A Secure Business Model

A few years after we moved to a rural part of town, a series of break-ins got the locals all up in arms. Security warning signs started popping up in many of the driveways. We followed the crowd and signed up with a well-known company. Admittedly, I wasn't keen on the idea of getting a security system. For one, I believed that it was highly unlikely that anyone would ever break into our house. We lived on a hill such that the house was not visible from the road. A prospective thief couldn't readily ascertain if we had a security system without casing the place via an elaborate ruse. I also figured that security companies break into houses to drum up business. That's why most of the people who were victimized on our road reported that nothing was stolen.

Either way, our house was prewired for a security system so my wife, Christine, wanted to have one installed. After researching the current technology in home protection, she determined that ADT had the best equipment and monitoring service. She emailed me a link to a color console panel that I thought was real cool. They had door and window sensors along with motion deterctors. It all looked good to me so I asked Christine,

"What does ADT stand for?"

"Advanced Detection Technology I think," she answered.

After our home security system was installed, I noted that the screen on the wall panel wasn't color. It was black and white and the graphics were crude. No splash of pigment or flashy animations for us. When I asked Christine what gives with the crappy display she told me they said that was all they had. So okay, they didn't have the technicolor control panel they bragged about on the internet. They had the equivalent of a 1969 black and white tube television set. The technician who installed the hardware showed Christine how to set and disarm the system. There were multiple buttons on the display, but she was instructed to use just one.

"What do the other buttons do?" I asked.

"Nothing," she answered.

So I had an ancient piece of hardware nailed to my wall that had several function buttons that didn't do anything. She showed me how to select "Night Mode" which we were to set every evening after the remains of the day. Night mode activated all the sensors on the first floor and none on the second floor where we all slept. I didn't want to ever set night mode as I was sure it would trip off in the wee hours of the morning from a fly buzzing in the kitchen or something. I also disliked the idea of cowering in my bed with the covers pulled up to my chin while worrying about intruders breeching the outer perimeter. Christine insisted on setting night mode before we went to sleep.

Our foray into the world of safe houses was uneventful for a few days, then for some unknown reason the alarm sounded at 3 am. I tried to used the crummy control panel in our bedroom to turn the thing off. Through the panic brought on by the wailing siren, I entered the wrong code. The shitty display returned,

"Incorrect Code."

I tried again, but to no avail. On my third failed attempt, the system locked me out all while the alarm blared ceaselessly. Christine was looking through the paperwork to find a phone number to call. After some time the phone rang. It was Claire from the ADT monitoring service. As she spoke I heard every other word due the volume of the blaring siren. I handed the phone to Christine who convinced Claire that we were not taped to chairs as hooligans ransacked our house. She was kind enough to help Christine silence the alarm. After things calmed down, I asked Claire what tripped the alarm. Checking her monitor which I'm sure was colorful, she said that a sensor in the kitchen detected motion. Like what, a mouse? A ghost? It couldn't be a ghost because our house was new construction so no previous occupants appeared where they tragically perished. We were the first owners so we'll be the ones to haunt our house someday. Couldn't have been mice either. No droppings. While I had her on the phone, I asked Claire what ADT stood for.

"Access Detection Technology," she answered.

So we soldiered on with our home security system, never again setting it at night. Occasionally it lit off even though it wasn't armed. It was always for some reason like a dead battery needed to be replaced or a hardware update was required. After a few years in which the monthly bill climbed from $15 to $24, I saw a commercial for an exterior camera. I called ADT and inquired about the new piece of monitoring equipment. After some data exchange to verify my identity, a guy named Hal said,

"The camera isn't available in your area."

I wanted to ask Hal if he was in fact a robot himself, but instead I opted for,

"Tell me, Hal. What does ADT stand for?"

"Asynchronous Defense Tactics," he said confidently.

A few more years passed with more periodic false alarms emanating from our security system when I received an email indicating that I could now opt to control the thing from a smart phone. I was paying almost $40 a month now so I figured they certainly wanted me to expand my system with more technology. If I accessed the alarm via my phone I could ignore the wall panels altogether. This also allowed me to silence the alarm when it sounded sporadically for no reason at all. Once again I called ADT. This time I got Angela. She told me right up front that the smart phone interface wasn't available in my area. We weren't living on a prairie in the Midwest. We were in New England in which the population density exceeded just about every other place in the country. When I asked Angela what ADT stood for, she answered,

"Assistive Development Trends."

