Tossed!

I don't think of myself as an edgy person. Oh sure, I have my moments and been known to fly off the handle occasionally, mostly in gridlocked traffic. Yet whenever possible I tend to keep life on a low simmer rather than letting it boil over.  Seems easier that way; healthier anyway. That’s how it was when I played sports, too. Even the time I got kicked out of a hockey game for fighting, it was an anomaly. More like a spontaneous explosion in the heat of the moment than the predictable overreaction of a perpetual hot head. Same story in the non-violent world of slow pitch softball; I was always the picture of composure. I practically never lost my temper.

 I said, practically.

Probably the best softball team I was ever got to be a part of was the squad sponsored by Kabinet Kraft wood works in Spokane. We were good enough, anyway, to have jerseys. (I wore # 19). Whether or not it was the uni’s that made us so formidable is hard to say; maybe all it takes is a number on your back to raise your level of confidence. But we played with more of a swagger then we might have otherwise. In the recreational "B" league that season we were never a soft spot on the schedule and challenged for the league championship right down to the wire. There were a lot of good guys on that team, including Whitworth buddies Gary Frank, Dennis Bossingham, Keith Ward and Paul Christianson. Don Randall played for Kabinet Kraft too, a strange but likeable fellow, who held down second base for us, until he got himself killed (see blogpost 7.9.11; "The Life and Death of Don Randall").

I played third base and hit lead off. Not gifted with a ton of girth and muscle, I made up for it by being a speedy little runt. Hitting left handed I got on-base a lot more than I didn't. I could run like the wind, legging out grounders to the infield, turning singles into doubles, doubles into triples, and the random, once in a blue, moon inside the park home run. I was 24 then. Needless to say, I don't run that fast anymore. But it sure is fun to remember when I could.  

Anyway, a couple Saturday's after Don died we had a 10 a.m. game scheduled against a team out in Medical Lake. It was a beautiful late spring day, a great day to be alive and a great day to be outside playing ball.  We, of course, were the visiting team and, after warm ups and setting the lineup, at 10:03 the ump called "Play ball" and I stepped into the batter’s box to lead off the game. Not wasting any time I hit the first pitch I saw, a grounder to deep short. But with my speed, it was the type of ball I’d been able to turn into infield singles all season and sprinted down the first base line expecting the same and hearing the ump call me safe. But he didn’t. He called me out.

And he was wrong. I knew it, too, because I my foot hit the base before he heard the ball pop in the first baseman’s mitt. And for a split second, knowing that and knowing I’d been robbed of a hit, made me mad. So mad, that as I coasted to a stop after the call, I angrily slammed my cap to the ground and let out a barely audible bad word. Okay, it was that bad word and, no, I'm not proud of it. But back then I was as quick on my feet as my tongue was with profanity. Anyway, when I said it I was way past first base, half way to the outfield fence and was staring away from the diamond. Nobody heard me out there, except maybe the right fielder. 

Or so I thought. But before I could get back to the dugout, before I could catch my breath, before the second batter of the game had even gotten up to hit,  from way back at his position near home plate, where he hadn’t heard the ball until after I’d crossed the bag, the umpire delivered a stinging little message.“That’s it, one-nine. You’re gone!” He’d just tossed me out of the game. I’d been ejected in the top of the first inning. I couldn’t believe it. The game began at 10:03. It may not have even been 10:04 yet, but my day was already over.

I don’t know if it was the f-bomb that got his attention, or the more obvious flinging of my cap. I suppose it didn't matter; he'd given me the boot anyway. Not really mad before, I was now. The guy hadn’t heard the ball until after I’d crossed the bag, yet he’d heard me muttering during a momentary blip of frustration.  From 50 feet away. I call that selective hearing. I also called him on it.

Darting back to home plate, if he was gonna run me then I wanted to earn it. “What?! What the hell for?!” I screamed. ”I didn’t do anything! I wasn’t even talking to you!" After that, I may have uttered a couple other things, too. I can't recall the exact words, but may have compared him to a less than intelligent rabbit-eared horse's behind. I'm not even sure anyone else heard me but I guess he did because he took off his mask and, with malice aforethought, met me head on. “What?! What did you say?” The umpire wasn't a big guy, but looked as if he might have spent some time in the military. He was kind of wiry, maybe a few years older and a head taller than me and put together pretty well. Then he barked, “You wanna back that up you little retard?!”

Time out- if we’d been scoring on debate points, right then he’d have picked up several because that was a great line. Not only was Medical Lake an arm pit, it was also housed one of the state hospitals for the mentally challenged. There was no political correctness in 1979 (indeed, these were the good old days) and even now I get an ironic chuckle thinking about being called a 'retard' by a guy who chose to live in Medical Lake, Washington, sight of one of the state’s loony bins. I'd have laughed at him back then at the ballpark, too, if he hadn't been so mad.  I don’t think he liked me.

Tine in- we were still standing toe to toe, but our short discussion hadn’t gone very well. Not from my standpoint anyway. Maybe he thought I was showing him up, which I wasn't. Or maybe he really was just a horses' ass. I think he was. But I wasn’t going to pop him or anything. I wasn’t brave enough or stupid enough. I said he was wiry, I didn’t say he wasn’t strong. He had arms bulging at the shirt sleeves and could’ve dropped me with one punch. Besides, I didn’t want to be banned from the Spokane Softball League for life for fighting with an umpire. So I accepted that my day was over. Case closed. Mr. Umpire wasn't going to change his mind and un-kick me out of the game. But I wasn’t ready to just walk away. Yet.

Somebody from Kabinet Kraft was trying to pull me away. However, I got loose, took one more step closer and whispered the same word the ump thought he’d heard me say before. Only this time as a salutation; kind of like “Thank YOU!” Then I retreated to the dugout. My teammates were as shocked over the early banishment as I was. They didn’t understand probably because they hadn’t heard what I’d said. Either the first or second time. Only the umpire had and only once, when there was nothing else to lose, had it been said to him. But by then, it was a moot point and there wasn’t anything the guys could do about it except play on. We’d only brought 9 players so they’d have to improvise covering all the positions. As a team player I felt bad about it too, but I could no longer participate. All I could do was sit back and watch the rest of the game and be a cheerleader. It wouldn’t be as much fun as playing; in fact it wouldn’t be fun at all. But at least I knew I’d got in the last word with the umpire. So, at least on a personal level, the day hadn’t been a total loss.

