Page 20 of Out on a Limb
I’d been called it more than a few times, usually by women who didn’t understand me.
Which was fair since I probably didn’t understand them either.
But I never would have called them names because of it.
“What makes someone an asshole?” I was interested to hear Collette’s take on this.
Call it research.
“Well,” she was quiet for a minute, “at this point I’d say my granddad is living up to the name.” She tapped her fingers against the wheel as we sat at a light. “He was always probably an asshole, I just didn’t notice it.”
“How could you miss it?”
“I was closer to my grandma. I think she sort of sheltered me from it. Kept me from noticing the things he said.” Her lips rolled together for a second. “From seeing the things he did.”
I knew Mr. Johnson was a dick. Everyone at the garden knew it if they’d been there long enough. There were a few lucky employees who came after he stopped showing up, like Julia, who weren’t exposed to his rants and tantrums.
Collette suddenly turned to face me. “Is he an asshole?”
I should lie. Plead ignorance.
But lying wasn’t something I really did. It was another part of why people thought I was an asshole. Everyone claimed to want the truth until they heard it.
And chances were good Collette was the same.
But I was going to be honest anyway.
Yeah.” I nodded. “He’s an asshole.”
Her head bobbed along with mine. “I thought so.”
She turned back to the windshield, letting out a sigh. “I adored him when I was little.” Her lips curved in a small smile. “He used to keep candy in his office when he worked at the advertising agency. Whenever I would visit I got to sit in his big leather chair and pretend to be the boss.” Her smile slipped. “He thought it was so funny that I wanted to be the boss.” Collette’s hand came out to stroke down the little rooster’s back where he was huddled on the console.
Now probably wasn’t the time to point out that her grandfather was also a sexist pig who liked to suggest that women were only good for a handful of things.
And none of them had to do with being the boss.
I decided to change the subject instead, pull it to something I was less likely to end up saying the wrong thing over. “What are you going to do with—” I stared down at the chicken. “Does he have a name?”
Collette glanced at the rooster. “Should he?”
“Most people name their pets.” Even I did that. And I wasn’t like most people.
“He’s not my pet.”
“He’s riding shotgun in your car on the way to buy him a carrier.” I shifted around, trying to work a little more room for my legs. “I’d say that qualifies him as a pet.”
“I can’t have a chicken as a pet.”
“Why not?” Once again my filter failed. “Because it’s weird?”
“No.” Collette pulled into the lot at the pet store in downtown Sweet Side. “Because he will crap all over my house.”
“He hasn’t crapped in your car.” I leaned to look at the rooster’s backside just to make sure. “Course he probably hasn’t eaten much recently.”
“I don’t even know what chickens eat.” She parked the Jeep. “Another reason I can’t have him as a pet.”
“Technically they eat anything.” I pointed her way. “They’ll eat you if you hold still long enough.”
