The Convertible Broken Arrow

AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is the seventh Convertible story. The first two, "The Convertible" and its sequel "The Convertible -- Another Road" are closely connected and should be read together, but subsequent Convertible stories are standalones, the charmed 1955 TR2 being the sole connecting thread.

• All sexual activity in this story is between people 18 years and older.

• This story is not a documentary - all people, organizations, and business practices mentioned are pure fiction.

• The character of Claudia Broken Arrow is an amalgam of several Indigenous North American women I've admired throughout the years, specifically Maria Tallchief, prima ballerina (Osage), Hyapatia Lee, adult film star and author (Cherokee), and Buffy Sainte-Marie, musician and folk singer (Cree/Miꞌkmaq).

• If this story had a soundtrack song, it would be Phil Collins' 'Against All Odds': "But to wait for you, is all I can do and that's what I've got to face." If you don't want to read 19,781 words, save yourself some time and just listen to the song.

• This story was monitored by ATHS - the American Triumph Humane Society. No TR2s were harmed during its writing.

Thanks as always to my Muse RiverMaya for helping to bring out the best in my story, and to my editor Verbalinians for his help in cleaning it up. As I keep revising right up to the last minute, any errors are mine alone.

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My name is Darren Cosgrove, and I work as a Field Service Technician for MoveIt International Vehicle Liquidation, based in Pasadena, California. MIVL specializes in liquidating vehicles, usually in batches of 20 or more. Cars, trucks, boats, or planes, if it's a machine and it moves, MIVL will take it.

Sometimes the vehicles are overstocks, like when a car company decides to cancel a model's production and they have a lot of leftovers that the dealers won't take; other times it might be a batch of stolen vehicles recovered after an insurance company has already paid the claims.

As a Field Service Tech, I'm the guy who performs inventory and assesses if the vehicles are actually worth something, or if they're destined for the crusher. I love my job. Since I'm just a Level 2 Technician the pay's not that great, but a good percentage of the time I get to be outdoors; another bonus is I get my hands on all kinds of vehicles. One time a collector died, and I got to go check out his World War II Sherman tank, that was cool!

I also like the people I work with for the most part. My former supervisor Gerry taught me to avoid trash-talking about anybody at work because it always gets back to them, and that's worked out OK for me. I get along with pretty much everyone, even if I don't particularly like them.

That description would include Tom Tucker in Accounting; one of his duties is reviewing expense reports. He'd made a lot of enemies in the company by arbitrarily rejecting their expenses; he's also an obsequious kiss-ass to the Western Region's General Manager, Ryan Sandor. Behind his back, most of my coworkers refer to Tom as 'Tucker Dumbfucker'. I don't really like the guy, but I had no beef with him. He did his job, I did mine, we were cool.

It was a Tuesday when Tom stuck his head in my cubicle and announced, "Hey Darren, Mr. Sandor wants to see you in his office right away." Tom had a cheesy grin on his face like he knew it was bad news for me, but I ignored it and headed up to the 6th floor of our building -- the Executive offices, aka 'Mahogany Row'. A feeling of dread crept over me.

The reason for this dread was, I had a secret. Sitting in my garage at home was a British racing green 1955 Triumph TR2, which I hadn't paid for. It was, let's say, 'acquired under questionable circumstances' a few months back. My now-retired supervisor Gerry Wentworth and I had paired up for a really big transaction; it was his last assignment.

We'd gone down to an aircraft hangar in the Mojave Desert just outside of Barstow, California. It was a storage place for 37 vehicles recovered by a giant insurance company; except when we got there, there were 38.

One of them, the Triumph, didn't appear on the inventory manifest. There was no paperwork anywhere, it was like the little car didn't exist. It looked in great shape for a 60-year-old car; in fact, the rear differential looked new!

Gerry got a funny look in his eye. Then, he cleared his throat and said, "You know, Darren, if you drove that car home nobody would know. Since it's an unclaimed vehicle you could file a mechanic's lien and get a new title, and you'd be all set." I

'd worked with Gerry for almost 5 years; during that time, he would regularly pull my chain, trying to put stuff over on me. I thought this was another one of his pranks, but I was wrong. He was dead serious.

Long story short, I brought the car home, got a new title and plates, and it was mine! Gerry thought nobody would ever know, but maybe somebody noticed the discrepancy and reported it. My money was on Tom Tucker, it was totally the kind of thing he'd do, the rat bastard.