Before the game could resume, though, my umpire friend noticed I was still on the bench and stormed to the dugout fence, fuming. “I said get the hell outta here. I don't mean tomorrow or next week. I mean NOW! If you’re not out of that dugout and out of my sight in one minute, your team forfeits!" Now I was pissed. Again. “Well, just where the hell do you want me to go? Seattle?  I don’t have a car. I don’t live here. I don’t know the neighborhood. Should I go camp out in your porn-strewn living room till the game's over?" I'd already complied with his wishes by leaving the playing field, what else did he want me to do? Besides, I'd hitched a ride to the game with someone else so I really didn't have an expedient way to remove myself from the premises.  But once more the ump took off his mask and used it to point at me. ”I don’t care if you go whack off in the bushes across the street, smart boy” Raising his voice a notch, he ordered. “I said leave! NOW”

But for the first time since the disagreement started, the man paused and drew a deep breath. Maybe he felt the conversation had gone on too long, had gotten out of hand. That he needed to re-assert control. Or maybe he just felt someone needed to be the grown up.  Whatever his reasoning, he dialed it back and tried sounding more reasonable. ”Look, you can’t stay in the dugout. I’ve tossed you. You’re gone. You have to leave the area of the field, and you have to go now or I will declare a forfeit.” Finished talking, the umpire then left the dugout area, walked back to home plate and stood there waiting. I felt like everybody on both teams was looking at me. It was uncomfortable. The game clearly wasn't going to resume until I left. I felt helpless. ”Guys, where should I go?” I asked nobody in particular, hoping for someone to come to my defense. But there was nothing to defend. If I didn’t get lost, my team was going to lose.

Bossingham and Keith Ward pointed to an empty field. It was about two blocks from the field down. It sloped away from the street and ball diamond and there was a big oak tree standing the middle. If I sat on the side facing east I wouldn’t be able to see the game. And the ump wouldn't be able to see me.  Gary Frank spoke up. ”There’s some beer and pop in the ice chest. Go grab a couple of whatever you want and hang out over there till we’re done. Sorry man." We were all friends, but I also knew the guys would rather try winning without me then lose for sure providing a dugout sanctuary. So, like a little boy being sent to his room, I picked up my glove and sadly crossed the road.  Grabbing a couple Dr. Pepper’s, I found my way down to the place of punishment and settled under the big oak tree to cool my heels.

I opened a soda. It was cold and tasted good, certainly better than the left over bile from not being allowed to play. Just for saying one stinking little word.  So much for freedom of expression.  From my spot in softball purgatory, I nursed the Dr. Pepper and listened to the traffic out on I-90 off in the distance. Overhead, an occasional plane would take off and fly over, or land, at nearby Fairchild Air Force Base. And somewhere over the rise of the terrain, I was tortured by the sounds of bat pinging ball, and sporadic exited shouts and claps of softball players, both theirs and ours. I wanted to be there with them and felt totally stupid being ”sent to my corner.” But I had to sit there for over an hour before the last out was made. And from the happy chirping coming from voices I recognized, I knew Kabinet Kraft had prevailed. However, not wanting to risk a post-game forfeit if he saw me too soon, I waited another ten minutes until I saw the umpire drive away before walking back to the field.

Well, that was fun. Not.

It’d been a very long drive, from North Spokane to Medical Lake, all for a very short and unsung outing for me. Too short.  One pitch and a quick heave-ho. I got to play about thirty seconds. However in hindsight, though the ump was wrong and blew the call, I was more wrong for being a poor sport and a potty mouth. I deserved getting the gate. But fortunately my teammates came through and won the game. Short-handed. Without me. Which proves, I guess, at various points in life we're all expendable. Yet I learned my lesson and it never happened again. I never swore or cursed at, or openly challenged an umpire on any ball diamond of any kind, since.

However, to this day, on that day, that ump was a tool and I was safe!!!!.

Fantastic Voyage

Though I’m constantly looking for ways to deny it, as a living organism I can no longer deny now being situated somewhere in the middle of what they call, 'middle age". 

But while I don't necessarily look it-and certainly don't like it- with the only other alternative being an extended rest at six feet under, I guess I'm forced to live with it. Of course I never gave a second thought about mid-life when I was young.But time has a way of creeping up until you realize- sometimes suddenly- you're not so young anymore. Along with this realization,  as with a middle aged car I’m learning this now middle aged body needs preventative maintenance and tune-ups, too; just to keep the 'ol engine and other working parts, well....working.

One of those generally recommended methods is the routine physical I took this summer (see "How Not so Sweet It Is"; blogpost 8.25.11). It was during that uncomfortable 45 minute session that, for good measure, the good doctor suggested I was at an age where I should consider putting myself through one more unpleasant procedure. Oh, gee, I wonder what it is? Old enough to not need a hint, I knew exactly where he was going; the doctor was referring to the cozy, cuddly colonoscopy, the butt of most mid-life health related jokes (at least when it’s not happening to you).

However, the physical was in July and I fretted every day for three weeks after whether I should even made the call. Why put myself though it? I mean, who needs that? I’m fine…right?? Right. But knowing for sure would be make me feel even more right. Still it took me till early August before I finally got the nerve to make an appointment, and even then I  delayed the event as long as they'd let me. And in the meantime, I made myself sick with worry. What if…what if they find something??...

It didn't help that late one night I accidentally came across an ESPN documentary on the great football coach Vince Lombardi. Though interesting, it was disturbing when they began to chronicle the man's mortal demise. Larger than life and with an image to uphold, though he knew something might be wrong, the film made it clear the Coach was too prideful or embarrassed to undergo the same process I had coming up- until it was too late. And even after they carved out a third of his intestines, Coach Lombardi died a painful death anyway and at a very early age, close to my own.

Not long after that, I learned of a former colleague who'd been recently diagnosed with stage 4 colon cancer. So, convinced there was nothing to gain but very bad news, as my own appointment date at the internal medicine outpatient center drew closer, I convinced myself, "I'm not goin'." But unable to stop time, November 15 came up on the calendar anyway. And though I knew my number was probably up too- just like Vince Lombardi’s- I went.

Yet I was amazed to be feeling almost okay about it all till 2:00 the afternoon before. That's when I had to stop eating. No solid food again until after the procedure. Hoping to load up on carbs and calories prior to that, I was betrayed by my own hyper-nervousness. I was sick to my stomach and not very hungry the rest of the time. Just as well I was on limited rations the rest of the time; light meals- no wheat, no sugar, no seeds. That was tolerable I suppose, but they also denied any alcohol to mellow me out, or Advil, to stave off the hunger headache that began biting me before the day was out.

Not a very big eater on any other day, by 2:30 that day I could've eaten an elephant. Maybe two.

Also, on any other day, I would be working till 7 or 7:30. That night however, I had to be home no later than 7 so I could start the yummy medicine I had to swallow in preparation for the next morning's fantastic voyage.  So, I left work at 5:45 with stuff undone, getting hungry and wishing to be going anywhere but home... like maybe to McDonald's. And I don’t even like fast food. But that night, I could've bought a dozen Big Mac's at the drive-thru, then gone inside and bought ten more at the counter; and downed them all. Of course I'd never do that under any circumstances. But when you're prohibited from eating anything, anything and everything sounds delicious.

But I resisted the temptation to stop at any of the ridiculously large number of eating establishments along the way between work and home- I think I counted somewhere around a hundred- and got into the house at 6:40. I was still unsettled about the next day, but otherwise, except for wanting to munch on something, the headache had leveled off and I was surviving okay.

And feeling okay, it seemed extremely contradictory to then deliberately take something guaranteed to make me sick, which the preparation medicine assuredly would. In fact on the instruction sheet it said, in so many words, this will make you sick. But that's what I had to do. Home no more than five minutes, Amy mixed the God-awful concoction and poured me the first dose. Bottoms up.

