It Can Always Be Worse, part 1

Miss Woodhouse

Diane was coming to the realization that it could always be worse. This week was a testament to that. Murphy's law was in full gear and she lamented she wasn't even Irish.

"You'd think I'd catch a break," she muttered to herself.

It all started on Friday morning when her beloved dog, Miss Woodhouse, named for her favorite Jane Austin character, came down with a mysterious illness and by Saturday she had gone to doggie heaven leaving Diane so lonely she could cry. Cry she did, in torrents.

That little cocker spaniel had been her constant companion, her best friend and possibly her only true friend since leaving home to strike out on her own in this big, unkind, unfriendly city. She was so depressed she even considered going back home to the suburbs. Now that was depressed!

Diane probably would have been better off had she stayed in bed mourning the loss of Miss Woodhouse, but instead she sought to find comfort in the nearby church she had started to attend. She thought about visiting her mother after the service, so she made the mistake of bringing her car and parking in the only remaining spot.

She came out of the service teary eyed and sat in her car trying to compose herself before setting out. Tear-filled eyes don't usually make for clear driving conditions, she mused just as Father Harris plowed into the back of her car. It seemed an early morning shot of whiskey didn't make for safe driving either or was it perhaps that he was getting on in years?

She had smelled that lovely Irish brew on his breath as she shook hands with him before getting into her car. To add insult to injury the man glared at her as if it was her fault that she didn't get out of his way. Or did he actually believe that he owned the entire parking lot?

He may very well believe that. He had that look about him. The moment she first set eyes on Father Harris, she knew what to expect, but she had hoped she was wrong. His demeanor screamed supercilious and this incident bore her prediction true.

No doubt, she thought viciously as she climbed out of the car to assess the damage, he had been in a mad dash either to a free lunch, a round of golf, and knowing him probably both. It was all the man ever talked about when not speaking piously about the Creator as if he was on par with Him. Perhaps they golf together? Diane rolled her eyes in disgust.

A broken tail light and a scratched and dented bumper later she chose not to visit her mother lest she be stopped by a state trooper for the offending tail light. This in fact was exactly what happened not one block from home. She told the officer earnestly that it had only just happened and there was a church load of people that witnessed it and that it was the priest who did it.

“I’m going home right this minute to call my insurance company and I will get it repaired as soon as possible. I’ll ride the bus to work,” she told him, hoping he wouldn't give her a ticket. She was let go with a warning and she breathed a sigh of relief. She smiled because her luck was coming back. Things were getting better already.

How wrong she was.

The next day was Monday and true to her words to the state trooper she was going to take the bus to work, but first she stopped by the corner bakery for a decadent croissant and a steaming hot cocoa to lift her spirits before starting the day. She had been awaiting her turn patiently when a clod of a man juggling his latte, cell phone, Kindle and a bagel collided with her spilling his hot coffee all over her arm and scalding it painfully. 

The man ‑or should we call him neanderthal?- cursed loudly and without the minutest glance toward Diane nor a perfunctory “excuse me” or “I'm sorry” and still bellowing into the phone he turned to get another cup of coffee cutting in line in front of her.

Diane abandoned the spirit‑lifting activity and walked back down the block to her tiny apartment to change her outfit and nurse the burn on her arm which mercifully had not blistered, but was quite bothersome enough to be a constant reminder all that day at work.

At least she had that, she told herself smiling slightly as the boss kept piling more work on her desk. Being busy is good. It kept her thoughts away from how very much she would miss her beloved little Miss Woodhouse. Unfortunately, that didn't last too long, either.

"We've been out‑sourced," Mr. Kimble said grimly the next day to Diane's entire division. “Seems there was a merger some time during the night. Musta been in China.”

Whatever the case, she and several others were no longer working there and would need to seek employment elsewhere. They all packed their personal effects and said a few sad goodbyes. Diane stopped at the news stand and bought one of each newspapers for their employment sections. Balancing them on her pathetic box of belongings, she headed for home.

Her usual good posture gave way to a dejected slump of the shoulders as she climbed the front steps to her ancient brownstone. When she glanced up she saw her neighbor, Mrs. Franklin, swiftly close her curtains. Diane always caught that old lady watching her and she didn’t like it. She had tried to be friendly toward the older woman—she was after all, her own mother’s age-- but the woman seemed a bit off. After the few a while Diane assumed the woman just didn't like her. It was just another bit of misfortune. It made her so sad. She didn’t like living next to someone who didn't like her.

