Through a Stranger's Eyes

by Steven S Walsky

  Chapter Four

  Second dates are the true test

  This new journey with Breen did not start with a 'hello, remember me' card from Breen, as the last journey did; a gentle shock, a move from the non-physical to the sound of her voice on the phone, to the physical. No, this time it was instantaneous, her standing next to me. Even having spent time in the restaurant, having talked before a time and place for date number two was selected, I still felt like an out-of-work piano player gearing up for the make-it-or-break-it, last-shot-lounge gig. Dating is like that, you just don’t know what request song will be thrown at you. Donna recommends a powwow, then an ‘oral cram exam session’ as she called it. Such a way with words; if only her mother should hear the stuff that emanates from her daughter’s twisting of vocabulary. We go to Page & Cup, and while Donna leafs through a fashion magazine, I discuss the new pickup truck I want. We’re sitting on a couch; it’s that kind of place, fancy cups, fancy names, fancy furniture, and overpriced; then again, Donna likes the place.

  With my truck talk ‘neatly placed in the trash,’ as Donna so nicely put it, she idly rolls the magazine in her hand and turns the conversation to my new ‘adventures in romance,’ another Donnaism, “Dave, you need to brush up on conversation techniques.”

  “Conversation techniques are my forte…ouch! What was the smack on the knee for?”

  “For not listening to me; your forte is being dumb, like pickup trucks.”

  “I’m listening…don’t you dare smack me again…be a lady, we’re in public,” like that would stop her.

  “WELL, listen to me.” I nod okay and move a few feet away from her.

  “Good, now that I have your attention! Men and women are different. Don’t even go there Dave, I can read your mind. Men and women are different, but that’s not the problem with relational conversations. Scenario, two men attending a conference meet for the first time in the hotel bar. No they’re not gay! Dave, I just spent twenty minutes of my life listening to your idea of a decent vehicle, at least give me a few minutes of your attention, regardless of how difficult that may be,” smack.

  “Damn it Donna, stop that!”

  “Didn’t think I could reach that far, did ya? Now where was I…right, two men meet for the first time, they have a nice conversation on theoretical physics and when they get up what do they do? They shake hands and say ‘nice talking to you’ and that’s it. But if two men meet in the bar and one of them says ‘did you see how far baseballman…”

  “Baseballman? Don’t smack.”

  “YES baseballman. Did you see how far baseballman walloped that one last night? And the two launch into a six hour discussion on sports, at the conclusion of which, they are now best friends. Trivial subjects are what make conversations intimate. There’s a time and place for serious discussion; but for friends, AND lovers, it’s being able to connect. What the serious minded label trivial, are the topics that really connect. Breen is not ready to listen to your truck concepts, nor is she ready to listen to some serious dissertation on functional romances. Get it?”

  “Yep. We need to discuss sports if…don’t…I’m joking (but, like Joanne once told me, there’s a measure of ‘I really mean it’ when someone says their just joking). I believe you, strange as it may sound, I have tried to do this, if only subconsciously.”

  She smiles, “We both know people who never join the group for lunch, or they stand by themselves at parties. They’re waiting for serious conversations; scorning the rest of us for wasting our time on talk of sports, clothes, or the movies. They just wait by themselves in some dark corner of life, waiting for those brief moments to discuss diagramming sentences or equal representation in relation to demographic distribution.”

  “Sooooo, I keep the conversation light, not giddy, not serious, and no trucks or NASCAR.”

  Kiss on cheek, “Now wasn’t that easy.”

  Needless to say, Donna drinks her coffee strong when she’s with me, and I have to guard against her long reach.

  Some forty minutes later, as Donna was distracted buckling her seat belt I gave her a smack on the knee with the magazine.

  Caught off guard, “I told you the woman gets to do the friendly smacking!”

  “That wasn’t a smack, it was love tap.”

  “When am I going to meet Breen, I need to talk to her.”

  “That’s why I am keeping the two of you apart.”

  Donna and I are friends. When we were single, it was like brother and sister, when we were married it was like cousins; both single again, the closeness was a lifeline. Yet we are so much alike it’s frightening; because she’s so right about me. And I had no doubts that Breen and Donna would be friends; which was also kind of scary.