Holy crap!

It's bad enough what they plan to do to you the next day. But you think they'd come up with a way to at least make the pre-game potion a little more palatable. But nooooooooooo!  This stuff was dreadful. It had kind of a lemony taste, but that was pushed back and beaten into submission by the 10 million milligrams of sodium they added to it. And I had to drink a large 8 ounce glass of the stuff every 15 minutes for an hour. Then they wanted me to chase it with 16 more ounces of fluid, anything except booze or coffee.

Within the hour, I felt like I'd swallowed half the Pacific Ocean.

However the instructions said the medicine should start "working" within 90 minutes of full consumption. But by 8:30, then 9, then 10:00 nothing had happened. Except I was still waterlogged and getting scared. I told Amy, "There's something wrong. It's not working. I must have something down there the size of a bowling ball. I'm going to die."

Amy went to bed about 11, after constantly reassuring me everything was fine and the process would be underway soon. Easy for her to say; she'd had a nice dinner and was going to get to sleep 8 hours. I hadn't eaten anything since 2 pm- not that I could by then anyway, even if I'd wanted to- and in all likelihood was probably going to be up all night. And I knew that, one way or the other, the worst was still to come. At least I was right about that. The worst was only just beginning.

Bloated and feeling like crap, the solution began its work around 11:30. I may have drifted into a short quarter hour nap at one point, but didn't sleep again the rest of the night. My body wouldn't allow it. It was busy. Then at 2:30 a.m, I had to begin the second hour long round of solution. And in contrast to the first round, the second round began working right away...and working ...and working....

But as if the stuff was on a deadline, about 20 minutes before we had to leave for the doctor's office, and seemingly several pounds lighter, it stopped working. After the brutally long night, though, I didn't care. By then I was so dehydrated, washed out and worn out figured the procedure itself couldn't possibly be any worse than the preparation for it. In fact, they could've told me they wanted to do a lobotomy and a couple of root canals too, and I'd have simply nodded and signed the release forms. Just get it over with.

The procedure was scheduled for 8:30 am. We arrived at the out-patient center at 7:45 and they took me in around 8. After slipping into a very unattractive gown, the first nurse asked how I was feeling and had me sign some stuff. Her name was Kendra and I told her I felt like crap, was exhausted and if signing the consent forms would hasten my departure- either from their custody or this world- just tell me where.

Kendra chuckled and quickly put me at ease. I’d had a cold two weeks earlier, was still getting over it, and asked her what would happen if I coughed while they were exploring my insides. She said as long as I didn't have a fever, I had nothing to worry about. “But try not to cough, anyway”, she smiled at me, clearly making a joke. I smiled too, and though I wasn’t completely sure she’d addressed my question, tired as I was it was enough to put my battered mind at ease.

When all the forms were signed, Kendra took my blood pressure and other vitals and escorted me to a bed where I was to remain until it was my turn. This sweet angel of mercy then covered me in two heated blankets, propped my pillow up and gave me a Sports Illustrated to read. After she left, I could've gladly stayed sequestered in that peaceful holding room all day. It was quiet, I was warm and the topsy-turvy ride my insides had been on all night had come to a stop. I felt fine. It was 8:25. Five minutes till ‘show time’ and knowing that, I was quickly no longer relaxed. I began thinking about Vince Lombardi and fear began to creep in, and instead of reading any more of the SI, I started praying.

Most of my brain knew nothing was wrong with me. All along, my only symptoms had been acute trepidation. But I had no idea what was coming next. I mostly knew this was just a routine check-up; that I was healthy. Yet there's always that shred of doubt, that mystery of the unknown, where clear reasoning tends to unravel. It's that spot in the grey matter, where every symptom, real or imagined, gets magnified and blown up from nothing into something- something it could be, but in all likelihood isn't. Whatever the technical term for it, there's enough reasonable doubt to turn to God.

Fortunately, as I work my way through the aging process (semi-gracefully), I'm learning to do that more and more. I don't hold on so hard anymore. Though I still have to remind myself I'm not in control, I don't have to remind myself quite as often as when I was younger. I get it now- that whatever happens is really not up to me (as if it ever was); it's always up to Him. To some, relinquishing the reigns probably sounds like a cop-out. But  when I really give in to it, and sincerely acknowledge it's God that holds my life and fate in His hands -not me and there's nothing I can do about it- it actually makes me feel more free and at ease than when I forget and try to retain control. Now if I could only stop forgetting.

But anyway, that's what I was thinking and praying about as they finally wheeled me in for my procedure, five minutes late.

The room was darkened, with lots of tubes and monitors. The doctor was at a desk looking over paperwork. There were two assistants, one overseeing the equipment, the other overseeing me. She made conversation while preparing an I.V., asked how I was doing (again, why do they ask that when they kind of already know how you've been doing?), and whether I had any preference for the music they had playing. I told her to put on the ballgame. Of course, there was no ballgame and we both laughed, though me more nervously than her.

 I think I settled on some soft jazz, but don't really remember. All I really remember is looking at the monitors and seeing my blood pressure bounce from 125 over 79, to 118 over 72, and the big clock above it registering 8:40 a.m. Good night.

After that, Amy and somebody else were helping me into the car to go home. It was 9:15. What, we're done? I know it was a sunny morning, but my head was still in a fog and clouded any memory of the drive home, although when I glanced at my watch coming up the driveway it said 9:40. No way. Really? It'd only been about two hours and change since we’d home and now we were back? Really? I was still loopy but thought we'd been gone a lot longer than that. 

After that though, I have only wispy memories of sleeping off and on the rest of the day. So, there's some time in there that I have absolutely no accounting of, or know what happened to me during it. Reminds me of some benders in college, though I recall those times being a lot more fun.

Bottom line though, in medical terms, I'm what they call, "clean". I had to ask Amy two or three times because I kept forgetting, but the doctor says I'm just fine, no pathology and nothing to worry about; no runs, no hits, no errors. The doc says to just keep eating that high-fiber diet.

All that to say, after months of dreading it, this Jules Verne-like journey to the center of my insides was a good thing to do- is a good thing to do. It's not a party and nothing to look forward to, but I can't begin to describe the elation of coming through it unscathed and assured that all is well. And on this Thanksgiving weekend, as I thank God for good friends, good family and a good job, I am also very thankful for a clean bill of health. And even more grateful I don't have to go through this again for at least five more years.

Maybe by then they'll figure out a less disgusting way to achieve the same happy ending.

 

Life Goes On

I must've gone by that house on Carrie Drive a thousand times; maybe ten thousand.

Living ten miles south of Grass Valley, the nearest center of commerce to our off-the-beaten- path subdivision, Carrie Drive, is one of the few arterials that drains onto a major north-south road to get there. So coming or going to work or running errands there was no way around it; I had to pass that yellow house. 