As time passed we embraced major life events like our son, Aidan, entering middle school and the birth of his brother, William. And of course, we also were periodically frightened out of our wits by a blaring horn reminiscent of the road rage one experiences upon crossing paths with a truck driver sporting one of those Ted Nugent bumper stickers. By now we had built an outbuilding which wasn't covered by our security system. I called ADT to inquire if they could include the building and my garage bays as well. I spoke to Phil. He told me that I would need to install a separate system for the outbuilding as there was no way to get wires back to the house. He also said that the garages could be covered, but "it will be an expensive install." Not being able to get what I wanted, I asked Phil what ADT stood for.

"Access Developer's Toolkit," he said assuredly.

That was the last time I tried to modify our security system. Months collected into years as Aidan graduated from high school and William climbed into 5th grade. Recently I got an email from ADT indicating that the 3G phone used by our security system was being phased out of existence, and we needed to call to make arrangements for an upgrade. The last time I had a 3G phone I called the local Blockbuster to see if one of the five copies of Smokey and the Bandit was available. I reluctantly contacted ADT. Crystal made arrangements for a technician to come the following Thursday to perform the necessary upgrades. When I asked her what ADT stood for, she said,

"Accelerated Degradation Testing."

With no sign of the ADT technician, Thursday came and went like a bad odor in an elevator. Upon checking with the home office, Mark told me that they hadn't the part, and when they got it, they'd give me a call. I told Mark to forget it, that I wanted to cancel my subscription. By now I was paying $60 a month as a longtime customer when I finally realized that they had me pigeon holed as an old guy who accepted the outgoing hardware without complaint. Mark offered to drop my monthly charge to $40, but I explained that I never got what I wanted from ADT so lowering the price for such poor service simply didn't make sense. He was disappointed as he told me that my subscription would take a month to cancel, and that no one will be coming by to uninstall all the equipment. Of course not, that shit belonged in a museum. Before he hung up, I asked him what ADT stood for. Mark responded,

"Abstract Data Type."

Two weeks later, I got a call from Mike, who said he was a regional director for ADT. He knew I was quitting and humbly asked me to tell him what transpired such that after 12 years I wanted to part ways with “the leading home security provider in America." I asked Mike upfront what ADT stood for. He said,

"Safety, quality and customer service."

"No, the letters," I said.

"Oh, it's the name of the original company. American District Telephone."

I thanked Mike for reaching out, but I really didn't want to go over a dozen years of subpar service, partly because my mind was made up, and I didn't want to recall what a moron I was for tolerating such a poor product for so long. When I was about to hang up, Mike made one final pitch. He offered $15 a month with no contract for a year, and they would come by and install everything I wanted with the latest equipment for no charge. I told Mike that they should've offered that deal when I was a clueless, loyal customer. I would've believed for the rest of my life that they were the best company in the world. With that we parted ways with ADT.

Oh, and by the way, it’s American District Telegraph, not telephone.

A Million Dollar Smile

When I was a kid every time I went to the dentist, a tooth was pulled. As I got older, I was introduced to the pain of cavities which inevitably led to an extra visit to the chair for a shot of Novocain and some drilling. By the time I reached adulthood, good dental hygiene coupled with yearly cleanings resulted in a mostly uneventful experience at the dentist's office. As more techniques in the field of periodontal health were developed by the scientific braintrust of organizations like the American Dental Association, I found that all the preventative care I routinely performed each day wasn't enough even though four out of five dentists said it was.

When my wife, Christine, and I moved to a different town, we found a new local dentist. On my first visit I learned that the silver fillings in my mouth, some as old as thirty years, were bad for me. First off they weren’t silver. They were a material called "amalgam" and according to my dentist contained mercury. For years I’ve had mercury in my head. So over the next four months our old fillings were removed. Little did I know that in the world of dentistry, people my age with a mouth devoid of any silver were branded for special treatment.

