Free Baby Talk by Mike Wells Page A

the same chair
where Neal had sat when Snell had interviewed him for the job a
little less than two weeks ago. Neal carefully lowered himself into
it.
    Snell sat there a moment, eyeing Neal
suspiciously. Neal glanced away, at the rows and rows of
ancient-looking football trophies that lined the bookshelves.
    Snell finally leaned forward and inspected
Neal’s foot. Even through the sneaker, it looked enormous.
    “Why didn’t you tell us you hurt yourself,
son? You could have just taken the day off.”
    “I...well, it wasn’t really too bad this
morning.”
    “Looks pretty bad now, though.”
    Neal sat up a little more in the chair and
tried to appear confident—he didn’t want to lose the job, no matter
how bad it was. “I need the money. I was afraid if I tried to take
time off so soon, you might fire me.”
    “I can understand that,” Snell said, slowly
nodding his beefy head. “But what I can’t understand it your
disregard for other people, me and my fambly included. You might
screw up and run somebody over.” He looked past Neal, as if
imagining some grisly accident, and then shuddered. “You hit a
pedestrian, I might lose everything.” Glancing towards his open
door, he lowered his voice. “You know how these nigras are now.
They all got lawyers and an axe to grind, and the damn goven’ment
backs ‘em up.”
    Neal nodded politely, but shuddered on the
inside. Snell was the type of ignorant redneck with whom Neal could
never have imagined having an extended conversation, much less
having for an employer. But what troubled Neal even more at this
particular moment was how the old man had found out about his foot.
He was almost certain no one at the shop had noticed anything wrong
when he had loaded up the truck in the morning. Grammy and Mildred
had been gorging themselves on coffee and donuts and hadn’t paid
him any attention.
    “I got a call this afternoon from a security
guard on your delivery route,” the old man said, as if he had read
Neal’s thoughts. “Said you didn’t look fit to walk, let alone drive
a van.”
    “Oh,” was all Neal could manage.
That
nosy bastard
, he thought, remembering the guard.
Why
couldn’t he have just minded his own business?
    “He also said he thought you were on
drugs.”
    Neal sat up even straighter. “I’m not on
drugs.”
    Snell gave another slow nod, then glanced
down at Neal’s foot again.
    “What exactly happened to it, anyway?”
    “Nothing—I just sprained it last night.”
    “Doing what?”
    Neal shrugged. “Fell when I got up to go to
the bathroom.”
    “That’s mighty interestin,’” the old man
said.
    Neal became even more tense. “Why do you say
that?” Surely Annie hadn’t called and told him about—
    “Security guard said you did it playin’
tennis.”
    “Oh.” Neal felt his face turning red, partly
from embarrassment, but partly from anger. What kind of
conversation had the two assholes had, anyway? Had they discussed
the color of his socks, too? Neal wondered if the old man knew the
guard was black. He doubted it. They wouldn’t have been so chummy,
otherwise.
    “So which is it?” Snell said, with a
sneer.
    “I don’t see what business it is of
yours.”
    “The physical condition of my drivers is my
bidness.” He paused, clasping his hands behind his head. “Besides,
bein’ an ex-athlete an all, I might even be able to hep out.”
    Neal sighed, fighting the effects of all the
pain killers he had taken. It was difficult to think clearly.
“Look, I hurt it a little bit after work, playing tennis. Then when
I got up last night to use the bathroom, I turned my ankle, and
really messed it up. Okay?”
    Snell looked Neal over as if he were trying
to decide whether to believe him or not. “Go to the doctor?”
    “Yes sir,” Neal said.
    “Which one?”
    “I don’t know—my wife took me to the
emergency room last night.”
    “Get it x-rayed?”
    “Yes, of course.”
    “Nothin’ broken?”
    “No