Prattling before the Pratfall

The prodigal apprentice had returned. My first thought when hearing that Ted was at the front entrance asking for me was, “seven years.” It had been seven years since Ted was allegedly involved in a car theft. The statute of limitations had expired.

Was it a coincidence that Ted had appeared the day after I was back working in Cambridge, for the first time in six years? Or had Ted been in contact with someone in the company? Those questions didn’t occur to me right away, but I did wonder why Ted was there. He was apparently alone, but that didn’t mean his intentions were good. I told the receptionist I’d be right down.

Ted was very pleased to see me. When I saw him smiling with his hand extended, I was pleased to see him, too. We shook hands and sat in the lobby to talk. I told Ted that I’d been working at other company offices for six years, and I’d just returned to Cambridge the previous day. From Ted’s reaction, it was obvious he had shown up when he did purely by chance, hoping I’d be there.

I told Ted about the police call. He admitted he’d screwed up and made a big mistake. Knowing the police were looking for him, Ted had made his way to Haiti, and that was where he’d been for the past seven years. So what had Ted been doing, and why had he made a point of stopping by to see me?

Ted said he started a business in Haiti, specializing in data communications and computer networking. The business was doing well, thanks to everything I’d taught him about the technology and troubleshooting. Ted was there to see me simply because he wanted to say thank you. We shook hands again, wished each other good luck, and said our goodbyes.

I’ve thought about what happened with Ted many times over the years, and thanks to the “all’s well that ends well” finish, I decided to finally tell the story. The End!

The police had questioned Ted, presumably as part of an investigation requested by the car rental company. I assumed Ted had given them my name as a cover story. “It’s just a misunderstanding. Call my boss. He can explain.”

What was the sequence of events that made it possible for Ted and his partner in crime steal a car from Logan Airport? Was it a rental his pal had arranged, that they failed to return? Or was a copy of a key made and the car was simply driven off the lot? My brief conversation with “Sgt. Friday” at the Massport Police was a “just the facts” exchange, and I had no more information than what he was willing to tell me.

With Ted gone, I had to scramble to fill the position, while doubling up my own traveling. Immediately, I was on the road for seven out of eight weeks. Looking back on my first fifteen years at that job, I’m frankly amazed. A friend of mine talks about how great the 80’s were for fun and partying in San Francisco. I remember the 80’s mostly for three things — work, work, and more work.

Time passed, and after the company bought a new building I was transferred out of Cambridge. By then I was married and we were in our first house. Before finding a replacement for Ted, I had negotiated the purchase price from a hotel room phone in Butler, Pennsylvania.

The suburban office was a long drive from the house we’d been in for only a year. That meant I needed two reliable cars, and we only had one. Money was extremely tight, and I borrowed from my retirement fund to buy the little Honda Civic hatchback that got crunched thirteen years later, resulting in the ankle injury that troubles me to this moment.

I was in that office building for only a year, before the company bought another property. I was transferred again, resulting in an even longer commute. Forty miles each way, every day, along Boston’s infamous Route 128 corridor. Fridays on the way home, I would stop at the LaserDisc store to rent videos for the weekend.

After becoming a father, my traveling for work became a real problem for me and my wife. Then, in 1995, I was offered the opportunity to switch positions to a development group (where I met tastewar). It was an offer I didn’t hesitate to accept. The job even returned me to where I’d started, in Cambridge.

The first day back at my old desk is easy to remember. It was the day of the Oklahoma City Bombing. The next day, the receptionist at the front desk called me. “There’s someone named Ted here to see you.”

You may have inferred from the previous entry that the company doesn’t issue corporate credit cards. Employees whose job requires traveling put their business-related charges on their own credit cards, except for plane fare, then they submit expense reports for reimbursement.

Before I began traveling for work, I applied for a credit card at my bank, but was rejected with the box checked for “Insufficient Income.” I still have the rejection letter somewhere. Until I could manage to get a card, the company issued me cash advances for my trips, that I then turned into American Express traveler’s checks. (“Don’t Leave Home Without Them,” as Karl Malden used to say in the TV ads.)

I was eventually approved for a Mastercard thanks to the wife of my boss’ boss, who was an executive at my bank. When I reapplied for a card, I had to sign a form agreeing to use it only for work-related expenses, and she processed the approval. Eventually, I was able to use the card for myself, and I still have that account. About fifteen years ago, I was gobsmacked to learn that the wife had become good friends with my high school girlfriend. But I digress.

So there I was, meeting with the administrator who would explain the process involved with firing Ted for his attempted fraud. Ted would receive a check for the valid charges from his trip to Canada, along with a final paycheck, pro-rated for however many days he had been employed that month. I was relieved to hear the police wouldn’t be involved. How wrong I was.

When I met with Ted he gave me the same innocent routine he had before, when he was put on probation. He didn’t understand, there must be a mistake, it had to be a misunderstanding, etc. But he’d been caught, and he couldn’t talk his way out of the situation he was in. After the exit interview, Ted was escorted out of the building by the administrator.

A couple of weeks later, I received a phone call at work. It went something like this:

“Mr. Pratt? Douglas Pratt?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Sergeant (so and so) of the Massachusetts Port Authority Police Department^*.”
“Uh, yes?”
“Does Ted [name withheld] work for you?”
“He did.”
“He gave your name as his boss.”
“I was, but he was fired for submitting a fraudulent expense report.”
“I see. Have you had any contact with him since then?”
“No, none. Why?”
“An associate of his was working for a car rental company at Logan Airport.”
“Yeah, that figures.”
“They have taken a vehicle and disappeared.”

Holy crud. Ted had gone from being disciplined for chronic tardiness and his failure to report for work without notice, to grand theft auto. I took the officer’s name and number and I promised to call him if Ted contacted me, but I couldn’t imagine why he would do that. I assumed that would be the last I’d even hear about Ted, let alone hear from him or see him again. How wrong I was.

^* Formerly an independent force, the Massport Police later became a unit of the Massachusetts State Police.