Just Temporary

pleasure.

Late summer, 2006

Lifeless, the tanned female form hit the murky waters of the Mississippi with a resounding splash. Even in death’s cruel, unexpected finale, the victim was clearly beautiful. Blonde, blue-eyed, and shapely in a black satin mini skirt and lacy red tee.

He watched quietly in the eerie darkness as a deep crimson pool radiated slowly from her long, flowing locks. Foolish young woman. He mouthed the words crisply, his irritation plainly visible. Did she really think that she could get away with trying to blackmail someone as savvy as him? Why couldn’t she have just done her job? She could have still been alive, and he wouldn’t now have this annoying inconvenience on his hands…

He strode silently back to his waiting car--a magnificent union of style and performance--and climbed in. Looking one last time towards the bank of the river, he drove off. Well, tomorrow was another busy day. And he had much more important things to worry about than some cheap, worthless hooker.

It was a good thing she hadn’t gotten blood all over his nice new interior…

Chapter 1

Recapping the bottle of L’Oreal’s Wishful Pinking, I looked down with girlish pleasure at the two fresh coats of polish adorning my toenails. Damn stunning tootsies, if I said so myself. Mom was right; I should have been a foot model. Actually, Mom’s been pretty accurate about a lot of things in my lifetime, but no point going in to any of that now.

Mother’s intuition. What a powerful weapon. If we could only figure out some way to package it, spritzing or dabbing it on before we headed out the door each day, calling on its power when life heated up and the stresses and decisions became too difficult to handle alone. Sure would save the world a whole helluva lot of trouble.

Marveling at my profundity, I carefully removed the pillow-like balls from between each toe and slam-dunked them, one by one, a la Shaquille O’Neal, into the nearby wastebasket. Feet arched and off the ground, I leaned forward precariously, reaching for the dog-eared St. Paul QuestDex yellow pages on the lower shelf of the cluttered coffee table in front of me. Christ, I didn’t think there were this many businesses and people in the whole frickin’ state of Minnesota, let alone the city and suburbs of St. Paul. Hoisting the heavy tome up onto my left knee, I fell back against the well-worn futon mattress and started fanning through in a haphazard reverse fashion.

Gutters, Garbage, Florists, Financial, Exercise, Employment. I took a deep breathe in through my mouth and let my fingers do the walking until I came to the entry, Employment Contractors-Temporary Help. Pursing my lips, I let loose a few raspberries. I looked forward to another temp assignment about as much as my impending date with night sweats and hot flashes, but, realistically, as an unemployed, cash-strapped woman on the north side of forty, I was pretty sure that both were in my future. With any luck, I hoped, the latter might hold off a few years yet.

If I had a dollar for every temp assignment I had quit or been fired from over the past twenty years, I could be rubbing shoulders with Warren Buffet. It wasn’t that I didn’t like to work— well, in all fairness, I suppose it depended on who you asked—my version was that if something excited or interested me, I could work like a mule. My abysmal experience with temporary help services had been though, that most assignments consisted of shit work that no one else in a client’s organization could be conned or coerced in to doing, even under the thinly-veiled threat of death. On top of that, most assignments expected the impossible, but paid the absurd. Of course, it wasn’t that a client didn’t pay top dollar for what they were getting or, more accurately, what they hoped they were getting. Temporary agencies typically bill clients at close to double the worker’s hourly rate, citing overhead costs such as interviewing and testing, background checks, training, benefits, training, worker’s compensation costs--did I mention training?

Unfortunately, with only a little over two weeks before my next rent payment was due and the cats’ litter boxes starting to rival the toxicity of Three Mile Island, my options were hopelessly limited. Reexamining the final entry in my checkbook register, I knew that no amount of creative accounting was going to change the pitiful balance of $487.53.

Turning back to the yellow pages, I started scanning the listings of agencies. If temporary agencies banded together and put out hit lists and contracts on pain-in-the-ass workers to be eliminated, I figured I would be somewhere near the top of those to be snuffed out. I reached deep into my collective memory and jotted down the names and phone numbers of services I had not used or abused over the last twenty years. With an almost pristine sheet, I neared the end of the listings. This was getting scary.