As I walked down the corridor to Mr. Sandor's office, my palms were sweating; I didn't even want to think about what my underarms were doing. I was fairly certain my anti-perspirant had surrendered by the time I got off the elevator at the 6th floor.

Katy Alvear, Mr. Sandor's Executive Assistant, greeted me warmly. "Ah, Mr. Cosgrove, right on time!" She was nice to look at, tall and blonde, and for a woman who'd had 5 kids, she had a spectacular figure. She was divorced, but since she worked for Mr. Sandor she was definitely on the 'no-fly' list for employees. A man could dream, though, right? Then she hit me with, "Go on in, they're expecting you."

THEY? Holy shit, I was going to get fired by a committee. Not cool! I walked in the room. Tom Ragsdale, my Division Vice President, was there along with Mr. Sandor. Mr. Ragsdale saw me and announced, "Ah, Darren, thanks for coming up on short notice! Good to see you!" Both men stood up and shook my hand. I began to relax a little, there's usually not a lot of handshaking when you get fired.

"I was told you wanted to see me, sir," I said nervously, "Is there a problem?"

Both men laughed, and Mr. Ragsdale quipped, "Not unless you think being promoted is a bad thing!" Promoted? WHAT?!?!

"N-n-no sir, not a problem, but why? How? I'm just a Level 2 Technician!" I was not expecting a promotion, but at least I knew I was off the hook for the Triumph.

Mr. Sandor leaned back in his chair and gestured at the company logo hanging on his wall. "You've been here 5 years, Darren. Most people leave before 4 years; the ones that pass that point are usually lifers. In those 5 years, you've taken 3 sick days. Your performance reviews are always stellar; every year you get high ratings for keeping accurate documentation of your work to ensure that we're always in compliance with state and federal laws. Nothing much gets past you, that's for sure."

Mr. Ragsdale leaned forward, continuing to explain, "What all this means, Darren, is you've been identified as a 'high-pot' employee."

My eyes got wide, and I held my hands up in denial, "Oh, no sir, I don't do drugs, not at all!" This was getting very confusing.

Mr. Sandor laughed, "No, Darren, relax, 'high-pot" just means high potential! You've been identified as an asset to the company!"

"Ah. Whew," I said, "You had me worried for a second." I now understood this was supposed to be a good thing, but right that second, I would have given anything to be in some hot and dusty warehouse going over a manifest sheet. I was a fish out of water up here on the 6th floor.

Using a gameshow-host voice Mr. Sandor sang out, "Hey, Tom, tell Darren what he's won!" I smiled weakly. I knew he was trying to be funny, but I was NOT feeling it!

I think Mr. Ragsdale could sense my unease, so he got straight to the point, "Darren, for 5 years you've been doing a great job for us. Now we want to thank you. First, we're bumping you up to a Level 4 Technician. You've been performing the duties of a Level 4 lately, so we may as well give you the title and the pay that comes with it; secondly, we want to thank you by investing in your future. You came to us straight out of high school, right?"

"Yes sir, Mr. Ragsdale," I replied. To be honest, my lack of education had always been a personal embarrassment. My folks were not well off; they couldn't afford to send me or my little brother Jack to a community college, much less a full-fledged university.

While Jack joined the union and got a job working at a grocery store, I moved from East St. Louis to Pasadena to strike out on my own and got a job flipping burgers to get myself established. I got lucky when I met Gerry at a job fair sponsored by the Pasadena City Council. He took a shine to me and hired me on the spot, allowing me to quit fast food and learn a real business.

"Beginning next semester, the Company will be sending you on a paid 9-month course at Haviland College in Riverside, so you can earn a Certificate in Mechanical Assessment and Maintenance. You'll still be getting your monthly salary, but you'll be learning, not working. You'll be housed in one of their dormitories; books and a new laptop will be provided. All you'll have to pay for is personal items, entertainment, and meals. How's that sound?"

A sense of relief and elation swept over me. It sounded fine. Just fine.

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Haviland College is a private college in Riverside, California, founded in 1898. Most of the classrooms were in buildings that dated back to that period. The big windows, long hallways and high ceilings gave them a real gothic feel.

More modern buildings were sprinkled in among them; these were residence halls, built in the 90s during a modernization phase to be more attractive to students. The old dormitories that dated back to 1898 had been torn down, no doubt putting a great many 19th century ghosts out of work.

