Not the Best reason to Come to Roanoke

What draws people to move to this beautiful valley we call home? Is it the grandeur of the mountains, or perhaps the friendly nature of the people who inhabit this area?  In September, I celebrated my twenty-sixth year in Roanoke and I can honestly say that none of the aforementioned reasons were even contemplated when I decided to migrate south from New York.  My motivation was spurred by a simple, basic human emotion; fear.

Prior to becoming a carpetbagger, I was employed as a delivery person by a dental lab in Long Island.  Each day I would load up my vehicle with small bags of repaired false teeth and return those choppers to the dentists who had sent them (with me) to be fixed. The requirements for this vocation were simple; I must have a car, a valid driver’s license and a face that matched the likeness on said license.  My interview consisted of chatting with the office manager (the owner’s attractive daughter) and sharing my deep seeded aspiration to transport dentures.  I was hired on the spot.

Several months passed and I was building a reputation as Long Island’s preeminent “False Tooth Fairy.” Single and far removed from any entanglements, I began to take an interest in the woman who had hired me.  Close in age, we would spend the morning hours bagging teeth and listening to each other’s sad stories.  “Linda” had recently separated from her husband and was trying to move on from a marriage that barely survived one year. Eventually, I began to have romantic feelings for Linda and when I presented her with a bag containing Mrs. Rose Mandlebaum’s teeth with a single rose pressed between the bridgework, our romance was on.

Noting the often ignored office commandment “Thou shalt not fish off of the company pier,” Linda and I remained discreet about our developing relationship, never sharing even a knowing wink during work hours.  Things were going along swimmingly until Linda invited me to help her house-sit her parent’s home one weekend. What appeared to be a harmless evening of television and popcorn became a night that still appears in my most disturbing dreams.

Seated on her parent’s living room couch, Linda and I were watching a college basketball game on TV when the doorbell rang.  We had ordered a pizza earlier in the evening and Linda grabbed her purse and answered the door.  In the darkened doorway I could see a huge, hulking figure speaking to Linda in a loud voice, and worse, there was no pizza.

The shadowy figure was Linda’s estranged spouse “Scott”, who was dropping by in hopes of reconciling with his wife.  I began to rise slowly from my seat, hoping not to be noticed, when Scott spotted me lunged forward.  With escape in mind I bolted towards the first door I could find.  Unfortunately the door I picked lead to the basement and there was no time to for a plan B. With my fate close behind me, I raced down the steps and immediately noticed an absence of any windows.  I was trapped and a very large and angry man was barreling down the stairs after me. Searching for any type of exit I opened yet another door that lead to Linda’s brother’s bedroom, again no windows.  Bracing my back against the door, I could feel the wood of the entrance splintering on my head as Scott attempted to ram his way in.  Stepping to my left, I moved clear of the door when Scott finally broke through, crashing to the carpet, and allowing me to escape through the jagged hole that he had created.  Flying through the front door I began to run for my life.

Remembering that there was a fire station located at the entrance of the sub-division, I sprinted through the streets with Scott in hot pursuit.  Arrived at the firehouse, steps before Scott, I was given shelter by a group of amused, but sleepy firefighters.  When I was able to catch my breath I called Linda’s parent’s number to make sure that she was alright. To my dismay, Scott answered the phone informing me that he had my jacket, wallet and keys before abruptly hanging up.  Fearing the worst, I summoned the police to escort me back to the house, praying that Linda would be unharmed.  When we arrived Linda was fine and Scott was sitting on the lawn in tears. To quell Scott’s fury Linda was able to convince him that she and I were just friends and that he would have to fix the door before her parents came home.  When Scott apologized to me and asked me to help him fix the door, I nervously agreed.

The next day was spent hiding the hammer and handing Scott the bluntest tools I could find while listening to him pine for my soon to be ex-girlfriend.  The following week I fielded numerous calls from Linda seeking a rendezvous and from Scott who was now my new best friend.  I also received a call from Arthur Hecht, the owner of a minor league baseball team in Salem, Virginia called the Redbirds.  Arthur had interviewed me for the Assistant General Manager position with the team and was now offering me the job.  The offer could have been for ten bucks and a box of batting practice balls and I would have seized it immediately.

Although I am technically and accidental southerner, I have grown to love this area, regardless of the frightful circumstances which delivered me.  My fishing days long over, I now prefer to steer clear of the pier, my pole gathering dust in my basement at home.