"We have to find that ostrich."
Melinda's nearly pinpoint heels snapped at the sidewalk. Reginald was moving very quickly for a man who wasn't sure of his destiny. "If it somehow escaped from the zoo, someone needs to know how to handle it. If it's not a zoo animal, we'll need the police."
Cromwell snapped as much as her heels. "The police? Why the hell should they care about a big bird. Unless you mean the Sesame Street police."
Boone's reply was, as always, unruffled, a quality that Cromwell had seen in the most seasoned corporate negotiators and a few members of the UN. It aggravated her. He had no right to that attitude. It was as wasted on him as fur petticoats would be on a London streetwalker.
"An ostrich isn't a pet. It's either a farm animal, or a zoo animal. We're in downtown Cincinnati. There's no reason for an ostrich to be here."
"And just how do you know that?"
"I'm a member of the AOA."
"Away from what?" asked Cromwell, and immediately realized she sounded like a buffoon. She imagined eviscerating Boone, and felt better.
"The American Ostrich Association. I'm a scholarly member, but I've spent some time with the birds." He turned left, and into an office building. "Somewhere in here, I think."
They walked up to the Information Kiosk, where Reginald asked if anyone had come into the building with a Somali ostrich. The boy at the desk stared at Boone, then at Cromwell, who recognized that this was a lad who needed her special brand of reason.
"Listen kid, you've got three seconds to answer my question: Have you seen someone with a bird as big as that security guard heading this way? Don't wonder about it! Answer!"
"No sir--I mean, ma'am!"
The look the fellow received from Melinda kept him from a good night's sleep for two weeks.
"Come on, Boone."
He didn't move. "We're going up. Henry?" he continued, addressing the guard, "which floor is Mr. Mathiesson on?"
"Fourteenth floor, Mr. Boone."
"Fine. Have you seen anyone in the building with an ostrich?"
"Uh, no sir, but I'll keep an eye out. And thanks for the coloring books. The kids love them. Keeps them out of trouble when we're driving to my sister's."
"I'll bring The Lone Ranger next time."
Boone headed straight toward the elevators, Cromwell rushing to catch up.
"Are you some kind of social leprechaun, pulling coins from your information pot of gold when you feel like it? Just how do you know that guard? Who's Mathiesson? Why the hell did you let me yell at that kid?"
"Leprechauns hide gold. I helped Henry get a loan to pay for his kids' hospital bills. Mr. Mathiesson is the president of Stanley Mortgage, one of our best accounts. And you needed to yell at someone besides me for a few seconds."
They stepped inside the elevator, Cromwell itching to say the meanest, vilest vituperation she could come up with. But all she could think of was, "Ostriches are cowards. I hate any animal that buries its head in the sand."
"That's a lie," said Reginald, mildy.
"Oh yeah? You mean they don't bury their heads? Everyone knows that. You mean they aren't cowards? You defending your own kind, Boone?"
"They don't bury their heads. Pliny the Elder got that wrong. They aren't cowards. An ostrich can kill a young lion with its hind legs, which can kick with five hundred pounds per square inch of force. And I'm not the same species."
Melinda snorted. Then Reginald said, "But none of those were the lie I meant."
We pause now, kind reader, for the introduction of a new character. It has been with us since Herbert the incident went on his way after seeing that Cromwell and Boone were, indeed, the best thing that ever happened to each other. Herbert wasn't unmindful of the responsiblity of introducing two people, but he knew that the care and feeding of tumultuous adults wasn't his bag. So, he left it to an expert.
Our continous and invisible third wheel is named Sam, and is that wonderous thing that people refer to in the third person, never realizing that there is a real being involved. Sam is neither male nor female, but since modern English hasn't caught up with modern gender roles, I'll be switching back and forth between "him" and "her", not giving in to the questionable use of "s/he", nor the agony of "he/she".
Sam is, in one sense, a rainbow connecting our two pots of gold into one arc-welded structure. In short--though it's too late for that--Sam is a relationship.
There are one third as many relationships in this universe as there are things to relate. Or it may be one fifth. No one knows for sure, and it depends on the number and nature of the relationships. Most relationships are fairly dry fellows (or ladies, but that's the last time I take time out to make it clear that relationships are really neuter and that language simply must evolve), perfectly satisified handling the ratio of twenty-two to seven, or the love of a young boy for his tabby cat. But when it comes to relationships that handle the interplay between humans--well, there are few more sophisticated, fun loving, brave beings in all the cosmos. Except, strangly, for the relationships that manage the connections of spring grass blades and push-style lawn mowers. That's a delicate job that almost no one qualifies for. Sam interviewed once, and was rejected on the grounds that he wasn't sensitive enough to the needs of some blades of grass to stand tall while others got cut at their prime.
At first he was disappointed, but within the last few days he realized he'd found his true calling.
Cromwell and Boone were a glorious undertaking for any relationship, and Sam was able to apply all her study, talent and willpower to them.
Take the current situation, for instance. Two people, thrown together by automotive coincidence, unable to comprehend their attraction, their adrenaline pumping due to recent caffeine and a brisk walk, find themselves alone together in an elevator with music playing that sounds suspiciously like a harmonica version of Beethoven's Ode to Joy. They're searching for an ostrich. Neither has mentioned that both are missing from work. In Reginald's case, there is currently a phone call to the branch manager asking if they should call detectives, or even 911. And Melinda's many business contacts are certain she has been crushed in a plane crash or, perhaps, by violent retribution. I'm sad to say that a few are expressing great glee in their own versions of what that retribution might look like, even though they've profited from Melinda's expertise many times. One idly jots down on a napkin, "Car compactor. Ants. Eight thousand candy canes."
If you were a relationship, how would you handle this case?
In fact, that would become a standard interview question once Sam reported back to her office (there's no office, really, but I'm trying to supply you, friend, with comfortable metaphors. It's the same thing as when space aliens all can speak English. Everyone understands the writers are just saving money and keeping the story going. Which is what I need to do.).
Some relationships would get them talking. Some might even get them ripping each others' clothes off. And still others would keep them quiet.
Sam decided to keep them guessing.
He introduced a buzzing fly into the elevator. The fly came close to embedding itself in Melinda's hair, then smacked itself against the lighted number 8 above the elevator doors as they were passing that floor. Finally, it swerved back toward Melinda whose hand careened outward and would have ended the fly's embarrassingly short life if Reginald hadn't stuck his hand out and caught the dark insect of fate like a third baseman catching a lazy line drive.
"Kill the damn thing, Boone, if you've got the guts."
"No."
"Coward!"
The elevator doors opened on floor 14. Boone stepped out, keeping the fly casually caged. He turned a classic baleful eye upon Melinda.
"We're going to need this," he said, and headed up the hall.