Wednesday, December 31, 2014

Designated Driver

I wonder if there is anyone else at this New Year's Eve party having a miserable time. The last guy who danced with me and left me alone at my table just a minute ago stepped all over my feet.
Not all his fault, though, since he seemed a little tipsy.
Really, I shouldn't be here with all these people enjoying the McGrath Engineering New Year's Eve party in the Gold Room of the Blackhawk Hotel. Everyone else is sipping a drink and chattering, or listening to the six-piece band playing oldies while dancing up a storm.
I don't fit in. I don't make small talk easily, I don't have the face or figure many guys would give a second look, and I don't drink. Which brings me to the real reason I'm here.
For the second year in a row my work-place friends Edna and Alice—also my best friends—asked me to be their designated driver? But why? I wondered. They hardly touch alcohol. The answer hit me in a second. It was an obvious scheme to get me out among the living.
This year when they begged me to be their driver, I agreed. I hadn't had plans for New Year's Eve since my divorce three years ago and didn't want to spend the night alone again. I'd experienced too many nights like that in the last couple of years. So I said, "Sure, sounds like fun."
But now I could kick myself, and I'm thinking my best bet to get though the evening is to leave this center-ring table close to the dance floor and hide away at a table in a corner—I have my eye on one—and sip on my ginger ale with a twist of lime.
I'm ready to move when Edna comes prancing up to our table. She looks marvelous in her slinky black dress.  She says, "Saw you dancing three times tonight, girlfriend. Told you guys couldn't resist that flaming red hair of yours."
I don't mention I danced only three times in the last three hours—it's now ten-thirty—and that the last guy was a little tipsy and probably thought my flaming red hair was on fire.
Then Alice races up, tucking her long, loose, blond hair behind her ears. "I just met the most marvelous guy," she says, bubbling with happiness. "You know what you should do, Erin—do like I did. Go up to the bar where all the single guys are, order a drink, and smile at one. Hit on a someone, girlfriend!"
My friends scurry off, and I decide the only hit I'm going to make is on that empty table off in a corner. I grab my purse and my drink. I rise and weave my way around crowded tables only to realize that a hunky-looking, blond-haired man in a dark suit, white shirt open at the collar, is sitting alone at my table, a drink in his hand.
Hit on someone!
Isn't that what Alice said?
I grab a deep breath, and my heart pounds like mad.
I'm thirty-five years old, and I've never done anything like this before. I pull out a chair and sit across from the guy, my eyes darting to his ringless left hand. "Hi," I say, hardly able to breathe. "Are you alone?"
"I am," he says, appraising me with an amazing smile, then glancing at my left hand. "I'm a designated driver for my mom and dad."
My eyes pop wide open.
How can this be?
I surely look as if I don’t believe him.
He explains that his folks retired from McGrath Engineering four years ago. They love this party, but neither one can drive at nighttime any longer. He always volunteers to be their chauffer. "I'm Eric Jensen," he says when he finishes. "I'm a fireman. Would you like to dance...?"
"Erin Fisher," I say. "Accountant for McGrath Engineering. I'd love to dance. I'm a designated driver, too."
"Are you kidding? Both of us?"
While we glide across the dance floor, I explain about driving for my girlfriends, Edna and Alice, and that they really don't need a driver. They were dragging me out into public.
After three dances, Eric and I sit at our little table in the corner, chatting and chatting. We like the same movies, music, and food. Spots, too. Baseball. We lose track of time.
Suddenly the band is playing Auld Lange Syne. Lights flash, kazoos blare, people sing and cheer.
When Eric leans in to kiss me at the table, my heart explodes.
"May I call you in the morning?" he asks, breathing on my lips. "We'll go out for breakfast, if you like. I'll be the designated driver."
"Please call," I say, and kiss him back. "Designated driver is not such a bad gig."

