A Valentines Story

I first saw her at a new hire party. My boss told me that it was a casual event, but he was wrong. The only one dressed casually was me. I was dressed like I was going to the mall to buy clothes. She was in a blue skirt with matching jacket. I looked at her for a long time, but due to my inadequate clothing, I figured it wasn't a good idea to try to talk to her. Not a woman like her surrounded by a bunch of dudes in suits, threads way better than my Dockers and Polo shirt. I decided to do what every respectable, professional engineer would do when they were interested in a woman, but elected not to talk to them. I decided to stalk her.

Stalk is probably the wrong word. I was collecting information. Someone as good looking as this woman certainly was going to meet up with some guy once she cleared this lame office party. I followed far behind her as she left. She went to her car and drove off alone. Best I could hope for is she would stay alone, just long enough for me to amass enough testosterone to ask her out. That would likely take a few days.

I saw her again at a new hire lecture. Based on the sign up sheet, she was either "Chris" or "Pat." There was only one woman in a room full of thirty men. I was going to find out as much as I could about ChrisPat. I passed ChrisPat in the hallways at work. We worked for a large defense contractor at a site that had multiple buildings and mostly no women. ChrisPat was often seen in what was called "the old engineering building." I made every excuse to cut through that building when I had to go somewhere. Once I passed her in a narrow hallway. The name on her security badge began with a "C" and ended with "e." Her name was "Christine."

A colleague of mine returned one day with critical intel. He had stumbled across where she sat. Armed with her coordinates in the cube farm, I didn't waste any time. I got a fresh flattop and sprang into action. As I approached her desk, I noticed this square, jawed jock seated next to her named "Rickie." He was talking up a big game as Christine half listened.

"What a dope," I thought.

When guys are young, they always talk about themselves as though women just can't wait to hear about their saving plays in their sports league. I approached with the utmost confidence. I was a successful engineer with a great job who worked out daily. While the rest of my contemporaries were drinking themselves blind on Friday nights, I was getting ready to buy a house.

"I don't know anyone who knows you so I'm introducing myself. I'm Robert," I confidently stated as I positioned myself to block Rickie, cutting short his glory story about his fabulous lacrosse plays.

"I'm Christine," she said.

"Say, can you show me where the Plan Vault is?"

I thought I would get her away from Rickie the Jock to ask her out.

"No, I can't leave my work area," she responded.

What a crock. Christine was a salaried engineer. She wasn't restricted to a particular work area. I immediately interpreted this as "I'm definitely not interested." I collected up the pieces of my shattered pride then excused myself. As I left, I heard Rickie start back up,

"Now, where were we? I was shredding it down the infield as I neared the goal..."

I didn't talk to Christine for another four years. We passed in the hallways, and I doubted she even knew my name. I certainly knew hers. I accepted that some women just aren't attracted to certain guys. I first encountered this in high school with my friend, Heidi, a beautiful, talented writer. I became her friend when I sat next to her in creative writing. Heidi had a great imagination for poetic children's stories. She caught the eye of a senior, Michael, a tall, dark, handsome dude who was planning to move to Italy to study medicine.

Michael was in love with Heidi. He wanted to marry her and take her to Italy with him. Heidi chose a different guy than Michael. She picked Arty, the Whirlybird operator at the local amusement park. When I asked Heidi why she rejected Michael, she answered,

"I just don't like him that way."

Now, Arty was short, balding yet had a mullet, smoked pot, and sported a cheesy, porno mustache. Arty didn't have great career prospects. Along with being a skilled amusement park ride operator, Arty boxed. He wasn’t any good being the kind of fighter a real boxer pummeled to build confidence. The pinnacle of Arty’s boxing career was when Vinnie Pazenza knocked him out in the gym. Why a beautiful, talented woman like Heidi would make such an inferior choice baffled me for years. Arty eventually cheated on Heidi ending their relationship. I know love is blind. I just didn't know it was stupid too.

I always prided myself on trying to be a good catch. I got highest honors all through high school and college. I led a healthy lifestyle, working out regularly. I saved money. I took women on extraordinary dates to shows and expensive restaurants. My competition was bringing women out to cheap, buffet style eateries that had salad bars. There was no sneeze shields on my dates. If I took you out, it would be a memorable experience like meeting Elvis. Elvis never travelled incognito. If you met him, he wanted it to be an unforgettable encounter. That's the way I approached dating. But I had to accept that all the best prep and iron pumping in the world couldn't make somebody like you. As with my friend Heidi, some women just preferred Arty.

