All my friends are sweating their balls off back in New York, one of the worst summers ever, with temperatures rising to as high as 102 degrees. But like the saying goes, it ain’t the heat, it’s the humidity, right? No humidity at all here, because after all, it is the desert. The air is so dry, I think that’s where the word ‘arid’ came from. The gents downtown gave us a laundry list of things we should do when we got here. Besides laying low, they kept telling us to drink lots and lots of water. Now I can see why.
Idaho has lots of wind. In fact, Chicago must have stolen the moniker “Windy City” from them because it’s much windier here than in Chicago. Me and Harry have been to Chicago many times (my mouth waters for their steaks, just thinking about it), for both business and pleasure and let me tell you, it’s nowhere near the weather here. I think Chicago should have been known as the “Cold Locker City” since the amount of meat (dead and alive) found there (the good and the bad) far outweighs anything in New York. And I don’t just mean steaks, if you get my drift.
So I guess the weather is another addition to the PRO column.
I’m still looking for some good T-bones, though.
The car they gave us is not anywhere near as nice as the Cadillac Harry used to drive. I really missed my mustang convertible, too, and we try as we might we could not get the gents to let us bring the car with us.
No dice. In fact, we don’t even have a car; we have a two door monster that drinks gas by the hour. We drive around in a blue Dodge Truck, because they are the easiest to fix and the most likely to last for more than 300,000 miles. At least it was this year’s model, so we would have a lot of time to put some miles on it.
We had just come back from one of the many drives we take when I noticed there was a message on the answering machine. The red light blinked on and off, reminding me of the warning signal you find on roads torn up with construction. For some reason, it made us both nervous. We were waiting to hear from our contact to let us know when to take the next steps, which was learning what kind of employment we would have. We knew it would look strange to the neighbors if at least we didn’t get up and go to work. At least one of us had to have a job, and we already decided it would be Harry, since he had more skills than me. In the marketplace, anyway, haha. We figured someone would be calling about an accountant job or something like that. Harry was a numbers guy, after all. It would be a good cover.
But it was unsettling. Here it was, a Sunday afternoon and we didn’t think a message would come through this early, and on the house phone to boot. We both had cell phones and the only ones who knew the number were each other and whoever our contact would be.
“I don’t like this” Harry said, as we stood in front of the answering machine, watching the blinking light.
“Who would be calling us?” I asked, mostly to myself. “No one has our phone number. Do they?”
Harry quickly shook his head no.
“Nobody. I didn’t give to anyone.”
We stood side by side, looking at the blinking red warning light for a few minutes more.
Without saying a word, Harry put his arm around me and gave me a kiss, tenderly, on the cheek.
I knew then, we weren’t going to answer this call. Not today.
The cell phones they gave us were kinda cool, I must say.
I had an old blackberry I had used for years, and was fine with it. I could check my email messages from my girlfriends and look at the latest stock prices online. What, you didn’t think I followed the stock market? Ha. There’s still a lot you don’t know about me.
Harry had an even older phone, almost like one of the original ones. Not as big as the ones in the early 90’s mind you, but old enough to not do much except be a regular phone.
That would never do, according to the gents downtown. No, we had to have the best I-phones around, and I have to admit, after we learned about “apps”, it became a lot of fun.
Harry discovered texting. I learned how to shop online, and was waiting for the go-ahead as to when I could start shipping the stuff I found here to the house. We were told to keep the phones on our person at all times because we never knew when they would be contacting us and to let us know what our next move would be.
The house they put us in is gigantic, much bigger than the two bedroom apartment we had in the city. This place has five bedrooms, three full bathrooms, a finished family room, a living room and a kitchen.
Holy hell, whose gonna clean this place? I thought the first time we walked through it. The house was just like all the rest of the ones around us, and we were right smack dab in the middle of the block. I don’t think the people in the relocation unit thought this one through. But then again, maybe we were hiding in plain sight.
It used to be that if Harry was in the bathroom (we only had one) and I was doing something in the kitchen, we could still talk to each other about whatever we were talking about.
Not so in this monstrosity. If Harry was in the one of the rooms downstairs, and I was in the kitchen, there’s no way I could hear him, even if he was screaming – and let me tell you, Harry can scream pretty loud.
He would have to drop whatever it was he was doing, walk all the way upstairs and find me. I ain’t always in the kitchen, by the way. Sometimes I would go find him, when I needed the exercise.
“This place needs an intercom” I said off handedly one afternoon. I had just finished putting the clothes away that I had folded right out of the dryer. He came bounding up to me, and nearly ran me over. Huffing and puffing, he had run up the stairs yet again to try to find me.
“Better yet!” he said triumphantly, just as my jean pocket buzzed, my cell phone lighting up inside the fabric. I put the empty clothes basket down and checked the message.
“Text me back” it said, and Harry laughed like a kid who had just found the golden ticket in that Willy Wanka movie.
Minga, I wonder how long it will be before he discovers sexting?