Ordinary World

June 15

Joel — Fri, 20 Jun 2008 18:11:12 GMT

We go into town, and I drop Sarah at the Wal-Mart to buy wheat and canned goods. I drive over to the hardware store, which sells reloading supplies. Their prices have gone up again, but they have what I need: hollow point bullets and H4350 smokeless powder for the bolt-action .270, and flat-nose bullets and BL-C(2) powder for the lever action 30-30. I pick up enough to reload five hundred rounds of each.

I didn’t used to have much use for guns. In the city, people live too close together. Tempers flare too easily, and having a gun handy can create results that cannot be undone.

Up here in the country, things are different. We don’t live so close together. In fact, we’re so spread out that a handful of sheriff’s deputies patrol an area of 3,300 square miles. The first time I went out of town on business, someone came to the gate in the middle of the night and scared the hell out of Sarah. The dogs scared him away, but it made me change my attitude. I don’t ever want her to get hurt, and with a cop maybe an hour or more away, that means she needs to be able to defend herself. I got her a nine millimeter pistol and a twelve-gauge shotgun, and taught her how to shoot them both. She got pretty good.

When we got the chickens, we had to start worrying about coyotes, and that meant a rifle. And since we had to practice in order to stay comfortable, that meant shooting. I found that I liked it, and over the years I acquired more guns. Sarah didn’t object, but she didn’t fully share my enthusiasm. She recognizes the utility of having firearms around. She’s quite good with both the pistol and the 30-30. We just pray neither of us ever has to use one in self defense.

Sarah calls me on my cell phone and asks where I am.

"Still at the hardware store," I tell her. "I'm leaving now to come pick you up." I don't mention that I'm at the sporting goods counter, coveting a Springfield Model 1911 .45 caliber pistol. I don't have the money for it anyway.

A few minutes later, we're loading a hundred pounds of wheat berries and fifty pounds of flour into the trunk of the car, along with bags and bags of canned goods.

"I bought out the store," Sarah says.

I assume she's joking.

June 14

Joel — Fri, 20 Jun 2008 18:07:33 GMT

As if yesterday’s news needed something more to get its point across, today one of the largest trucking companies in the nation announced it would seek bankruptcy protection on Monday. The article I read on the internet said the price of fuel had made operations too expensive, plus they had a line of credit with the now-failed Chicago bank, which the new owner intended to call. The one-two punch had forced them to close their doors.

Rumors say another bank failure will be announced on Monday. I don’t know what this means, but I think we ought to take another look at what we would need to be more self-sufficient.

The weather’s nice enough: this afternoon, I rototill manure into a small garden plot and plant more seeds: peapods, Indian mustard, radishes, lettuce, spinach, bok choy, and raab. These are all crops that should do well for us, and I don’t feel like taking chances.

When Sarah comes home from the post office and the local market, I invite her to sit on the porch with me.

"It's so beautiful here," she says, not for the first time. And it is. Despite temperatures in the mid-90s, there's still snow on the mountains to the north and east of us.

"It's the most beautiful place on earth," I agree.

I let her settle in for a moment before I change the subject. "I planted more seeds in the garden today," I begin.

"Really?" she asks. "I thought you'd planted all the garden beds."

"I had," I concede. "But I tilled and planted a plot of hardy stuff along the west fence. There's a major trucking company that announced today it's going into bankruptcy. I just worry that if we don't grow our own vegetables, we may not have any."

Sarah thinks about this for a moment. "You worry too much," she says. Then she stands and heads for the kitchen. I hear her rattling pots and pans, perhaps starting dinner. I give her plenty of space.

Later, I've left the porch and begun loading cut firewood into a wheelbarrow so I can stack it on the wood pile. I turn to see Sarah bearing a glass of cool water and a plate of hot, sliced banana bread.

"Have a slice," she says. "It'll never be better."

I stop what I'm doing and comply. It's a nice treat on a hot, June afternoon.

"I was thinking about what you said," Sarah says, as I chew a mouthful. "I don't like to think about the worst happening, but it wouldn't hurt to be prepared. What do we need?"

"More wheat," I tell her. "That's the main thing, because we can grow our own vegetables, and we have eggs and milk. But there's no grain I know of that grows here."

"What about fruit?" Sarah asks.

"We should get some, I guess," I agree. "Canned, I suppose. It keeps longer than dried."

We make our way back to the kitchen, where Sarah begins a shopping list. "How are you set for ammo?" she asks.

"I think I've got plenty," I tell her, thinking of the thousands of rounds of 7.62 x 39 up in the hay loft.

"How about for the .270 and the 30-30?" she asks. "We may need to hunt at some point."

"Good idea," I say. "I'll pick up some extra reloading supplies when we go to town."

Sarah shows me her list. It's got more on it than what we talked about.

"Yarn?" I ask her, reading from the list. "Fabric? Nutter Butter cookies?"

She grins at me. "I just wanted to see if you're paying attention," she says.

June 13

Joel — Fri, 20 Jun 2008 17:57:30 GMT

Friday the Thirteenth. The news reports say one of the big Chicago banks failed today—the largest bank failure in American history. The analysts worry that other big banks, who won’t be able to collect on their outstanding loans to this one, may fail, too. The FDIC will step in, of course, and pay back the depositors. The Treasury will no doubt have to print more money to make good, devaluing an already inflated currency. This does not bode well.