Oh, please, oh, please, I muttered softly to myself, not quite sure whom I was bargaining my soul away to this time. Midway through the S’s, my index finger skidded to a stop. Somerville Staffing…that had a nice sound to it. A nice unfamiliar sound to it. Checking the address in my trusty Polk Street Directory, I determined that the agency was somewhere in downtown St. Paul, just a short distance from my home.

What do you think, Thelma? My black and tan tortie lounged next to me on the futon, totally engrossed in the job of washing her behind.

Should Momma give them a call? Yeah, yeah, I know it’s totally nutso when a grown woman talks to her cats like they’re children, but I figure it’s a whole lot cheaper than weekly sessions with a shrink.

Merrruck, she replied, continuing with the task at hand. I took that as a yes. With an uneven mixture of anticipation and dread, I picked up the nearby phone and punched in the number.

How was I to know that such a seemingly innocent move would nearly cost me my middle-aged life?

Chapter 2

My full name is Casey Ann Svaboda. Some people, in a forced attempt at familiarity, take to calling me Cass, but I prefer Casey. Always have and always will. I grew up in Westown, Minnesota, a stone’s throw south across the Mississippi River from the capital city of St. Paul. My childhood and teen years in this middle-class, blue-collar suburb were spent much like those, I imagine, of others in my peer group in middle America settings of the 1970s and 80s—protesting government policies on nuclear warheads and the growing AIDS pandemic, moon walking with Michael Jackson and Thriller, getting shit-faced and sicker than a dog on cheap bottles of Boone’s Farm and Mad Dog 20/20.Boy, how I miss those good ol’ days…

We lived on a quiet, tree-lined street in an older section of the city, the five of us—Dad; Mom; big brother, Jim; myself; and younger brother, Alan. Yeah, I was the only daughter, spoiled rotten and the apple of my father’s eye. Milked it for all it was worth. Dad worked for a large, successful multinational corporation in a western suburb of Minneapolis, retiring after thirty years as a supervisor in the company’s adhesives division. Mom was a part-time lunch lady at the junior high school during the school year and a stay-at-home mom during the summer keeping us happy and entertained with homemade cookies, Kool Aid, backyard sleepovers, and pool parties.

I graduated from the local public high school with honors and only two short-term suspensions on an otherwise unremarkable record. The first infraction was for being caught my sophomore year in the women’s bathroom token’ on a joint. Hey, on the plus side, I never inhaled. The second was for calling skunk-breathed Mr. Mittendorf a crusty old bastard for ordering me to unroll the waistband on my mini skirt so that some of its fabric could cover my heifer-sized caboose. What did the old buzzard know about fashion, anyhow? Go figure. I got the suspension, and he became a faculty legend.

From high school, I headed off for college to MinnTech University—the school of choice for many individuals of limited means such as myself. After spending a few years drifting around campus, learning about the pharmaceutical industry and getting myself deflowered, I settled on a major of textiles and design, much to the relief and dismay of my ever-puzzled parents.

Caseykins, my ever-practical Dad kept asking me, "Whatever are you going to do with a degree like that in the Twin Cities?" Parents. How does one explain to them the concept of passion, the need to follow one’s dreams and God-given talents? Well, I imagine it’s about as easy as a parent trying to get across the idea of making a decent living. Paying rent, being able to afford groceries, mundane things like that.

After graduation, armed with my fancy, but largely worthless degree, I pounded the pavement for months, unable to even land a job cleaning cages at the Twin Cities Zoo. Dad finally came to the rescue, probably more out of a need for self-preservation than anything else and pulled a few strings with his employer, getting me an entry-level position as a copy clerk in one of the company’s research divisions.

It was there that I got my first and longest—three month—taste of the corporate world. After ninety days on the job, I had handled more sheets of paper than I cared to see in an entire lifetime and cost the company more in errors than my pitiful paychecks were worth. Coworkers took to calling me the mummy for all the Band-Aids I was sporting due to paper cuts. At the end of my probationary period, I was solemnly marched down to human resources where I was told that I did not have the proper corporate mind-set to succeed within the organization. Two decades later, I’m still trying to figure out what the hell that’s supposed to mean.

