Vital Signs

Part 23

The worst thing I can do is to hunker down alone in my house with irrational thoughts swirling through my brain, ballooning further and further out of proportion. Divorce. Begging a judge for visitation rights so I can see my daughter. Unemployment. Living in the basement of a government-subsidized rat-infested apartment building. Standing alongside a stretch of railroad tracks waiting for a train that I can throw myself under.

Okay, Phil. Take a deep breath. These are thought distortions. Recognize them and throw them away. I need to make myself busy. This is a good time to begin using my ghost phone to take on a simple task.

I search for reasonably-priced storage lockers in the vicinity. Here's one for $40 per month. I book it. Okay. Now we're making progress. 

I need to get out of this house so I contact Soujouner Brooks, who insists once again that I call her "Meem." She says that if I want to pick up the bags of Tiger's Teeth weed killer in her lawn shed, she'll be home until one this afternoon. My itinerary: a shower, a quick breakfast, and then a drive across town to Meem's place. 

I should let Brenna know about last night's Bernie incident and the fact that I'm in possession of his laptop. 

Maybe that's not a good idea. Megan is already mad at me.

But this is a critical development. Brenna needs to know. 

But when Megan finds out that I've disregarded her feelings and contacted her sister again, it may push our relationship off the cliff into the abyss. 

Maybe she won't find out. 

I'll think about it while I'm in the shower.

                                                                                      #######

9:42. I'm bathed and dressed, staring into the refrigerator. I guess I could make eggs. Do I really want to get involved with all that? My enthusiasm for eggs is waning. What are my options? Cereal? Again? Toast?  

The truth of the matter is that I'm using my indecisiveness about breakfast to avoid making a decision about contacting Brenna. Maybe it's hunger rage that drives me, but the next thing I know I'm texting: Can you talk?

Brenna responds: I'll call you in 20.

I take a banana from the fruit basket, grab my car keys, and exit the house.

                                                                                      #######

10:17. While picking up my breakfast sandwich from the drive-through window, my phone rings. It's Brenna. 

"Hey, thanks for calling." I steer my car into a parking space.

"I need to be somewhere in seven minutes. Make it quick."

"The police arrested the guy who's been following me."

"When?"

"Last night. He was in my neighbor's yard spying on me. My neighbor called the cops."

"Is it someone you know?"

"My neighbor?"

"No. The guy who's been following you."

"Yeah. His name is Bernie. I used to work with him at Dunning and Brannigan. Turns out that he's the guy that was stalking me at the coffee shop in Harrisburg."

"Does he have law enforcement or a military background?"

"No, but apparently, he's quite knowledgable about Civil War teapots."