two months when you walk across that stage.

Katie rolled her striking blue eyes and threw her hands up. Okay, okay, okay, she surrendered, reluctantly approaching her locker.

As she worked the combination to her lock, Ziegler turned his head to give her privacy. When he heard the locker door open, he redirected his attention on Katie and remained at her locker as she filled her backpack with various textbooks.

Katie, you may not realize it at this moment, said Ziegler, "but you’re making the right decision. But taking your books home is only the first step. The second and most important step is, be sure to use them."

Katie closed her locker and forced an artificial smile. I’ll try, she mumbled, slinging her backpack over her shoulder.

That’s a start, said Ziegler. See you Monday.

He and Katie headed in opposite directions.

Mr. Z, a boy called out from behind. Are you coming to the track meet tonight?

Ziegler turned around and saw Jaquan Jefferson, star receiver on the football team, heading his way.

Can’t say for sure right now, replied Ziegler, extracting his phone from his pocket. I have to see what my wife has going on tonight. If not tonight, definitely the next one.

I’m gonna hold you to it.

Please do, replied Ziegler, speed-dialing his wife’s cell number. At any rate, good luck tonight.

Thanks, said Jaquan. And oh yeah! That test we’re having on Monday, I’m gonna knock it out the park.

Ziegler gave Jaquan the thumbs-up and placed his cell phone to his ear. Jaquan waved and headed back in the direction from which he came.

Hello. You’ve reached the voicemail of Elise Ziegler. I can’t come to the phone right now, so if you leave a brief message, I’ll return your call as soon as possible. Thank you. Beep.

Ziegler: Hey, babe. I was just calling to see what your plans are for the evening. Give me a call when you get this message. Love you. Click…(Dial tone).

Hey, Carsyn, a voice bellowed from behind. Wait up.

Ziegler turned around and saw his good friend, Steve Hilgendorf, trotting toward him. Seven years ago, he and Steve began their tenure together at Donges Falls High School.

Are you going to Lefty’s? asked Hilgendorf, winded from the brief jog.

What’s going on at Lefty’s?

A few of us are getting together for a few drinks. Barrington sent everyone an email.

Ziegler’s mouth began watering at the thought of a cold beer. Are you going? he asked.

I’m heading there now, replied Hilgendorf, checking his watch. I can’t stay long though. Jen and I are going out tonight.

I suppose a few beers won’t hurt, especially after a week like this.

Tough week?

Tough doesn’t even begin to describe it.

That bad?

Let me put it this way, said Ziegler, his eyes beginning to twitch. I’m about to snap.

What happened?

Callahan’s been riding me pretty hard.

What’s he been doing?

I’ll tell you about it at Lefty’s.

Get there as soon as you can. It fills up fast on Fridays.

* * * * *

Like Hilgendorf had mentioned, Lefty’s was filling up fast. Men and women from all occupations were trickling in, eager to unwind after a long week of work. Chelsea Dugan, a newly-hired English teacher fresh out of college, was seated at adjoining bar-tables with eight other teachers from Donges Falls High School. Periodically, her lively brown eyes would return to the entrance in anticipation of a certain person’s hopeful arrival.

Anyone know if Carsyn’s coming? she asked, aiming the question at no one in particular.

I talked to him as we were leaving, replied Hilgendorf. He said he was coming.

Chelsea straightened her blouse and once again glanced at the entrance. Still, no Carsyn.

The official countdown is thirty-nine more school days, Hilgendorf announced, emptying a pitcher of Miller Lite into his mug.

I’m just trying to make it to Memorial Day weekend, said Mr. Woodson, a veteran math teacher. It’ll all be downhill after that.

Isn’t this time of year kind of depressing to you guys? asked Chelsea, stirring her Apple Martini.

Just the opposite, replied Hilgendorf. Seeing the light at then end of the tunnel gives me a boost.

I can already see that saying goodbye to some of the seniors is going to be tough, said Chelsea, shaking her head at the thought.

Reggie Relaford, the gym teacher, ran a comb through his curly ‘fro. Let’s see if she feels that way at the three-year mark, he casually remarked, returning the comb to his back pocket.

Hilgendorf chuckled and clinked his mug against Relaford’s mug.

Ms. Dwyer, an attractive civics teacher, placed her hand on Chelsea’s forearm. Never mind them, she said, waving them off. Our school could use more passionate teachers like you.

"I’m passionate, said Relaford, unknowingly grabbing his ball-sack. Passionate about you."

