“There’s lots of things I shouldn’t have done,” she quipped. “Joey Totino, in the ninth grade, for instance.This,I shoulda done.”
“Well, it’s awful kind of you, ma’am. Thank you.”
“Call me Goldie,” she smiled.
She walked down to the ticket counter at the far wall and purchased a ticket back to Sparkledove. She still had no idea how she’d turned into a time traveler, but figured there must be a reason why she woke up in that particular town and was trying her best to learn and adapt.
After she’d gotten her ticket and heard a PA announcement that her bus was now loading at Departing Door Two, she heard a second loud voice echoing throughout the station. She turned and saw Bradley Hammersville, the terminal manager, yelling at Gerome. He was chewing him out for only using water on the floor instead of wax, and Gerome was saying it would be better to wait until the scaffolding was down so he could be sure he got up all of the paint drippings first. “Pour wax over any spilled paint, Mr. Hammersville, and it’ll be really hard to get out,” he explained. But the paunchy man with the blue bow tie didn’t want to hear it. He accused Gerome of being lazy and told him he’d better get his “no good black ass movin’ with the wax” or he’d be fired. Goldie didn’t like that Hammersville was embarrassing her new friend within the earshot of others. She didn’t like how he called Gerome “boy” earlier in the day. And she really didn’t like the comb-over of his blondish hair that sat atop his head like a deflated cinnamon roll. She found herself determinedly walking toward the men while two painters were coming down from the scaffolding carrying nearly empty five-gallon paint cans. Hammersfield had by now changed subjects and was complaining about smears on one of the glass front doors. Gerome replied that they were just put there by a little boy who had come into the building with his mother no more than five minutes earlier, and he was going to attend to that next.
“Boy, don’t you give me none of your sass!” Hammersfield warned with a pointing finger.
As Goldie came up behind him, she saw that one of the painters had set down his can that held about a quart of leftover light-orange paint. Without hesitation, she picked it up and placed it upside-down over Hammersfield’s head.
“He’s a veteran, you son of a bitch!”Goldie yelled. “He may work for you, but you sure as shit better give him the respect he deserves! Both as a vetandas a man!”
She gave Gerome a quick wink, then turned and started to head for Departing Door Two. Removing the bucket and wiping the paint away from his eyes, a shocked Hammersfield seethed while the two painters laughed hysterically, and Gerome tried his best to keep a straight face.
“He’s as orange as a carrot,” one painter laughed.
“Or a tangerine,” scoffed the other.
“Or Gina Deangelo’s tanning spray,” Goldie called over her shoulder.
Hammersfield started to go after her, but the painters, both of whom happened to be veterans like Gerome, stood in his way and advised him to drop the matter.
Four
DINNER & THE BRIDGE
Goldie returned from Denver and had just stepped inside the lobby of the Sparkledove Arms when she paused and looked around. “You can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave,” she muttered, quoting an old Eagles song.
“Miss Maraschino? I’ve got a message for you,” Maddie called. She rounded the reception counter and dug into the breast pocket of her green-and-white polka dot blouse, producing a folded-up piece of paper.
“Your publisher, Mr. Mitchell, called. He wants you to call as soon as possible. He said it didn’t matter how late.”
Goldie remembered from studying the back issues ofAdventure Escape Magazinethat the publisher was a man named Owen Mitchell. She took the paper and cracked a small smile. “Okay. Thanks.”
“You can use the phone over there,” Maddie said, pointing to the wooden phone booth in the corner with the accordion door. “But you’re going to need some dimes. C’mon over to the counter, dear, and I’ll get you some change.”
Goldie followed her across the lobby, but not before smelling some wonderful aromas wafting from the restaurant. She realized, except for the candy bar she’d gotten in Denver, she hadn’t eaten all day.
Maddie went behind the counter, opened the cash register, and gave her guest ten dimes. Goldie set her purse on the counter and began digging through it to reimburse Maddie with a dollar bill.
“Oh no, honey. That’s quite alright,” Maddie smiled with a wave. “Mayor Banyan’s taking care of everything.”
Goldie paused, remembering her research from earlier. “Charles Banyan?”
“Yes, he stopped by around noon looking for you,” Maddie replied. “Where were you all day?”
Goldie decided not to answer and changed subjects. “Say, Maddie, I-I want to apologize for my strange behavior this morning. It doesn’t happen often, but I occasionally suffer from short-term memory loss. As you might suspect, it’s pretty embarrassing when it occurs, and I’d really appreciate it if you’d keep quiet on the subject and be a little understanding of my condition.”
“Mum’s the word,” Maddie agreed, putting a finger to her lips. “And if you can’t remember something, you just ask ol’ Maddie, and I’ll try to help.”
Goldie thanked her, then walked over to the phone booth, stepped inside, and shut the door. As she did, a man appeared from a back hallway behind the counter and saw Goldie go into the phone booth. He was in his fifties, wore a suit and tie, had a name tag that read “Dean,” and had a weathered face from years of hunting and being outside.
“That her?” he asked, leaning into Maddie quietly.
“Uh-huh.”
