Chapter Four

Get Overture

Dave Fisher stood in the doorway with a silly grin plastered across his face. The smell of cheap cologne wafted into the room as the cold air from the open door swept past me leaving me feeling like I’d somehow been standing there in nothing but my underwear. Dave was my motorcycle riding buddy, we’d met in the fall of 1980 at the same young adult group where I’d met Mary. He was tall, dark, and handsome and had an inner confidence about girls that I had never quite mastered. Dave was as surprised to see me as I was to see him. Mary, completely innocent of any wrong doing, was still in shock trying to figure out how to explain the entire situation—and the roommate—well she was enjoying the entire spectacle way too much. It only took a second for me to get my clothes back on before I turned to Mary’s roommate, flirted a little, and reinforced my invitation to the upcoming activity. I wished Dave and Mary good luck on their date and shortly found myself sulking into my apartment—defeated—yet a champion for skillfully averting a very awkward situation for all involved. Dave didn’t have a clue and the roommate; well she’d just had the wind blown from her buxom sail.
It was early March before Dave and I rode again, one of those unseasonable spring days that followed a melting snow. Most of my hopes had been dashed as I had watched Mary and Dave seem more serious about their relationship through the previous months. There still flickered a glimmer of optimism that kept me returning to the weekly meeting in the hope the Dave would fall gently flat on his handsome face. Dave strapped down his helmet and I led out. My body shop was not far from the foothills and made a good starting place for our ride. After an exhausting climb to the mouth of Slate Canyon we parked our bikes and pulled off the helmets.
“How are things with you and Mary?” I asked.
“We broke up a couple of weeks ago,” Dave replied.
My heart jumped. “Oh! Too bad.”
He gave me a rehearsed excuse for the split and I gave him my condolences. Our conversation somehow landed us back on the night in Mary’s apartment. I teased him about his cheap cologne and I told him why I was there that night. Dave nearly laughed himself off his bike. He’d been wondering why I was in Mary’s apartment and flirting with her envious roommate and why everyone had been so tense, and now it all made perfect sense.
“You need to ask her out,” Dave finally suggested.
“Who, the roommate? Not a chance.” But I knew who he meant.
“No . . . Mary, you two would be great together.”
“Na, I wouldn’t want to step on your wounded toes,” I replied, knowing I could get him to encourage me on.
“No, it’s over between us. She’s a sweetheart. You should do it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely,” Dave said as he strapped on his helmet. “I’ll race you back to the shop.”
My bike was faster and lighter, could jump higher and further than ever before. “My patience might just pay off,” I thought, but I knew the competition would be tough. “Maybe that’s why Dave was done, maybe he was setting me up for failure, just like him.” I soon left Dave in a trail of dust.

High school dating was my failure. During and shortly after—on the occasion when I dated—I’d dated two kinds of girls. Once in a while I’d get “lucky” and meet a beauty queen who would agree to go out with me because of my nice cars. Girls had always been a lot of work and I had always been sure someone else would swish them away. The relationships were always stressful and one sided. I also dated other girls who were less than beauty queens. One in particular, who’s inner beauty was so bright that the physical beauty didn’t seem so important. Her name was Julie Anderson and we spent a great deal of time together. We never had any chemistry between us, so instead of any kind of physical relationship, we became best friends. It was a unique relationship. She talked about her other dates when she was with me and I talked about my other dates when I was with her. We developed a love for each other, something I had never felt with a girl before. We taught each other social skills; she taught me more than I taught her. After we had been apart a year or two, I realized that the kind of affection we felt for each other was what I wanted to feel toward a future spouse. I knew it would be tricky because somehow the physical attraction put chemistry into motion and then . . . kabam, the next thing you knew you were up to your lips in chemistry.
I had already decided that the last thing I wanted to do was mess up the relationship between Mary and me with my lips. I already had enough trouble just opening my mouth, the last thing I needed, if I wanted to develop a lasting relationship, was to stick my lips into the mix. Little did I know that Mary was sick and tired of empty relationships without commitment. She had decided that she would never date exclusively again until some guy had put a ring on her finger.