Dwyer rolled her eyes. Reggie, you’re passionate toward anything with a vagina.

Two English teachers cackled loudly.

It wasn’t that funny, said Relaford, glancing at Dwyer’s cleavage.

At that moment, Carsyn Ziegler appeared from out of nowhere. Happy Friday, he greeted, waving at the entire group.

Excluding a few teachers involved in an intense argument about politics, the majority of the teachers either threw up a hand or nodded. Chelsea spotted an unoccupied barstool and relocated it next to hers. Hi, Carsyn, she greeted, patting the vacant stool. Take a load off.

Ziegler sat down and accepted a cold mug of beer from Hilgendorf.

Thanks, Steve, he said, raising his mug in appreciation. I’ve got the next one.

Ignoring Ziegler’s offer, Hilgendorf signaled for the waitress and ordered another pitcher of beer.

I was hoping you’d come, said Chelsea, smiling. I’ve been wanting to pick your brain for quite some time.

"My brain? shrieked Ziegler, running his fingers through his brown hair. You’re sitting here amongst Donges Falls’ finest, the school’s ‘brain trust’ if you will, and it’s my brain you want to pick?"

"Yeah, your brain, said Chelsea, briefly placing her hand on Ziegler’s forearm. I’ve been hearing a lot of wonderful things about you."

Ziegler rotated his head in all directions and scanned the walls and ceilings.

What are you looking for? asked Chelsea, puzzled.

Hidden cameras, replied Ziegler, still checking. Where are they?

Chelsea giggled. I doubt if Ashton Kutcher and his camera crew would come all the way to Milwaukee to punk a teacher.

"Just checking. Anyway, what is it you want to pick my brain about?"

Well, like I said, I’ve heard a lot of wonderful things about you, comments from the students. Many of them think very highly of you, which means you must be doing something right. I want to know what that ‘something’ is. Whenever I meet a good teacher, I try to pick his or her brain to see if there’s anything I can take with me and apply in my classroom. So if you don’t mind, if you could share one pointer or one piece of advice with a new teacher like myself, what would it be?

Hmm, replied Ziegler, glancing at Hilgendorf. You caught me totally off guard. Let me think about that for a second.

Take all the time you need, said Chelsea, reaching for her martini. I’ve got all evening, and night.

Chelsea sipped her martini seductively, eyeing Ziegler the entire time.

I guess I’ve found that by having the whole ‘No Child Left Behind’ mentality in the forefront of my mind, said Ziegler, everything else, for the most part, takes care of itself.

Chelsea looked puzzled. You don’t seem like the political type.

I’m not, replied Ziegler, assuredly. "I said ‘No Child Left Behind’ mentality, not the ‘No Child Left Behind’ Act."

What’s the difference? asked Chelsea, linking her hands together.

"The ‘No Child Left Behind’ Act pertains to the federal government holding states and schools accountable for student performance on standardized tests. The ‘No-Child-Left-Behind’ mentality, to me at least, is a mindset that accommodates the students who struggle in school, the ones who are not cut out for college. These are the kids we can’t leave behind because in many cases we’re their last line of hope and once we turn our backs on them, they’re done."

Chelsea nodded as Ziegler’s words sunk in. How long have you been teaching at Donges Falls? she asked, stirring her martini with her pinky.

Seven years.

Well, whatever it is you’re doing, it seems to be working because you’ve got a good rapport with the students.

Thank you, said Ziegler, inconspicuously trying to get Hilgendorf’s attention.

"If only there was a course called Rapport 101," said Chelsea, eyeing Ziegler as if he was the only one qualified to teach such a course.

It’s not that scientific, said Ziegler, in a tone that made rapport building seem as simple as breathing. All I do is treat students the way I’d want to be treated if I were a student. To me, that’s what it all boils down to. Plus they can see right through the bullshit. They can tell right away who really cares and who’s just showing up and collecting a check every two weeks. When they know you truly care, that’s half the battle.

Chelsea nodded her head and kept nodding it nonstop.

I look at it this way, Ziegler continued. These kids are no longer in middle school. They’re young adults and it’s our job as educators to prepare them for life after high school, especially the kids who won’t be going to college. If we aren’t doing that, what are we really doing?

You’re absolutely right, said Chelsea, still nodding her head. When you look at it that way, it all seems so simple.

Feeling as though he had done enough talking, Ziegler redirected the conversation. But enough about me, he said, once again glancing at Hilgendorf. What about you? Now that your first year at Donges Falls is almost over, how has it been?

