Pipe Dreams

As a writer, editor, and photographer working for a multinational construction and engineering company back in the 1980s, I traveled to project sites across America and even a few in Europe..

After I finished interviewing and photographing the manager and several construction workers and supervisors at one remote project, I thanked the project manager and folded my reporter’s notebook. When I turned to pack up my camera equipment, the manager asked, “Do you have any plans for later?”

“The usual. Find some dinner and go to bed.”

“Where’re you staying?”

I told him the name of my motel.

“Great! It’s Thursday, and on Thursdays I take my supervisors out for a bite to eat at the lounge right there at your motel. You should join us.”

“What time?”

“In half an hour. You have time to put your camera equipment away and then join us.”

“Thank you,” I said, relieved not to spend another night on the road without company. I looked forward to a meal with fellow workers.

A half hour later I walked to the lounge, which looked more like a bar than a restaurant. “Oh, well,” I mumbled to myself. To one side I saw the project manager sitting with a few of the men I had interviewed that day. Construction firms were beginning to hire females at that time, but only males had acquired enough experience in their craft to move up into management.

The project manager introduced me around, and I recognized the pipefitter supervisor as one of the more outgoing men I had interviewed that day. I’ll call him Pete.

Pete pulled out a chair beside his own and pointed. “Ya’ll sit yourself here,” he said, so I did.

A loud four-piece band struck up, which made conversation difficult, but I shouted to Pete, “Have you already ordered dinner?”

Pete moved closer, so I could hear his answer. “Food here’s awful. If you’re hungry, have some pretzels.” He pulled a bowl toward me.

What happened to dinner? Pretzels are my least favorite snack.

A woman wearing tight shorts and little else came over and asked, “What’ll ya have, hon?”

All the men had a beer or mixed drink in front of them. I figured a beer would at least have a little food value, so I ordered a draft.

The band struck up a tune from the 1960s. Familiar with the song, I tapped my fingers to the beat, nervous about being at a bar with six men in a strange town.

Pete leaned in again. “I used to shag to that song. Do you shag?”

“I haven’t in years,” I admitted. I looked down at my spreading forty-plus-year-old body.

“Well, it’s time to get up and do it again.” Pete stood, took my hand, and pulled me out of my chair.

I reluctantly walked onto the dance floor while trying to recall the simple steps to the shag. Holding hands was the closest thing to intimacy that it required. Otherwise dancers basically moved forward and back and side to side to the music.

Pete had not let go of my hand. He tightened his grip, and we began our dance. Up from the depths of my memory came the moves I had taken twenty-five years earlier, when the shag was popular. Pete surprised me with his a smooth swaying, and we fell into a sleek synchrony of steps. The best shaggers move their legs and feet, but their heads and shoulders remain level. The dance has a smooth look when performed right, and Pete did it right. The band played a long version of the song, but Pete and I kept up to the end.

Afterward I rushed back to the table eager to wet my parched throat. I gulped big swallows from my beer that had arrived while I was away from the table.

Pete threw back his mixed drink and ordered another.

In a few minutes the band played an additional beach-music tune. Without talking, Pete clutched my hand and again dragged me out to the parquet dance floor. Once more we performed to the music as if we had been dance partners for years. Other dancers even stopped to watch us. Toward the end of the song he leaned in and said, “We dance well together.”

“We do,” I agreed. “You’re a very good dancer.”

More drinks and dances followed. I was sipping my second beer, but Pete had probably consumed three or more drinks by the time he pulled me close on the dance floor and whispered in my ear, “If we dance this well together, we’d be great in bed together.”

Stunned, I shook my head. As if his wedding band weren’t enough of a deterrent, I felt no attraction to the toughened, tipsy fellow twenty years my senior.

Back at our seats, Pete tossed back another drink before he leaned over to conspire in my ear, “So no one will know, I’m going to leave first, but I’m coming to your room later.”

“Um, no you aren’t.”

“I can’t resist you. We’re gonna be great in bed.”

“No. No, we won’t.”

“You know we will.”

A few minutes later Pete slugged the remainder of his fifth or sixth drink before he rose and slurred to the group, “Shee ya’ll tomorrow.” He looked at me. “’Shept for you, ’cause you’re leaving tomorrow. Nice to meet you.” He flashed me an private grin before he staggered out.