I haven't paid much attention to the credit crisis, bevcause it hasn't affected me. I don't have a mortgage, adjustable or otherwise. I know my local bank loans its money conservatively, doesn’t lend to other banks, and keeps a reserve higher than the regulators require. Still, I wonder how safe my money is there. Will I wake up one day to find that my assets have been frozen and all the checks I wrote are about to bounce? An FDIC reimbursement some months down the road wouldn’t do much to ease the immediate pain.

We already keep a few hundred bucks in cash around the house for emergencies. But just in case, I stop at the bank and draw out two thousand dollars more: a hundred crisp twenty dollar bills. They don’t buy as much as they did a year ago, but for now, dollars are still the currency of the land.

I did stop at a pawn shop today while I was in St. George to see about buying gold. I had to wait in line, and when I got to the counter, they’d sold all the gold they had: jewelry, coins, everything, and at prices far higher than I’d have been willing to pay. Apparently I’m not the only one taking precautions.

June 12

Joel — Fri, 20 Jun 2008 17:53:55 GMT

Early summer is one of my favorite times of year: the mornings dawn cool, but the afternoons warm to the eighties and nineties. The trees have leafed out now, and the garden shows its promise. The native plants in the field have not yet passed for the summer. It is perhaps the land at its most beautiful.

This afternoon, I take the Kawasaki up on Jackrabbit Mountain, about ten miles west of us. With a fabulous view of the whole valley before me, I sit under a tree and eat a sandwich. The smell of pinion and cedar fills the air, and a pair of hawks soars overhead. I love where I live, but a trip to the mountain always makes me feel even better. The trees stand in marked contrast to the sagebrush of the valley floor.

Afterwards, I drive my car to Parowan to visit the bank and top off the gas tank. Keeping the tank full has become a routine for us: however high the price of gas, there's a good chance it will be higher tomorrow. At well over $5 a gallon, we've had to plan our trips carefully.

It’s hard to believe, but today the price jumped another forty cents—since two days ago. I know oil production in Mexico has fallen off, and Iraq and Nigeria are unpredictable, but this is crazy! I’m supposed to drive a hundred and sixty miles to St. George and back tomorrow, for a doctor's appointment, and that’s going to be expensive.

I wonder how the truckers do it-- but the answer is, some don't. Already, we see fewer semis on the I-15, the main artery between the Rocky Mountain states and California.

June 11

Joel — Fri, 20 Jun 2008 18:16:59 GMT

Our chickens are aging. One day in March, Sarah went out to feed them and collect the eggs. She handed me the egg basket while she took her boots off in the entryway.

"It feels pretty light," I observed. “How many eggs did we get?”

“Sixteen,” she replied.

“Sixteen eggs out of twenty-five chickens?” I said. “Someone’s not pulling their weight. Maybe some of them need to be retired?”

“It’s still cold,” Sarah reminded me. “But some of the hens are over two years old. They might have stopped laying. Once it warms up, we can separate them one at a time and see whether they’re laying or not.”

“Okay,” I agreed. Hens don’t lay as much in cold weather and short days. Even keeping the lights on all evening—judiciously replaced with CFLs to save on expenses—and even with heat lamps going all night, we never get as many eggs in the winter as in summer.

“It’s been warm for a couple of weeks,” I point out to Sarah today. “Do you think it’s time to see which chickens are laying?”

“I guess so,” Sarah agrees, reluctantly. We both know what that means: the hens that don't lay will become dinner. There are a couple of exceptions: the "pet" hens that Sarah has become particularly fond of. There are three of these, and I accept that they'll live out their lives until they die of old age.

“We’ll need to separate them one at a time," Sarah says. "Can you help me set up the dog crate?”

We get the crate out of the storage shed: a wire box about four feet long, two feet wide, and three feet tall. Sarah puts a ceramic dog dish in for food, a quart-sized water dispenser, and straw for bedding. Then she catches one of the older hens and puts her in the crate.

Our chickens are of the Delaware breed: white bodies with black markings. They’re a dual-purpose breed, theoretically good for both laying and eating. But we don’t eat them very often. I find them a bit tougher and gamier than a store-bought bird, perhaps because the factory chickens are confined to cages for their entire lives. Factory birds never build up muscle tone, and never have the chance to graze for wild greens, bugs, and small rodents. Our Delawares are fine in a crock pot with tomato sauce or marinated in orange juice. But they don’t make good fried chicken—especially from a two-year-old retired laying hen.

One hen looks pretty much like another. Though each has her own personality, we wouldn’t be able to tell most of them apart without some kind of markings. We put plastic bands around the hens’ legs when they mature to identify them. The different colors indicate the year they were born as well identifying the individual bird: blue for two years ago, orange for last year, white for this year.

The hen Sarah pulled out was blue-white-blue, a two-year-old bird. She’s a good natured hen, and I hope she still lays. I don’t like retiring any of our birds, but the good-natured ones are even harder than the mean ones.

June 10

Joel — Fri, 20 Jun 2008 17:44:07 GMT

Now is the time of year for gasoline price increases. It happens every year: demand increases, and several refineries shut down for whatever reason. This year was no exception. Three major refineries in California shut down, one for storm damage, one because of a fire, and one had some kind of a spill. The price of gas has already doubled since January. The news analysts warned us it would. Still, it’s hard to believe.

