Lessons Taught, Lessons Learned

Lessons Taught, Lessons Learned By Scott Turner

Chapter One

Disclaimer: This story is a complete work of fiction. It includes occasional depictions of sex between consenting adult men. If it is illegal for you to possess such material, or you parents don't want you reading it, then please find another story. This is the third and final story in the "Turner Trilogy." It follows "Strange Bedfellows (last post on Nifty, 5/01/07) and its sequel, "Fork in the Road" (last post, 6/06/08). It is not necessary to have read either of those tales in order to follow this one, although you may be entertained. The first effort was just that, the author's very first effort at writing fiction, and it really shows. It is poorly edited, particularly the early chapters, and contains too much gratuitous sex, even if the main characters are sex-starved college freshmen. The second is much more carefully edited, with much assistance from friends, and the sex is toned down somewhat. This story continues that same trend in the writing. Readers looking for stroke material in every chapter might be disappointed.

This story is copyrighted, 2008, and all rights are reserved by the author. This may not be reproduced, published or reposted without the expressed permission of the author.

I hope you enjoy it.

"Damn, these friggin' things are heavier than they looked in the office," Scott mumbled through gritted teeth to nobody in particular. His left arm was seriously strained, starting to really hurt in fact, so he picked up the pace. "403 can't be too far away. Millie said it was just around the corner here, half-way down the hall." The brown Formica plate on the wall made him smile. "403," and beneath that, "Mr. Turner."

Scott Turner, Jr. let the book bag slide off of his right shoulder and onto the floor. A dull thud echoed in the empty hallway. "Finally!" On his left forearm three textbooks, two three-ringed binders and several inches of manila folders balanced precariously with their ends against his rib cage. With his freed hand he reached into his hip pocket. "Shit. Other pocket," he muttered under his breath, and then quickly glanced both ways to make sure nobody had heard him swear. All clear. After a few careful contortions of his torso, he managed to wiggle his right hand into his left pocket. "Aha!" He felt the key and carefully extracted it from his pants. Still balancing his cargo on his bent left arm, he slid the shiny metal digit into the lock and turned it to the left. It clicked. He smiled again, more broadly this time.

Room 403 of New Allsted High School. Mr. Turner's classroom would soon be open for business.

Just enough light from the hallway bled into the dark room to allow him to make out a small table to his right. He dropped the load of materials and shook the strained arm. "Damn," he muttered softly as he wagged some of the sting out of the limb. One quick whiff confirmed what he'd been told in the office, that his new classroom had just received the summer treatment from the maintenance crew: floors stripped and waxed and a fresh coat of a light blue-gray paint applied to the walls. Feeling along the wall to the left of the doorway, he detected three small switches set into a smooth steel panel. He flipped all three upward with a flattened hand and squinted for an instant under the fluorescent light.

He turned and saw thirty desks, six rows of five covering most of the floor space. On one wall was a traditional old blackboard, although it was dark green. That never did make sense to me,' he thought. Green boards being called black.' On the adjacent wall, the one the desks all faced, was a large white marker board. Bracketed to the front left corner of the room was a television with a built in video player. The illuminated digital clock/counter on its front flashed 12:00. `Doesn't anybody know how to set those things?'

There were two cork bulletin boards; one enormous empty canvas covering a third wall in the room, waiting to be plastered with something, although he didn't know what that would become. A smaller one, about four by four, adorned the wall above the table he'd just filled with instructional material. In the near right corner of the room were two four-drawer file cabinets, a computer desk without a computer on it, and the heavy metal teacher's desk that would become his home away from home. There was also a nameplate, front and center. "Mr. Turner," it said. Scott smiled again and a warm, gentle tingle swept through him. `Mr. Turner of New Allsted High School. Home of the Ramblin' Raiders.'

Just six weeks earlier, Scott had been invited to come to New Allsted for an interview. They were looking for a teacher in the social studies department; one who could handle the required U.S. History course, a couple sections of government and the new Advanced Placement U.S. History class. The latter would be a particular challenge for whomever the committee chose, as AP courses were college-level work delivered to high school students.

The assignment was right up his ally and he felt confident going into the interview. He'd done some homework on the community, just in case an opportunity arose to show off that he knew what he might be walking into. New Allsted, Wisconsin, he learned, was a town of nearly 15,000 located about thirty-five miles south and a little east of Madison. Like a lot of southern Wisconsin communities, it had been settled by German immigrants in the 1840's and it had a namesake, Allstedt, back in the "old country." It was a stable middle class community with a decent industrial base and a pretty healthy rural farming population surrounding the town. About a third of the school district's residents lived on or near farms. Most of the state's major transportation improvements for the last couple decades had more or less ignored the area, so growth had come slowly, which was just fine with most of the true locals. The school system served just over 3,000 kids with roughly 900 of them attending the high school. He'd heard from his dad that the local politics seemed to run pretty much to the center, with the state legislative seats in the area changing party hands every few years.

Scott Turner, Sr., "Big Scott" to friends and family, would know such things. As a long-time spectator and sometime participant in state politics, and now a state senator himself, he had both a personal and professional interest in such things. For sixteen years his old high school sweetheart, Maureen McCarthy, had held the senate seat that Big Scott now occupied. Two years earlier, Maureen had convinced her old beau to run for the office, since she'd decided to move up the political food chain and into the office of State Attorney General. Many years earlier, it had also been Maureen who introduced Big Scott to her college roommate, Suzanne. That was fortunate for both Scott Turners, as Suzanne was now the loving wife of the elder and the loving mother of the younger one. Even though the adolescent romance between Big Scott and Maureen had fizzled while they attended the University of Wisconsin together, she had remained a dear friend of the family and an important role model to Scotty.

And so Scott Turner, Jr. was no stranger to the world of politics himself. He had tagged along with his mom and dad to help with a lot of the `grunt work' in practically all of Maureen's state senate campaigns. Everybody who'd known the younger Turner back in the day would've thought he'd be running for office himself rather than his old man. After all, he'd followed his parents' footsteps at college in Madison, and had been intent on majoring in political science. He'd even harbored some serious political aspirations for himself at a very young age—as serious as an eighteen-year old kid can be, anyway. He'd been elected to the UW's student government twice, even managing to secure the post of its presiding officer. And, with Maureen's help, he had finagled the governor's appointment to fill the one student seat on the university's Board of Regents. Then, again with Senator McCarthy's help, he'd worked for a year in the party's caucus under the grand dome of the capitol building. The net effect of these first two years in Madison was to convince Scott that he was better suited to teaching about the political world than practicing the blood sport himself.

