Schifflebein's Folly

CHAPTER 2: THE PLAN

Lloyd had been working for the Miami-Dade County Parks and Recreation Department for almost as long as he had been applying to adopt kids. On the official civil service rolls his position was Facilities Maintenance Technician, Level III, but he simply told people he was a handyman.

His best friend since childhood was one of his co-workers (a Facilities Maintenance Technician, Level II), a black woman named Rembrandt Jackson. If Lloyd didn't love her so much, he would have envied Remmy. She had five children under the age of 12.

On the day after Lloyd's file was assigned to Hit-Woman Hepzibah, Lloyd—unaware that he had been targeted—was meeting his pal, Remmy, for lunch. They parked their County truck at the Rolando Castillo Memorial Park and walked across the grass that Lloyd would be mowing after they finished eating.

Remmy headed straight for the only bench that was nestled in a shady patch. Other people, sitting on other benches around the small park, were courting sunstroke in the Miami summer heat. The only shady bench was vacant only because of the large "Wet Paint" sign taped to it.

Remmy reached the bench slightly ahead of Lloyd, deftly flipped aside the sign, and sat down.

Lloyd joined her on the bench, but he could not condone dishonesty. "Remmy, please. 'Wet Paint'?"

"It will be," said Remmy. "Right after I finish my lunch."

She dug in her ottoman-size thermal lunch box and from it produced plastic bags of carrots, celery, cherry tomatoes, cauliflower, and broccoli florets, all sliced into bite-size pieces. She withdrew a large mixing bowl from the bottom of the lunch box, dumped all the veggies into the bowl, then emptied an entire bottle of blue cheese dressing on top of it all. She set a can of Diet Pepsi next to the empty dressing bottle on the bench beside her.

Eating a simple brown-bagged tuna sandwich at his end of the not-yet-wet bench, Lloyd watched with mild interest as Remmy assembled her salad. "Still on your diet, I see," he remarked."

"I sho' am," Remmy boasted. "I bet I've lost a pound and a half this month alone. Imagine if I can stay on it for a whole year. You want a brownie?" She held up a plastic bag of brownies.

"No, thanks. You can have mine."

"Fine then. You let me know if ya change yer mind. I'll save yo' brownie for last."

Lloyd reached across the bench and picked up the empty blue cheese dressing bottle. He read the label. "This says 140 calories per serving."

"Yeah, 140 calories is nuthin'. I can have 300 calories for lunch, and ever'body knows raw vegetables is mostly water, so I'm good."

"Remmy, there are eight servings in this bottle, and you used the whole bottle," he said.

"Oh," she said. "That's bad. Guess I'll skip the brownies. That oughta make up the difference."

"Good plan," he said, tossing the salad dressing bottle into the nearby recycling bin.

"'Course, I can still eat yo' brownie," Remmy reasoned. "It's only my own dessert calories that count. Nobody can be penalized for somebody else's dessert calories."

Lloyd nodded. He had no response for Remmy's nutritional logic, and he valued their friendship too much to risk a faux pas with regard to a woman's weight. All males worth their testosterone knew what a minefield that topic could be.

They relaxed and enjoyed their shady lunch together in the comfortable silence born of many years' camaraderie.

After some minutes Remmy said, "Still goin' through wid it?"