  Date two. The crispness of the air, the scent of wild flowers, the aromas of cotton candy and peanuts, and sounds of laughter was heartening; we had gone to the zoo. If done right, the zoo can be just enough memories of childhood excitement to inflame adult desire. Not sure why. I mean with all the cavorting pigmy hippos, foul-smelling monkeys, and lions that sleep the day away oblivious to the children that were schlepped across the interstates to be there. Dating hint, at zoos, always use an up-wind entrance. This ‘approach’ is also applicable for circuses. Nevertheless, zoos, like the circus, have a magical presence that make you want to enjoy life.

  I am sure it’s the children. Seeing them run from exhibit to exhibit, the smiles on their faces, the glee in their eyes as they stuff candy, popcorn, hotdogs and every assortment of junk food known to man in their little mouths, chins, shirts, pants and parent’s clothes. Adults become children, no matter how hard they try to resist the seals, polar bears and monkeys. Relax and be a child for a few hours, it will do you a world of good.

  Date two started off far different than date one; we did not arrive in separate cars, nor did we feel like we were on ice and that measured, tactful words were necessary as we felt out the depths of each other's feelings. This time I drove to Breen’s apartment and she greeted me at the door with a smile, a hug, and nice kiss hello. In all honesty, the kiss itself surprised me; while I had been thinking about a kiss, the suddenness and warmth of the kiss took me by surprise. When Breen and I released each other from the hug, she appeared confused. I asked her what was wrong and she replied, “Nothing...your reaction was what I had wanted, hoped for.”

  Now I was confused, “I enjoyed the kiss, more than enjoyed if there is such a word.”

  “I know you enjoyed it, so did I. It’s...I guess somewhere in the back of my mind I was preparing for you to do or say something that would spoil the moment...I’m sorry I just said that, cause I may have just spoiled the moment.” Her face showed true concern, nonetheless still radiated her happiness to see me.

  I thought for a second, “Do you realize we just talked about our feelings, concerns?” Breen instantly understood and leaned back against the hallway wall.

  She searches my eyes, “We never talked about how we felt, how we made each other feel, did we?”

  “No, it was an edging around the table, read my mind way of dealing with – or more correctly avoidance of – feelings.”

  “Is that why you seemed apprehensive to tell me things and me (?), I was never comfortable telling you how I felt.”

  I nodded and reached out and took her hand, “Let’s remember that kiss and I think we’ll be okay.”

  The ride to the zoo was very pleasant; we were relaxed being with each other.

  Breen and I sit on a bench and talk about zoos and people in general. We can do this because I have taken her, and she’s taken me, to zoos in cities in at least three countries. We talk about the color of balloons. I tell her about the man who would play songs on a balloon. He sat each day in a local hamburger joint, and played songs on request; letting out the air in pitch and rhythm. I wrote a poem about him. I believe it was the poem in which my twelfth grade English teacher saw some potential and told me �
�if you’re going to write, be serious about your writing.”

  We talked about the color of the short woman’s hair; the fidgetiness of the tall man standing next to her; and how the children seemed to run hither and yon with no prejudice of time and physical space. We talked about all the things people talk about when they actually talk to each other. Breen asks how I came up with the creative name of Dog.

  “On the way to the kennel I had thought about names, like Spot, Rover, and Chuck...”

  “Chuck?”

  “Not really, just threw that one in. So, I am at the kennel and the mess of puppies are running around this large outdoor area; with me standing there looking for the right one. I notice this puppy staring at a man and woman who were also looking for a dog. I swear this puppy was checking them out. Anyway, the woman suddenly gives a ‘dame it!’ Obviously she had stepped in something. She then looks at her shoe, then me, and says ‘dog gone it...you’ meaning me, ‘think it’s funny?’ 'Oh no, but you must have meant to say ‘dog did it.’ Needless to say the woman huffs and puffs her guy friend out of there. Breen, the puppy I had noticed, seemed to be laughing at her. So I said ‘you, Dog, stop laughing and get over here.’ He trotted over and history was written.”

  “You’re serious...you’re really serious? You are.” I love the way she shakes her head to dislodge the words I so carefully weave.

  Donna would have been proud of me. Breen takes my arm as we walk once again from exhibit to exhibit. We started to talk about the places we had visited. But this talk was not easy and we both recognized our words were skirting the depths of the misunderstandings that permeated our travels. I thought of particular incidents; each a selfish moment on my part that turned what could have been, into an unhappy memory for Breen. But we talked, and that was, for me at least, a sign of healing.

  She asks, “Why do you write free form prose? Seriously, why?”

  “Random thoughts…traditional poetry is too rigid for me because I want to write like I think, like I naturally talk…random thoughts, misplaced modifiers.”

  “But, you never wrote a song for me, Mr. Romantic.”