My assigned room was on the 11th floor of the 12-story Huntington Hall dormitory. Most of the rooms were 2-person, but on each floor there were 4 singles, one in each corner. MoveIt had reserved one of those for me, and I was OK with this.

Quite content to be the grumpy hermit of the 11th floor, at 24, I had zero interest in some fresh-out-of-high-school roommates, newly released from the clutches of home and ready to 'PAR-TAYYYYY'.

Of course, it didn't take long for some of my floormates to figure out that I was old enough to buy alcohol. For the first few weekends of the semester one or two knocked on my door, asking if I could buy beer or liquor for them, but my answer was always 'no'. There was zero upside to spending 6 months in jail and losing my job if I was caught giving alcohol to minors. After a month they finally got the message and stopped asking.

One Friday night there was a tapping on my door. The level of noise and music thumping through the walls made it clear there was a raging party going on. I heaved a sigh, thinking it was just another party animal wanting me to buy them alcohol. Instead, it was Cleo Franklin, a sophomore and one of the more serious students on the 11th floor.

He had a few books and his laptop under his arm. Cleo was about 5'11', an average sized guy with his brown hair in a man-bun. If you didn't know him, you'd picture him only interested in things like drinking artisan-brewed IPAs and eating avocado toast, but he was a nice guy and pretty smart. He was working on a Bachelor's Degree in Audio Engineering. We'd never hung out, but had a nodding acquaintance.

"Hey, Darren, sorry to bother you, but do you mind if I come in? I'm trying to study for a Calculus exam but my roommate's partying too loud. I'd go to the library but it's raining hard, I'd rather stay inside."

I'd been laying on my bed reading some reports my boss had emailed for me to review. I gestured towards my desk, which was clean at the moment. "Knock yourself out, dude. I'm just reading automobile insurance tables. Fun stuff on a Friday night, huh?" We both laughed.

"Thanks, man." He got settled in, and for the next few hours focused on multivariable modeling systems while I studied valuation factors for domestic cars, 1980 through 2015. Finally, as the sounds of the party died down Cleo closed his books and shut down his laptop. "Well, that's about as much knowledge as my brain can absorb for one night."

I closed my laptop as well, "Yeah same here. Sounds like the party wound down, so I guess it's safe to go back to your room." Instead of leaving, Cleo sat there, looking like he had something on his mind.

Then he asked me, "So, Darren, have you met the Dean of Students yet?" I thought it was an odd question, but OK.

"No, who's he?"

"The Dean's a 'she', not a 'he'. Her name's Dr. Claudia Broken Arrow. She's a PhD in Organizational Psychology, and a pureblooded Osage. Her official title is Vice President of Student Life and Dean of Students, but she's so fierce the students just refer to her as Dr. Warpath."

Knowing college students, they were probably exaggerating; it sounded more like urban legend than anything. "I'll make sure I steer clear. There are some intimidating women executives at MoveIt, but I do my job and stay out of their way, and they're cool. Besides, there's always the HR department, right?"

Cleo shook his head, "That may be the case in the business world, but this is the academic world, bro. The President, the Deans, and the Department Heads have the real power. The students, professors, and administrators all dance to their tune. There's a lot of shit they can get away with that you couldn't in a corporation."

"Like what?"

"Well, Dr. Warpath is a perfect example. She's in her 40s, but allegedly she likes to date younger male students. She's discreet about it, sure, but if she decides she wants a taste, that dude damn well better give over or else his GPA will start falling. I heard a couple of guys who pissed her off were kicked out."

Sounded like more urban legend stuff, but I humored Cleo. "Wow. I'll do my best to avoid her."

"Yeah, well, good luck with that. You're over 6 feet tall, good looking, blonde and blue-eyed. From what I hear, you're in her sweet spot."

I laughed, "I'll make sure to disguise myself -- I'll stock up on sweatshirts and wear sunglasses, I guess."

Of course, it didn't work. Hell no.

++++++++++

Things went sideways about halfway through completion of my coursework. I'd struggled with some of the more advanced math, but Cleo was able to help me through it. Since that initial Friday night, he and I had become study partners. My confidence increased with each exam I took, and I felt confident I had the Certificate almost in my grasp!

Since MoveIt paid for my dorm residence, even though I hadn't requested one they'd included a parking permit; overjoyed, I'd driven the Triumph from my place in Pasadena to Riverside and parked it on campus with me. Fun fact: If you're trying not to be noticed, driving a 1955 British racing green TR2 is NOT the way to stay low-profile.