Taking in the view of his new academic domain, Scott thought back on the interview he'd had a month earlier. He had arrived in town a couple hours early so that he could drive around and try to get a feel for the place. He was feeling pretty confident in his chances of getting hired. His credentials were solid and they were looking for someone to take on U.S. History and American Government courses, so the placement was right up his alley. His tour of the town was more about getting a sense of the locals in case he found himself relocating there. Plus, he wanted to be able to comment on the community and show some familiarity should the opportunity arise during the interview.

After locating the district's central office and the high school, two blocks away, he drove down to Plover Avenue, the town's central thoroughfare. He parked and then strolled for a half hour past the storefronts, and then found a coffee shop two blocks off the main drag. He picked up a copy of "The Gazette," the local weekly newspaper, and ordered a cup of coffee. "Brat Fest," the community's summer celebration, was to kick off the following weekend and there was a nice picture on the front page of the twelve teenaged beauties vying for the coveted title of "Miss Bratwurst." There's a dirty joke in there somewhere, I think,' he smirked to himself. How do you like to take your sausage, young lady?' he imagined one of the judges asking the contestants with a dirty leer. Then he scolded himself. You're a visitor here, dammit, and you want them to hire you! Straighten up.' He noted that Sunday's parade would be headed by Grand Marshall Ted Budde, a young U.S. Marine lieutenant who had recently returned from a tour in the Persian Gulf. The paper boasted that this year's parade would include over eighty separate units including thirteen marching bands. Not bad for a pretty small town,' he mused. `They take their Brat Fest seriously here.'

Dr. Kim Watson, the high school principal greeted him in the front office and grabbed his hand in hers. She was an enormous woman: a good two, maybe three inches taller than Scott's five-foot-eleven, and she carried what he guessed was nearly three hundred pounds. She had a wide, square face and a proportionately large smile. Her hair was probably a dishwater brownish-blondish kind of natural hue, but she'd highlighted it with lighter streaks and had it cut fairly short. Her hands seemed the size of canned hams when they exchanged a healthy handshake. Dr. Watson?' he thought. You gotta be friggin' kidding me.' She read Scott's face when she introduced herself and she gave another broad grin. "Yes, Mr. Turner, that's right. It's Dr. Watson.' Really. And, no, we have nobody named either Sherlock or Holmes on the staff. I debated whether or not to use the title when I earned my Ph.D., but figured what the devil?' I earned it. Let `em laugh. You'll get used to it...IF you join our staff."

She led him into a good-sized conference room across the narrow hall from her office. Five others were already seated with folders and notepads either stacked or strewn in front of them. The introductions included both assistant principals, Jeffrey Gerdes and Michael Cox, who also did double-duty as the athletic director. Mr. Cox had just vacated the position that Scott hoped to fill and had been the varsity basketball coach. Then there was Sandra Hiley, currently serving as the social studies department chair, and another member of the department, Andy Faber. Andy explained that he taught several sections of the government class that this vacant position would help to cover and he coached the varsity girls' softball team. And, he was hot. He reminded Scott of the actor Andy Garcia, over whom he'd lusted more than once. Like the actor, Andy Faber had a sharp nose, fairly thin lips, a strong chin and dark, piercing eyes. From his sitting position it was hard to judge his height, but Scott figured a bit shorter than he was. And the man was built. The polo Andy wore was perhaps a half size too small for his muscular torso, but it did his arms and chest more than justice. Scott suspected that Andy was very aware of that face, even though he had a very unassuming nature about him that Scott found very attractive. He had a dazzling smile and a surprisingly soft voice when he spoke. `Concentrate!' Scott scolded himself. Finally, Michelle Wayland, the one parent on the committee introduced herself. She had one son who was an NAHS alumn, two other sons who were still in school and she was on the executive committee of the PTA.

The interview, lasting a little more than an hour, had gone well, Scott thought. No curveball questions and plenty of opportunity for him to tout his experience at the capitol and within student government at the UW. He judiciously avoided mentioning that his dad held office or that his quasi-godmother was now the Attorney General. He didn't want to appear too gratuitous in his name-dropping. He shook hands around the table and thanked them for their time. Kim Watson stood next to him. "And now, if you're ready and are interested, how about a tour of the building?"

Scott smiled and nodded his head. "I'd love it!"

Kim nodded. "Good. Let me introduce you to your tour guides." She led him back into the main office. "Mr. Turner, this is Janette Boynton. She'll be a junior this fall."

Scott was caught a little off guard by the teenagers, but quickly recovered and he automatically extended a hand. "Nice to meet you, Janette."

Kim gestured to her left. "And this is Zach Jacoby. Zach's going to be a senior and has been active on our student council for the past three years." She rolled her eyes. "And he's a social studies machine."

Zach looked at the floor and blushed. Scott reached out and the young man responded in kind. "Good to know you, Zach." He was a tall, well-built young man. He stood an inch or two taller than Scott and probably outweighed him by twenty pounds. He had dark brown hair and eyes and a square jaw.

Kim added, "And he's one of our two starting quarterbacks on the football team..." She raised her brows and glanced at Zach with a smirk, "...the team that will be going to State this year, right?"

Scott released his grasp and cocked his head with a smirk of his own. "Two starting QB's? You must have an embarrassment of riches on your offense this year, but isn't that one too many when you guys take the line? That would be confusing as all get-out to your opponents, two quarterbacks."

Zach snorted and a dimple dotted each cheek as he smiled. "Well, the plan is that we'll take turns starting this season, as long as we're both healthy."

Kim smile never left her. "Well, kids, he's all yours. Give him the full tour and tell him all you know about the place. You two can answer any questions Mr. Turner might have, but you remember the rule. No fair talking about me." Zach and Janette forced the obligatory chuckles. Then the principal reached out again for Scott's hand. "These two will see you out when they're done. It was wonderful meeting you, Mr. Turner. We'll be contacting all the candidates one way or another by the week's end."

"Thanks so much for your time, Dr. Watson. This was fun." He looked at the two youngsters. "Okay, gang. Lead the way."

Scott knew right away that the interview wasn't yet over, and he assumed that these two would be debriefed by the selection committee after they'd led each of the candidates on a tour. Very clever,' he considered. Teens on a formal interview committee full of education speak' could be a waste of time. But put em in a position for a more casual chat and get their impressions later.'

