Mrs. Drewery Listens Well

“I once believed that a man had it in his power to make a plain woman pretty and a beautiful woman forever stunning. Of course then I married and realized that my thoughts were complete rubbish.”

Advertisements

“Good morning ma’am.”

“Good morning. May I see your badge before I unchain the door?”

“Certainly…I have it here…Let me flip the thing open.”

“Oh, fine, fine, I can see it. I’m sorry. I know if you wanted into the house you could get in by just giving the door a good shove but I always think that I could possibly get a good scream or two out with the delay that shove would take.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Come in officer, come in I’m just having some tea.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Oh, be sure to wipe your feet, Miss Anne, my cleaning girl, does fuss over my kitchen tiles.”

“Yes ma’am”

“Miss Anne goes to our church. She works so hard. She goes to the University of Minnesota extension.”

“Really.”

“Yes, that’s quite a drive in the winter. Miss Anne works so hard. She is going to be a nurse this spring. Then I’ll need someone else to clean my kitchen tiles.”

“Yes, ma’am. I was wondering how I could help you, ma’am?”

“Oh yes, of course. I did call. So good of you to come, officer.”

“Always glad to help Mrs…?”

“Don’t look for your note dear man, I’m Mrs. William Drewery. Mrs. Drewery.”

“Mrs. Drewery, of course. Well, Mrs. Drewery, you phoned the police station…”

“Yes, Miss Anne, decided I should. She told me there has been murder in this town before. Well, hat was several years ago but I remember.”

“Murder ma’am?”

“Yes, of course murder. Weren’t you here during our small town scandal?”

“Yes ma’am but…”

“Oh! You were questioning my use of the WORD murder, how silly of me.”

“No ma’am.”

“Well yes of course it was silly. But I meant it, murder.”

“Mrs. Drewery can we start from the beginning?”

“The beginning?”

“Yes ma’am”

“Well the beginning starts with Mr. Drewery.”

“Ma’am?”

“Oh yes you see he was dying”

“Dying?”

“Yes, God rest him. Before he died he told me I needed to keep up with our hobby.”

“Hobby?”

“Yes, bird watching.”

“Birds…”

“Yes, they are so lovely and the songs are just beautiful.”

“You look through binoculars at the birds?”

“Yes of course. Oh officer, in the springtime the colors are just spectacular.”

“Then while watching birds you saw something suspicious.”

“No.”

“No.”

“No, nothing suspicious. Mr. Drewery has been gone nearly five years.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“In those five years I’ve grown older and I don’t mind telling you officer, a little deafer.”

“Deafer?”

“Yes, I’d almost say hard of hearing.”

“Really?”

“Really. More tea?”

“Yes. No! I mean…sure thanks.”

“Well Miss Anne, last spring, came early to clean one day and finished early as you might expect.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Miss Anne is so sweet she does work hard.”

“Yes but…I’m sorry but…”

“Don’t be sorry officer she knows what she is doing. Anyway we set off to the annual birdseed sale in Bemiji.

“A sale?”

“Yes, and what do you suppose I found at 60% off?!”

“I have no idea.”

“An outside environmentalist listening devise!”

“Ma’am?”

“Oh officer, it’s so simple. I plug it in, turn on the speaker and place the microphone outside the window. I can close the window right down on the wire! It won’t get damaged!”

“Really?”

“Really. Of course Miss Anne pointed it out to me. I would never have known what the thing was by looking at the box.”

“No ma’am.”

“Well, you can’t imagine my delight, last spring, a year ago, at the song-bird music. That music had been fading for me these last five years, then revived into this very house; I was delighted.”

“But Mrs. Drewery…”

“Officer, you know I do sincerely believe police officers are the most canny of people.”

“Yes Ma’am”

“Well you can imagine my suspicion one morning when I heard a canary over my speaker.”

“A canary?”

“Yes, they are not indigenous to Minnesota.”

“Oh.”

“Well, I had to step out and see if I could spot the poor thing.”

