Tuesday, March 31, 2015

Listen for the Music

My head snapped to the left when I heard the harmonica music drifting across the St. Luke's Hospital campus on this bright spring afternoon. When I stopped to listen, my therapy dog Sadie—a golden retriever—halted and sat at my side.
        A man sitting on a bench under an oak tree tapped his right foot on the grass while he belted out "You Are My Sunshine."I saw that he'd lost his left leg just below the knee; a pair of crutches leaned beside him on the bench.
When Sadie and I approached, the music stopped and the handsome, dark-haired man's face lit up. "Good morning, you two," he said.
"Love your music," I said. "Brightens an already sunshiny day."
"Thank you! And who have we here?"
"Sadie. She's a therapy dog. We're on our way to make our rounds in the children's wing of the hospital."
Maybe the world's friendliest dog, Sadie didn't wait for any other introduction. She sat in front of the man and wagged her tail fiercely, begging to be petted.
"What a beautiful dog," the man said, scratching her behind the ears, then stroking her forehead. "I'll bet she makes every kid's day."
"She's an attention seeker is what he is." I glanced at my wristwatch. "Look, I'm sorry, but we've got to run. I love your music," I added and rushed off.
Over the last three years, Sadie and I have volunteered to visit hospitals, nursing homes, and assisted living centers. This was the first time we had encountered what I thought must be a war veteran, perhaps getting fitted with a prosthetic leg.
His ready smile and handsome features intrigued me. He looked to be my age, forty; and I wondered if Sadie and I would see him again. Though I thought our chances slim, we left early for our next Friday hospital visit, and there sat the man under the oak tree, belting out "Oh, My Darling Clementine."
Sadie tugged at her leash, eager to visit her new friend, and I followed—admittedly, just as eager.
"Hope you two would come by!" he said, smiling and reaching out to pet Sadie as she sat in front of him.
"I'm Megan Hanley," I said. "Sadie and I spend Friday afternoons visiting kids in the hospital."
"Cody Marshall," he said. "Retired Marine Master Sergeant. Getting a final overhaul of my prosthetic. Sometimes the wait is long—you know how that goes. So I sit outside, entertain myself, and wait for a call on my cell phone."
"Love your music," I told him again.
"My granddad taught me all the old, old songs." He smiled, and his warm, dark eyes sparkled. "Sit down and tell me about you and Sadie."
Thus started a conversation that sounded like old friends catching up on each other's life. I told him I was an insurance agent. I was also a widow who adopted Sadie from a shelter. A friend convinced me I should have her trained as a certified therapy dog.
Cody said he was divorced long ago—his former wife hated military life. A roadside bomb in Afghanistan "deprived" him of the lower half of his left leg. As a kid in college, he'd dropped out to join the Marines. After retiring from the service, he finished his degree and now worked as a PE teacher at our local high school.
"You must be a great inspiration to high school kids," I told him.
This time his smile was sheepish. "I have bits of advice I can offer them, yes."
I glanced at my watch. "I'm sorry, but Sadie and I have to go."
He tilted his head and ran a hand through is dark hair. "Will I see you again, Megan?"
My heart stopped. I admit I felt attracted to his handsome Marine veteran. Three years, after my husband died of a heart attack, I'd adopted Sadie to fill a dark avoid in my life, and for a long while I'd felt all we needed was each other. But with Cody Marshall sitting beside me, I wasn't sure.
"Um...Sadie and I'll be gone maybe three hours."
His dark eyes warming me, he said, "I'll be right here.
I'll have my prosthetic back by then. Just listen for the music."
My heart danced to the music in his words. I heaved a big sigh. I patted Sadie's head, and her tail thumped the ground like a hammer. "All right," I said, knowing she highly approved. "Sadie and I will listen for the music."