A couple of yards into the tour, Zach turned toward him. "So, if they hire you you'll be teaching the Advanced Placement U.S. History course?"

Scott raised his brows and sighed. "That's what they tell me. Plus some American Government and the required tenth-grade course in U.S. History."

Zach nodded. "That's a big load, and the Advanced Placement in history is brand new this year. I signed up for it and I can't wait."

Scott smiled. "Well, Dr. Watson said you're a social studies machine." Not to ignore Janette, he turned. "And what about you Janette?"

She shrugged. "I thought about the AP class, but couldn't fit it into my schedule this year. Maybe next. But it scares me. I've heard about how much work the AP classes are. But this year I'm taking both the psych. and the sociology electives though."

During the tour, as they went down the hallway that housed the social studies classrooms, there was an open door. The kids exchanged glances and Zach nodded with a grin. "Why not?" Then he looked at Scott. "Short detour, Mr. Turner." He stuck his head through the doorway. "Hey, Mr. Daley! Having a good summer?"

Scott heard a very friendly voice fill the empty classroom. "Zach! How are you, son? I'm having a fine summer. How about you? Football practice hasn't started yet, has it?"

"Uhm, no sir." Janette stepped to the doorway and waved. "We're helping Dr. Watson and the interview committee for the new social studies teachers." By this time Jim was at the door with the kids. Zach stepped to the side. "Mr. Daley. This is Mr. Scott Turner. We're just giving him the post-interview tour."

Jim stuck out a hand and shook Scott's enthusiastically. He was a slight man with a full head of brown hair, graying at the temples and in his eyebrows. The creases on his forehead and the corners of his eyes and mouth when he smiled led Scott to believe he was well into his fifties. His dark-rimmed glasses seemed a bit too large for his small head and face. His smile and handshake were robust and genuine. Right off the bat, he seemed like a good-natured guy very much in his element with the teenagers. "Good to meet you, Scott. How'd the interview go?"

Scott smiled and shrugged. "It felt okay. At least I can't remember saying anything that I should feel stupid about. Yeah, I think it went pretty well, but I suppose you'd have to ask them." He motioned with his head toward the office.

Jim shook his head. "Nah. I'm not sticking around that long. Just came in for a few minutes because Millie, Kim's secretary, called me at home. Some of the materials I ordered for the new year came in, and I'm just making sure everything arrived. I hate starting the year short-handed."

Janette smiled. "Mr. Daley's notorious for, what is it? `Hitting the ground running'?"

Jim smiled. "You remember." He looked at Scott. "I was still teaching ninth-grade geography when Zach was a freshman, and I had the tenth-grade U.S. History class when Janette was a sophomore. I also had every one of her four older brothers and sisters over the years."

Scott nodded. "And what are you teaching now?"

"Only Economics. Four sections of the required class for seniors and one section of the AP elective course each semester." Jim looked over at Zach. "Mr. Jacoby. I see your name's on that list this year."

"Yes sir," the young man nodded.

Scott raised a brow. "You're tackling both the AP History and AP Economics in the same year? Whoa. Now that's quite a load."

Jim chuckled. "If there's anybody in that class who can handle it, it's this young man."

Zach grinned and his face went a shade pinker. Jim glanced at the clock and Scott took the hint. "Well, we should let you go. I still have a lot to see around here. I'm learning plenty."

They exchanged another warm handshake. "Good to meet you, sir." He looked at the kids. "Thanks for dropping in with Mr. Turner. He should be warned that a few old dinosaurs walk these halls, and it's always great seeing the two of you." He tapped Scott's shoulder. "Best of luck, Mr. Turner, come what may."

When they were twenty feet down the hallway, Zach leaned toward Scott. "The man's an institution in this school. Easily one of the most popular teachers, even with those who hate the subject he teaches. He's great!"

Janette piped up. "He's an institution in this county. My god! He taught, like, half the town and most of the folks out in the country."

Scott nodded and inquired, "How long has he been at it?"

Zach squinted and bit his lower lip for a second. "It's got to be...well, it must be over thirty years now. He taught my mom, and he'd already been around for awhile, even back then."

Scott's eyes popped. "He must be older than he looks."

Janette agreed, "And he shows no signs of slowing down. He and his wife play bridge a couple times a month with my grandparents. He always tells them they're going to have to carry him out of here on a stretcher."

The three of them spent another thirty minutes strolling through every hallway in the school. They brought Scott through the gym, the library and adjacent computer lab and then through the empty auditorium. Scott was impressed by the facility. That was where the tour ended, near the exit of the building nearest the auditorium doors. Scott thanked them both, and both wished him luck.

The call from Dr. Watson came that same evening. Scott had just hung up the phone after telling his mom about the experience in New Allsted. He was getting ready to nuke some leftover spaghetti when the phone rang again. Just as he hung up the phone, the door to the apartment opened and his roommate Craig bounded up the stairs. "'Sup bud?"

Scott smiled a sublime smile. "Make us a couple drinks. I gotta call my folks back. Make `em strong ones so we can celebrate. I'm moving to New Allsted at the end of the month. I'm gonna be a teacher."

He wasn't contractually obliged to appear at school until the following week, but had determined that he needed to get a head start. Preparing for three different courses would be a challenge. Besides, he'd have to commute from Madison a few times to scope out new living arrangements anyway. He'd have about three more weeks to find a new place, pack up all his stuff after three years in the same apartment, get it all moved to New Allsted and be ready to greet the kids on the first day of school.

Dr. Watson had explained that she was taking a couple of days off for a short vacation, but she told him to see Millicent Parmenter, her secretary, in the main office if he did decide to come into school early to get set up. Millie would fix him up with keys to his room and all the other material he'd need to get started.

Millicent was a nice-sounding name; in fact, a meek-sounding name, he thought. "I've never known or worked with a Millicent," he said to Craig. "You ever know anybody named Millicent?" Craig shook his head and kept reading the paper. "It sounds downright cute."

It was a front. She scared the shit out of him. "Mr. Turner! Welcome to New Allsted." It sounded more like a command than a welcome. Her grip was firm and her look was stern. She matched his height, and probably his weight, and she looked him right in the eye. She spoke quickly and succinctly. "I'm Millie Parmenter, Dr. Watson's administrative assistant. I keep her schedule and guard her door. I call the substitutes and I hand out the keys. I run the office as Dr. Watson requires. I don't deal too much with students and a lot of folks around here think I'm a bitch on wheels." She didn't so much as crack a grin.

