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About Those Scrawlings

Mike Schneider

    Following an extremely turbulent flight from San Francisco, once I got my luggage and rental car I headed to the nearest lounge to mellow out a little from all the bumps and shakes the storm gods had imposed. A couple Manhattans did the trick, made it seem more like a typical Friday afternoon after work, less like a trip through hell. Before heading to the Airport Sheraton I visited the men’s room. While it was clean and smelled good, its walls nonetheless sported the typical tavern graffiti: “For a good time in the sack call Sarah at 330-555-4692.”
    I don’t know if it was the flight, the Manhattans, or a lifetime of curiosity that caused me to key “Sarah’s” number into my phone and call her when I got back to the car. A pleasant female voice answered on the fourth ring.
    “Hello. I’m in the middle of changing the baby, be with you in 30 seconds.”
    Then after about half a minute, as promised: “Hi this is Sarah. Is that you mom? Whose phone are you using? It’s not your number.”
    “No, I’m not mom. I must have dialed wrong. Sorry to have bothered you,” I said as a wave of embarrassment swept over me.
    “That’s ok, no problem. Oh—wait! Did you happen to see my name on a wall somewhere?”
    “I did,” I said, adding another layer of redness to my face.
    “Oh God! He’s at it again. That’s an old boyfriend, broke up three years ago. Ancient history to me but not to him. Probably offered great sex or some such, right?”
    “Kind of, yes.”
    “He swears he’s going to keep doing that until I go back with him, which is never going to happen. I’ve told the police about it but they say they can’t do anything unless they catch him in the act of writing it.”
    “Well, I’m sorry he’s being such a problem and also sorry I bothered you. I just landed at Cleveland Hopkins for some business meetings next week, saw your number and have always been curious about those things. I hope you have a wonderful afternoon and evening.”
    “Thank you. You do the same. But hold on a minute. May I ask you something that’s going to sound kind of strange?”
    “I guess so. Yeah.”
    “Are you a strong man?”
    “How do you mean?”
    “Like muscles?”
    “Moderately, I suppose. I’m not going to win any weightlifting contests but I do hit the gym four times a week.”
    “You know, maybe we could make a trade. I’m rearranging my living room furniture and need to move my spinet piano to the opposite wall. I have furniture moving wheels but am not strong enough to pick up the corners to get the feet onto them. I also have a pot roast in the oven. Could I trade you the use of your strength for a home cooked meal? It’d be complete with salad, mashed potatoes, gravy, vegetable, and dessert. It would really help me out.”
    “Well, I swear, this is the most successful ill-advised phone call I’ve ever made. I could go for that if you don’t live too far. Where are you located?”
    “North Ridgeville.”
    “Really! I grew up in Sheffield and now I’m right next door in North Olmsted. You’re on. What’s your address?”
    “Give me about half an hour,” she said as I jotted it down.
    Sarah had a midrange, two bedroom condo off Center Ridge Road, an ancient shoreline of Lake Erie, about 10 miles south of the current shoreline. She turned out to be a bright lady with a well behaved—think quiet—five month old baby boy. I put her age between 25 and 30, only a couple years behind me.
    As soon as I saw her I wished the message on the wall had been true. She stood about 5-8. Her black hair, dark skin, plus prominent high cheek bones made me think possibly Native American. Even having had a baby recently, her body was already attractively on the thin side of perfect.
    “Piano mover at your service,” I said with a smile.
    We moved the piano as soon as I took off my coat. She had thought it would be better on the east wall than the west wall but said it didn’t work out very well. It could not have been there very long, the depressions were still in the carpeting where it had previously been. The feet fit snugly back into them.
    “Thank you so much,” she said. “I’m glad to have it back where it belongs. It was beginning to bother me.”
    Her cooking rocked, equal to any mom’s best meal. Roast beef topped with mushroom gravy, mashed potatoes, creamed corn, homemade coleslaw, chocolate brownies for dessert.
    “My mother was a chef in New York when I was growing up. She taught me to cook.”
    Our conversation revolved mostly around our careers, my position as a distribution center manager in Cali for a company whose home office is in the Cleveland area, hers in financial marketing, from which she was taking a year off to be with her baby.
    “Even not working, since Liam was born it seems there’s never enough time to get everything done,” she said as she passed me the potatoes for a second helping.
    After dinner we had coffee with her delicious brownies that had chocolate chunks, black instead of English, walnuts, and homemade chocolate fudge frosting.
    “Out in the country there’s an Amish stand where I get the black walnuts,” she said.
    As I was leaving I turned at the door to thank her and that’s when it happened. Suddenly, as though someone had flipped a switch, our arms flew around each other.
    I stayed the night.
    When I awoke the next morning Sarah was dressed and in the kitchen drinking a cup of coffee. She smiled and poured one for me.
    “That looks good, thank you,” I said.
    “Sure. I need coffee in the morning. Without it I don’t get anything done around here.”
    “I understand,” I replied. “Also, I wanted to tell you, I’m in town through Wednesday, don’t fly back until Thursday morning.”
    “I appreciate that but once is enough.”
    “Oh...I thought you enjoyed last night,” I said in a noticeably weak, deflated sounding voice.
    “I did. Immensely. It was great. But I’m married and want to stay that way. I can’t be falling for anyone, have anyone fall for me, or get involved in any way. So it’s one and done. Always.”
    “Fair enough,” I said. “But why even once when you’re married?”
     “My husband’s a captain in the Army reserve, currently deployed to Qatar. He’ll be home in three months. We have a wonderful marriage, I love him more than anything. But I totally suck at living chaste. It doesn’t work for me. I yell at people, get road rage, am a constant case of nerves. I hope you can understand.”
    “I guess I do,” I said, and laughed.
    “You’re not very convincing.”
    “I was laughing about your ex. Can’t help but wonder what he’d think if he knew he sent me to the woman he pines for.”
    “Actually, I don’t have an ex,” she said, this time being her turn to blush slightly. “I write those things on the walls myself at upscale lounges. They’re rather pricy and generally attract a better educated, more affluent clientele. Being near the airport, most are itinerants.”
    “Yes but that doesn’t guarantee they’re good people. You could get beat up, raped, or worse.”
    “True. My psychiatrist says basically the same thing. She doesn’t see anything clinically wrong with what I’m doing but thinks I’m taking a great risk, both with the men and my husband.”
    “She sounds like a smart lady,” I replied.
    “She is and she’s right. But I screen them three times, first on the phone, then moving the piano, plus lunch, dinner, or a pizza in the evening that’s ‘way too big to eat by myself.’ And if I ever did make an error in judgment, as you alluded to, I have, shall we say, ‘equalizers,’ hidden throughout the house where I can easily get to them if I need to.”
    “You’re definitely an interesting lady, but what happens when the hubbs gets back? What if you run into someone who has been here?”
    “Won’t happen. We actually live down south. This is my college roommate’s house. She’s spending a year in Uganda with the Peace Corps. The dates worked out almost perfectly so I can house sit for her while my husband is gone, plus we pay no rent. And in case you’re wondering, the phone is a prepaid throwaway.”
    “I have to hand it to you. You’ve dealt with your situation incredibly well, have all bases covered.”
    “Thank you.”
    When we finished our coffee I said, “I would like to use the bathroom to freshen up a bit before I go, if you don’t mind.”
    “Absolutely. I have a clean towel and washcloth laid out for you. There’s soap and shampoo in the shower.”
    Thirty minutes later when I came out of the bathroom Sarah was in the kitchen on the phone. I gave her a wave and a smile to tell her goodbye. She returned both.
    As I was closing the door behind me I heard her say, “May I ask you something that’s going to....”

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