Free Baby Huey: A Cautionary Tale of Addiction by James Henderson Page A

entry-level job wouldn’t be enough to satisfy Doreen; I would have to excel, move up the ladder.
    Doreen got up a few minutes later, stood naked by the window yawning. The morning sun filigreed her curvaceous body, like that woman dipped in gold in the James Bond movie.
    I got out of bed and embraced her from behind.
    “You didn’t sleep at all, did you?”
    Kissing her neck, I said, “I love you, Doreen,” and positioned myself between her thighs.
    “What are you doing?”
    After, I was sleepy, couldn’t keep my eyes open.
    Doreen, dressed for work now, shook me. “Get up, John, you can’t be late the first day.” She grabbed my arm and pulled me to a sitting position. “C’mon, get up! Go take a shower.” She pulled me to my feet. “Breakfast is on the table. I laid your clothes out. I’m running late, gotta take Lewis to school--don’t go back to sleep!”
    In the shower I heard the front door slam shut, open up again, and a moment later Doreen came into the bathroom, threw the shower curtain back. “I love you too--I forgot to tell you that. And good luck.”
    Thirty minutes later I was searching for a parking spot near the bank, not sure where employee parking was located. It was ten minutes to eight when I got out and put four quarters in the meter and walked up marble steps over a small pond with a nymph in the middle. In smoke-tinted glass doors to the mezzanine I saw my image, black slacks, black sport coat, red tie against a white shirt, and thought I was dressed for success.
    The door was locked. A guard opened it after I tapped.
    “Can I help you?” he said, his liver-spotted hand near the gun on his hip.
    “Yes, I’m John Dough. I work in the vault. Today is my first day.”
    “Who were you scheduled to see?”
    “Ronnie Myers. He’s my super--”
    Before I could finish he said, “Hold on,” and closed the door and locked it.
    Minutes later Ronnie Myers came out, smiling. We shook hands.
    “Mr. Dough,” he said, “I tried to contact you. Talked to your son on Friday. I guess he didn’t give you my message.”
    “He’s young, eight-years-old. I’m here now, ready to go to work.”
    He shook his head, a funny look on his face. “Mr. Dough, I’m sorry to tell you this. The bank decided to go with someone else for the position.”
    “Okay, that’s great.” Then it hit me: “Wait a minute, you’re saying I don’t have a job?”
    He pursed his lips, nodded. “I’m sorry. Wasn’t my decision.”
    “Why? You told me I was hired, I quit my job, and now you’re telling me I don’t have a job? What kind of crap is that? Why?”
    The guard came out and stood close to Ronnie.
    Ronnie said, “Your previous supervisor, he called Human Resources, said you threatened him before walking off the job. Mr. Dough, the bank has--”
    “I didn’t threaten him!” I said, resisting a strong urge to grab Ronnie by his aqua-green tie and choke a few freckles off his face. “He’s full of shit!”
    “I’m sorry, Mr. Dough,” he said, then turned and followed the guard inside.
    Ten minutes later I drove into Goldenwood parking lot, looking to catch Berry going to work. In my mind I could see his neck under my new shoe, his eyes bulging as I increased the pressure, could hear him begging me not to kill him.
    His truck, a faded canary-yellow Datsun, the model they stopped making a long time ago, was on the lot; but no Berry.
    A long while I toyed with the idea of going inside the plant, walking into Berry’s office and closing the door behind me.
    “Forgive me, Berry,” I’d say, “I was wrong walking off like I did, calling you Fairy,” and then, as he was walking me to the door, telling me, “You were angry, I can understand that, the way I was when I called the bank and ruined your chance of working there,” I would pick up something, anything, a hammer, two-by-four, whatever was handy, and bust his damned head wide open.
    As much as I wanted to I knew if I did that I would go