Scott stood frozen, afraid to move. "Er...nice to meet you, Ms. Parmenter, and good to know all that, I guess." He finally caught a breath. "If I may, why do they think you're a...uhm `bitch on wheels'?" He tried what he thought was his most winning smile. "You seem perfectly pleasant to me."

She nearly altered her deadpan expression by arching one brow. "I do not. And they think that because I am, most of the time. And don't try to schmooze me. And it's Millie, just Millie, thank you." She shoved the stack of books and binders across the office counter. "The teacher's edition of all of your textbooks, your grade book, your lesson plan book, your faculty and student handbooks, your disciplinary referral forms and the school calendar are all in here. In addition, there are the lesson plans from last year, such as they are, prepared by your predecessor Mr. Cox for you to review. You'll submit a copy of your own lesson plans one week prior to their delivery to the students. You'll submit the final grades on or before the date that's announced. If you're sick or can't make it in for other reasons, you'll call at least two hours before the start of the school day and leave a message. Planned absences are another matter and the more notice I have, the better. I get in at 5:30 in the morning and begin calling the subs at six. I'm gone by two most days, so if you need something from me, please try to plan ahead." She handed him a sticker. "This is your parking permit. You'll park only in the staff slots in the parking lot, or you might get towed." She held up a ring with two keys. "This one will get you in the front door or the back door near your room in case you're here after hours or on weekends. This one will get you into your classroom or any other room in the four hundred hallway. If you acquire added duties that might require access to other areas of the building, please see me."

He loaded the stack of books, binders and folders onto his arm and slid the keys into his pocket. "Will do, Ms...uhm, Millie. Thanks for all your help." She just nodded as he turned for the door.

An hour later, as he was digging through one of the file cabinets, he heard a voice in the hallway. "Hang on, dammit! I'm gonna check in on the new guy." The voice's owner suddenly filled the doorway. He was a good six-four and was easily over three hundred pounds. He wore salt and pepper hair and full beard dashed with the same varying shades of gray. His beige uniform shirt said simply "Bart" in red thread over the breast pocket.

The head custodian grabbed Scott's hand in a grip that nearly had Scott wincing. "Bart. Bart Emerson. Building and Grounds Supervisor for this building." He didn't smile.

Scott did smile, and he tried to match Bart's grip. Both the smile and the handshake were wasted efforts. "Scott Turner. Good to know you, Bart. One of the first things I learned as a student teacher was to get to know and make friends with the janitors. You folks have all the keys and can bail us dopes out when we're in a jam."

His second attempt to ingratiate himself with the staff fell just as flat as the first one had with Millie. Bart looked down on the newbie. "First, I'm not a damned janitor. I'm the Supervisor of Buildings and Grounds and my people make up the Maintenance Staff.' They're not janitors, they're not custodians, they are maintenance staff. I, myself, do sweep and mop the floors from time to time, but beyond that I make this building run. The heat, the electricity, the air conditioning where we have it, the snow removal and all the rest." Scott was about to apologize for his misstep, but Bart continued. "We pull out the bleachers and set up the chairs and the stage for assemblies and games, and we tear em down later." He sized Scott up again. "But you're right. You need me a hell of a lot more than I need you."

Scott swallowed. "Didn't mean to offend with the `janitor' reference, and I know I'll have to rely on you and your staff to get my job done." Bart's stoic nod was dismissive, and it told him he was getting nowhere.

Bart looked around the room. "Need anything?"

"Uhm...no, not right now. The place looks great." Scott noticed the bare computer desk. "Actually, any idea when I might be getting a computer?"

Bart shook his head. "Not my area." He stuck his nose in the air and put on a haughty sounding voice. "You'll have to consult with our `Instructional Media Specialist' on that request." He smirked. "Time was when they were just friggin' librarians."

`But you're in maintenance, and most definitely not a janitor,' Scott thought to himself. Then he nodded. "Gotcha. Thanks."

The Supervisor of Buildings and Grounds just nodded again. "Okay, then. Let me know if you need anything else. Just give us some advance notice. Not real big on surprises in my neck of the woods."

Scott meekly nodded his appreciation. "I'll try to keep the emergencies to a minimum."

Bart nodded one final time and he turned. As he walked down the hallway, a grin slowly found its way to his face.

"Jeez. Everybody here except Mr. Daley is over-sized. And none of them like surprises." The phone on his desk rang, much to his surprise. He'd only been in the room for a little over an hour. He cautiously picked up the receiver. "Hello?"

"Mr. Turner, it's Millie in the office, and I'll advise you to answer your classroom phone with something more than a simple hello."

Scott grinned and cleared his throat. "Good morning, this is Mr. Turner."

"That's better." She paused. "Mr. Turner, it seems you're one of the more popular new teachers we've seen in a while."

"Please, Millie, call me Scott."

"I will not, Mr. Turner."

"Okay...so what makes you think I'm so darned popular? Nobody here knows me yet besides you, Dr. Watson and Bart."

She huffed. "So I gather you've met the head janitor." Scott stifled a laugh as Dr. Watson's Administrative Assistant continued. "Well, Mr. Turner, in the past forty-five minutes, we've had a UPS delivery and another from the local florist, and much of it has your name on it. Now it's all well and good to be the flavor of the day, but I can't have all this stuff cluttering up this office, so I'd appreciate it if you'd come down here and pick up these things."

Scott didn't bother to question what had been delivered. "Be right there."

When he reached the office Bart was there, sorting out his mail on the counter. Millie was on the phone when he entered. She just pointed to a bench inside the front door and mouthed "All of it."

There were two large green plants and a long cardboard tube that had come by UPS. Scott tried to cradle one plant in each arm and still carry the tube in his hands, but it was all too unwieldy. Bart watched, amused, for most of a minute as Scott tried to balance the plants and package and still pull the front door open. Finally he grumbled, "Oh, here. Let me give you a hand," and he grabbed one of the plants in his large left arm and opened the door.

Scott breathed a sigh of relief and stepped into the hallway. As the door closed behind them he looked up. "Thanks a lot! I'd have had to make two trips."

Bart smiled at him for the first time. "Not if that shrew told you to get `em out of there you wouldn't. Luckily, she's not my boss, and she knows it." They made it half-way down the first hallway back to Scott's room. "So who'd all this stuff come from?"

Scott shrugged. "Well, I'm guessing one of the plants is from my folks. My mom's a decorator and is really into ferns." He glanced down again. "And the return address on the label on this tube says `Rockford,' so I can guess this is from an old college buddy of mine. The other plant, I'll know when I read the card."