True; there's dozens of other houses lining both sides of Carrie Drive, too, and I've passed each of them as often as the yellow house. But what set this particular house apart, besides the substantial backyard drop-off visible from the road, was the name spelled out over the garage: RAGLAN. It always caught my eye. There’s no other house out there, on any other street, with the residents' name so prominently displayed. So it made them, and their house, unique.

The lovely Amy and I moved into this area, better known to the locals as Alta Sierra, in 1994. The Raglan's had already beaten us there, by how long I don't know. But I'd noticed their place- actually, the sign over their garage- during our house hunting trips before we bought. Of course, who’s to say if the practice of nailing 12 inch tall wrought iron letters and forming a name over one's domicile is a particularly new idea? Nobody else in that part of Alta Sierra had done it, though. I found it interesting and, for some unknown reason, felt it added to their home's curb appeal.

Once I started using Carrie Drive every day, I even see one of these Ragland’s every now and then. It was usually Mr. Raglan, out checking the mailbox or newspaper tube. He waved once or twice, too; whether to say hello or get me to slow down, I can't say for sure. But it generally seemed like a friendly wave, so I'll assume he was being pleasant and ignoring how much over the speed limit I was going. I’d seen Mrs. Raglan sweeping their charming front deck and puttering around the garage from time to time, too. But I never actually met a Raglan. They were just folks who we shared the same zip code with us who seemed proud to advertise they were here. Good for them. I thought it was cool.

But one typical Saturday a few years ago, the lovely Amy and I were headed off to town to run some errands and grab some lunch and run some errands. We'd taken a walk earlier, before the day grew too hot, and noticed a flurry of late summer activity on the route. One of the neighbors was prepping his boat for a family weekend at the lake. Farther along, two separate houses were hosting big yard sales. Other properties were in the process of receiving some much needed yard maintenance or make-overs from their owners. And when we walked past the school, a lively soccer practice was in progress. People and cars were coming and going, and we hadn't even ventured out of the neighborhood yet.

After our walk, we off-loaded the overfilled trash bags from the garbage cans into the back of the truck and then headed to the landfill for another bi-monthly Saturday dump run. It was about 11:30. A few minutes later, we were on Carrie Drive. When the Raglan's house came into view, it some sort of activity was going on. As we drew closer, the commotion became clear- an ambulance was parked in the driveway, its lights still flashing. A sheriff's car was parked next to the Raglan's mailbox, its left side partially hanging out onto the un-sidewalked street.

Curiosity and traffic safety caused me to slow, slow enough to see the wide open Raglan front door. Other than that, whatever was going on inside wasn’t within view of my quick drive by. However, never failing to take an opportunity to state the obvious, as we continued rolling past, I said to Amy, "Uh-oh. That can't be good." It probably wasn't either, but my focus quickly turned  back to driving, and our attention wandered back to the issues at hand-  getting our trash dumped before the noon rush, and after, what to eat and where.

There was a line at the County landfill, but we were closer to the front than back, and were in and out in pretty good time. Now, what for lunch?  In the downtown area I was quickly annoyed by the crowds of traffic and pedestrians. School had been in session for three weeks, and many of the stores still had weekend back-to-school and fall sales going on. There was a wedding at one of the big churches too, so I wanted to get out of Grass Valley proper as soon as possible. But we hadn't eaten outdoors at Tofanelli's on West Main Street in a while and, though I tried talking myself out of it, coaxed the truck in that direction.

The outdoor patio at Tofanelli's Bistro is a marvelous place to eat on a pleasant summer day, and that afternoon was no exception. So I was glad that’s where we stopped. Good food, good ice tea, great atmosphere and great smells coming from the big open bar-b-cue. There were four bikers at one of the nearby tables, swapping Harley and road-trip stories, and a young couple seemed quite taken with themselves at another. First date? Nope, don't think so. He was looking at her with mooney eyes, and she seemed smitten, at least from my hit-and- miss observations, trying not to be obvious they’d drawn my attention as I chewed slowly on my Tofanelli's Sliders and made small talk with Amy.

Next stop was Penny's, because there was a 10 percent off everything store-wide sale and, goodness knows, if we missed that one there wouldn't be another till….till next weekend. After that, we bought a few groceries at Raley's Marke. Then, with full tummies and the day's errands run, we headed home. It was about 3:00. Heading south on Dog Bar Road, ten minutes later we turned onto Carrie Drive and the familiar meandering last few miles to home. The Oakland A's game was playing on the radio. I had to slow to get around a dude riding his 10- speed. On the left side of the street, a dad and his kid were moving a ladder. Two girls were running across a lawn next door. Some guy was out washing his car in a driveway to the right. And an old duffer in a golf cart was coming at us in the other lane, back from playing a round on the nearby course.

We came by the Raglan's house again.

The ambulance and sheriff were gone. They'd been replaced by a vehicle belonging to the County Medical Examiner and, for lack of a better term, a pick-up wagon from one of the mortuaries. I resisted repeating aloud, Uh-oh. That can't be good.  Clearly it wasn't. Duh. Not if the coroner and undertaker were on scene. Somebody had died. Putting it into our own timeline, the dearly departed had expired sometime prior to Amy and I leaving for the landfill, and before we’d paid for our groceries at the market.  I couldn’t even guess when. But I didn’t have to guess who-one of the Raglan’s had left this mortal world.

Over the next day or so, I saw two other cars parked in the driveway. I inferred they belonged to the grown children who'd come home to be with their grieving mother. Two weeks after that, a moving van showed up and took all the home's contents away. Not long after that, a Coldwell Banker "For Sale" sign was posted next to the mail box, and the letters spelling RAGLAN over the garage, were removed.

The local rag ran an obit that filled in a couple of the rudimentary blanks. Mr. Raglan had died suddenly at home on Saturday September 9, 2006. No cause was given, but with an age listed as 72, a heart attack seems the most logical suspect. Services were handled by Hooper and Weaver. Peter Raglan was born in Iowa, had served in the Army, been a machinist until retirement, liked baseball and gardening, and left behind a wife, two sons, and several grandchildren. It wasn't much, but I now knew more about Mr. Raglan in death than I ever did in life.

I'm sure when our time comes, many of us fantasize going out heroically or in a blaze of glory. Odds are, though, we'll each leave as quietly as Mr. Raglan.  Oh, there'll be ripple effects within our own circle. For sure when I go, I hold no illusions that the world is going to stop and take notice. My departure will be as inconspicuous as a drop of rain in the ocean. But God will notice. Either welcoming me to share an Eternity in Heaven or a more unpleasant one in Hell (and I’m fervently pray for the former rather than the latter), He’ll know.

Like Mr. Raglan’s obituary, mine will probably be bare bones, too. If I was cynical- and I’m never that- I’d say it’s because they won’t find anything I did worth noting to print. Truthfully, though, there's really no adequate way to sum up 72 years of living (or however many) within the three paragraph confines of a newspaper obit. So I’m sure they’ll just cover the high pints- doing their due diligence to find any- and be done with it. Those we leave behind, the ones that loved and knew us best, they know the impact, value and meaning of our lives. If I made a difference to them, good or bad, they won't forget. That’ll be all that really matters.

