For the Love a Pete: Don Walker, #1

By Frederic W. Burr

Don Walker is a human resources manager for a mid-sized IT firm in Louisville, Kentucky. He is disenchanted with his profession and his employer. Divorced, he struggles with his fractious teen-aged daughter, and the seemingly intractable problems of his ex-wife, an alcoholic in an unhappy second marriage.

His dissolute younger sister only adds to the mix.

The only bright spot in his life is a new relationship with a younger, free-spirited woman. At thirty-nine years of age, he fears approaching middle age, and the loss of that relationship.

This story covers a brief period when Don's life seems to be spinning out of control. Only through an unexpected inspiration does he manage to develop a renewed focus on life, and an understanding of what truly matters.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Frederic W. Burr
• Release date: Sep 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223174004

Frederic W. Burr

A native of Cincinnati, Ohio, Fred enlisted in the Navy at the age of seventeen, and retired in the rank of Commander in the surface warfare community. He is a graduate of the University of Louisville and the Albany Law School of Union University. Retiring from the private practice of law in upstate New York, Pennsylvania and Kentucky after thirty-six years, he considers himself a fully recovered attorney. Fred and his wife Donna (who also writes) make their home in Kentucky.

Book preview

One

My name is Don Walker . I am a human resources manager, and when I tell people what I do for a living, they pretend to be interested, but the expression on their faces gives them away. Most have nothing to say, and do their best not to say ‘so what?’ before pretending to see a friend on the other side of the room. At present, Information Technology Cloud Support, a mid-range IT firm, employs me. My predecessor left a few months back, under circumstances no one talks about. Before then, I worked practically across the street for the back office of a local health care organization, and even though this is a lateral move for me, the bump in pay is significant. I suppose letter carrier or trash collector would be of even less interest than human resources. However, having traded my marriage and small family for my career, it is about all I have going for me.

I decided to get into the HR game during my first year at the University of Louisville, thinking there would always be positions in this field available, regardless of how the employment market or the economy might evolve. So long as there are employees, there will be a need for people like me, I figured. And I thought I was good at working with people and helping solve their problems. However, I have since discovered HR is not all it is cracked up to be. All I really do is try to keep my employer from being sued barefoot. The paperwork, whether it involves benefits admin, employee complaints or discipline, investigations, hiring or firing, is never ending. To top it off, most employees look at me like they would Darth Vader. Consequently, HR people change jobs like most people change their underwear.

Right now, I am taking my daughter Lisa from her mother’s house to my sister’s house for a Friday evening babysitting job. Negotiating unbelievably jammed rush-hour traffic on Sheperdsville Road, I feel like I have been dropped into the fifth circle of Hell, or at least Hell with the lid off, since my downtown condominium is less than two miles from the office, and I frequently walk to work when the weather is tolerable. Lisa is concentrating on her iPhone and otherwise keeping to herself. I am grateful for the car’s air conditioning, since it is in the mid-nineties outside.

Fuck me, I mutter as a Kia Soul cuts me off and comes to a sudden stop at the light just turning red. The last thing I need is a front-end job on my leased five series Beemer. Don’t tell your mother, I say.

You’re not supposed to swear around me, she says. You know that.

Please? I beg. Swearing has always been a pet peeve of my ex-wife’s, although after she has dispatched her second or third cocktail, she loosens up on the prohibition. You swear plenty around me, I say in self defense.

My daughter has her mother’s features, but thankfully not much else. At fifteen, going on twenty-five, she has just started high school a month or so ago. She is precocious, at times fractious, immodest, pretty enough to make me worry about the next six years or so, if not sooner, and liable to say just about anything that pops into her head.

The driver behind me lays on the horn several times, forcing me to look ahead. Shit! I yell, as I accelerate through the green light. How long it has been green, I have no idea, but probably no more than a second.

There you go again, Dad! Lisa crows triumphantly, as though keeping score and winning in a full-on rout. She leans forward to drop her phone into her purse, which is sitting on the floor between her feet. Can I turn on the radio?

No. Listen to your phone. I pray that her taste in music will one day improve, but so far, there seems to be no sign of such maturity, and the stuff she seems to prefer is simply God-awful trash.

My earbuds are packed in the trunk, and the phone speaker is shi . . . crap, she says.

Got ya! I say, thinking the score is now even up.