They set both plants on the big desk. Scott looked around. "Too bad I don't have any windows in here, now that it's starting to look like a greenhouse."

Bart shook his head. "Trust me, you don't want `em."

Scott's face questioned, `Huh?'

"Ya' got windows and the kids are always looking outside. In the winter, if it snows a few flakes, they oogle out the windows and convince themselves that school's gonna be called off any minute. In the spring, when the grass is greening and the trees are budding and all the cute little critters are hopping and playing around, they get spring fever that damn near makes `em like little zombies."

Scott had never thought of that. "Ahhh. Makes sense. You know the kids, Bart."

He scoffed. "It don't take a damned college degree to know how kids tick, especially when you've raised four of em." Scott just nodded at the man's hint of scorn for his credentials. "Nope. No windows needed for the plants. Just take care of em. The fluorescent lights will be okay, and if the plants get sick, bring `em over to one of the science rooms for a weekend under the grow lamps. That's where me and the wife sprout our seeds for the garden every year."

"Good idea, Bart. Thanks. And thanks for the hand in hauling this stuff."

Bart turned and headed toward the door. "That's what I'm here for. See ya' round."

He pulled the envelope off the plastic clip that was stuck in the middle of the fern and opened it. "Mr. Turner, Congratulations on your new career. Those kids are lucky and these parents are so very proud. Love, Mom and Dad." He grinned and slid the card into the pocket of the book bag.

He opened the other one. "Mr. Turner. Kick some ass. And remember, don't let the kids see you smile `til after Christmas. Always, G."

He smiled again, wistfully, and slipped that card in the bag too.

"G" was Greg Page. They'd met at the start of Greg's freshman and Scott's sophomore year at the UW. Greg had come from far northern Wisconsin on a scholarship to play baseball. He had quickly distinguished himself as one of the baseball Badgers' star players. As the year unfolded, their budding friendship had become a serious sexual relationship that finally coalesced into a genuine romance, each one loving the other very much.

Unfortunately for both of them, Scott was already in his second year as the student member on the Board of Regents. Before they'd really become involved, Scott had agreed to a set of principles and priorities that the governing board would use to manage the system's tight budget. When push came to shove the following spring, the Board then had to cut the baseball program from the UW's athletic budget, and Scott felt obligated to vote in favor of the loss. The two guys had weathered a stormy few weeks before and after the final decision but, in the end, Greg had to leave Madison to pursue his baseball dreams with another scholarship offer up in Mankato, Minnesota. That put him over four hours away from Madison, nearly five from New Allsted. Over the ensuing two years, the distance and times apart had taken their toll on the relationship, but they remained in regular contact over the phone and through e-mails a few times each week.

Now, two years later, Greg was starting his senior year at Minnesota State and was being heavily scouted by several major league organizations. They had managed to get together whenever their schedules would allow for some fellowship, friendship and outstanding sex. Scott felt a twinge of guilt every time he found himself hoping that Greg wouldn't get a call in the major league draft after college, still thinking that there might be hope of a future together. But Greg had left a major league mark on the Mankato baseball program already, and he still had another season to shine.

He sighed. "Need to call him tonight."

He picked up the cardboard tube with the UPS label and pried off one of the plastic ends. He held the open end down over the desk and shook it several times. Three posters slowly slid out along with a note on a piece of stationary. "We figured your walls were pretty bare right now, and wanted to help you fix that. All our love, Marty, Ash' and Scotty."

He unrolled the posters one at a time. The first had a solid, bright red background with a scrawled canary-colored print. It read, "You think education is an expensive pain in the butt? Then Try Stupidity."

Scott giggled. `Okay, Mr. Special Advisor, let's lead off the new career by insulting them." He rolled it up. "True enough sentiment, but maybe later."

The second one was in two-tone blue shades. The silhouette of little kids playing on a jungle gym was in the background. In dark navy print running down the length of one side it read, "It'll be a great day when schools have all the money they need, and then some, and the Pentagon has to have a bake sale to buy another four-hundred dollar hammer."

Scott shook his head. "Atta boy, Marty. Let's kick it off with some inflammatory politics." He rolled that one up, perhaps for display at a later date as well.

The third one was a beautiful print of the "Declaration of Independence." The beige image of the ancient parchment was surrounded by an intricate deep blue and gold border. A faint but recognizable silhouette of Jefferson's profile shown behind the brilliant text. "Now this one I'll have framed." He looked around the room. "And it'll go right there." There was a good-sized span of blank wall right behind his desk, between the file cabinets and the corner of the room. That way it would hang over his head every time he sat at his desk. "Way to go, Marty."

The one and only Marty Anderson. Marty had been a high school buddy of Scott's roommate, Craig Bostwick, from Rockford Illinois. Craig had introduced the two of them within days of Scott's arrival in Madison. Marty was already a sophomore at the time, but was still living in the same dorm where Craig and Scott had been assigned. In Scott's memory, it had been lust at first sight. They'd quickly become friends, mostly due to the partying they did together with Craig and Marty's roommate Brett, along with a few others. But, before long, Scott and Marty found themselves in what was sometimes a torrid sexual relationship. Truth be told, Marty had taught Scott most of what he knew about pleasing, and being pleased by, another man. Both avowed that they were bisexual, and both were actively pursuing personal and physical relationships with women at the time. Nonetheless, their own sexual appetites brought the two of them together often as their personal devotion to each other deepened.

Marty had helped Scott in his first bid for the Wisconsin Student Association, appointing himself Scott's "Special Advisor." Along the way, and after, he had delighted and entertained and challenged and amused and frustrated the hell out of Scott. He was the guy Scott had always wanted to be: a smart-assed, devil-may-care free spirit. When Scott was watching for traffic, Marty was dodging cars. When Scott was planning for final exams, Marty was planning a party. When Scott was at the DMV renewing his driver's license early, Marty was outside talking and laughing a cop out of a ticket. When Scott was worried what people might think of him, Marty was a little bit afraid that they might miss something. Marty just loved life, and life loved him back. So did Scott.

In the middle of that first year of their friendship, Marty had gone home to Rockford for the holidays. While there, he ran into his favorite cousin, three years his senior, who reintroduced him to her best friend Jill. Sparks flew between them and when March rolled around, Marty told his buddies that he was leaving school to return home and get married. He said that he needed to be the husband and father that his own dad, Dan, had never been. Dan, in fact, had been an unfaithful and unsupportive asshole. Jill had a delightful three-year-old daughter by her first marriage and little Ashley had Marty wrapped around her little finger. Ashley's father had been a U.S. Marine who lost his life in the Gulf when Jill was seven months pregnant.

