Table Of ContentBig Apple Hunter
by Maddie Cochere
Copyright 2012 by Maddie Cochere.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the
product of the author’s imagination or are used factiously. Any resemblance to
actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead, is entirely
coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.
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Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter One “Susan, Mrs. Colter peed on the floor again.”
Angela, an attractive 25-year-old brunette with a short, bob haircut, was
my assistant manager at Slimmers Weight Loss. She had just stuck her head
through the doorway of our small conference room and delivered the unpleasant
news to me.
My presentation to two potential members, Courtney, a plump 19-year-old
waitress from the diner in downtown Carbide City, and Janet, a curvy, 33-year-
old, stay-at-home mom, was going to have to wait.
A brief look at Courtney showed she was staring at Angela with her mouth
hanging open. Janet put her head down and fidgeted in her seat with discomfort.
“Ladies,” I addressed them, “please excuse me. I'll be right back.”
I rushed to the small bathroom and saw Mrs. Colter standing beside the
sink staring at a puddle on the floor. My eyes widened. “Mrs. Colter, we talked
about this before,” I said sharply. “Are you still peeing on keto sticks? You
know we don't do that anymore.” I raised my voice higher, “and how does it get
on the floor?”
“Oh, Susan, I'm so sorry,” said the gray-haired woman as she stood
clutching her purse to her chest. She looked miserable, and seemed genuinely
sorry. “I manage just fine at home. I don't know why it gets away from me here.”
“I'm sorry, too,” I told her shaking my head in frustration. “I'll get a mop
and clean this up, but if it happens again, you'll be doing the cleaning. And
please throw those doggone sticks away!”
I had to restrain myself from swearing at the 64-year-old woman. I took a
deep breath, softened my tone, and said. “Mrs. Colter, if you follow the program,
and let us help you, you'll keep losing weight. You don’t need to do anything
else. Take a seat in the waiting room, and I’ll have Angela go over your food
diary with you.”
I made a nice salary managing the center, but some days it didn't feel
worth it. A quick peek into the waiting room showed two of the ladies waiting
for possible enrollment had already slipped out. Grace was coming through the
door to help me and Angela, and three more women interested in enrolling were
right behind her.
An advertising campaign was being waged for two weeks to drive
members to Slimmers Weight Loss centers, and we were slammed this morning.
When I arrived at 10:00, twelve women were waiting either for weigh-in
consultations or for information about enrolling in the program.
Slimmers was a large national chain of weight loss centers. Our center was
in an office building near the shopping mall on the east side of Carbide City. The
layout was narrow with three sections. The waiting room was at the front of the
center, the next section was the weigh-in area and a small bathroom; beyond that
was a short hallway leading to the conference room and my office.
The center was decorated modestly with light blue and mauve throughout.
Pink accents added a touch of brightness making the entire center warm and
inviting. There were plans at the corporate level to make major changes after the
first of the year. Centers would be remodeled, there would be more food choices,
and a men's program would be integrated; but for now, it was still women only.
Our dress code was business casual, and today I was wearing a hunter green
pencil skirt with a white silk Henley shirt. I hated the thought of cleaning the
bathroom in the white silk and approached the detail cautiously.
When finished, I re-entered the conference room and sat down facing the
two women once again. I directed warm smiles to Courtney and Janet and said,
“Ladies, I’m sorry for the interruption. Our advertising has been a huge success,
and we’re much busier than usual today.”
“We didn’t mind waiting,” said Janet sweetly. “Courtney and I have been
talking, and she’s going to do some babysitting for me this weekend.” Courtney
smiled, and the two ladies appeared to be best friends now. That was always a
good sign.
“Let’s start with why you’re motivated to lose weight right now,” I said.
“Courtney, let’s start with you.”
She blushed and said, “I'm embarrassed to admit I've put on 25 pounds
since I started working at the diner. I need help to figure out how to work there,
and eat there, and not gain weight. I take food home with me, too, so it's diner
food all day long. And the biggest problem is, I love it. I just love me some
mashed potatoes and meat loaf.”
“Oh, I do, too,” chimed in Janet with her eyes lit up and shining. “I've been
to the diner many times, and the meatloaf there is the best. Ooh, and your lemon
meringue pie is to die for.”
