“Charlie, come on in here for a moment, please.”

Robert Bentley hung up the phone and sat back in his armchair waiting for his son and heir to his business to show up. As he did, Robert kept looking at the photographs of a newly constructed building while violently shaking his head. Finally, his son made his long-awaited appearance. His mouth was full. He was still chewing and it was obvious to his father he had called him in the middle of his lunch. But this was far more important than the fish tacos he loved to eat. He could smell them on his son’s breath when he came closer. Mexican food was not his father favourite food. Meat and cheese, meat and cheese, meat and cheese, cheese and meat, cheese and meat is how Robert Bentley described Mexican food, totally uninteresting. Completely useless as a cuisine.

“So, Charlie boy,” said his father and immediately his son cringed. His father never used that term unless there was an issue and usually the issue involved his son and heir to his multimillion-dollar business. “Sit down son,” another bad sign thought Charles Bentley. “Pull the chair around to my side of the desk and sit down.” This, Charles Bentley knew was not going to end well. He just knew it. “So, son,” continued Robert Bentley once his son had swallowed the last bit of fish taco and washed it down with a glass of water given to him by his father. “So son what’s the name of our company.” He placed strong emphasis on the word our. It was something Robert Bentley had stressed since his son, his only child, came home from the hospital. “It’s our business, not mine, not yours at least not yet. As long as I’m alive son, it’s our business.” That was what he was told a million times over the years.

“Bentley’s Warehouse,” replied the dutiful son.

“Correct! And how do you spell warehouse? I’m going to assume you know how to spell Bentley.”

“W a r e h o u s e,” Charlie spelt out the word.

“Correct son. Now please look at this photo and tell me what jumps out at you?”

Charlie didn’t have to look long at the photo before he sat back in his seat and let out one word, ‘crikey!”

“Crikey, exactly,” repeated his father. “Now you know son, I always want to help your friends, especially when they go into business for themselves. I’m a capitalist and I’d rather give your friend the business than old MacDonald in the next town over who overcharges for everything.” “Yes dad,” replied a scared son.

“And tell me son,” Charlie hated it when he used the word ‘son’ because his father laid an incredible amount of emphasis on that word. “How did Roger spell the word warehouse”

“W h o r e h o u s e.”

“Quite right son. Whorehouse. We don’t have or run a whorehouse, we have a warehouse.” Charlie was at a loss as to what to do. He had lobbied long and hard for his friend when he had opened his own sign company.

When his father’s business was expanding by leaps and bounds, it was time for them to either build their own building or find a new one. They looked far and wide for the perfect building, but nothing came up, so Richard Bentley decided to build his own. He hired the best contractors, the best engineers, the best architects, the best builders and when it came to the sign, his son Charlie had lobbied hard for his friend and classmate Roger Altman, to do the signs. Apparently, Roger had done a lot of work in the state and had garnered a great reputation. However, it appeared that spelling was the one subject he had a great deal of difficulty with.

“Ok,” continued his dad taking the photos away from Charlie and throwing them into the wastepaper basket. “Get you brilliant friend on the phone please and tell him to go down to the building and correct the sign.”

Charlie didn’t need to be asked twice. He jumped from his chair, pushed it over to the other side of his dad’s desk and ran out of his office closing the door gently behind him. About an hour or so later, his son got back to him.

“Dad,” he said excitedly over the phone, “I spoke to Roger. He apologised profusely and when I told him of the misspelling, he told me he was going to run out there right now and fix it. He said it was an easy fix. Only one letter needed to be changed.”

Robert gulped. He knew differently. As soon as he hung up the phone, he put in a call to his friend who was the architect of the building and told him of what was going on. The architect couldn’t help laughing but then realising Roger was Charlie’s friend, added it was a mistake anyone could make. “After all, it’s the English language.”

“Can you get someone to go down to the building in an hour or so, give him time to fix the sign, and take a photo of the new sign and send it to me please. I just have this horrible feeling.” About an hour or so later Richard’s phone dinged and when he picked it up and opened the text message, his worst fears had been realised. The sign now read ‘W h e r e h o u s e.’

“Charlie!” shouted his father over the phone. “I need you please.” Charlie came running into his father’s office, his heart thumping in his chest.

“Did he screw up again?”

“Yes Charlie, Roger screwed up again.” And without saying another word, he showed him the photo.

“Ok dad, this is what I’m going to do. I’m going to meet with him at the building and I’m going to spell it to him as he fixes it.”

“No don’t do that, you’re too valuable here. Just send him a text message with the correct spelling and ask him to photograph the sign once it has been fixed and send it to you.” Charlie agreed. At this stage, Charlie would’ve agreed to anything. He was completely embarrassed by his friend's inability to do something as simple as spell the name of a company properly.

About two hours later Charlie with his head hung low came into his father’s office. “My fault,” he said, “my fault dad.”

“What’s your fault son?” asked his father.

“Well, I was so flustered when I left your office that when I sent him a text message I spelled it wrong.”

“What!” shouted the father believing that this had to be an alternate universe he was operating in. “How did you spell it?”

“W e a r h o u s e.”

Robert Bentley sank in his chair. “How could you spell it wrong?”

“I don’t know. I told you I was so flustered that my thumb hit the wrong letters.”

And so to this day, if you were to drive along Main Street, in Intercourse, PA, 17534 you will come across a building with a large blue neon sign that reads Bentley’s Wearhouse, which Robert had to admit was a million times better than Whorehouse in Intercourse, PA, 17534!