Unfortunately I don’t have a treasure trove of deep insights or conclusions to draw from this story; no brilliant points to make, either. A man I never knew, died. End of story. But that would be the cynical me speaking again. Which I said I wasn’t. Fooled you. No, what drew my attention that day, was simply the yin and the yang of it all. 

To paraphrase Thoreau, while the mass of men were out there leading lives of quiet- or not so quiet-desperation, for one individual, that day was his last. 

But like any other ordinary Saturday in the course of a million ordinary lives, we were each just out there doing what we do; we played soccer, ate lunch, got married, washed a car, bought groceries, gave birth, played golf or were drawn into a thousand other arbitrary pursuits. We did life. Yet as the rest of us scurried to and fro like ants on an ant hill that afternoon, most of us were completely unaware that one of the ants had ceased to exist. However, Mr. Raglan's passing didn't go completely ignored or unnoticed.

I noticed, the EMT's, cop, coroner and guys from the mortuary noticed too. Most of all, the one he'd shared his life with, Mrs. Raglan noticed, and was with her husband until the end. He didn't live here alone. He didn’t leave here alone. Although I'm sure when he got up that morning, Mr. Raglan wasn't planning to be leaving at all; he had no idea he’d be dead before noon. But he was. That's life. Ours continued. His didn’t.

Mrs. Raglan's life went on, too, unalterably changed forever, but it went on. It had to, for in the natural order of things there's no other outcome. We're here and then we're not; but till then, in good times and bad, in sickness and in health, we keep going. Whether young, old, or in-between, we live.  It's what we do.

It was another ordinary Saturday evening, one of a thousand Saturday evenings I've seen. As I reflected on the day's events, though, I wondered how many more I might have?  How many more Saturdays were left to me on this side of Heaven? Pretty heavy stuff. And while I don't often stop and think about such ridiculously unknowable issues, I can’t deny the query briefly crossed my mind.

But then Amy and I made plans to go out to a movie that night, and maybe some ice cream, as life went on.....

The Perils of Pamela, Part 2

So this "thing" with Pam continued, unchanged, unsettled, undone and unsung.

For three weeks, the blond ex-cheerleader kept pursuing and I kept playing hard to get which, on the surface, seemed completely counter-intuitive. But at the end of the day, Pam's good looks and blond locks weren't enough to change my mind. I know; what’s wrong with that picture?! I guess you just had to be there. Still, no matter how hard I sought separation it was nearly impossible getting untangled from her.

There was the almost constant parade of phone calls. Even if she didn’t catch me- or I ‘forgot’ to call back- she’d still managed to put a bug in my ear. And it bugged me. She kept coming to our hockey games, too, though I told her she really didn't have to. Which was polite-speak for I really didn’t want her to. She also kept showing up at the dorm and almost always uninvited. At least she wouldn't smoke if we were together. She even sat in the lobby for two hours while I did a weekend air shift on the campus radio station, KWRS. That really annoyed me. But then I felt guilty about it because every half hour or so she'd come upstairs, smile and take my coffee mug, then bring it back refilled from the student union coffee shop downstairs. On her dime.

So I passively let her crowd me and did nothing to stop it. Of course, none of this was really her fault, which bugged me, too, because most of it was mine.  I guess I was a slow healer, and though it'd been over a year since the great divide came between me and Kelly, I’d yet to figure out how to divide my still broken heart and share it with someone new. Not then, anyway. However, if timing in life is everything, then poor Pam unfortunately picked the wrong time to show up in mine.  

 

Still, I should have been shouting to anyone who'd listen, "Hey, look who's with the hot chick". Instead, except with the guys on the hockey team- who’d seen her in action- I worked hard to keep Pam a secret. And though I know she thought of me as a boyfriend, the best I could do was think of her as an annoying kid sister; or at worst, an albatross. But I gotta give her credit for hanging in there. She didn't give up. Like trying to find the needle in the haystack, that's how hard it was trying to find the right way to say 'stop’, ‘slow down’, or ‘go away’; not until the Sunday after my birthday. That night, though I didn't find the needle, I finally found the last straw.

 

Pam said she had out of town family coming over that night, and was expected to stay and entertain. Our twenty four day kabuki dance had left little time for me, just me, to have a night to myself and I was pretty jazzed about it. But a little before 7 p.m. - knock, knock- I opened the door and found Pam on the other side. She was smiling. I probably looked like I'd come down with food poisoning. "Change of plans, so I'm all yours instead", she announced as if I'd just won the lottery. Damn! But before she could set her purse down, I grabbed a hold of her arm. "Come on", I said forcefully. "We're going for a walk."

 

Out in the hallway, I pulled her behind me and led her to the exit. “What’s wrong?” she asked, but I think she thought I was teasing because the echo of her giggling followed us down the stairwell. “What's wrong?” she asked again when we were out of the building and since I hadn’t spoken since leaving my dorm room, her voice conveyed a more genuine since of concern. Still holding her hand, I relaxed my grip and steered us in the direction of the Loop, but not sticking to the rules of conversation, answered her question with a question of my own. "What's wrong? What's wrong with you?" I countered. "Me? What'd I do? I just got here."

 

Point well taken, but that was the point- she was here.

 

“You know what I mean. I wasn't expecting you. I had plans to play poker with the guys tonight but now you’re here." It was a mean thing to say; meaner because there was no poker game. But Pam didn't know that and I really wanted her to ‘get it’.  "You can’t just keep showing up here all the time and expect me to drop everything because you are; especially without calling first. What are you doing here anyway? I thought you had family stuff.” Pam started to sniffle and pout. ”They were boring, so I left. But it sounds like you'd rather play poker than play with me.”

 

I couldn't tell if she was being clever, but she couldn’t have been more right. And in the chilly night air, the quiet grew louder as she waited for me to disagree until, becoming impatient, she vigorously let go of my hand and, still sniffling, rephrased her statement in the form of a question. “Well? Is that stupid poker game more important than me?" We were finally at the crossroads, and my answer would take tact, diplomacy, and nuance. Unfortunately, I possessed none of those qualities and simply blurted out the hard truth. “In this case, yes it is.” Now Pam's tears fell in cascades and I instantly felt like a creep because I hadn’t seen her cry before and it really hadn’t been my intent to hurt her. But I wasn't completely ignorant.

 

Sitting down next to her on a bench near the Campanile, I tenderly blotted some fresh tears from her cheeks. In the three and half weeks I'd known her, it may have been the closest and most real moment we'd shared. “Aww….don't cry. It's okay. I’m sorry. I really am... It's just that....” With my sentence unfinished - and before I could say what I knew needed to be said- Pam threw her arms around me and, like we’d been cast in a really bad movie, breathlessly gushed, “Oh, it’s all right. I know you love me…”   Then, before I could say anything else, her mouth was on mine.  