In the cities, I’m sure mass transit is setting records for ridership. Out here, we have no buses. The only way to town is driving. That means we have to cut our trips down to save money. Every time I go in for work, Sarah goes with me. She buys groceries and runs errands while I work, then comes back and picks me up. Rarely does our timing coincide, so we’ve both taken to carrying library books with us. I’ve read more Robert B. Parker already this year than I did in the last three.

Often I ride my little Kawasaki to the post office and, when necessary, to the bank. It’s eight miles round trip to the PO, sixteen to the bank. I’ve made maybe ten or twelve trips and used less than a gallon of gas so far. And it’s fun, except when the weather is cold.

Sarah thinks we should get a horse. It might make some sense if the price of gas continues to climb. But we have no pasture, and you can’t feed a horse sagebrush and greasewood. That means we’d have to buy hay and grain every month.

I wonder if we can run the cars on something other than gasoline. Can you make ethanol out of Russian thistle? I doubt it. Also known as tumbleweed, the stuff came to the Dakotas in a grain shipment in the 1880s. Now it covers much of the West—a prime example of a noxious weed. It’s so prickly, even the goats won’t eat it. If the stuff had a use, someone would have discovered it by now.

Bill called me today to tell me his son Jeff graduated college. Jeff is twenty-six now, having spent some time in the military after high school to earn money for college.

I still wonder sometimes if I have somehow failed by not having children. Yet at the same time, I am painfully aware of how many problems in the world are caused by too many people. Wealth increases, but population increases too, so that half the population of the world still lives in squalor. Nothing, it seems, can be done for them, because as we prolong life spans, as we improve conditions, they have more children and spread the resources even more thinly than before. I cannot ask someone else to do what I will not do myself. So on moral grounds I feel I should not have children.

But, to be honest, my objection is far more personal: I like silence, and children are anything but silent. Perhaps that’s my selfishness rearing its ugly head. In any case, I made my decision. Sarah is too old now for children, and I am far too old to raise them anyway. Imagine being 65 when they hit puberty! No, childrearing is for the young.

June 9

Joel — Fri, 20 Jun 2008 17:39:48 GMT

Spring finally gave way to summer--or so it appears. We haven’t had frost for days, and National Weather Service says we won’t have any for at least a week. I started tomatoes and peppers in peat pots in April. Now it’s warm enough to put them in the ground. Sarah and I will plant cucumbers, lettuce, and parsley, too. Meanwhile, the cabbages, snow peas, radishes, coriander, and onions that we planted back in April begin to show promise.

We plant ten four-foot-square raised beds this year—two more than last year. Four of them grow spring and fall crops, and six we plant with the summer crops.

Each year, I build two more beds and fill them with store-bought soil and peat moss, with a healthy dose of composted goat manure. The raised beds improve drainage, and the soil mix is far better than the heavy, alkaline, iron-bound clay that occurs here naturally.

Two years ago, we started planting fruit trees in raised beds too, because no matter how much we amended the soil, the trees didn't survive the winter if we planted them in the ground. I built a huge raised bed a foot tall and filled it with topsoil. Then I added a second layer of raised bed and topsoil, leaving a step about three feet wide all the way around. I planted raspberries and gooseberries around the outside, and apple and cherry trees in the middle. They’re doing much better this time. We may even get our first crop of apples and cherries next year.

With the warm weather, the sagebrush and greasewood start to come out of hibernation. Pigweed sprouts, and Russian thistle, and bindweed, and tansy mustard and purple mustard and prickly onion. Sarah's allergies have been bothering her for weeks now. But soon enough, the long summer drought will begin, and the native perennials will die off for the year.

The jackrabbits have come out on force, too: a huge spring crop preparing to feast on all the new growth. As much as I hate to, I take out my .22 rifle, patrol our land, and shoot at the rabbits. I scare more than I hit. But if I don’t make the effort, the rabbits will continue to multiply until they’ve eaten every green plant in the valley. Then what would the goats and chickens and antelope eat?

Crows and ravens take advantage of my work. At least the rabbits don’t go to waste.

June 8

Joel — Fri, 20 Jun 2008 18:14:53 GMT

This afternoon is 80 degrees, dry, with a light breeze carrying the smell of sagebrush. A golden eagle glides low over the fields, and white, puffy cumulus clouds float lazily across a deep blue sky. The mountains hang on the horizon as beautiful and unreal as a painted backdrop. Truly we live in the most beautiful place on earth.

I spend the afternoon in the garden, weeding and watering. It is a perfect day.

Last night, after we turned out the light, as we snuggled in bed as we always do before going to sleep, I found myself marveling at the life we have together. We have no debt, not even a mortgage on our home or land. My business brings in enough for us to live on without much difficulty, as long as we’re careful. We live in a postcard, with snow-covered mountains to the north, east, and west of us—a panorama nearly 270 degrees around.

Half the world’s population lives on two dollars a day or less. Less than ten percent has internet access. Some five hundred million suffer from starvation or malnutrition. Seventy percent are illiterate, and the vast majority don’t even have a bank account.