A shiver went down my spine.

The night wore on. Afraid to go to my room, I nursed my second beer until it became as lukewarm as the room. When I could wait no longer, I said good night to the remaining men and walked away, glancing left and right with every step, afraid I would run into Pete. I had not given him my room number, but in the 1980s security was slack. Anyone could get any guest’s room number or even get into a guest’s room simply by asking at the front desk. 

I reached my room without encountering Pete, but I still held my breath until I unlocked my door and found the room empty too. Whew!

After a refreshing shower, I slipped into the bed. Tired, clean, and confident that I was safe, I dozed off.

Clang! Clang! Clang!

“What the—” Being awakened from a dead sleep, I could not at first decipher the sound. “Oh! It’s the phone.”

Shaken, disoriented, and in a dark, unfamiliar room, I flung out a hand to find the phone on bedside table. I missed the table, though, and my momentum pitched me out of bed. I landed in a squat on the floor, shaken and fearful that I would again have to fend off an insistent pipefitter. I rose to my knees, found the receiver, and answered with trepidation, “Hello?”

“Is Arnold there?”

“Arnold?” I exhaled in relief. “You’ve got the wrong room.”

“Sorry.” Click.

Thank heavens! It wasn’t the pipefitter; it was a wrong number.

I did not get any more sleep that night. At every moment I wondered what might happen next.

I never again socialized with coworkers while I was traveling, not with project managers, supervisors, or pipefitters. 

My pipes were fine just as they were.

For more stories about my many encounters with the opposite sex, subscribe to this blog by clicking on the Follow button next to my photo. Watch for the book Neurotica: One Woman's Lifetime of Lust, Love, and Letting Go. Most of the stories in the book will not appear in this blog and vice versa. Disclaimer: Many names have been changed to protect people’s privacy. While these stories are true, I have resurrected dialogue as best as I can recall it.

 

 

Then and Now

 

My encounters with males have not always been as potential dates, but some circumstances have still been funny, embarrassing, or memorable.

From the time my son was a toddler, for example, he bombarded me with questions. Each response led to another question. I saw his behavior as a sign of intelligence, so I did my best to satisfy his curiosity. I found some circumstances more difficult than others, but I did my best, even when the answers embarrassed me. Perhaps the worst situation, however, happened one afternoon at home.

We had been shopping together, and after I unloaded the groceries in the kitchen, I carried a small blue box of into the bathroom.

Sandy’s little feet followed close behind, questions pouring out of his mouth with every step. “What’re you doing, Mama?”

“I’m putting away the groceries.”

“Why are you putting groceries in the bathroom?”

“These aren’t food.”

“What are they?”

Gulp. “They’re tampons.”

“What are tampons?”

I felt heat rise in my cheeks. “They’re something women use when they aren’t having a baby.”

Silence fell for a moment before he asked, “Why?”

“Because when women are not pregnant, they bleed once a month, and tampons keep the blood from coming out.”

He never paused. “Out of where?”

Oh, yikes! What do I call it? When I was growing up I was told my private parts were called a pocketbook. As a parent myself, though, I had read not to use euphemisms with children. I clinched my teeth, but I used the correct term. “Vagina. Blood comes out of my vagina, so I put a tampon in there to stop the blood.”

“Do you have a tampon in your vagina right now?”

“Yes,” I admitted. I felt proud of myself for bravery and correctness, satisfied that I could answer any question my boy might throw at me.

Until he said, “Can I see?”

My bravery ended. My poor son had to be much older before he saw his first vagina, and I am pleased to add that I was not there when it happened.

 

Some forty years later I stood in line at the post office when another young boy waited ahead of me with his mother. A typical four-year-old, he blathered away, question after question, but his distracted mother ignored him, never even turning around to look at him.

“Why do we have to wait in line? Mommy, why do we have to wait?”

My automatic grandmother gene must have kicked in, because I answered his question for her. I leaned over and said, “It’s Christmastime, so more people than usual are waiting here in the post office.”

“Why?”

“Because we all have to wait our turn.”

“What for?”

“Most of us are mailing Christmas gifts to friends and family members.”

Proudly I straightened back up and tugged at my sweater. I usually did not wear tight sweaters, but that morning I had pulled on a sweater and run out the door without noticing that it conformed to my body a little more than I preferred.  