I’ve had my ups and downs, but all in all, everyone’s been great, the students and staff. I couldn’t have landed at a better place.

Good for you, said Ziegler. I remember feeling the same way after my first year, although in hindsight, it was by far the most challenging.

Why was it so challenging?

I’d say it was because of all the new things I had to do, things like creating lesson plans from scratch, communicating with parents, aligning the curriculum to the state standards, not to mention familiarizing myself with the textbooks. But after that first year was under my belt, things got a little easier. In fact, I’m finding that each year it gets a little easier, the curriculum that is. The students, well, that’s a whole different story.

Speaking of the students, said Chelsea, suddenly sounding fatigued. "The one thing that has been a challenge is trying to get everyone to stop being so lazy, especially the ‘college bound’ seniors. Instead of buckling down and doing the work necessary to write a decent paper, which is mainly reading the required material, everyone wants to cut corners."

How can one write an in-depth paper about something if they haven’t read the required material? asked Ziegler.

"The Internet! cried Chelsea. There are countless websites out there that summarizes thousands of novels, chapter by chapter, especially the ‘classics’, and by clicking on the appropriate link, the summaries are displayed for them on a silver platter. I wish I could demolish the Internet."

Ziegler chuckled. Good luck with that.

Chelsea took a sip of her martini. This is very refreshing, she said, placing her glass back on the coaster.

It does look thirst-quenching, said Ziegler, nodding his head as he eyed her frosty martini.

I don’t mean my drink, said Chelsea, lightly hitting Ziegler’s forearm. I mean our conversation. I don’t think I’ve ever been around anyone so passionate about education and so dedicated to their students. If you don’t mind, may I pick your brain a little more?

Ziegler glanced at his wingman, Hilgendorf, who had been listening in on their conversation the entire time. When their eyes met, Ziegler gave him an unmistakable glare that said, ‘What the hell are you waiting for? RESCUE ME, ignorant motherfucker!’

But instead of rescuing his closest colleague at DFHS, Hilgendorf chuckled and headed to the men’s room, purposely leaving Ziegler at the table with his talkative colleague. As Hilgendorf sauntered away, still chuckling, Ziegler envisioned himself executing a skull-cracking jab to the back of Hilgendorf’s head.

Well, may I? asked Chelsea.

Uh, sure, replied Ziegler, still glaring at Hilgendorf’s head. Whatever floats your boat.

Chelsea displayed a delightful smile.

Earlier you mentioned how you felt a need to accommodate the students who struggle in school, the ones who are not cut out for college. What are some things you do with them?

Well, I try to get them to discover what their strengths are, said Ziegler, eyeing Hilgendorf’s empty pitcher of beer. Once I get them to see that they do have strengths, employable ones, we explore certain jobs related to their strengths, jobs that don’t require a college degree. Then I make sure they know what steps they need to take in order to qualify for whatever job they’re interested in. Sometimes all it takes is for a kid to have someone push them in a direction they’ve never considered, or never knew existed.

How do you find time for all of that?

I usually do it after school, replied Ziegler, shaking his head as if the mere thought of it exhausted him. And even still, it seems like there’s never enough hours in the day. But it’s definitely worthwhile because I get a lot of fulfillment out of seeing kids realize that they too, even though they aren’t going to college, can still be successful and contribute to society.

Chelsea exhaled. Will you marry me? she joked, fanning her eyes. Your passion, your dedication, your enthusiasm, your commitment to your students – everything about you is so inspiring. I see why you won the ‘Going Above and Beyond’ award twice.

Actually, it’s three times, thought Ziegler, redistributing his weight on the stool.

Ziegler was proud of those awards and wanted to correct her, but refrained. Feeling uncomfortable by the constant praise, he once again shifted the conversation back on her.

So, he said, twiddling his thumbs. What was it that did it for you? What was that magical, defining moment that made you want to be a teacher?

As far back as I can remember, I’ve always wanted to be a teacher. In fact, you’ll probably think I’m crazy for saying this, but I enjoy what I’m doing so much, on payday I often forget it’s payday.

Ziegler glanced at her sideways as if she was a few tools short of a complete toolbox. Resisting the urge to comment, he smirked and drained the remaining beer in his mug. Chelsea noticed his smirk and felt compelled to clarify.

What I mean is, I’m actually getting paid to do what I’ve always dreamed of doing.

Dream job or not, replied Ziegler, I always know when it’s payday.