As Sarah’s breathing slowed, I felt the weight of her head against my chest. I realized, not for the first time, that she and I live a charmed life in an extraordinary world. Did we do something to deserve such special treatment, or was it just the luck of the draw?

June 7

Joel — Fri, 20 Jun 2008 17:29:18 GMT

I found it difficult to work next to Sarah without touching her, and without grinning like a fool. If our coworkers failed to notice that something had changed between us, it must surely have been from lack of observation.

Sarah and I arrived in separate cars, of course, in order to maintain appearances. But Sarah hadn’t brought a lunch that day, since I had nothing to eat in my fridge except milk and cheese, so I bought her a burger off the lunch truck. If anyone noticed, they didn’t comment.

After lunch, Nancy sidled up to Sarah’s desk. “Hey Sarah,” she said, in a stage whisper. “What’s with the turtleneck on such a warm day? You got a hickey or something?”

Sarah smiled. “I wish,” she replied. “I just didn’t make it to the dry cleaner last night.” How she said it without blushing, I can’t imagine.

I turned my face toward the wall as I winced. That morning, I’d asked Sarah about her turtleneck too, knowing I hadn’t given her a hickey. She’d confessed that she had an ugly bruise where her ex had pushed his forearm against her throat. She had another on her cheek where he’d slapped her, but she covered that one with makeup.

The bruises blossomed over the next few days, turning various colors more appropriate to flowers than skin, a regular reminder that all was not yet right in the world. But we went about our business as if no problems hung on the horizon. After work that first day, we met at the grocery store and negotiated our first joint food purchase. Sarah liked Sugar Smacks and cookies. I liked whole grains and avoided sugar. She liked beef and potatoes, I preferred chicken and broccoli.

At times, I wondered how two people so very different could ever live under the same roof. But we did. Each night, we’d go back to my apartment and cook dinner. Sometimes we took turns, and sometimes we’d cook together. That, I decided, was encouraging: if two people can cook together without killing each other, there’s nothing they can’t do.

The repair shop took four days to replace the glass in Sarah’s car, and insurance covered the cost. She turned in her rental car and, from all outward appearances, had returned to the way things were before.

Except now she lived with me.

At the end of our first week together, we went down to the bank and opened a joint checking account. On the way home, Sarah asked, “Would you like it if I made you lunch?”

I gave her a quick glance, returning my gaze to the traffic ahead. “They’re going to know,” I said. “If we both show up at work eating the same kind of sandwich, they’re going to know we’re together.”

Sarah thought about that for a moment. Then she said, “I don’t think I care.”

June 6

Joel — Fri, 20 Jun 2008 17:25:27 GMT

Sarah climbed out of bed early. I rolled over, glanced at the clock, noted it was 5:30 am, and went back to sleep. When I emerged at seven, she was dressed for work, had coffee brewing, and was busily surfing the web on my computer.

I leaned over and kissed the top of her head, which made her smile. “You got up early,” I observed. “What’ve you been up to?”

“I wanted to shower and get out of your way,” she replied. “The bathroom’s all yours.”

“Did you eat?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “I wanted to wait for you.”

I felt a warm feeling spread through me. After all, my interest in Sarah was not getting her into bed, or at least not just that. I wanted her completely. Maybe now I had her, at least for a little while.

“There’s not much to choose from,” I said. “I’ve got Cheerios and milk and some orange juice.”

“I noticed the cupboard was pretty bare,” she said. “Cereal’s fine.”

I got bowls, spoons, and glasses out of the dish drainer, and retrieved the cereal box from over the stove. I would, I guessed, have to buy some groceries—if Sarah was staying.

As I poured cereal, I said, “Last night was really wonderful.”

“Yes,” she said, “it was.”

I poured orange juice and milk and set the bowl in front of her. She gave me a funny look.

“What?” I asked.

“If I eat as much as you, I’m going to be as big as you,” she replied. “I don’t think you want that.”

I grinned. “Not really,” I said. “But that’s an image that’s hard to imagine. Just eat what you want. This is going to take some getting used to.”

“You’re telling me,” she said. But she smiled as she said it.

“Are you coming back tonight?” I asked.

Sarah looked serious for a moment. “I don’t know,” she said. “Do you think I should?”

“Do I think you should?” I repeated. “That’s a stupid question. I…” I trailed off. What I wanted to say was that I wanted her to stay and never leave—but since this had been our first date together, logically that seemed a bit premature.

“You what?” she prompted.

“I’d like you to come back,” I said, feeling my cheeks burn red.

“That’s not what you were going to say,” she said.

“Maybe not,” I acknowledged. “But it’s what I said.”

Sarah grinned. “Okay,” she said, amiably. “Be that way. But go get in the shower or we’ll be late for work.”

June 5

Joel — Fri, 20 Jun 2008 17:20:02 GMT

The reason for our dinner sat between us like an elephant in the living room: we tiptoed around it, pretending it wasn’t there, pretending we were just friends having a nice dinner together.

And it was a nice dinner. I found Sarah engaging and charming. She seemed to find me pleasant enough, which I found encouraging if not completely satisfying. And Sarah was right: the carnitas were excellent.