“Yes?”

“Well, I spotted him.”

“Good.”

“In Mrs. Weller’s yard.”

“Mrs. Weller?”

“Yes, my neighbor. We live quite close.”

“Yes, ma’am all the houses here are fairly packed in.”

“Yes, well that comes with living on a lake.

“Yes ma’am.”

“Well, anyway Mrs. Weller’s canary was on her back porch. Then out comes poor Mrs. Weller.

“Poor Mrs. Weller?”

“Yes, poor dear. She could have been so beautiful, so happy.”

“Um…”

“But she married Mr. Weller didn’t she? I often wonder about her family. Mrs. Weller’s I mean. Did they try to talk her out of it? Do they even know what happened to her? Maybe she eloped. But in any case she married Mr. Weller and that as they say is that.”

“I see…”

“I’ve invited Mrs. Weller to church with me on Sundays. We had a marvelous time, the few times she went.”

“She stopped?”

“Yes. One Sunday we stayed to have coffee and sweets with Rev. and Mrs. Hart. Such sweet people.”

“Yes, I know them.”

“Yes, of course you do. Such a nice couple and Mrs. Weller seemed to like Sara Hart. They did chatter on. But the next Sunday Mrs. Weller wouldn’t go to church. Just called me up and said she couldn’t go. I know Sara called but we didn’t see her for a whole week.”

“She stayed inside an entire week?”

“Yes. And when she did come out I could tell she had been beaten — beaten, officer.”

“Did you try and talk to her?”

“Yes, of course officer, I knew better than pursue the bruises on her arms and neck. I just chattered on like we usually would about birds, weather, whatever! But I did tell Sara Hart.”

“How long ago was this.”

“Oh, about seven months ago.”

“Have you heard fights or threats from the couple?”

“No.”

“Really?”

“Yes officer, really. Quiet as a mouse if you don’t count Henrietta.”

“Excuse me, Mrs. Drewery but who is Henrietta?”

“The canary, officer. Please try and stay with me. Henrietta is Mrs. Weller’s canary. An unfortunate name really, Henrietta, since the bird was obviously male. She wasn’t necessarily an expert on canaries but she loved that bird.”

“Excuse me Mrs. Drewery I take it that Henrietta is no longer among the living?”

“I heard a canary out on the back porch last week. Mr. Weller brought out the bird and I heard it over my speaker just last week.”

“Then the bird is still with us.”

“But it was Mr. Weller that set the bird out on the back porch.”

“Mr. Weller set the bird out for some air.”

“Officer are you married?”

“No ma’am.”

“Neither is Miss Anne and do you know when I mentioned to her last week, that Mrs. Weller’s canary was out on the back porch, she said the same thing. The canary is out for air.”

“It is a possibility Mrs. Drewery.”

“Yes officer. But I’ve yet to see Mrs. Weller take the canary in or out. Mr. Weller takes the canary out in the early evening when he arrives home from work and takes it in later on in the evening.”

“Is that unusual Mrs. Drewery?”

“Yes it is officer.”

“Why Mrs. Drewery?”

“Because Mrs. Weller couldn’t have taken her canary in or out of the house.”

“How do you know?”

“Do you know that I watch birds for a hobby Officer?”

“Yes ma’am by the suggestion of your late husband, five years ago you decided that you would continue bird watching as a hobby.”

“Yes, and Mrs. Weller — we would chat sometimes when we had a moment. As you can see I have several bird feeders.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“She of course would talk about her Henrietta.”

“Henrietta?”

“Yes, her canary.”

“Oh yes, the male canary named Henrietta.”

“Do you know that once she told me that she couldn’t bear to part with Henrietta? That her Henrietta was the only bright spot in that house over there.”

“Yes, I can imagine the woman’s sentiment.”

“Oh officer, I know you have seen so much, but I really doubt you could imagine Mrs. Weller’s feelings. Did I tell you that she could really be beautiful?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“I once believed that a man had it in his power to make a plain woman pretty and a beautiful woman forever stunning. Of course then I married and realized that my thoughts were complete rubbish.”

