|
First, the phone rings, and I answer.
"Hello, is (we'll call her Stella) there?"
"Stella" is the troubled teen that came along with my girlfriend. Wonderful child, makes terrible decisions. For example, Thursday's her review hearing before a judge on her "minor gettin' drunk in public" charge from a few months back. :eyes: I should point out I love her to death.
"No, can I take a message for her?"
"Yes, this is Sgt. Head with the Army. Can you tell her I called?"
What the hell, I thought. "Sure," I said.
So "Stella" comes home, I deliver the day's messages, and finish off with the good Sgt. Head. She looks really confused, but to her credit decides to call him back. A bold one, she is ... tracked down her biological dad a year or so ago and made contact, all on her own.
I eavesdrop.
"...I don't know, probably model or go to art school."
"...No, I haven't."
"150 different jobs?"
"I'm five-eleven."
(to me): "Robb, what's our address here?"
(me): "Physical? Or mailing?"
(to me): "Physical."
I give it, she heads for her room and closes the door.
Out she comes later, to tell me Sgt. Head is coming over tomorrow night at 7:30 to tell her all about the Army. I get little else out of her, as the friends of the evening arrive and they're off to do whatever mischief they can.
Is she Army material? I can't imagine.
So the big question:
What do I wear? :evilgrin:
|