The Lesson Plan by G.J. Prager - HTML preview

Chapter 9

Homer wanted to go out, so we walked over to one of the dog parks scattered about Santa Monica, empty grassless spaces spread out with wood chips and dog feces and a eucalyptus tree or two which give much needed shade during the sun-filled days. These were once people parks that had recently been converted to serve the local canines. You could hear the tumult almost a block away: yelps, growls and howls, and the chitter-chatter between the dog owners, who liked being there almost as much as their dogs. It wasn’t even noon and I’d already made love twice and gone limp on a girl. I needed a break.

Homer didn’t waste any time as he came crashing through the front gate. He made a beeline for a cocker spaniel half his size and almost bit the little cutie’s head off. I ran as fast as I could down the hill, caught hold of Homer’s tail, and pulled him off the poor dog, just in time to catch hell from the owner, an elderly lady who thought Homer shouldn’t be coming to the park in the first place. She might have been justified in her wrath, but the thought of stepping into the park and getting the third degree from some old bag before I could even park my tired body on a bench was the last straw for me. I gave Homer a good scolding, leashed him back up, and got out of there in a hurry. What was left of the day couldn’t end soon enough.

I got back, grabbed a can of beer from the fridge and started boiling water for a pasta meal. I cut up half an onion and two tomatoes, dressed it up with corn oil and white vinegar, put on the news, and plopped on the sofa, savoring the beer to the last drop. It was a magic moment when I’m not in my car on some deadlocked, choking freeway, and I can safely watch the world unfold before me inside a thirteen-inch Sony color TV. Life wasn’t so bad after all.

The phone rang. It was Sheila. Right off the bat she sounded agitated which led me to expect the worst. I was like a guy ready to parachute out of a plane as I sat on the edge of the sofa and coursed through her every word.

For a minute or so nothing made sense, but I soon realized it wasn’t me but some other guy who was causing her grief. The more she spoke, the more I realized how sad she was. I never would have guessed that it was part of her life in a million years.

It seems that her ex-husband, the father of her eleven year-old boy, Joe, stole him away four years ago on a quiet Santa Monica street as he was coming home from school. The bum ran off with Joe and his new wife to Montana or Idaho, I didn’t quite get it all, and that she hadn’t seen her kid since. She was in tears when she finished telling me her story, and almost had me crying too.

She was telling me all this because I’d mentioned that I was a private detective, and was calling to offer me an opportunity to do something about her sad situation. She wasn’t giving details, but I figured it would be nothing less than some daring rescue operation that could put me behind bars for a long time, or get me killed in the wilds of some barren Montana wheat field or whatever they grow out there.

On the other hand, I felt honored in a way that I never did as a teacher. The idea of getting paid for doing a hero’s job gave me confidence in myself once again. All that bitterness and discontentment flies right out the window when someone sees your true potential in this world.

I wanted to tell her that I’d do it right away and hang any misgivings I might have about it, but I thought I’d better cool my heels before making any promises. I told her it was an interesting proposition but I’d have to check a few things out before I could give her an answer. We said our goodbyes, and as I hung up the phone I went back to work on my meal, rinsing the noodles and setting the plate on the little oak table I procured at a yard sale years ago. I started on the salad first, and began eating in complete satisfaction at the way things were starting to turn out.