Dad was absolutely mortified by my firing, Mom cried herself silly for a week over it, and I took off for Cancun to roast my body on the resort town’s sandy beaches. It was after I came back that I began my unending odyssey through life to determine where the hell I was supposed to fit in. I’m still working on that tricky little puzzle today at the ripe old age of forty-three. Some call it being a no-good, screwed-up misfit, but I like to think of it more as being a free spirit.

In the twenty-year quest to find myself, I’ve developed quite the entrepreneurial spirit. Along the way, I’ve sold Amway, Avon, Mary Kay, and Shaklee. I’ve house sat, dog sat, horse sat, cat sat. I’ve cleaned offices, boats, banks, and boutiques. I’ve designed gift baskets, driven school buses, sewn dance costumes, and baked gourmet cookies. Unfortunately, with my numerous failed business ventures over the years, I’ve had quite a number of dry spells, that is, times without a regular income. It was during the many slow periods, that I became an all too familiar face on the temp scene in the Twin Cities.

My inability to fit in to the corporate world is probably all the more glaring due to my older brother Jim’s incredible success in the same setting. After graduating from St. Cloud State University with a degree in mathematics, big brother took a job as an actuarial with Loyal American Insurance. He rose quickly through the ranks and now heads a department of something like a bazillion, or some other ungodly number. Funny, I really don’t have a clue as to what my big brother does as an actuarial. All I know is that whatever it is, he does it extremely well. Something to do with statistics and probabilities, I think. Like what my chances might be as a woman getting hit by a Mack truck in Paducah, Kentucky on a hot summer day while strolling down the street blindfolded sucking on a Popsicle.

As brothers and individuals go, no two men could be more different than Alan and Jim. Whereas Jim is very analytical, detached, and no nonsense, Alan is highly emotional, warm, and fun-loving. After majoring in English Literature at the University of St. Thomas, Alan took the position of assistant manager at a small independent bookstore in the Uptown area of Minneapolis, where he remains today. He and his partner, Logan, share a two-bedroom loft in the aforementioned downtown warehouse district.

Five years ago at the start of our traditional Thanksgiving family gathering, Alan dropped the bombshell that he was about to begin counseling to undergo gender reassignment. Dad was so unnerved by the news that he dropped the carving knife and nearly sliced off his big left toe. Mom jumped up from the table and ran screeching to the kitchen in a high-pitched, manic voice, We need more dressing! We need more dressing! Needless to say, it wasn’t one of my family’s better Thanksgiving celebrations. It was the first and only time in my life I’ve ever seen Mom totally blitzed and food remaining on a Svaboda dinner table at the end of a meal. Christ, and I always thought that Alan’s secret was just being gay.

Until his death a little over a year ago, Dad never acknowledged that there was anything unusual going on with Alan. As he saw it, Alan was only going through some kooky kind of phase. Like maybe at thirty-seven he was going to grow out of it, or something, I dun no. Mom, although much more accepting and understanding of her cherished younger son, is still agonizing over how she’s ever going to explain the transformation to Nana Ida. As if it matters. Nana, at ninety-six, hasn’t cooked on all four burners for some time now. Five minutes after the news is broken to her, I figure she’ll be searching for her next Little Debbie’s marshmallow crème pie.

I got to say, I have incredible admiration and respect for my younger brother, at being able to handle such a life-altering situation, both literally and figuratively. God, for me, just trying to decide which shoes to pair with an outfit in the morning is enough to send me into a blue funk and back to bed for the rest of the day with a bottle of Valium. Brother Jim, although very fond of his youngest sibling, is horrified at the thought of Alan surrendering his manliness. The consummate emotional cripple, Jim finds it exceedingly difficult to talk at all about Alan’s upcoming surgery. When discussed, which is rarely, he crudely refers to the event as the big chop-chop.