After we had all the metal in our mouths removed, my dentist recommended that we do X-rays every year. Seemed harmless enough although they put a lead blanket over my nuts and always asked my wife if she was pregnant before they dart behind a blast shield to fire off the beam of particles into my head. The X-rays offered the dental team, which now included the actual dentist and a dental hygienist, a diagnostic tool to ascertain cavities that hadn't yet sprouted. So as the frequency of candids of my teeth increased so did the number of times I went under the drill. Lucky for me the technology to intercept cavities in the larvae stage came at the right moment. My mouth was falling apart, and I was fortunate to be under the care of a skilled crew of highly trained professionals. To think of the sacrifices they made, the debts they incurred, the good times they missed all so they could save my teeth. My dentist wasn't just a doctor; he was an artist, and my mouth was his canvas.

I especially appreciated the quality care I received from my dental hygienist before I was examined by the big guns. She ran her fingers over my neck to check for cancer. She started me on an in-office fluoride treatment plan even though I was in my forties. She advised me to use picks as well as floss twice daily. She recommended straightening my teeth and a treatment for bad breadth. After finishing a cleaning, she would call in the dentist who looked into my mouth then counted all my teeth. He identified which needed to be watched by a whole number. When he was done, he provided his recommended treatment plan for my decaying pie hole. Some of the teeth that he drilled preventatively for cavities had such thin enamel that I now needed a crown. This made me feel important, you know, like a king or something.

You can imagine how harrowing it was when I learned that my dentist up and quit. Just like that he was gone; off on his sailboat in the Caribbean having just retired at 42. My new dentist was a woman fresh out of dental school. It's a good thing she replaced the ole dentist we had because on my first visit she told me that I had bacteria in my mouth that if crossed the brain-blood barrier I would get Alzheimers. She measured the size of the "pockets" between my teeth. I'm glad she cleaned out my pockets otherwise I might have ended up getting lost on my way home. She advised me that I should undergo a "deep cleaning" which included three aggressive scraping and picking over the next year in lieu of the single routine cursory cleaning covered by my dental insurance.

After a year of eradicating all the bacteria that's been in my trap since third grade, the dental hygienist remeasured my pockets which were found to have stabilized but not shrunk in size. Evidently, my daily brushing, flossing and picking as well as multiple deep cleanings was not enough to stem the inevitable invasion of a flesh eating bacteria. The dentist warned me that the brain-blood barrier was only a millimeter thick and if one bacterium made it through, my head would explode. She recommended another year of depth charging my face hole.

On the next visit my dentist noted that my teeth were worn in spots which indicated that I grind at night. Not the good kind of grind, mind you; the kind that gets you fitted for a mouth guard the construction of which involves a full scan of all your teeth followed by a 3D printout of a model used to make a casting. Not covered by my insurance, the customized rubber guard cost $600. She told me that I would have to bring in my guard for modification every time I underwent a new procedure. In 1975, when I played Pop Warner football in middle school, my mother made the same thing by boiling a piece of pliable plastic, purchased at K-Mart for three dollars.

The constant bad news I absorbed from my dentist made me think that all this extra preventative care was pointless. I never received any paperwork like when I visited my doctor either, and quite frankly, I couldn't remember when the last time I had X-rays or which teeth were on the watch list. Was it 13 and 15, or 17 and 19? So I started taking notes after each office visit. You know, I would record "Almost puked from fluoride treatment" or "full X-rays of my puss again." In a few years my new dentist moved on to greener pastures in California.

The next dentist was also fresh out of dental school. She specialized in cosmetic dentistry. On my first visit after I completed my second year of deep cleaning, I expected her to comment on the depth of my pockets, but she completed her examination without mentioning them. Just two short years ago my mug pipe was about to be overrun by regiments of bacteria, and now no one from my dental team was even mildly interested in offering an assessment of the treatment. She also did the teeth counting thing as if the tally was going to changer or something. When she wrapped up, she suggested that my teeth should be whitened. I underwent the same procedure as with the first guard which involved yet another scan of my cake hole to make two "trays." The trays held some stuff containing chlorine used to brighten teeth. So now along with regular doses of neutrinos, I had bleach in my head.

My second visit to the chair of pain with my new, new dentist didn't go well at all. She determined that I had a cavity in 13 and 15, and needed a crown on 19. She also said that I was overdue for X-rays. I checked my meticulous notes I kept on my phone. The teeth on the watch list for the past year were 13 and 17 and the filling on 19 was six months old. She insisted 19 was on the watch list. Even the hygenist refuted her. Also, my last X-rays were taken eight months earlier. After my dentist moved to the adjacent patient from over the partition I heard her tell him that he had four cavities with one in his incisor which needed to be pulled right away before it developed into an abscess. She wanted to construct a partial for him to hold a new, fake front tooth. When he asked why all these cavities didn't hurt him, she explained,

"There's so much calcification over the nerve that you don't feel the cavities."

