ready for work, but with the sour feeling in my stomach, I elect not to eat breakfast or indulge in my morning cigarette.
Those poorpeople in Houston. Maybe I could give blood up here in Tulsa, if only as a gesture
.
The ten-story Bishop garage is located directly across the street from the main building. An underground tunnel connects it to the main building in case of bad weather. Generally, though, I prefer to take the aboveground route. I pull into the garage around 6:30 and drive up the inclines to the fifth floor so that I can park right by the elevator. Even though there are plenty of spots on the lower floors, I find that unless I park in the same spot every day, I have serious trouble remembering where I left my car. Aging is so much fun. By going to the fifth floor, I am guaranteed the same spot, even when I’m running late.
As I get out of my car, a sporty red Mercedes convertible drives by—
unusual that an executive would get here this early and park this high in the garage
, I think. But when the car stops, the woman getting out does not fit an executive profile. She is about my age, and she wears an outfit that combines pants with a sort of coordinated top—Garanimals for adults, as I heard someone call the style once. Her hair looks home-dyed with that out-of-the-box color and is not professionally styled. I push the ground button on the elevator and extend my hand to the woman.
“Hi, I am Tanzie Lewis; I don’t think we’ve met. I’m fairly new here.”
“Mazie Caldwell, Accounts Payable. I’ve been here going on five years.”
“Oh my. Nice car you got there. Do you park up here so it won’t get dinged by all those huge pickup trucks?”
She looks a little uncomfortable for a moment and then recovers. “That was my midlife crisis present to myself,” she explains.“I was left some money when my uncle in New Orleans died, God rest his soul.”
“Pretty nice. That’ll take the edge off a hot flash.”
“Ha, yes it does. Thank you very much. You have a nice car, too, Tanzie. Is that your Lexus?”
“Rich ex-husband who, sadly, is still alive.”
The garage elevator doors open and I can see news crews crowding the front of our building getting ready for a morning broadcast. Each of the three major networks, along with affiliates for CNN and FOX, appears to have a reporter standing by.
“What’s that all about?” I ask Mazie.
“I surely don’t know.”
We cross the street, and I stop a cameraman on his way to a van.
“What’s going on?” I ask as he opens the back gate and pulls out an extension cord and a plastic utility box of some sort.
“Bishop pipeline exploded in Houston this morning.”
“That was ours?!” I look at Mazie but she doesn’t seem to have a clue. “Are you sure?” I ask, almost shouting at the cameraman, but he just ignores me and walks over to his reporter, who is adjusting her earpiece.
We enter the Bishop lobby, flashing our key cards past the security gate leading to the elevators. I fill Mazie in on what I had learned that morning while we walk over to the elevator bank.
“This can’t be good for us. Hope we don’t lose our jobs,” she says.
“I hadn’t thought of that. But I guess you’re right.”
“We’ll just have to say a prayer to Jesus that the Bishops can help us through this and that we all come out okay.”
You might want to include something about the folks in Houston
who have more to worry about than a job
, I think to myself, hoping Mazie cannot detect my amazement at her Christian selfishness from the look on my face.
“By the way, Tanzie,” she continues, “since you’re new here and all, I would like to invite you to join me for services at the Broken Arrow Church of Redemption some Sunday. We have this new young pastor from Dallas, and he is simply wonderful, and our congregation is great. The Easter service this year was unbelievable. Would you like to join me next Sunday?”
“That is so nice, but I am
Those poorpeople in Houston. Maybe I could give blood up here in Tulsa, if only as a gesture
.
The ten-story Bishop garage is located directly across the street from the main building. An underground tunnel connects it to the main building in case of bad weather. Generally, though, I prefer to take the aboveground route. I pull into the garage around 6:30 and drive up the inclines to the fifth floor so that I can park right by the elevator. Even though there are plenty of spots on the lower floors, I find that unless I park in the same spot every day, I have serious trouble remembering where I left my car. Aging is so much fun. By going to the fifth floor, I am guaranteed the same spot, even when I’m running late.
As I get out of my car, a sporty red Mercedes convertible drives by—
unusual that an executive would get here this early and park this high in the garage
, I think. But when the car stops, the woman getting out does not fit an executive profile. She is about my age, and she wears an outfit that combines pants with a sort of coordinated top—Garanimals for adults, as I heard someone call the style once. Her hair looks home-dyed with that out-of-the-box color and is not professionally styled. I push the ground button on the elevator and extend my hand to the woman.
“Hi, I am Tanzie Lewis; I don’t think we’ve met. I’m fairly new here.”
“Mazie Caldwell, Accounts Payable. I’ve been here going on five years.”
“Oh my. Nice car you got there. Do you park up here so it won’t get dinged by all those huge pickup trucks?”
She looks a little uncomfortable for a moment and then recovers. “That was my midlife crisis present to myself,” she explains.“I was left some money when my uncle in New Orleans died, God rest his soul.”
“Pretty nice. That’ll take the edge off a hot flash.”
“Ha, yes it does. Thank you very much. You have a nice car, too, Tanzie. Is that your Lexus?”
“Rich ex-husband who, sadly, is still alive.”
The garage elevator doors open and I can see news crews crowding the front of our building getting ready for a morning broadcast. Each of the three major networks, along with affiliates for CNN and FOX, appears to have a reporter standing by.
“What’s that all about?” I ask Mazie.
“I surely don’t know.”
We cross the street, and I stop a cameraman on his way to a van.
“What’s going on?” I ask as he opens the back gate and pulls out an extension cord and a plastic utility box of some sort.
“Bishop pipeline exploded in Houston this morning.”
“That was ours?!” I look at Mazie but she doesn’t seem to have a clue. “Are you sure?” I ask, almost shouting at the cameraman, but he just ignores me and walks over to his reporter, who is adjusting her earpiece.
We enter the Bishop lobby, flashing our key cards past the security gate leading to the elevators. I fill Mazie in on what I had learned that morning while we walk over to the elevator bank.
“This can’t be good for us. Hope we don’t lose our jobs,” she says.
“I hadn’t thought of that. But I guess you’re right.”
“We’ll just have to say a prayer to Jesus that the Bishops can help us through this and that we all come out okay.”
You might want to include something about the folks in Houston
who have more to worry about than a job
, I think to myself, hoping Mazie cannot detect my amazement at her Christian selfishness from the look on my face.
“By the way, Tanzie,” she continues, “since you’re new here and all, I would like to invite you to join me for services at the Broken Arrow Church of Redemption some Sunday. We have this new young pastor from Dallas, and he is simply wonderful, and our congregation is great. The Easter service this year was unbelievable. Would you like to join me next Sunday?”
“That is so nice, but I am
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