“Ma’am?”

“Oh Mr. Drewery was a sweet and considerate husband, Officer, but just a little controlling as all men tend to be.”

“Controlling?”

“Yes, some men over money, some men are jealous, some men try to control time itself.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Oh you’ll know soon enough.”

“Mrs. Drewery why are you concerned about hearing canary song in Mr. and Mrs. Weller’s back yard? The bird is only out at the most a few hours during the evening.”

“Well, because I spoke to him almost two weeks ago and told him I was shocked that Mrs. Weller hadn’t brought out Henrietta to take the spring time air.”

“You told Mr. Weller?”

“Yes, you see I heard his back door open. I walked out casually to see if Mrs. Weller was out in her back yard.”

“Was she?”

“No just Mr. Weller.”

“So you asked him about Mrs. Weller?”

“No, I asked him about Henrietta.”

“About the canary.”

“Yes, I have a bird feeder near the back of my property so that Mrs. Weller might enjoy the birds as well as I.”

“How nice.”

“Yes it was, I suppose, until Mr. Weller put up the privacy fence.”

“The privacy fence.”

“Yes, one day last fall I was out filling my feeders and asked Mrs. Weller if she saw the indigo bunting at the feeder the day before. Of course she had and we chatted about their beauty. The next thing I know a privacy fence is going up.”

“I see.”

“Perhaps you do, Officer. Anyway, last week I was putting feed in my back bird feeder and waited until I heard someone quite close to the privacy fence.”

“Mrs. Weller?”

“No, Officer, I’ve already told you I heard Mr. Weller come out his back door. I casually went out to my back yard.”

“How did you know that it was Mr. Weller behind the privacy fence?”

“Because he tripped over something and then spewed out some foul language.”

“I see.”

“Well, in my loudest voice I called over the fence to Mr. Weller. Of course I asked for Mrs. Weller. I’m afraid, Officer, that I played a little dumb and ignorant to get Mr. Weller’s attention.”

“Right. What happened?”

“He ignored me and remained as still as possible. But I knew he was there.”

“What did you do?”

“I became a little shriller and louder.”

“Did that work?”

“Yes, it usually does. I’m not worried in knowing that I’m old. Sometimes there is advantage in age. Mr. Archer told me that once. You know Mr. Archer don’t you?”

“Mr. Gabriel Archer?”

“Yes, we attend the same church. He enjoys my apple pie. He was a friend of my late husbands.”

“Yes ma’am”

“Where was I?”

“You became shriller and louder.”

“Oh yes, well Mr. Weller came to the gate and opened it up a crack. Of course he told me his wife was busy in the house. Oh, I say, I was just about to ask her what was wrong with Henrietta. He gave me a quizzical look and asked why I thought there would be anything wrong with Henrietta? Well, I say Henrietta hasn’t been out at all this spring. Very unusual and I go on and on about Henrietta. Is anything wrong? If something happened to Henrietta, Mrs. Weller would truly morn. I know what it is like to morn and feel alone. Perhaps I should call on Mrs. Weller.”

“What did Mr. Weller say?”

“He told me that Henrietta was fine. That Mrs. Weller felt it just a bit cold this spring to bring out the canary.”

“I see. Then you notice that Mr. Weller brings Henrietta out in the morning and evening for a few hours?”

“Yes.”

“You notice through a privacy fence.”

“No Officer, I heard. I looked to make sure when I think Mr. Weller’s isn’t about.”

“During the evening?”

“Oh well, at dusk I peek through the gate.”

“Mrs. Drewery, that is not very neighborly and may even be considered criminal by Mr. Weller.”

“Oh dear, Officer, I have no doubt that Mr. Weller would think it very incriminating, but after Mr. Weller started taking out and bringing in Henrietta I have become very concerned about Mrs. Weller.”