Chelsea signaled to a nearby waitress and ordered another Apple Martini. When the waitress left, she refocused on Ziegler, who was deeply entranced by the Sports Center highlights on a nearby television.

Ahem! she uttered, pretending to clear her throat.

Ziegler snapped out of his reverie and zeroed-in on Chelsea.

Now that I’ve regained your attention, said Chelsea, chuckling, other than myself, how many people do you know can actually say they’re getting paid to do what they’ve always dreamed of doing?

"None," Ziegler quickly replied, wishing he had ordered another pitcher of beer when Chelsea had placed her order.

Including yourself? asked Chelsea, expecting to hear differently.

Including myself, replied Ziegler, adamantly.

You never wanted to be a teacher?

I always wanted to be an engineer, or so I thought.

Chelsea wrinkled her brow. "An engineer," she shrieked.

Yeah, a mechanical engineer.

What prevented you from being one?

I couldn’t quite grasp the higher level science courses, especially statics and thermodynamics. In fact, ‘til this day, I still have nightmares about my statics professor, Mr. Schumacher, cornering me in a laboratory and beating the hell out of me with his textbook.

Chelsea giggled. Thank God for statics, she said, unbuttoning the second button on her blouse. Just think, if you had become an engineer, many students would have missed out on having such a great math teacher.

You’re too kind, said Ziegler, glancing toward the men’s room. "Are you this way with all math teachers?"

Only the cute ones.

I see, said Ziegler, wondering what was taking Hilgendorf so long. Uh, once again, thank you for the compliment, but you do know I’m married, don’t you?

Oh, I’m sorry, Chelsea apologized. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.

Uncomfortable? Oh I’m fine, although these stools could use a little extra cushion.

Chelsea giggled.

At that moment, Hilgendorf returned with a full pitcher of beer and grabbed Ziegler’s empty mug. Ready for round two? he asked, pouring beer into Ziegler’s mug.

If round two is the round I knock you out in, I’m more than ready, replied Ziegler, giving him a look that could kill.

Hilgendorf once again chuckled and slid Ziegler’s mug back to him, which began spewing foam like an active volcano. With cheetah-like reflexes, Ziegler attacked the mug with a reckless abandon, slurping the priceless alcohol dripping down the side of the mug. When the beer had settled to a calmer state, Ziegler placed the mug on a coaster and turned toward Chelsea as if the whole beer-slurping episode never happened. If you don’t mind, he said, licking the foam off his upper lip, I have an important issue I need to discuss with Steve. Could you give us a second?

Oh, sure, replied Chelsea, dismounting her barstool. Thanks for sharing.

Oh, it was nothing, replied Ziegler, waving it off. Glad I could share.

Chelsea left, carrying her martini in one hand and toting her barstool with the other. As she looked for new company to sit with, Ms. Dwyer appeared to be in a deep conversation with Reggie Relaford, the gym teacher, so she joined a fellow English teacher instead.

Whew! sighed Ziegler, watching Chelsea leave. I thought I was gonna be stuck talking education all night. Why didn’t you rescue me?

Hilgendorf took a swig of beer and belched. I was having too much fun watching the ‘teacher of the century’ sprinkle drops of invaluable knowledge on a star-struck neophyte.

Fuck you! snapped Ziegler, laughing with Hilgendorf. But on a more serious note, Callahan’s been driving me crazy!

What’s he been doing?

That piss ant has been in my classroom almost every day!

Doing what?

Observations!

Are you serious?

Yeah! cried Ziegler, exasperated. If everyone was getting observed as frequently as me, I wouldn’t have a problem with it. But I seem to be the only one, and it’s starting to piss me off.

He’s a power-hungry associate principal in dire need of some respect, said Hilgendorf, deadpan. What do you expect?

I think he wants us to fear him, said Ziegler, nodding his head. I really do.

I do too, agreed Hilgendorf. Check this out. The other day I got to school at 7:40. He left a note in my mailbox making sure I knew that he knew I was late.

I hate those damn notes, snapped Ziegler. What did yours say?

It read: ‘The workday begins at 7:30, not 7:40. Seven o’clock is ideal.’

Ziegler shook his head in anger. I’ve been getting a frickin’ note almost every day.

What for?

You name it, cried Ziegler, steaming. One time he felt I needed to have more students work problems at the board. Another time he suggested certain teaching strategies I should try. Just yesterday, he suggested I should try implementing more technology into my lessons, asshole!

