“Excuse me, miss, sorry to bother you, but where is everyone going?”
“Hmm? I don’t know about everyone, but I’m going to the jazz concert in the Library.”
“Oh, great, perfect. Yes, uh, me too. But I got a bit turned around. I haven’t been here before. I’m, uh, a reporter for the Seattle Times and I’m doing a piece on the, er, jazz program here at Evergreen.”
“OK, well, just follow me.”
“Well, yes, but I wonder if you would be so kind as to give me a hand with something? I left my tape recorder in the car down there, and, as you can see, it’s not easy for me to get up and down that hill. I was wondering if you could help me get back down to my car, so I could get my recorder.”
“You’re going to tape the concert? How big is the tape recorder?”
“No, uh, not the concert. I, uh, I’m going to interview the leader of the, the director of the jazz program. After the concert.”
“OK, sure, I guess.”
“Thank you, I’ll be eternally grateful. It’s just down those stairs, you see by that door over there, the tan Volkswagen. Do you see it? It’s not far.”
“Why didn’t you just go in that door next to your car?”
“Oh, yes, well, that’s what I was planning to do, but it was locked, and . . . I’m sorry, I’m being a nuisance. You probably want to go meet your boyfriend or something.”
“Nope, don’t have a boyfriend.”
“What? A beautiful girl like you?”
“I have a girlfriend. And she’s singing tonight at the concert.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry to bother you, then. You go along. I’ll just head down and get it myself. Oh, ouch! That stair is slippery, and my ankle. Ow! I should have brought two crutches. One is just so hard to operate on these slick, wet stairs.”
“OK, here, let me help you.”
“Oh, you’re a dear. Thank you so much.”
“Just put your arm over my shoulder. There. Yeah, there, you’re doing better now. It’s like you don’t even need that crutch.”
“Oh, yes, well, the pain comes and goes. Sometimes I completely forget I’ve broken my leg, and other times I can hardly put any weight on it.”
“I thought it was your ankle? Anyway, we’re almost there.”
“Oh, yes, my ankle, what did I say? Here we are. I’ll just get the recorder out of the passenger seat. . . . just be a minute. Ow, ow, ow! Oh no, there I’ve done it again. Damn it. Oh, pardon my French. Although, I suppose you’re used to it.”
“Yeah, no problem.”
“Could I ask you another big favor? Could you get the recorder out of the car for me? It’s on the passenger side. It should be down on the floor.”
“OK., sure, whatever. What? You don’t even have a passenger seat in here. What gives, man?”
“Yes, well, I ski a lot, you know. Or, I did, before the accident. I took the seat out so I could put my skis in the car instead of strapping them to the top. Do you see the recorder? Maybe it slid to the back. You may have to bend down a little and lean inside to find it.”
“Hmm. I don’t know. I don’t see . . .”
“It’s right there, just there, right . . . right . . . there!”
hi Scott, I shared an afternoon with Ted and got away.