Quittin’ Time
By Ann Kammerer
[this is the third in the four part series–
read Once a Good Girl from the beginning]
Quittin’ Time
I thought about Mr. Lindell and his daughter on the bus ride home, how he bought her things, gave her things, did most everything for her only to say he did too much, and she needed to do more for herself.
“Her Mom and me,” he said. “I guess we spoiled her. Don’t you think?”
Slipping on my coat, I said I didn’t know, that Debbie seemed like a lot of girls from my high school, the ones with letter-jacket boyfriends, shiny new cars, and snazzy clothes, their hair perfect, their make-up refined, their parents cheering them on for anything and everything, while my mom and dad yelled and screamed, picking fights after every Stroh’s or Jim Beam on ice.
“She’ll be fine,” I said. “Debbie I mean. You’ll see.”
Mr. Lindell tapped the counter and shook his head. He mumbled more about Debbie, about his day, about his clients—how they moaned, how they lied, how they showed up late or poorly-dressed, even when it was time to go to court.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Those clients. And Debbie. They’re all so aimless. Like nothing matters ‘cept what they can get or take, take, take.”
Mr. Lindell rubbed his five-o-clock-shadow. Peering out the window, he watched shopkeepers across the avenue flip door signs from ‘open’ to ‘close.’
“Well, I guess it is ’bout quittin’ time, isn’t it?” he said.
I told him it was, that I had to get going or I’d miss my 5:15 bus at Capital and Grand.
“Well let’s call it a day then.”
His face brightened as he loosened his tie. Clapping his hands, he said I did good work, that he was glad to have a girl like me, that he struck gold the day I walked in looking for a job.
“Thank you,” I said, not knowing what to say next, ‘cept I’d see him in the morning, and to not work too late.
“No chance of that,” he said. “The wife. She doesn’t like it when miss supper.”
He laughed a little, then opened the door, ushering me out with a half-bow, saying again he was grateful for everything I did.
The door locked behind me as I stepped into cool twilight. Turning up my coat collar,
I walked passed his office window, the blinds still open, the lights dimmed, seeing his silhouette as he pulled a bottle of gin and a single glass from the bottom drawer of his scratched wooden desk.
##
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