I didn’t say it, she responds, pouting, but only a little. I look over at her, remembering how I would run across the street after parking the family car to get to the hospital nursery as quickly as possible, just to see my new daughter. It was a long and difficult labor for my then wife, Sharon (two days!), which explains why we never had another child. With her perfect, pore-less skin, rosebud mouth and delicate little fingers that would wrap around my index finger without a moment’s hesitation, I was in love. It took a lot of work over the first twelve years of her life to screw that all up.

You were going to, I reply. Admit it.

"What evaavah," she says, with that tone of voice that makes my skin crawl.

Looking down at the gas gauge, I see it is close to a quarter tank. I like to fill up when it’s half full, but this past week has involved more travel than usual. I gotta get gas, I say, looking now for the closest station.

"I have gas!" Lisa offers brightly.

I know, I reply. But keep it to yourself, if you please. Putting on the left turn signal to try to move over one lane in time to be able to get into the Kroger market gas station up ahead, I check my left-hand rear view mirror. The Ford Fusion behind me on the left flashes its brights, and I give the driver a wave in thanks. I slowly pull into the lane, and then into the station. Once next to the pumps island, I breathe a sigh of relief.

Can I go into the store? she asks.

No. You stay in the car. I unfasten my seat belt and reach for the door handle.

"But you know I have gas!" she pleads.

Sighing again, I have no choice but to relent. Fine. But don’t lollygag around. I want to get you to your aunt’s A S A P. Okay?

Got it! she says, giving me a brief smile before exiting the car, purse in hand, and heading for the front door of the store. Watching her for a long moment as she trots away at a good clip, I think, I’ll bet she’s got more than gas. I swipe my credit card and began pumping gas. As I stand at the pump, the numbers for gallons delivered and the amount due are rolling up, up and away, with an almost hypnotic effect. This sometimes happens to me in such situations, and to snap out of it, I reminisce about meeting my ex-wife.

Sharon was, and still is, a beautiful, petite woman of the South, like our daughter. We met during our undergrad days at the University of Louisville, which she pronounces like Lou-uhl-ville (Far for fire, poe for pole, wirehouse for warehouse), a southern (pronounced suth-ren in some quarters) affectation I have never been able to match, being a northern boy from Cincinnati, Ohio. The accent has moderated quite a bit over the years, but I have no way of knowing whether it is a result of her growing into adulthood, or my influence during our marriage.

She was wearing an outfit not unlike Lisa’s of today, sand colored chinos, tennis shoes and a lightweight sleeveless V-necked pullover. I think Sharon’s pullover was a light green, whereas Lisa’s is a pale blue. Although she comported herself modestly, I had the impression she was appraising me while we talked for something more intimate later. I was sitting on a couch with her standing in front of me, while I tried to not look like I was checking her out. Although I had no experience with them, I instinctively knew her to be a true Southern belle; a woman who knew how to cook (and eat!), who would be able to handle any social situation with aplomb, who would be devoted to her family, and always, always, look composed, regardless of the temperature. At least that was my limited understanding of the species. We married shortly after graduation. Before then, we talked about extensive travel and living in faraway, exotic places. As it turned out, aside from a single trip to Disneyworld when Lisa was six, we never left Louisville, except to drive on occasion to locations in adjoining states.

The pump clicks off and the charge totals some $38.67. Cheap at twice the price, I think. Looking towards the store, I see my little girl approaching, a Snickers bar in hand. Resisting the urge to tell her to think about her skin, and about gaining weight, I just say that her door is unlocked. We get into the car and, after I reset my trip meter, I pilot my Beemer back out onto Sheperdsville Road, and rush-hour traffic, which shows no sign of letting up. I am relieved when we make it to my sister’s three-bed, one-bath brick ranch on Rustic Way off of Sheperdsville without further incident.

