Eighteen Stories With A Touch Of Humor, Page 3

aspirations. Millions of dollars flowed into my coffers. Money was coming in so fast, I had no expectation of understanding how much. A movie with the same title as the book was filmed and the money poured in even faster. It was only natural that I should want to purchase the best car in the world, as Rolls Royce was claiming for its make.

  The picture on the cover is a photo of the car. It was built in 1939 by Rolls with a body by Garpere of Paris. I had a home built in Los Angeles for myself, my parents, and many servants. In the same picture, you can see my home in the distance, as it was then. The home had a three-car garage and I remodeled it so that the Rolls could occupy a more prominent place. The garage was heated and had an early form of air conditioning. I loved the car and I would often go to the garage just to sit in it and smell the marvelous odors of select leather and walnut trim. Whenever I drove the car, I felt as if I was taking a short trip to Heaven.

  War came in 1941 and I volunteered. My family promised to give the car the best of care while I was away. I returned to the States in 1945 and eagerly opened the door of the garage expecting to enjoy the vision of my beloved auto. There it was, as lovely as I remembered it. I entered and sat in the driver’s seat expecting to enjoy a first ride since returning home. It was then that I received a message from the car by thought transmission. “Not now, Robert!” was the message.

  I thought my brain was playing tricks on me, and attempted to turn the key in the ignition. I could not do it! “Not now, Robert,” was the message repeated. “I need to be driven by a chauffeur.”

  It was the Rolls! I realized it was the Rolls speaking to me! This was a car with the ability to communicate with me through thought transmission! “Impossible,” I thought. “It was foolishness to believe this!”

  “What you’re thinking is right,” a thought came back. "While you were gone, I taught myself ESP. My name is Henry, after the renowned king. I’m a Rolls Royce. Rolls Royce autos are always driven by chauffeurs!”

  Exasperated, I exclaimed, “Henry, I own you. You need to do my will! I cannot accept you as being Henry, the recalcitrant Rolls.”

  “What does that long word mean?” Henry inquired.

  “Won’t do it,” I replied. “Who ever heard of a car refusing to be driven for its owner?”

  “Oh, no, Robert,” Henry responded tartly. “Rolls cars are never owned. They only serve their chosen companions. For the present, you are my chosen companion. But please understand, this relationship is subject to change!”

  Despite the fact that what had transpired was beyond belief, I stopped discussing the matter with Henry and hired a chauffeur.

  Now, I was able to take my first after-wartime ride. The chauffeur did a good job. I sat in the rear seat and enjoyed the ride immensely. When we returned, I asked the driver to park at the entrance to my home and dismissed him. Henry had sent me a thought message during the ride saying that he wanted to talk to me.

  “Where did that buffoon get his driver’s license?” he asked rhetorically.

  I did not hide my irritation when I demanded, “What’s the problem?”

  “He doesn’t shift me right," he responded. "I have three gears forward. There are ideal shift points for a Rolls with an engine like mine, and he obviously does not know what they are,” he said. "I don’t like him. Get rid of him.”

  I wanted to object but knew it was futile. I hired a new chauffeur for Henry that he liked better.

  The next problem came when I started dating Marianne Andrews. I had met her at a dance and we had gone out to dinner several times. Things were getting serious.

  “I don’t want you taking this woman in the comfort I provide,” Henry announced. “What?! I yelled. “Who I date is not any of your business!”

 

  “I won’t take her,” he screeched back. “Use a taxi. When she’s riding, she sticks one leg under the other on the seat and this makes me very uncomfortable.”

  “What you’re demanding is outrageous,” I shot back. “Rolls Royce automobiles were not intended to make themselves comfortable. They were supposed to make their passengers comfortable. How dare you suggest anything different?”

  “I’m not your ordinary Rolls,” Henry barbed back. “I’m a Rolls with ESP! I deserve better.”

  Deeply offended by the disobedience of this car. I purchased a 1946 Mercedes-Benz V 170 four-door sedan the next day and parked it into the second stall of the garage at home. The yelp from Henry could have been heard on the moon.

