A Matter Of Respect Ch. 03

Ms. Peregot and I enjoyed a nice meal together. The calzones were good, fat with crust that smelled like heaven. After our meal, I observed an age old tradition of sitting back and rubbing my stomach after eating too much. Ms. Peregot just looked at me and smiled.

"Men." She said, rolling her eyes.

"So." I spoke up. "What is your take on the power dynamic here? Would it be considered an interruption if I took a few minutes out of everyone's day here and there?"

"I think it would be a welcome change. Our last security superintendent was a real horse's ass. He acted like he was above everyone. Finch helped everyone out by dropping the ball on him."

"Finch doesn't seem like the benevolent type to me. So how did he benefit from getting rid of this guy?" I asked. The kid just didn't seem like the type to walk an old lady across the street unless there was something in it for him.

Ms. Peregot was quick to respond. I didn't want to pump her for information, she was just too nice. But information given voluntarily can go just as far when you're feeling your way around.

"Finch had his little cassette recorder in his pocket. Apparently he caught him saying something he wasn't supposed to. Probably in an argument. They constantly fought back and forth."

"I'd be a fool to think he won't have plenty of blank tapes laid aside for me." I said glumly. "I also assume he was campaigning for the job I am holding now."

Her eyes met mine pointedly. She was smiling like someone who knows a particularly funny secret.

"Exactly. If you take time to meet everyone here, he'll make some kind of grand gesture to try to win them over to his side." She said.

"Typical. Like I have to try and win people over in order to do my job. I have to learn people, young lady. After that, doing my job is easy."

"You're right." She said. "That's the difference between you and him, and probably why you have the superintendent's position." 

"Well the kid has to have some merit. I can estimate what he makes, and it's nothing to laugh at." I responded.

"I know his behavior is a factor. This is strictly between you and I."  She said quietly. "He was nearly fired after he slapped his secretary Vetka."

"He slapped a woman and kept his job?" 

"There were supposedly some kind of 'extenuating circumstances'. They both spent the next two days off work. Since, there hasn't been a word said. " She answered. She said this with obvious distaste.

"Well now, I guess I should start making my rounds today. This place may have a river of money flowing in and out of it, but that doesn't justify that kind of happy horse shit." 

"Enjoyed the meal, thanks." Ms. Peregot said to me with a sweet grin.

"Pleasure's all mine young lady." 

I gathered the remains of our mid afternoon dinner and deposited it in a stylish trash container on the patio. I decided it was time to take my own little tour of the place. I told Ms. Peregot thanks for a lovely meal and headed back to the hallway. I always enjoyed walking the perimeter. I kept rolling the name Vetka over in my mind. Definitely Ukranian. Maybe ethnic Russian or even Czech. Either way I already had a mental picture of her in my head. The thought of giving Ms. Peregot a personal tour of my place wasn't far from my mind either. 

As I made my way around the round of the top floor, I stopped and knocked on a few doors. Most people seemed guarded, but luckily once I spoke to them they seemed to be very warm and welcoming. There are two older ladies working on the last leg of the round. One is Ms. Merchenal. A few steps inside her office and I could see a bookshelf with five or six framed pictures on top of it. 

I recognized many of the pictures immediately to be from world war two. Black and white images of several army grunts standing shoulder to shoulder, all smiling. One of them was a black and white 8x10 of a single man kneeling, holding his rifle upright with the butt on the ground. His army greens looked ragged and worn. His eyes have a blank expression. 'Please take the damn picture, and make sure it gets home to my wife before I die'  the picture seemed to speak. 

We sat and had a nice talk, and she indulged me with her husband's history. I was flatly stunned when she pulled the collar of her blouse down and tugged a little silver chain out. It had her husband's dog tags hanging from it. 

"Honey you're the best kind of patriot." I told her.

She blushed deeply and thanked me, then resumed telling me about her husband. It was obvious she enjoyed talking about him. Women display pride in their own way, and I was genuinely touched by her memory of details and places her husband had been. Before I realized it almost an hour had passed. 

"Ma'am you are very fascinating. I've really enjoyed talking to you, and I'll look forward to talking to you again soon. I have to make my rounds before I leave tonight." I said as I stood.

"Thanks for stopping by." She replied, and gave me a little wave as I left. 

Conversations like that always left me with a  little smile that takes a while to wear off. As I continued making my way around, knocking on doors and introducing myself, I realized I was very preoccupied with tomorrow's visit from Ms. Peregot. Best of all, today was Saturday. Tomorrow I will be off work. No doubt Ms. Peregot knew that. When Mr. interviewer smiled and gave me the welcome aboard speech and handshake, he had asked me if I needed anything before my first day at work. I asked if I could start a day early, at my expense if necessary.

"I just like to learn places." I told him. 