If I remember correctly, said Hilgendorf, scratching his neck, didn’t he used to be a math teacher?

He did, Ziegler quickly confirmed. And he wasted no time showing the entire math department the two ‘Teacher of the Year’ awards hanging in his office, fuckin’ prick!

"He really is a dick."

And get this, snapped Ziegler, slamming his palm on the table. On Friday, I have to attend a two-day math conference in Madison. He told me if I don’t go, it could affect my ‘official’ end-of-the-year evaluation.

He can’t do that, barked Hilgendorf. You’ve got a family. What if you have other obligations?

I tried that angle, said Ziegler, drumming his fingers on the table. But when he brought it to me, which was a couple of months ago, he said I had more than enough time to plan around it.

Hilgendorf another took a swig of beer. You ever do anything to get on his bad side?

No, not that I’m aware of.

Well, the bright side is, there’s only two months of school left until summer.

"Only! shrieked Ziegler. That’s a long time."

It’ll fly by before you know it.

Not with an asshole like him riding my ass.

Look, said Hilgendorf, swirling the beer in his mug. Callahan’s not going anywhere, especially since he knows Somers will be retiring in a year or two. So instead of allowing him to stress you out, you need to figure out a way to deal with his bullshit. My advice to you is, don’t let him consume you. If you do, you’ll be giving him exactly what he wants – too much power.

You’re right, said Ziegler, nodding his head in agreement. Fuck Callahan!

Hilgendorf checked his watch. I’ve got to get going, he said, rising to his feet. Jen and I are doing dinner-and-a-movie tonight.

What are you guys gonna see?

"The Tithes of March. Heard it’s hilarious."

Well, have a good one.

You too. Tell Elise I said ‘Hi’.

Will do, replied Ziegler, reaching for his phone. As Hilgendorf exited the bar, Ziegler called his wife.

Hello. You’ve reached the voicemail of Elise Ziegler. I can’t come to the phone right now, so if you leave a brief message, I’ll return your – Click…(Dial tone).

Ziegler finished off his beer and rose to his feet. I’ve got to get going, he announced, waving to his colleagues. Have a good weekend.

Chelsea Dugan’s delightful smile fizzled. Good bye, Carsyn, she said, waving unenthusiastically. I enjoyed our talk.

Me too, said Ziegler. Have a good weekend.

As he walked away, he couldn’t help but feel Chelsea’s big brown eyes undressing him as he exited through the massive oak doors.

Chapter 2

Time to Clean House

A thick cloud of rich marijuana smoke lingered throughout the gloomy office. Seated amidst the smog in a leather chair made for a king, was 6’7" Jelani Robinson, studying an array of monitors mounted on the wall. All twelve screens displayed a live birds-eye view of the activity taking place in its scope. When viewed collectively, there wasn’t a square inch of The Kitty Korner floor the former NBA star couldn’t monitor.

For about an hour, Robinson had been puffing a blunt, shifting his eyes from screen to screen, closely studying his patrons and personnel. Finally, he had seen enough. With his mind made up, he grabbed his walkie-talkie. Lox, he called. Get up here. I need to see you.

A few minutes later, Biloxi Pendleton, the floor manager and right-hand man to Robinson, entered the office and closed the door behind him. Robinson motioned for him to have a seat in the chair facing his desk.

I’m concerned about our attendance, said Robinson, rubbing the five o’clock shadow on his chocolaty face. We need to step-up our game and get our shit together, especially now that the Den of Dames is open.

I wouldn’t get too worked up about it, replied Pendleton, casually running his fingers through his blond hair. Our attendance is down because the Den of Dames is new. People are curious. Naturally, they’re gonna check them out to see what they’ve got going on. Once they see they’re not in our league, they’ll be back.

How do you know they’re not in our league? Have you been there?

I don’t need to go there, Pendleton confidently replied. I’ve been to my share of strip joints. Hell, you too. And I can honestly say without a doubt, we’re second to none. When I first heard about them, I thought they were gonna be another one of those small-ass, hole-in-the-wall, mom-and-pop joints like The Flock of Felines. Not the case. I drove past the other day and it looks like they’re here to play hard ball.

Trust me, Pendleton reiterated. They’re not in our league.

"Regardless, we can’t just sit back with our guards down and assume we’re still number one. We need to step our game up."

What do you suggest we do, have more promotions?

That wouldn’t hurt, but I was thinking more along the lines of a makeover.