I had just been through a decade long magical mystical mouth tour, and I was convinced that my teeth would've fallen out of my jaw if it wasn't for all this expensive dental intervention. At that moment I realized that I didn't have two cavities and wasn't in need of a crown. What I needed was a dentist who wasn't trying to pay off an astronomical college debt via creative diagnoses.

The ADA recommends X-rays every two years, but for some reason I was getting full scans of my brain bag every year. It’s a good thing I got all that mercury out of my mouth and replaced it with routine bombardment of subatomic particles. Fluoride treatments for adults are useless. Cavities don't really show up early on X-rays. I got up from the chair wondering if the bleach in my mouth used to whiten my teeth was going to rot out a part of my body I actually need.

As I left the office, I didn't make the follow up appointments. The receptionist sensing dissent called over the dentist.

"Is there a problem?" she asked.

"No, no problem," I answered.

"Then why aren't you scheduling the follow up?"

"Because I want a second opinion," I said.

My dentist was noticeably miffed by my suggestion that her diagnosis might need to be double checked.

"It's your mouth!" she said dismissively as she turned and walked away.

Yes, it certainly is and from it comes words of caution. If your dental prognosis is looking atrocious after routine brushing, flossing and picking, find another dentist. Preferably one old enough to have already paid off dental school.

First Car

Back in 1982, I had just graduated from high school and was on my way to the University of Rhode Island to study engineering. I planned on living at home for the first two years even though most of my friends were moving to campus to be "on their own." Now, many parents prefer their kids to live at school so they experience independence even though lodging and meals are all taken care of for them. The only decision most college students must make is whether they should attend or skip class. A lot of kids want to immerse themselves in the "campus life." I was mainly interested in getting good grades. Since my parents couldn't afford a prep school, I had to be introduced to underage drinking at bonfires in the woods during the summer. Unfortunately, one does not meet influential people who they will network with later in life by hanging out in the back forty of a farmer's fallow field while drinking Mad Dog. That's probably why I never ended up on the Supreme Court.

When it came to purchasing my first car to commute to school, my father elected not to go with me. His childhood was pretty rough with an absent father who was murdered when he was 11 years old. He always said that his dad was never much in his life so likewise as a father he had difficulty relating to his son. When it was time to choose a car, like many things in my youth, I was on my own.

After looking through newspaper ads, I went to a local used car dealership where I met Russell who I'm sure saw me coming from a mile off. He showed me a wreck which he insisted "just needed a paint job."

"This is a classic," Russell exuberantly exclaimed.

Luckily, the car looked too much of a mess to appeal to my inexperienced, youthful, impractical mind. Eventually, I settled in on a 1976 Ford Mustang II hatchback with a standard transmission. I didn't know how to drive a stick but that didn't worry me. The looks of the car appealed to my superficial, immature side. Russell referred to the car as a "creampuff." With his used car salesman instincts, he knew that I hadn't a clue about all that stuff under the hood. I had a friend who could drive a stick bring the car to my parent's mechanic to check it out.

For some reason my father always bought yellow Ford Country Squire station wagons. I think he had five of them in all. The simulated wood side panels were a distinctive feature that clearly articulated,

"I'm the type of guy who shouts at the television screen when I have a load of green peas in my mouth."

He had so many of them because each lasted only about 60,0000 miles before the transmission fell out or the chassis cracked. Today, cars are much more reliable than when I was a kid. Almost no odometers in my youth rolled up to six figures. In fact, one of the Country Squires had such a bad transmission, the car didn't shift out of second gear. There was no lemon laws back then either so it was common for people to be making payments on a car that wasn't running at all.

Many mechanics were crooks too. Sometimes when you had your car serviced, you'd get the "sunshine treatment" which was when someone at the dealership moved your car from the spot you parked in when you dropped it off to a new location making it appear as though your car was serviced. Instead, your vehicle which the service department claimed was ready to go really just spent a day in the sun. And to think they took money from you as well.