Luckily for Alan, his look has always been a bit androgynous. He also favors the Krepka side of the family. Slight, small-boned Czechs with blue eyes, blonde hair, and fair skin. In other words, I don’t expect to see him coming out of surgery looking like Conan the Barbarian in drag.

Me, on the other hand, I’m a Svaboda through and through. My female ancestors were big, sturdy farmwomen from the Moravian region of the Czech Republic, used to wielding a plow and shoveling sheep dung all day. I’m good-sized at 5’8, but on a thin" day, can usually coax the scale, before my ritual coffee and morning donut dunk, down to a pretty respectable one fifty-five.

Although no raving beauty, I don’t expect to be gracing the cover of Dog World any time soon and can more than hold my own in my age group. It’s largely due to the thick, oily Svaboda skin. I mean, we just don’t wrinkle ‘til we’re at least one hundred and ten. My best feature, which I mentioned before, is my feet. Long and graceful with impossibly high arches. Straight, slender toes with perfectly shaped toenails. Someday when I’m laid to rest I’m gonna have the undertaker fix me up in a pair of Manolo Blahniks with five-inch heels--like the ones that Sarah Jessica Parker wears--and the best damn pedicure a dead woman’s money can buy. Mourners can then file past and pay their respects to the hottest frickin’ feet this side of the Mississippi.

I figure I’ll never give Liz Taylor a run for her money in the man department, but I’ve come close to walking down the aisle twice in my lifetime, only to decide against it both times after learning that neither guy was worth the price of an engraved box of wedding invitations. For now, I’m living quite happily, albeit somewhat poorly, as a middle-aged, unattached woman with two adorable, but sometimes-impossible little kitties.

*    *    *

I moved back to Westown a little over a year ago, after my father’s death, to be of greater help to my aging mother. Svaboda women are wonderful caregivers or martyrs, depending on your take on the situation, and I was no exception. It was not that Mom, at seventy-five, was losing her marbles or anything, but as a lifelong non-driver, she was becoming increasingly dependent on the kindness and availability of others to get her around to the grocery store, beauty shop, doctor’s office, and so on.

I really didn’t mind making the move back to my childhood stomping grounds outside of the usual packing and resettling headaches. After living in countless sheetrock shit boxes - aka apartments - around the Twin Cities over the last twenty years, I still hadn’t found a place that even remotely felt like home, in any sense of the word. Subconsciously—here we go armchair analysts-- it may have also been that I was hoping the move would help reclaim some of the closeness lost over the years between Mom and me due to various familial differences and disagreements long since forgotten by everyone involved.

As it ended up, I lucked in to my current living arrangement quite by accident. Mom had been thinking for some time about putting a small deck on the back of her house and finally decided to go with a bid given her by Dillman and Son, a local building and remodeling contractor. David Dillman, the son in the aforementioned business, spent the better part of three days installing a redwood deck off the house’s sunny kitchen. During one of their many conversations, David mentioned to Mom that he and his lovely bride, Gina, had just moved into a brand new four-bedroom home out in Eagan. Eagan’s a little more upscale than Westown, for those of you who need to know. He had decided to keep the small one-bedroom Westown bungalow that he had lived in for the past seven years as a form of investment and was now looking for a renter.

My daughter, Casey, is planning a move back to Westown and is scouting for a reasonably-priced place to live, Mom quickly offered on my behalf.

I’m looking for someone quiet and responsible.

Casey’s over 40, has never been married, and has two adorable, little kitties.

Believe me, nothing says boring-- b-o-r-i-n-g-- faster than a middle-aged spinster with cats. Sounds good, said David. Have her stop by around seven this evening, if convenient, and I’ll show her around. With that, he took out a business card, jotted down the address and handed it to Mom. The location was about three blocks from Mom’s house. Close enough to be convenient, but not close enough to be a pain. For me, that is. The ink wasn’t even dry on the card before Mom was phoning me with the good news.

I got to the address about six forty-five and parked out front on the street. I didn’t want to leak oil all over the driveway from my ‘95 Mazda 626 and blow my chances of getting the rental. David Dillman arrived precisely at seven, in an S-10 Chevy pick-up. Climbing out of the cab, I was struck by the enormity of his size. Big, burly, and intimidating as hell. I’ve long since learned that he’s as cuddly as a teddy bear and sweet and shy as all get out. Walking towards me, he smiled.

