Chapter 2:  5′ 11″ of South American Sex Appeal

(for “Chapter 1:  Ann Arbor’s Not A Whore (But She’s No Saint Either)” click here)

Normally a leggy broad in my office is cause for celebration.  But I don’t take too kindly to unannounced guests, especially when I think they came with an agenda.

“My name’s Giselle,” she says  while stepping into the soft light being thrown my desk lamp.  She’s tall, taller than me.  Her knee length skirt would be ankle length on most other dames.  She has features that are at the same time attractive and mannish.  Maybe she’s a looker or maybe I’m a gueer.

“I’ve come to you because I need some help, Sr. Rod.”  She rolls the r on her tongue forever like a mouthful of Jolly Ranchers.
“It’s Dick.”
“Of course, Dick.”  It’s clipped and emasculating and sounds like deek.
“On second thought, go back to Rod.”
“Certainly, Rod.  Would you like to hear my problem?”
“I’m all ears sugar.”
“Perhaps you know my husband, Thomas Jonathan Brady?”
“I might’ve heard of him.”  Of course I’d heard of him.  America’s Golden Boy.  Star quarterback.  I thought he was a little fancy, but judging by what was standing in my office, he was doing alright for himself.
“And have you might’ve heard of the Maltese Heisman?”
“Listen lady, I’m not here to play twenty questions, so why don’t you just lay it out for me?”

“The Maltese Heisman is a secret honor, bestowed upon the college football player who would have had the most success had it not been for the incompetent handling of their head coach.  My husband won this award in 1999 after having been mismanaged by Coach Lloyd Carr, who showed an obvious bias towards Andrew Henson and Brian Griese.  The college football cognizati rightly determined that Thomas could have set the all time college passing record during his time in college, had he been given the chance.  And so, he was given the award as recognition of this fact.  Their determination is now supported by Thomas’ unparalleled NFL career, while Henson and Griese make failed attempts to be the back up on the Detroit Lolions.”
“So what’s all this have to do with me?”

She moves closer.  Her perfume smells like lilacs.  “Well, Sr. Rod, Thomas’ trophy has been stolen.  We are very interested in finding the theif and recovering that award,” she said.
“Can you think of anyone who might do this?”
“No one.  Everyone love Thomas and his rakish hair.  His square jaw.  His devil may care eyes.  His porcelain cheeks.”  She was almost panting at this point.
“Naturally.  So, what’s in it for me?”
“We are prepared to offer a very lucrative reward -”
“You can stop right there.  I got all the money I need toots.”
“Then do it for our unborn babby,” she pleads, “Thomas Jonathan Jack Edward Corperryale Raheem DeBord Ortega Brady Bundchen.”
“That’s a helluva name.”
“It’s going to be a helluva of a babby,” she responds quickly.

I had a soft spot for little babbies.  “Alright, I’ll take the job.”
“Thank you Sr. Rod.  And despite your protest, I’m sure we can work out lucrative financial compensation for your troubles.”
“We’ll talk turkey later.  Now, if you wouldn’t mind seeing yourself out, I’ve got a case to crack.”
“Of course.”  She moves towards the door.

“Oh yeah, one more thing,” I tell her.  “When that babby comes, give him a juice box for me.”

Next week…Chapter 3:  Have A Drink On Me