Diane made herself tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich-- one of the only meals she could make with confidence--and opened up the papers circling anything and everything that she could manage doing.

"There's always McDonalds or Wendy’s," she muttered to herself. "They're always hiring misfits like me." she said aloud. She shrugged. At least, she would finally learn the difference between a Big Mac and a Wendy’s deluxe burger.

The phone rang and shook her temporarily out of her depressing musings, but when she answered it whoever it was hung up. She looked at the caller ID and saw it was an unfamiliar number. It was just a wrong number.

She set aside the papers and took her car to the repair center. She could thank her parents for insisting she have good auto insurance. It wouldn't cost her anything to get the fender‑bender fixed properly.

She dropped off the car and as she walked home her thoughts went to supercilious priests, which to her was an oxymoron. Churchly people were supposed to be humble, weren’t they? Well, God must have heard her grumbling and taken offense, because the sky opened up and soaked her through to the core before she managed to get home.

"Will it ever end?" she asked the heavens and the heavens seemed to answer back with a loud, earth‑shattering clap of thunder. "Okay...I get it. You hate me, too. Maybe I'll try Buddha."

After another clap of thunder--this time accompanied by a frighteningly close lightning strike which made the lights of the bodaga she was passing flicker--she quickly repented.

"I was just kidding! Gees, I thought you had a sense of humor. You must have one. You're laughing at me right now, aren't you?" she shouted to the sky.  

Another clap of thunder and she decided it would be best to not anger  God, Buddha or any other deity any further and she rushed home.

As she entered the apartment she heard the phone again. She answered it and this time there was a familiar male voice and a female giggling in the background but when she said “Hello”, they hung up. It was the same number that called last time.

"You'd think they'd get the hint that it's the wrong number and just not call again." she hissed at the phone.

She changed out of her dripping wet clothes and thought she'd try an employment agency. She left the apartment again, this time with an umbrella and sturdy, weather‑proof shoes.

"Finally, something good has happened," Diane muttered to herself as she left the employment agency brimming with excitement. It wasn't the best job by far, just secretarial work in an up‑start advertising agency and only as a temp, but still...

“You never know,” she said. “It could lead to something good… maybe a permanent position.”

 Always the optimist, she had to cling to that thought.

She stopped by the store for some essentials. She bought her favorite ice cream, mint‑chocolate chip, and sighed.

“Miss Woodhouse used to like it, too.”

She fleetingly wondered if she should get another dog, but it seemed traitorous to even think of it so soon after her precious pup's demise and she quickly abandoned such thought. She had Miss Woodhouse since the ninth grade and one didn't get over the loss of such a devoted friend and companion so quickly, nor should you.

For a change, Mrs. Franklin wasn't staring at her through her lace curtains as she climbed the steps to her brownstone. She was unlocking her apartment door, which was a bit difficult with her arms full of grocery bags, when a man came out of Mrs. Franklin's apartment. At first glance Diane saw he was quite handsome, tall and very muscular, but when he turned towards her, the menacing look on his face told her quite plainly that he had a bone to pick with her.

Fear seized her as she watched him swiftly walk toward. She trembled. Was he going to attack her, here, in broad daylight? She realized she should just open her door and shut it closed behind her as quickly as she could, but she was frozen in fear.

"Ma'am? Are you Diana Thurman?" he asked in a growling voice.

"Diane Thurman," she managed to say even though she shook from head to toe. "May I help you?"

She had heard that would-be rapists responded to politeness. Perhaps if she was nice to him, he might not go through with his plans?

He took out what looked like a wallet and flipped it open for her to see a badge. Yes, it looked official, but was it real? Wasn't there a man dressed as a firefighter that managed to convince a woman to allow him entrance into her apartment only to have him rape her? She remembered it quite clearly. Her mother called her upon hearing the story and begged her to come back home until the culprit was caught, which he was, thankfully.

"I'm Detective Michael Warren out of the twelfth precinct. We got a tip about some illegal activity," he said sternly.

Her eyes flew open wide. "Here? In this building?" she shrieked.

"No, Ma'am, in your apartment," he said grimly.

Her mouth fell open and she almost dropped her groceries, but he swiftly caught them and added, "Perhaps we can discuss this inside."

She quickly closed her mouth and did some swift thinking before responding. "How do I know you're really who you say you are?" she spoke loudly in the hope that her nosey neighbor might get the hint and call the real cops. Although, Diane mused, if Mrs. Franklin didn't like her she wouldn't care what happened to her.