The End
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Friday, December 12, 2014

Snowstorm

I creep up to my new neighbor's house in the howling midnight snowstorm like I'm a burglar, the snow stinging my face. Except I'm not a burglar. A burglar doesn't carry a heavy-duty flashlight, shining it on his victim's front door.
All lights in the neighborhood blinked out a half hour ago—I'm on a rescue mission. I'm a fireman; it's what I do.
I rap loudly on the front door, realizing the sound is probably more frightening to the lady and her daughter who live here than the storm. But right now it's ten below zero outside. With no power in the area—therefore, no heat in the house—the pair will be half frozen to death by morning regardless of what they wear. Besides, the license plates on the lady's car reveals she and her daughter are from Florida. They probably need serious help.
I rap again, harder. I must sound as if I'm trying to break in—a burglar, indeed. Or someone worse. "I'm your neighbor!" I shout, hoping my voice carries over the howling wind and through the door.
Doorknob in my gloved hand, I feel a click and a twist of the knob. The door opens an inch. I press my lips to the crack between the door and the doorjamb. "It's you're neighbor," I shout. "Patrick Sullivan. My house is warm and lighted—I have a home generator. You're both welcome."
The door opens halfway. Without shining the light in their faces, I find the woman and her young daughter shivering in the darkness bundled in parkas, looking frightened and anxious. The woman grips a baseball bat in both hands, ready to swing. "Honest," I tell her, smiling. "I'm here to help."

Sipping hot chocolate at my kitchen table, eating store-bought cookies, we get acquainted. Mandy Abbot and her eight-year-old daughter Claire have been my new neighbors for a week. A widow, Mandy has come to this little town in northern Iowa to take over as the CEO of a major health care center in nearby Webster City. I tell her I'm a fireman and reveal I'm single. Never married.
I explain this little town is filled with lots of old trees. In storms like this, branches break, power lines snap, and the power goes off. It's why some of us around here have a home generator. It kicks in when the electricity shuts down. Mine keeps the furnace and fridge running and a few lights burning.
Our chat winding down, the three of us finally decide it's time for bed. I show them a bedroom down the hallway they can share. Little Claire, giving me a mighty hug, says, "Thank you, Mr. Sullivan. Thank you, very much. I was really scared."
I tell her and her mom that I'm glad I could help. Tomorrow's Saturday. Sleep in. Then I head to the living room where I peer out a window, marveling at the whirling snow. Back in the kitchen, I find Mandy waiting for me. She's my age perhaps—nearly forty—an unbelievable blue-eyed beauty snuggled in jeans and green sweatshirt. Swiping her long auburn hair aside, she says, "I just wanted to thank your again—and apologize for the baseball bat." She looks sheepish. "Claire and I were victims of home invasion once, three years ago."
"And when you heard the loud banging at the door, you didn't know what to think."
"Exactly. All those terrible memories came rushing back."
"I'm glad I could help," I say again. As our eyes meet, my pulse unexpectedly spikes like crazy. Her cheeks flush pink. What's going one here? And then we quickly say good night.
The next morning, while I dress, I'm filled with regret. The power's back on. My guests will be leaving.
I rap lightly on their bedroom door, get no response, and head for the kitchen, where I'm nearly rocked off my feet when I'm greeted with the smell of coffee, bacon, eggs, and find Mandy at the kitchen counter mixing waffle batter in a bowl.
"Good morning," she says brightly, and tells me she stocked her kitchen when she heard the storm was coming. She trudged home early this morning through a foot of new snow and brought things back to my house. "Making breakfast is the least I can do for your helping Claire and me survive last night."
I collapse in a chair at the table. I'm totally astounded. I rub my hands through my scruffy beard. The thought that leaps into my mind is private, but it jumps out of my mouth: "I could get used to us having breakfast together." Then my face turns hot, a three-alarm fire. "I'm sorry.... That was inappropriate."
Mandy turns from the stove, smiling, spatula in hand. "Give us a little time, Patrick Sullivan," she says. "We'll see what happens."


