Carl Hiaasen by Nature Girl

attitude that was intimidating but rather the way he’d look at her—like he still cared yet didn’t want her to know, which was, for Honey, difficult to handle.
    Sometimes she envied her divorced friends, who seemed liberated by toxic and spiteful relationships with their exes. Of course most of those husbands had been caught screwing around, which wasn’t the case with Skinner. Honey Santana had simply worn him out with her bewildering projects and antic crusades. He was feeling whipsawed and she was feeling caged, and there had seemed to be no practical solution except splitting up.
    Still, Honey couldn’t forgive Perry for filing first, which made it appear as if the whole damn thing was her fault when it wasn’t. He could have been a more patient and empathetic partner. He could have been a better listener, and not so quick to believe the doctors….
    “I’m sorry, but at the customer’s request this number is not published.”
    Oh please, Honey thought. He’s a nobody, for God’s sake.
    She tried again, spelling the name more slowly, but she got the same recording. It was unbelievable: Boyd Shreave, anonymous low-life salesman, kept an unlisted home number.
    Honey went outside and picked up a section of lead drainpipe and whacked it half a dozen times against the siding of the trailer. Feeling somewhat better, she went back inside and sat down at Fry’s computer, which he’d forgotten to disable, and Googled the name Shreave. Although only one match turned up, her spirits sailed.
    It was a story from the
Fort Worth Star-Telegram,
appearing under the headline JURY BOOTS SALESMAN’S LAWSUIT.

    A Tarrant County jury has awarded only $1 to a local salesman who claimed he was permanently injured while demonstrating corrective footwear to a prospective customer.
    Boyd S. Shreave had sought more than $2 million in damages from his former employer, Lone Star Glide-Boots, following the mishap in August 2002.
    According to the lawsuit, Shreave was making a sales visit to an elderly Arlington woman when he inserted a graphite orthotic device in one of his own shoes. While parading back and forth to show off “the comfort and unobtrusiveness” of the item, Shreave allegedly stumbled over the woman’s oxygen tank and ended up painfully straddling a potted cactus.
    He claimed that the accident resulted in “irreparable cervical trauma” to his neck, and that the cactus needles “grossly disfigured” his groin area, causing “inestimable mental anguish, humiliation and loss of marital intimacy.”
    Attorneys for Lone Star Glide-Boots argued that the incident was entirely Shreave’s fault because he’d mistakenly put a left-footed corrective wedge into his right shoe. They also charged that he had “flagrantly” violated company policy by attempting to sell such devices to a person who had long ago lost the use of both legs to diabetes.
    The customer, 91-year-old Shirley Lykes, testified that Shreave was “a slick talker, but clumsy as a blind mule.”
    The six-member jury deliberated less than an hour. The foreman later explained that the panel decided to give $1 to Shreave “so he could go out and buy some tweezers”—an apparent reference to the lingering cactus thorns that the salesman had complained about.
    Shreave, who now works for another company, declined comment.

    Honey Santana printed out the article. Gleefully she waved it at Fry as soon as he walked in the door after visiting Perry Skinner.
    “Check this out!” she said.
    “Don’t you even want to hear his answer?” Fry asked.
    “Your ex-father? I already know his answer.”
    Fry handed her the cash. “He wants to talk about the plane tickets.”
    “Fine, I’ll call him tomorrow.”
    “No, Mom, in person.”
    Honey frowned. “What crawled up
his
butt and died?”
    Fry sat down at the table and skimmed the newspaper article. After finishing, he glanced up and said, “I thought his name was Eisenhower.”
    “Nope. He lied,” Honey