Dead Man Below Deck

Chapter 7. Enter the Militia

When I got back to the condo, I checked

the mail. A slip of paper was in the box telling me that I had a package to

retrieve from the post office. By this time, Betty was back from lunch with her

cousin, so we jumped in the car and set off for the post office.

The package was a cardboard box about

the size of a suitcase. It was addressed to me. We jumped back in the car and

headed home.

“Aren’t you

going to tell me what that is?” Betty asked.

“What what is?”

“The package.”

“Oh that. No big deal.”

“You’re not

going to tell me?”

She was looking pitiful, so I relented. “Look, we will be home

in a minute and I’ll open it. Then you’ll see.”

Five minutes later I was running my

pocket knife down the seam that closed the box. Out came my pride and joy: a

bicycle motor. It was beautiful.

“What is it?”

Betty asked.

“It’s a motor

for a bicycle. I ordered it off the internet.”

“You don’t have

a bicycle.”

“Yes I do. I went across the road to

Goodwill and got one this afternoon on the way back from my walk. It’s down in the garage.”

Installing the motor was easy, even for

a guy like me who had no mechanical aptitude. The motor was electric and would

take me up to 20 miles per hour for 25 miles. Pretty cool. It assisted the

pedals rather than replaced them, so I could get my exercise while riding

without being in danger of having to pedal up a hill that was too steep for me.

Any hill would be too steep for me.

Betty didn’t like it. “You’ll kill yourself.”

“Any kid can ride something like this!”

“You’re not a kid.”

“Don’t worry

about it.”

“But I am worried about it. That proves

it’s dangerous.” Yeah, right.

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Then why am I worried about it?”

“Because you are a Worry Wart.”

“Am not!”

“Are too.”

“Am not!”

“I’m going for

spin. See you later.”

Later that evening as I was resting on

the deck, smoking my pipe, and considering my new assignment, a voice called up

from below.

“Hello up there!” It was Jorgenson.

“Hey,” I

replied.

“Mind if I come up?”

“Nope. Door’s

unlocked. Come on in.”

We met at the top of the stairs. “Care for a beer?”

“Don’t mind if I

do,” he said with a grateful grin.

We cracked open a couple of Millers and

made ourselves comfortable in the wicker chairs on the deck.

“How’s it goin’?” I asked him.

Jorgenson stretched his legs out in

front of him and settled into the chair. He took a long swallow from his bottle

before answering me.

 “Good. Busy.” He

sighed. “You would not believe how much hassle the

government puts you through to run a business these days.”

“Bureaucracy, eh?”

“Bureaucracy, taxes, inspections, fees,

accountants, lawyers, delays. If it’s not one thing, it’s another. It’s amazing that anybody can

make any money any more.”

He sighed again. “Well, that’s my problem.” He switched gears. “Bob tells me you and Betty are college professors. Texas Tech, isn’t it?”

“Yup. We have summers off and Betty has

family in Wisconsin, so we decided this should be where we locate our summer

home. It’s too hot in Texas in the summer.”

“Makes sense to me. You’re liking it okay, I hope?”

“We like it a lot. Nice town. And we

really like our condo. You guys did a nice job.”

“Thanks. We put a lot of thought into

it. By the way, a fella moved into the unit behind yours. Older guy. Met him

yet?”

“Nope. I should go around and say hi.”

“Do that. We want everybody to get

along.”  Jorgenson hesitated.

“What do you teach at Texas Tech?” he asked.

“Not much teaching. Mostly I do

research. Statistical analysis of surveys.”

“That’s pretty

impressive. Never did understand statistics myself. More of a deal maker, I

guess. But we occasionally need some help understanding our data. Do you know

anything about market research?”

“Marketing and epidemiology are a lot

alike. In epidemiology we study whether certain groups in the community have worse

health or different behaviors. Marketers study market segments. It’s pretty much the same idea, using similar statistical methods.”

Jorgenson leaned forward. “Maybe we could help

each other,” he said seriously. “Our business is expanding faster than we can keep up with it. In

addition to this complex, we have projects going on all over the area. We

operate with a lot of credit. If we make a wrong move, we could get

overextended. For example, look at this development. Just two units sold. Six

empty in this building. The second building is going up soon. If we get ahead

of ourselves, we could be in trouble. Some forecasting could help.”

“I couldn’t

promise accuracy. No crystal balls in my closet.”

“No, no, of course not. But I would

sleep better if I had some numbers that said we were headed in the right

direction. If you could take an objective look at our data, you might save us

from making a mistake.”

“Be happy to give it a shot. What kind

of arrangement were you thinking of?”

“Oh, a retainer would be best for us.

Can’t predict how much work we would throw your way, so

I would like to just keep you on the payroll in case we need you.”

He hesitated. “I will have to think

about how much I can offer you.” He leaned back again. “Well, that’s enough business. Let’s talk politics. Did you really mean those things you were saying at

the Club?”

Now we were getting down to the real

business he was concerned about. I tried not to look nervous. “Sure I did. We waste a

lot of money in this country. Tax dollars. The average person would be better

off if we cut out a lot of the baloney.”

“Darn right,” he

said enthusiastically. “Did you see some of the dumb

ideas the Democrats plan to talk about at their convention this week? Those

guys promise everything to everybody. And who is going to pay for it? I can

tell you who. Me and you.” He was steamed.

“Can’t argue

with that. Of course, the Republicans aren’t much

better. Bush has run up the deficit in nothing flat.”

Jorgenson groaned. “Ain’t that the truth. Sometimes I wonder what the hell he thinks he’s doing.” He hesitated then said, “Some of us would like to turn the system in a different direction. A

direction that lets the business man do what he does best without a lot of

hassles. Business is what makes America great. But we are going to kill the

business climate if we keep going this way.”

Now was my chance to be helpful. “It isn’t just opportunities to make a profit that are at stake from my

point of view. It’s quality of life. Wouldn’t it be great if everybody with energy and a brain could be his own

boss, live his life the way he wants, and have enough left to save up for a

rainy day? Wouldn’t it be great if we didn’t have to pay $25,000 for a car, if every kid didn’t need a college education just to do office work, and if retired

people didn’t have to pay taxes on the money they earn

off their pensions?”

Jorgenson loved it. “Damn right,” he said. “Damn right.”

He stood up a happier man. “Well, I guess we can’t solve all the world’s problems right now.

Have to get on with making a living, putting bread on the table.” He turned to go. “You know, a group of us

likes to meet in the bar at the Club every now and then to grouse about all

this stuff. Would you like to join us some time?”

“Be happy to. That would be fun. Just

tell me when.”

“I’ll be in

touch.”

Bingo.

After Jorgenson left, Betty and I

settled in for the evening. As she flipped through the television schedule, she

mentioned a few shows that looked interesting. “BBC has something called ‘The Village.’ Have you ever heard of that?”

“Sure. Old reruns. Patrick McGoohan. He’s a spy that has been captured by some unidentified bad guys.”

“Never heard of it. What else was

McGoohan in?”

“Remember ‘Secret

Agent Man’? He was in that. It was a good show. He was

a spy in that, too.”

“’Secret Agent Man’? I remember the song, but I didn’t know

there was a television series.”  She looked up

quizzically. “Hey, you were singing that song this

afternoon.”

“Me?”

“Sure, you were dancing around the

living room singing Secret Agent Man.”

“Not me. Must have been somebody else.”