Our first real date was early in the spring if 1981, dinner at Heaps Brick Oven. That night confirmed that Mary’s inner beauty matched her outer beauty, and I wanted to be a part of her life. Somehow in my clumsy way, I managed to impress her because she had felt a tinge of kindness toward me too. No worries, I managed to muck it up by inviting her out and for the next weekend and then I failed to show up. (This is one of those funny areas where we both differ. My recollection was that we ought to get together again, and hers was a confirmed date.) Regardless, I didn’t show. Mary tells me she even saw me with another girl that night. Talk about in the dog house. She thought I was a “player;” a bad boy. She’d seen my other car and beard and long hair. She’d given me the benefit of the doubt and I’d proven otherwise. I hadn’t had a chance to tell her the car, and beard and hair was all part of my police informant job. She had a newly formed opinion of me and it wasn’t good.
It was like a slow crawl out of a dark hole to get a second date. I hadn’t a clue what I’d done wrong, and she was going to make me work for it. It took at lease two or three dates, a meal I cooked for her in my own kitchen and my stories of undercover police work to win her trust again, but I still wasn’t out of the woods. She was dating several guys, writing to one who was selling books in Canada for the summer, and she was working nights, part time, at the local theater with Steve. He was the one that worried me the most. He seemed as good a friend to her as I was. I’d never met him and had envisioned some Don Juan of European decent, with chiseled hard features and thick accent who was competing for her love.
One night she told me that she loved to garden. That was my chance to occupy one more evening with her and limit her evenings from the competition. My suggestion to start a garden was well received, so once a week, off we lit, to plant and hoe and weed and water the newly sprouting friendship. It was on one of those evenings, while we sat on the grass in the shade of a giant elm tree, she told me about her plan to travel across Europe with Steve. She attempted to explain how they would stay in hostels, the guys in one side and the girls in another. She was so excited and animated as she explained her dream to venture into the unknown, seeing new places, sights, feelings and experiences. I listened carefully but somehow the only thing I heard was “with Steve.” And then I let my lips and mouth get me in trouble.
“I don’t think it’s appropriate for a nice single girl like you to be traipsing across Europe with a single guy . . . it just wouldn’t look good,” I blurted out.
“What do you mean?” her expression was one of those looks I’ll never forget and have only seen on occasion when I’ve done something really stupid. “Is that really how you feel?” she demanded.
I couldn’t very well back out of my statement and just blurting out “I’m starting to love you and, and. . . . and I would be so jealous if you were with Steve in Europe,” didn’t seem like an appropriate thing to say either. Besides, we hadn’t even kissed. Who was I to tell her how to live her life; that I should be the one to kill her dream of touring Europe? Who was I . . . the bad boy who drove a death dealer car and worked as an undercover police informant trying to give her instructions on moral issues? Who was I to judge her and how it might look to others? That’s the first time I ever got it from my girl. And she really let me have it.
“If that’s how you feel . . .” she took a deep breath. “I don’t ever want to see you again,” she muttered. “Maybe you should take me home.”
Fortunately I wasn’t as generous with the ride home as I had been with my advice. I spent the following hour trying to patch little tiny Band-Aids on the giant open wound I had inflicted with my sharp tongue. The hour after that was spent figuring out where I had gone wrong and letting her know that I valued her friendship. I’ve never been one of many words—from my mouth that is—but I was doing my best. Mary settled down and perhaps listened to what I was trying to say rather than what my lips were saying. Somehow I managed to get the message across, despite my disability to say what I really wanted to say. Things were back on track, but somehow a tiny subconscious switch had been flipped that let Mary know there was more to our friendship than met the eye, and especially the ear.
Days turned into weeks, and I had become successful at occupying as many of those evenings per week as she would allow. One night I was feeling particularly sentimental about our developing friendship. I purchased an album that seemed fitting and drove my big Honda road bike downtown to the theater where Mary worked. With my automotive skills, I quickly unlocked her car door and left a single yellow rose, a little note, and the album on the seat of her car. I locked the door and was gone. I later learned that Steve had walked her to her car after work. When she opened the door and saw the gifts she immediately thanked him for the token. He denied the act. Mary pressed on, besides who else had access to her car keys while she was at work? Adamant denial terminated the praise, but Steve had unintentionally been dealt the first blow of defeat in the war for Mary’s friendship. It was a few nights later that the ultimate battle was lost.
Mary tells the story the best, but as yet, she hasn’t read this love story and therefore it is up to me to relate the details. Steve had asked her out, and of course had to come to the apartment complex to pick her up. Mary says she was a little uptight as they descended the stairs toward the parking lot. She was watching closely, hoping I wouldn’t be seen, or see her with him. My car was not in sight. She managed to make it to the parking lot. Then she climbed into Steve’s car before I pulled into the lot. There I was. I climbed from my car. I looked so happy. She says that without a second thought she ducked. She didn’t want to hurt my feelings. Steve figured it out too. Sorry Steve, you’ll just have to get “overture,” she’s my girl now.

July 11, 2010
I told my bishop about Mary’s cancer today. Mary doesn’t want her friends and neighbors to know about it yet. A big C painted across her chest and everyone feeling sorry for her. As I explained the details I attempted to stop my quivering chin and watering eyes, all without success. Men don’t usually share moments like ours. Those kinds of moments are supposed to be for women, not tough old engineering contractors like me. I’ve found a way to help my wounded heart heal. I love to write. It helps me sort out my tender feelings and organize them in a way so my lips can’t get me in trouble.
Bishop Glover suggested that Mary shouldn’t wait too long before she shares the news with her friends. He reminded me of power of prayer, love and concern that would combine as friends learn and unite in love and prayer for her good. I told him that she understands and the close family has already joined in that process of support.