“Mrs. Drewery, I have no doubt that you have concerns and I will go and ask Mr. Weller about his wife. But you have only HEARD the bird being moved. Mrs. Weller may very well have become very reclusive. I have seen cases where abuse is involved that causes a person to hide inside their house…”

“Officer, Henrietta is buried in my back yard.”

“Excuse me?”

“Henrietta died four weeks ago.”

“Henrietta died four weeks ago?”

“And it was the last time I saw Mrs. Weller.”

“The last time.”

“Yes, very pathetic. It was a bitter, cold morning, one of the last cold days. I came out to my kitchen to make my morning coffee and to my shock and dismay I saw Mrs. Weller in her boots and parka sitting on my frost covered picnic table holding a shoe box.”

“A shoe box.”

“Yes, poor dear. Her nose was red and she had no make-up on at all. Her hair looked a little oily, her hands were chapped and looked so thin. I, of course, knew without asking what the shoe box meant. I made her come in and placed a cup of coffee in her hands, took the box and lifted the lid.”

“Was the bird destroyed?”

“Funny you should use that word. No officer the bird was murdered and Mrs. Weller was destroyed. He killed the poor creature.”

“Ma’am?”

“She told me that he killed the bird, wrung it’s neck. I really don’t know what drove him to it. What makes a man kill to cause others pain? What makes a man insist on causing pain? You, see even before the privacy fence went up their house was always quiet. Never any loud shouts our slamming doors. I wonder now, Officer if I had kept my distance and not tried to talk to that poor, pale person…”

“Mrs. Drewery, why did you bait Mr. Weller?”

“I’ve seen nothing of Mrs. Weller. No lights during the day. She used to try to make the yard look nice in the spring, but I haven’t seen her out and about at all these past couple of weeks.”

“You say the last time you saw her was when she brought Henrietta over?”

“Yes, she told me she wouldn’t leave the bird alone in that house. I had some hopes she was going to leave. Leaving is hard and expensive. She didn’t work you know and this town is too small to stay. I asked her to stay with me or to call Sara Hart but she just shook her head. She asked if Henrietta could stay in the yard until the soil was soft enough for burial. She wanted to think of Henrietta here among my wild birds. I of course didn’t refuse. I wrapped the bird in plastic, taped the box and wrapped the box in plastic. Later, just a few weeks ago I buried Henrietta next to my patio and placed a brick over the ground where he lay.”

“Mrs. Drewery, have you seen Mrs. Weller at all in the past four weeks?”

“Of course not officer, and if you wish me to initiate a missing person’s report I will be glad to do so. Miss Anne, she said that you might ask me to do that.”

“No ma’am, that won’t be necessary.

“Are you leaving now Officer?”

“Yes ma’am”

“I’d appreciate if you could tell me how this all turns out.”

“Mrs. Drewery, I don’t think it will turn out all that well.”

“Oh officer, I have no doubt, but I’m well suited for bad news, just as you are and just as sweet Miss Anne is”

“Ma’am?”

“Well, officer you are with the police, not the jolliest of professions, Miss Anne is soon to be a nurse, that can go either way and I am old — to the point where I miss my husband. I am old and I am a little hard of hearing but I manage to hear the victims in this world or I’m much mistaken.”

“No Ma’am I don’t think you are mistaken.”

 

Soulless

The woman’s face wrinkled in confusion, and I walked down the narrow and shadowed hallway that lead to the rather spacious bath and three tiny bedrooms. Each bed made without a wrinkle, each closet open to show it’s well cared for linen, clothes and seasonal bric-a-brac.

Do you ever wonder about the life of the inside of…anything? I do not believe in soulless objects…people perhaps.

Think about it, the empty inside of a pristine-upon-the surface oil tanker. Think of the viscosity pour or pump of that liquid gunk rising within that tanker. The very weight and wetness pushing up and off the flakes of rust and paint so that it floated upon the surface of refined and refined and refined again flammable liquid that had stayed hidden in the earth for so long.

Now hidden in ribs of rusting buoyance.

