Andrew Neiderman - Deficiency

"Oh no," she muttered, realizing she had just contacted the police to investigate her own fiance. This was going to be hard to explain to him. Maybe it was time to tell him everything, she thought. He was right, after all. They should be sharing this problem.

She wiped herself as dry as she could as quickly as she could and put on her robe and soft leather slippers. Then she flipped on the lights in the hallway and hurried down the stairs, wondering why Curt hadn't continued to knock. His car was still there. She turned on lights as she moved toward the front door. As fast as she could, she unlatched it and opened it, realizing it was practically pushing itself open.

It was easy to understand why.

Curt's limp body was against it, falling in as she opened the door.

Paula Gilbert lingered in the parking lot. They had played the night's final set, and although the Inn would remain open another hour or so, they had all decided to leave. Jack and Tag got into their cars, complaining to her about the lousy money they were both making and wondering aloud if they shouldn't just chuck it all. It wasn't the first time, and like all the other times, she didn't put up any vigorous arguments. She wasn't going to stop singing and if they wanted to end the group, fine. She would easily find two other men, or maybe she would hook up with the Boggs Trio. They were always suggesting she should. What else would she do? She had no intention of ever becoming someone's secretary or take any of those boring nine-to-five jobs her friends had, even working for the post office.

All they talked about was their benefits, benefits. As far as Paula was concerned, they had traded their freedom and their chance to enjoy life for the security of medical insurance. Just don't get sick, she told them with a laugh. What are you going to do, work for retirement and hope that by the time you collect your pension, you'll still be healthy and young enough to enjoy life? Not me. I'm still having fun, like always.

They nodded and smirked, but in her heart she knew they were envious. They wished they could be as carefree and as independent as she was. No worries. Jack and Tag quit? So what?

"Don't let worrying about it all keep you up boys," she told them. They, too, shook their heads at her and left her. Good riddance, she thought. She looked around. She was disappointed. That handsome guy disappointed her. He was supposed to be out here, and they were supposed to go for a late-night drink in a place where people didn't have fertilizer on their shoes. So much for that, she thought, tossing off the expectation like a piece of gum that had lost its flavor.

She walked toward her own vehicle, a present from her brother, one of his leftovers. It was a beat-up Chevy Impala, but it still ran and he did take care of its maintenance for her. Just as she reached it, the handsome stranger came around from the rear of the car.

"Where the hell did you come from?" she asked, after gasping and stepping back. "I just about gave up on you."

"I was standing here in the shadows watching you say good night to your partners. I didn't want to intrude, and I wanted to be sure you didn't have other plans that included one or even both of them," he replied. She laughed.

"Hardly. It's enough I work with those stump jumpers."

"Stump jumpers?" he said laughing.

"Hillbillies, rednecks. Their idea of a good time is a game of darts over at the Old Mill."

"I see. Well, if you're not too tired," he continued.

"Tired? The night's just beginning for me," she said smiling.

"I'm happy to hear that. Can you leave your car here?" he followed.

"Sure," she said shrugging. "Who'd steal it?" He laughed and they started walking toward the front where the customers parked.

"I'm right over here," he said indicating they go to their right. She saw the black Lincoln Town Car, a late model, and smiled. It glittered in the illumination of the Inn's neon lights.

"Nice wheels," she said.

"I like a lot of steel around me," he said. "And soft leather seats."

"I won't turn that down either," she replied when he opened the door for her. When was the last time any man ever did that for her? she wondered and got in. He walked around and did the same.

"Here we go," he said starting the engine. "Hold on to your seat." She laughed.

"Where are we going?" she asked when he turned left instead of right, which would have taken them into Woodbourne and then onto Route 52, which she had described to him earlier in the Inn.

"I was told I shouldn't leave this area until I've seen that dam and lake where they store water for New York City. It's just a little ways," he said smiling at her, "and with the clouds parting and those stars tonight, it could be quite a beautiful site, don't you think?"

She smiled to herself. It wouldn't be the first time she had parked with a man up there, but she hadn't done it since she was in high school. That titillated her. Neck in a car? With the music playing? Maybe it wasn't as sophisticated an experience as she was anticipating, but this guy was like someone who had walked out of a soap opera and it all did make her feel like a teenager again. Afterward, they could go for that cocktail somewhere.

"America has so many beautiful places to visit," he said. "There is nothing like traveling and traveling and suddenly being surprised by a breathtaking sight. You know that expression, stop to smell the roses?"

"No," she said. It suggested something to do at a cemetery to her.

"Well, it means taking the time to appreciate the beautiful things, Paula. You should think about that more. You should stop to smell the roses, too." She laughed. She didn't know why exactly, but there was a new tone in his voice that actually stung her with a little trepidation.

"Most people never do and one day they wake up and realize it, but they also realize it's too late. It's all passed them by, understand?"

"Sorta," she said. That was her philosophy in a roundabout way, wasn't it, she thought.

"I knew you would understand. Anyone who can sing like you do, who can feel words and music, has to be able to understand what is and what isn't important in life. You're an artist," he continued. "Artists are by nature more sensitive." She liked that. No one ever called her an artist.

"Look at these houses out here," he said as they drove on. "Each one has a sizable piece of land around it. They look so peaceful, too, don't they? You feel the contentment, the quiet bliss. With that sky opening up, those homes silhouetted look like they're on the edge of the world. In them, people are sleeping snugly, fathers and mothers are embracing each other, their children are feeling secure, safe, dreaming about bubbles and balloons and tinsel."

"Are you a poet?" she asked him.

"No," he said smiling, "I'm just poetic."

"Same thing to me," she said.

"Maybe it is," he said nodding.

"I don't understand what you do, this networking thing."

"Oh, it's boring work compared to what you do, Paula. You're out there with people, all sorts of people, personalities, and you have the music that can carry you above it all. I watched you carefully. You're not bothered by the noise or anything. You're in your own little world, aren't you?"

"Yes," she said. "That's it."

"Of course that's it," he replied.

They made another turn and climbed a hill and moments later, there was the dam and the lake and the starlight playing on the water. He found a dirt road that turned in and off the highway and drove in as far as he could, switching off the lights.

"Just look at that," he said. "Breathtaking." She looked at it as if for the first time, too.

"Yes," she said.

He sat there so still and so unmoving that for a few minutes she thought this was going to be it. He wasn't even going to try to kiss her.