“I know why you are here.”
“Well, you should. From what Bob tells me, you’re the one who told them they had to hire me. And for that, I am eternally grateful …”
“For the record,” says Ceepak, “I never instructed Sinclair Enterprises to specifically hire you.”
“Geeze, Johnny. Why do you always have to be such a hard case? Maybe you should talk to a cop shrink. Work on your anger-management issues. Does this town seriously have some kind of law against people surprising their wives with flowers?”
“She is not your wife.”
“Says who?”
“The State of Ohio and an ecclesial tribunal of the Catholic Church, which granted her an annulment.”
“In defiance of God’s holy word? No church can do that, son. Even if they have a Pope.”
“Sorry, sir. They did.”
“‘I hate divorce, says the Lord God of Israel.’ Malachi. Two-sixteen. That’s from the Bible.”
“Stay away from her. Or you will be arrested.”
That’s from Ceepak’s personal bible.
Mr. Ceepak shakes his head. “I fear for your immortal soul, son. Helping Adele defy God’s Holy Word? ‘A wife is bound to her husband as long as he lives!’ That’s from the Bible, too.”
“So is that guy with boils all over his butt,” I say, remembering the Book of Job from my stint in Catholic High School.
Mr. Ceepak has a confused look on his face again; the one he used to get when he was tanked all the time.
Someone raps knuckles on the glass windows.
Bob.
He raises his arm. Taps his wristwatch. Shoots me and Ceepak a wink and a smile.
“Duty calls, boys,” says Mr. Ceepak, gesturing toward the squalid little shack’s flimsy door to let us know it is time for us to go. “And Johnny, as you probably know, only certified operators are allowed inside the control booth while the ride is running. So, I gotta ask you boys to leave. Now.” He gulps down another chug from his warm orange juice jug.
Ceepak puts his hand on the door. “Stay away from my mother.”
“Yeah, yeah. I heard you the first time.”
Ceepak and I walk out of the booth. Manager Bob follows after us.