Four years later a small team of top engineers formed to design the next class of submarine, and who was picked to work in that group? Christine and me. Great. Along with pining away for this woman for years, now I had to work with her daily, all while knowing that I was Michael, and she would eventually marry Arty, the bumper car operator at Fun Land. This was going to suck.

After a few months I became resigned to becoming Christine's colleague and friend and later her confident. If she wasn't interested, I would at least make sure she made a good choice even if that choice would never be me. I guess that's when I knew I really liked her because I wanted her to be happy knowing full well that her happiness did not include me. We talked about work, the dates we went on and our families. When we were whispering some gossip between the two of us, and Christine would lean in close, I would jokingly say,

"You're in my personal space."

She would always back away laughing. It was hard enough to be infatuated with her without enduring an occasional physical closeness. One time, I was telling her of a bike frame I had purchased. I was into biking. That was my thing. I brought her outside to my car to marvel at the exquisite piece of engineering I had in a big box. Christine thought it was cool that I had a passion.

"What do you like to do?" I asked.

"Ride horses," she answered.

"Then you should buy a horse," I exclaimed.

Each weekend I visited my parents and at the gym I talked my father's ear off about how great Christine was. My dad always wondered why I wasn't with her, and I would explain that I was Michael and she wanted Arty, the Sit and Spin operator at Coney Island.

So one time our whole department travelled to Washington, DC to give presentations to the Navy. Later when we were free, Christine and I went to some museums together. It was wonderful, just the two of us at the National Air and Space Museum. I held her coat under a big yellow winged airplane when she used the bathroom. As I waited alone I thought that this felt so right, but it just never could be.

A few months later I got another job within the company. I never said "Good bye” to her, choosing instead to just pack up my desk and leave. Two months later she called me at my desk to see how I was doing. She took over some of my work so I figured she was calling about that. Christine asked about my new job, if I was dating anyone, how school was going. We were both getting a masters degree at night and occasionally crossed paths. It was nice hearing from her. Earlier I had read that the Rhode Island poet laureate was retiring, and there would be a formal final public reading of his work. It just kind of spit out of me,

"So do you think you'd want to go with me?"

"Ok,"' she answered.

A few nights later we were well dressed in public going to dinner then a gathering for a poet to read his life's work. When friends are properly dressed and out on the town, it's perfectly acceptable to venture into each other's personal space. It's the "well dressed exception." After dinner we walked arm in arm to a small venue where the poetry reading was being held. It felt so right to be with her. Surely, she felt it too.

When the night came to a close, I wanted to kiss her, but that was outside the acceptable personal space exclusion for well dressed friends out together. I came back to reality, that even though it all seemed right, Christine wasn't interested in me and that was just the way it was. I gave her a hug at her doorstep then sadly got into my car and drove away. It was both a great and awful night. A week later I couldn't stop thinking about her. I figured I would write her a note saying how much fun I had. I thought I would end it with

"If you like me, check this box []"

but, that seemed like a bad idea. She called to tell me that she purchased a registered quarter horse that she intended to show. She wanted to take me out to the barn to meet her new horse. We went that afternoon. His name was "Dubious Conclusion," "Dube” for short. I took great and real interest in the animal. Christine showed me how to brush him down. We made plans for me to watch her ride. While at the barn, I told her that I had a great time the other night. She seemed preoccupied as she asked if I would help her obtain a gate for Dube's stall. Trying to be overtly helpful, I agreed even though we were in my small car which was seemingly incapable of transporting a large metal gate.

The site that was selling the gates was another horse facility. We picked out a gate from a large out building. I got filthy digging through the old farm equipment. As we freed up the gate, it started to rain outside trapping us in the dusty space. Together we waited out a summer thunderstorm in an old barn. I turned to her and asked her out to dinner on Friday night. Unhesitatingly she answered,

"Yes."

There was a long pause as I added,

"This is a date though. You know, not friends."

Then there was a real long pause. I blew it. I crossed the boundary too soon. I thought she might have felt what I was feeling and just maybe missed me a bit, but the long pause was a sure sign I messed up. The rain had stopped. I lifted the gate and brought it to my car. It was obviously too large to fit. I pulled out my bike rack from the trunk and fastened it in the back then proceeded to lash the gate onto the rack. We both jumped into the car. Christine was quiet on the ride back. I figured I would just ignore my comment, and hopefully she would forget it as well. After we dropped off the gate at the barn I asked,

"So Friday at seven?"

