Bob at the Plaza

BOB AT THE PLAZA

R. MURPHY

SOUL MATE PUBLISHING

New York

BOB AT THE PLAZA

Copyright©2015

R. MURPHY

Cover Design by Christy Caughie

This book is a work of fiction.  The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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Published in the United States of America by

Soul Mate Publishing

P.O. Box 24

Macedon, New York, 14502

ISBN: 978-1-61935-
828-7

www.SoulMatePublishing.com

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

For EAY, KSF, and CAB—

lovely women all,

and constant friends

Chapter 1

The Miracle of Modern Dentistry

“Nuts!”

(Great word, huh? Pithy. In only four letters it simultaneously expresses both frustration and resolve. McAuliffe’s usage was genius. Anyway, breathless from my fall and now flat on my back in the middle of The Plaza’s famed Palm Court, with worried faces  poking into the blurry field of vision above my spectacles-bereft face, ‘nuts’ fit the bill just fine.

But perhaps I should back up a bit . . .)

A Blustery Early February

When last we met, late January as I recall, snow featured prominently in our encounter. (For the full story, you might want to pick up Book 1,
Bob at the Lake
.) David had just celebrated his birthday on what turned out to be the opening day of the Great Snows. My sister Angela had recently guilt-tripped Bob, my ghost, into abandoning his assignment to haunt me in my lakeside cottage in Upstate New York. Who knew years of studying kinesiology would enable her to read energies like that? (Frankly, I think she missed her calling and she should be conducting séances somewhere. But never mind. Angela and I have sort of patched things up, so forget I said that.)

Bob vanished into the ether at the end of a hook, and I, alone, was left to tell the tale of one of the harshest winters in recent memory. Well, sort of alone. My friend, and a little bit more, David helped me through the tough spots which, considering he’d just lost all of his grapevines and dangled inches away from financial ruin himself, was extremely decent of him.

In fact, we both dangled inches away from monetary disaster. Like most folks in America these days, David and I scraped by, pinching pennies and trying to make ends meet. I know the government keeps saying the Great Recession ended a while ago, but so far I haven’t met a single person who believes it.

Oddly enough, being snowed in for weeks on end actually worked for me in some respects. Few distractions lured my attention from my freelance writing. I make my living helping two companies—one in Ohio, one in Arizona―with the communications and strategies involved in their national Community Chest campaigns. Last year these campaigns raised millions of dollars and helped millions of people, so the work gives me a lot of satisfaction. Right now both clients are pursuing the Community Chest’s America Wins! award. Great news for me―over the winter, I spent many billable hours crafting their submissions.

Fortunately my two clients competed in different categories, so I didn’t need to worry about conflict-of-interest issues. Why would companies vie for these awards? Lots of positive national-level recognition for the winning company and for its hard-working campaign team. Who doesn’t like being celebrated for a job well done? Think of the America Wins! competition as the Academy Awards of the Community Chest world. 

My billable hours mounted up, so I started to set aside a little money to see me through the lean, work-free months after the competition. I felt like a squirrel, feverishly stuffing my cheeks with acorns during harvest. For the first time, in my off-hours, I tried my hand at a little personal writing about how Bob (my ghost) and I met. A silly narrative, but lots of fun.

So being snow-bound helped out the work portion of my life. It didn’t seem to hurt the personal part either. David and I sang in the Community Chorus and spent quality time together exploring the budget end of the cheapest menus in Avondale. I’d even more-or-less regained an even keel with my sisters Katie and Angela, despite their dastardly attitudes toward Bob and their successful maneuver to banish him from the lake.

Have you ever had a tooth pulled? I have, once, a back molar. Despite years of fillings and root canals and crowns, all the miracles of modern dentistry couldn’t save it. After the trauma and pain of having my tooth ripped out, I spent two days on my sofa letting, indeed, encouraging, my long-suffering sister Katie and neighbor Laura to bring me clear soup and painkillers. (Since I live alone and don’t get waited on too often, I tend to wallow sedulously in the experience when I get the opportunity.)

Once I was on my feet and weaned off the painkillers, I’d find my tongue, completely of its own volition, exploring the newly stitched cavern in my mouth, even though the dentist had told me to leave it alone. Half-revolted, half-fascinated, but unable to resist exploring.

