the Totaled Man

By Nancy Sweetland

Portly, middle-aged Herbert Hendorf’s rotund wife Agnes goes Total Woman, setting up sensual and exciting (she thinks) but outlandish (and exhausting, he thinks) sexual encounters at every opportunity. He retreats into daydreams and invents a recycling machine which he hopes will win the Fantastic Plastics Factory’s million dollar prize for saving them from extinction by the EPA. However, accused of fraud by thieves who steal his plan and present it as their own, Herbert is desolated; his life’s work is lost. Will he recover? And what about his oh-so-complicated relationship with Agnes who, after all, only wants to make him happy?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nancy Sweetland
• Release date: Jan 18, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311504227

Nancy Sweetland

I've been writing ever since getting my first official rejection at 13. Articles and essays were followed by 7 children's picture books (five now out of print),a chapter book for 3-4 grade readers, and novels for adults from romances to murder mysteries, and some fun stuff in between. I have a large family (7 kids, 5 steps, 31 grandchildren, 6 great grands), so have lots going on all the time. I also teach for the Institute of Children's Literature, and belong to Mystery Writers of America, Romance Writers dog America, Wisconsin Writers Association, the Council for Wisconsin Writers and the Society for Children's Writers and Illustrators. I love to golf, play the piano (not as often as I should), socialize with bridge, dominoes and mah jong. Contact me anytime - I love to hear from readers!

Book preview

The Totaled Man

A Novel

By Nancy Sweetland

The Totaled Man

By

Nancy Sweetland

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2014 Nancy Sweetland

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THE TOTALED MAN

CHAPTER ONE

Herbert Hendorf dreaded going home.

As he nosed his conservative grey Chevy Nova off the freeway toward Happy Apple Lane, his foot involuntarily slacked off the gas pedal until the car behind him nearly nudged his bumper and reminded him with a blast of horn that somebody actually wanted to get home.

At fifty-five years of age, a man should look forward to the end of the working day.

The thing was, Herbert reflected, speeding up to please the irate driver behind him, he was just too damn tired for sex at five-thirty in the afternoon.

At Number 10 Happy Apple Lane, Agnes Hendorf checked her costume in the full-length mirror. Perfect. The bangles on her ample hips dangled just enough; the multi-colored filmy print chiffon hid her spiderwebbed thighs and draped her feet which had never been pretty. Bunions. Criss-crossing narrow purple ribbons across her insteps did help fool the eye. Agnes nodded in satisfaction.

She wet one finger and smoothed back a plucked eyebrow, squinting. No, the new blue-green eyeliner hadn't caked. She glanced away from the reflection of her bare breasts, which drooped a good deal more than she would have liked. It's what you do with whatcha got, Agnes, she told her reflection.

Herbert's car turned into the driveway.

Agnes jangled to the stereo, slipped on finger tambourines to clink a steady beat with reedy belly-dancing music. Slowly and as sensuously as she was able, Agnes began moving her hips. She didn't have the figure eight down quite right and she knew her stomach muscles would hurt when she got to the shimmy part, but perhaps she wouldn't need to go that far before Herbert would be overcome and carry her off to the bedroom.

Funny, Agnes. Herbert never carried you off when you were twenty, so why would he start when you're fifty? She blanked her face into a heavy-lidded mask and gyrated as Herbert, his tie askew, his rotund, rumple-suited body weary from the freeway hassle, stopped just inside the door.

Oh, God, Agnes, he moaned. Do we have to?

You see, Fred, it's like this, Herbert paid the bartender for a second martini. Every night-- every single solitary night--it's something different. I used to go home after work, put my feet up and sip a martini. Now I'm driven to stopping at a bar to get enough courage to go home at all. He ran a hand through his thinning grey hair. I wish she'd never read that damn sex book.

Fred, long-time friend and bowling partner, helped himself to a handful of salted peanuts off the bar and sighed. Any man should have problems like yours. Complain, complain. Want to trade for Louise? Once a month is too much. And then she wants to talk all the way through. Enjoy, Herb.

Herbert closed his eyes. Last night it was belly dancing. Believe me, Agnes hasn't got the belly. I mean she's got too much of one. He reflected. She hasn't got the shimmy down yet, but I do give her credit for trying. You know, shake all over? Like a dog coming out of water?

