The Lovely Chocolate Mob (11 page)

“Well, I’ve done that!” I said. “I’m sure we’ve all done that at one time or other, when the plumbing went wacky!”

“You didn’t do it every day!” countered Helen. “And most of the time we had to hold it until we got to the bathroom at school, and hoped the school bus wasn’t hitting every pothole that day. The teachers always counted on us to be using the restrooms early in the morning. Now, I can spend
all day
in one of the upstairs bathrooms, soaking in the sunken bath without even having to share, with anyone!”

I didn’t know what “scars” had been left on Helen’s psyche, but this wasn’t something terrible. Every family had to make adjustments, one way or another.

“At least you had plenty to eat and clothes to wear, and don’t get the idea that you were abused. You may have worn hand-me-downs at some time, but your mother made sure they were clean and looked good. I never saw you wearing rags.”

Was living the jet-set life making her happy? No, I didn’t think so, or else she wouldn’t be here with me, a fellow who was making just a few thousand above the blue-collar worker, and somewhat financially content.

“Helen, I think your husband may be looking for a way out of his debt by taking up with a rich girlfriend.”

At this, Helen just looked into my eyes, as if she was wondering if I were lying. But she knew I wasn’t, it made too much sense and all the pieces fit. And I didn’t make any mention about Susan Lovely being younger and richer.

The meeting ended with our fishing in the dark, looking for motives and reasons, but at least Helen had been introduced to the idea that they burned money as though it were nothing.

And, I had learned that Susan Lovely may have loved Old Man Lovely for his lovely money, the little vulture.

The next week went slowly. There had been too many developments for me, too much information for my slow-paced life. I suppose I had become accustomed to being a bachelor, or a loner; I liked it when the dust began to settle so I could get back to my own interests. What a dullard I must appear to be, at least to any outsider. But when things were on my terms, when life was slow and plodding, it was pleasant, and I could deal with life this way.

It was time to visit with Miss Planter, listener. Paid listener. This didn’t quite make her a friend, but it did keep her objective, which is what I needed and wanted. Sometimes a fellow needs a little outside guidance, even if it was from a curvy younger woman. Hopefully she wouldn’t tell me what I wanted to hear, but what I needed to hear. I may not have been happy at the moment, but, while taking stock of my feelings, I didn’t feel sad either. Maybe Miss Planter was onto something when she told me to help somebody.

I said “Hello” to Phyllis, the young pretty secretary, and took my seat in the waiting area, and she offered me the usual coffee and candy, mostly chocolate. Lovely was a great town for chocolates; we probably had an “at-risk group” for obesity, and I was surprised the town hadn’t appeared on any national journalism shows or in any health magazines.

That day I had brought along a new toy, an electronic book. I sat and read an article on the life of Cornelius Lovely, trying to get some insight into his family situation, plus learn about his success in the chocolate trade. It was a fascinating read, an insight into the man who built a business and supported much of the town and how most people here, one way or another, owed something to Mr. Lovely. It wasn’t written by him; he was probably too busy for that, but he did allow the author some interviews; he must have been someone Old Man Lovely trusted, or else this was a puff-piece.

Miss Planter opened her office door and welcomed me in. I entered and sat, and she began asking questions, our normal routine by then. “How are you? How has your week been going? Any new developments?” I answered in the affirmative to these questions, so then she got specific. She wanted details. Not wanting to disappoint her, I told her of Helen Ceraldi-Burke, and the problems she’d been having with her husband. I told her about our conversation about spending and saving. Miss Planter seemed interested in this, so I left out no details.

I had already made mention that this old flame had contacted me a few weeks prior, and that she had confided in me how she wanted to preserve her marriage. Miss Planter paid close attention, while trying not to look too interested.

I said how I thought this old flame had been having financial difficulties with her husband because they had investments which had gone bad, plus had been trying to maintain their lifestyle. “You’re saying she’s rich?” Miss Planter asked.

“I’m saying she and her husband are very well off,” I answered. “I’m not really sure what constitutes ‘rich’ anymore. I suppose if you’re a billionaire, you’d be what everyone would call rich, but they’re nowhere near that figure. Let’s just say, if they chose to live simpler, they could be set for life. As it is now, they’re burning it up as fast as they make it, and time is working against them. Her husband is expressing an interest in retiring, and he’s their only monetary income at the moment.”