For my part, I wonder about the inside of houses. Any house, the bright, well lit, well-manicured house and the tumble down, slowly overgrown lumber rot of a house are equally compelling. The most interesting are the estate sale homes. Small, demure little signs with bold black letters “estate sale,” that denotes its lost occupant.

I wander in, and there are usually two types of people within; the embarrassed or the angry. The angry follow me around and complain about those who have bullied in before me “thinking that I’m here to barter with them.” I nod and frown and keep on wandering. The embarrassed hardly say a thing and are usually related to the ghosts that expose themselves in the used books, used utensils, used furniture and used clothing.

Flakes of paint and rust that float to the surface of pumped or poured in money that seems embarrassed to be exchanged for moments of history.

It was a little ranch style, slab house with a picture window looking out upon a postage stamp front yard. There was a small, stone walkway that started midpoint of the single lane driveway which tried to wend its way to the front door but only managed to curve slightly and stop. The evergreen bushes, trimmed into square, squat, little sentries and stood in decorative service to the bright white front door.

I made my way along the small street gutter and up the driveway and over the stone pavers to the front door. An embarrassed person met me and smiled down upon the floor. Though the smell of eucalyptus and spearmint was prevalent, I could sense the smell of old, forgotten and wonder. Wonder, from the walls, the dustless furniture, and the minimalist counter tops, if God had forgotten her.

Her, this I knew because the embarrassed person who met me was female and sad and either a daughter or granddaughter of now an estate sale house.

“The antique clock that was over the fireplace was that sold?”
“Yesterday.”

“You didn’t want it?”

The embarrassed woman eyes widened, she opened her lips to ask me a question, hesitated and then simply shook her head. I turned away and looked around the small living room with the small fireplace which opened into a kitchen-dining room, that in its turn lead to the outside and a small fenced yard.

“What happened to the dog?”

“On a waiting list for adoption.”

“Yes, but where is he?”

“With a small animal rescue family.”

“Funny, she didn’t have his future provided for – she loved that dog.”

“Did you know my grandmother?” The answer was angry, so I understood that she was to have taken the dog.

“No.”

The woman’s face wrinkled in confusion, and I walked down the narrow and shadowed hallway that lead to the rather spacious bath and three tiny bedrooms. Each bed made without a wrinkle, each closet open to show it’s well cared for linen, clothes and seasonal bric-a-brac.

“Hello?” I heard the woman’s footsteps hesitantly walk down the hall. I heard her hesitant step at each door and then her rapid retreat. I heard the front door open, and I thought of meeting her there but suddenly felt too tired to do so.

“Someone’s here. I told you I didn’t want to be here alone.” Her voice whined into her phone. Silence. “She knows about the dog.” More silence. “No, she walked into this house and down the hall and disappeared. I’m telling you, she disappeared, there was no way she could have gotten by me.

 

She Still Loves You, Sir Walter Scott

“The only thing I’m saying is that if you want a good example, for your class, of what an oxymoron is, use ‘nice guy.’” She felt that sinking, suffocating sensation that she always felt when around him and wondered why she wasn’t home reading.

He was seven years younger than her; tall, slender, with large amber brown eyes, and a wooly but trimmed beard. They were employed together by the Jefferson County School System. She taught freshman English as a way and means to write literary prose on her fall, winter, and summer breaks (when she was in elementary school those breaks had titles such as Halloween, Christmas and thanked God, it’s summer vacation). He taught fourth-grade with a concentration in Mathematics. They were aware of each other or rather she was aware of him because he always sat in the front row of the Teacher’s Union meetings. She sat in the back and graded papers that lead her to seek professional help.

That’s where they met. He was walking out of his therapy session with Dr. Monroe while she was walking in, deep in thought and wanting to purge the sick feeling of guilt she felt for reading Ivanhoe for the fourth time in three years. She was startled by the fourth-grade teacher’s appearance, and he smiled at her.

“Do I know you?”

