Numeric ID: 12 Date Received: 24 APR 2000 Idea From: Kathel Written By: Kathel and Ellen Email To: Kathel@aol.com I dragged myself to the door, wondering why I was even answering it. Then I opened it, still groggy from the slow recovery. I was expecting Jim, or maybe even Steve; not Jim's father. "Hello, little darlin," he drawled. "Go put some clothes on. We need to go for a ride and talk" Near panic, I mumbled a, "Yessir!" and half-walked-half-stumbled to the bedroom to put some clothes on. I didn't know what was going on or where he was planning on taking me, so to play it safe I found a nice pair of shorts and a blouse, plus a pair of running shoes. Something made me put a matching scrunchie in my pony tail and I was ready for whatever might be going down. Feeling not as sick as I had moments earlier (it is a wonder what fear can do) I went back to the main room and Jim's father. "Alright darlin', let's go" Then, taking my elbow, he led me to a waiting limo. I was hoping Jim would be there; I needed some kind of support. He wasn't, and I got madder and even more scared. "Now, down to business," he said. "First, I don't know who you are and it don't matter. I may be a country boy but I ain't dumb. I did a little check and found Steffani doesn't exist. I don't know what the game is but you had better explain; or you can just disappear from Jim's life altogether." I almost jumped out of the limousine when I heard that. "I've got $10,000 here," he said, waving a briefcase. "With a good explanation you take it and leave. With a better one you can just go back to his apartment, and we won't talk about bad explanations" Now, serious panic set in. Obviously, he thought I was some gold digger after Jim's money or something worse. I figured I would opt for a middle ground. "Sir," and right then I hated Jim and myself and everything, because my voice sounded like I was a compulsive yodeller. I found it hard to lie effectively like this. "My real name is Jenny," picking a name from a lit class and praying, "My boyfriend Brad is Jim's roommate, and since I was so sick recently they figured I could be Steffi for a few days. Jim didn't want you to know he wasn't seeing anyone. He said it bothered you." "Well now," he said congenially, and I dared to hope for a moment, "that's a story, darlin'. Not a bad one but still a story. I knew Jim was livin' with another guy. As I said, I ain't stupid. Still, I think there's more to the story and you're going to tell me aren't you?" "Nothing more to tell," I stammered, my voice beginning to fail again and so was the adrenaline that had got me this far. I was starting to feel sick - extremely - again. I then realized we were at the airport. He made me get out of the limo and come into the terminal building with him. Hoping that was as far as I was going, I was relieved when he said, "Okay, here, call your boyfriend to come pick you up," and he handed me a cell phone. He had to help me dial Steve's place and then I just had to hope he would answer. He did. Maybe there was a god, I thought. "Hi Brad? It's Jenny," I said, or yodeled. Somehow he picked up on it. "Hey Jenny, is Greg [Jim's dad] gone?" Something supernatural was looking out for me, who or whatever it was. "Um, almost, he wanted to talk a little bit more with me and he brought me to the airport I'm using his phone," I wanted to emphasize that so badly, but I didn't dare. "Could you come pick me up please?" I was almost whining. I sure hoped the desperation in my voice didn't give something away. "Sure, Jen, give me ten minutes." he said. "Okay, bye," I said, and then Greg took the phone away. "Okay, darlin'," I was beginning to hate that word. "Since your story is backed up, I'll leave you here for him to pick up. But remember to let Jim know you have been found out, and you remember," he pointed a gnarled finger at me, "don't mess with old country boys again." And he handed me the briefcase. It took me a few seconds to remember what was in it, almost long enough for him to get away, but when I did I almost threw it at him. "You fucking asshole, keep your goddamned money!" I screamed at him. He turned back, like most of the airport did at the sound - the one time I was glad of my whacko vocal cords; I sounded like an enraged opera singer - and he looked angry, but I was feeling so sick from the emotional rollercoaster that I was on the verge of passing out anyway. "If you weren't such an asshole maybe he wouldn't feel the need to lie to you about his life! And if YOU," I sprayed spit on that one I was so infuriated, "think that his friends can be bought off with money then you can take that briefcase and stuff it up your ASS! I care about Jim because he's my friend, and I don't care if he has all the money in the world or none at all." The airport tunneled down to just his ugly face. "You keep it," I snarled, and threw it at him, "and then maybe you can buy yourself your own friend or something!" I wheeled to go for the door, and my stomach rebelled. I ended up spewing gross stuff all over the airport as I wheeled, and then I collapsed in a heap on the floor. Steve said later that with instincts like that, I'd make a good drama queen.