Sintown Chronicles I: Behind Closed Doors (59 page)

“You get stamps out of trashcans?"

“Sure,” he laughed. “You'd be surprised at how many people who have post office boxes read their mail in the post office lobby and toss the envelopes in the trash on their way out. Every afternoon when I am at the post office, I dig through the trashcans looking for stamps. I get funny looks sometimes, but what do I care what people think?"

“Most of your loose stamps are still glued to an envelope corner. How do you get them off—with steam?"

“That's the way they used to do it. Wait a minute and I'll show you."

In a few minutes, Jake returned carrying a plastic container with a couple of inches of lukewarm water in it. He sat the container on the desk corner, scooped up a handful of loose stamps and dropped them on the desk in front of Jan. “Put these stamps face down in the water, one at a time."

While she performed the exercise he opened a desk drawer and extracted a shiny chrome-plated device.

“What are the tweezers for?” Jan asked.

“They're not tweezers,” Jake replied. “Tweezers have sharp edges which would cut the stamps. These are stamp tongs and have smooth edges. Tongs are used as much as possible to handle stamps in order to keep skin oils off the paper."

“Look,” she exclaimed happily. “Some of the stamps have come loose and are floating to the bottom."

He laughed. “That's how we get stamps off of paper. Of course, not all of them will float loose like that. Some you will have to help a little by using the tongs to pull them off the paper."

“What do we do next?"

He removed a square piece of plate glass from the desk drawer and placed it beside the stamp bath. “Remove a loose stamp from the water by grabbing it with the tong, wiggle it in the water to get all the glue off, and then place the stamp face down on the glass. Let the stamps get almost dry, then put them on a flat surface with a heavy book on top to make sure the stamps don't curl during the final drying process."

“This is fun,” she said as she began removing stamps. “Wouldn't it speed up the process to use a hair dryer?"

“I've tried that,” he said. “It works, but it's much harder to keep the stamps from curling."

“Are these stamps worth anything?"

“Sure, but not a lot. Of course, every collector hopes to some day discover a rare stamp or a major error. Basically, however, stamp collecting is for fun, not profit."

“How do you know how much a stamp is worth?"

He smiled warmly at Jan while playfully shaking his head. “I'm delighted you're interested, but that's a lesson for another day. If we don't get started filling orders we're going to get behind again."

Jan closed the album she had been examining and returned it to the shelf. She felt there was an interesting piece of information hiding somewhere in her brain and she tried to recall it as she emptied the murky water in the bathroom sink and washed out the container. It came to her just as she entered the stockroom to help with the order fulfillment process.

“Jake, not long before I quit working at the diner I remember someone saying something about several boxes of old stamps being found in the warehouse across from the church. I believe it was Victor Kimel who was talking about it."

Jake turned to her, eyes glowing.

“You have so many stamps I don't suppose you'd be interested."

Jan peeked over Jake's shoulder as he opened and glanced inside each of the twenty large, filthy, boxes lining the warehouse floor. She thought there must be a zillion loose stamps, as well as whole envelopes, books and albums inside those boxes. Obediently she let Jake do all the talking.

“As I told you on the phone,” Victor Kimel said, “we don't know the source of these stamps. Mr. Dollar inherited them from his uncle along with half of everything else in Dot. It may be that the old man took them in payment of a debt, or perhaps he intended to become a collector but never got around to it."

“Doesn't look like there's much here,” Jake commented. “Pretty common stuff from what I can see."

“Several months ago Mr. Dollar said he wanted to go through these boxes himself, but he hasn't done it. After talking with you, I called him. He said if you make a reasonable offer to let you have them."

“It would cost thousands of dollars and many months to have a philatelist or dealer go through these boxes and give you a valid appraisal. I'm afraid all you have here is junk, but if you want to get them out of the way, I'll take them off your hands,” Jake offered.

“I'm no philatelist,” Vic countered, “but I'm sure these stamps have some value. I was thinking maybe five hundred a box."

“Ten thousand dollars? No thank you, sir,” Jake said, laughing.

“What about a thousand dollars—fifty a box. That's reasonable, isn't it?” Vic offered.