"You…you could be...anybody," she said trying to keep the fear out of her voice.

"Ma'am, if you would rather we can take this down to the precinct," he growled.

His narrowed eyes and grim mouth told her he wasn’t fooling around. Just her luck, she thought as she opened her door. She had to get a mean rapist. She’d be lucky if she survived.

"I should have listened to my mom," she muttered close to the point of tears.

"Sorry, I didn't catch that," he said as he put her grocery bags on her counter and turned to face her. Now that he was in her apartment, he seemed even larger. He made her tiny kitchen seem more like the kid's version in a playhouse.

"You must have the wrong person. I don't even get parking tickets," she told him, hoping he was a cop and not a rapist.

"Perhaps we can sit," he suggested still glowering at her.

She moved into the living room and chose her rocking chair to sit in while holding onto the arms with a white‑knuckled grip. She slowly rocked back and forth hoping it would soothe her frazzled nerves.

"It seems that someone is under the impression that you are running a call‑girl ring," he said without preamble.

"What? You have to be kidding me! Who in the world would say that?" she shrieked.

"That's not important right now..."

"The hell it isn't! It's Mrs. Franklin, isn't it? She hates me and I've done nothing to her. I don't think you should believe anything she has to say. I'm not too sure she's all there in the head."

For whatever reason, what she said seemed to incense the man all the more. She could see his nostrils flare and it reminded her forcefully of a stallion getting ready to trample someone to death, namely her. She suddenly wished she hadn't said anything at all.

"Why don't we start at the beginning, Ma'am?" he said in a barely contained voice.

He seemed to be trying to control his temper as he pulled out a small notepad and pen and proceeded to ask all manner of questions some of which she couldn't see the relevance of. A strange thought suddenly occurred to her. He must truly be a detective. She fleetingly wondered if she might have been better off with a rapist. The rapist might have eventually left her alone. Not this guy. He kept asking question after question and sometimes repeating them in different ways as if to catch her in a lie.

"What do you mean by sometime boyfriend?" he asked with narrowed eyes.

"He calls sometimes for a movie or dinner. He's one of the only people I know in the city. We met at the park when I was walking my..." she stopped short of telling him about Miss Woodhouse. She was too close to tears as it was and any mention of her would surely set her off. "It's not like we're getting married. I get the feeling he's looking for some girl to keep him in the lap of luxury and I don't exactly cut it."

She couldn't see how that statement could make the detective frown more.

"Is he a gigolo? Are you running a ring of gigolos and call‑girls?" he asked.

"No! Of course not! Gees, if you saw this guy you'd know how ridiculous a statement that is. He's..."  A thought suddenly struck her with a force that almost made her faint with relief and she smiled.  "My brother sent you, didn't he? He hates Stan and oh! This is just like him! He's gotten me before and I always fall for it. Oh, I'm gonna kill him. He hired you to scare me, didn’t he? You must be an actor or stripper or something. Well, you're a great actor ‘cause you had me scared to death and..."

She stopped when the man before her looked ready to spit fire. She had done it again. She had poked the sleeping bear and he was going to rip her throat out now.

"I can assure you I am not an actor, a stripper or anything other than  Detective Michael Warren at the twelfth precinct, like I said before," he tersely said.

The interrogation continued for another hour. It was as if he was trying to pin something, anything on her even something as lowly as littering or jay‑walking. But after almost three hours he obviously could find nothing and that seemed to annoy him, too.

"I'll advise you not to leave the city until I can finish my investigation. Good day to you, Ma'am," he said.

"Good day? Is he kidding?" she mumbled after he had gone. She was still shaking from head to her dirty, wet boots. In her haste, she had forgotten to take them off at the door as she always did.

Her mother had always said, "If it doesn't get dirty, it won't need to be cleaned."

It was one of the only things her mother ever told her that made good, sound sense. Well, thanks to Detective Michael Warren she now had a mess to clean up.

“Just great!” she grumbled.

After cleaning the rug and putting the cleaning supplies away, Diane went to put the groceries away. That’s when she remembered the ice cream. Of course, now she should call it just cream. It was a melted sloppy mess by now. She really felt like crying. Instead, she stubbornly took the carton and dumped the entire contents into her largest bowl and sat down to eat...well, more like drink, the whole seven thousand calorie treat.

"What else could happen?" she moaned.

By the next day she wished she hadn't asked.

To be continued....