I had been at my new job for probably three months when Rusty Butt, my former coworker called. I noticed he used the toll free number rather than our local directory number.
He informed me that a really cute blonde had been around looking for me, saying she was knocked up. His description sounded a lot like Leslie and I prayed the ignorant asswipe hadn't told her where I was. Especially if she was pregnant.
He said he had lied, told her he thought I might have gone up to Nashville, Tennessee. I thanked him and got off the phone; those 1 800 calls ain't cheap.
Wasn't even a month later and Rusty Butt called again. Yes, on the toll-free number. Cheap fucker. This time he was telling me about Juanita and Wilma coming in, looking for me. He asked if it was all right with me if he went out with Wilma; she was cute.
I told him I didn't care if he did both Juanita and Wilma at the same time then put up a billboard on I-20 for the world to see. I didn't have claim to either one of them girls. Because I didn't like him, I didn't tell Rusty Butt don't be kissing either one them girls; they had no problem sticking their tongues up each other's poop chutes.
Then Rusty Butt told me that the Leslie girl had been by again, still looking for me. Thankfully, I had never given her my name, and Rusty said he said he'd only known me as 'Trey' but that could have been short for anything.
I immediately informed my boss and everyone else that I wanted them to just call me Scott from here on out. That, after all, was my given name. Since I was the third Scott in our family and my grandfather had been Scott and my dad had been 'Chester' which was a shortening of our last name, I had been called Trey. But my grandfather had been dead these last five years and had lived in Alabama anyway, I was now to be called Scott.
(As in, scot-free. I hoped.)
I was good at my job; I even saw where a local lumberyard had been marking forty eight cents per board foot, but charging us fifty eight cents a board foot. Ten cents don't sound like much, until you realize we're looking at thousands of board feet. Doing a little digging through the filing cabinets, I seen where they been doing this to us for the last nine years. Now we're talking not hundreds of dollars, we're talking tens of thousands of dollars.
When the news broke, other businesses looked into it and seen where they'd been getting screwed as well. It went state-wide and suddenly I was a bit of a celebrity. Until I told the reporters that I was seriously sad for all them mother fuckers ain't learned counting in school. But I guessed that was Georgia's education for you. That pissed them off enough they left me alone. No one likes anyone points out their education system sucks.
About eighteen years after all that, I was sitting in my office on my new computer. I had liked Windows 98 just fine, but for whatever reason, my boss wanted me to start using an Apple computer. To me, this new computer system just didn't make any sense. So I was already in a pizzy mood when this really cute blonde stepped into my office and asked if I was Scott Chesterfield.
"Yeah? Why?" I snapped, glancing up at this girl.
"Used live in Stone Mountain?" she pressed.
If I hadn't been so frustrated, I would have realized who it was and would have lied my ass off. Instead, I agreed I was Scott 'Trey' Chesterfield and had lived in Stone Mountain, probably about eighteen, nineteen years ago.
"I'm Leslie Hill's daughter?" the girl said. "Tiffany Hill?"
"Good for you," I said. "That and five bucks will get you a six pack of beer down at the Quick Trip."
Suddenly I realized why she looked familiar and remembered who Leslie Hill was. She'd been the little Rod Stewart look alike that I'd fucked when she'd wanted a fifth of vodka. I tried not to break into a cold sweat.