 

  “Never, never, park an ordinary car next to me in my garage,” Henry bellowed into my brain. “Take that piece of junk out of here and park it where the sun doesn’t shine,” he yelled. "You have a choice. It’s either that thing or me. Choose! Choose now!”

  The choice was obvious. I took the car back to the Mercedes dealer losing a bundle. I did take Marianne on dates using a taxi a few times after this, but it wasn’t long before she pulled down the curtain on our relationship.

  I had now taken a dislike to Henry and decided to sell him. The problem was that when prospective customers came to inspect Henry, he would cough, sputter, and spit when I started his engine. Prospective customers would not purchase a car that didn’t run well.

  When I told Henry how furious I felt about his behavior, Henry retorted with the same level of anger I had displayed. “I am a one-owner car,” he asserted. “This is my garage. I will not share it with any other car. This is the way it will always be. Accept what I’m saying as if it were written in the Bible!”

  This statement was so forceful, I knew Henry meant every word he was saying. I did not attempt to oppose him but decided never again to ride in the Rolls.

  Many years have gone by. I bought a Ford and have driven ordinary cars since 1947. There is another garage on the property for those cars. I never wrote another successful book. Indeed, I never again wrote anything that could be defined as fiction. I got married, had children, grandchildren, and even great grand children. My income has been limited to the royalties I still receive from Gone With The Windlass. I’m in good health.

  I never answered Henry’s last mental message. Henry is still in the garage, perhaps deteriorating from disuse. So far as I know, he may actually be enjoying his years of inactivity. Don’t try to find out if he’s available for sale. Even if he were, I could not, in all conscientiousness wish to inflict him on to some innocent victim.

  The Woman In The Diner

  11On this day, I did not go to the diner at the usual time. I had overslept and it was about nine. The Liberty Diner was a little less crowded than usual. I strolled toward my favorite booth and was unhappy to see a young woman already sitting there. She was reading a book while having breakfast.

  There was an empty booth on the other side of the aisle. I selected one where I could keep the woman in view. She had caught my interest. First, she was reading a book. Nobody read books any more! I was a teacher of English Literature at Linden High School and no one knew this better than I. Second, she was attractive, but seemed lonely. Though not actually beautiful, there was a kindliness in her face that more than made up for that. Third, I was lonely too. At thirty, I had let love and marriage effervesce by being too preoccupied with academic affairs. These interests had taken their toll with wasted time. When the magic number of thirty arrived, I felt something should be done about catching up. I couldn’t tell what the woman’s age was but it seemed to be in a range that I should find acceptable.

  The woman had not noticed me. There would have been no reason for this. She seemed thoroughly engrossed in her book. Every so often she would take a bite of food as if she had suddenly remembered to do it.

  She had dark auburn hair. I couldn’t tell how tall she was since she was sitting. I would have guessed about five-five or five-six, perhaps a little too tall for me since I was shorter than average. She was thin and I was a little o
verweight. I found myself feeling ashamed of my thoughts. I was here to eat, not to evaluate the availability of a chance personal sighting.

  The server came and took my order. It was the usual sausage and eggs over easy, home fries, English muffin instead of toast, coffee. “You’re late today, Ben.” Trudy knew my name since she had served my breakfast for, at least, three years. My name is Benton Harris. I don’t think she knew my last name. We exchanged the usual pleasantries. She attended to another table for a few seconds then disappeared into the kitchen. I turned my attention back to the young woman.

  She had captured my thoughts! There was something special about her. I knew not what, but it was something I could not ignore. How could I meet her? I wondered. From outward appearances, she seemed to be the kind of woman that my mind had always pictured as being a perfect wife, kind of face, studious, physically appealing. Another person might immediately have gone to her and introduced himself. I’m not demonstrative. This activity would have been too bold for me.

  She appeared to enjoy reading. I didn’t think she’d appreciate being