On what would become the second worst day of his forty-eight years, he drove in to the shop an hour late, hung over and irritated. He’d planned to get an early start, but family business intervened again—this time in the form of a Sunday dinner party for his future in-laws. It was his first meeting with David’s parents. Though impressed by their height, he found them slow-witted and numbingly dull. To get through the evening, he’d leaned a little too heavily on the wine.
As he pulled into the parking lot he was pleased to see all the company pickups gone. Apparently his little lecture on hustle delivered to the boys on Friday had gotten through. His daughter’s new 1965 Impala was parked at an angle across two spaces, something he’d asked her not to do. He’d have to tell her again, more firmly.
His receptionist was on the phone as he entered. She covered the mouthpiece and caught his eye, looking a little shell-shocked. “It’s Mr. Ganns. Can you talk to him? He’s blowing up at me.”
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