like to find out if what they say about black men is true,” Paul said mischievously.
“Phillips.” Lewis took the proffered Phillips screwdriver. “It is.”
“I could tell her Grace is doing a history project and ask her to identify a tipping point. There must be an event which could flip the balance of power the other way.”
“Yeah, you could. Or you could take her out for drinks, confide in her that underneath your mild-mannered scientist exterior you’re really James Bond bent on destroying the Evil Empire and would she like to discuss a few items of great interest in bed.”
Paul laughed. “Do I hear the voice of experience, Lew?”
“Not me. Wire cutters. Hey, I already got Sox tickets for next year, did I tell you? You gotta’ buy ‘em a year in advance now.”
Paul let his mind wander. Amanda Hutch. Why hadn’t they gotten married? They’d dated all through grad school and spent almost all their free time together, which was to say one evening a week they’d get Chinese and rent a silly old movie. They rarely saw the end of the movies. They’d either be in bed or Amanda would have remembered something she had to do.
“… so I said all right, I’ll take the lower deck. Paul, I have always–always–had season tickets along the third base line.” Lewis paused. “Earth to deVere, Earth to deVere, come in Space Cadet deVere.”
Paul snapped back in. Lewis was staring at him from under the chassis. Paul replayed the tape in his mind that had been collecting since he’d decided to turn his brain to other things. It was a skill of his, honed from many years of marriage. She’d been charmed by his intense preoccupation with his fascinating work when they were dating, but irritated that his head was always in the clouds rather than listening to her after they were married.
“The third-base seats were gone. So whatja’ do?”
Lewis rolled out halfway and grinned. “Well, I notice the ticket clerk was a rather attractive lady so I turned on the groove. In about three minutes she was agreeing to discuss this little ticket matter over drinks.”
“And?”
“And I’d hate to have to go through a whole season in the upper deck, y’know?”
“I take it you don’t have to, after your evening over drinks.”
“Better seats, even.”
Paul shook his head. “What’s with hustling ticket clerks? Weren’t you seeing some lady from Springfield last I knew?”
“Rachel,” Ginter said, rolling back under the car.
“Yeah, Rachel. What happened to her?” Paul asked.
Ginter laughed. “Remember in April when you and I had that four day conference in Worcester ?”
“Yeah,” Paul said cautiously.
“Well, she called on that Thursday and said that she was going to visit her girlfriend, Margarita, in Boston that weekend so I asked her to stop by on her way in the next afternoon. She gave me some vague thing about her car needing new tires and she didn’t know when she could pick it up from the dealership on Friday but she’d call me. I got the impression she was trying to avoid seeing me. Then, Friday afternoon she called and said that the dealership had to put her old, bald, unsafe tires back on because they didn’t have the right ones in stock and wouldn’t be able to get them until Monday and they had told her not to drive it so she was going to take a bus into town and Margarita would pick her up so we couldn’t get together. She was sorry, that type of thing.”
“Yeah, so?” Paul asked, perplexed.
“Paul, have you ever seen them work in a dealership repair bay? The most important thing in their billing is lift time. No dealership is going to get a car up on a lift, take off the wheels, and then strip the tires off the rims unless they have the new tires right there next to the lift before they begin. Her story about the dealership remounting her old tires was total bullshit.”
“You broke up with a girl because you didn’t believe her story about tires?” Paul asked incredulously.
“Phillips.” Lewis took the proffered Phillips screwdriver. “It is.”
“I could tell her Grace is doing a history project and ask her to identify a tipping point. There must be an event which could flip the balance of power the other way.”
“Yeah, you could. Or you could take her out for drinks, confide in her that underneath your mild-mannered scientist exterior you’re really James Bond bent on destroying the Evil Empire and would she like to discuss a few items of great interest in bed.”
Paul laughed. “Do I hear the voice of experience, Lew?”
“Not me. Wire cutters. Hey, I already got Sox tickets for next year, did I tell you? You gotta’ buy ‘em a year in advance now.”
Paul let his mind wander. Amanda Hutch. Why hadn’t they gotten married? They’d dated all through grad school and spent almost all their free time together, which was to say one evening a week they’d get Chinese and rent a silly old movie. They rarely saw the end of the movies. They’d either be in bed or Amanda would have remembered something she had to do.
“… so I said all right, I’ll take the lower deck. Paul, I have always–always–had season tickets along the third base line.” Lewis paused. “Earth to deVere, Earth to deVere, come in Space Cadet deVere.”
Paul snapped back in. Lewis was staring at him from under the chassis. Paul replayed the tape in his mind that had been collecting since he’d decided to turn his brain to other things. It was a skill of his, honed from many years of marriage. She’d been charmed by his intense preoccupation with his fascinating work when they were dating, but irritated that his head was always in the clouds rather than listening to her after they were married.
“The third-base seats were gone. So whatja’ do?”
Lewis rolled out halfway and grinned. “Well, I notice the ticket clerk was a rather attractive lady so I turned on the groove. In about three minutes she was agreeing to discuss this little ticket matter over drinks.”
“And?”
“And I’d hate to have to go through a whole season in the upper deck, y’know?”
“I take it you don’t have to, after your evening over drinks.”
“Better seats, even.”
Paul shook his head. “What’s with hustling ticket clerks? Weren’t you seeing some lady from Springfield last I knew?”
“Rachel,” Ginter said, rolling back under the car.
“Yeah, Rachel. What happened to her?” Paul asked.
Ginter laughed. “Remember in April when you and I had that four day conference in Worcester ?”
“Yeah,” Paul said cautiously.
“Well, she called on that Thursday and said that she was going to visit her girlfriend, Margarita, in Boston that weekend so I asked her to stop by on her way in the next afternoon. She gave me some vague thing about her car needing new tires and she didn’t know when she could pick it up from the dealership on Friday but she’d call me. I got the impression she was trying to avoid seeing me. Then, Friday afternoon she called and said that the dealership had to put her old, bald, unsafe tires back on because they didn’t have the right ones in stock and wouldn’t be able to get them until Monday and they had told her not to drive it so she was going to take a bus into town and Margarita would pick her up so we couldn’t get together. She was sorry, that type of thing.”
“Yeah, so?” Paul asked, perplexed.
“Paul, have you ever seen them work in a dealership repair bay? The most important thing in their billing is lift time. No dealership is going to get a car up on a lift, take off the wheels, and then strip the tires off the rims unless they have the new tires right there next to the lift before they begin. Her story about the dealership remounting her old tires was total bullshit.”
“You broke up with a girl because you didn’t believe her story about tires?” Paul asked incredulously.
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