Who Could Guess?

Jake Anderson was a life-of-the-party guy, he thought. A never-say-die guy. A push-it-to-the-limit guy. Someone who would tell you something from across a fairly crowded room, even if, or especially if, you didn't want to know what he was about to announce. He had another questionable habit, and you may have guessed, that annoyed many: He frequently finished sentences begun by others. And almost always louder than was needed.

“As I was telling Nancy Begonia the other day,” began Lucy Smith, for example, at a recent gathering that included Anderson, “she...

“I know,” he interrupted. “You should have told Begonia what you really thought.”

“Mr. Anderson. Would you please, for once, let me finish what I was going to say? And, by the way, I was going going to tell her that she was mistaken. You, I assume, would have told her she was wrong, instead, which is not nearly as harsh and off-putting as saying 'she was mistaken.'”

Anderson normally would turn his back, as he was known to do, and, on this occasion, headed for Jerry Poster, his long-time buddy, who was standing alone in a corner with a beer.

“Hey, Postman,” said Anderson. “How ya doin? Don't tell me. I'll get you that crappy low calorie brew that tastes like dog water. Be right back.”

Jerry was about to stop him because he had a half full bottle and didn't need a refill. But he knew, from long experience, that that intention was futile with Anderson. He had been a partner for many years and knew it bothered other people to be interrupted, Jerry was, on occasion, happy to have the support of a man who knew him well enough to convey, in general, what he was about to say. He didn't like the sometimes expansive nature of a longer conversation. He preferred short sentence answers. Which is, to say, the same people who disliked Anderson's misapplied social graces, welcomed Poster's listening ability and could not understand the friendship between the pair, except for the compatibility apparent between a loud mouth and a quiet man.

That made them the odd couple, actually, in other ways, if you also knew that Jerry Poster was meticulous in all things. Anderson consistently left any stone he came across turned over and moved to a place where it clashed with its surroundings. They even had developed a routine. Jerry, upon entering Anderson's condo, would automatically count the number of what he considered domestic sins: dishes unwashed in the sink; unmade bed; table light left on, day or night; the location of seven days', or more, worth of daily newspaper sections left on chairs, couches, end tables, coffee tables, kitchen tables, bathroom clothes baskets and, yes, in the hallways leading to the bathroom, the bedroom and the kitchen. And would neaten up what he could. And Anderson, not wishing to disappoint, often would go around his apartment before meeting with Poster, and mess things up more than they had been so that his friend could consider his rearranging visit a success.

Anderson always argued the restaurant bill when they both ate out, and Poster always left a tip smaller than what Anderson thought was required. No matter the venue, a basketball game, concert, poker party, whatever, Poster always was second in line, even if he bought the tickets for the game or the musical entertainment.

It had been that way since college when, during a introductory coed mixer, Anderson got to the half barrel first, and turned into Poster who was just behind him, and a complete stranger. The collision cost Poster $21.95 to get his sport coat cleaned, but gained him a friend who always would lead the way, metaphorically as well as actually.

It was later, when both men, then in their late 20s, were regular companions. Anderson, because he was the do-it-now guy, even proposed to Poster's girlfriend, Holly. For Poster, of course. She thought that was the ultimate in cuteness and readily accepted the proposal, and later on, performed the 'good scout' role of tolerating Anderson for the sake of Poster's friendship with him. By their early 40s, Poster had three children with Holly. Anderson was still single, because many of his female companions were not so tolerant and after a while, got tired of having their sentences finished, especially if the ending was not the one they had in mind.

By the time they were in their mid-50s, Anderson was still single having recently been dumped by one of the most patient women, Gail, that Poster had ever met. In fact, unknown to Anderson, Jerry and Holly took Gail to supper at a nice steakhouse to celebrate her good sense. By that time, Poster had risen to Assistant to the Comptroller, a position his colleagues at first thought was because he knew when to keep his mouth shut, not only in meetings, but in the office rumor mill. It was only later they discovered he was a good listener by inclination, did not like to talk, even small talk, and they could trust him not to say who had passed along some current dirt.

On his 65^th birthday, Anderson, three months shy of retirement, won a $250,000 slot machine jackpot on a weekend visit to Las Vegas. He then retired as scheduled and moved to Fort Lauderdale because he heard it was a great place for women of all ages during the college spring break time which, because the break periods were staggered, lasted about six weeks.

Poster retired at 67, just after he was passed over for Chief Financial Officer, but with a substantial pension and a paid-for house, which he sold for $200,000 more than the price he bought it. He decided, with a lot of help from Holly, not to follow Anderson to Florida. Instead, with more help from Holly, who had lived in the area before she moved to the Midwest, he bought townhouse in a small community on a high cliff overlooking the Juan de Fuca Strait. The view of the Strait that separates the State of Washington form the San Juan Islands, was outstanding. The profit from his house sale was a more than adequate down payment on “The Castle,” as he and Holly decided to call their retirement home. Their kids, all college grads with five children between them and still living in Wisconsin, visited once a year on a holiday.

After about three years, Anderson stopped calling because Poster never returned his calls. It's not that he no longer liked Anderson; he just got to the place where he had nothing to say to him.

On Aug. 24, 2016, Holly Poster visited Jerry, who was in hospice with a terminal heart condition that had begun with diabetes and progressed to the need for a respirator and a clergyman. She brought with her a copy of the Peninsula Times that had an item she knew Jerry would want to hear about.

Under the News From Afar column was a note about a Florida man who had won a Las Vegas progressive slot machine payoff, nearly one million dollars.

“It was Jake,” Holly said with an incredulous expression that had not diminished since she first read the item that morning. Poster, with most of his face covered by an oxygen mask, could not speak but only offered a weak smile and raised two shaky fingers in a “V” sign.

On Sept. 12, Jerry Poster was laid to rest in a cemetery not far from his home on the Washington peninsula. On that exact date, Jake Anderson was in the office of his stock broker with his his financial advisor and his accountant. They were discussing the best, and least expensive, way to distribute the mil he had brought back from Las Vegas.

Anderson tried to locate his old friend, but Holly, after Jerry became ill, had moved out of the condo, put it up for sale, cut off the utilities and took a small rental near the hospice. Anderson was disappointed that he could not share information on his new wealth with his friend. But he was going to tell an older woman he had met in his condo complex and, after several tries, had persuaded to have dinner with him.