Winnie Robins was grateful the damage to the plumbing department was minimal. She'd spent half an hour cleaning up a massive box of tiny PVC parts that Penelope Ross had knocked over diving into the bathtub. All in all, Winnie wasn't having a bad day at Tommy's. Just after the lights came back on, Winnie had popped a turbo espresso into the company Keurig, and the surge in her enthusiasm was coming in handy. She'd juggled five PVC parts to her normal four, and not one had hit the floor. Until she'd seen him. When Winnie saw her latest customer, five parts flew in every direction.
Winnie grabbed her phone and pounded in Stockwell's digits.
"Stockwell," Reeve Stockwell whispered, sounding muffled.
"Mr. Stockwell?" Winnie asked.
"Yes, Winnie."
"Doesn't sound like you, " Winnie commented.
"It's me. I just ate a chunk of the most disgusting health food bar ever made. It's coated my mouth, and I think I'm going into anaphylactic shock."
"Oh. Well, as sympathetic as I am to your impending death, I need you in Plumbing," Winnie begged.
"Can you pump my stomach?" Stockwell asked.
"Perhaps later. Right now I have a customer who seems to have forgotten his pants."
"Dear Lord," Stockwell said, his words sounding like dare loud, compliments of the caulk. "I'm on my way."
Stockwell looked at Kitty and Miles Longworth, who were still holed up in his office. Longworth was still licking his lips like a German Shepherd who'd just snacked A La Carte from the cat box, and Kitty looked deep in thought.
"There's a naked guy in Plumbing," Stockwell said, and Kitty seemed to snap out of it.
"Is he cute?" Kitty asked.
"Well, my dear Kitty, it seems I've forgotten to ask. Let me just call Winnie back and ask her what the guy looks like, because I'd be really happy to delegate this one to you," Stockwell barked.
"I'm punched out," Kitty reminded him.
"How convenient," Stockwell complained. "Longworth?"
"I took the stain lady and the Deliverance guy with the pickynick table. I'm full up on crazy lately," Miles Longworth commented.
"Terrific. You boneheads stay here and let me handle it," Stockwell said, leaving the office and slamming the door behind him.
"Call me if he's cute," Kitty yelled.
Stockwell stomped off to plumbing. He heard Kitty yell, and stifled the urge to flip the bird to his closed door. He needed a vacation, a big one. Maybe he'd fake losing it and go off to some nice rehab facility somewhere. They always looked so nice on Intervention. Maybe he'd get a bunch of his friends together, have them stage an Intervention, and then he'd fly off to some beach-side get-well center, and eat complimentary peanuts, and watch The Smurfs movie in coach while on his way. He could fake crazy for ninety days, of that he was certain. He worked with Kitty every day. He saw crazy first hand. Maybe he could stay at Kitty's for the weekend, hang out with Helen and Ada. Then he wouldn't have to fake bat shit. He'd be certifiable.
He rounded the corner of the Plumbing aisle, as a surge of admiration for Kitty coursed through him. No wonder she talked to pens. He had no idea how she handled it all.
Maybe he'd find Kitty a husband, a nice fella to take Kitty away from it all. That's what Kitty needed, and he'd probably get a Humanitarian award if he made it happen.
The customer in aisle thirteen wasn't going to fit the bill. Not by a long shot.
The customer wasn't completely naked. He was wearing a shirt, socks, and dress shoes. He wasn't wearing pants, and either went commando, or had lost his shorts somewhere along the way.
"Sir, may I help you?" Stockwell asked as he approached, and Winnie Robins exhaled as if she'd been holding her breath long enough to swim the English Channel.
"I'd like to talk to someone about my hose," the customer said very loudly.
"Seriously?" Stockwell whispered, looking at Winnie.
Nut Job! Winnie mouthed back.
"Sir, you're not wearing any pants," Stockwell said, and Winnie covered her mouth to conceal her laughter.
"Great Scott, you're right," the customer said, looking down at his nether region. "Last time I was in, you folks wouldn't serve me because I wasn't wearing a shirt. Pointed out a sign that said 'No Shirt, No Shoes, No Service.'"
