I Was Way Too Young|
to Be a Father
One day I was surprised to get a phone call from Delores' dad at work. "Don, I need to talk to you. Very important. But it would be best if we weren't overheard by anyone at George's shop. You'd better call me back from the phone booth on the corner."
He gave me a number and said to call him back ASAP.
"Oh God," I thought. "I'm too young to be a father."
It had been a while since our last date and I thought it was over. Not that I didn't care for Delores. I liked her a lot. I liked her kids, too, but was not ready to be a father.
Nonetheless, I had to make that call.
My palms were sweating as I dialed the number Barney had given me.
"Capitol Signs," an unfamiliar voice answered.
My mouth was so dry I was scarcely able to say, "Powell Barnett, please."
"Just a moment."
The ten or twenty seconds it took for Barney to get to the phone seemed like an eternity.
"Hey, Don," he said, "glad you were able to call. I didn't want you to be overheard at George's shop — but I have something to tell you."
I just gulped and didn't even try to speak.
"Guess what — they need a good lettering artist here at Capitol. And they pay better than George. Interested? You could start right away."
"Oh, by way — you can see why I wanted you to call me back from a phone booth."
Well, I never did go to Capitol Signs about a job — instead I married my boss' housekeeper and helped raise her two kids — and, subsequently, two of her grandkids. (Long, looonnng story...)