didn't have anything to prove. Did I?
He looked at me like he didn't believe a word I said, but thankfully, he didn't want to argue the matter. “I'll have to give Lucilla a call because no one mentioned that she was entertaining guests.”
“She's not entertaining guests. I'm here for an interview.” I explained.
He stopped speaking and gave my beat down automobile the once over. Yes, I know my car is ancient, but she gets the job done – sometimes.
Pointing at the dummy tire I had Hank slap on for me after the debacle at my house the day I arrived home, he said, “You know that tire is not meant to be one for everyday use. That's a dummy tire.”
“Yes, I know, but tires this size are hard to come by these days, so I'll have to make do. Wait a minute, why am I explaining this to you? You don't care, do you?” I asked, embarrassed that I was about to divulge my car woes to a complete stranger.
“I don't. Now, let me call her, so you can get on out of here. Your car is an eyesore.” He said, looking from side to side to see if anyone could see my car parked in front of the equivalent of J.R. Ewing's Southfork Ranch.
“Rude much?” I mumbled under my breath as I revved my engine.
He glared at me as he spoke into the phone. Without bothering to say another word, he opened the security gates and went back to his post.
“Well, aren't you sweet?” I only said it because there would be no way he could have heard me over the sound of my squealing brakes and the muffler that was holding on for dear life.
Most people would have gotten rid of a car like my little over twenty year old Honda, but I wasn't most people. I believed in commitment and had a very difficult time letting go, except in the case of my marriage that needed to go long before it ended, but about my car – she'd been with me through thick and thin and the idea of dumping her because she'd done what we all naturally did, felt like a betrayal. I realize that I'm probably a little more attached than most car owners, but when you've grown up understanding the value of a dollar and the love of a good family, of course you wouldn't discard someone. What if someone discarded me because the legs that used to run for miles now struggle to walk up a flight of stairs without protesting?
The sputtering of my engine forced me out of my self-talk about my car. I quickly pressed the gas pedal because, like many anomalies about my car, hitting the gas sometimes made the sputtering stop at once and, at other times, it made my brake lights come on and refuse to turn off without having to pay my now well to do mechanic a hefty sum of money.
A small, curvaceous woman emerged from the front entrance. Taking notice of the liquids that spilled from my car's undercarriage, she pursed her lips right about the same time her arms folded in front of her and her right eyebrow quirked up. I could almost hear her thoughts. Hopefully, she would come to the conclusion that I desperately needed this job.
I stepped out of the car, not as gracefully as I would have liked, but I managed to avoid spraining my hip when I used it to close the driver's side door, twice after it kept popping right back open.
“Hello.” I waved to her.
She nodded, assessing me up and down. “I'm Lucilla Bernal.” She said, without offering her hand. “We'll do your interview in my office. Follow me.” She turned and walked quickly through the foyer and down a long hallway with parquet floors and custom wallpapered walls, lined with exquisite paintings that I'm sure were not knock offs. They smelled of money and power.
As we made our way to the back of the house, I noticed a number of open doors leading to impeccably decorated rooms, including a formal living room, formal dining room, a library, a powder room and finally a very handsome study. I didn't notice any staff inside any of the rooms, but I could safely assume that they
He looked at me like he didn't believe a word I said, but thankfully, he didn't want to argue the matter. “I'll have to give Lucilla a call because no one mentioned that she was entertaining guests.”
“She's not entertaining guests. I'm here for an interview.” I explained.
He stopped speaking and gave my beat down automobile the once over. Yes, I know my car is ancient, but she gets the job done – sometimes.
Pointing at the dummy tire I had Hank slap on for me after the debacle at my house the day I arrived home, he said, “You know that tire is not meant to be one for everyday use. That's a dummy tire.”
“Yes, I know, but tires this size are hard to come by these days, so I'll have to make do. Wait a minute, why am I explaining this to you? You don't care, do you?” I asked, embarrassed that I was about to divulge my car woes to a complete stranger.
“I don't. Now, let me call her, so you can get on out of here. Your car is an eyesore.” He said, looking from side to side to see if anyone could see my car parked in front of the equivalent of J.R. Ewing's Southfork Ranch.
“Rude much?” I mumbled under my breath as I revved my engine.
He glared at me as he spoke into the phone. Without bothering to say another word, he opened the security gates and went back to his post.
“Well, aren't you sweet?” I only said it because there would be no way he could have heard me over the sound of my squealing brakes and the muffler that was holding on for dear life.
Most people would have gotten rid of a car like my little over twenty year old Honda, but I wasn't most people. I believed in commitment and had a very difficult time letting go, except in the case of my marriage that needed to go long before it ended, but about my car – she'd been with me through thick and thin and the idea of dumping her because she'd done what we all naturally did, felt like a betrayal. I realize that I'm probably a little more attached than most car owners, but when you've grown up understanding the value of a dollar and the love of a good family, of course you wouldn't discard someone. What if someone discarded me because the legs that used to run for miles now struggle to walk up a flight of stairs without protesting?
The sputtering of my engine forced me out of my self-talk about my car. I quickly pressed the gas pedal because, like many anomalies about my car, hitting the gas sometimes made the sputtering stop at once and, at other times, it made my brake lights come on and refuse to turn off without having to pay my now well to do mechanic a hefty sum of money.
A small, curvaceous woman emerged from the front entrance. Taking notice of the liquids that spilled from my car's undercarriage, she pursed her lips right about the same time her arms folded in front of her and her right eyebrow quirked up. I could almost hear her thoughts. Hopefully, she would come to the conclusion that I desperately needed this job.
I stepped out of the car, not as gracefully as I would have liked, but I managed to avoid spraining my hip when I used it to close the driver's side door, twice after it kept popping right back open.
“Hello.” I waved to her.
She nodded, assessing me up and down. “I'm Lucilla Bernal.” She said, without offering her hand. “We'll do your interview in my office. Follow me.” She turned and walked quickly through the foyer and down a long hallway with parquet floors and custom wallpapered walls, lined with exquisite paintings that I'm sure were not knock offs. They smelled of money and power.
As we made our way to the back of the house, I noticed a number of open doors leading to impeccably decorated rooms, including a formal living room, formal dining room, a library, a powder room and finally a very handsome study. I didn't notice any staff inside any of the rooms, but I could safely assume that they
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