Everyone knew Milano’s restaurant plated fifty-dollar entrees and offered the best wine list in northeastern Pennsylvania.
Rich realized the conversation had been doomed before his first words.
"I’ll call the detailing shop."
"It’s the red one with the premium audio system."
"Yes, I’m sure it is."
– A silver Malibu with a ‘dealer’ license plate bolted from the Edgar Chevrolet auto mall and stopped at a traffic light where a sign warned in authoritative letters, NO TURN ON RED.
Tractor-trailers, passenger cars, and motorcycles raced by on their way to unknown destinations, all while Rich idled. That, he figured, told the story of his life.
For years he held the uncanny feeling of waiting for some event, some twist of fate. During high school, he thought he waited for graduation. Commencement came and went without any revelations, no unlocked hidden purpose.
Maybe he waited for college? Sure, his business degree would open the world of entrepreneurism and take him on a new adventure to wealth and happiness.
The diploma came. So did a job selling cars.
What did he wait for this time?
Richard’s impending marriage to Ashley promised drastic change but he could not convince himself great revelations would soon follow.
However, as he obeyed the red light it was not his waiting that concerned him. Instead, he worried about Ashley waiting at her house for him; waiting to discuss seating arrangements and centerpieces; waiting for Rich to "show the least bit of interest" in the most important day in her life.
He did not want to think about that. He turned on the car radio.
"…this poor central African nation lacks the resources to launch an investigation in such a remote area. However, there is no denying the similarity between the disappearance of an entire village of nearly fifty people here and disappearances in both Thailand and Norway over the last two days. In each case, the only clues left behind were piles of shed clothing, as if the people had been vaporized into thin air.
"Coverage of these unexplained events has made the jump from the tabloids to newspaper headlines in the European and Asian media. Thus far, U.S. officials have refused comment on the incidents. However, pressure is growing for the President to address-"
Rich switched to a classic rock station, swapping news of the weird for the Rolling Stones. He did not need news of the weird from a radio. He heard weirdness enough from a panicked and over-worked fiancee as she micro-managed every morsel of minutia in planning for the most perfect of wedding days.
The light remained red.
Rich looked left. Rich looked right. The tractor-trailers, passenger cars, SUVs and motorcycles had moved on.
In a daring act, he pressed gently on the accelerator. The car inched forward. He cranked the steering wheel to the right…he spotted the Wilkes-Barre Police car in the hotel parking lot across the street. The cop eyed the dealer-plated Chevrolet, anticipating the imminent violation.
Rich eased off the gas and resigned himself to waiting a while longer.
– A knot tightened in Richard’s stomach as he closed the car door, a knot born from the sight of Ashley’s father on the porch glider.
Some called him Benjamin. Rich called him "Mr. Trump" or sometimes "Sir."
Richard walked the half-circle driveway in front of the modular home and climbed the unpainted wooden stairs. An early bat swooped overhead, cutting through the June twilight above the duplex-laden suburb.
"Hi, Mr. Trump."
Benjamin Trump, holding a beer in one hand, glanced at the silver watch bound to his thin left arm.
"Runnin’ a bit late, Dick?"
As with everyone else on the planet, Mr. Trump made Rich’s nickname sound more an insult.
"Had to finish up with a customer."
Richard’s explanation carried as much weight as a humbled third grader weaving a tale of dogs and devoured homework.
"Is Ashley ‘round?"
A dumb question. Rich knew better, but in the presence of dad-in-law his speech, tones, and delivery of punch lines were shaky at best. In fairness, not all the fault lay with Benjamin Trump. Whenever alone with Ashley’s dad, Rich kept waiting for the old man to lay it on the line: "I know you’ve been having sex with my daughter."
So, yes, Ashley was around and both Richard and Benjamin Trump knew this to be the case. However, Mr. Trump’s response surprised Dick: "She’s up stairs throwing up."
Trump drank from his Coors Original and stared out at the falling sun.
"Oh."
"Why don’t you sit down, Dick," the statement lacked a question mark.
Richard threw his eyes toward the front door, "Um…"
"It’s okay. She’ll be down when she’s feeling better. Just nerves, you know."
"Yeah," Rich confessed as he cautiously shuffled closer to a wicker chair near the glider. "I get them, too. I mean, not that I’ve thrown up. But there are times when-"
"I like you, Dick. I really do. I don’t say it a lot cause, well, I don’t say that to anybody a lot. I figure you know I like you. No need to go ‘round hugging or anything, right?"
Richard folded his hands on his lap.
"I, um, suppose-"
"But more important my daughter likes you and I want her to be nothing but happy."
Richard tried to return the expected volley, "I love you too. I mean, I love Ashley too and I like you, too. Well, I guess you’re going to be family so-"
"Right. Anyway, I want you to know that if you ever need anything I’ll be right here for you. Me and my wife, we’ll be right here."
He relaxed and replied to his soon-to-be dad-in-law, "I appreciate that."
"But I won’t loan you money."
"What?"
Mr. Trump repeated, "I won’t loan you money. Sure, we’re chipping in on the wedding but you’re responsible for paying the bills, am I clear?"
"Did Ashley suggest that we-or I-might need-"
"You strike me as the dependable type. I know you aren’t ever going to go runnin’ around on my daughter and I know you’ll change a crap-filled diaper when little ones start crawling around. I know your dad, too. He’s a good guy even if he’s from the boonies."
Benjamin Trump meant the rural areas of northeast Pennsylvania as opposed to the neighborhoods, such as Mr. Trump’s, that served as suburbs for the little city of Wilkes-Barre.
Rich tried to slip a word in.
"I will do whatever I can for Ashley."
"But I’m looking at you and thinking here’s the guy who’s going to marry my daughter, he’s got a college degree-okay, community college degree-and he’s selling Chevys. Now that isn’t going to feed the bull dog."
"Bull dog?"
Benjamin Trump cast his stern brown eyes at Richard.
"Are you following me, Dick?"
"Um…no."
"You need to find some ambition."
"Ambition? Sir?"
"You need to brush up that resume, get yourself full of piss and vinegar and go out there knocking on doors. When I was your age, I was helping my dad in the family business. I took that little business and grew it into the fourth largest fence company in Luzerne County. You walk around this valley and you’ll see Trump fences that me and my dad built thirty years ago. That’s because I had the ambition to make something that lasts."
Rich swallowed hard.
"I think Ashley-your daughter-and I are building something that lasts."
"Don’t throw that stuff around me, Dick. I’m not some goofy woman wonderin’ if the fruit cup gets served before the salad."
"No, Sir."
"I’m talking about you providing for your family. I’m talking about you providing for my daughter and little Benjamin and little Carol Anne. You’re gunna have mouths to feed and vacations to the Jersey shore to pay for. What are the chances that selling Chevys is going to get that all done?"
The front door of the house creaked open. Richard nearly cried tears of joy. Mother and daughter drifted onto the porch.