When the waitress had cleared our plates, I brought the conversation back to the matter at hand. “Listen,” I told her, “I have a triple-A card. Let’s call them and get your car towed over to this glass place I know. We can rent you a car—there’s an Enterprise down the street from my apartment. And you can stay at my place—I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“You don’t have to do all that,” Sarah said. “I can handle it.”

“I want to do it,” I insisted.

She sighed. “I’m sorry about this,” she said. “I didn’t want to get you involved.”

“It’s no problem,” I assured her. Sleeping on the couch for a night seemed a small price to pay to get past her walls.

Later, after we’d had her car towed, stopped by her place for some clothes and toiletries, and parked her nearly-new Ford Fiesta rental in the driveway, we sipped herb tea at my kitchen table.

“I imagine we’ll need to coordinate our showers in the morning,” I said. “What time do you usually get up?”

“Look,” she said, “you’ve been really nice about all this. But you don’t have to rearrange your life for me. Just tell me what time you want to use the bathroom, and I’ll be out of your way.”

The word "nice" made my skin crawl, but I shrugged, and told her what time I usually got up.

“Fine,” she said. She drained her mug and stood. “I’m going to go wash my face.”

“I’ll be here,” I said.

As I waited my turn in the bathroom, I got some clean sheets out of the cupboard and changed the bed. As I worked, I tried to tell myself that I expected too much. Sarah had let me in to her world far more today than in all the months we’d worked together. But I wanted more. I wanted her to open up, trust me, rely on me, and yes: even date me. I had to admit my expectations seemed a bit high. I’d thought of Sarah in that way for months, but as far as I could tell, she had just approached that threshold with me a few hours before. If anything like that were to happen, she would need more time.

When Sarah reappeared, with her hair up and clad in a white cotton nightgown, I’d retreated to the couch, where I had laid out a blanket and pillow.

“Thanks for this,” Sarah said. “You’ve been really sweet today.”

“It’s no problem,” I replied.

We stood looking at each other for a moment—a poignant moment perhaps when things could have gone either way. Then Sarah said, “Good night, Joel. You sleep well.”

“You too,” I said. Then, not knowing what else to do, I opened my arms, offering her a hug.

Sarah gave me a funny look. Then she stepped forward, into my arms, and collapsed against me, her arms around me. For a moment, we just hugged, her face against my chest. Then she raised her head and kissed me on the lips, hungrily. I responded.

When we came up for air, I murmered softly, “We don’t have to do this unless you want to.”

“Shut up,” she hissed, in a harsh whisper. “I've wanted this since the day I met you.”

June 4

Joel — Wed, 04 Jun 2008 11:47:00 GMT

I backed the car out, watching in the mirrors in case a crazed ex-husband lept from the shadows to accost us. He didn’t. Still, neither of us spoke until we had reached the street, turned right, and driven safely for a couple of blocks.

“What do you like to eat?” I asked Sarah.

“Anything,” she said. “To tell you the truth, I’m not very hungry. Whatever you want.”

“Food will do you good,” I insisted. “What do you like?”

She sighed, and didn’t answer at first. We’d travelled several more blocks in heavy traffic before she finally replied.

“Mexican,” she said at last. “I could really use a quesadilla and a beer.”

“Is there a place you like?” I asked.

“Ernesto’s,” she said. “It’s a little hole in the wall on Normandie.”

She gave me directions, and I followed them. In twenty minutes, we’d parked in the tiny parking lot between a beat-up Chevy truck and a Ford Taurus with a “¡Yo Soy Zacatecas!” bumper sticker. This, I guessed, would be comidas Mexicana muy autentico.

Inside, it took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. Sarah led me to a table in the corner, over which a small light ensconced in a fixture with darkened glass strove hopelessly to light our surroundings.

An old Hispanic woman brought us menus, chips, and salsa. She nodded to Sarah, who smiled and nodded back.

“¿Bebidas?” the old woman asked.

“Agua,” I replied.

“Cerveza Tecate con limon,” Sarah said. “Gracias.”

In a moment, the same woman brought a glass of water for me and a can of Tecate beer with a slice of lemon for Sarah. I gave a curious look.

“Long day,” Sarah said. “Don’t read anything into it.”

“Never,” I said, trying not to. “What’s good here?”

“Everything I’ve ever had,” Sarah replied. “What do you like?”

“Everything,” I said. “But I’ll probably settle for the carnitas tacos.”

“Good choice,” she said. When the waitress reappeared, Sarah ordered for both of us in Spanish.

The waitress retreated. Sarah took a chip and dipped it into the dish of salsa. I followed suit. The salsa packed a punch, and I tried not to let on that my mouth was burning.

“Have another chip,” Sarah suggested, as a tear ran down my cheek. “It’ll absorb the hot.”

I did, and she was right. My mouth burned slightly less after that.

“Listen,” I said. “I don’t want to pry, but I do want to help.”

“You can’t help,” she said. “This is my mess, and I’ve got to figure my own way out.”

“Maybe you underestimate me,” I said. “I'm here for you. You’re not alone.”

Sarah gave me a friendly, slightly condescending look. “I know,” she said. But I knew she was lying.