"A makeover, shrieked Pendleton. We’d really take a loss if we did that. Imagine the number of patrons we’d lose if we had to shut down for a few weeks due to construction."

I’m not talking about construction. I was referring to the girls.

You mean hair, nails, and make-up?

"I mean cleaning house. We need some fresh meat in here – young meat."

"But most of our girls are young," replied Pendleton.

Twenty-five to thirty-five is not young. I want girls from eighteen to twenty-two – fresh girls, ripe girls, young girls with Similac still on their breath. I’m talkin’ fully-developed girls right out of high school, beautiful ones.

I hear you loud and clear, said Pendleton, nodding his head in agreement. But how in the hell are we supposed to find girls of that caliber?

"That’s why I called you, cried Robinson. You’re a thinker, a problem-solver. You’ve got a solution for everything. I figured you, of all people, could figure out a way to get them in here. Did I come to the right person, or are you in over your head on this one?"

Have I ever failed you?

No, not yet.

And I’m not going to. Let me mull it over. I’ll figure something out.

I sure hope so, said Robinson, handing Pendleton a flyer.

What’s this? asked Pendleton, flipping the flyer to its front side.

It’s a flyer advertising The Den of Dames.

Pendleton examined the flyer.

"That muthaphucka’s got a lot of balls thinking he can compete with me in my city! snapped Robinson. I owned Milwaukee when I played for the Bucks and I’m gonna continue to own this city when I monopolize this industry. We’re gonna shut his ass down and the only way to do it is through the dancers. I need you to make it happen, Lox. I need those girls!"

Okay. Okay. Like I said, let me think it over.

I’m serious, Lox. I’ve got my name and reputation on the line. I poured millions into this place and I refuse to have some chump across town fuck with my investment.

Robinson extracted a blunt and a lighter from his desk drawer and produced a perky flame. He took a long drag, held the rich aroma in his lungs, and blew out a stream of smelly smoke. There’s only one top dog in this city, he barked, and you’re lookin’ at him.

He took another drag and passed the blunt to Pendleton. As he watched Pendleton enjoy the blunt, his adrenaline began flowing the way it used to during pre-game warm-ups. Pendleton blew out a stream of smoke and passed the blunt back to Robinson. That’s some good shit, he remarked, nodding his head in approval. You got a new supplier?

Robinson took another toke, ignoring Pendleton’s question. The days of hiring mediocre to subpar girls are over, he proclaimed. We need to find some way to recruit young girls – beautiful ones with tight bodies. We need to somehow pull their sleeve when they’re seniors in high school so that when they turn eighteen, we can scoop them up the way colleges scoop up the best high school athletes.

A radiant light bulb illuminated in Pendleton’s head. I’ve got it! he blurted, sitting up in his seat. I can get you exactly what you want – the youngest, hottest, and freshest girls on the market. But like any other hot commodity, it’s gonna cost you.

Robinson raised his brow in interest. How do you plan on doing this?

I can’t give away all my secrets, replied Pendleton, sounding as if he had a hidden agenda. But like I said, it’s gonna cost you.

How much?

Well, considering your high standards and considering how difficult it is to find girls of that caliber, how about two grand for each thoroughbred you decide to hire?

Two grand is too much, replied Robinson, relighting the blunt. How about a half a grand?

"A half a grand, shrieked Pendleton, frowning as if he was constipated. Think about what you’re asking me to do. To deliver the type of girls you desire, I’m gonna have to interact with minors, which is dangerous in itself because if I get caught interacting with under-aged girls, I could end up in prison."

Robinson took a moment to ponder Pendleton’s argument. He took another drag and blew the smoke upward. How about a grand?

Pendleton ran his hand through his hair and massaged his dome. A minute or so passed, during which time he built up the courage to verbalize his next statement. "How about a grand and part ownership of The Kitty Korner," he countered, flinching internally.

Robinson took another toke and allowed calm smoke to seep out of his mouth and nose. He reflected back twenty-three years ago when he first met Pendleton, when they were roommates at Purdue University. Pendleton was an average point guard and Robinson was an all-American small forward. Robinson recalled how Pendleton used to go out of his way to assist him both on and off the basketball court. On the court, he made sure Robinson received the ball in his favorite spots. Off the court, he assisted Robinson with his assignments so he could remain eligible to play.

When Robinson was drafted into the NBA, he brought Pendleton along for the ride and hired him as his personal assistant and chauffeur as a show of gratitude. Pendleton handled Robinson’s groceries, laundry, and other small tasks Robinson didn’t