 

With her tongue unexpectedly tied up with mine, she’d regained the upper hand and, if the situation was allowed to remain unchanged, things could very quickly spin out of my control. On the other hand, I wasn't dead either and Pam's tightening arms were a pleasantly warm buffer against the heavy damp air that surrounded us.  At last, though, I delicately pushed her away and stared up into the cloudy night. “What’s wrong?” Since practically dragging her from the dorm and out into the night, it was the third time she'd asked that question, and this time I knew I needed to come up with a better and more definitive answer.

 

"I'm sorry. We shouldn't be doing this anymore. We can't be doing this anymore."

 

"But, why?"

 

Trying my hardest to find just the right words, I looked up into the sky again for some sort of guidance. And once more finding none, I blindly stumbled into a really ragged explanation. "Wow….This is really hard and please know I don’t want to hurt you and well, if things had been different….But they're not and it’s just….it's just that...it's just that I don’t feel that way about us. “  I think she knew what I was going to say next; her eyes were full of tears. And I was hoping I wouldn’t have to, but I had to seal the deal. Close the door. There was no other choice; for her sake as well as mine.

 

“God this is so hard to say…and I’m so sorry….But, Pam …. I’m…I’m not in love with you.”

 

So there it was, raw, but honest, and now out there in the open. And like switching off a light, Pam's demeanor suddenly went from aggressively sensual to dark naked disdain.

 

“You son of a bitch!"

 

And over the course of the next ten minutes, that was the nicest thing she said. Pam shot up from the bench like it was on fire, turned on her heels and broke into kind of a half run, half power walk. Before she got too far ahead of me, I reached for her hand to try and slow her down so we could walk and talk together. But as soon as I did, she recoiled and twisted from me as if she'd been bitten by a snake. "Don't touch me. Don't you ever touch me again" she hissed and continued taking two steps to my one, forcing me to jog to keep pace. 

"Pam, listen….." As I ran beside her, I tried to apologize and ward off the coming meltdown. But it was no use. The conversation remained one sided and ugly. Starting with, "Screw you, asshole", it kind of went downhill from there. She made no attempt to be conciliatory or spare my feelings in a lengthy rant, riddled with profanity that lasted all the way from the Campanile to the gravelly parking lot on the west side of the dorm, where she'd left her car. And without giving me a second look, she threw the door open, plopped down behind the wheel and slammed it shut behind her, with as much force as an angry 100 pound girl muster.

 

But I could see inside, and once she'd unleashed all of her invective and run out of names to call me, watched her, take several deep and wounded breaths and, totally spent, quietly and sadly hang her head. Suddenly I felt a wave of compassion and wanted to reach out to her. I took a step closer to the driver’s side window. “Look, Pam, I like you and you’re a nice girl and I know you’re gonna meet somebody who can, ya know, love you too, the way you want. The way you deserve." I was gentle, trying to soften the blow and give her some encouragement as we parted. But she was having none of it.

"Shut your stupid face and get the hell away from my car!" she yelled from the other side of the closed window and turned the engine over with a vengeance. Glancing up at me, she vigorously rolled it down with the fire returning to her eyes. "Don't ever forget this night, Rocket. Because it’s the last night anyone ever cared about you. And that's past tense, by the way, 'cuz I sure don't anymore. Don't know what I ever saw in you in the first place. You're a freaking troll. I guess I felt sorry for you because who's gonna love a troll? Not me. Not anymore. I'm movin' on, loser. But take good care of yourself, okay, because I want you to live a long life, alone, miserable and missing what you could've had with me.”

 

There was more, but most of it just heaped-on cursing. I got the gist, though- Pam didn't much like me anymore and the “relationship”, or whatever it was, was unquestionably over. There was no ambiguity about our final conversation either. We were done. Her car's headlights popped on and Pam shoved it in reverse. Then just as quickly, she jammed it into first and, with tires squealing, angrily drove off into the night with her middle finger waving prominently outside the driver’s side window. 

 

I watched her taillights disappear onto Hawthorne Road then went back into the dorm, feeling suddenly bled dry, though I should’ve felt a sense of relief because I'd just completed a crash course in Woman's Scorn 101 and lived to tell about it. I'd withstood the intensity of her fury, taken her best shots and didn't flinch or pee my pants. I didn't try to reason or rationalize, either. I just took it. I probably deserved it too. If she got nothing else out of our "friendship" she should at least get the last word.

 

Still, I’d never been talked to like that with so much anger and hate before. And as I tried to fall go to sleep that night, Pam's words played over and over in my head. They hurt and stung as if she was still there yelling at me. From the beginning, Pam and I had been a disaster just waiting to happen, an uncomfortable screeching train wreck, from pointless beginning to its merciful but explosive end. An eventuality I knew was coming but hoped somehow to avoid. 

 

So why didn’t I click with her? She was a golden opportunity, pretty and luckily easy after an unlucky break up. Turns out though, all we really were, were really wrong for each other. Underneath a nearly perfect outside, inside Pam's soul was a clash of imperfections- sometimes coarse, often clingy, whiny and immature; an unhappy person and general pain in the ass.  Of course, nobody's perfect and some of those things could be overlooked. In fact, some of those things could be said about me.

 

But adding up all those negative attributes made her a hard person to like. And that was the rub. We never really become friends. If I couldn't fake liking her, how could I ever fake loving her?  And in the middle of the night, it finally all began to make sense.  I wasn’t retarded after all; breaking up had been the best thing to do, not just for me, but for both of us. I could live with that, and the next morning woke up feeling free and ready to move on.

 

However, two days later, there was another hockey game. And like all the other games since I'd met her, Pam was there that night, too. But not to see me. Making it perfectly clear she’d wasted no time mourning for me, her sights were already set on Hank Savland, one of our burly defensemen. Shoot, she and I had spilt on Sunday but by Tuesday night it appeared Pam and Hank were already an item.  I’m sure that’s how she wanted it to look, anyway. However, knowing she’d recently been my girl (sort of), Hank wanted to get my permission, as if, by then, it'd even matter. What Pam wanted, Pam usually got. But Hank and I were teammates, and though I had no dog in the fight anymore and found it a little uncomfortable seeing her with him, gave him my "blessing". I also gave him some advice. "Don't get on her bad side. She’s not so pretty from that side."



And that was that. They started dating and Pam was at the rest of our games that season, cheering on everyone but me. Our games were sparsely attended and I heard her ‘boo’ every time I touched the puck. I knew her voice. She was the only one doing it, too. She also made it a point to give Hank a big pre-game smooch right on the mouth, and usually when I was close enough I couldn’t miss it. It was curious because I don’t think I ever saw any of the other guys get kissed by their wives or girlfriends before games. She certainly hadn't kissed me like that at rink side. But she slobbered all over Hank like a dog slobbering on a meaty bone. He was embarrassed and I knew she did it mostly out of spite towards me. Everybody connected to the hockey team knew it, too. There was nothing I could do about it though, except live with it.



Still, it kind of hurt. Like I said, I wasn't dead yet and though I was glad Pam wasn't throwing herself at me anymore, on some primal level it hurt to see her throwing herself at somebody else. It was sort of bizarre to witness, and to his credit, Hank finally got fed up with it and told her to knock it off. When she wouldn’t, he banished her from coming altogether. "If she comes out here again, I told her we're through." It must've worked, too, because I never saw her after that- even at our celebratory party after winning the championship two weeks later. Hank was a great teammate, but turned out to be an even better friend.