That’s how my life felt without my ghost Bob. As if a huge hole had just opened in the middle of it. If I were sensible and followed instructions, I’d just leave that gap alone. But I couldn’t. Simultaneously fascinated and irritated, I explored my Bob-less hole. Did I love not having Bob around? Partially. Lord knows, he could be a pain in the butt most of the time. Did I hate not having Bob around? Partially. Lord knows, the guy (oops) ghost could make me laugh, like nobody else I’d ever known. Humor is a very precious commodity in these somber Recessionary days.

In one sense, though, my sisters had been right. Without Bob in the picture, I spent more time with David, and thoroughly enjoyed it. We seemed to fall naturally into coupledom, and people started treating us that way, inviting us to dinner or to an after-Community-Chorus glass of wine. Although not witty and irreverent like Bob, David was thoughtful, smart, and sweet. And, to call a spade a spade, not at all hard on the eyes. Not surprisingly, he spent most of his time trying to save his grape-growing business.

David and I splurged once, braving a snowstorm to go to dinner at our favorite Chinese restaurant at the mall. Candles flickered at our table and, since there were few other diners, attentive waiters buzzed around like flies. David reached over, took my hand, bent toward me, and whispered, “Now this is more like it.”

“You know,” he continued, absent-mindedly stroking my hand. “I’d do this a lot more often with you if I could. With losing all my grapes, though, I find myself thinking about work all the time. And that’s not fair to you.” He gazed into my eyes with a serious look, and continued in a low voice. “You’re the kind of woman who deserves all of a guy’s attention.”

I smiled, touched as always by his sincerity. “It’s all right. I’m not in a hurry to get anywhere. Life is good right now and I’m happy to let things develop in their own time. You’ve got your work; I’ve got mine. Let’s just enjoy the journey and not rush into anything.”

I relaxed in our booth, studied the flickering candles, and searched for the right description in my mind.
Companionable.
That’s how I’d describe our relationship. What a comfortable word. I never found myself screaming at David like I could with Bob. But then again, I never found myself laughing with David like I did with Bob either. Thank goodness I didn’t have to make any choices between the two of them, especially with Bob Missing in Action right now.

By mid-February two feet of snow covered the ground, and most days at least a couple inches more would fall. Snowplows rumbling by my bedroom woke me in the morning. I’d get my daily exercise chipping out the piles of snow the plows had packed in the two feet between the road’s edge and my car’s rear bumper. Gritty, nasty, full-of-rocks-from-the-road snow that somehow managed to get encased in a layer of dirty ice most days. I found myself whomping the drifts with my heavy shovel to break up the ice before I’d even attempt to shovel it. Digging out gave me lots of physical exercise, and it helped me work out the grubby end of my vocabulary, too.

One day my neighbor Stan walked over while I was in the middle of my snow-shoveling workout. Without saying a word, he tackled the pile of icy snow on the far side of the car. For a man in his seventies, he was in amazing shape. Physically, that is. Emotionally, I knew he still mourned Mary, his long-time companion. She’d died a few months ago and Stan spent his days trying to get his balance with his new solitude. Since he didn’t drive, I’d bring him into Avondale now and then and we’d both load up on groceries.

Some people might find Stan a little simple, but I liked spending time with him. He’d be horrified if I ever told him this, but I found his presence soothing. Stan didn’t worry about the stupid things that I wasted too much time and energy fretting over. He kept life very basic.

After scraping out the snow on my side of the car, I rested my arm on the shovel handle and said, “Stan, why don’t you come in and have a cup of coffee to warm up. I made an apple cake over the weekend and it tastes pretty good.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” he answered, propping his shovel against my excavated old VW.

We trudged into the house, taking a few minutes to shed coats, gloves, hats, and boots in the mudroom. I was beginning to understand why so many people had a ‘shoes off in the house’ policy out here in the country. If people didn’t leave their shoes at the door, someone—me—would spend way too much time wiping up the shale, pebbles, and dirt visitors inevitably tracked from the yard onto the floors.

I poured out a couple of mugs of coffee and sliced off some apple cake. Stan cupped his mug in his hands for warmth, and I did the same.

“Is your furnace working okay?” Stan asked, looking for the thermometer.

His question surprised me. “Yeah, it’s fine. I keep the house on the cool side, what with the cost of propane,” I said, ever the penny pincher.

“Well, there’s cool, and then there’s meat locker,” Stan replied in an assertive tone. “What’s the temperature in here? You don’t want to get sick.” He squinted to make out the numbers on the thermostat dial.

