Read Online Stuffed by Brian M. Wiprud - Free Book Online
Authors: Brian M. Wiprud
Tags: Fiction
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people. I’d left a message as soon as I got home from my lunch with Pete—not a peep. Probably snatched up already, dag nabbit.
It was the Massachusetts State Police. They’d found my stolen taxidermy in the safety net at a bridge rehabilitation project over the Connecticut River. I thought that pretty odd, and so did the Massachusetts State Police. But as you can imagine, my puzzlement was secondary to joyous relief at recovering my prime pelts. I didn’t waste any time pondering the whys or wherefores. After dancing around the apartment, whooping and kissing Fred on his cracked nose, I was out the door and headed north.
The weather was convertible-friendly, so Angie came along for the breather. She got a kiss too. I was in a kissing mood and gave her a few extras.
We had to swing by a TV studio farther up the West Side to drop off Aunt Jilly. She’s a standing bear Angie affectionately named after an aunt of hers. I never met the woman, but Angie claims she had thick black fur on her arms and beady yellow eyes. So up to the Network Theater we went. While Angie waited in the double-parked Lincoln, I wheeled Aunt Jilly into the stage entrance. I found the guy who writes the checks; he signed the rental agreement and handed over the deposit. By the time I got downstairs, Angie had circled the block twice to avoid a ticket.
Then we hit Peter Van Putin’s town house on the Upper East Side, where Angie ran inside and delivered her portfolio. I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel for half an hour before she came trotting down the steps.
“Sorry it took so long. But Peter was right there, and we got to talking. . . . Garth, it went really well, it was almost like the interview. We flipped through the portfolio together. . . .” She crossed fingers on both hands.
Angie had been trying to break into the high-end art jewelry scene for a long time, first on her own and then on the coattails of someone like this Van Putin character.
“Tremendous. You’ll probably get it, but don’t get your hopes up too high, okay? You’ve had disappointments before, so just take it easy.”
“You’re right.” She pinched her eyes tight like she was making a wish, an affectation that looks like something she picked up from
Bewitched.
She can be Samantha anytime she wants, but don’t expect me to be Darrin. “Whatever happens, happens.”
We charged across the 97th Street Transverse through Central Park, back to the West Side Highway, up the Henry Hudson Parkway, and got our butts outta town before noon. We were approaching the Henry Hudson Bridge before we said much of anything.
“Where did you go so early this morning?”
“Hmm? Oh, I had to go down to the DEC about permits. Get there early, avoid lines.”
“You wore a tie.”
“Hmm?”
“I said, you wore a tie.”
“Yeah, well . . . they treat you better if you wear a tie.”
Angie didn’t say anything to that. She just made a humming sound that I knew meant she wasn’t completely satisfied with my answer.
Why was I lying? Well, I wasn’t lying, was I? I
was
down at the DEC. And the job did concern permits. And at an interview, they do treat you better if you wear a tie. So it wasn’t a lie. But I didn’t much like telling her a half-truth either.
See, if I told her about it, she would give an opinion. Or even if she didn’t, I’d read something into whatever she said, thinking she wanted me to take the job or not take it. Then, if I did what I thought she wanted me to do and I regretted it, I might hold it against her, or stick with a job I hated to please her, which might lead to more resentment. Then again, if I did what I thought she didn’t want me to do and I liked my choice and she didn’t, then she might resent me. Of course, she might encourage me to do what she thought I wanted rather than what she really wanted, and if I countered by doing the opposite of what she said she wanted and it turned out badly, we might resent each other. Or
It was the Massachusetts State Police. They’d found my stolen taxidermy in the safety net at a bridge rehabilitation project over the Connecticut River. I thought that pretty odd, and so did the Massachusetts State Police. But as you can imagine, my puzzlement was secondary to joyous relief at recovering my prime pelts. I didn’t waste any time pondering the whys or wherefores. After dancing around the apartment, whooping and kissing Fred on his cracked nose, I was out the door and headed north.
The weather was convertible-friendly, so Angie came along for the breather. She got a kiss too. I was in a kissing mood and gave her a few extras.
We had to swing by a TV studio farther up the West Side to drop off Aunt Jilly. She’s a standing bear Angie affectionately named after an aunt of hers. I never met the woman, but Angie claims she had thick black fur on her arms and beady yellow eyes. So up to the Network Theater we went. While Angie waited in the double-parked Lincoln, I wheeled Aunt Jilly into the stage entrance. I found the guy who writes the checks; he signed the rental agreement and handed over the deposit. By the time I got downstairs, Angie had circled the block twice to avoid a ticket.
Then we hit Peter Van Putin’s town house on the Upper East Side, where Angie ran inside and delivered her portfolio. I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel for half an hour before she came trotting down the steps.
“Sorry it took so long. But Peter was right there, and we got to talking. . . . Garth, it went really well, it was almost like the interview. We flipped through the portfolio together. . . .” She crossed fingers on both hands.
Angie had been trying to break into the high-end art jewelry scene for a long time, first on her own and then on the coattails of someone like this Van Putin character.
“Tremendous. You’ll probably get it, but don’t get your hopes up too high, okay? You’ve had disappointments before, so just take it easy.”
“You’re right.” She pinched her eyes tight like she was making a wish, an affectation that looks like something she picked up from
Bewitched.
She can be Samantha anytime she wants, but don’t expect me to be Darrin. “Whatever happens, happens.”
We charged across the 97th Street Transverse through Central Park, back to the West Side Highway, up the Henry Hudson Parkway, and got our butts outta town before noon. We were approaching the Henry Hudson Bridge before we said much of anything.
“Where did you go so early this morning?”
“Hmm? Oh, I had to go down to the DEC about permits. Get there early, avoid lines.”
“You wore a tie.”
“Hmm?”
“I said, you wore a tie.”
“Yeah, well . . . they treat you better if you wear a tie.”
Angie didn’t say anything to that. She just made a humming sound that I knew meant she wasn’t completely satisfied with my answer.
Why was I lying? Well, I wasn’t lying, was I? I
was
down at the DEC. And the job did concern permits. And at an interview, they do treat you better if you wear a tie. So it wasn’t a lie. But I didn’t much like telling her a half-truth either.
See, if I told her about it, she would give an opinion. Or even if she didn’t, I’d read something into whatever she said, thinking she wanted me to take the job or not take it. Then, if I did what I thought she wanted me to do and I regretted it, I might hold it against her, or stick with a job I hated to please her, which might lead to more resentment. Then again, if I did what I thought she didn’t want me to do and I liked my choice and she didn’t, then she might resent me. Of course, she might encourage me to do what she thought I wanted rather than what she really wanted, and if I countered by doing the opposite of what she said she wanted and it turned out badly, we might resent each other. Or
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