Jake continued laughing. “Mr. Kimel, I know you're Mr. Dollar's chief financial officer and it's your job to turn lead into gold, but you're not an alchemist and neither am I. I'll give you one hundred dollars for the lot."

“Make it five hundred and they're yours."

“I've done all the haggling I'm going to do, sir.” Jake produced a one hundred-dollar bill from his pocket and extended it towards Vic.

Vic looked solemnly at Jake while thinking of Tim Dollar's exact words on the telephone earlier: “We're scheduled to open the warehouse as a craft mall next weekend. Get those stamps out of there if you have to pay the man to take them."

“You drive a hard bargain, Jake. If you ever need a job, I think Mr. Dollar could find a place for you on our team."

When the boxes were loaded into the van and the couple was on their way home, Jan said, “You just stole twenty boxes of stamps."

“Yep, I did, didn't I?"

“You old fart,” she laughed.

“Betty, this is Mary Lou McGee. The results of your Western Blot test just came in. It's negative. Congratulations, Betty. You're off the hook."

“Betty ... Betty ... are you there, Betty?"

“You're sure there's no mistake?” a weak voice asked.

“They ran the test twice. There's no mistake. You are not HIV positive."

Dr. McGee heard the telephone drop on Betty's desk and the happy shouts of, “It's negative! Rita, it's negative!”

“Bo, isn't it beautiful?” Betty asked, smiling so widely that her braces glimmered in the sunlight.

Bo slowly walked around the object of Betty's joy—a brand new teal-colored Ford Escort.

“What's important is that you like it,” he answered at last. “I would have thought you would consult me before making a major purchase like this.” He opened the passenger-side door. “Wow,” he tried to joke. “If I could bottle this new car smell I'd be a millionaire."

“Bo, I was so excited after getting Dr. McGee's call, and I've been thinking about getting a car, and Rita said we should take the day off and celebrate, and we're going to need two cars when we move to Rita's house anyway, and I did try to call you. You didn't answer your office phone and when I dialed your cell phone I got a message that said the phone was switched off or out of range."

Bo knew the cellular telephone was on all day and that he hadn't been out of range. “You could have left a voice-mail message. You know I was as concerned about the test result as Rita was.” He shut the door with much more force than necessary.

“I didn't want to leave a message like that. The wrong person might have heard it. Come on, Bo. Cheer up. We can afford it."

“It's your money, Betty. You earned it and you have the right to spend it any way you like."

“We're running late, Bo. Rita is expecting us for dinner. Hurry up and get your bath. You can test drive the Escort on the way to Rita's house."

“I'm not going tonight,” he responded. “I'll get a bite to eat at the diner."

“Bo, you promised."

“I have some stuff I need to finish by morning. I'm going back to the office. See,” he said, trying to brighten the mood, “having two cars has already come in handy."

“Big Willie, I need to take the day off."

The huge man looked up from his desk. “What's up, Bo? I don't remember you ever asking for a day off before."

“I just have some things I need to take care of."

“Well, sure, you can take the day off if it's important. Is there anything wrong, Bo?"

“I don't know. There's just some things I have to settle."

“You haven't been happy since we moved to Dot, have you, Bo?"

“Big Willie, you've been on cloud nine since we came here. You finally have the job you want and Louise is doing so great. You are happy enough for both of us."

“Sometimes it helps to talk about it, Bo."

“It doesn't concern you, Big Willie. I'll see you in the morning."

“Hey, wait a minute, Bo."

Bo stopped at the office door.

“If you are going out of town, why don't you use one of the company trucks so Betty won't be stranded?"

“Thanks, Big Willie, but Betty's okay. She bought herself a new Escort yesterday. She has her own wheels now—her own life."

Big Willie frowned as he watched Bo walk away.

Once on Highway 13 Bo turned on the car radio and played with the dial until he found a country music station. He turned the sound up to blast and rolled down his window. The crisp early October morning air had a sobering effect, but he knew that by the time he arrived at Tanglewood, the temperature would be quite warm. He looked at the trees lining the roadway. Soon they would be ablaze with shades of gold and crimson. Already he could detect a few leaves beginning to change color. He glanced at the speedometer.