A mechanic at the dealership which sold my father his last Country Squire, the one that wouldn't shift, secretly told my dad to get rid of it. Back then vehicle transmission problems were not uncommon and yet impossible to fix. The dealership insisted there was nothing wrong with the car so my father, orchestrating a brilliant chess move, announced that he wanted to trade it in. Since the car was less than a month old and they insisted nothing was wrong with it, they were obliged to give him top dollar.

Just before he was to drop off the car, it snowed heavily overnight. For some reason my father use a metal shovel to clear the snow off the hood. My dad was prone to bonehead moves, and this was a big one. He scratched the paint extensively. Thinking fast, he piled the snow back on to cover up the damage. He told me that all winter long when he drove by the dealership on his way to work, he would spot the used shit box parked in the lot with a big sign over the windshield that read "LOW MILES." He said with a chuckle,

"Yeah, low because the car doesn't move."

Eventually in the spring when the snow melted and the scratches on the hood were discovered, they probably thought that my dad damaged the car in retaliation for sticking him with such a poorly running vehicle, but that wasn't the case. While my father was prone to poor judgement, he was particularly adept at scamming his way out of any jam he found himself in.

His first car was a 1950 Ford that he owned with his brother. At the time my father was in the army and my uncle in the navy. Along with two of their service buddies, the brothers were driving home to Rhode Island when they got into a car accident. Even though they were in an unfamiliar town, my father managed to find a mechanic who said he could fix the car. A few days later when they picked it up, my father noticed the alignment was off pretty badly. In fact, he said unless you gripped the steering wheel tightly, the car couldn't drive in a straight line. My father had the repairs done without contacting his insurance company. When he arrived home in Rhode Island, he brought the bill to an insurance adjuster who admonished my dad for not first getting approval. He told my father that the car should have been totaled. My dad was in his uniform and acted clueless. The adjuster reluctantly agreed to process his claim.

My father knew at a very young age that perception is reality, and he used this to his advantage throughout his life. He often told a story that on Mother's Day he and his brothers would collect a few coins that they scrounged up for a bouquet of flowers. Instead of going into the flower shop himself as a cocky kid without much money, he sent in his little brother, Ronnie, who with snot running down his nose dumped the meager pile of pennies on the counter as he asked,

"How many flowers can I get for this much?"

My father said Ronnie would always meet them on the sidewalk carrying a huge beautifully arranged bouquet.

With the insurance check in his pocket and both hands firmly on the wheel, my father drove the wayward Ford to a well known used car dealership in Providence owned and operated by Jake Kaplan, the namesake of many Jaguar and Land Rover establishments in Rhode Island today. My father traded in the wreck for a used Mercury. A few days later my dad returned to the dealership because a turn signal on the Mercury burned out. When Jake Kaplan saw my father in his army uniform, he ask,

"Are you the GI who brought in that Ford a few days ago?"

"Yeah, the turn signal on the car I bought doesn't work," my dad exclaimed.

My father was always amused when he recalled Mr. Kaplan's response. He said that Jake Kaplan himself yelled right in the showroom,

"HOW MANY PEOPLE DIED IN THAT WRECK?"

My father’s savvy side didn’t last into his later years. For some reason my dad always trusted a local mechanic who had ripped him off countless times. Whenever he got screwed over, he went out and bought the exact same thing from the exact same people as if this time would be different. And now it was my turn to assume my father's post as a consumer sucker by bringing my perspective first car to his mechanic who had been mining my father's wallet for decades. They were fully aware that if I purchased this junker, they would be tasked with fixing it. After the inspection, a mechanic handed me an envelope with notes scribbled on the back indicating that "the compression was way up" and there was "no leaks of any kind." That was good enough for me. The following day I purchased the crap box for $3000.

The first time I pulled my new used car in the driveway, my father immediately noticed it was leaking oil. After I paid $400 to fix the rear main seal, on my first trip back from school the brakes failed. Even though I was new to driving a standard, I was able to downshift to bring the car to a stop. I discovered an odd beige colored fluid pouring out from under the car. As far as I knew (and I didn't know much), there was no single fluid in the engine that was that color. It turned out that if you mixed oil, brake and transmission fluids together you got beige. A few weeks into the semester a wheel fell off on the highway. All these repairs went to my father's mechanic, the guy who inspected the car before I bought it, and I stupidly paid the bill with every dime I earned the past summer washing dishes and mowing lawns.

