all of the orlandos
John Haggerty There were two Orlandos, she said. It was important that she make that clear right off the bat. Her name was Shelley, she liked eye makeup, and there were two Orlandos. She was the only person in the Ramada Inn SuperExpress bar when Carl walked in, stunned by the humidity outside, and it seemed to him, in the strange twilight of that transient space, that it would be rude not to say hello. “This bar,” she said, “it’s halfway between the two of them. The Orlandos. That’s why I’m here.” She was in her mid-forties, he estimated, long-faced, thin and dressed in a peach polyester pantsuit. Her eyeshadow matched the suit, and her eyeliner extended in delicate triangles past the outer corners of her eyes, as if pulled there by a strong headwind. “It’s my first time in town,” Carl said. He wasn’t good at talking to women. He sold plumbing wholesale, which was why he was there. Big hardware show. Get a foothold in the Southeast. That’s what his boss, the VP of AeroPlumbing, had told him. Basically, it was his job to talk to plumbers. A lot of plumbers. And not to be politically incorrect, but most of the movers in the plumbing business were men. *** Dale’s left hand was nearly lost to a CookieMatic SJV-3300 Cookie Press at the plant, about 45 minutes before the end of his