Installment Fifty-One

Buried deep in my purse now is Dr. Larry's 'prescription' for medicinal marijuana to help me sleep at night.

Even though it's all perfectly legal, just the idea of finding a head shop to buy it makes me chuckle, especially trying to imagine the lucky 'pharmacist' destined to come face to face with a menopausal woman across a store countertop loaded up with rolling papers, pipes, bongs and probably a hookah or two.

As the scene that recently unfolded at my apartment could so easily have been drug-induced, I already feel as if I've been hallucinating the last few days.

There has barely been time to think about any of it, though, because I did accept that contract work from the government. Ethiopia may be off my radar now when it comes to finding Gabe (he has been found damn it but I'm still waiting to hear his story) but work-wise I have to carry on. I just can't be dependent on Edna forever.

So, at the appointed hour today (I didn't dare cancel the meeting) I went over to the office of the CHF to meet the young man I had spoken with on the phone.

The 'young voice' on the phone turned out to belong to a man, not a boy, and one who could not be that much younger than my own fifty-three years.

I overheard and recognized his voice before actually laying eyes on Jim Connery, a name that might, if I had been paying attention on the phone, have tipped me off that I had misidentified his accent as Irish, and not Scottish.

"I'll be right with you Mrs. Schuster,” his voice informed me from an inner office before I met the man in person.

"No problem," I voiced back. "I’m probably early."

Of course I was. Even in crisis, I am pathologically on time.

I was stuffing some brochures back into a rack filled with information about CHF’s work in various countries, including Ethiopia, when I turned around upon hearing my name.

Fully expecting to meet someone about twenty years younger than myself (and then, most definitely not!), I realized I was crumpling up the organization's printed materials, trying to shove them back into their slots, as I tried to compose myself.

"That's a fine mess you're making there, Mrs. Schuster."

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Connery,” I said, embarrassed that I was making an even bigger mess. "I'm just a bit surprised. Over the phone, you sounded..."

"...younger than I am? It happens all the time. No easy explanation. I'm really, as you can tell, not that young at all." He laughed easily, his graying beard in direct contrast with his youthful body. "Please call me Jim."

I was rendered mute momentarily.

"And I will call you Joelly," he said.

I only managed to nod in agreement thinking: he has a wonderful smile.

"Now, how can I assist you?" he asked, breaking the uncomfortable silence I had created.

You could start by being the age you sound on the phone; being less affable; and by the way, you aren't related to Sean Connery are you since you're about as gorgeous as the original James Bond?

Luckily, my mouth remain closed.

Words still eluded me. In my head, appropriately, I was thinking "head to the head shop, to the head shop, to the head shop..."