“You seem to know an awful lot of this old flame’s business. Don’t you think it’s risky for her to share too much information with you? You’re not a financial counselor, you know.”

“No, you’re right,” I said. “I’m not a financial counselor. But I’m cheap. Extremely cheap. And I prefer the term ‘thrifty.’”

Miss Planter laughed at this, and I smiled. It’s good when she laughs. It showed that she found me funny or ridiculous; I didn’t know which. Guess it didn’t matter.

“Explain to me how ‘thrifty’ you are, Mr. Owen.”

“Okay,” I said, accepting the challenge. “I have a small house, which is paid for. I have a car and a bicycle, both of which are also paid for. When one doesn’t work, I make do with the other. When something breaks, I try to fix it. When I see a sale on something I need, I’ll stock up. I try not to have a lavish lifestyle, because it would be hard to maintain. I’ve been able to save as a result, and I’ve managed to make a few investments. My goal is to be making as much money when I retire as I was making while working. I don’t know if I’ll make it, but it’s a goal.”

Miss Planter was making a few notes. “This doesn’t sound too extreme. You make it sound simple.”

“Oh, it’s not simple,” I replied. “I can be just as spend-foolish as the next person. I have to watch my mood swings so I don’t go out and purchase things on a whim. I’ll try to talk myself out of fast purchases. Most people I’ve met have this weakness; it’s a part of the human condition, I suppose.”

“You’ve brought up an interesting subject, Mr. Owen,” said Miss Planter. “Listening to you is like listening to a college professor. You have a reason and answer for most things you do.”

This was flattering to hear, coming from a pretty (and classy) lady like Miss Planter.

“What was the subject, Miss Planter? I don’t remember saying anything interesting, although I’m glad you enjoy listening to me.”

“You said the human condition. What are your views of the human condition? How do we all exist, or fit into this worldview of yours?”

“My worldview?” I repeated. I’ve always wanted someone to ask me about that. “Ha! I have a very small world, Miss Planter. I suppose my family and friends, from school and college and church have formed much of my worldview. Hopefully these views reflects what the scriptures say; they don’t always line up, and I’m continually surprised how out of line I am, but it’s good to have a place to start in order to get a proper worldview.”

This last sentence made Miss Planter sit up straighter. “’Proper worldview’? Is there any such thing as having a ‘proper worldview’? Aren’t all people free to have their own worldview?”

“Yes, you’re right,” I said. “I didn’t mean to sound authoritative. We’re all free to have and form our own opinions of how things are and how the world should be, but, as I said, this comes from church, so I’d like to get in line with that.”

“What does your church say about the human condition?” she asked.

“It says quite a bit. It says we’re people, humans, not animals; we’re made in the image of God. That’s not saying we look like God, but we reflect God; we’re creatures, created by an infinite being, which makes us finite. We have limits. We were born, we’ll live a short while, and we’ll die. The reason we die is because of the “fall,” or sin. We’re corrupt. We’re so corrupt we don’t even know how corrupt we are. You’ll agree with this.”

“I would?” said Miss Planter, a little startled at that. “How do you know?”

“Well, we’ll find out with a few questions. Mind if I ask you some questions, counselor?”

Miss Planter, wary but curious, said, “By all means.”

“Do you consider yourself to be a good person, Miss Planter?”

“Well, I suppose I do,” she said, “Sometimes. Hopefully most of the time.”

“Do you consider yourself to be a perfect person, Miss Planter?”

“No, I wouldn’t presume to go that far. I’m not perfect.”

“You’re saying then, that you admit to having a flaw or two?”

“I suppose most people would agree that they have a few flaws. Where is this going, Mr. Owen?”

“I’m trying to ascertain that you agree that you’re not perfect. You’re not, are you?”

“No, I’m not. I’ll concede that I’m not.”

“Well, then… why aren’t you perfect?”

“What?” she asked, with another startled look.