It was a Saturday, and I was about to run into town to pick up a few things at the local supermarket; it was a beautiful warm Central Valley day, so I put the top down. Before I could get in, I heard a woman's husky voice say, "What a beautiful car! What's a girl got to do to get a ride in this beauty?"

I turned around and sure enough, standing there was a woman, but she was not just any woman. The best way to describe her would be breathtaking, because suddenly I was having a hard time inhaling.

She was a little under 6 feet tall, slim with black waist-length hair. The tone of her flawless skin was a tawny light brown. She was wearing sunglasses, a yellow sundress, and open-toed sandals. A small handbag dangled on silver chains from her shoulder.

"I'm Darren," and I extended my hand.

"I'm Claudia. Pleased to meet you, Darren. Where are we going today?" Before I could say anything, she'd gotten in the car and put on her seatbelt. This woman was nothing if not decisive.

For a moment, I was speechless. I had planned on going to the grocery store, but walking with Claudia down the produce aisle was hardly an exotic getaway, was it? I unconsciously put my hand on the front fender, and suddenly an inspiration came to me. "We're going to swing by Manny's Delicatessen and pick up a couple of box lunches, then driving up to Butte Park and have a picnic. How does that sound?"

She looked at me and flashed a 1.21 gigawatt smile. (If my car had been a DeLorean with a flux capacitor instead of a Triumph, we'd be headed for 1985!) "I think that's perfect," she proclaimed, "a picnic lunch and Veuve Clicquot in paper cups would make a perfect Saturday!"

Then she lowered her sunglasses and gave me a magnifying glance with her amazing brown eyes. "I guess I should have asked instead of assuming, but you ARE old enough to buy alcohol, are you not?"

I laughed, "Yes, Claudia, I'm 24, more than old enough." Then I had to ask, "You know, you're taking quite a risk here, hopping in a car with an absolute stranger. How do you know I'm not some psycho-killer weirdo who happens to have a classic car?"

Putting her sunglasses back in place, she looked at me and put her hand on my chest; "Darren, I spent a dozen years getting multiple degrees in psychology. At this point, I'm a surprisingly good judge of people." She reached up and patted my face, "Now drive. That Veuve Clicquot's not going to drink itself!"

As we headed down the road, she took an elastic hairband out of her purse and tied her long hair back into a simple ponytail. That's when I noticed her Native American-styled earrings - sterling silver feathers, highlighted with bits of turquoise and a glistening opal stone in the center.

That was my first major clue as to who the beauty sitting in the car next to me really was, but I completely missed it. My only excuse was my being distracted by that wonderfully long pair of legs peeking out from underneath that skirt.

True to its name, Butte Park was a butte, towering 1,000 feet over the Riverside area. We spread out our picnic, enjoying the view and each other's company. The box lunches were delicious, almond chicken salad wraps with a side of cheddar cheese and a perfectly ripened pear. With Claudia beside me, I was in heaven.

Being a big guy, I had a gentle buzz from the Veuve Clicquot, just enough to be happy but not enough to impair my driving. My light buzz, however, emboldened me to do what my natural reticence ordinarily wouldn't allow; share my feelings with a beautiful stranger.

Worried that I might not ever see her again, I took her hand and spoke in a low voice, "Claudia, we just met and I barely know you so forgive me for being direct, but I really like you. You're really pretty, and I like how confident you are. I hope I'm not being too forward, but if you're not involved with anyone, I'd like to keep seeing you, and, you know, get to know you better."

A wicked smile crossed her face, "Darren, is this a gentlemanly way of saying you'd like to have sex with me?" Horrified, I felt my cheeks redden. Oh, no no no no no no!

"Oh, no, Claudia," I stopped myself, my words could get me in trouble here, "I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm sure that would be fantastic, but I mean like getting to know who you are, where you come from, what things do you like and dislike, all that. I want to know you as a person before, I mean, if..."

Hoo boy, I felt like I was fumbling on the five-yard line now. I momentarily forgot how to breathe. Then I saw her laughing; she'd been teasing me.

"Why Darren, you make it sound like you're seriously interested in me as a girlfriend."

Relieved, I exhaled. "Yes, exactly! I've never been one for meaningless relationships. My parents have been together for over 35 years, and that's the kind of relationship I want."