"Why certainly." He said. " Sounds like a good idea." 

So today has been my first day on the job, and as the final few minutes of my shift wear down I am contemplating the possibilities of dropping a load of cum across my new secretary's nice tits. Pretty ambitious for an old hick, but maybe not impossible.

About four thirty the next morning I was lying in bed listening to the crickets singing their never ending love back and forth. Night sounds always fascinate me. If you listen long enough the mingled sounds take on a sing song chant. Especially after it rains. I have alot of tree frogs on my property, which pleases me to no end. After it rains and the sun goes down, they burst into song. They will grow silent for a few minutes, then suddenly every frog in earshot is singing his little wart covered heart out. On nights when i'm having a hard time resting i'll cheat. I'll walk outside in my worn silk boxers and turn the sprinklers on. The timer is set for an hour cycle. After the sprinklers stop, a few minutes will pass then the tree frogs explode into their croaking song.  I just lie back down and let the night sounds overtake me.

For the past few hours I have been mulling over my new job. Things are very easy to accept there. People are open and willing to talk. Mr. Finch is going to turn out to be a first class ass, but I can deal with the likes of him. It just bothers me to no end that the pompous little ass slapped his secretary. Am I being too old fashioned, since I have no idea what happened?  More than once my over protective nature has led me to jump to conclusions. I wonder how the situation had built up? Either way, I could only justify such an action given the very most extremes. I just can't help it. Laying a hand on a woman like that, it just isn't in me. 

At times people have tried to make that into a weakness. Most of those people have ended up with about eight inches of my right boot in the crack of their ass, too. My mind wanders to Ms. Peregot and her brilliant smile. 

I reach to my right and ruffle Christine's fur. No need to look and see if she'll be there. It's her spot. When I'm in bed, that is where she will be. She meows and arches her back. I scratch her with my nails and decide i'm just too restless to lie still any longer. I pat her fat kitty ass and get out of bed.

"Come on Miss Thang. Let's get some breakfast." 

She responds as always, jumping out of bed and rubbing against my legs. She's been with me for years now, know her like a book. After she finishes loving my legs, she runs to her food dish. Cat owners have routines in their life other people just wouldn't understand. Christine has her habits that just tickle me to death. She inspects her food dish about twenty times a day. If she can ever see the bottom, my ass is grass. To her that's the equivalent of Defcon 4. This morning I got off lucky. She sniffed at her food dish, then took for the pet door without a backward glance. 

I walk into my kitchen, look at the coffee maker with an apathetic stare, and pass it by. I have a history of kidney stones, and dammit if coffee isn't just too hard on my pipes. A few minutes later and the kitchen smells of eggs and bacon. While I sit there and eat my breakfast, I can hear a dog barking in the distance. Doesn't sound like an agitated bark. Just a dog being a dog. Christine is a wise old girl who can take care of herself, but after nine years she's not as nimble as she used to be. I always keep an ear open for such as that. Last thing I want is to have to let her go. I ordered her pet door built around her dimensions. Nothing bigger can get through. She likes to roam the back forty of the property, so the small pet door is cheap insurance if she gets chased by a dog. I smile when I think of her hunting and stalking around the two hundred acres I own here at Trebenaeu. It's good for her health, too. Besides, when a cat brings you a dead stinky thing, it's a token of love. 

Soon breakfast is gone and the dishes put away. I load the washer with the powdered detergent and set it to wash. It makes a thunk noise as it starts its cycle. The sun is rising along the eastern edge of my property. The clear yellow sunlight slowly sends shafts of radiant gold through my curtains. 

"Lots to do today kiddo" I said to the clear morning air.

I passed the rest of the morning doing small jobs. I killed about two hours washing the Mustang and Crown Vic, then backed them into the garage and tucked them into the respective car covers. I started  picking up fallen limbs from the endless rows of pecan trees. I noticed alot of fallen pecans. I picked one up. The shell felt firm. The pecan was heavy for its size. I spent a few hours harvesting them into canvas bags. When I decided I'd had enough I had nearly a hundred pounds, by the scales in my barn. Maybe some of the girls at work will want them. God knows I have enough to go around. 

My first night here I knew rest was going to be hopeless, so I spent a few hours walking along the tall rows of broad pecan trees, counting them as I moved along. Christine walked with me, sniffing and exploring here and there as we went. Every sound we encountered was met with her ears upright, her body frozen in mid step. Tolkien was right, trees really can talk. As the wind blew through the trees I could hear them creak and groan. When I reached the last tree on the final row, my count ended at six hundred and forty two. Thinking of the sheer volume of pecans this many healthy trees could produce, I could almost smell my mama's pecan pie. 

I try to avoid thoughts like that. No thoughts like that, no good they can do for you kiddo. Getting homesick for somewhere you can't go back to can only tear you apart.

