The Adjustment
“I’m here for your wife, Mr Jenkins,” said the stocky fellow, dressed in an ill-fitting,
gray suit and one of those thin ties - purple - if memory serves.
“She’ll be back in ten minutes,” I told him, “please come in and wait.”
I ushered him inside and invited him to sit at the kitchen table. He handed me a
business card. His name was Phil Commonstance and he was about fifty. My guest
carried a soft briefcase and he held a fancy pen in his right hand at all times. He was
a methodical type, no wasted movements, much like a pilot in a cockpit.
“I’ve got your wife’s name as Sylvia Jenkins,” said Mr. Commonstance, “is
that right?”
“Yes,” I replied.
“What exactly is wrong with her?” he asked. “Let honesty be your guide.”
“I don’t know,” I answered, “but she’s not right - she’s been very combative,
lately.”
“That’s not uncommon, when a woman reaches forty, she changes, and usually
not for the better. How’s her weight?”
“About the same, she’s gained, maybe, ten pounds.”
“That’s easy to fix,” he replied, “we have many ways to remedy that.”
“Liposuction?” I inquired.
“Among other methods - treadmills. Will you be needing a rental?”
I thought about it. Being alone for a while would not have been the worst
thing for me,but companionship is important. “How much more is the rental?”
I asked.
“It’s included in the price. We have a nice, thirty-seven-year-old math teacher.
Oh, and a forty-year-old nurse just came in, tall girl, very athletic, but she has to be
prepped.”
“I have a weak spot for mathematics.”
“Done,” he promised.
“How long will you have Sylvia, Mr. Commonstance?”
“Probably two weeks,” he replied, “unless we have to order out for parts?”
I heard my wife pull into the driveway. “There she is now,” I said. “Do I have to
package her or anything?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” replied Mr. Commonstance. “I have a box in the van.” He
pulled a pad from the briefcase and began writing. “You may wish to pack a bag for
for your wife - her blow-dryer, vitamins, etc. Now, sir, I’m giving you a receipt and a
claim ticket for Sylvia, don’t lose them. It’ll be hell picking her up, if you do.”
The doorknob turned.
“I’ll tape them to the refrigerator,” I assured him.
THE END
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