Multiple Units #109

"After we left Aitchel, Ohio, we went to Missouri, to Missouri River State," Randy continued his tale. "Oh, and now I'm expected to be a fan of the Kansas City Chiefs. But, I've been a Cleveland Browns fan since I could hold a football. I mean, it's a pretty miserable way to live, but I'm a Browns fan through and through. But when I got my degree in Business Administration, I was hired on at the Jordinaire Medical College in Benhurst, Colorado."

Kirsten remembered, when she'd started this conversation with Randy, he'd mentioned Benhurst, Colorado. And, judging from the position of the sun, it was close to eleven o'clock in Benhurst. It was close to twelve noon here in DeGarde, Louisiana.

"Reverend Cohen, of the Benhurst Church of The Risen And Living Messiah would have been a shock to the good people of Aitchel," Randy said, mouth a straight, thin line. "Oh, he was pretty progressive, I tell you. He didn't adhere to the notion that women were not to wear slacks, women were not to cut their hair, or wear any makeup. Nope. No sirree, Bob. Reverend Cohen even preached that women were the equals of us men."

"But, but we are," Kirsten stated firmly.

"Uh huh. Until it's time to pay the bills," Randy smiled. "Then, I seem to notice, that equality goes right out the window. But never mind any of that. Leslie and I? We had already been living the type of life that the good reverend was espousing. Remember? I taught my wife to drive? When our entire church was preaching against it?"

"Yeah," Kirsten grudgingly conceded that point to Randy.

"With the reverend's blessings, as soon as our Deanna started school, Leslie got a job. A job! Reverend Watkins? He would have had a heart attack. A married woman? Working? I mean, it was okay for Mrs. Cormican to be working; she was widowed and supporting three children. But Leslie began working at Myra's Boutique; ten dollars an hour, plus commission," Randy said, then lapsed into silence.

"That, when I worked at Abdul's, in their shoe department? Sometimes my commission would be two, three times as much as my hours," Kirsten supplied.

"It was called Myra's Boutique," Randy said quietly, staring at the ground between Kirsten's feet.

Kirsten's toenails were painted a frosted sparkle red, matching her shaped fingernails. Her black flip flops showed off her small feet, her meticulously trimmed and painted toenails. But even as she flexed and wiggled her toes, Randy paid them little mind.

"David Goldblum bought the store for his mother, Myra Goldblum, to repay her for putting him through law school," Randy said. "He would pop in from time to time, to check in on his mother, you know, to make sure she was all right. Whenever he did, Leslie would always tell me about him coming in, tell me what a devoted son David was."

Randy took his sunglasses off. Kirsten saw his green eyes and saw the incredible pain etched in his cool green eyes. The color was a bit of a surprise; his hair was a dark brown and his skin was tanned. Just looking at his dark glasses, Kirsten had assumed Randy Bogdanovich's eyes would be brown.

"Leslie was doing very well at Myra's; within four years she'd been bumped up to assistant manager and was making sixteen dollars an hour, plus commission, plus one percent of all sales on her shift. See, there's three sales associates on the floor at any given time; no customer would ever enter Myra's Boutique and not receive personalized care. Any of those three sales associates makes a sale? Leslie makes one percent of what they sell," Randy explained.

Kirsten was about to say she understood the concept of shared commission, but kept her mouth shut. Randy needed to tell his story in his own way.

Kirsten almost smiled. Her daddy would have said that Randy was the type of person that, if you asked him what time it was, Randy would explain the mechanics of a wristwatch. Yes, he would eventually get around to telling you what time it was, but first, he had to tell you how he had managed to determine what time it was.

"Leslie's doing well, very well at Myra's. I'm doing very well at my job. We both share the household chores, and we have a rambunctious, active little girl that is into everything from soccer to ballet to piano; do you have any idea how much a grand piano costs? And I couldn't buy a used piano. Oh no ma'am. It had to be a new one. For her to take three lessons and say it was too hard. When Deanna wanted to take up horse riding, I finally had to be the bad guy and tell her 'no,' we simply couldn't afford it," Randy said. "A friend of mine, Dr. Stanton had three daughters, two of them were into horses. He told me; no matter how much you spend on the horse? It will be the cheapest part of owning a horse. For his girls to have their horses, their horse trailer to get their horses back and forth to the competitions, the stable, the feed, the year before his youngest daughter was killed, he'd spent two hundred thousand dollars on their horses that year alone. So, I was the meanest daddy in the whole world, I was the worst father imaginable, she hated me, she hoped I was happy for breaking her heart."