The most notable mishap occurred the following year. I delivered the local newspaper as a part-time job, the money from which I used to keep the piece of scrap metal masquerading as a vehicle running. In the afternoon, I picked up bundles of newspapers at the press and deliver them to stores and carriers. As I cruised down the road loaded up with stacks of newspapers, my car caught on fire. I pulled over then threw open the hood. A ball of fire shot out of the carburetor. Not having an extinguisher I grabbed a bundle of newspapers and beat back the flames. By the time the fire truck arrived, I had the situation under control.

The local paper reported,

"Many newspapers boast of accurate coverage of fires, but yesterday The Pawtucket Valley Daily Times was actually used to extinguish a fire."

The article chronicled my car troubles which included the brake failure and the errant wheel as well as spotlighted my freshman status as a mechanical engineer. It ended with this final sentiment,

"Languedoc said that he didn't think the vehicle had it in for him, then added, 'All in all, it's a good car when the brakes work, the wheels stay on, and it's not on fire.'"

Today, young people are unaware of how poorly built automobiles were back in the day. Now cars are very reliable even those built in less developed countries. My dad often said that "Ford" stood for "Fix Or Repair Daily." Millennials don't realize how common it was to buy a new car right off the lot only to discover the next day that it won't start when you turn the key. Our oldest son, Aidan, asked me recently why we put up with such poor quality back then. It's not like we didn't know any better because we did. My parents had stuff handed down to them from their parents that still worked just fine. My mother had a Kirby vacuum cleaner that was her mother's. It had an attachment that could be used to sand floors. My cousin has woodworking tools that were his grandfather's.

There was a time when stuff was built to last, then later when it was my turn, things were built half-assed. There wasn't much we could do about it because most things you bought back then were cheaply constructed. After being screwed over many times, everyone's expectations were suitably lowered. I suppose market forces, competition, supply and demand, all pushed industries to build things better, but even today we still don't expect appliances to last much more than ten years.

I found my mother's Kirby in the back of the hallway closet the other day. It has a cloth covered cord and must weigh thirty pounds or more. When I plugged it in and flipped the switch, the light shown brightly and the motor sprung to life. I ran it over the rug in the family room. It worked wonderfully. And just in case you didn't know, they still make them.

Editor's Note: Originally published on October 16, 2018.

First Date

“Oh, that's too bad.” Christine, my wife of 25 years, expressed as she held the local newspaper in her hands.

"What?" I asked.

“L’Elizabeth went out of business."

L’Elizabeth was a stylish bar we went to for dessert after dinner years ago on our first date.

“I can still smell their coffee,” she warmly reminisced.

She recalled many fond memories of our first date, all seasoned with youthful optimism for our future together. They were fond for me too. Well most of the them anyway. I do recall the smell of the fresh ground, brewed exotic coffees long before Starbucks. The interior was furnished with worn leather love seats and oversized chairs arranged to form small places to sit comfortably and chat. Dimly lit, the atmosphere was adorned in a Victorian flair with many interesting antiques. I had the white chocolate cheese cake for dessert while Christine opted for the tiramisu.

Earlier we had a fine dinner at a restaurant in a historic, repurposed stone building followed by our attendance of a small gathering to listen to the Rhode Island Poet Laureate read some of his works before he put down his quill and retired. I once read that Elvis Presley never travelled incognito. If you met him, he wanted it to be an unforgettable experience. This is why they always announced,

“Elvis has left the building!”

That’s how I approached dating Christine back in the day. I always wanted our dates to be memorable. I took her to musicals, the circus, comedy clubs, state fairs, museums as well as artsy events like poetry readings. While the competition were bringing women to the movies and chain restaurants with extensive salad bars, I was a renaissance man offering an unforgettable experience like meeting Elvis. There was no sneeze shields on our dates nor were we going see sit through Smokey and the Bandit either.

“You remember how romantic it was sitting next to each other on a small sofa and talking the night away,” Christine fondly remembered. I recalled that magical night as well, everything was perfect. Well almost everything.

"So tell me, how did you get your breadth so fresh?" she asked.

When we shared our first kiss later in the night, my mouth was minty fresh. This always puzzled Christine. Years later when our relationship advanced to occasional moon vapor in front of each other, she would ask how I managed to clean my mouth on our first date. Now, I saw Titanic, a woman's heart is a deep ocean of secrets. A man's is a shallow pool of smut, but eventually, a good woman reigns us in, and we settle down to begin the lengthy process of making copies of ourselves.