A few months after Scott stood as best man at their wedding, he had proudly stood and held his godson, Scott Martin Anderson, "Lil' Scotty," during his baptism. Ashley came to know and love him as Uncle Scott, and he was indeed another member of the extended family. Marty's mom, Shelly, along with Jill's parents, Jack and Meredith, accepted him as another member of the happy clan.

Then, a few months after Lil' Scotty's birth, Jill was diagnosed with leukemia.

Several rounds of chemotherapy over several months hadn't yielded the right results, but finally the doctors found the right match for a marrow transplant. All, everyone thought, would be well.

But, they all learned, every now and then the normal operations of the human body can run afoul of even the finest medical minds and talents. They learned that human cells don't always follow doctors' orders very well, nor do they listen to or heed prayers. In Jill's case the `perfectly matched' marrow that was supposed to make her better made her ill in whole new ways. The healthy transplanted marrow cells detected their new surroundings as alien and they declared war on the rest of her. Marty had explained it more than once. "The docs all said that this shit happens all the time with marrow transplants. It's like when a body that's had an organ transplant rejects the new liver or whatever, and it fucks up everything. But this is in reverse. The new, healthy stuff coming in rejects its new home and kinda tears it apart." Scott could still hear Marty cry. "It's fucked up, Scotty. It's seriously fucked up. This was supposed to make her whole again, God Damn It!"

Instead, Jill spent two years up and down, in and out of the hospital. When the continuing chemotherapy wasn't laying her out, the drugs she had to take while she was at home did. Finally, pneumonia grabbed hold of her and refused to let go. Scott had visited her at UW Hospital in early July. Marty and the kids were staying at the Ronald McDonald house nearby. Scott was happy she was awake, but was torn apart by her voice and her appearance. She wheezed out short, squeaky breaths when he took her hand. "Keep an eye on him, will you Scott?" Her eyes closed briefly and then the lids fluttered open again. "I mean, he needs you. You might not know how much, but I do. He really needs you."

Scott kissed her hand. "That's your job. When you get out of here and back on your feet, you'll keep an eye on him, dammit! Besides, he never listens to me."

Her soft laughter brought on an ugly coughing fit and Scott reached for the cup of water. After she'd sipped through the straw she took a deep breath and smiled. "No fair making me laugh, asshole." She took several more breaths and her body seemed to calm. She opened her eyes again and looked directly into his. "But he does, Scott. He does listen to you. I can't number the various Turnerisms,' as he calls them, that he's quoted to me." She huffed. "You fucker. I've grown more than a little weary of hearing him say, Like Scott used to tell me...,' or `As Scott always says...' And it's usually when he and I are having an argument." Scott chuckled with pursed lips as she continued. "And so do Ash' and Lil' Scotty look up to you and listen, now that the little guy understands this'n'that. They love you so much. Just tell me that you're going to stick with them."

He rubbed the back of her hand against his cheek, then kissed it. "I'm sticking with all of you. Marty, Ashley, Scotty, Jill and Uncle Scott. That's never gonna change, hon'."

And then she was asleep again. Scott sat for another fifteen minutes and watched as a nurse came in, checked the plastic bags that dripped stuff into Jill through various tubes, made a few notes, took a pulse and left the room without saying a word

Marty came in ten minutes later. They hugged hard just inside the door. "The kids went back to Rockford tonight with Jack and Meredith. They're dropping them off at my mom's place and she's coming back with them tomorrow. The McDonald House is a nice place, and they take good care of us, but the kids need to be at home with their cuddly bears and their grandparents and my ma's pb and j sandwiches."

Scott nodded and used his thumb to wipe a tear from the corner of Marty's right eye. "Yeah. Comfort, familiarity, predictability and Shelly's pb and j. That's best for them right now I suppose."

They sat down. "D'you have a chance to talk with Jill?" Marty asked quietly.

Scott smiled. "Yeah. She wanted me to kick your ass about something or other. I forget what it was." Marty sniffed back a laugh. "But I'm sure it was a reasonable request."

They both chuckled quietly and Marty reached over and took Scott's hand in his. "Thanks for coming. Thanks for being here, bud. But you gotta go, don't you? Didn't you say you were hitting the road tomorrow morning? Going to see the folks, right?"

Scott shrugged. "Yeah. Gotta hit the road before seven. The Senate's not in session again for a couple months, so Dad's at home. We're golfing at nine-thirty, and then he's doing a couple small town parades this weekend. I told him I'd drive the convertible and throw candy at the kids. I'll be back Sunday evening."

Marty stood up. "Then get the hell out of here and go get some sleep. C'mon out here when you get back. The kids'll be here and I'll order in for all of us. I'll break all the rules and have pizza delivered."

They hugged again in the doorway and Scott kissed his friend's neck just below the ear. "I'll see you guys Sunday night."

Scott was just getting out of the shower when the cell phone rang at six the next morning. The screen told him that Marty was calling. Scott took a deep breath and hoped that he was just calling to say good morning.

He wasn't.

Jill had planned ahead and all the arrangements had been made. Craig, Scott and Brett gripped the handles on the right side of the casket. Jill's three oldest cousins carried the left. After placing the casket on the hoist over the grave, they all assembled behind the family. Ashley held Marty's right hand. Lil' Scotty perched in Marty's left arm and hugged his daddy's neck while Grandma Shelly rubbed his back. Meredith held Ashley's other hand and wept quietly as the pastor read the Twenty-Third Psalm. Before they lowered the casket, Marty carefully plucked a handful of yellow roses out of the cascade that adorned the top of the large box and gave one to each of them.

Scott pulled him into a hug.

"She loved yellow roses, ya' know?"

Scott tried in vain to blink back the tears. "I didn't know that." He gripped Marty's shoulders and gently pushed him back to look him in the eye. "You holding up okay? I mean, ya' need anything?"

Marty sighed and smiled a sad smile. "Well, professor, I've had better days. None worse. If you know a way to make her get up out of that fucking box it'd be good. But other than that..."

There was a tug on Scott's suit coat. A teary-eyed Ashley looked up at him. "Don't worry, Uncle Scott. It's gonna be okay. Mommy said she was going to a better place where she won't hurt anymore. She said she'd miss us, but she's always gonna be with us." She wiped her eyes. "I believe her. She wouldn't lie."