Kirsten saw the green eyes lose some of their color. He shut his eyes for a moment. A sudden splash startled both Kirsten and Randy; they'd not even heard anyone enter the courtyard. Looking over, Kirsten saw that it was the cute young man that lived in Apartment 319.

"I'm parched," Randy announced, standing. "I, hmm, I have some whiskey in my apartment; would you care to join me?"

"I'd love to!" Kirsten enthused, grabbing her beach towel from the chaise lounge.

"I've never tried this particular brand before," Randy admitted as he swung the gate open for Kirsten.

"Thank you, kind sir," Kirsten smiled and put a little wiggle into her stride.

"But of course," Randy smiled, unlocking the door of Apartment 110.

"You, have you ever had hmm, Iron Barrel whiskey?" Randy asked, stepping into his kitchen.

"No," Kirsten said, looking at Randy's dark brown leather couch and matching recliner, heavy end table and antique brass lamp.

The floor plan of Randy's apartment was a duplicate of Kirsten's apartment. There was a living room dining room combination. The dining room was designated by a low hanging ceiling fixture with four bulbs. There was no ceiling fixture in the portion allocated for the living room.

Separating living room and bedroom was the kitchen area. Randy's kitchen was on the northeastern wall of the apartment; Kirsten's abutted his kitchen. Which, thankfully placed her bathroom on the opposite wall of his bathroom.

"But the heads of our beds must be right up against each other," Kirsten smiled to herself.

"The thing that grabbed my attention; I was looking for Jack Daniels, or Dickel's, this whiskey is flavored," Randy said, pouring a jigger into a small glass, then dropping a few cubes of ice into the glass.

He brought the two glasses into the living room and smiled sardonically as he handed one glass to Kirsten. He nodded with his head toward the couch.

"I'm sorry; I don't know any whiskey recipes," Randy apologized. "Please, have a seat. See, members of our church? Supposedly, they don't drink. Well, they don't let anyone know. I only started drinking a couple of months ago."

"Why? I mean, why'd you start drinking?" Kirsten asked, sliding closer to the armrest of the couch when Randy opted to sit in the recliner.

"Everything else they'd been telling me was wrong," Randy said harshly. "Figured, they're probably wrong about alcohol too."

Kirsten took a cautious sip of her whiskey and tried to place the underlying note of flavor. She sniffed the glass, trying to see if she could determine what the added flavoring might be.

"Peach," Randy smiled, watching Kirsten's antics.

"Damn it, I knew it," Kirsten laughed.

"Soon enough, Deanna forgave me for not giving her a horse," Randy continued his tale. "Then, I had to be the one to tell her that she was not getting a two thousand seventeen Chevy Camaro when she got her driver's license."

"Oh?" Kirsten smirked.

"Mm hmm, I told her, in no uncertain terms, it was too expensive, and she was barely passing her classes. I am not going to reward a grade point average of one point nine. So, we're right back to I'm the worst father in the world, I'm hateful, I'm mean," Randy sighed and took a sip of his drink.

"Over a Camaro?" Kirsten thought. "You couldn't go to her wedding because of a car?"

"Then, last year, Myra suddenly died, massive heart attack," Randy said. "Leslie said she'd come in, complaining about really bad heartburn. She was drinking Pepto-Bismol straight from the bottle. Then all of a sudden, she just lets out this little scream and keels over."

Kirsten took another sip of her whiskey. Now that Randy had identified the flavoring, she could taste the peach in the whiskey. Kirsten preferred rum and cola to whiskey, but once, Neil, a cute boy that had lived in Apartment 217 had made her a tall ginger ale and whiskey and she had really liked that drink.

"You know, you get some ginger ale? Think Neil said it was a two to one ratio," Kirsten suggested, holding up her glass.

"Hey now! And guess what? I just happen to have some ginger ale," Randy said, getting to his feet.

"Great, Kirsten, now he'll never get to the end of this," Kirsten smiled, shaking her head as Randy puttered around in the kitchen.

Kirsten's daddy would have said Randy was the type to go from DeGarde to Baylor Lake by way of New Orleans. DeGarde and Baylor Lake were separated from one another by Johnson Road, a two lane blacktop. And New Orleans was one hundred and twenty miles to the east southeast of DeGarde.

"Oh, uh, listen, I, I'm not trying to get you drunk, okay?" Randy cautioned as he carried two tall glasses of amber liquid into the living room.

"Would take a whole lot more than two drinks," Kirsten thought but only nodded her head as he handed her the cold concoction.