“It’s in the high-fifties. With a hat and a couple of sweaters, I’m fine.”

Stan shook his head in dismay and cradled his coffee mug tighter. “If you get too cold, come over to my place. I got used to keeping everything warm for Mary, so it’s usually in the seventies somewhere.”

“I didn’t know heating with wood kept things so warm.” I gestured toward his now-empty cake plate, raising my eyebrows to ask if he’d like more.

Nodding, Stan handed me his plate for a second piece. “This is good cake. Thanks.” Then he continued, “Heating with wood is not too bad. I have to get up in the middle of the night to throw logs in the furnace, but that’s not a problem for me these days.”

“Not sleeping, huh?” I placed his cake in front of him and checked the level of coffee in his mug.

“I catch a nap in the afternoon. The house is just too quiet at night without Mary.”

“So what do you do when you can’t sleep? Read? Watch TV?”

“Nah, I usually just get up, put on a pot of coffee, and play cards. You know, solitaire.” Stan dug into his second piece with an enthusiasm that told me the post-funeral cakes were long gone, and he wasn’t eating a lot of homemade baking these days.

I rose and cut a couple of pieces to send home with him. As I grabbed the waxed paper to wrap them, I glanced over my shoulder and added, “Yeah, believe me, I know solitaire. You might try decaf instead of regular coffee when you make it at night. That could be part of the problem.”

“I suppose.” Stan just sat there, hunched over his coffee. It saddened me to see him, with no energy and no real purpose now that Mary had died and he didn’t have her to watch over any more.

“How’s Aaron? Have you talked with him lately?” I asked. Aaron, Stan’s son, had helped a lot with Mary’s funeral and lived about an hour away. Too far to drive in this weather.

“He’s fine. He called yesterday. His company might send him to Canada for a few months.”

“He’s a pipe-fitter, right? Now that you mention it, I did hear about some kind of huge pipeline being built there. I didn’t know Aaron worked for that company.” I finished wrapping the slices of apple cake and handed them to Stan as I sat down again at the table. He smiled his thanks and patted the pocket-sized package with appreciation. “That’s great that Aaron’s got such steady work,” I continued. “How’s Jenny?”

Stan shrugged. “The only time I ever hear from that girl is when she wants something. So I guess no news is good news.”

The few times I had met Jenny, at Mary’s calling hours and funeral, her behavior and speech made me think there might be drinking or drugs in the picture, so I didn’t pursue the matter.

Stan must have realized how depressed he appeared, because he tried to inject some energy into our conversation with his next question. “So what are you up to today, young lady?”

“It’s the usual for me,” I answered, swallowing my last morsel of cake. “I have to make a few phone calls for those big contest entries I told you about, and do some writing. And David and I have Community Chorus tonight.” I gulped the last mouthful of coffee in my mug, and continued, “I’m shooting for February 20 as my personal deadline for both of those entries, so I have to keep plugging away at them. Even though the official deadline is March 1, I have to get everything to my clients a few days early so they can review the draft and exhibits and get management to sign off on the formal contest entry. It’s a pretty big deal.”

Crafting each corporation’s submission for the Community Chest’s national ‘America Wins!’ competition filled my winter work hours. During the frigid months of the year, I’d spent hundreds of hours reviewing campaigns and creating competition entries that demonstrated the innovative strategies and techniques each company had developed for their money-raising efforts. The winners of the Community Chest competition would be those companies that ran the most innovative and successful campaigns in several categories.

Talking ‘global corporations’ with Stan was like speaking Chinese to a Hittite. Ever the good sport, he smiled gamely. “What happens if you win?” he asked.

I gave him a blank stare. I’d never thought about that. Now who was the Hittite? “That’s a good question. I have no idea.” I mulled it over for a while. “Probably nothing special would happen to me if one of my companies won. I’m not on their payrolls, so I wouldn’t get a bonus or anything. Maybe I’d get a thank-you note from somebody, or a token present.” I pondered a bit. “The more I think about it, though, probably nothing would happen to me if they won.”

“That doesn’t seem fair,” Stan protested. “Aren’t you doing a lot of the work?”

I provided the standard freelancer’s reply, “They pay me for my time while I work on their entries. That’s all I can ask. As long as I get a paycheck, I’m okay.”