Courtney perked up even more. “Thank you!” she said excitedly. “I make
the pies myself. I go in early before we open and make all of the pies for the
diner. The lemon meringue is my mother’s recipe, and it’s my favorite.” She
looked sheepishly at me and confessed, “I taste a lot of the fillings in the
mornings, and sometimes I squirt whipped cream into my mouth right out of the
can. Maybe I should get some help with that, too.”
The two women were practically drooling. I needed to reel them back to
topic. I turned to Janet and asked, “Janet, what made you want to come in
today?”
“Well,” she hesitated, glanced at Courtney, and then plunged ahead, “I
want to lose weight, but I'm not really sure if I should.”
“Why would you think you shouldn't lose weight?” I asked her. It was
such an odd thing to say.
She looked a little flushed and said, “I get too hot when I lose weight.”
I wasn't sure what she meant. “Too hot?” I questioned.
“When I lose weight and feel better about myself, I feel sexier,” she said as
she started to fidget in her chair.
“That's a good thing, isn't it?” I prompted her.
“Well, not really,” she said. She looked at Courtney again and then
somewhat whispered her answer, “I get too hot. I want sex all the time, and it
drives my husband crazy. He wouldn't like it if he knew I was here.”
I was stunned. My training manual didn't cover how to overcome that
objection to enrolling in the program. Courtney's mouth was hanging open again.
I clenched my jaw at her, and she clamped hers shut.
Just as I was beginning to fumble for some words, Angela stuck her head
through the doorway again with another look of panic on her face. I'm usually
mildly irritated when Angela brings up center business in front of potential
members, but this time I was grateful for the interruption. “What is it, Angela?” I
asked her.
She was nearly in tears when she replied, “Mrs. Colter had a hot flash and
stripped down to her underwear in the waiting room.”
The two women giggled. I hung my head in defeat.
I didn't leave the center until closing at 7:00 P.M. By the time it was all
over, Courtney had decided to go back to the diner where, according to her, it
wasn't so hectic, and Janet freaked out about being too hot and sexy again and
bolted with Courtney. But we signed eight new people throughout the day with
four more wanting to think about it and possibly coming back later. We also
weighed, measured, counseled good eating habits, and sold food products to 46
regular members. After a rocky start, the day ended up being very successful.
I was scheduled to work at the racquetball club, Carbide Racquet &
Fitness, from 9:00 until midnight, so I left the center right at closing with the
intention of coming in an hour early in the morning to catch up on paperwork.
I slipped behind the wheel of my bolero red '67 Chevy Chevelle that I
loved. It had been beautifully restored by my dad, and he had given it to me as a
gift for my 27th birthday when he and my mom moved to Texas over a year ago.
I pushed in the 8-track tape and was greeted with Daydream Believer by the
Monkees. I always thought it was such a hoot Dad had scoured flea markets to
buy old 8-track tapes with music from 1967 to match the year of the car. There
were at least a dozen tapes in the car's console.
I decided to swing by Martin's Deli to pick up a few things before heading
for home. Martin was in his nineties and still ran the deli himself. He and my dad
had known each other since my dad was a teenager, and they still stayed in touch
at least once a month. Martin kept Dad up-to-date with all of the town gossip.
I stepped through the doorway, and before I could even say hello, Martin
gave me a stern look of disapproval and said, “Susan Hunter, I can’t fathom
what's gotten into you lately. It's getting harder and harder to talk to your father
and not tell him how that dad-blamed car has changed you, and how you’re
ruining your life.”
“Martin,” I said smiling and shaking my head, “I have no idea what you're
talking about.” I hadn't had a speeding ticket in over six months, and I couldn’t
imagine what blame he was placing on the car now.
“Mrs. Blakely came in around noon, and she told everyone here that you
and all of your wild friends were running around naked having an orgy for all
the world to see, and you all ended up in the lake at Larry's house, and ten police
cars showed up to get all of you out of the lake and take you to the police
station.” He was in such a hurry to spew all of the juicy gossip, he had barely
taken a breath and was now taking a deep one.
“Oh my gosh! Martin, that is simply not true,” I snapped at him. “Why
would she say such a thing?” I was truly aghast.
“She saw everything from the deck of her house,” he said. “You can't deny
it, Susan. She was right next door and saw the whole thing.” He was talking fast.
He seemed certain of his facts.
That was Mrs. Blakely? I hadn't seen her in years. She had been in my
mother's bridge club, but after her marriage fell apart, we never saw her again. I
heard she was on her third marriage, and she still wasn’t happy. I hadn’t even
recognized her yesterday when I was at Samantha and Larry’s house.