"Oh, now that's good," Randy enthused, taking a sip of his drink. "I like ginger ale; there's just something about an ice cold ginger ale. I'm not really a fan of colas; too much sugar. That's all I can taste is all that sugar; I read somewhere once that Coca-Cola has eight tablespoons of sugar in one can of Coca-Cola."

"Myra had died," Kirsten reminded Randy; she didn't want to talk about sodas.

"Hmm? Oh, oh yeah. Myra died and now Leslie was afraid she would lose her job but David assured Leslie that he wanted to keep Myra's open, in memory of his mother. When Myra was alive, David would come in every now and again. After Myra's passing, David was there nearly every night. And as the manager of Myra's, Leslie had to stay late to meet with David. Now, I had no reason to be suspicious, I mean, after all, every now and then I would have to work late. You know how it goes; a student claims an instructor is being excessively unfair in their grading system, or a Teacher's Aide claims he or she is being sexually harassed. Penny, that was my Administrative Assistant, she was a pretty young girl; she'd gone to the Benhurst Vo-Tech, you really couldn't ask for a better AA," Randy said.

Kirsten realized the alcohol was beginning to affect Randy. She took a sip of her ginger ale and whiskey, then poured the remainder of her first drink into her new drink.

"Oh, hey! Good idea!" Randy enthused and poured his first drink into his second drink.

Kirsten wondered what Penny, or David, or Myra's passing had to do with Deanna's wedding and why Randy was one thousand miles away from his daughter's wedding. She also knew, just from the forty or so minutes she'd been in conversation with Randy, there really was no way of speeding up the discussion. Her daddy would have asked if he pulled Randy's string, would Randy get to the end of the story.

"You have to remember, Leslie? Leslie was one good looking woman," Randy said, a slight thickening of his speech beginning to show. "Blonde hair, nice long blonde hair, color of sunshine and those big blue eyes; Deanna has her mother's eyes, beautiful eyes. Has her mother's hair too. And those breasts, mm hmm!"

"Deanna's?" Kirsten almost asked, then realized Randy was talking about Leslie, Leslie's breasts.

"But it didn't take long before David tried to put the make on Leslie; it was bound to happen. She's an attractive woman, a real classic beauty, you know, the kind that just gets better looking with each year," Randy said. "She didn't come to me; Leslie knew what would have happened had she come to me. If I burned an entire community to the ground over some tongues wagging, just imagine what I would have done over an inappropriate fondle and kiss? So, Leslie went to Reverend Cohen for guidance."

Kirsten waited while Randy took a good sized gulp of his drink. She sipped her own; the peach flavored whiskey and ginger ale were a nice compliment to one another. There was a nice warm burn as the drink made its way to her belly.

"And Reverend Cohen, man of God, humph!" Randy snorted, his anger palpable. "This man of God, this spiritual leader tells my wife that she owes it to herself to spend the weekend in the arms of another man. He tells her, since she's only had one man, she's not had any experience, she's not been able to formulate an informed decision on whether or not she should accept or rebuff David's advances."

"What? He what?" Kirsten asked, shocked. "He told your wife to sleep with her boss?"

"No, oh no, if he had done that, what would he gain?" Randy snarled. "No, Reverend Cohen told Leslie she should sleep with him. Since he was a reverend, a man of God, and was married, sleeping with him would pose no threat to our union."

Kirsten tried to digest this information. Finally, she shook her head and took another sip of her drink.

"I'm going to have another, you ready for another? Aw, what's wrong with you, young lady? Drink, drink," Randy ordered and tottered to his feet.

"Anyway, Leslie came home after meeting with the good Reverend and that's when she told me about David, then told me what Reverend Cohen had suggested. I of course reminded Leslie that we were married. And our wedding vows specifically said, forsaking all others," Randy said. "I also said that I would not tolerate any infidelity on her part, no matter if it was with her boss or our reverend. Infidelity is infidelity."

"Agreed," Kirsten said. "Wish more men would see it that way."

"That was when Leslie hit me with that it's her body and I can't tell her what she can or cannot do with her body. She also tried that malarkey about how this experience would strengthen us as a couple. To this day, I do not know how sleeping with another man, spreading your legs, how that strengthens any bonds of matrimony. Truthfully? I suspect that hogwash was created by someone that had every desire to cheat, as some way of justifying their treachery. Some way of making themselves feel better about deliberately sabotaging their marriage," Randy said, his speech somewhat slurred now.

"Deanna?" Kirsten asked after several long moments had passed.

"Hmm? She was named after our mothers, I tell you that? Deanna was Leslie's, is Leslie's mom's name, Florence was my mom's name. I tell you, I'm so glad my mom didn't live long enough see this," Randy drunkenly said.

