I thrust out my hand for a good old-fashioned, pre-Covid handshake before I caught sight of the yellow wrist band Jenkins was wearing. He and his wife recoiled in horror. Terri gave me a subtle jab in the ribs and shook her head.
But it was too late. I was well into my end of the handshake, and now my arm was extended in a kind of suspended animation. The four of us stood in the bread aisle with Jenkins and his wife staring at my hand as if it were covered in cooties.
The presentation included slides of a beach in Panama, mountains in Colorado, and a wide shot of Mexico City. Each one flashed on the screen at the front of the conference room for a few moments, with the Mexico City one being last and staying up as Roz spoke.
“Anyone want to guess what these pictures have in common?” she asked.
The guy behind the counter at the coffee place seemed nice enough. That was until I placed my order. Then he had the look of one of my kids telling me they had put a fresh dent in the car. There was disappointing news coming, I could feel it.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he said, glancing at Wilson next to me, maybe for support. “But I can’t make that right now.”
The knock on the door came Tuesday morning, a little before seven. I was in my robe, coffee in hand. The kids were getting ready for school, the wife upstairs applying makeup.
I peered out the little window by the door and saw two guys, both late twenties, maybe thirty. Parked at the curb was a Toyota that appeared to have been built during the Clinton administration. Hmmmm.