She blinked and felt her nose begin to itch and the inevitable wetness that sidetracks all social discourse. Frantically she looked in her purse for a tissue, “Um no, sorry,” she sniffed. He took a tissue from the box on the receptionist desk and handed it to her. She took it gratefully and spoke over the fourth-grade teacher’s shoulder, to the receptionist. “Sorry I’m late, will she still see me?”

“Yes, Ms. Miller.”

She turned back to him who had stayed and was apparently looking her up and down. “You know,” he said, “I think you look familiar.”

“I teach at Jefferson High. Freshman English. I’ve noticed you at the Teacher’s Union Meetings.”

“Ahh, because I sit up front.” He smiled and adjusted his backpack across his shoulders. “Will you be at the freshman basketball game tonight?” She looked at him as if he had grown three heads, “No. I don’t care for basketball.” She turned around and walked toward the Doctor’s office door.

“Wait one minute Ms. Miller; Doctor is not quite ready.” She huffed at the strident demand of the receptionist. She turned, the fourth-grade teacher was still standing there. She wondered if the ‘Doctor,’ wasn’t recouping from some wild tryst with the young man in front of her.

“I teach fourth grade, with a concentration in mathematics.”

“Yes, you’ve mentioned that in the meetings.”

“And you’ve remembered.”

She felt herself reddening slightly. She wasn’t sure if he was referring to her age and therefore her weakening faculty of mind or if he thought that he had made an impression on her. So, she only smiled without meaning it and said, ‘yes,’ in a long drawn out breath.

Her rudeness didn’t seem to cause any self-examination regarding his manners. “Well, we should have coffee together sometime and compare notes.”

“Ms. Miller, the Doctor is ready for you.”

“Sure, we should do that.”

She didn’t realize that she had committed herself. On the afternoon, just before the long winter break (that would be spent preparing, for the principal and three vice principals another plan for teaching freshman English and a dissertation on why grades were so low), she looked up to see him standing at her classroom door.

“Hi!”

“Hello.”

Did you receive my emails?”

She thought for a moment that she would feign complete ignorance and check her spam, but she was too tired and only said: “Yes, I did.” Annoyed at having to confess her remissness she thought wildly of asking him why he didn’t ask for her kerchief or go gallantly out in her name to right wrongs.

“Didn’t want to answer me huh?” He looked a bit crestfallen, and guilt crept along her neck and wisped about her ankles in a cold little chill.

“No, I didn’t. I’ve been kind of busy.”

“Yeah, the rumor is that you really do try and teach Freshman English. That must be burdensome. Why don’t you let me buy you a cup of coffee? We can go to the teacher’s lounge…”

“No.” her disdain was evident in one word, and she rose from her desk as if she was rising to command Nelson’s ship Victory.

“Excellent then let’s go over to a nice little coffee shop I know.”

She looked outside, the clouds were low, and it had begun to snow in earnest. She felt tired and longed for her little apartment uptown above the yoga center. The landlord had made a deal with her on the rent three years ago, because of the late hours and the weird music that came up from the old furnace vents. She didn’t mind because she kept her classical music plugged in and the heat low – it helped her write.

“Why don’t you come to my apartment and I’ll make us coffee.” She was hoping he would refuse, but he readily agreed.

They had coffee. He left in time for her to order a medium plain pizza with cheese in which she ate three-quarters and then made herself sick. Something she hadn’t done since she was a teenager and had fallen in love with Sir Walter Scott of Waverly fame. She tested transcendentalism in hopes of eventually uniting with her writing icon which sent her parents running back to their Catholic faith.

She was looking at him now wondering what and who a ‘nice guy,’ really was and if he had married someone else and was tripping over kids and wondering what happened to her.

“Do you think we should start a relationship?” he asked.

“What?” She shook her head; she wondered if she had been falling asleep.

“I spoke to Dr. Monroe about the two of us, and he said an older woman (not too much older, mind you) might be a good experience for me.”

“An experience.” She said, deadpan and weary.

“You never know,” he said shyly and smiled, “it might last.”

