Chapter 27, Blog 1
By Chuck Wells As Told To Ray Hochgesang
In less than a week, my agent decided she needed to move back into “our” house to keep up with the growing snowball of offers rolling in.
… sorry, you atheists, this proves there’s a God …
“Charles, the Depends Company called again,” said Melinda.
“Shouldn’t we see how much …”
“No, I am not endorsing diapers.”
“Even if it’s limited to one 30-second commercial? As your agent, I must …”
“Melinda, do you know what my friends would say? Do you know what they would do?”
“But what about the girls’ college funds?” My agent countered. “They’re not exactly running over.”
Instead, we signed with Sunset Prunes and Associated Fruits. Insert your own juvenile joke here if you must. As part of the deal, I got all new, purple and yellow track gear complete with the company’s logo strategically placed on both sides of my shirts and trunks.
As I suspected, no detail was too small for my agent. Melinda was a natural. But we both knew the offers would not last. You get only 15 minutes, right? Each day she spent about an hour on the phone before work, talking with marketing departments, vetting the companies and then negotiating if she wanted to pursue an offer.
When Melinda moved back, she took over the master bedroom. I stayed downstairs. I was ecstatic. My separated wife of nine weeks had come home. Already, our daughters were sleeping in their old bedrooms three nights a week, so the transition proved minimal.
Long after the fact, I discovered it was Dedra who “persuaded” Melinda to go home. My agent was tying up Dedra’s phone line. Also, I heard Dedra was seeing someone new.
At first, Melinda was suspicious of Harry, but he charmed her as he had done Shannon and Jessie. That he took care of all the cooking didn’t hurt either. After Melinda and the girls moved back, come to think of it, I didn’t see Harry much around the house at night. He would fix a quick dinner for us and disappear. Coincidence? I think not.
In any case, I adored having my family back under one roof even if I had to sleep on a moldy, old sleeping bag in the dank basement. It was worth it. My being in the basement was more than punitive or symbolic, too. It was practical. I could come and go without disturbing anyone. And yes, I still got my nightly dose of Russian.
Copyright © 2012 by Chuck H. Wells/Ray Hochgesang