Vital Signs

Part 23

Dead silence.

"But that's probably irrelevant," I murmur.

"Probably?"

"And I have his laptop. There are several interesting files that I think you should see."

"Okay, Phil. Start from the beginning."

                                                                                    #######

It's 10:32 when I pull up in front of Meem's cottage-like home, my stomach rumbling. As a grown man I should know by now that fast-food breakfast sandwiches are seldom a good idea. Especially once they've gone cold. That rubbery disk covered with a cheese-like product tasted nothing like a real egg. Oh, my stomach.

Meem opens the front door dressed in a bright blue dress with a cheerful pattern of little daisies. I notice the string of pearls around her neck when she greets me. She smells like lilacs. I smell like mosquito spray.

"Won't you come inside for a cup of coffee?" she asks.

"I don't want to bother you. I'll just get the bags out of the shed and be on my way."

"Why, it's no bother at all."

The alluring coffee aroma seeps out onto the porch. I follow her into the house. She turns off the TV on her way into the kitchen. 

"Let me just check on this casserole," she says entering the kitchen. She opens the oven door. releasing an aromatic blend of baked chicken, potatoes, and vegetables.

"Well, okay then," she says, removing the casserole from the oven and setting it on the stovetop. "We'll just let that cool awhile." 

She fills two coffee cups and offers one to me.

"That poor family. Heyward's been out of work since November and they got another one on the way. I try to help out any little way I can."

"They're lucky to have a neighbor like you." I add a splash of cream to my mug.

She dismisses me with a wave of her hand.

"Isn't that some mess in Utah?" She shakes her head and adds a spoonful of sugar to her coffee.

"It sure is." 

"People these days have no respect."

When I take a sip, my tongue reminds me of its earlier encounter with hot coffee.

"Instead of wasting all that energy protesting and making things worse, those folks need to do something productive with their lives."

My impulse is to tell her that the TV show that she's been watching isn't really news. It's opinion that's packaged and sold to viewers as news. Meem is old enough to remember Walter Cronkite. Surely she recalls what real news journalism looked and sounded like. 

"Why there's nothing in Utah anyway except for some armadillos and tumbleweeds," she repeats her show's talking points. "And deserts full of poisonous snakes, lizards, and scorpions." She shudders.

"If you don't mind, Meem, I'd like to get those bags out of the shed."

"You haven't barely touched your coffee."

"My doctor says I need to cut back on my caffeine."

"Oh, for goodness sake. A little coffee never hurt anyone."

"Yes, ma'am." I take another sip.

"You know they say those protestors are put up to that nonsense by outside agitators and communists."