My sister’s house is appraised on trulia.com for $95,000, but in my opinion, it is not worth half that. The roof is in rough shape, part of it still covered by a blue tarp from a windstorm six months ago. The brickwork has stair-step cracks running up one side; the lawn gave up the ghost years ago. Isolated tufts of dead grass are scattered across the dirt in the front yard, and faded children’s toys in various states of repair lay scattered throughout the lot. The aluminum screen doorframe is pitted, the screen itself hanging down by one corner like a dispirited flag of surrender. The little bit of paint remaining on the woodwork around the windows is peeling, and I know from experience the inside of the house is worse. But with four feral children under the age of seven, by three different men, only one of which she ever married, what can anyone expect? I read somewhere that barbarians invade Western Civilization every generation. ‘We call them children,’ the writer said, going on to observe it is the job of each preceding generation to socialize these invaders, teach them our common culture and shared values, in short to civilianize them. My three nephews, who will never become responsible adults, are living proof of this theory. My niece is still a toddler, so there is still hope for her.

We’re here, I announce.

Yep, she says, and sighs.

Hey – you volunteered to babysit tonight, I remind her.

I know. I could use the money, but she probably won’t pay me. She never does, she grumbles.

Well, consider it your good deed for the day, I say.

The month is more like it, Lisa says as she gets out of the car, and goes around to the trunk to fetch her backpack.

I look up and see my sister Leslie holding her daughter, Sarah, on her left hip, propping the screen open with her right hand. Her housedress has seen better days. Little Sarah wears only pull-ups and a stained t-shirt. Two lopsided pigtails held in place by little blue barrettes stick out, antenna-like, on either side of the tot’s head. She looks confused and anxious, as if thinking, ‘This is not at all the world I thought I was dropping into.’ I follow Lisa up to the concrete porch, testing the stability of the rusted handrail on the right side. It flunks, miserably so.

Lisa tucks herself between Leslie and the doorjamb, giving her aunt a brief smile as she squeezes past. Leslie does not so much as acknowledge her niece’s presence. I stop on the porch, hoping to signify I am, under no circumstances, going to enter my sister’s home.

Pretending to be interested, I ask, So where are you off to tonight? I have no doubt my sister regrets all of her major decisions in life, but that doesn’t stop her from charging full steam ahead to make more unfortunate choices, and true to form, her answer does not disappoint.

Me and my friend Shannon are going to a church meeting about our food drive for the poor (which I find ironic as hell, almost hilarious), and after that, we’re stopping at Derby City, and maybe Kathmandu Bar later. Just a girls’ night out.

I don’t bother responding, knowing that the bar is the primary venue for tonight’s expedition, given her history, and having heard (often!) of Shannon’s predilection for hooking up with whatever man might be available. We stand motionless for a minute until I break the silence. Can you ask Lisa to step out here for a second?

Wait a minute, she replies, stepping back into the house and letting the screen door slam shut behind her. I can hear what sounds like a full on riot somewhere inside.

As I wait, I look down at my polished loafers, and the deep cracks running through the concrete porch, and wonder why my sister lives like this. Her house has to be in the worst shape of any house in the neighborhood. I figure Leslie stole at least $75,000 from our late father while he lived with her years back, when she was still in Lexington, with a decent state job. Where could all that money have gone?

Dad? Lisa interrupts my thoughts, opening the screen door a bit.

Have fun, I say. We both make faces, agreeing this will be anything but. Call me if you need anything. I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning around ten to take you back to your mother’s.

Okay, Dad.

I take my leave, and get back in the car. Driving slowly up Sheperdsville Road, relaxing in air-conditioned comfort, I think about the difference between my sister and me. Her life is circling the drain, and aside from the divorce, I feel reasonably satisfied with the way mine is turning out, at least so far. Being the first child of our parents, I grew up under strict discipline. I knew, practically to the minute of each day, what conduct was expected, what minor infraction might be tolerated, and what was strictly forbidden (and punished severely). By the time Leslie came along, our parents must have been tired, worn out by micro-managing me, their respective jobs, and simply being seven years older. Leslie had practically no rules, or parental guidance, whatsoever. I suppose all siblings grow up in different families.

Tomorrow is Saturday. Of all the days in the week, I like Saturdays the most. I will wake early, do a quick three-mile run along the waterfront, and then make myself a decent breakfast. I like my Saturday breakfasts. Bacon for sure, two fried eggs, toast, coffee and some fruit, with a little Greek yogurt to keep things moving. After a long shower, I will pick Lisa up. Maybe she won’t be in a bad mood (although a night at Leslie’s can depress even the most optimistic of people), and I can enjoy time with her before delivering her to Sharon’s house.

Having to deal with Sharon could be the only dark spot in the day. My ex, now known as Sharon DeFreese, likes to put on airs,