"Deanna? Her wedding?" Kirsten prompted.

"Leslie packs up and drives off in her car; first time I ever got mad at myself teaching her driving," Randy slurred. "And I tried calling her to tell her get her butt back here and her cell phone's in the bathroom. She didn't even want hear from me. And I call Deanna, my baby, my baby girl, girl I loved more than life itself and I tell her I'm leaving her mom and you know what she said me?"

"What did she say to you?" Kirsten asked when she realized Randy was waiting for her to ask him what Deanna had to say.

"Told me, told me, I just needed get over my fragile male ego. Told me it wasn't no big deal but my male pride getting hurt," Randy barked out. "Well! I told her, I told her, hey, how would you feel if Terrence; that's her fiancé, well, guess he's her husband now, how she would feel Terrence said he needed experience some other woman? And she just laughed and told me I just needed grow up."

Kirsten finished her drink. Randy took another gulp of his drink and stared at the half empty glass for a long moment. He then took another gulp.

"Leslie should remembered, should remembered I always got recorder with me," Randy slurred. "I played that tape for Iris Cohen, Reverend Cohen's wife? Oh she weren't too happy hear that! But get this, get this, know who she blames? Who she blames for all this?"

"Leslie?" Kirsten guessed.

"Yes! Leslie!" Randy crowed. "And Good Deacon Fillmore; wonder he related Millard Fillmore, need ask him 'bout that. He's doing church that Sunday 'cause Reverend's busy sleeping with my wife and 'bout halfway through service, I go up and play the tape my wife telling me she going sleep with our good and holy Reverend Cohen."

Kirsten waited. Randy sat and stared at his drink. Then he shook his head.

"They fired Reverend Cohen over that. What you think, what you think my wife done?" Randy asked.

"Oh, I can just about imagine," Kirsten smirked.

"Threw me out my own house," Randy said. "Me! I'm not one sleep around, but threw me out my own house. And Iris. Reverend's wife? Went to Myra's and just 'bout pulled Leslie's hair all out; had a beauty of a bald spot. But Deanna, tells me I'm horrible man and she don't care she never sees me 'gain."

"And, that's why you're not..." Kirsten softly asked, seeing the raw pain on Randy's face.

"Oh no," Randy said, the pain becoming erased by anger. "No, minute they see they can't have the wedding of Deanna's dream on just Leslie's money? That's when Deanna, my loving daughter comes to me, all hugs and sweetness, trying kiss up to me."

"What'd you do?" Kirsten asked, drinking the melted ice in her glass.

"Asked her if I was still wrong for getting mad at her mom," Randy said. "Of course, she, Deanna? One thing 'bout her? Oh! She can't stand it when she's wrong. So of course she don't say nothing. And I told her, have her mother's boyfriend pay for her wedding."

Kirsten didn't think Randy was completely right to turn his back on his daughter. But she did understand his thought process. Marriage was supposed to be a union, a bond between two people. Leslie had allowed someone to talk her into breaking that bond. And Randy's daughter had supported her mother, had turned against her father.

"Leslie? Oh, she was spitting nails she was so mad. Called me, screaming she doesn't have a boyfriend, how dare I break our daughter's heart? Blah, blah, blah. I said it was a shame she broke our vows for a fuck buddy then, but get her fuck buddy to pay his share of the wedding," Randy said.

Then he gasped, horrified. He looked at Kirsten, stricken.

"Young lady! I, Kirsten, I am so sorry I used that word in front of you," Randy gasped.

"Fuck? I've heard it before. Randy, I've even used it before," Kirsten smirked.

"But still!" Randy said. "Just, just not appropriate to say...Anyway, so they can't have the white carriage, can't have the stringed orchestra, Daddy's so mean."

"You know, I've been to a couple of weddings," Kirsten sympathized with Randy. "They didn't have carriages or orchestras."

"Hell, Leslie and I didn't have all that foolishness either," Randy agreed, then slumped in his chair.

"Yeah, we didn't have all that, and look where it got us," Randy mumbled. "Maybe if we had..."

"Yeah, whatever," Kirsten said, picking up her two glasses. "These go in the dishwasher?"

"I get that," Randy said, struggling to stand.

"Sit," Kirsten ordered.

"Them both calling me at work, calling me at home; I rented a room from Penny's mother; now she? That was one very well put together woman but they harassing her, harassing me so when I saw Tom Thibodaux is looking start up a Human Resources outsourcing enterprise, I sent in my resume," Randy mumbled.