Saturday morning. I read the Wheaties box, every last bit of it, and thought back on the last two days while I ate my cereal.
Flack hadn't even introduced us, but he wasn’t exactly one with the social graces of a debutante. He had called me at home on Thursday night to tell me a "new guy" would be coming around the next day. “New guy?”
“Yeah. He’ll be with us for the summer.”
“The new guy have a name?”
“Tony.” Flack was a regular spewing fountain of information. It was like talking to a captured spy.
“The new guy have a last name, or is that top secret?”
“Doesn’t matter. He’ll be around late Friday.” Flack hung up.
Doesn’t matter? What kind of answer was that. A Flack answer. It was pathetic. Was the guy engaged to his daughter or something? Maybe he was a spy too. Whole grain wheat, sugar, salt.
Read the rest of installment #2