Chapter Twenty-Two

At David’s apartment, the table is beautifully laid and ready for Thanksgiving lunch, in contrast to David, who still wears his pj’s while sporting a two-day stubble on his chin. The clock shows three o’clock as he places a bowl next to the stove and picks up a baked potato he has boiled. It’s hot.

“Ooch, eech, ouch!” cries David, juggling the potato, and then putting it onto a dinner plate. Three other potatoes find their way there, too.

Working at the speed if not the adeptness of a short-order cook, David retrieves the fresh pasta container from the fridge, breaks open the wrapping, and dumps the contents into a plastic bowl. He grabs a cookbook and reads aloud.

“After boiling, blah, blah, blah, reheat oven. What? No, preheat oven. Preheat oven? I don’t have time for that sh-”

He spies the microwave.

“Preheat microwave. That’ll save some time!”

David sets the time and the power on the microwave: Eight minutes and mid-power.

“Boy, I hope that’s enough,” he thinks, pursing his lips.

Pausing for a moment, his eyes slowly close. Then, he shakes his head to awaken and opens his eyes wide.

“Shower time!”

A short time later, the loud splashing of the shower drowns out his telephone ringing. The answering machine picks up.

“Hello, this is David. I’m not in right now... ”

At the ranch Dewitt is holding a telephone receiver and looking at his “script.” David’s answering machine announcement ends and when it does he pretends to put two quarters into an imaginary pay phone, while smiling to Willie and T. P., who are closely monitoring the event.

“Ding! Ding!” Dewitt says, mimicking his “quarters” dropping. He laughs a little nervous laugh and the boys do, too. Dewitt begins reading, deliberately and in a flat monotone.

“Hello, David. This is Doctor D. I made it up here for my alumni meeting. – Everyone bets on football against our opposites, uh, State Pen. – It’s the typical scene: big tired hogs getting their butts kick stand beside cars and tackles. Have a nice weekend. Bye!”

Dewitt looks at Willie and shrugs a “How was that?” expression as he hangs up the telephone. Willie and T. P. smile at each other, satisfied.

“See,” Willie says to T. P., “he didn’t say ‘Bye-byes.’”

Willie looks at Dewitt and gives him a smile.

“Hey, good performance there, Doc.”

“Thank you,” says a somewhat breathless Dewitt.

“I hope they get it,” says T. P., excitedly.

Dewitt chuckles and takes a deep breath. He looks out the living room window. The entire ranch is tranquil. There is the sound of a few farm animals emanating from the barn. Overhead, there is blue sky, a few puffy clouds – and the faint noise of a jet engine fading in the distance.

In a clearing near the front porch, sits the big Harley-Davidson “hog” motorcycle, its big tires, kickstand and sidecar gleaming under the high Western sun.

“Yeah,” Dewitt says to himself. “I sure hope they ‘get it!’”