The little boy stopped bugging his mother and turned to me. “How long before Christmas?”

“About three weeks.”

“That’s when Santa Claus comes?”

“Yes, it is.”

“If Santa delivers presents, why do we have to mail them?”

“We also buy presents to give to others. We aren’t Santa, so we have to mail our presents.”

“What are those?” He pointed at me.

I reached up and touched my big earrings. When my son was a teen, he claimed I wore chandeliers. “They’re jewelry. Earrings,” I clarified.

“No, those,” he said more insistently.

I touched my glasses and looked at him with a question on my face.

He shook his head. “No, those.” He continued to point up at me.

I leaned over. “What?” I asked.

“Those,” he said. He poked a pointer finger deep into my boob.

Geez! I gasped and looked at his mother. She still stood with her back to us. I took a deep breath, hoped I was doing the right thing, and answered, “Those are breasts.”

“Breasts?” He tried out the word as if he had never heard it.

“Yes,” I assured him. “Breasts. All grown women have them. Even your mommy has them—”

His mother swung around to face me for the first time. I glanced at her chest, and it was as flat as a desk. Struck speechless for a moment, I stammered, “A-a-and th-they come in all sizes.”

She turned around to face forward again, so she did not see my face go red enough to match the Christmas decorations. Thankfully she got called to the counter, sparing me any more embarrassment.

Yes, men of all ages can render me almost speechless.

For more stories about my many encounters with the opposite sex, subscribe to this blog by clicking on the Follow button next to my photo. Watch for the book Neurotica: One Woman's Lifetime of Lust, Love, and Letting Go. Most of the stories in the book will not appear in this blog and vice versa. Disclaimer: Many names have been changed to protect people’s privacy. While these stories are true, I have resurrected dialogue as best as I can recall it.

 

Plays Well

 

When I try to make the first contact through a dating site, I rarely hear back from those men. I must assume they are in a relationship or they check out my profile and have no interest in responding. I feel only mild rejection.

When men contact me through a dating site, though, they have seen my photo, read my profile, and have an interest. Phil contacted me first, so he and I were one step ahead of the game. He knew my age and preferences, but neither of us had posted photos to that particular site.

We wrote back and forth, and his notes showed intelligence and wit; another good sign. Soon we chatted on the telephone with no awkward pauses or gaps. More good signs: like me, he was Jewish, and like me, he was not a practicing Jew. I could almost shout, “Halleluiah!”

He was age appropriate and neither too tall nor too short, if I could believe the height listed in his profile, but we waited to evaluate each other physically until we met midafternoon at a quiet restaurant midway between us. Yes, the only drawback appeared to be that we lived about forty minutes from each other; longer during high traffic times in Atlanta.

I entered the lobby of the restaurant where we were meeting, and an adorable man in the waiting area stood and faced me, a question on his face. Could that darling creature be Phil? In addition to having a loveable face, he also appeared to have his original hair and teeth, admirable traits for someone of retirement age. To make things better, he had a sweet smile.

The hostess sat us at a table, and we ordered tea.

I had enjoyed our correspondence and then telephone calls, and the moment I met him in person, I felt drawn to him. We easily picked up where we had left off in our telephone conversations, never running out of subjects. As our discussion progressed, I felt chemistry building between us. Ah, chemistry is such a rare thing!

He revealed that after he retired from a career in nursing, he pursued his passion for the clarinet and succeeded in getting a seat on a local symphony orchestra. When I had been in junior high school, more than fifty years earlier, I too had played clarinet, although never to the level he had achieved. Still, I had progressed to first chair after two years of playing. Because of my trials and setbacks on clarinet, I understood the man when he spoke of his love of the instrument. I remembered issues with that beautiful woodwind instrument, particularly the reeds—even new ones—and notes that squealed instead of sounding melodic. I could grasp the work he had to put into achieving his dream of being in an orchestra, so when he spoke of performing, I listened and watched while his eyes sparkled with enthusiasm.

"Are you really sixty-eight?" he asked.

"Yes. Why would I lie?"

"I don't know; it's just that you have beautiful skin. You don't look sixty-eight."

"Well, you don't look sixty-six, either," I admitted. He could have passed for fifty-five or even fifty. "Maybe you don't want to date an 'older woman.'"

We both laughed before he countered, "That's where you're wrong. I have nothing in common with younger women."