She took a deep breath, letting herself for a moment breathe in his perceived freedom and open minded aura and felt within her throat and lungs the sharp pain deception.

“’Nice guy,’ young man, is not an oxymoron. I’m too old to be your girlfriend is not an oxymoron, and I’m not going back to that shrink who agrees with you that everyone on has a commodity status…”

“No, that’s not what I mean. I didn’t…”

“You didn’t ask me out for a cup of coffee so that you could lose your virginity, I know. You are so predictable you know, despite being told all your life that you are unique.

“So is Sir Walter Scott,” he said hotly.

“No, we just haven’t come up with anything original since. We’ve only managed to redefine words, concepts, and morals to appease our insecurities. We’ve done it until we’ve come up with a human like you, who believes there is no such thing as an oxymoron. You don’t, you know, you don’t even know enough to be honestly self-deprecating.”

He sat and stared at her for a moment. She could see he was struggling. He stood, “Well, I’ll just take care of this bill and when you feel like you can speak to me with some respect, let me know.”

She gave him no reply while he hesitated and then left. She ordered another strong coffee and felt cold. Perhaps a priest would understand her love for a dead novelist and poet better than a psychologist. Sipping her coffee and watching the fourth-grade teacher walk away.

 

Pigs, Acorns and Blue Neckties

“We are the mighty pig herd held captive by inert acorns,”

“We are the mighty pig herd held captive by inert acorns,”

“I hate when you take on the epic like voice.  You sound like a 1940s-silver screen flop.”

“We grunt and we rumble but we are hindered by our own…our own…what?”

“Could you be serious, we have about three minutes before all the guys in silk, blue, ties are in here.”

“We grunt and we rumble and we are hindered by our own want to snuffle.  How’s that?”

“Sickening.”

“We’re going to get fired you know that.”

“Well yes, if you decide to tell them that we are pigs held hostage…”

“Captive, get it straight, I said captive.”

“Okay, captive.  If you tell them we are pigs held captive by acorns that’s pretty much a shoe in for a firing.”

“How in debt are you?”

“Well, there are still the student loans.”

“You’ve been out for six years.”

“College is like a mortgage.”

“College is an acorn.”

“Well, I just broke my ankle on it.”

“Listen, this is not our fault.”

“No, it is my fault.  I should have stayed in Indiana, bought those 15 acres down the road from my Mom and Dad, married and made something of that coffee shop down on the main street.”

“You can still do that.”

“I told everyone I’d be a VP in human resources in this mega corporation.”

“But it’s a classic, a classic 1940s silver screen flop.  You go off a cocky, arrogant know-it-all and come back a humble but more likable gentleman farmer and weirdo bohemian coffee coinsurer.  Indiana would love that and you can marry me.”

“I’m not a homosexual Gary, I’m not going to marry you.”

“But what will you do without me?”

“Stop being called a pig for one thing.”

“Ah, here they come.  Oh, my, you’re right.”

“About what?”

“They all have some shade of blue necktie on.  That’s bad, that’s very bad.  That means they’ve read the benefit’s package we’ve put together.  They have actual knowledge.”

“Gary, that’s why we sent them the report.”

“Yes, but that means we won’t even get to stay for the coffee break.  There’s usually a coffee break in this meeting, good coffee breaks and that was my one consolation to getting fired today.”

“Well if I can scrape enough money together maybe they’ll let me come back next year as the coffee vendor.”

“Hey, I hadn’t thought of that – truly.  Now there is an idea.  See we can still stay together.  I’ll be your PR and benefits guy.  You can snuffle around for money and real-estate.”

“Well, the only options for two idiot guys who tell their upper management team that the Great Society, is dead and employee accountability needs to resurface in the company will probably not only be receiving pink slips today but also have to face the long lonely world of self-employment.”

“Fifteen acres and a coffee shop huh?”

“Yup.”

“Well, here’s to crushed acorns.”

“Skinny pigs.”

“And no neckties.”