Page 6 of Rough

“What is it. Not that I care, but--”

“You’ve got to start tomorrow at 7:00 a.m.”

“That’s the catch? It’s more like a gift.”

“It’s refreshing to think you look at it that way.”

“And it’s full time, right?”

“Seven days a week, at a fixed daily rate of $200 a day. If you want five days instead of seven, we can get someone to relieve you two days a week.”

“I’ll take the seven.”

“Sounds great. We’ll need you to stop in this afternoon and fill out the paperwork, though.”

El Cajon was only ten minutes away. I fought against my urge to let out a celebratory scream. “I can be there in fifteen minutes.”

“I’m looking forward having you aboard, Tegan. Thank you.”

“Goodbye, Mrs. French.”

She hung up.

I tossed my phone onto the couch and ran to my bedroom. After rifling through the clothes in my closet, I chose an outfit, ironed it, and then ran all the way to my car. Within minutes, I was on highway 67 speeding toward El Cajon.

A handsome thirty-something year old passed me in a Mercedes, slowed down, and then took another long look. After an unobstructed eyeful of me, he shook his head.

Completely comfortable with my strikingly odd vehicle situation, I waved. He returned a smile, obviously amused not by me, but by my doorless ride.

Most women my age would find driving a 1985 Toyota Corolla belittling. The few who didn’t would certainly find driving the same car with one missing door to be so, and probably to a very high degree.

I looked at it as a blessing.

I got a lot of funny looks, but the summer’s heat was now bearable.

Half a dozen odd stares later, and I’d reached my destination. After parking at the curb and walking through the empty parking lot, I stepped through the door and up to the receptionist’s desk.

The bubblegum chewing blonde met me with a smile.

“Tegan Rassini to see Mrs. French,” I said.

“Oh. She left this up here for you to sign,” she said, producing a quarter-inch-thick stack of paperwork. “And, I’ll need a copy of your driver’s license and your social security card or a passport.”

I handed her the two forms of I.D. “Here.”

“I’ve marked where you need to sign, and there’s a blank copy for you to keep,” she said. “And, for what it’s worth, this guy’s big. He weighs like 220 pounds.”

“That’s not a problem.” I lowered my tone of voice to a more masculine one and flexed my right bicep. “I work out.”

She looked at my arm, and then at me. She seemed unamused. “We’ll see what you say after a few days. If we need to get a hoist in there, we will.”

“I should be okay.” I reached for the stack of paperwork. “Can you tell me what happened? So I don’t have to ask him?”

“He was in good health a month ago, I guess. He slipped on a banana peel, fell on the floor, and broke his shoulder, wrist, ankle, and knee. The shoulder’s on one side, and the knee’s on the other. It sounds like he should be in a body cast, but he’s not.”

“Oh. Wow.”

“I know, right?”