 

I didn't play hockey the next season. That was the year I lived at Lake Tahoe. But by 1979 I was back in Spokane again and playing in the same league with some of the same guys from our ‘77-78 championship team. Hank and I ended up on different teams, but the first time we went head-to-head we, met at center ice during the pre-game skate to catch up. And after exchanging pleasantries, I said, “So, what’s new?” He took a long pause and, haltingly, mentioned that he'd gotten married....to Pam. Ouch…Awkward.

 

But not really. A year and a half after the fact, enough time had passed and, for me, Pam was mostly just a bad memory. So I congratulated him and asked how it was  going. Hank hesitated and looked away before answering. “Biggest mistake I ever made” he said dejectedly. ”Such a cute mouth until she opens it. She never shuts up and swears more than I do. My mother won’t even come around anymore if she knows Pam’s there. And to tell ya the truth, I’ve started taking double shifts and extra hours at work, just so I don’t have to go home. I can see why you dumped her”.  

 

Well, to be honest, Pam dumped me, not the other way around. Not that it mattered to Hank.  By then it was a moot point, anyway, and I felt really bad for him. He looked so sad and I wondered. Aloud,  if he’d thought about leaving her or getting a divorce. But Hank just shrugged his shoulders. "I can’t now. She’s pregnant, due next month. And the worse thing is, I’m not 100 percent sure the kid’s even mine. Pam's always liked to, ya know,  party, and though she always says she's just out with the girls, well..." His voice trailed off. 

 

Poor Hank. To an outsider, it looked like he had it all- good job, tall, strapping guy, great looking wife and a kid on the way. He shouldn’t have had a care in the world. But it wasn't that way at all. He was miserable. "It all happened so fast and it all seemed so wonderful at first", he recounted.  “But it fell apart so fast, too”, he lamented. Hank stared down at the ice, shaking his head, knee deep in thought and the crumbling ruins of his life. I though he was going to cry. It was two minutes till game time and the conversation, humanely, had to come to an end.  Skating away, Hank wished me a good game. "You too" I answered, now well aware that the outcome of a rec league hockey game was the least of his worries. I watched him rejoin his team at the bench and felt so sorry for him- but so thankful I wasn’t him.

Hank said they’d gotten married on July 1 in the summer after our successful play-off run. July 1?!  That seemed awful quick, but that’s what he said, too… "It all happened so fast… “ I didn't have a 2-year old calendar laying around, but when I got home after the game used the 1980 one to calculate just how fast. And the number was 69. The gap between April 23, 1978 (the night Pam and I broke up, an event so distasteful it was hard to forget), and her wedding day was only 69 days, or about 10 weeks. Wow. When she told me she was moving on, I guess she wasn’t lying.

And I didn’t really know what to think about all that, except for maybe one thing: there, but by the grace of God, go I.

 

 

The Perils of Pamela, Part 1

“Hey, number 14, you played great.”

 

The voice was definitely female and came from behind, up in the stands where literally handfull's of people came to watch guys like me play in a scrub hockey league. The game had just ended and I was in the back of a crowd of players leaving the ice for the locker room. I was also the only #14 on either roster that night and, though the assessment of my game was questionable, knew whoever it was, was probably talking to me. So I turned in her direction and, somewhat bewildered and definitely out of character, skated in her direction. “Uhhhh… Who me?  Ummm, thanks.”

 

Ah, yes, the pleasing repartee of a brilliant conversationalist.

 

“My name’s Pam”, she answered, ”and I really think you’re a good player. Have you played long?” I still didn’t get why she was talking to me, but explained it was my first year playing competitively and was having a blast. We started making a little more semi-awkward small talk, but I had to get off the ice because the two teams playing next were coming on. So I thanked her again and began skating away. "What’s your name?” she shouted. As I stepped onto the plastic mat outside the ice surface, I turned and hollered Rocket!, then she yelled back, 'Okay, Bye', waved and walked away to the public exit.

 

Our team had the upstairs dressing room that night, and climbing the steps I passed Dennis Bossingham, our roly-poly goalie who’d been watching the encounter from the landing. ”Well, well. Who’s that, lover boy?” he demanded in his nasally smart ass voice. “Beats me. Never seen her before. Said her name’s Pam”, I responded, brushing past him. “Ohh….She’s cuuuuute!" he bellowed, then made a follow up recommendation on what I should try for ‘my next move’ that was so obscene, even I blushed. “Oh, eat shit and die. What’s the matter with you, anyway? I just met her. Pull your head out of your ass. And the gutter, will ya?" Sometimes, Dennis’ lack of tact was too much, even for me. It made being around him annoying.

 

Anyway, I didn't want a puck bunny for a girlfriend. I didn't want a girlfriend, period. In the year since breaking up with Kelly I hadn't dated for real, except maybe with Jill Bauermeister, but hadn’t really tried and didn't really want to. So, I forgot about the accidental meeting at the hockey rink till the next afternoon when the dorm phone jingled. I was closest to it when it rang and when I answered, a girl’s voice was on the other end of the receiver. ”Hey there, remember me? This is Pam.” Pam? How the hell did she recognize my voice?! And how the hell did she get the dorm phone number? And, for the moment bypassing any pretend pleasantries, that's exactly what I asked her.

 

”From the official score keeper at your game last night. He lives down the street and, after you left, I sweet talked him into letting me check over the rosters and that’s where I found your name and phone number. Hope you don’t mind.” Well….I kinda did, but then again I mostly didn't. It was kind of flattering. “Sooo, I was wondering if you might like to go have pizza with me tonight? And then maybe a movie or something else, too, if ya want.”

Not bad looking and forward too, it finally hit me- she was asking me out on a date. I didn’t even have to work at it. But as usual, instead of being spontaneous and just going for it, I had to stop and think.

 

I didn’t know how I felt about the idea-- or her yet, either. I was doing a poor job of rebounding from my first relationship, and my buddies in the dorm and on the hockey team were enough for now. Besides I’d spent maybe all of 45 seconds in Pam’s company and, still strung out from loving and losing Kelly, was pretty sure I could live without any further female entanglements. But then I took a breath. Wait a minute......hmmm....On second thought, maybe it wouldn’t hurt to just see what this chick is all about. Though my broken heart still belonged to someone else, the rest of me was a free agent. I liked blond girls and this one was pretty hot, too. What the heck. Since you only live once, I pushed the past aside for the moment and took a step into the present. “Sure. I'd love to.”

 

I’d live to regret it.

 

We met at Shakey’s Pizza on East Sprague. Not wanting to appear too eager I planned to arrive late, but managed to get out there first anyway. So I found a table and waited. Pam came in about ten minutes later and quickly had my full attention—and everybody else’s.  When she walked in she was clearly not the girl I'd met the previous night. Instead of the wool leggings and loose Letterman's jacket she wore at the rink, Pam had squeezed into about the tightest pair of jeans imaginable. It was amazing she could even breathe. While showing off a nicely shaped derrière, the pants held her butt and torso in such a clenched vice grip, it made her gait look stiff and uncomfortable, like she was trying to walk without breathing or moving her hips. Every guy in the joint was checking her out, and I guess that was her intent.