After two hours that passed too quickly, we reluctantly agreed to part, but not before he asked, "How about an afternoon movie Saturday? Afterwards, we can go somewhere for a light dinner."

"Sounds great to me," I said with sincere enthusiasm.

He walked me to my car and hugged me warmly. I liked it. We talked a little more, and then he gave me an even longer hug. Hmm. Good stuff.

 

He called me the next day. "I know I should wait a couple of days so I don't sound too eager," he said.

"No," I assured him. "I'm flattered."

"I just had to call, because you're such a nice person."

"I thought that about you, too."

"I don't know if you'll understand this, but you play well right out of the box."

"What?"

"You're like a good clarinet reed. When I buy a new box of reeds, not every reed in the box is good. I have to soak some of them for a long time before they produce a good sound. Some play better after I've shaved or trimmed them. Some never play well, no matter what I do. If I'm lucky, though, one reed will play well right out of the box. You're like that. You play well right out of the box."

I smiled at the strangest compliment I'd ever received. Other men had told me I was a good listener. Some said I had a nice smile. No one ever said I played well right out of the box, but I understood him. We clicked; no doubt about it.

As he had in person, he paid me more compliments. "I love that you have a fresh, clean look; you don't wear a lot of makeup." He added, "I hope I didn't push you too hard about a date Saturday."

"You didn't have to push; I look forward to it. Besides, you couldn't push me. No one can push me anymore. That's what I like about being my age."

We chuckled.

My mind wandered. I already felt strong feelings for the fellow, and my heart ached a little as I thought what our life might had been like if we had met twenty years earlier. How much fun we could have had together!

Friday, when I was having dinner with a girlfriend, the man called and left a long voice mail message listing movies, times, and potential theaters. I appreciated that he had performed so much research, and I liked his choices. Our taste in movies was similar. When I got home, I called him with my choices, and we settled on a theater, movie, and time. Again we gabbed easily, and unlike some of my prior encounters with online dating prospects, he said nothing off-color or suggestive. I felt relaxed and eager to see him again.

 

Saturday while I drove to the theater, I realized I might have picked one that would be difficult for him to find, because he was not familiar with the area. I waited outside for a while, and sure enough, my cell rang.

"Okay," he said, "I'm at a theater, but you're not here, and the movie you picked isn't playing here. Am I in the wrong place?"

"Yes. There are two theaters on this street. Are you at the first one after the corner?"

"Yes."

"Get back on the road and go to the next theater on the right, about a half mile down."

"I'm on my way."

We still had plenty of time before Marigold Motel began, so I relaxed against a wall and watched people until he pulled up in his car, got out, and walked over to me. He still looked as cute as the first time I saw him.

We hugged briefly, and together we walked to the ticket window. He bought two senior tickets for the movie we were to see. He put his arm on my shoulder briefly as we walked toward the lobby, but he quickly removed it. Maybe it felt awkward to him, but I had liked it. When we tried to enter the room where the movie would play, though, someone stopped us.

"We're still cleaning in here; give us another ten minutes, please," a fellow with a broom said.

"No problem," my date said, and we walked to a nearby bench. We sat down and chatted, but he did not make much eye contact. When I realized I had plopped my heavy purse between us on the bench, I moved it to my other side and slid a little closer. He did not move. While his eyes wandered everywhere but on me, he told me about a movie in which his symphony played a part, and he explained that he had wanted to meet early, to see the coming attractions. He said his orchestra might be in the trailer. Hmm. Still all about his passion, but I understood.

I missed the compliments he had paid me on our first meeting, but he didn't have to repeat himself. Worse, though, was the fact that I simply didn't feel the warmth we had shared on our prior meeting.

We finally entered the theater and watched all the shorts and the trailers for the coming attractions. Nothing referred to the movie he had mentioned.

Our plush seats had arms we could leave up or pull down. I liked that he had not pulled down the arm between us; the better to cuddle, I assumed.

The movie began. We watched it. I kept looking over at him for any sign that he recognized that I sat only inches away. Would he put his arm around me? Would he rub against me? Would he even lift his elbow two inches and bump me during the funny parts? No. Two hours passed, and we had shared oxygen in the same room, but nothing else. I hoped our dinner would be more intimate, because we would get to look at each other and talk more.