The End

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Thursday, March 26, 2015

Customer Service

One of the things I love about spring is the sight of all the women parading by ABC Auto Repair, where I work as the lead mechanic. Some dressed in suits, others in colorful dresses, these women park their cars in the parking ramp at the edge of town and scurry off to offices downtown,
where they work as clerks, tellers, secretaries, and executives.
During the year, many of them—especially the single ones—leave their cars at ABC for an oil change and tire rotation, or a brake job and muffler replacement.
I know many on a first name basis, but I've never hit on anyone. Still, one lady truly caught my eye this winter. A petite redhead with close-cropped curly hair and midnight-blue eyes, she's the secretary for the vice-president of our local bank: Chloe Jacobs. I'm Mike McCormick. I'd give anything to ask her out, but I don't think it'll happen.
On this cloudy, rain-threatening morning, I'm outside the shop, crouched under the hood of an old Ford Escort checking its battery, when horns blare, tires squeal, and a female screams.
I jerk up. I don't see what happened, but I've seen the scenario before. Two cars nearly collided at the busy intersection adjacent ABC—there's no streetlight. One thing is different this morning, though. Standing at the corner across from ABC is Chloe, her hands clutching either side of her head.
Thinking she's injured—she's obviously in great distress—I drop everything and dart across the street.
I'm breathless. "Are you all right?"
"No!"
Now I'm really worried. "Did you get hit with flying debris or something?" I look her over. Only a touch of makeup—eye shadow, mascara, pink lip-gloss. She looks trim dressed in her dark-blue pants suit. Her flowery scent is heavenly.
But her cheeks glow red with anger.
I go, "Are you sure you're okay?"
"Stupid me—I lost my iPhone!"
"Your phone?"
"I was checking the weather. My son has a T-ball game tonight. Those two cars, the noise—startled me, and I dropped the phone. I'm so mad at myself!" Then she points at the street drain at the curb where we're standing. "It's down there."
Oh no!
On my hands and knees, head lowered, I peer through the iron grate covering the drain and spot her white iPhone, six or seven feet below me. "Good news," I say, standing up, puffing out a breath, and smiling at Chloe. "I can see it."
"I'm running late!" she blurts. "I can't be late for work. Big meeting this morning. It's going to rain. The phone will be washed away. I have everything on it—Danny's baby pictures—just everything! Not to mention what it costs."
I raise a hand to calm her down. "Look, Chloe, there's more good news. I can retrieve your phone. You hustle off to work, and when you get off this afternoon I'll have it waiting in the ABC office."
Her eyebrows jump. "You can do that? Honest?"
"Honest. No sweat." I smile at her again. "It's called customer service. It's what ABC is noted for."
I have no trouble rescuing Chloe's phone before the rains come. With a crow bar, I pop the drain cover off, and with a six-foot long mechanical claw, I reach down and grab the phone. I leave it in the office where I said I would.
All day I think about Chloe. She has a son but no ring on her finger. Perhaps she's divorced, like me, but she probably hasn’t lost confidence in herself like I have—confidence in matters dealing with the opposite sex. It's an issue I'm desperately working on.
After work, I check in the office. Chloe picked up her phone, and that night I command myself to stop thinking about her.
The next morning, I'm in the garage early. I have a transmission to pull. I'm raising the car on the hoist when Chloe appears, stepping through the side door to the office into the garage. She cradles a huge, white, flat box in her arms.
"Donuts!" she beams. "You guys at ABC provide terrific customer service."
The three other mechanics in the garage stare. Then laugh and applaud.
She hands me the box, a delicious donut smell drifting out from under the lid.
My breath catches.
Her red hair and beaming smile, those midnight-blue eyes and pink lips—the sight of Chloe Jacobs rocks my lack of confidence: "Um...if you're available, would...would you like to do something over the weekend? Um...a date."
"Thought you'd never ask," she says, and rattles off her cellphone number. "Call me." Then she digs in her purse, whips out her iPhone, holds it up, and adds brightly, "See? I still have it."