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Stuck by a Drummer- The Adventure Continues
I rubbed my temples wearily after taking my seat on the US Airways jet, wondering if I was on my way to my destiny....or my ruin.
It had been three long, frantic days since that nightmare conversation with Paul, in which he'd relegated me to a desk job in the tombs of the DISK DRIVE building. As I gazed out the oval window at the ground crew loading the luggage onto the plane, I went back over the landmark moments of the past 72 hours: the endless weeping and pillow-pounding on Sunday night, followed by the liberating yet scary decision not to go in to work Monday morning; the post-decision panic about money; the flood of relief when my doctor, who'd known me since I was a kid, authorized a month of 'stress leave', making it illegal for Paul to fire me for missing work; the phone call from Steve inviting me to London for the duration of my leave of absence. The invitation had touched me immensely, but it wasn't until the Western Union messenger showed up at my door yesterday afternoon with the plane ticket that I realized how serious the offer had been.
How smart was I being? Steve and I were infatuated with each other, to be sure, and for all I knew- subconsciously I rubbed my belly- I was carrying a part of him in me right now. But every budding relationship had a honeymoon stage. Was I risking my job and a lot more for an ideal that might not be destined to remain so?
Still, there was something to be said for taking a plunge like that. I was tired from packing, but I also felt so ALIVE. What I was doing was erratic and maybe a bit insane, but it sure felt good.
The woman next to me smiled as soon as she caught my eye. "Let me guess...you're going to London to get married or meet your boyfriend." "What makes you think it's either of the two?" I was curious.
"I can't imagine anyone looking so happy for any other reason."
Heathrow Airport certainly deserved its reputation as one of the world's craziest aerial hubs. After dragging myself through Passport Control and answering more questions than any teacher had ever posed to me, I was caught up in a maze of shops, food courts, and of course travellers who ran about madly. If I weren't so tired, I would have stopped, looked around, and tried to savor my first moments on English soil. But I was too busy scanning the crowd beyond the barrier at the arrivals area, searching for Steve. My heart was thudding in violent anticipation. Several individuals were holding up signs with names written on them, probably company reps meeting new employees or something similar. A name that resembled mine caught my attention. I took a second look: a pale, darkhaired youth in a long leather trenchcoat held up a piece of cardboard with KC PAYNTON scrawled on it. That was as close to my name as anyone could get without being 100% accurate, so I ventured closer. The young man noticed my approach. Looking me up and down, he said, "You're KC Paynton?" "Payden. Your sign had me curious." "You're here to meet Steve Coy?" "Yes. Who are you? And how did you know that?" He lowered the sign and extended his hand. "I'm Brent. Steve sent me to pick you up." "Really?" Disappointment jabbed faintly as I returned the shake. "I thought he said he'd be here." "He woke up too late and rang me because I live a few minutes from here. He asked me to pick you up and drive you into London." "I see. Ok." Brent flashed a set of yellowing, nicotine-stained teeth as he took my suitcases from me. "Yea, well, you know musicians. They aren't too punctual or considerate when it comes to the girls." "Really." The elation started to wear down. Was this the sort of character Steve called a friend? Not even the courtesy to gloss anything over for the sake of someone's feelings. "Yea. You're a good-looking girl. He ought to treat you nicer." "Let's just go, please." "Fine by me. The car's out front." We navigated the crush of human traffic and emerged into the late morning sun. If I weren't so exhausted I'd have let Brent's mannerisms really piss me off. He boldly looked me up and down as I walked beside him and grinned every time our glances met. Even Paul knew how to come on to someone with relative style. "There we are," Brent said at last. "That's my van." He pointed out a rickety black model that looked to be on its last wheels. I didn't fancy climbing in anything that he took regular joy rides in, but I was too tired to protest. We stopped in front of the rear double doors, which were dented from previous driving mishaps. Brent fished in his coat pockets for a key, al the while looking around like he was worried about being watched. "Is there something wrong?" I asked. He responded to the question with such a malevolent glare that I stepped back in real fear. He opened his mouth to say something, but was cut off by a distant shout of "KC, NO!!! GET AWAY FROM HIM!!" More soon, folks!!
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