You must be Casey, he said.

David, I presume. An awkward silence ensued.

Did you go to Brimley?

Yeah.

Me, too. Class of ‘97. How ‘bout you?

"Class of…well, let’s just say a l-o-o-o-n-n-n-g-g-g time ago."

He laughed. Did you ever have Mrs. Gleesom for a teacher?

Yeah.

Wasn’t she a bitch?

A bitch-and-a-half.

You got that right. We both laughed. Our bond was formed that evening. I was in. We started up the sidewalk to the house.

What do you do for a living, Casey?

"I’m a contract worker, David. I started using that terminology several years ago when I determined that the status of a temporary" is only a notch or two above that of dead-drunk wino lying in the gutter. Most people don’t have a clue as to what you’re talking about and usually stop their probing at that point, for fear of sounding stupid.

Uh, I see, said David. That’s a good job. Bingo. Works like a charm.

Looking towards the house, David continued. Are you ready for the big tour?

Ready when you are, I smiled. Actually, I didn’t need a tour. I had fallen in love with the little place the moment I pulled up. It was funny, but I hadn’t remembered the house from my childhood years spent in Westown. I knew, though, that places and things can, many times, take on their own funky dimensions in the eyes of a child.

Unlocking the front door, we stepped in. Gina’s never liked this place much, David said wistfully, looking around. Says it’s no good for entertaining. Not even big enough for a lousy hobbit. From that point on, the charming stucco bungalow became my little hobbit house.

Standing inside the plastered doorway, we were practically smack in the middle of the small living room. It was separated from the tiny dining room on the left, by a partial half wall. Spanning the front of the house, their combined length was not more than twenty-six feet. Sure, you couldn’t fit more than five people in the living/dining area—four, if you included my Uncle Chester—but I didn’t know five individuals who got along well enough to sit down for a meal or gathering, so the size really wasn’t gonna be a problem.

Directly in from the front door by about ten feet was a small hallway leading into the RV sized bath. The hallway held a small closet on the left, and on the right was the door leading into the bungalow’s only bedroom. Checking the miniscule dimensions, I calculated I could squeeze in my double bed, dresser, and a child-size clothes hamper.

David had just recently replaced the carpeting in the three rooms with an oatmeal- colored Berber which would go well with any décor. Listen to me. Décor. Like a woman who’s been lugging around the same metal futon frame and mattress for over twenty years from place to place is gonna know or care much about décor.

From the tiny dining room, an archway lead into the small, but sunny kitchen. Old wooden cabinets on the far wall and to the left were painted a pale lemon yellow. Below the cabinets along the far wall was a double-footed sink with a window that looked out on to the postage stamp sized backyard. The kitchen appliances, circa 1950, included an old Magic Chef oven and a Frigidaire refrigerator with small icebox. Both were in mint condition. In redoing the post WWII era bungalow, David had also just recently laid an oak hardwood floor in the kitchen, which I knew would make me feel like a pro when scorching my nightly TV dinners. Even though it was unfinished, I welcomed having a basement, perfect as a playroom for Thelma and Louise and a godsend after years of having to keep litter boxes in apartment bathrooms. I couldn’t remember the number of times I had stepped in kitty crap when making my nightly potty runs in the dark. The basement finished the tour of the house.

We stepped out the back door and into the tiny fenced yard. The perfect size, I thought, for a playpen for the kitties and a few tomato plants in the springtime. Everything so far was better than I could have imagined; just what I needed and wanted in a home for the kitties and me. The piece de resistance, however, was yet to come.

I’m a bit embarrassed to show you the garage, David started. I had hoped to replace it by now, but just haven’t had the time or the money. To the left of the fenced back yard beyond a short sidewalk was a small garage, or, rather, I should say, shed, with big windows on two sides and old, double doors that opened outward. My heart raced at the sight of the old, somewhat, dilapidated wooden structure. No, it wasn’t that I needed or wanted a garage for my rusty old beater of a car. I mean, the vehicle hadn’t seen the inside of a garage when it was new, so why would I want to start spoiling it now?

