David Bischoff: The Blob

Trouble was, here he sat, a good three years past the big four oh, and his wife, Abby, was long gone. She said she couldn’t stand it here, that she missed Denver. So she moved back and got hitched up to some other cop. And now Herb Geller was getting tired of just dating the pretty snow bunnies that showed up for winter vacations; now he was looking around for someone steady.

And then, just last year, Fran Hewitt showed up. She was with some guy at the time but now the guy was gone. Herb had started noticing her right away, but at first Fran had seemed about as friendly as a rattlesnake. She wouldn’t go out with nobody. But lately she was getting friendlier, smiling at him and talking; then it was his turn to get nervous and tongue tied. It was one thing to chase ladies who were eager for a holiday romance, ladies you probably would never see again. It was a different thing entirely with a woman you saw every day, who knew all your warts and tics and probably your history as well.

So now he was really thinking hard about putting it on the line, thinking about finally asking Fran Hewitt out.

He drained half the cold glass, thinking about what to say.

As Fran stepped behind the counter and slapped the order onto the ledge of the window between the serving area and the kitchen, Geller groped in his mind for another conversation starter.

“That’s the biggest order the whole hour I’ve been here,” he said. “Looks like the game’s put you out of business.”

She looked at him strangely, then realized he was just making conversation. “Don’t worry. When they’re done screaming their heads off, they’ll come in here like a flood. More ice tea?”

Herb pushed his glass forward. “Please!”

Fran had long hair that was drawn tightly behind her head now, making her look severe. But those bluish eyes and those soft lips betrayed a kind of vulnerability that appealed immensely to Herb Geller, that made him really want to know about this lady. As she poured him the tea, he noted admiringly the way she kept her uniformed starched and clean. He caught a whiff of fresh-scrubbed skin, a hint of Opium perfume, which just happened to be his very favorite.

“Good to see this town get up on its hind legs about something, ” she said. “Even if it is only a football game.”

“Takes their minds off their troubles. Been a lean year for most folks.”

Fran shrugged. “Ski season’s almost here. There’ll be tourists. I hear you like the tourists especially, Herb.”

Before he could comment, she grabbed his plate, which held the remnants of his tuna on whole wheat. “You done with this?”

“Yeah.”

Cripes! he thought. So she’d heard about him and the ski ladies. It figured. This wasn’t a big town, and it was only to be expected that the sheriff’s sexual activities would get talked about. Still, her comment did put a bit of a crimp in his confidence. He had been planning on playing himself as a shy and lonely guy—both of which he really and truly was, down deep. But with his reputation, it sure didn’t look like it. The truth was he didn’t really mind much getting rejected by ladies he didn’t especially care about. Experience showed that about one in seven would say yes anyway. But when you did care…

Ah, the hell with it, he thought. Get on with it, Geller!

“You know, Fran,” he said, “they got a new band out at the Tin Palace tonight. The Spurs. Country and western, so they say.”

“Is that right?” Fran turned, but her expression stayed blank.

“Supposed to be pretty good.”

“That’s nice.”

“You like country music?” Herb continued, not knowing what else to say.

Then she seemed to get it. She leveled her gaze at him, really looking at him for the first time all day. “Herb, are you askin’ me out?”

Herb stammered for a moment. “Well, er… uhm… Well, yeah! I guess I am!”

Suddenly it was Fran’s turn to be flustered, and Herb Geller couldn’t tell why. He had a bad feeling, though, as she scribbled out his check, her back turned to him.

“I don’t know,” she said suddenly. “I’m stuck here pretty late. Gotta make a living, you know.”

Uh-oh! Here come the excuses. Herb knew a gentle letdown when he heard it, and he didn’t have to hear any more. Feelings sinking a bit, he tried to bow out gracefully.

“Yeah. Must be tough to get away.”

Suddenly a commotion sounded from outside. Both Herb and Fran shifted their gaze to the street, viewed through the diner’s window. What they saw was a horde of high school students, streaming banners and making noise, descending upon the diner.

“We won!” was the cry. “We beat ’em, Fran,” yelped a girl in glasses as she flung open the door and entered, bringing the noise inside with her. “We won, twenty-one to fourteen!”

“Oh, shit,” said Fran. She turned, bent down, and hollered into the kitchen. “George! Here they come!”

The teenagers poured in, sweaty and wide eyed, whooping and waving, turning the whole diner into instant chaos.

Herb shook his head at the sight. He pulled out his wallet to pay, took out one of his cards, and handed it to Fran along with a five-dollar bill. “If you ever get a little time to yourself, here’s my number down at the station,” he said. “Oh, and keep the change.”

Hardly acknowledging this, Fran just grabbed the money and the card. Stuffing both into her pocket, she went off to deal with the babbling teenagers at the counter. “Okay! One at a time!” she yelled.

Bemused, Herb looked down at the receipt she had handed him.

Below the addition, words were jotted: I’m off at 11:00, they read.

A rush of relief and happiness flooded Herb Geller. Not a rejection after all! He had a date! A real, genuine, maybe-this-might-lead-to-something date!

He stuffed the check behind his ticket book, squared his shoulders, straightened his gun and holster, and sauntered off to his cruiser, feeling proud and happy.

The teenagers ignored him.

The old pickup truck grumbled and squeaked to a halt right next to the Tick Tock Diner. Brian Flagg jumped out of the back, slapping the battered blue side of the cab.

“Thanks for the ride!” he said to the man in the baseball cap behind the wheel.

“No problem, fella. Stay good!”

Brian winked, and the pickup truck roared away, leaving behind a rooster tail of dust.

Gotta see Moss Woolsey, thought Brian, he’ll help me out! I gotta get my bike fixed before dark, and Moss is my only hope.

Brian Flagg started up the road toward Moss’s place, past the Tick Tock. Too bad he didn’t have time for a Coke or something. He could use one. Still, with that hoard of his classmates inside there, the Tick Tock scene was not exactly one that he cared to make today.

Just then Sheriff Geller walked out of the diner, easily the last man that Brian Flagg wanted to see right now. Or forever, for that matter!

Luckily Geller didn’t seem to notice him, but just slid into his bubble-top and gunned the engine.

Flagg picked up a little speed, skipped over to the sidewalk, and faded into the shadows of a hardware store’s awning. He turned his back, pretending to admire the hammers and chisels on display in the front window. Sheriff Geller was the guy who’d put Flagg on ice twice, and he was not the sort that Brian Flagg cared to make idle chitchat with!

The black-and-white Lincoln eased along the road behind him, and Flagg could almost sense it stopping.

Oh, shit.

“Flagg! Congratulations!” cried that too-familiar voice.

Brian Flagged turned. “Congratulations for what?” he asked in a surly tone.