Schooled 4.0

by Deena Bright

  Now the hard part: I have to meet her first. I also have to let go of my guilty conscience, because I’m going to hate lying to her. Well, I guess I must also renege on that promise to myself that I’m going to swear off women. I did swear off women—all women. How was I to know that I was going to overhear Kathryn Howell’s phone call, a phone call that put me over the edge and certainly made me want to know her? I decided that I’d scrap the “no women for Dre rule.” Let’s be honest. That rule sucks anyway.

  My infatuation for her started nearly a month ago. Yes, it’s an infatuation, possible borderline obsession. Cue the flashback music; let the picture fade and get all blurry until we zoom in on an angry Kathryn Howell on her cell phone, putting someone, presumably her boss, right in his place.

  The day in question was crazy hot, unbearably sweltering, which is usually the case in Charleston, South Carolina in mid-September. I was standing under the awning of a local tourist seafood joint when Kathryn parked her bright yellow Volkswagen Bug at the meter in front of me. Normally, a girl like her wouldn’t have caught my eye, but I was dying in the heat and too bored and tired to look away. Nice huh?

  When Kathryn got out of her car, let’s be clear, I wasn’t knock-my-socks-off floored by her beauty or presence. I actually looked at her and thought, “It’s too hot to have that much hair.” Kathryn has long, dark, wavy hair that is thick as it is long. Nobody should have hair like that in the south. It probably adds about 10 degrees to the body temperature. And nobody wants that.

  I don’t want it to seem like Kathryn isn’t beautiful, because she is. Kathryn just didn’t “look the part,” the part that I am normally drawn to and tend to sway toward. Most of the women I’ve dated could grace the cover of a Victoria’s Secret advertisement, a Maxim centerfold, or Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition. Typically, I like my women tall, lean, blonde, and a little on the “easy” side. Who doesn’t really? I sound like an ass, don’t I? I never claimed not to be, which is why I feel slightly guilty for honing in on Kathryn Howell, chartering places I have no business exploring in the first place.

  When Kathryn circled around to the parking meter, she rummaged through her large, knockoff designer purse for change, pulling out a handful of coins. Immediately, I loved that she was walking around with a fake handbag. From where I come from, that was unheard of, grounds for societal ridicule and possible emotional torture.

  Quickly, she put two quarters into the meter. But then, she did something that made me perk up and pay attention. She put three more coins into the meter next to it, buying time for the car parked next to hers. A random, selfless act of kindness is pretty unheard of these days.

  At that point, I became intrigued. People didn’t normally surprise me, especially in this day and age. Sure, the South is supposed to be filled with southern hospitality and kindness. But the truth is, when nobody is looking, southerners are just as selfish and rude as any Yankee on the other side of the Confederate lines.

  Kathryn continued down the street, adding quarters to the parking meters until all of the change in her hand ran out. Stunned, I watched her walk every step of the way until she walked into a quaint little Italian restaurant on the corner. It was at that point that I decided I needed to at least talk to her. I wanted to meet a woman who put that much energy, selfless energy, into a random act of kindness. Who did that? My curiosity was piqued, but that was all that was interested—at the moment.

  I casually walked over to her meter to see how much time she “bought” herself, wondering how long it would be until she would return. Seeing that I only had less than 30 minutes before she returned, I stopped in to a restaurant to gain sanctuary from the heat with an ice-cold drink. Plus, I promised the owner I’d fix the floorboards on their deck in the back—a task for me that would take less than 15 minutes.

  In Charleston, 30 minutes wasn’t enough time for lunch downtown; Southerners like a long, leisurely lunch. Kathryn must have been just picking up food, so I knew I didn’t have too much time to screw around if I wanted to approach her.

  I finished my drink, replaced a few rotted out two-by-fours, and was patiently waiting for Kathryn’s return. Finally, she emerged from the restaurant, carrying bags of takeaway food. I saw my chance and knew that it was now or never. As I began to approach her with my “I’ve got this smile,” an older, smarmy man pounced, offering to help her.

  Shockingly, she shot him a look that clearly said, “Back off Buddy, I don’t need your help.” Wow, I’d dodged a bullet. My approach would’ve been regarded as offensive and chauvinistic. Kathryn Howell wasn’t a damsel in distress who needed a man to swoop in and save the day.

  I trailed behind her, determining my next move, when her cell phone rang. I laughed when she said, “Dang it,” and put the bags of food down on the ground, next to her car. What adult woman says “dang it?” She took her phone out of her bra—her bra? And answered it.

  “Kathryn Howell Seaside Literary Agency—”

  Bingo! At least, I knew her name and where she worked. I had time. I didn’t need to accost her then. I could figure out my plan of action before I approached. Now remember, at this point, I was just intrigued, wanted to get to know her more. It’s this phone call that just came through on her phone that put me flying over the edge and dying to have her.

  I listened, impressed, to her conversation. “Yes sir. Yes sir. I understand,” she said, nodding as she put the food into her car. “Of course, I follow. You want me to pick up a dozen roses and a necklace from the jeweler here and drop it off to a hotel prior to coming back to work.”

  Kathryn rolled her eyes and leaned against her car. Then she floored the fuck out of me. “How about his? How about I pick up the roses and the necklace and drop it off at your house—to your wife—with a note that says, ‘I’m sorry I’m a cheating bastard; I’ll stop—”

  The caller on the other end apparently cut her off, because she stopped abruptly and let him finish. Kathryn shook her head aggressively and said, “No, you listen. Fire me if ya want. I’ll have a new job tomorrow morning.”

  Kathryn looked around, realizing for the first time that she was yelling. She lowered her voice an octave and continued “I’m one heck of a literary agent, and you know it. Your flailing agency needs me more than I need it… and I’m pretty darn close with Beckie Foster, our HR director.” With that, she hung up her phone, reached inside her car, and then put more quarters into her parking meter. Damn, this woman was good.

  The people who I know, people I’ve known and admired my entire life, don’t do things like that, standing up for the underdog. They don’t speak up for those who can’t speak for themselves; they mostly just turn the other way, ignoring the pain and problems of others. They certainly don’t take it upon themselves to right the wrongs of the world; ultimately they just add to them. At least in my experience that’s just what people do.

  I wondered where she was off to, now that the meter was full of change again. Then for the final time in that short time, she shocked me again. Kathryn Howell got into her car and drove off, leaving a full two hours on the meter for the next person who parked in that spot.

  I needed to meet her. I had to meet her. I was going to meet her.

  Granted, I said that I was swearing off women for the time being. I’ve actually been womanless for over a year now. And when I say womanless, I mean without any female companionship at any time, zero, zilch, nada. I mean nothing. Let’s get really real here, I haven’t even experienced any form of pleasure in over a year either—not even the manual kind. Before you even think to ask, I don’t have a problem; there isn’t an issue. I just know that right now, at this time in my life, a woman, a relationship would complicate my life even more. And let’s lay it all on the line, my life is a total cluster-fuck of chaotic shit right now.

  Can’t Go Home

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