June 3

Joel — Tue, 03 Jun 2008 11:40:00 GMT

We talked some more, switching to our respective lives, and for the first time since I'd met her, Sarah spoke of her life outside work. She lived alone in an apartment with a cat, read voraciously, and volunteered as a reader for the blind. She'd dated a few times after her divorce, but said her ex-husband had a knack for showing up at just the wrong moment. After a couple of disastrous beginnings, she'd given up dating entirely.

"Do you like living alone?" I asked her.

"Sure," she said. Then added, "More or less. It's something I've gotten used to."

"That's a pretty big price to pay for making a mistake in choosing your first husband," I suggested.

"Well, I guess that's why God invented batteries," she said, daring me to reply.

As Sarah told me her secrets, it seemed to me that something in her blossomed. I found her beautiful beyond description—not merely in a physical sense, for she was small and slender and not a classic beauty, but in her whole being. Something in her glowed. Like a grail, I thought.

The dregs of our coffees had long gone cold when we finally rose to leave.

“How about dinner?” I asked.

“Thanks, Joel, really,” she said. “But I just want to get my car and go home.”

“Are you sure it’s safe?” I asked.

“Yes, of course,” she replied, dismissively. “He’ll cool off, and then he won’t bother me for a while.”

I drove her back to the plant. The parking lot had only a dozen cars at this hour, the swing shift was on duty. At the offices, all the managers and administrators had left, and Sarah’s car sat alone next to the building.

I pulled around to the side parking lot the accounting office used and parked next to Sarah’s blue sedan.

“Thanks,” she said, and put her hand on the door handle.

“Aw, crap,” I said, looking past her.

Sarah looked at me, then turned and looked at her car. All the windows had been broken.

“Oh,” she said, her voice catching in her throat. Then, anger took hold of her. “That son of a bitch!” she spat. A stream of expletives followed.

When she ran out of steam, I said, “Let’s get out of here. I’ll take you to dinner, and we can figure out what to do next.”

“Fine,” she said.

June 2

Joel — Mon, 02 Jun 2008 11:37:00 GMT

The Coffee Shoppe on Sepulveda offered the usual coffees, lattes, frappucinos, and herb teas found at any California coffee shop these days. But, unlike its better-known competitors, it also offered a quiet environment for studying, web browsing, or conversation. Sarah and I ordered coffee, waited for it to be prepared, and grabbed a corner table, isolated from the other tables by a large plastic plant.

“So,” I prompted.

Sarah took a sip of coffee, set the cup back on the table, and stared out the window at the traffic on Sepulveda. For a long moment, she said nothing.

When she finally did speak, she didn’t look at me. She addressed her remarks to the cars passing by outside.

“I used to be married,” she said. “I think I wanted someone to take care of me. That’s what he wanted, too. It didn’t work out, for obvious reasons.”

“That was your ex-husband?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said, her voice quiet.

“What did he want?” I asked.

“Money,” she replied. “I used to have half my paycheck put into his checking account. When we were married, that helped pay for the house payment. But when we split up, even though we sold the house, he insisted that I keep doing it. Last month I asked the company to stop, and now he’s pissed.”

“Did you have to pay him anything in the divorce?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “We’d been married only a couple of years. And we didn’t have any kids. The divorce was easy: we just signed the papers and walked away. Only now he thinks I owe him something.”

“How long have you been separated?” I asked.

“About eighteen months,” she said.

I sipped my coffee and thought about that. She’d been separated less than a year when we started working together. No wonder she wouldn’t date me.

“Has he ever hurt you?” I asked.

She stared out the window, as if the answer might be out there. “Yes,” she said, finally. “When he gets angry, he hits me.”

I felt my face flush. “That son of a bitch,” I muttered.

“Listen,” Sarah said, turning to face me for the first time since we’d arrived. “This is my problem, not yours. You’re a nice guy, and I appreciate your help. But I don’t expect you to save me.”

The “nice guy” label rankled me: usually that’s the kind of guy women like to talk to but not date.

“Sometimes I’m not so nice,” I said. “Guys who hit women really piss me off.”

June 1

Joel — Sun, 01 Jun 2008 15:36:29 GMT

I tried to put the feel of Sarah's hand on my shoulder out of my mind, but the truth is, I felt distracted all afternoon. By five o’clock, I’d answered all the calls that came to my desk, but done little else. My brain raced with anticipation—not of sex or even physical contact, but of breaking through Sarah’s walls and getting inside to glimpse the real her.

“Shall we go somewhere for coffee?” I asked her, when she’d hung up from her last call.

“Sure,” she said. “I’ll meet you at the place on Sepulveda.”

“If I wanted to catch you,” I said, “I’d wait outside the gate and wait for your car to show up.”

“What are you suggesting?” she asked.

“I think it would be safer if you rode with me,” I said.

Sarah sighed. “Okay,” she said. “You can drop me at my car later.”

“Fine,” I said, though I had my doubts.

“Wait,” she said. “I’m going to go into the ladies room for a few minutes while everyone leaves. I don’t want anyone to see us leave together.”

“Don’t squat where you eat?” I asked.

“Yes,” she replied. “But it doesn’t matter so much what we’re doing or not doing, it only matters what they think we’re doing—and I don’t want to give anyone a reason to think anything.”

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll wait ten minutes and go to my car. I’ll wait for you there.”

A half hour later, only my car and Sarah’s remained in the parking area. Sarah still hadn’t come out. I began to wonder whether she might have slipped out another way and ridden with one of the girls instead, but that didn’t make much sense.