The End
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Friday, November 21, 2014

A Good Snowball Fight

The snowball hit me square in the back between the shoulder blades, probably a lightly packed snowball, which didn't hurt at all.
I'd seen the man and the boy—maybe a ten-year-old and his young dad—throwing snowballs at each other in the sunny, snow-covered yard next to our apartment building, but I didn't expect to get nailed as I ambled cross the walkway to the building's front door on a Saturday afternoon.
I whirled and shouted, "Who threw that?" I was smiling. I hadn't been in a snowball fight since I left home six years ago—always my younger brother and I against the two neighbor boys.
From twenty yards away, the man trudged through the ankle-deep snow toward me. "I—I'm sorry," he said. "I had no intentions of hitting you with a snowball."
I loved his soft-spoken tone. We lived on the same floor, but had never stopped to chat or even say hello.
"I wasn't exactly in the line of fire," I said. "So you must've thrown at me intentionally."
"No, really.... I'm sorry."
The closer the man came, the more I realized how devastatingly handsome he was—ruddy cheeks and awesome blue eyes. "If it's a good snowball fight you want," I said, "you've found one."
Bundled up like me and wearing a  stocking cap, he stopped ten feet in front of me, the boy following, also bundled up and wearing a stocking cap, a snowball in each gloved hand.
"Look. I really, really am sorry...." The man's voice trailed off, and he seemed to freeze as he watched me pack a handful of snow into a snowball. Then his mouth dropped open as I blasted him in the chest with a perfect throw from point-blank range.
"She wants a snowball fight!" the boy shouted gleefully.
"I don't think this is a good idea," the man said. "It's—"
But he stopped when much to my surprise—and probably to his—the boy hopped through the snow to my side and added, "Wouldn't be fair, two guys against one lady."
With that he let fly with both of his snowballs, hitting the fleeing man twice in the back. "Got him!"
I don't know how long the snowball fight lasted. The man was clearly—well, outmanned. The boy had a good arm, and I'd played centerfield on my high school softball team, a three-year varsity starter. Keeping the man in a wicked crossfire, the boy and I peppered him with our missiles, even when he tried to hide behind the three oak trees in the yard.
Finally, I shouted, "Give up?"
From behind the biggest oak three, the man waved a white handkerchief. "I surrender."
All three of us laughing in a circle, plastered with snow from head to foot, we introduced ourselves. I met redheaded Patrick O'Brien, a widowed high school football coach who taught and coached at our local high school, and his eleven-year-old redheaded son, Michael. They were new in town this fall, looking to buy a house in the spring. I was Eileen Parker, physical therapist. It was Michael who blurted, "Are you married?"
Patrick shot his son a stern look.
"Not married," I said, smiling, feeling my face flush despite the cold.
"There, Dad, I told you—"
Clearing his throat, Patrick said, "I think it's time we all went in and got warmed up."
"My place I said. "Change into some dry clothes, and I'll serve up hot chocolate and cookies."
Patrick and Michael thoroughly enjoyed the hot chocolate and cookies, and when Patrick excused himself to go to the restroom, Michael whispered, "I threw the snowball. Dad took the blame. He didn't want you to think I was rude."
"I think your dad's a very nice man."
"He likes you."
I blinked.
"He watches you walk down the hallway, but I think he's afraid to meet you."
"Really?"
Michael nodded. "That's why I threw the snowball. " He looked a bit sheepish. "I think you're fun."
Fun. I couldn't ever remember being called fun.
When Patrick returned from the restroom, he pulled out his chair, sat down, and said, "Well, why so quiet? What have you two been talking about?"
"Um, I've been thinking," I said slowly, feeling my face heat up, "that if you guys like winter sports, we could go ice skating sometime."
"Like tonight at the Ice Palace?" Michael was beaming.
My heartbeat picked up. I waited for his dad's answer. Had I come on too strong? "Sounds like fun," he said. "But no more snowball fights," he added with a rueful grin.
Michael and I exchanged a glance. "No more snowball fights," I said.
"I don't know," Michael said, still beaming. "Sometime snowball fights are good."