Fred nodded, a small smile playing on the side of his mouth away from Herbert.

The night before that it was--you won't believe this. Nothing else but Saran Wrap.

Fred grinned, picturing Agnes. All over? That's all?

Except her head. Herbert tossed down a healthy swallow. The night before that? Black lace baby doll pajamas and shiny white boots... Herbert reached for the peanuts. She's fifty years old. She sags.

Fred nodded. I know. Louise, too. But she wears good bras.

I think Agnes threw all hers away. He was silent for a minute. Last week it was 'I'm here, Herbie! Under the table. Come heeere!’ Herbert mimicked her voice and grimaced. My mother stopped calling me Herbie when I was four.

Did you come?

"I came. Under the dining room table. Bumped my head three times. There's not enough room under any table for two overweight people. Herbert buried his face in his hands. What will it be tonight? A bubble bath together in a tub meant for one? A rubdown with lotion smelling like lavender? I hate lavender. And you know what, Fred? I'm hungry when I get home. I want my supper. And I don't get fed until after."

After? Fred choked on a peanut.

You know. After.

Fred stood up. I've gotta go. Good luck tonight, Herb. Maybe-- he paused.

Maybe what?

Fred grinned. Maybe I should buy the book for Louise.

Do yourself a favor, Fred. Herbert pushed himself off the bar stool. Don't.

At his desk in Builder's Mart, Herbert Hendorf fingered his weekly paycheck. Ample enough for himself and Agnes, yes. And all those benefits: insurance, profit sharing, pension. A good job.

Herbert sighed. A dull job. Checking invoices. Were all the ordered screws delivered? Check. The ballpeen hammers? Five dozen, check. Invoices, invoices.

Mis-ter Hendorf.

Herbert cringed. When Sylvia Dorn said Mis-ter Hendorf in that tone of voice, something uncomfortable was about to happen.

She strode toward his desk, her long, strong legs purposefully propelling her Amazon body. He moved back unconsciously though his heavy desk was between them. She was so--overpowering. There was not a hair out of place in her upswept platinum hairdo.

Honestly! She slapped some papers on his desk. What you dictated makes no sense at all. Surely you didn't want me to send this memo to the main office.

No sense?

Absolutely none. I could have done better myself.

Ah. He picked up the memo and studied it.

She was right. Instead of listing the completed inventory of Building Four, he had said--or at least Miss Dorn said he had said--that four buildings had been invented.

Inventing was what had been on his mind, of course. That was always on his mind when it wasn't otherwise occupied. Herbert Hendorf, Inventor. Someday he would achieve that title; someday Herbert Hendorf was going to invent something that would revolutionize something else. He thought about it constantly. Surreptitiously he glanced at the locked cupboard in the corner.

What I meant was--

I know what you meant. But that's what you said.

I'm sorry. Would you retype the memo, please? And thank you. I would have looked pretty silly, wouldn't I?

You would. Sylvia strode to the door. I told the trucker to put this morning's delivery in Shed Two.

But Shed Two--

Mister Hendorf, the materials are already there.

Oh. And the check sheets?

On your desk.

Herbert watched her shut the door with a smart click. An excellent secretary. An absolutely smothering, frightening, enormous, efficient secretary. She could do my job with her hands tied, thought Herbert, and I wish she had it.

He looked at his paycheck again and slipped it into his billfold. Thirty-seven years of Builder's Mart. And he hadn't invented anything yet. But someday. Soon.

Herbie.

He hated it when Agnes called him Herbie. He looked up over the edge of his newspaper. Agnes wiggled and smiled coquettishly at him. She wasn't wearing a bra, he noticed, and her sweater was unbuttoned halfway down. What if somebody came to the door?

What would you like to do tonight?

He shook his head. It wasn't easy to shift gears from the world problems in the POST NEWS. He put the paper down and placed his comfortably slippered feet flat on the floor. I thought we already did it.

Not that. You know, anything.

Nothing. Nothing at all.

But Herbie--

Do we have to do something every night, Agnes?

She put out her lower lip. "I'm just trying to make life