A Bathtub and a Bottle

"Hiding is easy. Being found is a real son of a bitch."
--Rufus Oglethorpe

Tracking Rufus down was easier than I thought. I called the credit card company, whose representative politely refused to furnish any information regarding Mr. Oglethorpe's whereabouts. She did, however, ask me a bunch of questions about my relationship with their cardholder.

I lied and told the young lady at the bank that I was his scorned lover. She didn't laugh, which means she's probably a veteran of the customer service career.

My next step involved looking up the last name Oglethorpe on the Pinellas County property appraiser website. Oddly enough, such action is much more legal than calling a credit card company on a stranger's behalf.

The law is weird.

Anyway, only one Oglethorpe was listed in the county. Her name was Maya, but I figured, "how many Oglethorpes can there be in this world?" and I drove to his house.

So I didn't look like a total stalker, I dressed in a collared shirt, brought a briefcase, my business cards and a basket of muffins. People are much more likely to open the door to a stranger if he has a basket of muffins. Or so I've surmised.

When I arrived at the little '60s era block-constructed two bedroom shack owned by one Maya Oglethorpe, I found Rufus in a beaten bathtub in his front yard. He was reading a book and fully clothed and he waved at me.

"Hey Nathan," he said. "What do you think of the old bathtub? Just can't bring myself to throw it out, ya know?"

I nodded as if I did indeed know but that's only because mastering random weirdness is a gift of mine. Hell, it may have been the reason I tracked the old codger down in the first place.

"I brought you some muffins and your maxed-out credit card."

"Oh good," he said. "In my experience, you can never have too many maxed-out credit cards."

I nodded again.

He then stood up from his crappy old bathtub which sat in his barren front yard in front of his paint-flaked coated home and said, "Come on in, and let's have a drink."

The decor of the house was ancient drab; it looked as if he may have been squatting there. The television was busted, the lights were all off as if the electricity wasn't working and the couches seemed torn.

He lit a candle and pulled a dusty bottle of bourbon from behind an old bookshelf.

"Get them cups from the cupboard," he said. "They're in the closed one."

The kitchen was more of a mess than the living room and I noticed that of the nine or so cupboards in there, only one possessed a door. I opened the cupboard to find that, unlike the roach and dirty-dish infested rest of the kitchen, this cupboard was clean and cared for. Its shelves were lined and the door was sealed. Also, three crystal bourbon glasses glinted candlelight back at me.

"Huh?" I said to no one.

"Sorry about the electricity. I'd get it turned on but the bastards want a thousand dollars back pay or so I've been told."

I didn't ask any questions but he kept going anyway.

"Wife died while I was in the joint. She kept to herself I guess and no one claimed the place. It was left to me but it's hard to negotiate stuff from prison without a lawyer and even harder to get a lawyer to work for free. You like Jameson?"

I nodded, and for the first time since my arrival at his property, I meant it.

He poured one for me and one for him, sat down on his ripped up couch (I chose the loveseat adjacent to the couch) held up his crystal glass and said, "To Maya, God rest her silly soul."

"To Maya," I said.

"So young man," he said after the glasses were drained. "Sun's coming down. What say we finish this bottle off in the tub out front? Plenty of room."

"Why the hell not," I said.

And I meant it.