Well…here we are…in June…of 2025.
I’ve decided not to bore you with more rewrites of previous chapters. They happened, just not going to share them.
I can be merciful that way…
John knocked on Monique’s door Friday at 5PM. Behind him a red wheelbarrow held several bags looking for a dump to die gracefully in. He brought the bags in and set them down in her office.
“Martin says you got his rocket machine espresso maker to work without reading the instructions. Any truth to that?”
“You want a cappuccino?”
She pointed at circuit boards and wires he pulled from the bags. “That going to break my computer?”
“Want me to make you a better one?”
“Is that stuff legal?”
He shrugged. Two hours later there were two boxes with lots of blinking lights and lots of wires going from her phone outlet to her computer to her office phone. He gave her a set of earphones with a mike that should’ve had NASA stamped on them and pushed a button on the nearer box. “You can send and receive calls on your computer now. It’ll pop up a little window with the name and phone number of whoever’s calling you. You can make a phone book by pressing CTRL-K. And it’ll record messages people leave – even conversations you have.” He chuckled.
“Can you do that for my mobile, too?”
It took him another hour to slave her computer to her mobile.
“Any of this legal?”
He shrugged.
“Am I going to lose my real estate license because of this?”
He shook his head. “You going to tell anybody?”
“What do I owe you?”
He shrugged. “Thanks for the ride.”
He headed for her door. “You had dinner yet?”
He didn’t turn around. “No.”
“Your aunts know you do this kind of stuff?”
“I doubt it. You going to report me?”
“Hell no. I’ve got things I need. What’re you doing this weekend?”
“Making a TV.”
“With the reception we have in Acra?”
“Not that kind of TV. Mr. Martin watches overseas soccer games. I’ll bet he can get lots of other stuff. I want to watch what he watches. You going to tell him?”
She put her hands on her hips and prepared to deliver some sassy, come-hither charm and checked herself.
Poor kid’ll either have a heart attack or squirt in his jeans. Go for direct instead. “You going to let me know what he watches? Maybe it’ll be something I’d like. Maybe you can tape it for me. Fair enough?”