The End

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Monday, September 15, 2014

Golden Earrings

I'd waited nearly a seven months to see her again. When I entered the Crafts Building, I spotted her at her booth where she'd be selling her many specialties—scarfs, headbands, stocking caps, sweaters, shawls, blankets.
All meticulously and colorfully crafted, the work of a genius, I thought.
She saw me right away—Allison McGregor, the woman I loved. But after all this time, I still wondered if she loved me.
While twenty or thirty other craft people set out their wares for our city's annual Flea Market and Craft Show, she rose from a chair behind her booth.
She met me just inside the main entrance, where I stood aside so others could amble by. Smiling, her face flushed, she offered me her hand—small, delicate, warm.
"I knew you'd be here," she said, smiling. "At least, I was hoping."
I grabbed her hand, shook it, perhaps held it a bit too long, and said, "Why wouldn't I be? It's where we met a year ago. And I'm a crafty person myself, as you know." The flush in her cheeks deepened. What a raven-haired beauty she was, hair flowing loosely in curls beyond her shoulders. Slender and willowy in jeans and a white V-neck sweater she'd not doubt made for herself.
"We need to talk," she said, her blue eyes latching on to mine.
"Yes, we do," I said, nodding. "I haven't contacted you because you asked me not to. But now it's time to talk."
"After the sale," she said, and scurried away.
I'm a wood carver by night, a city engineer by day. Allison heads up the County Clerk's Office. Besides that, she sews, stitches, crochets, knits—you name it. We met last year at this craft show when we happened to set up our booths next to each other. It was my first experience at selling my carved, miniature creatures: owls, mallards, pheasants, loons, deer, elk, wolves, foxes.
My figurines intrigued her but not nearly as much as she intrigued me. We chatted during the sale. We were both the same age, thirty-five. She was divorced just three months ago, no kids. I'd never been married. She showed me how to engage with prospective customers to insure a sale. I asked her to dinner that night after the show. She hesitated but said yes, and thus began my courtship of Allison McGregor.
Our dates ranged from lazy weekends working on or crafts together to casual movie dates and sometimes dress-up symphony encounters. From the beginning, I knew she was the one for me. She was talented, fun, thoughtful, and loving. On our three-month anniversary, we dined at an upscale restaurant. After dinner, while we each sipped a glass of wine, I drew from my suit pocket a tiny, black-felt, jewelry box and presented it to her with a big smile, thinking she'd be pleased. But she looked fearfully at the box, as if she were afraid to accept it, so I took her hand and gently dropped it into her palm.
Her fingers trembling, she opened the box, and then—I swear—a look of relief swept across her face before she gushed, "Earrings! They're beautiful!"
"I thought you'd like them," I said, my smile even bigger.
The very next day, when I called, she dumped me. At first she said, "Things are moving too fast." Then, "I'm not ready for a serious relationship yet." Finally, "I don't think we should see each other for a while. Please don't call."
Today, when the craft show was over, the browsers leaving, the vendors packing up, she scurried across the floor and stood in front of me again. Biting her bottom lip, looking me in the eye, she said, "I owe you an apology."
"No, no, no—no you don't," I said, waving a hand. "Took me awhile but I figured it out. You thought that little black-felt box held an engagement ring, right? You weren't ready for anything like that."
Her eyes lowering, she studied her hands clutched in front of her, then looked back up at me. "My marriage was a total disaster—I still don't talk about it. I—" She faltered.
I untangled her hands and held them. "You don't have to talk about it," I said. "Ever. Unless you want to someday."
"I simply wasn't ready to make a commitment again. I needed time."
"And now?"
My heart thumped as I waited for an answer.
Wiggling her hands free of mine, she tucked her long, curling black hair behind her ears. In the lobe of each one gleamed an earring—a gold, heat-shaped diamond stud. That was good enough for me. A huge smile leaped onto my face as I said, "Dinner tonight after we pack up?"
Her smile matching mine, she said, "I'd love that."

The End
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