“Martin, do not spread that story around! Do you hear me?” My voice was
raised, and I stamped my foot. “There were only four men who pulled the naked
stunt to go skinny dipping, and they ran really fast, so Mrs. Blakely couldn't
have seen much, if anything. As soon as the guys ran into the lake, I left right
away. I wasn't even there when the police showed up.” I didn't need him
spreading rumors like this to my dad. My mother would be on the phone
lecturing me until my ears blistered. I told Martin, “Call the police station and
talk to Larry's cousin, Dick. I know you know him, and he'll tell you what really
happened. Then you'll be able to tell the story the right way.” I was glaring at the
man.
“Ok, Susan,” he acquiesced. “Mrs. Blakely was pretty upset though, and
she was very convincing, but out of respect for your dad, I'll call Dick in the
morning.” He finally smiled at me and asked, “Now, what can I get for you,
dear? Your usual?”
My usual was a pound of corned beef sliced thin and a half pound of Swiss
cheese. They were necessary for my obsession with Reuben sandwiches, and I
made them at least once a week. I smiled at Martin, my blood pressure coming
down. “Sure, the usual,” I told him. I picked up a basket and turned to the
shelves for rye bread and then the dairy section for milk and eggs. My eye
caught the java chip ice cream in the frozen section, and I tossed a quart into my
basket. Some days deserved java chip, and this was one of them.
Martin placed my wrapped packages of meat and cheese on the counter
and asked, “Did you know there's going to be a new shopping plaza up by the
racquetball club? It's supposed to be fancy, expensive stores from New York
City. Clothes, jewelry, home furnishings, and stuff like that. I don't know why
they think anyone around here can afford expensive things from New York City.
You hear anything about this?”
I hadn't, but the thought was drool-worthy. I loved shopping, and working
part-time at the racquetball club was what fed my credit cards so I could keep
shopping. I looked at Martin and responded, “Nope. I haven’t heard anything
about it. It might be nice to have some stores other than what the mall offers.”
“Well, I think it's a waste of real estate,” he said with disdain. He looked at
me sternly again and said, “You stay out of trouble, Susan. I don't want your dad
to have to worry about you.”
Neither did I. “I'll stay out of trouble, Martin. I promise,” I said as I
crossed my heart with my index finger. I finally smiled at him, paid for my
groceries, and left the store.
Chapter Two I sat in my car mulling over what Martin had said. Why would
Mrs. Blakely spread such terrible lies about me? About the whole party?
Samantha is my best girlfriend and doubles racquetball partner. She and
her husband, Larry, hold an end-of-summer party at their house every October.
The party yesterday had also doubled as a victory party for our wins at the State
Racquetball Tournament in Centertown two weekends ago. Samantha and I had
surprised everyone by being the only entrants from our club to bring home
trophies. We took second in doubles, and I was thrilled to win first place in the
Class B division in singles.
It had been an amazing tournament weekend. The events flashed through
my mind . . .
There were only six of us from Carbide Racquet & Fitness who had signed
up to play in the tournament - Husky, the club coach; Larry and Samantha; Ron,
the club’s weekend bartender; Corey, a Class A player; and myself.
We all rode down together on Friday night in Husky's Ford Escape and
arrived around 11:00 P.M. We stowed our suitcases and gear in our rooms and
then piled into Husky's room to set up a bar and two tables for cards - one for
euchre and one for gin rummy.
At 1:00, Ron and Corey stood from the gin rummy table. “I'm done,”
Corey said with a yawn. “I don't know how you guys stay up and drink like this
and then play the next day.” He looked my way and chided, “Susan, you should
do as I say, not as I do.” I couldn't help laughing at him. He was always trying to
tell me that on tournament weekends I should go to bed early - and no drinking.
“I'm going down to the pool for a dip,” said Ron as he started to unbutton
his shirt.
Husky looked somewhat alarmed and entertained at the same time. “Put on
a bathing suit,” he told him. “You know what happened the last time you took a
late night swim when the hotel pool was closed.”
Everyone laughed at the memory. It had happened at a tournament in
Cleveland and ended with the police taking a naked Ron to the precinct for the
night. He barely made it to the racquetball club the next day for his match.
The rest of us finally called it a night an hour later. I yawned, said my
goodnights, and dragged myself down the hall to my room. That was the nice
thing about partying in a hotel; you could drink and not have to worry about who