Scott dropped to his knees and pulled her to his chest. "No, she wouldn't honey. She was right. She doesn't hurt anymore, except for not being with you and your dad and Scotty." He held her back and looked into her eyes. "And now she's looking down and counting on you to help your daddy and your brother."

Ashley looked to the blue sky and then back at Scott before nodding. "I know. She told me that." She grinned a little grin and leaned in, whispering, "She said, `make sure your daddy keeps his shit together.'" Jack and Meredith, both of whom had been standing over her each wiped their eyes as they laughed, and Scott had to plant his hand on the turf to avoid falling over.

Scott ran the back of his free hand across his runny nose. "You can do that, right?" Ashley nodded cautiously. Scott thought for a second and said, "Honey, this is gonna sound kinda goofy. I lost my grandma a few years back. She was one of the most important people in my life. It hurt me a lot when she left, like this does for you." Then he smiled. "But ya' know what? I talk with her practically every day. Of course she's not here with me, but I say stuff to her in my head, and even sometimes out loud, and then I think about it. She always answers." Ashley looked confused. "Trust me on this one, honey. Talk to your mommy, every day. Even if you don't hear her voice come back, I'm sure she wants to hear from you." He snorted and glanced up at Marty. "Then, talk to your daddy and tell him to get his shit together." She smiled a huge smile and fell into Scott's open arms once again. He scooped her up and stood. "Can I carry you to the car? We're goin' back to the church for some lunch, and your dad's hands are full of the little guy." Ash' nodded and put her head on his shoulder as they walked together toward the row of cars.

Scott bit his lip as he focused once again at the poster Marty had sent. He swallowed the lump in his throat and coughed. "Gotta call them one of these nights, too."

There was a knock on the door. Scott looked up and smiled. "Mr. Daley!" He stood and they met half way across the room with a warm handshake.

"I wasn't sure you'd remember me. Welcome aboard Scott! Welcome! And, when we're away from the kids, it's Jim, please."

"Okay, Jim, you got it. So what brings you in a week before the rest of the staff?"

"Oh, I'm just on my way to the course to play eighteen, but I'd heard you were coming in so I thought I'd drop by and see that you're getting settled okay."

Scott looked around the room. "Well, still pretty sparse, and a bit overwhelming, but for only three hours into the new job I'd say it's going okay."

"Did Kim tell you that she's assigned me the task of being your mentor this first year?"

Scott looked surprised. He would have doubted that such a venerable colleague as Jim Daley could be assigned any extra duties.

"Don't look so surprised, son. I asked for it. I'd already read your credentials before we met the last time. I dropped in to see Kim and she said you were very impressive in the interview. So I told her, `If we don't hire this young man, we're crazy. When we do hire him, I want to be his mentor."

Scott was blushing now. "Well, thank you sir...aaahh, Jim. But what exactly does that mean, my mentor?"

"We'll talk about that later. Check your calendar for this week and next. I know you haven't moved down here yet, but the missus and I want to have you over for dinner."

Scott's eyes widened. "That'd be great. I don't know a soul here yet. Not really, anyway."

Daley nodded and began to turn. "Well, I'll let you get back to it then. Believe it or not, I do still remember what it's like being in your shoes. I'll call or stop by in a day or so with the specifics, once I've talked to the boss at home."

"Thanks, Jim. I look forward to it."

A few hours later, Scott took a break from stacking textbooks in his classroom and went to the teacher's lounge where they had a microwave and he could nuke some leftover hot dish for an early lunch. He turned on the wall-mounted television, found CNN and zapped the macaroni and beef delicacy that reminded him so much of his childhood. It was about the only thing his dad could cook. As he listened to the late morning news and paged through a copy of last year's yearbook, he heard a voice just outside the door. There was a partition between the doorway and the open lounge space so that passers-by couldn't peek into this inner sanctum of the faculty. He couldn't see who was speaking and he didn't recognize the voice. "Okay, gang. Thanks for coming in. I'll see you in a couple weeks. Have your timelines ready."

A blond guy, about Scott's height came around the half-wall. His hair was nearly shoulder length, though he was wearing it in a pony tail. He wore cargo shorts, bright yellow flip flops and a tee shirt from the most recent Dave Matthews tour. Scott was thinking, `looks like a surfer dude' when the guy smiled. "Hey! You the new social studies guy?"

Scott put down his fork and stood. "Yeah, that's me. Scott Turner." He reached across the table.

The surfer dude took his hand, and Scott noticed the diamond stud in his lobe. It wasn't gaudy by any means, but it fit. The frameless glasses were a good look for him, too. "Brian Early. English department. Teach a few sections of tenth-grade American Lit. and a couple of creative writing. Good to meet you, Scott." He stepped over to the vending machine and pulled a dollar from his pocket. "Just got done meeting with my editorial staff, planning for the new year." He chuckled a bit. "I advise the student newspaper too." He hit the Diet Coke button and waited for the can to drop into the bin. "Spawning a new generation of muckrakers right here in little old New Allsted, Wisconsin." Brian motioned at a chair. "Mind if I join you? I don't want to interrupt your lunch."

Scott grabbed the remote and shut off the TV. "No! Please do, if you don't mind if I fill my face while we chat."

Brian turned a chair around and straddled it, propping his elbows on the table. "I have an appointment," he checked his watch, "over in Belson, but it's an hour from now and it's only a fifteen minute drive, so I got some time to kill." He smiled. "My girlfriend in the office, the always adorable Millie, said the new social studies guy was in the building getting his feet wet."

Scott snorted and rolled his eyes. "She is a dear, isn't she?"

Brian giggled. "I drive her nuts. I'm cynical, sarcastic and skeptical of most things, and I give her fits. I like to color outside the lines. I give Kim a bit of indigestion from time to time too."

Scott swallowed a mouthful and grinned. "Great disposition for the guy who advises the student newspaper." He thought of Marty. "Sounds like a buddy of mine from college. Always looking for a way to raise a little hell and shake the establishment a bit."

Brian shrugged. "Hey, we all need a hobby. Besides, I went to Berkley. It's like a tradition out there on the left coast."

Scott swallowed again and arched his brows. "California boy makes his way to Wisconsin? How'd that happen?"

Brian scratched his head. "Well, the old man was an English prof. at the university, so me and my little brother both went to school there. I met Trish, my wife, during our senior year. She grew up here in the dairyland and got a great job offer in Janesville when we graduated. Since we were about to get married and she was then the real breadwinner, we left the sand and the surf and headed for the heartland." He leaned back to stretch and yawned. "Sorry. Didn't sleep well last night." He coughed and cleared his throat. "Anyway, I subbed in the area for a year and then landed the gig here five years ago." He tapped the table. "So what's the Scott Turner story?"