"We have no such sign, sir. That said, we do require that customers wear pants. You can't come in here waving that thing around. It's offensive to the ladies," Stockwell explained, and Winnie Robins had tears rolling down her face.
"I was so focused on the shirt and shoes, I guess I forgot about the rest. You see, I drink. A lot. I get so shnockered I can't see straight. Truth be told, I'm about seven-eighths of the way into the bag right about now."
"I'd have never guessed," Stockwell said, and Winnie playfully punched him in the arm.
The customer ignored them both and rattled on endlessly. "Angeline, that's my wife, she worries about me. I used to be a fine gentlemen, real fine. Had me a terrific job, good benefits, and a nice Cadillac. Then this recession thing hits, hits us mortgage folks hard. Nowadays, you can't get a mortgage if you donate a kidney to the dying wife of the bank manager. No way, no how, so we mortgage folks, we're in dire straights. Most of us lost our shirts."
"And your pants, too," Stockwell commented, and Winnie leered at him.
STOP, the stare said.
"Anyhow, Angeline gets her brother Milton, who's a little whacked in the head already, to siphon out my gas so I can't go anywhere when I'm one-hundred sheets to the wind. Milton done gagged on the hose last night while I was pounding the Rolling Rocks. Hose slid about halfway down his throat. Angeline pulled it out, and Milton's not much the worse for wear, but she flung the hose so hard, none of us can find it anywhere. So, I stopped by to talk to someone about my hose."
"Winnie, would you have Daisy store use out some Carharts, get the guy something to put on, and help him with a section of hose?" Stockwell said.
"Certainly, sir," Winnie said.
"Thank you. And, sir?" Stockwell said.
"Yes?"
"Might I suggest an Intervention? I've seen them done on television. Of course, you're not supposed to know ahead of time, but I'd put a Hamilton on you not remembering anything that happened today anyhow. Get yourself some help, man. You can't be walking around in public with your privates exposed. You'll get arrested, and who'll take care of Angeline?" Stockwell asked, feeling like a true public servant.
"That shithead Milton, I suppose," the customer replied.
"You can't be letting that happen, can you?" Stockwell asked.
"No."
Winnie returned with Daisy and the Carharts. Daisy was fifty shades of red. Winnie handed the Carhart pants to the customer, who took them with a nod.
"Get your act together, man, " Stockwell whispered, before walking away. He hadn't taken ten steps before his phone rang again. "Now what?" Stockwell said, not realizing he'd already hit the button to answer.
"Fine way of answering the phone," Sonny Brooks said.
"Look it, Sonny. I cannot tell you how much I hate this place right about now. Unless there's a fire, I'm not interested, and I'm not sure I'd care if this place were about to be burned right off the map."
"How about a dead body?" Sonny asked. "Would that interest you?"
"Who died?" Stockwell said, stopping and steadying himself against a rack of - WOULDN'T YOU KNOW IT - hoses.
"No one is sure. The delivery guys brought back an old freezer. It's been out here about three hours. The guys who pick up this junk got held up in the storm. There's an odor, and there's definitely something clunking around inside," Sonny explained.
"So open the damn door!" Stockwell barked.
"Well, a crowd's gathered back here, and a bunch of people think it might be JJ Patricks inside," Sonny said softly.
Stockwell went pale. "JJ. Shit! I'd almost forgotten about her."
"Maybe I should call 911," Sonny said.
"Hold off. I'll get Longworth and Kitty. We'll be right there," Stockwell nearly yelled.
Reeve Stockwell hung up his phone. He'd dreamed of being an FBI Agent, of being MacGyver, or Magnum P.I. or Jason Bourne, someone who did more than sell nuts and bolts, herd associates like cats, count widgets, and sell plumbing parts to madmen, some of whom had the audacity to come to Tommy's with their ding-a-lings hanging out.
Stockwell had had a dream, like all dreamers before him.
Martin Luther King.
JFK.
Nelson Mandella.
Kermit the Frog.
Stockwell longed to bust bad guys and solve crimes.
He had a wad of cash from an unknown source.
A box of guns.
A body in a freezer.
Reeve Stockwell's dreams were becoming reality.
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