Getting Warmer Read Online Free PDF Page A

wore a shirt with wide, horizontal stripes.
    “I teach prisoners to read,” I said. “Out at the, you know. Prison.” Whenever I drove to the nearest outlet mall, I passed signs that read, PRISON NEARBY; DO NOT PICK UP HITCHHIKERS. Besides, there were always chain gangs picking up garbage on Scottsdale Road.
    “That’s intense,” he said. “What are they in for?”
    “The prisoners? Oh, all kinds of things.” I’d already started this thing. I might as well give it my all. “Drugs, violent crimes. There’s some sex offenders, but I try to avoid them.”
    “Murderers?”
    “Oh, sure. Murderers. Lots of murderers.”
    He sat back and sipped his Blue Hawaiian thoughtfully. “I can’t believe that Paul guy walked out because of that.”
    He was criticizing Paul, I knew, but it made me feel that my story was somehow inadequate. “Then there’s my living situation. I live with my parents.”
    He shrugged, looked puzzled as if to say: loser-ly, yes, but not worth such an abrupt exit.
    “My mother’s senile. Crazy. Alzheimer’s. She howls at the moon and chases people. Sometimes she chases dogs.”
    “Oh, my God,” he said.
    “Yeah. My father is completely overwhelmed, so the caretaking all falls to me. So you can see why Paul left.”
    He shook his head. “Because he’s a complete jerk.”
    I shrugged. “It’s a lot to deal with. Most men can’t.”
    “Maybe you’ve been meeting the wrong men.”
    “I won’t argue with you there.”
    The bartender came over. “Jim called,” he said to Jonathan. “Said to tell you he’s had a family emergency and can’t make it in tonight. Said you should call him tomorrow to set up another meeting. Or, if you want, you can wait around. Cherie will be here in about a half hour.”
    Jonathan paused. “Cherie Williamson?”
    “Yeah. You know her? She used to work at that barbecue place around the corner. Anyway, drinks are on the house. You want another?”
    “No, thanks. I’ll just give Jim a call in the morning.” Remembering his manners, he looked at me. “You want another drink?”
    “No, thanks—I’ve got to drive,” I said, even though I wasn’t quite ready to say good-bye.
    He pulled his wallet out of the back pocket of his khakis and extracted a generous tip for the bartender.
    “You were waiting for someone?” I asked.
    “The manager,” he said. “I’m in restaurant supplies. Trying to drum up some new business.” He looked up at me. His eyes twinkled. “What did you think? That I was a drunk on the prowl?”
    “No!” I said, blinking furiously. “Of course not.”
    “I didn’t think so. You wouldn’t have been so honest about yourself if you had.” He put his wallet back in his pocket and scanned the room. “Looks like the tables here are all taken. You want to go somewhere else and grab a bite to eat?”

three
    I would have woken up smiling if I were the type; my evening with Jonathan had been the best I’d had since moving to Arizona. Instead I woke up swearing. “Gosh dang it!” I know: a pathetic excuse for an expletive. But I’d been scared straight. Last year, I’d knocked an enormous textbook onto my foot and started screaming my former favorite word, which, if you must know, begins with “s.” The class stared at me, shocked. I was terrified they’d tell on me. They didn’t, as far as I know. The incident made me realize, though, that I had to watch myself at all times; the goshes, darns and dangs had to be second nature so nothing R-rated would slip out. A couple of Mormon teachers recommended, “Oh, my heck” and, when utterly overwhelmed, upset and/or angry, “CHEESE and rice!” As yet, I hadn’t fallen that far.
    Anyway, I didn’t wake up to a falling textbook but to the realization that the power had gone out in the middle of the night. My alarm clock was blinking. I had only ten minutes to get out of the house.
    I made it. I was greasy and dirty and possibly even smelly, but I dropped my bag next to