A String of Pearls

I gathered up my bags—one with clothes, one with outer wear, one with toiletries—and reached for the camper door.

“Well, thanks for coming out,” said my Case Manager.

“You’re welcome. Thanks for inviting me.”

“Yeah, well, we do this from time to time. For our special cases. We’ll bring them out here, under the guise of camping, and just do some observation and analysis. Try to figure out what the problem is, why you haven’t had any luck on match.com.”

“Oh.” My mind raced with everything I did over the last two days. I didn’t realize he was studying me. It hadn’t occurred to me that he might be on duty this whole time. “So, what kind of things were you looking for?”

“Oh, you know, like whether you have a good attitude, an appreciation for being out here in nature, how you share common space, how well you cook, if you were courteous and good to the man.”

Good to the man? My case manager? I thought he was working for me.

I let him win at cribbage. Six games. That should get me some points.

But, really, my mind was stuck on that word cook. I hadn’t cooked anything. I would never cook in a camper. I’d be afraid of explosions or carbon monoxide poisoning or something. Cook? I hadn’t even brought any food along. It hadn’t occurred to me. I was a guest, wasn’t I? Wasn’t my Case Manager supposed to take care of me the whole weekend?

“Well, what if I fail?”

“Baby, if you fail, I fail—since you’re my special project—and I don’t want that to happen. So, I’ll go back, compile the data, let you know.”

“What if it’s bad? Would you drop me from your caseload?” My heart raced, my shoulder felt sweaty, all of a sudden, where the straps from my three bags came together, hanging there too long now.

I had to get out, had to be on my way. I was getting anxious, panicky. What if my Match.com Case Manager dumped me? I couldn’t bear the thought. He’d been taking such good care of me for so long, years now. I wrestled with the camper door and took the big step down to the stable, solid Earth.

“Like I said, ‘If you fail, I fail…’” was the last thing I heard before getting into my vehicle and heading back home.

Photo credit: http://www.welovedates.com