What excited me, however, was the chance to have for the first time in my life, a studio in which to do my fabric painting, a passion of mine since college. I was actually told quite a few years back that I was pretty darn good at it. Even sold several of my designs shortly out of college. Then, like a lot of other young adults, I gave in to more conventional adult pressures…and here I am today. Go figure.

David undid the padlock on the double doors and walked in, feeling for the light cord along the wall. Following him, I took in the sights of the slightly musty interior. Small, about ten feet by fifteen feet, the shed had built-in cabinets and shelves on two of the three walls. Although it was evening, I knew that the daytime lighting would be excellent on sunny days with the two good-sized windows. The space was dirty; filled with cobwebs, old window screens, hosing, and dried up paint cans, but I knew that with a little elbow grease and fresh paint, the shed would be perfect for my studio.

Finishing the tour, David and I headed quietly back to the house. We had been there only a little over a half hour, but it was already growing dark. I was excited about the little bungalow, the yard, and the shed and was already visualizing what I would all do with the place to put my personal stamp on it.

Once inside, I sat myself down on the Berber in the dining room, while David excused himself to the bathroom. Even with the faucet on, I could tell that he was taking a leak. Geez, I thought only women did that thing with the water. I reached into the outer pocket of my purse and pulled out a tin of Altoids and popped a handful into my mouth. I was both excited and nervous, not knowing if the rent David was asking would even be in my price range.

David rambled back into the dining room, obviously relieved and lowered his massive frame down on to the floor. Sitting in front of me, he looked like a contented Buddha; clothed of course.

Eyeing me carefully, he started, I’m not sure if your Mom mentioned anything about the rent that I’m asking; it may be open to negotiation. He wrote down a figure on the back of his business card and handed it across to me. Christ, it was like being in the middle of some big-time business deal. Looking at the scribbled numbers, I nearly choked on my breath mints.

Sensing my distress, David offered apologetically, "Gee, I’m sorry Casey, if it’s a bit steep. I would be more than willing to knock a little off the rent if you’d be willing to help with the yard work and shoveling." He went on further about the large mortgage he was now saddled with, and I sensed that the poor guy was up to his eyeballs in debt, thanks to his precious little Gina.

If he only knew. Hell, I had been paying this much and more years ago for cardboard cracker boxes you couldn’t even fart in at night for fear of waking up your neighbors. I was now going to have a house with basement, yard, and a studio for a fraction of what I’d pay elsewhere in the Twin Cities for just a crummy one-bedroom garden-level apartment. I was in absolute Heaven. There really was a God, after all.

Catching my breath and recovering from my close brush with death, I smiled at David and gave my head a nod. That would be great, David. I won’t let you down as a tenant.

That evening we completed all the paperwork, and I wrote out a small check for the damage and pet deposit. Three weeks later I moved in and have called the cozy bungalow my little hobbit house ever since.

Chapter 3

I set the alarm clock and Mr. Coffee timer for 7:00 a.m., figuring even for me--the high priestess of dawdlers-- that would be plenty of time to get ready for my nine o’clock appointment at Somerville Staffing.

I awoke to the rhythmic beeping of the alarm after a hot, romantic romp under the sheets with Jesse Katsopolis. Okay, I confess…I was a Full House groupie in the late ‘80s and that was a dream straight from Heaven. Curled up under my chin, Thelma purred like the souped up engine of a ‘64 Mustang. Glancing down, I was comforted to know that it wasn’t Jesse during the night with the bad case of fish breath. I extracted myself carefully from the smelly little bundle of fur and padded off to the bathroom. Turning on the faucet for the hot water in the shower, I slowly stretched and bended as my tiny hobbit bathroom enveloped me in a moist, comforting blanket of steam.

Morning showers are a passion of mine. Some of my best plans and inspirations come to me as I soak, lather, and rinse myself off to the likeness of a prune. Those mornings when I’m in my Einstein mode, I figure I can use up enough hot water to keep the Hoover Dam filled for an entire year. Not today though. Today I needed to make tracks to get to my early morning appointment on time.