After the movie I climbed into his vehicle. We easily chose a restaurant nearby that we both liked, and again we had no difficulty talking on the way there. At the end of the salad bar, I offered my credit card to pay for our light dinner.

He said, "Why?"

"Because you paid for the movie. It's only fair."

"Okay," he said with a shrug.

We found a seat, and our conversation continued, but again, we had little eye contact. At one point he questioned me again about my age.

"I'm sixty-eight," I said. "I don't mind telling the truth."

He shook his head. "I can't believe it.

I thanked him, thinking he meant my face looked young.

Instead he pointed. "Look! You can't be sixty-eight. You have no age spots on your hands."

I laughed. What an odd observation! Okay, if he wasn't looking me in the eyes, at least he looked at my hands.

We talked more, after we had finished our meals. Eventually he revealed that a few years earlier, he had survived testicular cancer. "I'm fine, now," he said, "but it was a scare."

"I understand," I said. "In fact I haven't told many people, but I just had a hysterectomy because I had endometrial cancer."  

He pursed his lips but said nothing, so I added, "I'm doing great, though. I don't need chemotherapy or radiation. The first day we met marked one month since my operation, and that was the first time I was allowed to drive."

He pushed his chair back and stared at me. "You just had an operation? You shouldn't be out. You should be resting."

"I've rested for five weeks," I said. "I'm finally able to get around and get back to life."

"You should be sleeping. I'm a nurse; I know that when you're sleeping, you're healing."

"I healed for weeks. I'm ready to resume where I left off."

He shook his head, leaned forward, and said, "I wish you were resting."

I thought it dear of him to be concerned, but then good nurses do feel compassion, and he had spent his life as a nurse.

He glanced at his watch and looked at me. "I guess it's time to go."

"Okay." I gathered my jacket, stood, and we walked to his vehicle. He drove me back to my car in silence. I knew things had gone terribly wrong, but I wasn't quite sure when, where, how, or why.

When we reached my car, he did not get out of his vehicle. He did not walk me to my car, as he had done the first time we met. He reached over and gave me a cursory hug, not nearly as warm as the first ones he had given me after our first meeting. "Take care," he said, when I climbed out of his vehicle.

 

The next day my sister asked, "Did you have fun on your date?"

"I did, but I don't think I'll hear from him again."

"How can you know that?"

"I can't, for sure, but I have an odd feeling about it. He didn't make much eye contact, and he hugged me good-bye as if I was nothing to him. He didn't even walk me to my car. He didn't ask for another date. I don't think I'll hear from him again."

"Sure you will," she assured me.

I didn't.

He had given me his card. It had only his name, his number, and clarinetist on it. I used it as a bookmark in the book I was reading, and every night I saw his name, his phone number, and clarinetist. My heart ached a little each time I saw it, and my mind mulled over everything that happened. Did I forget to flirt? Probably. Should I have nudged him while we sat in the theater? Maybe. Did he get offended when I put my purse between us, when we first sat on the bench? Perhaps. Did I upset him by paying for dinner? Apparently. Did he get put off by the fact that I had been diagnosed with cancer? It appeared so. Was he looking for someone completely healthy and strong to take care of him, in case his cancer returned, and if so, had I failed the test? Who knows?

After a week, I sent him an e-mail and asked where things went wrong. I said knowing the truth would help me the next time I met someone.

He did not respond.

After a few months I threw away his card and used another bookmark in my reading material. Finally, a few months later, I couldn’t remember his name if I thought about him, but more than a year later, my heart still yearned a little, wondering what happened.

How could something that played so well right out of the box have gone so wrong? I will never know.

Oh, and for those who want to know, my cancer was only stage one. I caught it early and the operation removed it all. I’ve been cancer free ever since, and I’m fine, except I will always wonder whatever happened to Phil.

 

For more stories about my many encounters with the opposite sex, subscribe to this blog by clicking on the Follow button next to my photo. Watch for the book Neurotica: One Woman's Lifetime of Lust, Love, and Letting Go. Most of the stories in the book will not appear in this blog and vice versa. Disclaimer: Many names have been changed to protect people’s privacy. While these stories are true, I have resurrected dialogue as best as I can recall it.

Blue Eyes Crying in the Reign

The other day I ran into a poem I wrote after an encounter that took place when I was about nineteen years old. It reminded me of the story I'm about to tell.