"Did you use mints?" she asked.

A man keeps a woman by being buff and mysterious, but not too much of each. That's why women like Sudokus and escape rooms but respond negatively to road rage. I vowed never to reveal this one secret; after all, a man has to keep something for himself other than the remote control.

"My breadth is naturally fresh," I offered.

Back then I was a fitness fanatic. I pumped iron and downed supplements daily. For the protein I ate tunafish straight from the can for lunch. I was also a road cyclist who had competed in distance events. There wasn’t a supplement I wouldn’t ingest. I would read an article about creatine or DHEA, liquid amino acids or protein powder, anything that might give me an edge, then I would try it. I’m not sure if any of that stuff worked, but what it did do occasionally is cause my digestion to go awry.

On our first date, Christine and I ate a lot of rich food for dinner. Later we enjoyed wine and dessert at L’Elizabeth. The protein drink, creatine, and liquid amino acids were brewing in my stomach along with the many notes of the gourmet chow we had for dinner, chased by a slice of white chocolate cheese cake topped with raspberries. In the middle of gazing into Christine's eyes, my lower guts started to percolate as the chemistry in my intestines went critically endothermic, or in layman's terms, I had to take a wicked shit. I excused myself for the bathroom which I found to be a little bigger than the loo on an airplane, but much more nicely appointed. As the situation escalated, I became concerned that I would crap myself so I removed my pants and hung them up next to my suit jacket on the door, then I removed my shirt and tie. I sat in that tiny toilet in my underwear, flushing regularly so as to not overwhelm the ancient plumbing.

Now, no bride ever told an amusing story on her wedding day as to how the groom shit himself on their first date because a woman will not only ghost you if you crap your pants, she'll move to another city. I think it's one of their secrets. I knew if I didn’t evacuate quickly and get back in the game, Christine would suspect something was up (in this case down) which would lead to an awkward explanations as to why I was taking so long in the crapper. When dating you want to portray yourself as the picture of health, a virile alpha male. Often I avoided leather seats on first dates because sometimes sitting on them can simulate the sound of a gas leak. That was challenge enough. While passing monkey's breadth on a first date will buy you ten minutes in the penalty box, shitting your pants will get you ejected from the game.

When she finally made it to the alter after a painfully slow horse drawn carriage ride from her parent's house to the church, the first thing Christine said was,

"Gum?"

"Don't have any," I said.

"That's how you got your breadth so fresh," she declared.

I shook my head and grinned the grin of a mystery man. But before the future would unfold, I needed to extract myself from the wee bathroom and get back on stage before my absence caused concern. Things were off script as my fourth flush revealed a dwindling roll of toilet paper. Rifling through the cabinet under the sink, I wasn't able to find a back up roll. This caused me to proceed with greater conservation as I neared the end of the shit tickets.

Years later in the middle of excruciating contractions during the birth of our first child, Christine turned to me between waves of pain and said,

"Listerine strips?"

"They hadn't been invented yet," I reasoned.

But now I was contemplating wiping my ass with the cardboard tube if it came to that. Luckily the crap canon fodder held out as all five feet of my large and 23 feet of my small intestines purged their contents

Once I was on a screenwriters panel for placing in the finals of prestigious contest. When we wrapped up with a Q&A session, the moderator unknowingly called on Christine in the audience.

"This question is for Robert. I really enjoyed your screenplay. Very satisfying story arc. Did you use mouthwash in the middle of our first date?"

"Thank you, but no."

Back in the tiny bathroom, satisfied that everything in my gut had been successfully purged all the way back to the Milk Duds I ate in third grade, I quickly put on my pants and shirt then straightened my tie, then I pulled from my pants pocket a small travel sized toothpaste and a toothbrush in which I sawed off the handle then proceeded to brush my teeth. I threw both in the trash as I exited with my suit jacket.

There are many events adorned with fine details that lace a first date. The only uncertainty for me as I looked into Christine's eyes on that night was if I was good enough for her. For many years I believed that the kiss later that night sealed the deal. I owe the best things about my childhood to my sister, Jeannine. Everything else good in my life goes to Christine.

Editor's Note: Originally published on September 25, 2018.