  “Did you expect a song?”

  “No, not really, just…you once told me you composed songs. Are your prose songs?”

  “Sometimes. Where is this leading?”

  Breen stops walking, stands facing me, and taking my hands in hers, “I would like for a man to write a love song for me. See, I have listened to love songs ever since I can remember; they are part of our world, every language that sings probably has love songs, and every written language probably speaks of love songs being composed. Civilizations all have love songs. Dave, a woman needs to be a participant, not an observer. I want to be the one who the song is written about, not the one who hears it on the radio and wonders who has inflamed the singer’s heart.”

  I had no answer, I just thought about her words, like ‘nibbling on the nail of your index finger, thinking.’

  She smiles, “Smile, just a thought Dave.”

  I wish I could tell you I was immediately cognizant of what Breen was telling me; no, it took a while to sink in. The old me would have rushed off and penned a song. Breen was testing my hearing; her need, her want.

  It’s going on 4 PM and we start to wind our way back to the parking lot. Breen asks if I am going to tell my friends that we went to the zoo for a date. “Nope, I don’t want any of the men in the office to know a beautiful woman is in the area.”

  “You pick the oddest moments to complement a woman.”

  “What was odd about the complement?”

  “Dave, I think dating protocol rule number six prohibits the said male participant of the date from telling the said female participant of the date that she is beautiful, or any other words to that effect, while the two participants are walking past the baboon cage.”

  “Why?”

  Indicating with a flick of her head, “Has to do with image association; it’s not very romantic to look at a baboon doing something to its posterior - not sure what, and I DON’T want to find out - then turn to your date and say, to the effect ‘the rear end of that monkey reminded me that you are beautiful.”

  “I see your point and I am relieved.”

  “Relieved?”

  “I thought it was a rule against asking your date to check your body and hair for bugs?”

  “That’s rule...fourteen, only when camping in the woods, and it specifically says you should expect your date to use a very sharp tool.”

  “You just made that one up.”

  “No way, it’s a rule!”

  “Then why is it worded without the ‘said this’ and ‘said that’?”

  “Because I quoted the condensed version.”

  Even with memories dredged up, Breen and I had a great time, and when I dropped her off at her apartment we made plans for date three. If you make it through date two, you’re set. Date two is the real test. Date one is quick and to the point, whereas date two is show time. Date one is feeling each other out, testing the waters. Do I act the gentleman, or defer to equality of the sexes. Dating is pathetic! Face it, arranged marriages may have a point.

  So date three is scheduled and the days in-between are open to a phone call or two…but don’t press your luck, call once and pray you don’t say something so stupid that when you hang up, she places a hand to her forehead to check for a fever; the cause of momentary insanity having agreed to another date.

  The next day I send flowers. The note with the flowers simply reads: A moment with you is pure magic, Dave. Too early for a 'love you,’ nevertheless I knew she would know by the way I formed the letters when I signed my name. I called the following morning...got an 'A' for the flowers, “Had a wonderful time at the zoo…”

  Later, just as I was leaving the office for the day, the phone rang. “Hi, it’s me…” sensing a pause here…not a good sign, “Dave, can we put the opera on hold for a few days? I mean not this week. It was a rush thing, I doubt you would be able to get tickets. I…Dave, I need some time to think about all this. I’m sorry, really, I need some time. Please?”

  The sky just opened up and the rain drops were large, heavy and coming down fast. And Donna is right you cannot dodge the raindrops no matter how hard you try. “I understand, not happy, but understand. I’m not going to pester you with phone calls. You call me when you get it figured out; just do call no matter what conclusion you reach, please?”

  “I’ll call, Girl Scout honor. Thanks.”

  There is another way of looking at this. Love, like life itself, is a series of perceptions. We approach each day as if we measure, or take measure of yesterday. Flying over Oz, Dorothy learned that Oz may not afford the same views as flying over Kansas, but the fall will still kill you.

  Donna and I went to the opera. I had already bought the tickets before Breen called; nothing gained by wasting them. I drove, while Donna used the occasion to discuss my feelings. Always tactful, Donna got right to the point, “Do you still love her?”

  “Nice,” my normal response to Donna’s interrogations. “I’m not sure we even know each other yet.”

  “Dave,” smacking me on the head, “anyone awake in there!”

  “Ouch! Thankfully I can drive while being attacked!”

  “What’s this ‘we don’t know each other’ BS?”

  “Ouch, will you stop that! You know I can reach across this seat and backhand you…stop smiling, you can be a handful…don’t.”