 

She’d also feathered her blond hair and tossed it about in a cheap Farrah Fawcett imitation. It looked great in Farrah posters but on Pam, just kitschy. To make things worse, she’d saturated it with too much bargain hair spray. Lucky for her, we settled into one of the darker corners because she was probably a walking fire hazard. Then underneath a thick winter coat, Pam’s bright red blouse was wide open--wide enough to drive a Zamboni through. With so little restrained about her appearance- or much left to the imagination- Pam was about as subtle as a category 5.  And to top it off, the girl swore like a merchant marine. 

 

Now generally speaking, curse words were no big deal to me; I tossed them back and forth among the guys all the time. But hearing them pour out of an otherwise desirable looking female mouth was extremely unattractive, like filth draining from a sewer. Pam dropped f-bombs like writers use commas and periods. Her lexicon was littered with them. And call it a double standard if you like, but it was an almost instant turn-off. Her use of profanity seemed more deliberate, too, either to make her feel more important or taken more seriously. Problem was, it did neither. The syntax she chose made her sound “small”,  not terribly bright and kind of dirty, though not  in an alluring way; dirty, as in rolling in garbage.  So in less than a day this once interesting girl had transformed herself from kinda cute to pretty tacky.

 

A Rogers High grad, where she'd been a varsity cheerleader and girls softball player, Pam was now 19 and bored. Her days were spent in the little key making booth outside Sears Northtown. It was a dull job, she said, without a lot of customers which gave her plenty of time to contemplate just how dull it was. She still lived with her mother and older sister. Dad was out of the picture. Her current plan was to save enough money to go to France, or get married right away and have a bunch of kids. Uh-oh.  Not that I had anything against kids, but the way she said it not so delicately implied she might be on the look-out for someone to father these future little darlings. Better she go to France. If it’d help ease me out of the picture, hell, I’d even chip in.

 

We didn't do the movie or anything else but I stayed through the pizza part of the date, listening to Pam talk almost nonstop. Mostly about herself. I don’t even think she stopped to swallow her food. Yet she never said anything. The “talk" was a lot of moaning and griping about her life, her family, her job, her car, and her last boyfriend. You name it, whatever the topic she'd soured on it. Everything was horrible, everything was a crisis. It was easy figuring out she wasn’t a very happy person. What was hard was getting her to shut up.  So I knew right away that Pam wasn’t for me.  She wasn't Kelly. That much was certain.

 

Pam appeared to be a paradox: pretty but unattractive; over-dressed, over emotional, over sexed and over the top.  Nice looking on the outside, her beauty ran only skin deep, where it stopped dead in its tracks. If ‘trampy’ was currency, she’d be worth a fortune and the longer I was with her, the less I wanted to be. As our ‘date’ wore on, seemingly endlessly, she made me miss what I didn’t have anymore. Kelly had been wholesomely cute but not-in-your-face about it, comfortable in her own skin, down to earth, fun and warm.  On the other hand, Pam was crude, humorless and, like a walking billboard shouting in bold letters- I’M SLEAZY, BUT EASY- the calculating approach she used to appear hot turned me off cold. I saw her for what she, shallow and manipulating, and by the end of the evening had decided I simply didn’t want this one. If I’d caught her fishing, I’d have thrown her back.  

 

But she’d prove to be a hard one to walk away from. Like a bad penny she kept coming back, starting with our hockey games and wanting to hang out after. The only way I could lose her was if the team went to a bar. Still 19, she couldn’t follow me there. I hated doing it, because she’d beg me not to. Having the guys see her clinging to me so tightly was sort of embarrassing, literally and figuratively. So I’d go in, say I wouldn’t be long and then keep peeking out a window until I didn’t see her car in the parking lot anymore. By midnight, no later than 12:30, she’d finally give up and go home. Honestly, I was just trying to discourage her. Though I didn't want her hanging around, I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, either. Not really. But maybe I should have.

 

And when I wasn't trying to dodge her at night, there were multiple phone calls I tried ducking during the day. Pam called from the time she got to work until turning in. Often I was in class or doing other things- like having a life- but sometimes I was polite enough (or dumb enough) to call her back. But after a while I stopped, because all she wanted to do was complain about being bored, badger me to come over and keep her company till she got off work, as if I had nothing else to do, or not so subtly beg for a date. I never realized how pathetic that was, being on the other end of it. I hope I’d never been or sounded that desperate.

 

But then to my horror she figured out where I lived, and one night showed up at my dorm room door. As a senior, I was living in one of the singles, so didn't have a roommate to run interference. I’m sure I had a look of ’shock’ when I opened the door, but after inviting her in- bad mistake- I told her I wasn’t expecting company and probably wasn’t going to be much fun because I was studying. But she said that was okay, that she didn’t mind waiting. Then she picked up a book I wasn’t using and sat down on my bed to read. It was uncomfortable, and as I went about my business ignoring her figured it’d probably come down to a game of wills trying to get her to leave.

As the long evening went on, she’d get restless and want to play and tease and get silly, and when I wouldn't bite, said she wouldn’t go unless I kissed her. Sigh. It wasn’t that I didn’t like kissing, I liked that a lot. I just didn’t like kissing Pam. One, she sucked on cigarettes all day, so kissing her was like kissing a smoke stack. And, two, I always believed a kiss was special and supposed to mean something and didn’t want her getting the idea that she was. But late into the night, I'd have done just about anything if it’d make her leave. So using the least energy possible, I complied.  “Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?” she teased when it was over. Good grief. Was she stupid and blind??  I'm not kissing back, hello?

But what an ordeal. At least she kept her word and left. Yet alone, I sat down on my bed and felt bad. I knew Pam was just lonely and looking for a friend. Shoot, I'd been in her shoes before and sort of felt that way then. What's was so wrong about that? Nothing. So, maybe there’s something wrong with me.  Check it out: a sexy blond ex-cheerleader, chasing after me. All I had to do was let her catch me but instead, I was running away! What's wrong with this picture?! In high school, and before Kelly, wouldn’t I have sold my soul to be the head-liner in that scene? Would it have killed me to give in? What was holding me back? Was I afraid? A fool? A dullard? Gay?

No. There was nothing wrong with me. I liked girls. Unfortunately, after three weeks of trying, and in her case trying way too hard, I just didn’t like this one. Maybe Pam was unaware of how desperate she seemed; that she was coming on too strong. Some people have a blind spot to that. Maybe I should’ve said something, spoken up instead of letting her continue chasing someone that didn’t want to be chased. Maybe this was all on me. Maybe. Bottom line, though, I just wasn’t interested, but clueless how to tell her. I had no idea how to dump someone. I'd always been the dumpee, never the dumper.

So, until I could figure something out, our little game of pursuing cat and unwilling mouse would, unfortunately, continue. More next time...