I tied the bags off and put them away. The palms of both my hands were almost black. I dusted my hands off on my faded 501's. Pecans put off a fine dark dust, like soot. I looked at my watch. The time was 4:45. 

I went back inside and washed my hands in the kitchen sink. I got two mixing bowls out of the pantry, a small one and a big one. I ran the hot water tap until the water was at its hottest, then ran a little water into the small bowl. I opened a cabinet and got out a small package of yeast, and stirred it into the warm water with a wire whip. I added a couple pinches of sugar and mixed it into a froth. I set the small bowl aside and got some flour and corn meal down. A few cups of flour and a sprinkle of corn meal went into the big bowl. Next went in a big brown egg and a dash each of baking soda and Clabber Girl. Last I added some olive oil and a shot of warm water. By now the small bowl was full almost to the top with a mound of brown foam. I poured it into the big bowl and worked the whole mess together with my hands. 

After a few minutes of kneading I had a nice round ball of dough. I took a shallow wooden spoon and poured it full of olive oil. Slowly I lathered the ball of dough with the olive oil, rolling the edge of the spoon under the sides of the dough. Once the dough was shiny and damp with oil, I picked up the bowl and started rolling the dough ball around. The dough stuck to the bottom of the bowl for a moment, then slid on the thin layer of oil. I continued rolling the ball around until it was entirely covered in oil, bottom and all. I draped a washcloth over the bowl and set it on the windowsill over the sink. 

I got a few bottles of spices out of the cabinets, then got a brick of frozen spinach out of the freezer. I looked at the spinach, looked at the bowl of dough, then also got a can of sliced mushrooms out of the pantry. I put the brick of frozen spinach in a small boiler and set it to cooking low flame. The mushrooms went into their own pot next to the spinach. I seasoned the veggies and reduced the flame down to a small blue pencil point.

Minutes later and I had a hot bath going. The steam rose up from the water in lazy random arcs. This place has two big bathrooms and two small ones. The two big bathrooms both have deep enamel and ceramic tubs with eagle claw feet. For anyone who has never had the chance to indulge in one of these relics, I feel for them brother. They are deep, and they hold heat forever and a day. I always run the water so hot it runs the skin red for a little while. It's an entirely different type of bathing sensation. 

I linger in my bath for a while, then get out and towel off when I notice the clock is sitting at five thirty. Just enough time, I thought. I shaved standing in front of the sink. When I was finished I rinsed my face and then slapped on a little cologne. I dried the blade of my old razor and laid it out open on a clean dry wash cloth. I got dressed into a clean pair of Levi's and a blue cotton ribbed shirt. The cool hardwood floor felt good against my feet. I set the thermostat at seventy and closed all the doors and windows. 

I checked the dough. It had risen to almost double its size, just right. The spinach and mushrooms were gurgling and boiling away.  I put a colander in the sink, killed both flames and drained the spinach. I got my big wooden cutting board out and dusted the top with flour. I floured both hands by dipping them in the open bag and picked the dough ball up. I rolled it back and forth between my hands, like a kid smacking a baseball back and forth between his hand and glove. When it was punched down enough I laid it out on the cutting board and started pressing it flat with my palms. 

Once it was an even thickness I kneaded the edges until it was roughly rectangular in shape. I mashed the spinach into the bottom of the colander, pressing the water out of it. I picked it up in a wet green mass and laid the spinach out on a quarter of the rectangle of dough. I rinsed the colander out and put the mushrooms in, then drained them and put them on the opposite side of the rectangle. I got a knife and cut a careful line down the center of the rectangle. I turned the stove on, setting it at three hundred and fifty degrees. I could hear the flames catch with a muffled whoof noise. 

I got a big round pizza stone out of the metal drawer under the stove and dusted it lightly with corn meal. While the stove was heating up I folded the edges of the dough over the veggies and pinched the edges closed. I folded the edges inward one more time, then pressed the edges to a neat edge with a fork. Now I had two neat pouches. Last I lifted the pizza stone level with the cutting board and tilted the cutting board up. The pouches slid off easily. I centered them on the stone and put the whole mess in the oven. A few minutes later and the dishes were put away and I was washing the flour and dough off my hands. 

Christine came in through her pet door. She was meowing away as she walked in. She talks to me alot like this. She didn't just meow every now and then, this cat could downright compose a sentence. She was walking around my feet in hurried little circles. Whenever she does this, it usually means someone she doesn't know is close by. Her way if saying we have company and  I don't know them. Christine has the most obvious female jealous streak I have ever seen. 

I walk to the front door. Outside I can hear heels clocking their way up my front steps. Through the panes of the French glass door I can see a feminine silhouette.  

This is going to quite an interesting night, I think. There is a soft knock at the door. 

Fade To Black