Excellent

And with a handshake, I had my first real job. I did not receive a paycheck or have taxes withheld. I did not have a time card or a health plan. But I did have a direct supervisor.

In the summer of 1981, I was not looking forward to gainful employment with mercantiles, fast food, mowing lawns, house painting, or such. I was a business major, an up-and-coming senior, a man with champagne dreams, and a Kool-Aid budget. My parents wrote that I should come home for the summer to find gainful employment. My friends urged me to stay in the city. My head wanted to intern on Wall Street. But my heart found greater opportunities upstate.

On Thursday, June 4th, I found an ad on the campus bulletin board for a driver to pick up a car in Baltimore and drive it to Schenectady for delivery. With acute driving skills in hand, I removed the entire index card (thus denying others the chance to pull a tab) and called from a local coffee shop. The voice on the other end took my details and asked for my number. He would return my call in an hour after verifying my information. True to his word, exactly on the hour, the phone rang. Within 15 minutes, I had a taxi heading my way, a bus ticket to Baltimore, and a parking lot attendant named Louie waiting for me. The trip would take all night one way to arrive and twelve hours to return. Directions, registration, and gas money waited for me. True to my word, I made the trip, both ways, on time, and had the Mercedes-Benz Model W114 Executive sedan nestled between a Vale and Central Park address before midnight.

That is when I met Mr. Afonso.

My world would never be the same.

Mr. Afonso answered the door by telling me it was unlocked. I opened the heavy steel door to find myself in a large atrium of polished marble floors and hard carved woodworking (ebony? perhaps mahogany?) leading up the main stairs.

Mr. Afonso walked from the adjacent study to greet me. His large frame spoke of glory days of athletic championships and his gray executive hair permitted all to believe he had his finger on the pulse of all in his midst.

His wooden cane was as sturdy as his frame, most likely as unbreakable, and a formidable aid against those not subscribing to his point of view.

I offered the keys and paperwork with my left hand as we shook with our rights.

This man, even at his age (60ish) could kill with that handshake.

He introduced himself as Efram and asked if I would like to listen to an offer. I am always open to a conversation leading to a financial windfall. By 2am, he made his offer of contract employment for the summer with an option for him to exercise should both my disposition and academic marks be sufficient, for full time employment after the conclusion of my undergraduate studies.

And with a handshake, I had my first real job.

I also felt the need for sleep.

Efram offered the pool house for my current habitation and explained by 10am I was to begin reading the volumes of paperwork every employee of his needed to know. He would send the maid over to introduce me to my new found future.

A walk toward the pool, a quick shower, and a good night’s sleep and life never looked better.

Morning came as mornings do with all the accouterments. I have the sun shining in my eyes. I heard a few birds chirping. I saw a woman looking at me looking at her.

She looked to be mid-forties, with raven hair, and doe-like brown eyes. She wore a simple mid-thigh dress and an apron. I wore nothing.

Normally, I might have been embarrassed. However, today was not anything to be described as normal.

I gave off a slight cough (still not covering up) before engaging in a conversation.

“Hello”. It was all I needed to utter. She continued staring at me in the manner at which one would enjoy being stared at.

“My name is . . .” I paused during my greeting. Her look remained fixated upon my groin. It began as curious and soon morphed to libidinous and then more than suggestive. She began to permit her tongue to ever-so-slightly moisten her lips as her grip on the broom handle mimicked many of my current desires.

“Are you the maid?” If she answered yes, this summer was off to a great start.

Hers was not steeped in discourse or diction. Funny how I chose those exact words at this exact time. The hour I had remaining before my 10am makeup call I spent (ironically) trying to coax this vixen into proper channels of first contact etiquette and continued aerobic activities.

The removal of both her apron and her dress convinced me of the feebleness of the former.

How she remained encased in her molded bra and how I did not lose consciousness are two mysteries I will never solve.

“Are you monitoring his vitals? We cannot permit him to crash again.”

“The patient is currently stable with elevated dopamines and serotonins. He is experiencing a personal memory. I implanted this one during our last extraction just in case.”

“I can only guess he is feeling no pain. Will he survive another extraction?”

“He is young. He will recover.”

The end of summer brought two surprises my way. The first was the death of Efram from his injuries from the construction site collapse. The second was Veronica’s disclosure of her pregnancy. Both on the same day. Both prior to her eventually forced (by her physician) bed rest. I didn’t have a leg to stand on. My time was up in Schenectady. My classes will begin soon. I didn’t get to say goodbye. Perhaps it was for the best.

“He will require constant monitoring during his convalescence. This one has a strong will, but constant extractions and implants will eventually destroy any resistance he has. No longer on Earth, and always within the quarantine fields, his immune system will soon fail. My diagnosis for his ability to survive further use is extremely limited.”

“He will have to survive for the interim. His is a rare species and we have no suitable substitute from which to draw from. Is he capable of breeding? His implanted memories indicate he is most capable of such a performance.”

“Unfortunately, we have no female of his species and will not for the near future. If we wish to invest in him as livestock and no longer as a carrier, the extractions must terminate immediately to preserve what remains.”

Veronica appeared in my office today. Her dress indicated a business secondary to her real purpose. I was hoping for the time together we shared during that summer. Who am I kidding? I was hoping for so much more.

“Cardiac arrest! Bring the human in for immediate extraction.”

“NO! Let the memory continue. An extraction will kill him. He must tell us what we need to know.”

Veronica always played her cards close to the vest. Today, her last day, would be no different. I know what she wanted to tell me. I waited twenty years to know. In fact, I deserve to know.

And I would never.

Veronica, Mrs. Afonso (she never remarried) died that evening, alone, with pen and paper close at hand. She wanted solitude over my best advice. She had the opportunity to right that last wrong. The paper remained untouched.

“Pulse is dropping. Heartbeat is weak. Apply the stimulator to his heart. He cannot die like this. Not this close. Not today.”

I had the last box packed and the van backed down the driveway. The house seemed too vast for a single man. My move to the coast was past due. This pipe dream of a family was just that, a pipe dream, my pipe dream.

I took the long walk, for the last time, toward the taxi.

“Increase the current to his heart. This is what we have been waiting for.”

The taxi driver opened my door and introduced herself as Crystal. It was the first time I met my daughter. Veronica’s will informed me of her existence. The years of waiting finally became worth the wait. Schenectady, the greatest memory of my life, suddenly became supplanted by an open file of greatest memories yet to come.

Crystal said the taxi was hers (some people drive classic cars, some people drive sports cars) and she knew of a quaint coffee shop nearby. She had her mother’s, Veronica’s, smile.

“Charge the heart stimulator again. Increase the current. Do something!”

“Sir, there is nothing I can do for him. He is dead.”

“Tell me you know the location of this Crystal. Tell me you have the information.”

“Not only her location, but her file. She is the last of the females of her species, cross-breedable,

and currently on-loan in the national museum on Proxima Centauri. If we move quickly, we can resume where we left off.”

“Excellent.”