“You heard me,” I said. “Why aren’t you perfect? You’re good, aren’t you? What keeps you from being perfect, from going ahead and making that leap, that jump from good to perfect?”

Flustered, Miss Planter said, “Well, I’m not; well, nobody can… that is, nobody’s perfect.”

“Nobody’s perfect? Is that what I heard you say, Miss Planter?”

“Yes, you’re correct. I said that nobody’s perfect. It’s impossible for anybody to be perfect,” she yielded.

“You’re right,” I remarked, trying not to sound too smug, and suppressing a grin. “It is impossible for anybody to be perfect. So you agree with me.”

“I what?”

“You agreed with me. Nobody’s perfect. We’re flawed. We’re corrupt.”

“Yes… I suppose we are.”

“And why are we not perfect?” I asked. “Why are we in this condition?”

“I suppose you’d say because of the fall.”

“Yes, I would. We’ve fallen. We were created with no sin, but we’ve fallen into sin. Now we’re a mess.”

“I wouldn’t go so far as to say that.”

“You wouldn’t?” I was a bit surprised by that remark. “Well, I suggest taking a look at the daily newspaper and you’ll see that …”

“You’re saying this is your worldview of the human condition?” asked Miss Planter.

“Yes, it is.”

“You don’t leave much room for hope, then.”

“I would think that Christ gives man hope.”

Miss Planter’s eyes lit up for a moment, then quickly looked to her clipboard, and then she pretended to write.

“Man is a mess” she wrote and read out loud slowly.

”Yes, that’s what I said,” hoping she wouldn’t be too angry with me. So I tried to lighten things up a bit.

“What you’ve just heard was brought to you by the Reformed Christian church,” I said, sounding like a commercial, hoping for a laugh. “This is not a popular worldview. Hope I haven’t scared you with this.”

“Oh, no, you haven’t scared me.” She looked over the top of her clipboard. “I know a few professors you’d scare, though.”

I laughed. “Sometimes it’s fun to scare people, Miss Planter!”

A few days after our session, I decided I needed to meet and talk with a friend, a friend whom I could count on to give me solid feedback, from a man’s point of view. Since Miss Planter had a full schedule for the next few days, I decided to speak with an old friend from college, from years gone by.

After getting home from work, I called up my old friend, David Boudreaux. Being so close to Louisiana, I had a few friends with Cajun descent.

I heard the phone pick up on his side. “Hello?” he said.

“Hey, man.”

David waited for a moment, trying to decide who I was, then started chuckling. “Hey, man. What are you up to?”

“Let’s get a drink.”

“Okay. When?”

“How about in an hour at Lucy’s Place?”

“See you there,” he replied.

“You gonna check with the ‘ball and chain’?”

David laughed at this. He had been married for a few years, but still considered himself a newlywed. He loved his new wife and wouldn’t dream of doing anything without her okay.

“She’s at work until late, so I guess I have permission.”

“Okay, but no getting drunk now.”

This set David off laughing even more. He was a tee-totaler, like me.

Lucy’s Place was about a mile from home, so I decided to walk there; I needed the exercise, and it might help to peel off a few pounds. This east Texas night was cooler than the Texas days, and I looked forward to speaking with Dave. I always learned something from him. Back in college, I liked eating lunch with him in the cafeteria because he didn’t act foolishly like many of the other school kids. I could remember saying to other college students that David was the smartest fellow I knew; no matter what the subject (except for television and comic books, his weak areas), David was in the know.

He was always reading, a real reading machine.

We met at the appointed time, got a booth, and caught up on each other’s lives. I of course hadn’t changed, being a confirmed bachelor. The only thing that would change in my life would be the different colored socks I decided to put on in the morning. David, on the other hand, went through a big life change just a few years back when he decided on matrimony. He was my age, and getting married in his late 40’s was quite an eye-opener for him. He married an Asian girl, someone he met over the internet. He seemed very happy, and had gained a little weight.

“What important issues do you have that warrant my attention?” joked David. “Normally you don’t just pick up a phone to talk; whenever you want me to know something, you usually send it my way in an e-mail.”

“What I have to say couldn’t be typed over the internet.” David quit smiling and started paying closer attention.