I glanced at the clock in the dash when she finally appeared: 5:47. She approached my car, and I unlocked the door for her. She got in and closed the door without saying a word. I gazed at her for a moment. She didn’t look at me, and it was obvious she’d been crying again.

“Are you okay with this?” I asked.

“No, but let’s do it anyway,” she said. “I really hate dragging you into this.”

“Into what?” I asked.

“Just drive,” she instructed. “I’ll tell you when we get there.”

May 31

Joel — Sun, 01 Jun 2008 15:33:54 GMT

“You know, you're alright for a bean counter,” Kuta told me, after we'd all watched the attacker retreat with as much pride as he could muster to the front gate.

“Thanks,” I said, grinning. “I appreciate you guys stepping in.”

“Pleasure,” Tucker said. “It ain’t every day I get to serve justice and save the girl.”

“Even if she’s just a bean counter?” I said.

“Don’t mean she ain’t cute,” Tucker observed.

“There’s that,” I agreed.

Kuta and Tucker returned to the lunch truck to get their food, and I returned to the sales office. Only a couple of minutes had passed, but it seemed much longer.

Inside, Sarah sat in her cubicle with her face in her hands. Her phone rang, but she ignored it. I watched the light flash on my phone for a moment, then answered it.

“Sarah’s desk,” I said into the phone.

“Yeah, I’m returning her call about a past-due invoice,” the voice said. I tapped the information he gave me into the phone, recorded his promise to send out a check on Friday, and hung up. Then I poked my head around the cubicle.

Sarah hadn’t moved. She still sat with her face in her hands, and I wondered briefly if her distress stemmed from the man, or from my witnessing what had happened.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I asked.

“No,” she murmured into her palms.

I gazed at her in silence for a long moment. “Listen,” I said, “I don’t know what’s going through your head right now. But if you’re embarrassed that I saw what I saw, don’t be. I don’t know the details, but I don’t have any reason to think less of you.”

She pulled her hands from her face and looked at me. I could see she’d been crying. “You’re a sweet guy,” she said. “I’m sorry you saw that. I’ve always believed work and personal life should not mix.”

“Well, that train just left the station,” I said. “I wish you would talk to me.”

“Not here,” she replied.

I thought about that for a moment, recognizing that something had just changed between us: “not here” meant maybe somewhere else.

“Okay,” I said. “Why don’t you go wash up a little?”

“Thanks,” she said, as she got out of her chair. She put her hand on my shoulder. I felt my body tingle at her touch, and caught my breath.

“Really,” she said, “Thanks for being here.”

May 30

Joel — Sun, 01 Jun 2008 15:31:08 GMT

Even though I now worked in the sales office, I almost always bought my lunch from the lunch truck. It made a nice opportunity to see the guys in the plant every day and exchange good-natured barbs.

“How’s life with the women?” someone would ask.

“At least they can read,” I’d shoot back.

“Hey Cranmoor, you’re getting that secretary spread.”

“I think he’s growing breasts, just like them!”

“They’re far better looking than you are,” I’d say. “You’re just jealous because you have to look at someone as ugly as Floyd all day.”

There’d be a hurried exchange of expletives, and we’d all laugh.

They had a point, though: I’d gained ten pounds because I ate the same food as before, but now I didn’t get any exercise. I knew I had to either eat less or start working out. I resolved to exercise more as I ordered a burger, hold the onions. In the interest of calorie reduction, I skipped the French fries and grabbed a diet Coke instead of a regular one.

Food in hand, I headed back to the accounting office. I rounded the corner of the building just in time to see a large man put his forearm across a woman’s throat, pressing her into the blue sedan: Sarah’s car. Then I realized the woman was Sarah.

I froze, but only for a moment. Then I backtracked toward the lunch truck.

“Hey Kuta,” I called to one of the bigger guys. “Do me a huge favor, huh? Grab Tucker and come over here?”

Kuta looked puzzled, but he tapped Tucker on the shoulder and got his attention. They both walked toward me, curious. Kuta stood six foot three and weighed about two forty. He had a grey-blonde pony tail and a biker beard. Tucker was smaller, but had served in the Marines and had the tattoos to prove it. They both looked scary, much scarier than me.

“There’s a problem over there,” I said, pointing. “That’s Sarah from the office.”

The two men looked in time to see Sarah’s attacker pull back his hand and slap her across the face. They both broke into a jog, and as the man pulled his hand back a second time, Kuta grabbed it and pulled him off balance.

“This ain’t happening in our plant,” Tucker growled at the man.

The intruder released Sarah and spun to face them. He tried to hit Kuta with his free hand, but Kuta batted the blow away without difficulty. “It’s none of your business,” the attacker spat.

Kuta spun the man easily, and pushed the guy’s arm up between his shoulder blades.

“Everything that happens on this property is our business,” Tucker said. “You want to argue about it?”

“Go,” Kuta said to Sarah. “We’ll take it from here.”

Sarah backed away until she was well out of range, then turned and sprinted for the door.

When she’d disappeared inside, Kuta released the man and said, “Now go.”

The man glowered at him, not yet convinced, so Kuta hit him with an uppercut that knocked his head backward. As he began to fall forward, Kuta grabbed him and stood him against Sarah’s car.

