The police had questioned Ted, presumably as part of an investigation requested by the car rental company. I assumed Ted had given them my name as a cover story. “It’s just a misunderstanding. Call my boss. He can explain.”
What was the sequence of events that made it possible for Ted and his partner in crime steal a car from Logan Airport? Was it a rental his pal had arranged, that they failed to return? Or was a copy of a key made and the car was simply driven off the lot? My brief conversation with “Sgt. Friday” at the Massport Police was a “just the facts” exchange, and I had no more information than what he was willing to tell me.
With Ted gone, I had to scramble to fill the position, while doubling up my own traveling. Immediately, I was on the road for seven out of eight weeks. Looking back on my first fifteen years at that job, I’m frankly amazed. A friend of mine talks about how great the 80’s were for fun and partying in San Francisco. I remember the 80’s mostly for three things — work, work, and more work.
Time passed, and after the company bought a new building I was transferred out of Cambridge. By then I was married and we were in our first house. Before finding a replacement for Ted, I had negotiated the purchase price from a hotel room phone in Butler, Pennsylvania.
The suburban office was a long drive from the house we’d been in for only a year. That meant I needed two reliable cars, and we only had one. Money was extremely tight, and I borrowed from my retirement fund to buy the little Honda Civic hatchback that got crunched thirteen years later, resulting in the ankle injury that troubles me to this moment.
I was in that office building for only a year, before the company bought another property. I was transferred again, resulting in an even longer commute. Forty miles each way, every day, along Boston’s infamous Route 128 corridor. Fridays on the way home, I would stop at the LaserDisc store to rent videos for the weekend.
After becoming a father, my traveling for work became a real problem for me and my wife. Then, in 1995, I was offered the opportunity to switch positions to a development group (where I met tastewar). It was an offer I didn’t hesitate to accept. The job even returned me to where I’d started, in Cambridge.
The first day back at my old desk is easy to remember. It was the day of the Oklahoma City Bombing. The next day, the receptionist at the front desk called me. “There’s someone named Ted here to see you.”