Scott shrugged. "Well, I grew up in a town about this size up near LaCrosse. Then I went to Madison and had it in my mind that I'd go into politics. But half-way through I changed gears and decided education was a nobler profession."

Brian wrinkled his nose. "Ew, you got that right."

"Got the job offer here a few weeks ago, and have been busting my ass making plans to relocate and get ready to start the year. I have three classes to prep for, and one of them's the new AP History class, so I gotta start the year with all cylinders firing."

Brian sighed. "I wanted to take on the AP Lit. course when the last old dude retired, but the `Iron Lady' in our department pulled out her seniority in Kim's office and the boss caved."

Scott's face questioned. "Iron Lady?"

"Emelia Lawson." Brian sipped his Coke and swallowed, staring at a spot on the wall. "I think she knew Shakespeare personally, and I'm pretty sure Webster's sites her in their definitions of priggish,' prudish' and `harpee.'" He snorted and looked back at Scott. "They added her picture next to the last one."

Scott shook his head and laughed.

Brian rolled his eyes and asked, "And your folks?"

Scott's mouth gave a small smirk. "I have two. One of each. Standard equipment." Brian laughed. "Mom has her own interior decorating business and my dad's an attorney, and he works a lot up in Madison."

Brian raised a brow. "Oh yeah? He has a lot of clients there?"

Scott cleared his throat. "Uhm, sort of. He reads and then votes on proposed laws and stuff like that."

Brian slapped the table again. "Your old man's a politician?"

Scott nodded. "Afraid so." There was more pride than self-deprecation in his voice. "State Senator Scott Turner, Sr."

Brian laughed. "Well, I'll be dipped in shit!" He mulled it over as he grinned. "At least I'll never have to call you a son of a bitch, `cuz I'm sure your mother is a perfectly wonderful woman. I'll just call you a son of a senator if you piss me off. Actually, I think that's worse."

Scott smiled as he shrugged. "Ah, it has its ups and downs, but I've been around politicians most of my life, so it doesn't phase me much." He changed the subject back to Brian. "So, U-Cal Berkley, huh? Madison, Berkley and Columbia. The big three in anti-war hoo-ha back in the day."

Brian feigned offense. "Need to re-order those, my good man: Berkley, Columbia and Madison. Nobody bested Berkley in the anti-war days. We set the standard for hell raising."

Scott rose to the bait. "C'mon now. The dudes in Madison actually blew up a building. Well, most of one, anyway."

Brian thought back. "That's right! I was about twelve, and I remember that. A math building of all things, right?"

Scott slid his Tupperware to the side. "Yep. The math department was doing research for the Army. Something to do with gyroscopes that worked in guided missiles or rockets or some such. The students wanted it shut down, but the university brass wanted to hang onto the fat defense department contract. It was a classic example of what `Ike' called the military-industrial complex. So four guys made one of those big friggin' fertilizer bombs, drove the truck into the parking area below Sterling Hall and blew the sucker up."

Brian's eyes widened. "That's right! I do remember that now. So, they're like, local heroes I suppose."

Scott shrugged. "Ah, not so much. A grad student who was working late and had nothing to do with the Army shit was killed. Three of the four were caught and did time. The fourth, as far as I know, is still on the lam."

Brian nodded. "My Pops really got his tit in a ringer over all that shit. He was a young associate prof. at the time, and he publicly sided with the protesting students, especially those in the `Free Speech Movement.' He even went to a couple of their rallies, much to my mother's chagrin."

"Really?"

"Yeah. It almost cost him his shot at tenure. I was just a little kid at the time, and didn't understand what the fuck was goin' on, but I remember him and my mom stressing out about it all over the dinner table. She was a stay-at-home mom at the time and we were living paycheck to paycheck." Brian shrugged. "But then he got a book of his own poetry published and the powers that be got off his case in a hurry."

Scott smiled. "Very cool. I'd like to read it. Is he still teaching and writing?"

Brian shook his head. "Nah, he retired from Berkley about four years ago. He stayed on with emeritus status for almost two years after that, but you can't write much poetry from the grave. At least I don't think you can."

"Oh. Sorry."

Brian waved a hand. "Not to worry. H. H. Early took the eternal `dirt nap' just over a year ago. Lung cancer, the dumb son of a bitch. Two or three packs a day for prob'ly more than forty years. But he lived a good and fruitful life, and him and me still talk every day, if only in my imagination."

Scott smiled ruefully. "I know what you mean. I lost my grandma a few years ago, and she still nags at me just about every day about this or that. I expect it'll only get worse once I start working with the kids. She loved kids."

Brian looked at the clock and then stood. "Well, Scott Turner, Jr., you son of a senator, I'm glad I ran into you. I'll tell Kim that I approve of your hiring."

They clasped hands and Scott chuckled. "I'm sure she'll be relieved to know that I have the local rabble-rouser's seal of approval. I'm glad I passed the test. It's good meeting you too, Brian. Ya' know, we both have a lot of tenth graders in the required classes. Maybe we can do some stuff together. History and Lit. have a lot of overlap."

Brian smiled as he stood. "What? And lead the kids to believe that what happens in one class actually has relevance in their other classes? You are a radical!" He winked, reminding Scott even more of Marty. "Let's talk some more about it. I gotta fly." And he was gone.

Scott was ten miles out of New Allsted when the yawning started. He'd left Madison at six that morning and it was going on six in the evening. "Shit! Twelve hours and I'm not even getting paid yet." He kept hitting "scan" on the car's radio panel, checking out the stations he'd still be able to get once he relocated. He yawned again and hit the right turn signal. There was a convenience store on one corner of the intersection coming up and he wanted a cup of coffee. Stepping slowly out of the car he stretched and scratched his head. "A couple more trips down this week and maybe I'll find a place to move into." After going pee, and then pouring a cupful of what looked like it'd been brewed very early in the morning, he grabbed a copy of the local "Gazette." He then paid the kid behind the counter and headed for the car. He'd left the driver's side window rolled down and could hear his cell phone ringing. He reached in and grabbed it. "Hello?"

"Hey, sexy. Did the plant get to the right place?"

Author's Note: Thanks to Peter, Kory, Ted and Les for their assistance prior to posting. I welcome all comments at scotty.13411@hotmail.com. It's great to be back!