man sounded like a prosecution lawyer asking the
crucial question, the one that would condemn the defendant beyond any
reasonable doubt.
“Sure, everybody does,” affirmed Stan.
Another nail in my coffin, thought Franny. “Why
don’t you get a cup of coffee, Stan? I’m sure Mr. Slack will have signed the
papers by the time you get back.”
“Okay. I usually stop at Jake’s anyway. But
I gotta be back on the road by ten-thirty.”
“Mr. Slack, we’ll never be able to check
all these boxes in ten minutes. Why don’t you write a qualifier? Something
like, ‘Delivery received, contents unverified,’ and sign it?”
“That’s a good idea, Franny,” he said.
Truth be told, his rheumatism was acting up and he wanted to sit down. He took
the clipboard into his office and sat down at the desk. When Stan returned he
raised an eyebrow at the beautifully penned statement, complete with Slack’s
stylized Palmer-method signature.
“ ‘Bye, now,” said Franny. She smiled. “See
you in two weeks.”
Turning to Air. Slack, she offered a
suggestion.
“Mr. Slack, we could save time if you told
me the items and I checked them off. I’m a lot more familiar with the invoice
codes, and you could sit on this little stool.”
Using Franny’s method, they worked much
faster, mostly because Franny looked over Mr. Slack’s shoulder to see the
contents and checked off each box while the old man hunted for the numbers on
one or two items. What makes old people so slow, wondered Franny, struggling to
keep her impatience in check. Someday she would be old, no doubt, and would
appreciate the tolerance of young folks. By noontime the old man was clearly
exhausted. He usually spent the morning at his desk going over the figures,
slipping in a few catnaps between the columns. He hadn’t been this active in
years.
He went home for lunch promptly at
noontime. A little later Ben wandered in. Franny grabbed her purse and was out
the door in a flash. She had only a half hour before she had to go back, a
stingy thirty minutes of freedom.
She drove her car down to the fish pier and
parked there to eat the egg salad sandwich her mother had packed for her. The
sky was white with clouds, and without any breeze the cove was a flat, oily
gray that matched her mood. The oppressive weather didn’t seem to bother the
gulls, greedy as ever as they squabbled over bits of old bait, then flew off to
follow a rusty old lobster boat as it chugged out into the bay to check traps.
Glancing at her watch, she realized with a start that her half hour was almost
gone.
Back at the store, the afternoon dragged by
slowly. Mr. Slack turned over the job of checking the merchandise to Ben, and
he and Franny made short work of the remaining cartons. Then Franny began
stocking the shelves with the new merchandise, making sure she stayed out of
Ben’s way as much as possible. She wanted to give him every chance to
incriminate himself while the camera was rolling.
As the afternoon grew closer to three o’clock,
Franny began to worry. The tape was good for only six hours, she knew, and she
wanted to turn the camera off before it began recording over the previously
taped images. It was just a little after three, however, when Ben announced he “had
to see some guys” and left the store. Franny wasted no time in dragging out the
ladder and climbing up to retrieve the camera.
She started guiltily, nearly falling off
the ladder, when she heard Slack’s voice demand, “What are you doing, Franny?”
“You almost gave me a heart attack,” she
stammered, turning to face him and nervously patting her chest with a
fluttering hand. “This display is so old and dusty, I was just looking to see
if I could spruce it up a little bit.”
The old man studied the sagging cardboard
poster. “Take it down,” he ordered.
“What?” Franny was horrified. If she moved
the poster, the camera would be revealed before she had a chance to view the
tape. And while she
crucial question, the one that would condemn the defendant beyond any
reasonable doubt.
“Sure, everybody does,” affirmed Stan.
Another nail in my coffin, thought Franny. “Why
don’t you get a cup of coffee, Stan? I’m sure Mr. Slack will have signed the
papers by the time you get back.”
“Okay. I usually stop at Jake’s anyway. But
I gotta be back on the road by ten-thirty.”
“Mr. Slack, we’ll never be able to check
all these boxes in ten minutes. Why don’t you write a qualifier? Something
like, ‘Delivery received, contents unverified,’ and sign it?”
“That’s a good idea, Franny,” he said.
Truth be told, his rheumatism was acting up and he wanted to sit down. He took
the clipboard into his office and sat down at the desk. When Stan returned he
raised an eyebrow at the beautifully penned statement, complete with Slack’s
stylized Palmer-method signature.
“ ‘Bye, now,” said Franny. She smiled. “See
you in two weeks.”
Turning to Air. Slack, she offered a
suggestion.
“Mr. Slack, we could save time if you told
me the items and I checked them off. I’m a lot more familiar with the invoice
codes, and you could sit on this little stool.”
Using Franny’s method, they worked much
faster, mostly because Franny looked over Mr. Slack’s shoulder to see the
contents and checked off each box while the old man hunted for the numbers on
one or two items. What makes old people so slow, wondered Franny, struggling to
keep her impatience in check. Someday she would be old, no doubt, and would
appreciate the tolerance of young folks. By noontime the old man was clearly
exhausted. He usually spent the morning at his desk going over the figures,
slipping in a few catnaps between the columns. He hadn’t been this active in
years.
He went home for lunch promptly at
noontime. A little later Ben wandered in. Franny grabbed her purse and was out
the door in a flash. She had only a half hour before she had to go back, a
stingy thirty minutes of freedom.
She drove her car down to the fish pier and
parked there to eat the egg salad sandwich her mother had packed for her. The
sky was white with clouds, and without any breeze the cove was a flat, oily
gray that matched her mood. The oppressive weather didn’t seem to bother the
gulls, greedy as ever as they squabbled over bits of old bait, then flew off to
follow a rusty old lobster boat as it chugged out into the bay to check traps.
Glancing at her watch, she realized with a start that her half hour was almost
gone.
Back at the store, the afternoon dragged by
slowly. Mr. Slack turned over the job of checking the merchandise to Ben, and
he and Franny made short work of the remaining cartons. Then Franny began
stocking the shelves with the new merchandise, making sure she stayed out of
Ben’s way as much as possible. She wanted to give him every chance to
incriminate himself while the camera was rolling.
As the afternoon grew closer to three o’clock,
Franny began to worry. The tape was good for only six hours, she knew, and she
wanted to turn the camera off before it began recording over the previously
taped images. It was just a little after three, however, when Ben announced he “had
to see some guys” and left the store. Franny wasted no time in dragging out the
ladder and climbing up to retrieve the camera.
She started guiltily, nearly falling off
the ladder, when she heard Slack’s voice demand, “What are you doing, Franny?”
“You almost gave me a heart attack,” she
stammered, turning to face him and nervously patting her chest with a
fluttering hand. “This display is so old and dusty, I was just looking to see
if I could spruce it up a little bit.”
The old man studied the sagging cardboard
poster. “Take it down,” he ordered.
“What?” Franny was horrified. If she moved
the poster, the camera would be revealed before she had a chance to view the
tape. And while she
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