Whoa, he said to himself. I'm in no hurry.

He wondered if there was ever a time in his life when he was truly happy. There were the first few sexual experiences with Betty. Those were good times. There were those great days when he and Betty found jobs at Tanglewood, found the doublewide and moved in. Those were good days. Everyday working at Tanglewood was good, especially when Mr. Hathaway put him in charge of course maintenance while Big Willie was out looking after Louise.

The exit to Interstate 40 caught him by surprise. He eased on the brakes, backed up, took the exit and merged into the heavy traffic flow. Surely there were other periods of happiness. He went back as far in his memory as he could, but the images that floated across his mind's eye were not pleasant ones.

“Shit,” he exclaimed, digging into his back pocket for a handkerchief, “Grown men don't cry."

He took the Tanglewood exit but passed the park entrance without turning in. He headed for the doublewide and pulled into the graveled drive.

He sat for a few minutes looking at the overgrown yard. He could see his vegetable garden in the back, now covered with weeds. Had he been happy here? He got out of the car and walked to the doublewide. As expected, he found the door locked. It looked like someone was living there, but the pink curtains seemed terribly tacky to him. He walked around the modular home, looking at the flowers Betty planted with such care, now choked out by Johnson grass. He tried the padlock on the storage shed. It popped open. He swung open the door.

Everything was as he remembered. He looked at the push mower and thought, Why not? He filled the mower with gas and spent the next two hours cutting the grass and the hour that followed, raking.

He sat in his car for a few minutes, hoping the air conditioner would dry out his sweat-drenched shirt. Looking at the manicured lawn gave him a sense of satisfaction not felt in a long while.

After paying the two-dollar entrance fee at the park gate, no longer manned by Betty, he drove directly to the clubhouse.

“Token. Hey Token. Bo Nading. Is that you?” greeted the Tanglewood pro, Tad Ryder.

“It's me,” Bo replied.

“Hell,” Tad said shaking Bo's hand, “I hardly recognized you with that beard. Damned if you don't look half decent."

“Yeah. It was a suggestion by somebody I met in Dot—the only thing she ever said that worked out."

“What are you doing up here—slumming?"

“I had some business up this way and thought I'd drop by. You think anybody would mind if I look around?"

“No, man. Help yourself. Use that number 46 golf cart if you want to check out the course."

“Thanks,” Bo said, leaving the clubhouse and walking to the maintenance shed.

Tad hurried to his office and placed a telephone call.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Ryder, but Mr. Hathaway is in a meeting."

“This is very important. Slip him a note. Tell him that Bo Nading is at the clubhouse."

“Tad, I don't want to lose my job. I'll tell him when the meeting is over."

“Trust me, sweetheart, the only way you'll lose your job is if you don't slip him the note. I'll hold until you get back on the line with his answer."

Tad watched through the window as Bo returned from the empty maintenance shed, climbed into the cart and drove off.

“Tad, are you still there?"

“I'm here, you pretty thing."

“Mr. Hathaway said for you to keep Bo there. He'll join you as soon as he can get out of this meeting."

“I'll do my best, sweet thing."

Tad waited on two men who claimed to be interested in buying a metal driver and was disgusted when they left without making a purchase. He then spotted a female foursome eating hotdogs in the snack area and joined them. He was soon so involved in entertaining the ladies with one of his tall tales that he almost missed seeing Bo walking away from the clubhouse.

“Scuse me, ladies.” He rushed to the door, flung it open and shouted, “Hey, Bo. Hold on a minute."

Bo turned in his direction.

“Come on back,” Tad shouted. “We have some catching up to do."

Bo looked at his watch and shouted back, “I'd better be going. Another time, maybe."

“Come on, man. Give me five minutes. I want to hear about Big Willie."

Bo checked his watch again and headed back to the clubhouse. “I haven't eaten lunch yet,” he explained when he reached the smiling pro. “I'll stay long enough for a couple of dogs."

“On me, buddy,” Tad said, slapping Bo on his damp back. “How's Big Willie and Louise?"