  “Get to the point Dave!”

  Holding my right hand up to block another smack, “I’ve never told you this, but when I decided to get divorced I felt I was living with someone who forgot I was there. Not just our lives as a couple, but our…the common denominator that brought us together. We had become separate entities. Linda left mentally long before she left physically. Donna, I’m glad we stayed friends and that you have never pried into my married life. How to explain?
It has to do with how we respect ourselves and accepting our partner’s self-image.” I knew that Donna would listen to me, she knowing my words were now for myself; definition of ‘friend.’

  “The other day I had to go to corporate headquarters. I was coming out of the cholesterol snack/two-pack Tylenol in foil/newspaper shop when I noticed walking towards me someone I had worked for…gosh, nine years ago. I haven’t seen Gordon, Gord, in close to four years and that time, like now, if there was recognition on his part he avoided it. Not that I would waste my time speaking to him socially. In fact, the last time I saw him was in the same hallway. I don’t blame Gord for avoiding me, I contributed to his fall from grace by exposing a rigged promotion and the attempted cover-up. He’s an example of the Peter Principle. He’s a study of ability seconded to ambition and need of authority; power corrupting, resulting in incompetence.

  “Gord fell off the ladder of success when he climbed on a rung that bested his balance because he had lost control of his surroundings. Gord always had an oddity to his gate that bespoke of a neuroses twitch. We used to joke that it was difficult to walk in a straight line when your head was constantly turned around to watch your back; back stabbers become obsessed with protecting their own backs.”

  “This time Gord’s gate was far more pronounced, it bespoke of illness having overcome the last vestige of self-worth this fallen man had tried to cling to. Even if I had reason to talk to Linda, I would not mention seeing Gord this way, nor would I share this with anyone who knew him. Donna, whenever I would mention the problems of working for Gord, Linda would say, ‘Dave, good intentions do not put money in the bank.’ For me professional ethics and personal integrity are more valuable than high salaries. I lost touch with the difference between Linda’s comments of passing aggravation with me and comments of truth about us. As we drifted apart, the want left and only need remained.”

  Donna thought, and then asked, “Do you think Breen knows who you are?”

  “Not fully the 'now' me, she knew the before me…or, as I’ve said, at least she was smart enough to not stick around to find out.”

  “Why are you so hard on yourself!”

  “Because I deserve to be! I know I was not a bad person, don’t get me wrong. I was just a selfish person who did not see how I was treating others.”

  “Dave, I have seen you drunk, sober and stages in between. I have seen the selfish you, but, and I hate to admit this, it was the selfless you that attracted me and I have watched you grow, mature and become a responsible member of society.”

  “Thanks, please don’t tell anyone this, but you make a good friend.”

  “And, the tender you. If I can see this, so will Breen. You just need some confidence.”

  “Confidence, what a difficult word to live up to.”

  “You’ll make it, just don’t destroy a table of champagne glasses to show it.”

  “You said it made you laugh.”

  “But I always knew why you did it. That’s why, regardless of how I felt about that entire group you were part of at Rich and Nancy’s wedding, we connected.”

  “How can you go from smack on the head to sweet in less than thirty seconds?”

  Smack, “Ouch.”

  “That did not hurt, this will hurt…”

  “Okay, I get the message.”

  As I parked the car preoccupied in thoughts of ‘confidence’ Donna pulls a twenty out of her bag and waves it at me. “You buying?”

  “No, this is a bet ya twenty.”

  “A bet ya twenty?”

  “Yep, I bet that you hate the opera.”

  "How do you know I’m going to hate the o, p, e, r, a,…d, o, n, n, a?”

  “I just know.” My mind wandered throughout the performance.

  Later, as we left the Hall I paid Donna the twenty she had won. “Dave I knew I would win for several reasons,” as she purposely tried to embarrass me by making a great show of putting the twenty in her bag.

  “Real tacky Donna, the older couple over there think you’re a working girl.”

  “Well I do go to work, dah!”

  “Very funny.”

  “And very, twenty dollars richer thank you. Dave, it was a sucker bet, you had no chance to win. Let’s face it, A, you are a man and that reduces the chance to about…five percent for an ‘I like operas’ answer, and B, you are so preoccupied with your love life that you’ve forgotten you told me about going to an opera on your infamous trip to Austria and France. I had won the moment you said yes; you, my man, do not even remember the name of the opera we…no, I just saw.”

  “Great, my best friend takes advantage of me.”

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