Winnie's Bodyguard

Winnie clicked off her phone and dropped it into her purse.

“Sharon said that, after I left the office the day I resigned, she got a group of women from the office to confront Mr. Taylor about Alan’s actions. It seems that I wasn’t the only one he pursued, and up to now no one talked about what had happened to them. Sharon really got them stirred up.

“Plus, Alan got my home address by going into confidential personnel files,” said Winnie. “With that, on top of a possible sexual harassment suit, Alan was fired. Now he blames me.”

“He blames anyone but himself, Winnie,” said Father Gene. But in the meantime, you’d better keep a watchful eye. Alan could reappear any time.”

“You might meed thum hepp, Winnie.” My lips were starting to swell and my words came out like hash through a meat grinder. “Ike a bobbyguard.”

“A bodyguard, Winnie,” Father Gene interpreted. “More like an escort, I think. Maybe Max would be willing to help out. He could walk you to the café in the mornings.” The priest smiled quizzically at me, as though he was innocent in his attempts at matchmaking.

“Would you do that, Maxwell?” asked Winnie, looking at me with doe eyes.

“Yub. Gad too.”

“He’ll be glad to do that, Winnie.” Father Gene stood. “I serve as a police chaplain once a week. I think I’ll stop by early and have a chat with the sergeant.”

As Father Gene left The End of Time, I considered the paradoxes of his life. He was a peaceful priest, an ex-boxer, a widower and now celibate, non-violent and yet a minister to the police department and apparently not shy about enlisting armed help against the likes of Alan. In contrast, my paradoxes boiled down to verbally promoting health and organic foods while spending too many evenings eating cheap ice cream and chocolate donuts while watching TV. I guess that really isn’t a paradox; it’s more in category of lazy hypocrisy.

The Forb and Limerick Bill entered the café together. They both approached my booth and slid in across from Winnie and me. Bill immediately started writing something on a dirty piece of wrinkled paper. The Forb compressed his eyebrows as he looked me over.

“What the hell happened to you?”

“An awful man who threatened me hit him. Maxwell was trying to protect me.”

Winnie told the story to The Forb while Bill scribbled away. When she finished, The Forb looked pensive.

“I know some guys, Winnie,” he said. “They could make sure that Alan doesn’t come around any more.”

I shook my head vigorously, discouraging The Forb from enlisting any underworld support for Winnie’s safety. He shrugged and dropped the subject.

“Anyway,” he said, “the big news today is that Sarah Palin needs to take a high school US history course. She garbled up the story of Paul Revere in another freaky interview. The Republicans will sure rally with Sarah at the helm.” He rolled his eyes, exposing the irony that he intended.

Limerick Bill looked up from his work. “Who’s Paul Revere?”

The Forb stared at Bill as though he was looking at a giant pumpkin that had spoken for the first time.

“He was the leader of a rock band in the sixties, Bill,” said The Forb, looking at me with eyes that screamed astonishment. “All national leaders should know their rock ‘n roll history.”

“Damn straight,” said Bill, returning to his work.

As The Forb continued his critique of American politics, I gave thought to how I might serve as Winnie’s companion until Alan disappeared from the scene. It felt as though I was being drawn into Winnie’s life in a way that simultaneously charmed and frightened me. I was sure that I had some sort of intimacy issues, along with a lack of fighting skills.

Maybe Father Gene could show me some moves.