“The man said go,” Tucker repeated, stepping forward.

The attacker shook his head. “This ain’t over,” he said.

“It is for you,” Kuta said, “unless you want to take your best shot right here.”

The attacker eyed the two men, decided his odds were long, and backed away. “It ain’t over,” he said again.

“Any time, any place,” Tucker said, grinning. “You come back again and we’ll see.”

The man muttered an expletive, turned, and strode away like he still had some pride left.

May 29

Joel — Sun, 01 Jun 2008 15:27:29 GMT

“Don’t call me here,” Sarah said sharply, catching my attention. Then she slammed the phone down so hard that everyone in the room must have heard.

I poked my head around the divider and saw her flushed face. “Are you okay?” I asked.

“Fine,” she replied, her voice tight.

“What was that about?” I asked.

“Nothing,” she said. “Family stuff.”

I gazed at her curiously for a moment. I didn’t believe her, but obviously she didn’t care to explain. “Okay,” I said. “If I can help, let me know.”

"It's fine," she insisted again. She pasted on a smile and went back to work.

I gazed at her for a moment, concerned for her and wistful that she didn't trust me enough to let me in. Then I, too, went back to work.

At five o'clock sharp, Sarah grabbed her purse and headed for the door.

"See you tomorrow," I called after her. If she heard me, she didn't acknowledge it.

Despite her protests, over the next few days I could tell things were not okay with Sarah. I’d overhear her whispering angrily into the phone—not something you do with a customer. Often I’d hear the impact of the receiver being forcefully hung up. Whenever I checked on her, she’d don a fake smile and assure me that everything was fine.

I didn't like what I saw, but I could do nothing unless Sarah let me in.

May 28

Joel — Sun, 01 Jun 2008 15:25:26 GMT

Still smiling after my flirtatious exchange with Sarah, I answered the phone.

“Customer service,” I said into the receiver. “This is Joel.”

“Look, Joel, this is Jack Moreno out at California Manufacturing,” a man’s frustrated voice said. “You guys delivered some stuff last week, and I just got the bill, and it’s wrong.”

As soon as I heard the name of the company, I typed it into my computer. By the time he’d finished the sentence, I had his last order up on the screen. “The sulfur hexafluoride?” I asked.

“Yeah, that’s the one,” he said. I could tell I’d surprised him.

“What’s the problem?” I asked.

“You guys billed me for the big ones, but we don’t get the big ones. They don’t even fit our equipment.”

“Let me put you on hold for just a minute and I’ll check it out,” I said. “Okay?”

“Sure,” he said, skeptically.

I punched the hold button, walked to the file cabinets where the shipping documents got filed, and looked up the order. It showed ten of the large cylinders being delivered. I walked back to my desk and called Tim in shipping. “Hey, it’s Joel down in Customer Service,” I said.

“Joel,” he repeated. “How’s things down there with the women. You getting any?”

“Not as much as I did up there,” I joked back. “Listen, you remember the sulfur hex you guys shipped over to California Manufacturing last week?”

“Sure,” he said. “That stuff is heavy. The guys always complain about having to load it.”

“Were they the big cylinders?” I asked.

“Hang on, let me check my records,” he said. Then, “No, they were the medium ones. Why, they get charged for the big ones? Sorry about that,” he said.

“No problem,” I replied. “I’m on it.

I disconnected and clicked back over to Jack. “Jack?” I asked, typing the change into my computer as I spoke.

“Yeah?” he replied, irritated again after the long wait.

“I’m sorry that took so long,” I said. “Our records showed the big ones, so I had to check with the shipping office. They told me we’d made a mistake. What’s your fax number? I’ll send over the correction right now.”

“Wow, that was easy,” he said. “Last time this happened, it was a real hassle.” He gave me his fax number.

That’s how it went most of the day. The whole idea of having someone on customer service who actually knew how things worked and who could answer questions had apparently never occurred to anyone before—and Schmidt’s idea to try it had been genius.

I sat back for a moment as I waited for the next call and silently congratulated myself once again. This, I told myself not for the first time, was fun.

May 27

Joel — Sun, 01 Jun 2008 15:22:28 GMT

“So what do you do when you’re not working,” I asked Sarah during a coffee break—not for the first time.

She smiled that smile at me, the one that made me melt inside. “I go home and watch TV,” she said. “I cook myself some dinner. I clean the house. Sometimes I sew.”

“You live alone?” I asked.

“I told you I do,” she replied. But she wasn’t annoyed. This was a game we’d played for weeks: I queried and she obfuscated.

“No boyfriend?” I asked.

“Do I look like I have a boyfriend?” she countered.

“You look like you should have a boyfriend,” I replied.

“And you want to apply for that position?” she jabbed.

I smiled and shrugged. I didn't dare say yes, though we both know I did.

“Let’s get back to work,” she said. “Our fifteen minutes is up.”

She went back to her cubicle, and I returned to mine, right next door. We though not officially a team, I regularly consulted her with questions about administration and accounting, and she often asked me questions about how the plant worked or about the products themselves.

I never enjoyed a job as much as this one—even though I missed being outdoors, and missed stretching my muscles. Now I understood why guys played football on the weekends, only I never learned how.