He groaned again but she didn't seem to notice; just kept prattling on and on about how excited she was for this opportunity. He held up his middle finger but she cheerfully continued her one-sided conversation.
"Sharon, for the love of God, shut up!" he finally said.
"Fine," she huffed and pouted. "They said you were a real meanie pie. I'll just read then."
With that, she pulled out her Braille book and quietly read to herself. He signaled to the flight attendant and bought another scotch on the rocks for himself. He looked down at the napkin and smiled to himself; the flight attendant had written her phone number on it. He carefully folded up the napkin and put in in his shirt bucket.
^^^
Gary Weaver was used to this type of attention. At six foot four and two hundred and six pounds, he was a big man. In college he'd played football and even played two pre-season games with the Tampa Bay Buccaneers before getting cut from the roster. His face was square, his eyes a deep brown and his hair a naturally curly brown. When he smiled, which were seldom, his teeth were straight, even and white.
Getting cut from the NFL was fine, though; he knew the life expectancy of a Defensive Tackle wasn't the greatest. He moved back to Louisiana and immediately secured a job with the Louisiana Department of Rehabilitation Services. That had been his major field of studies in college; Special Education.
When he signed on with LDRS, everyone was fawning over wheelchair bound clients; he picked up the Visually Impaired/Blind client load.
With the same efficient and matter of fact mannerism that he had pounded the Offensive line, he pounded his client load. Many of his clients found themselves cut altogether, others found that they were expected to apply themselves and succeed; he fully expected the Visually Impaired and Blind to be able to compete for jobs in the General Population. Why else would they provide education, training, adaptive technologies?
To the client that was used to simply showing up and receiving a stipend for attending school and getting free 'toys' and computers from their previous counselor, Gary Weaver was a real shock. He had received several 'Hate' letters, threatening phone calls, and quite a few threats of lawsuits.
Sharon Weaver, no relation, was one of his first clients. The bubbly eighteen year old had bounded into his office, parents hovering over her to make sure she didn't hurt herself, and he had outlined his plans for the high school senior.
"I want you to apply for the Pell Grant," he intoned.
"Okay," she readily agreed.
"We will provide you with the adaptive technology you will need to keep up with your sighted counterparts in the classrooms, provide readers to assist with study materials, Braille books where available, you do know how to read Braille?" he went on.
"Yes I do," she proudly declared.
Together, with many interruptions from her mother and father, Gary and Sharon outlined her curriculum and goals. He smiled sardonically at her choice of Special Education; most of these optimistic bubble headed kids believed that they would make great counselors, as they 'understood' the needs of the handicapped.
Five years later, she graduated at the top of her class at the University of Louisiana at Lafayette and he closed her file.
As many enemies as he'd made in his client load, he was equally disliked by his fellow counselors. His lack of concern for their feelings and complete disregard for tact did not endear him to any of them.
"Well, if you'd pull your head out of your ass, you'd have a better chance of getting transferred," he told a counselor that had been turned down for a post with the Baton Rouge office.
"Look, cock sucker, having a full docket is not free reign to whine," he told another.
"Get off my nuts, Florence," he told his supervisor after yet another complaint had been filed against him.
For all the complaints, all the dissatisfied clients, Gary Weaver were a real producer. Other LDRS offices across the state requested his assistance and he had covered the entire state, assisting other counselors with their client loads, motivating other clients to apply themselves, to succeed. One counselor had asked him the secret to his success.
"Easy, I don't give a flying fuck about any of these pathetic little shits," he said. He did not crack a smile at the shocked expression on the other counselor's face.
Other states began to request his assistance and he traveled to Mississippi, Arkansas, Texas, and Georgia. That was what he was doing on this endless flight with Sharon Weaver, intern from Hell. New York City had requested his assistance after he'd testified to Congress about Rehabilitation Services in the United States.
"It's not a fucking vacation, numb nuts," he told John, the counselor for Deaf Services.
"It's not a sight seeing tour, you wrinkled up douche bag," he snarled at Maggie. "Maybe if you learned how to do your fucking job, they'd ask you for your help too."
"Gary, Gary, I do wish you would learn a little tact," Florence told him.
"Bite me," he said and smiled as she wrote that down in his file.
Despite all the complaints, he was the highest paid counselor in the office. He was the one that had to travel all over the state, now all over the country. As far as he was concerned, the other counselors were just sucking up a paycheck for the simple act of showing up.
^^^
Well, that was one way of getting him back; saddle him with little Miss Fucking Sunshine, the intern from Hell. He looked at her again as she read to herself. Her long blonde hair was pulled back by two hair clips, which left her small face bare. Her eyes were a horrible milky white in color, but other than that, she was quite pretty with a small nose, pale pink lips and small white teeth. She was very short, not quite five feet tall, and had absolutely no tits, waist, hips or ass. Has he not known that she was twenty-two, he would have sworn that she was just a kid.
Actually, he knew some kids that had better bodies than Ms. Sharon Weaver. Her sensible business suit and sensible shoes made her look as though she was playing 'dress-up' in her Mommy's clothing. For his part, he was wearing a pullover long sleeve shirt and blue jeans. No one gives a shit what you look like on these long flights, might as well be comfortable. Plus that, if you dress nicely, panhandlers at airports try to approach you for handouts. None but the bravest approached him, though; he barreled through crowds and walked with a purpose.
"We'll be landing in about forty five minutes," the flight attendant told Sharon when Sharon asked for the hundredth time when they'd be landing.
"And then we go to the Excelsior Hotel and..." Sharon started telling Gary.
"I know what our itinerary is, Sharon," he grumbled.
"Meanie Pie," she groused at him and he rolled his eyes.
"Just how fucking old are you?" he barked.
"Old enough to know that profanity is the sign of a weak mind," she shot back.
She had to scramble to keep up with him; the only act of kindness he'd displayed to her was he helped her locate her four suitcases at the baggage blame area.
"What do you need four suitcases for?" he groused as he loaded them onto a skycap's cart.
"We're going to be here for at least two months, right?" she asked. "Well, I'm not going to walk around New York without clothes!"
