collected.
He cupped both hands over his eyes to peer inside the tinted window. A woman in a gray business suit and wearing a wire mouthpiece sat behind a half-circle glass desk in a spacious lobby. She swatted at something high above her head. Mark waved to get her attention. The woman’s lips moved, but Mark could not hear her because the thick, glass door muted her.
She swatted the air again in Mark’s direction. He realized that her hand swats were for him—to shoo him from the front door. She curled her fingers around the tip of her mouthpiece and glared at Mark with an intensity that startled him. She jabbed her finger hard in his direction—gesturing for him to go back in the direction he had come.
Mark mouthed, “Me?” to her and she rolled her eyes and nodded, flicking him away with a backhand.
Mark mimed dialing a number and placing a phone receiver to his ear. She shook her head. As Mark stepped back from the glass, she approached it from inside.
“Go away!” she mouthed. Mark turned to leave, but not before he saw her give him the OK sign and a sarcastic smile to punctuate her victory.
Dejected, he returned to the street and began walking toward the Third Street Promenade.
As he waited for the next pedestrian crossing signal, a flower-delivery driver in a green van with a giant floral logo on the side stopped at a red light beside Mark. He made eye contact with Mark and then frowned. He did what many people do after making accidental eye contact with a homeless person: he pressed his lips together and shook his head in small shakes of repulsion as he turned away. Mark almost laughed in disbelief. He was thankful that the world still had plenty of good people. Good people like his clients. One of them would certainly help him out.
§
Milten Wingren was Mark’s accountant and client. He was also a practical jokester. Last year when he finished doing Mark’s taxes he arranged for his receptionist to call Mark. She posed as an IRS agent, launching into an uncomfortable interrogation citing fictitious tax laws about which Mark knew nothing. Milten listened on the other line, biting his lip to keep from laughing out loud. After a final question to which a flustered Mark didn’t know the answer, Milten broke in with uproarious laughter. Mark was not amused and fired Milten as his accountant and quit as his tech support person. Milten apologized profusely, calling several times, over several days to apologize and to continue the business relationship. Mark eventually agreed, putting Milten on probation.
In the following months, Milten refrained from his practical jokes. If Milten could help him now, Mark would certainly consider him fully redeemed.
He turned on Fifth Street and headed north. He would probably think Mark’s appearance was part of a gag for payback of the practical joke. Mark imagined having to repeat the words, “I’m serious,” at least five times before Milten believed the story of the gas station scuffle.
A block from the Third Street Promenade, Mark watched shiny sports car after luxury car pass by him. His thoughts returned to his own stolen car. Where was it now? Chance of recovery was slim—especially without a police report—and he understood that. He needed a car to conduct his client visits. How much would a rental cost? And how long would he need it?
His beloved Camry was special to him. It was the first new car he had purchased on his own after college. The thought of Ty pulling it into a chop shop and stripping and mutilating it for parts made him feel more victimized than the beating he had taken beside the gas pump.
He put his arm around a traffic signal pole and leaned his head against it, and then realized that he must have been mouthing his thoughts because a woman in a car at the curb was staring at him. Her face wore the concern that spreads on the faces of people when they see someone talk aloud to no one—or hug and talk to poles for no apparent reason.
He cupped both hands over his eyes to peer inside the tinted window. A woman in a gray business suit and wearing a wire mouthpiece sat behind a half-circle glass desk in a spacious lobby. She swatted at something high above her head. Mark waved to get her attention. The woman’s lips moved, but Mark could not hear her because the thick, glass door muted her.
She swatted the air again in Mark’s direction. He realized that her hand swats were for him—to shoo him from the front door. She curled her fingers around the tip of her mouthpiece and glared at Mark with an intensity that startled him. She jabbed her finger hard in his direction—gesturing for him to go back in the direction he had come.
Mark mouthed, “Me?” to her and she rolled her eyes and nodded, flicking him away with a backhand.
Mark mimed dialing a number and placing a phone receiver to his ear. She shook her head. As Mark stepped back from the glass, she approached it from inside.
“Go away!” she mouthed. Mark turned to leave, but not before he saw her give him the OK sign and a sarcastic smile to punctuate her victory.
Dejected, he returned to the street and began walking toward the Third Street Promenade.
As he waited for the next pedestrian crossing signal, a flower-delivery driver in a green van with a giant floral logo on the side stopped at a red light beside Mark. He made eye contact with Mark and then frowned. He did what many people do after making accidental eye contact with a homeless person: he pressed his lips together and shook his head in small shakes of repulsion as he turned away. Mark almost laughed in disbelief. He was thankful that the world still had plenty of good people. Good people like his clients. One of them would certainly help him out.
§
Milten Wingren was Mark’s accountant and client. He was also a practical jokester. Last year when he finished doing Mark’s taxes he arranged for his receptionist to call Mark. She posed as an IRS agent, launching into an uncomfortable interrogation citing fictitious tax laws about which Mark knew nothing. Milten listened on the other line, biting his lip to keep from laughing out loud. After a final question to which a flustered Mark didn’t know the answer, Milten broke in with uproarious laughter. Mark was not amused and fired Milten as his accountant and quit as his tech support person. Milten apologized profusely, calling several times, over several days to apologize and to continue the business relationship. Mark eventually agreed, putting Milten on probation.
In the following months, Milten refrained from his practical jokes. If Milten could help him now, Mark would certainly consider him fully redeemed.
He turned on Fifth Street and headed north. He would probably think Mark’s appearance was part of a gag for payback of the practical joke. Mark imagined having to repeat the words, “I’m serious,” at least five times before Milten believed the story of the gas station scuffle.
A block from the Third Street Promenade, Mark watched shiny sports car after luxury car pass by him. His thoughts returned to his own stolen car. Where was it now? Chance of recovery was slim—especially without a police report—and he understood that. He needed a car to conduct his client visits. How much would a rental cost? And how long would he need it?
His beloved Camry was special to him. It was the first new car he had purchased on his own after college. The thought of Ty pulling it into a chop shop and stripping and mutilating it for parts made him feel more victimized than the beating he had taken beside the gas pump.
He put his arm around a traffic signal pole and leaned his head against it, and then realized that he must have been mouthing his thoughts because a woman in a car at the curb was staring at him. Her face wore the concern that spreads on the faces of people when they see someone talk aloud to no one—or hug and talk to poles for no apparent reason.
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