Lester P. Goodbinder had endured another agonizing week in Pittsburgh. His biannual audit at the Bourgeois Ball Bearing Factory spanned five 14-hour days examining electronic spreadsheets on an archaic computer system installed in the early 1980s.

The team shook so abysmally that he slyly joked to himself that he was being propelled by lazy hamsters on treadmills. Not only that, the accounting software loaded on the system was an early version of “Abacus”, and only slightly faster than a key adding machine, but considerably slower than a handheld calculator.

Lester’s temporary office at the Factory was glass-enclosed on all sides and surrounded by the sights, sounds, scorching temperatures, and smells of the smelting and pouring areas. Originally, the cubicle had been used to store coal and coke until the plant was converted to gas furnaces in the mid-1950s. For the next three decades, a succession of plant superintendents used the room to annoy their secretaries, which required its windows to be painted a seedy olive hue.

During 10 years of doing this task every six months, Lester had scraped two panels to clear them, so now he could stare into the dark, smoky, smelly hole outside while he waited for the squeaky computer and printer to spit out a torrent of spreadsheets. .

Lester loved his numerical universe, but that was not how he had envisioned his life unfolding; flying here and there from his hometown of Hershey to where his company wanted to send him. Just because he was 38 years old, single, and still living with his parents didn’t mean that his employer should take advantage of him, which, in fact, his company did regularly.

After all, Lester had other important interests, too. The “Four Bs” he called them: Botany, Bowling, Bugs, and Buddy Holly. A myriad of plants filled her small room in her parents’ home, forcibly sucking carbon dioxide from anyone who entered. Bowling trophies, ranging in size from tiny silver goblets to massive bronze buildings shaped like the Empire State Building, claimed a space not dominated by flower pots, planters and hanging baskets.

His entomological collection occupied open areas large enough to accept skewered insects. And his Buddy Holly collection consisted of three dazzling albums that the talented tuner recorded before he died at age 22 when his plane crashed in Iowa.

Lester wore black horn-rimmed classes identical to the late singer’s, and saw them as a statement to the world that there was a “cool” person within the body of his “bean counter.” Lester also graduated from college: Penn State, Class of 78. He maintained a solid “C” average for four years and eventually earned “Certified Public Accountant” status on his fifth attempt.

“Reverse entries are hemorrhoids in your accounting ass,” he commented flatly during a first interview with his current employer, who briefly looked at his GPA and numerous opportunities for CPA accreditation. “They cheated on me all the time!” Despite his lackluster academic record, the firm hired Lester and at the beginning of the first day sacrificed him to Bourgeois and 20 other mediocre accounts.

He earned $ 2,000 a week for his bosses and earned just under $ 500 for himself. Still, salaries kept him in seeds, bowling shoes, pins, and a Platinum Buddy Holly fan club membership.

Lester’s favorite word was “crapola,” and he applied it to the ball bearing factory’s old-fashioned data processing system in layers as thick as the olive green membrane that clings to the stained glass in front of him.

“Lousy piece of crapola!” he would whistle at the computer when error messages appeared on his screen or his old system crashed on demand to process numbers down to the tenth decimal point. “Someday I’ll dump your sorry ass in one of those melting pots!”

At times, Lester would get so furious that his face radiated heat and fogged up his glasses. When this happened, he removed them from his puffy eyes and wiped his glasses with his tie. Yet that Friday afternoon, Lester was rejoicing. The printer regurgitated its last print run and, as it scanned the rows of figures, drew in pencil with check marks to indicate matches with the numbers found in corporate ledgers.

Completing the task for another 180 days, he removed his glasses, rubbed his aching eyeballs, and inhaled deeply to savor the churning sensation of arousal flooding his upper chest. Lester then logged out of the computer, pressed the power switch on the surge protector with his toe, and turned off the wheezing system.

“Happy crapola!” He exclaimed, getting up from the wheelchair and stuffing the accordion folds of prints into his tattered briefcase. He grabbed his worn black suit coat from a hanger at the back of the office door, turned off the fluorescent lights, and headed for the executive offices in the adjoining building.

When his audit week ended, Lester typically teamed up with Lance Lott for a tour of the local water wells. Lance was a marketer he met when he first worked on Bourgeois’s account. Lance was also single and looked like Keanu Reeves on a bad hair day. Lester considered him a “girl magnet”, and although he himself was never lucky on his semi-annual expeditions, the other always disappeared with a baby on his arm. Lester decided that tonight would be HIS night.

“Rippeto’s Rendezvous” was just a block away and attracted customers from all levels of the social spectrum: primarily on the fringes, college students, and the occasional young urban professional. It was close to the University and close to Civic Arena and Three Rivers Stadium.

On clear nights, you could look out of Rippeto’s windows and see the Monongahela River ablaze in the distance. Two things are surprising at Rippeto’s when one slips through the wall of humanity outside and hits an identical living wall inside: the smoke and the smell.

The former hangs like a see-through curtain five feet from the ground and wraps itself around anyone daring enough to try to get through. The latter represents a fragrant mix of beer, cheap cologne, and neglected toilets, and attacks an unsuspecting visitor’s nose like an aggressive index finger.

By Saturday, the fragrance would be pungent enough to make mere mortals speak in tongues. Lance led the way with Lester in tow, dodging dark figures emerging from the nicotine and smelly mist. Lester had a hard time keeping up, licking the lenses off his glasses and drying them as they made their way into the diffuse light they assumed was the bar area where lustful women waited.

“Talking to women is my problem, Lance,” Lester confided as he pushed his way through the crowd of dancers, drinkers and spectators. “I’ve never been quick with my tongue when it comes to girls.”

“Just be cool, Les,” Lance replied. “Come up with a smart line to break the ice. Tally-Ho, there’s a fox! It’s Bambi, the nuclear physicist! See you later, Les. Good hunting!” Lester watched as Lance put an arm around the waist of a tall, shapely blonde, and the two disappeared into the void like ink.

In one fluid motion, he slid the still-wet glasses over his nose, and suddenly, when the gloomy, hazy interior came into partial focus, a miracle happened! The smog parted. The dark silhouettes disappeared. The air turned cool like the wind blowing through the poplars. And a ray of soft light shone from above.

Lester narrowed his eyes in the direction of the wonderful light, and at that moment angelic voices spoke softly to him about eternal love and the pleasures of life. And when he opened his eyes wide, he gazed at the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, sitting alone at the bar, the soft glow accentuating her charm and the fact that no bra stood between her proud breasts and the wispy blouse. of silk she wore. .

The time for Lester’s DECISION was drawing near. Still, he hesitated at the prospect of brazenly introducing himself.

“Should?” he asked himself, then, drawing courage from the deep recesses of his lonely soul, replied: “I will, for the love of Crapola, I will!” He felt her big soft eyes meet his, and her moist, fleshy mouth blew an air kiss in the dark at him.

In that moment, Lester made THE DECISION. He would ask her to dance and maybe watch a movie. They would go out briefly. He would meet his parents. They would be married in the spring. They would buy a two-story apartment near Schenley Park.

They would have a son and a daughter, two gerbils, a cocker spaniel, and a tabby cat. And he would teach her to garden, bowling, chloroform bugs, and swoon for Buddy Holly. He polished his brown wingtip shoes to the back of his trouser legs as he ran over to where she was sitting. Up close, it was even more dazzling.

“Ummm, I’m Lester,” he stammered. A disinterested look washed over his face just as Lester felt an aim squeeze on his right shoulder. He turned to a masculine woman with cropped hair.

“Fuck you,” he hissed, and little puffs of saliva splattered Lester’s glasses. “She is mine!”

By Leighton McCormick