I would call Reba’s relationship with John Schatz complicated. But then Reba’s relationship with everyone is complicated. She has that ability.
“Why don’t you get rid of him?” I asked. I helped her box some pots Schatz had ordered.
Reba crumpled packing paper. Vigorously. She jammed the paper between pots. “I can’t. He’s a customer.”
“But if you’re having trouble with him…”
“I can’t get rid of everyone who bothers me. I’d have no customers. Or friends.”
This is somewhat true. Reba is by nature contrary. She’s opposed to everything. “Do I bother you?” I asked. I couldn’t help myself. “Or Walt?” Walt is her boyfriend.
She stopped packing and looked at me. “You and Walt are two peas in a pod. You’re both dopes. You two live these aggressive, organized lives. All the while you have no idea what you want.”
“I want to have fun.”
“So do children.”
Ouch.
“And John Schatz?”
“Lord, John Schatz. Do you know what he said to me? He told me to marry Walt. Said he’d marry me himself, but he’s too old for kids. How did he know I want kids? Are men in some kind of club or something?”
Something like that.
“And another thing.” She shoved another pot into the box. “He actually likes Walt.”
It was true. He counseled Walt whenever he saw him. Advised him on credit and hiring. Walt owns a successful sign shop. “Always have a Plan B,” I heard him tell Walt. More than once.
It was Schatz’s great mistake. He had lost his own company because of it. He went all in, saving nothing. When the end came, when they took his company, his trucks, his employees and customers, there wasn’t a dollar left. There wasn’t a dime. He was left alone in a friend’s warehouse, scrambling to sell other people’s furniture. Other people’s pots.
Schatz had been a magnificent success. Now he was a magnificent failure.
I told Reba about Plan B. She wasn’t impressed. “What about me?” she said. “Is he telling Walt to hedge his bets?”
“Actually, the opposite,” I said.
“What do you mean?”
“He said hang on to you no matter what. With love, there is no Plan B.”
“He said that?”
“Yup.”
Reba carefully layered paper over the pots. Then she folded and taped the box shut. Finding a marker, she printed “John Schatz” in block letters. Then signed “Reba”. After pausing, she added a heart.
She noticed me watching. “Hey,” she said, capping the marker. “I didn’t say he was all bad.”
Richard Donnelly lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Classic flyover land. Which makes us feel just a little… superior. He publishes a weekly column of essays on the writing life at richarddonnelly.substack.com