Toweling dry, I proceeded to blow my shoulder-length shag into a chestnut mass of waves. Make up, which was next, has always been pretty minimal for me-- a good moisturizer, a brush of mascara, and a swipe of complimentary color on the lips is about all that I bother with. I mean, if a woman’s not blessed with good genes, why spend countless dollars and hours trying to change things?

I slipped into my Merona black cotton skirt and Mossimo lavender silk sweater set and stole a glance in the full-length mirror. Mm mm…not bad, I thought. Who says you can’t be stylish on a discount store budget?

My nose followed the enticing aroma of Starbuck’s Italian Roast into the tiny hobbit kitchen like a bloodhound on a fresh scent. I carefully broke the seal on the box of chocolate glazed Krispy Kreme donuts for my requisite morning sugar fix. Popping a hunk of the air-filled mass of heaven into my mouth, I headed for the hobbit living room to pop in my favorite feel good CD, Abba’s Dancing Queen. Flopping around my limited dance floor like a tuna caught in a trawler’s net, I thought back to the day years ago when Mrs. Meehan, of Mrs. Meehan’s School of Dance, had announced to my mother that no amount of money spent or classes taken would change the fact that I, Casey Ann Svaboda, was cursed with two left feet. If any consolation, two gorgeous left feet. Luckily, that woman’s opinion from long ago has never stopped me from continuing to do something I so love. I mean, how can something that looks so bad, feel so damn good? I guess it was just one of life’s many mysteries.

Bouncing into the kitchen, I turned off the coffee maker and emptied the carafe into my car mug. I then emptied the contents of a can of Fancy Feast Chunky Chicken into two porcelain cat dishes and filled the automatic pet drink dispenser with cold water from the tap.

I grabbed a second Krispy Kreme and my car keys off the counter and headed for the back door. Peering down the basement steps, I called to Thelma and Louise, who had fled to the safety of the lower level after seeing their Momma in apparent distress just moments before.

"I’m outa here, you guys. Wish me luck. And be good."

*    *    *

Stepping out the back door, I discovered that it had rained at some point during the night. Believe me, I could have slept through the bombing of Pearl Harbor. The air held the fresh commingled scent of plant oils and earthy loam. Droplets of water, yet to evaporate in the cool morning breeze, covered my car’s surface, glistening in the sunlight like thousands of brilliant-cut diamonds. Looking towards the street, I greeted the new day’s sleepy caravan of commuters heading off to work. In the distance could be heard the mournful horn of a tugboat chugging its way down the Mississippi River.

I slid into my driver’s seat and punched the radio dial for the oldies station, KOOL 108. Deep Purple’s Smoke on the Water came thumping through the speakers. Cranking up the volume, my vehicle was nearly blasted out of the driveway. Mrs. Grabowski, my 85-year old next-door neighbor poked her downy white head out her front door and called to me. Getting a little hard of hearing, are we, Casey?

Oops, sorry, Mrs. G, I said with a sheepish grin. Wish me luck; I’m off to a job interview.

Nonsense, Casey, she called back. You don’t need luck, my dear; perhaps just a little more self-confidence.

Thanks, Mrs. G, but that wasn’t gonna do it.

For an octogenarian, my next-door neighbor was the coolest. Edna Grabowski and her late husband, Howard had lived in their neat white frame colonial for almost fifty years until Mr. G’s death almost two years ago. Mrs. G had worked for over thirty years as a secretary for a neighboring suburban school district and Mr. G had been a 10th grade history teacher for the St. Paul school system. To their profound disappointment, they had never been blessed with any children.

Shortly after moving into the hobbit house, Mrs. G and I had formed a mutually beneficial relationship that was going strong to this day. During warm weather, I mowed Mrs. G’s lawn and kept her annuals watered. When fall came, I raked her leaves and covered the house’s windows with plastic for the cold season ahead. During winter, I shoveled and sanded her driveway and walk. In return, Mrs.