I was walking down Main Street in Columbia, South Carolina, with my college friend Sonja, a natural blonde with striking looks. Just the other day my two brothers wrote on Sonja's Facebook page that she's the most beautiful woman they've ever known. She's still beautiful today, even though she is in her seventies.

I digress.

Back in the 1960s, I was as I am now, overweight with mousy brown hair and plain looks. I don't think I'm ugly, but no one ever accused me of being beautiful. When I was with Sonja, I expected her to get all the attention from men, and she did, except for this one day, when two handsome men came walking up the street toward us. I whispered to Sonja, "That guy's gorgeous!" I secretly pointed to the blond fellow with blue eyes that seemed to smile all on their own.

She said, "Want to meet them?"

Knowing they would both be more interested in her, I said, "Don't bother."

At that moment, the other guy stopped in front of us and said, "Sonja?"

"Great to see you," she said, calling the brown-haired fellow by name. Let's say he was Greg.

Greg grabbed his buddy's arm. "This is Buster. Buster, this is my friend Sonja. We went to high school together."

Buster nodded at Sonja but turned to me and said, "And who is this lovely lady?"

"I-I-I'm Bobbie," I stammered, smitten with his blue eyes cutting into my soul.

"Very nice to meet you, Bobbie," Buster said, never turning his beautiful eyes away from me.

"Y-you too."

"See ya," Sonja said. She pulled me along.

I felt like a rubber band snapped when Buster broke his gaze and walked away.

The next day Sonja called. "Buster and Greg want to meet us for a Coke. Want to go?"

"You bet!"

We picked a day, time, and place, and my heart fluttered with excitement I had not felt in a long time. I had visions of being alone in a dark place with Buster, his blue eyes coming closer, closer, closer, until our lips, eager to touch, found each other, moist, tender, eager. . .

Yes, as a college student interested in journalism, English, and creative writing, I often wrote scenarios in my mind of how romantic scenes might unfold in my life. I had not yet learned to let life take its own course.

At last the day arrived. Sonja had no interest in Greg or Buster, but she came along for the meeting, always a good friend to me.

I slid into the booth opposite Buster, and again his bright eyes bore into mine and his smile lit up the room; all the romantic clichés in the world were taking place. I thought I even heard bells and banjos playing.

“So what do you girls do?” Buster asked.

“Do?” Sonja asked, deadpan. “We walk, we talk, we eat, we—”

“I mean are you working?” Buster corrected.

“No, we’re both going to Carolina.”

Gregg nodded. “College. We didn’t go. We went straight to work.”

“Where do you work?” I asked.

Buster responded. “XYZ Finance Company.”

“Oh,” I said. I thought I heard a banjo break a string. I had a low opinion of finance companies. I don’t know if they exist today, but back in the 1960s, they preyed on the poor, charging outrageous interest and rooking the unsuspecting into borrowing more and more money, until they were deep in debt.

I fell silent.

Greg and Sonja continued to chat, and my silence must have gotten to Buster, because he pulled a pen from his shirt pocket (which should have been a clue, but I missed it) and began writing on a napkin. He wrote large block letters and filled them in with black ink, taking a long time. I appreciated that I no longer had to contribute to the conversation while he stayed busy and quiet, and I sipped my Coke and wondered what to do next.

After five minutes or more, Buster raised the napkin with pride and showed it to me. He had written “XYZ Finance Company. See use for money.”

It took me a few seconds to realize he meant us, not use. He had found the most reliable way to turn off a woman devoted to proper grammar and punctuation. All the bells and banjos struck a jarring chord, stopped dead, and fell to the ground.

I do not remember how I got away from Buster and Greg, but I did, as soon as I could. How could someone so handsome be so illiterate? Why would an illiterate person think he could reach me through writing a message that proved he could not spell a two-letter word?

Was I harsh to reject him so quickly? Perhaps, but our gut feelings are usually right. I could not see myself with someone who could not write a four-word sentence without errors. His sparkling eyes would have to find someone else.

I had no us for him.

                                                                                   ***

For more stories about my many encounters with the opposite sex, subscribe to this blog and watch for the book Neurotica: One Woman's Lifetime of Lust, Love, and Letting Go. The stories in the book will not appear in this blog and vice versa.