I noted the number on the box and checked it off of the inventory list that was on the clipboard I held. "That looks like everything," I said to the moving truck driver and one of the helpers standing in the living room of my new apartment. Over the course of the last few hours, we had gotten to know each other and I showed them how much I appreciated their extra care with my stuff with pizza and a couple of beers.
"You sure? I know the truck is empty. If you find anything that's missing, just give the number a call. And hey, make sure you keep your head up Paul." The older gentlemen's encouragement was welcome. I hadn't received much of that lately. I had moved back to my hometown, braving the hail of jokes and ridicule from my father and my older brother that I knew was coming. I had balked at coming home to work for the family business that my dad eventually handed down to my brother. The used car dealership was the largest in a three-state radius and was still successful despite the downturn in the economy. I couldn't say that for the company I went to work for after college. Government regulation of its star drug caused the pharmaceutical company I sold drugs for to downsize me. Luckily I had paid off my man toys and had even managed to save a few bucks when it was forecast that I would eventually be let go. The other consolation was a healthy severance package that would allow me five months to sulk and look for some work, though I knew I'd eventually end up selling cars for my brother.
As I closed the door to my cramped two-bedroom apartment, I noticed the echo of the unadorned halls. I became especially aware when my girlfriend's, ahem, ex-girlfriend's ringtone blasted from my cell phone. "Paulie," she asked as if she didn't know I'd answer.
"Yeah, what's up?" I tried to act like hearing her voice didn't shake me to my very core. It did.
"Hey. How is everything going," she asked as if I felt no effects from our abrupt breakup two days prior.
"Great. Just great. What can I do for you," I asked trying to get her off the phone.
"Paulie, don't be like that. It doesn't make talking with you easier," she responded.
"Yeah Sherry. Once again, what can I do for you," I asked more directly.
"Whatever. I see you're going to continue acting like a child. I just called because I left my styling iron in your bathroom stuff and I don't want to buy a new one. Can I get it sometime or are you going to be a jackass about this?" Her words were like a hot knife sticking in my ear.
Two weeks ago, Sherry went home to visit her parents. While she was there, apparently her mother had encouraged her to seek the company of another suitor—one with better future prospects. Her mother, always the facilitator, even set her up with a prospect. He, like Sherry's father, was a doctor and his occupation was more "conducive" with Sherry's future career. She was a medical student with a year left before entering the exciting field of making tons of money.
"You know what Sherry," I started into her and then thought better of it. I took a deep breath and remembered that anger would get me about nowhere. "Yeah, you know where I moved to. I'm going to take a few weeks off, so come get it whenever," I calmly stated.
"Paulie, I don't want to be at each other's throats forever. We've had three good years together and there's no reason why we can't be friends," she said.
"Okay Sherry. Why don't you let me go? I'm really tired and want to set up my new place a little bit before I get some sleep. Give me a call tomorrow and we'll work out a time when you can pick up any of your stuff you left or I can bring it to you." I just couldn't talk to her anymore. Not tonight. Maybe not for a few more nights. I found out a week ago that her mother's "facilitation" with the doctor included a couple of dates, one that explained her inability to answer the phone one night until two in the morning.
"Alright Paulie. I'll call you tomorrow. Sleep ti...," she started before I pushed the end button on my cell phone.
I plopped down on the loveseat that I had placed among my many boxes and across from my baby: my 63" plasma hi-definition television. I slid in a DVD of the latest blockbuster and proceeded to ignore it as I fell asleep.
The week I had since first moving in was pretty therapeutic. I took the time to set up my apartment. On two of those nights, I had the surprisingly pleasant experience of having my mother's help. She came over to add a woman's touch to the place and bring over some housewarming gifts. Mom was so much more sympathetic than my dad, who took every opportunity to take a mental jab at me for refusing his employment offer three years ago. The second night she brought me dinner and we talked and laughed until I cried. No really. I cried, laying my head on my mother's lap. That was about as low as I would get I decided.
My older brother came over the next night and we shared some beers over steaks. I expected the worst, but he was really cool and, as expected, offered me a job as an assistant sales manager. "Hell, you have more experience selling shit than I ever had starting out." I explained that my pride wanted me to look for another job for a few months and he understood saying that I'd have a job whenever I wanted it. The job offer was nice, but I couldn't get past the mental image of my dad, who had not called yet, snickering at my recent misfortune as I walked into the dealership on my figurative hands and knees. I would do anything before that. And I did.
A connection in the local school system fast-tracked my application for a temporary teaching license and I became a substitute teacher. After a week of lounging around my new apartment, I was called in for a job substituting for an eleventh-grade math teacher. During the morning, I was reminded why I had a degree in psychology and not math. The questions and, well, babysitting left me exhausted. I couldn't wait for the break and I readily flopped into the beaten leather chair in the teacher's lounge for lunch. I laid my head on the top of the chair's back and closed my eyes for a quick power nap. A tap on the shoulder woke me up.
"Paulie?" The female voice sounded vaguely familiar to me. I shook off my grogginess and tried to focus. "Paulie Tanner?"
I looked through my glasses, now crooked, at my senior English teacher Mrs. Hannah. "Mrs. Hannah," I asked trying to pull myself further out of my quick nap.
"Wow! It's great to see you," she exclaimed. "Oh and by the way, it's Carol. Carol Gentry actually. Divorce will do that to you," she laughed uncomfortably at her own joke, explaining the name change. "What are you doing here," she continued.
"I'm teaching here. Well, no, I'm actually substituting for Mr. Lamond. I'm between jobs but am trying to stay busy," I rambled, slowly gathering my composure. It was then that I noticed her figure. "Mrs. Hannah" was the most gorgeous teacher we had at school. A flood of memories came back to me instantaneously. I don't know how many times I had masturbated to her image in my head. She was always dressed professionally, yet her outfits still had a way of showing off her (what I guessed were) 32 C breasts and her lovely hips, ass, and legs. She was around 5'4" with tanned skin and soft brown hair. It was ten years since I had last seen her, but time had been good to her. Despite a few lines around her eyes and perhaps an additional five pounds or so, she still looked fantastic.