I expected her to tell me she couldn't go because she didn't want to be out of her work area unless it was to meet Arty, the Flying Horse Carousel operator at Knott's Berry Farm, but she replied,

"Okay."

That's it. Okay. No enthusiasm. No smile. This wasn't a good idea. She probably didn't want to reject me again right after I helped her. Friday night would be a disaster as I overstepped my bounds. I couldn't compete with the Bumper Scooter operator at Six Flags. There's no way to make sense of it. Women are a mystery. I learned that from watching Titanic. A women's heart is as deep as the ocean. That was especially true when Rose exclaimed,

"I'd rather be his whore than your wife."

Then Rose spit in the dude's eye. That movie is every twelve year old girl's Star Wars, and Jack boffed Rose in the back seat of a car. It was hopeless. I couldn't spit like Jack, but I still was going out with her on Friday night. 

The next few days in the office, I avoided running into Christine. I'm sure she was going to let me down gently as her gratitude for helping with the gate waned. With the weekend approaching, I prepared myself for my Friday night crash and burn. I picked her up at seven and off we went to a restaurant in a nearby town. We had a wonderful dinner and conversation. Afterwards, we visited a small Victorian place called L'Ezabeth's for dessert and coffee.

When we returned to her apartment, we approached her door awkwardly. I was sure I was going to get the "I just want to be friends" speech. I wasn't ready for it so I asked,

"Do you want to walk down by the pier?"

I wanted to extend the night and delay the inevitable rejection. I thought maybe I could have just a few more minutes with her, pretending we were a couple.

"Sure," she answered.

As we walked, I reached for her hand. Sometimes when you hold hands, it doesn't work. Someone's arm is too long, and you don't match up right. When you don't feel right, walking hand in hand, it just isn't right. I know that's not very scientific, but it's true. Christine's hand fit perfectly in mine. We watched the moon rise from a railing at the edge of a pier on a warm summer night. I expected at any moment she would express her disappointment that I crossed the line, that she was head over heels for a guy named Arty who was a talented Scrambler operator at Wally World.

"Do you feel like I do?" she asked.

"That depends on the way you feel."

"This feels so... so..."

Here it comes. I think the word she was searching for was "wrong." This seemed so wrong. Then she would go on how our friendship was ruined. I would agree with her just to salvage our relationship, then I would vow to never let her know that I loved her.

"...perfect," she said.

"Perfect?" I asked.

"Unless you don't feel that way," she exclaimed.

"I thought I was Michael, and you wanted Arty," I blurted.

She looked puzzled.

"You didn't answer when I said we were going out not as friends," I added.

"I thought you were just being nice," she explained.

"I thought you preferred the Whirlybird operator."

There was that look again.

"You know, I didn't do it for you," I offered.

"I just thought you weren't interested in me," Christine revealed.

"I thought the same about you about me!" I replied.

"So what are you saying? You're not interested or you are?" she asked.

"Yes, I mean no. Wait! Which question are you asking?"

This got rather confusing.

"The last one," Christine answered.

"I think that one is yes," I clumsily offered.

"Me too," she said.

I looked into her eyes not sure what to say next. I thought I should just stop now because I think she just said she liked me. In retrospect the check this box question would have been much easier. After what seemed like an eternity Christine asked, 

"Who's Arty?"

I shrugged. Even though I wasn't entirely sure what had just happened, we walked back hand in hand. It was perfect. I told her that we shouldn't spend too much time together otherwise we would ruin things, but the next night she called.

"What're you doing?"

"Ironing shirts," I answered.

"Can I come over?"

"No! We can't spend too much time together."

"Why?"

Sensing this might get confusing again I went with,

"Sure, come over."

Christine drove to my house then sat on the couch and read some Dickens while I ironed. We rarely have spent a day apart after that evening. The bike frame I showed her months earlier became hers and the quarter horse, the first horse I ever rode, became mine. Later we would pedal a tandem down the west coast camping along the way. We rode horses in Ireland on our honeymoon. When our first son, Aidan, was in kindergarten we returned to the National Air and Space Museum in Washington, DC to take a picture under the yellow winged airplane. We have one more trip planned to capture a picture of William in the same spot.

That's the way it happened, or should I say the way it almost didn't.

Happy Valentines Day

Editor's Note: Originally posted on February 15, 2017.