Excerpts from Living on the Sunny Side
CHAPTER IX: Slow Learner!
One would think I‘d have learned by now (the third time was definitely not a charm). As a child, I certainly missed having a father. As an adult, I was not interested in having a surrogate/father-figure playing the role. I would have been very happy, however, with a mature man—if there had been one—who would consider me an equal and who would be a partner and, most importantly, a friend. I definitely was not looking for the male equivalent of Nora, but that seemed to be all I could find.
Most of the men who were attracted to me were short; most were either of average intelligence or had serious problems; very few seemed to have been secure in their masculinity, and I became an ego-booster when we were dating. After getting married, I was supposed to become like their mothers. The others, the ones that knew I’d be a handful, were smart enough to not stick around for a permanent relationship.
* * * * *
I got a night job working as a hostess in a bar downtown. It was the classy businessmen’s alternative to the much sleazier place upstairs. My job was to get lonely businessmen from out of town to buy me lots of watered-down drinks at exorbitant prices and keep the conversation going so they would buy me more drinks.
Unlike the place upstairs, this one hired interesting, intelligent, and attractive hostesses who could listen and respond appropriately. Our uniforms? Sexy, slinky, classy cocktail dresses. Most of the customers were businessmen. Their wives and/or girlfriends rarely traveled with them. After a day or two, they hit our club, perhaps because they were lonely, or just ready for a night out talking to a stand-in for the women in their lives. If you’ve ever traveled for work, you know that when the meetings and dinner are over, evenings spent alone in a hotel room can be long and boring.
There were no laptops, Blackberries, or iPhones. As a matter of fact, it was years before people had computers of any size or shape in their homes or even their offices. So the businessmen who didn’t want the sleazy stuff available upstairs landed in our bar. They weren’t dumb: they knew they were getting ripped off, but gladly paid the price just for a pretty woman to talk to.
* * * * *
The first night I worked there, nobody had bothered to tell the bartender I was the new hostess. She evidently thought I was a high-class hooker looking to pick up some business. So instead of getting watered-down drinks, I got the real deal: lots and lots of Scotch-rocks. By the time the place closed and our end-of-shift meeting was over, I was totally wasted! And unbelievably hungry.
I managed to drive myself home without a mishap or ticket. I knew the only place I’d find open at that hour was a White Castle a couple of blocks from home. I went inside to order. Evidently, the usual 3:00 a.m. ‘diners’ were used to seeing drunk women in cocktail dresses stop by at that hour. I don’t remember that anyone took particular notice of me, thank goodness!
* * * * *
My next job was doing scientific transcription at a non-profit scientific publishing company, and it started very soon after the new rules at the bar took effect—just long enough for me to find the job, apply, and pass the typing test!
I was a transcriptionist, typing long and complex chemical compound names, read aloud by scientists who all seemed to have heavy foreign accents, for the index and (when more experienced typists didn’t grab them first) typing abstracts rather than index entries. The hours were good for a night job and the pay was decent. Days were free for classes. I got an apartment just a couple of blocks from OSU and one very long block from work.
A coworker and I developed a friendship before long. She was intelligent, competent, and sometimes fun too. We spent a lot of time talking about her marriage problems. She mentioned that her brother-in-law was recently divorced. She thought I’d like him and asked if she could stop by sometime during the weekend to introduce us. Sure. What the heck...
He was tall and cute, in an Ohio farm boy kind of way, with a totally engaging smile. We went for long walks in the park, talked for hours, and made frequent trips to a our favorite ice cream parlor. One thing I especially liked about him: he didn’t seem to ever want to watch TV and never showed any interest in sports. I enjoy a lot of sports occasionally, but not as a way of life.
One evening when we were hanging out in my apartment, he got down on one knee and proposed: “Well, I guess the next logical step is to get married.” How romantic!
* * * * *
By the time the social worker left, I was badly shaken. I got on the phone immediately to Bebe, then to Gail, Sue, and Nora. The next morning, I phoned the psychologist I had worked for. They all laughed and found the whole thing ridiculous. Everyone promised to appear in court as character witnesses, if necessary. I was grateful for the support, and especially for their unanimous opinion of the absurdity of her accusations.
As a potential witness, the psychologist was the one whose opinion I cared about most. In addition to his individual counseling services, he ran an education center for kids with both learning disabilities and psychological problems. I’d worked for him for a few years before and during the relationship with Tad, and he and the other employees had seen me interact on a day-to-day basis with many children, some of whom were simply slow learners, but many who were troubled kids with a variety of problems from fairly mild to quite serious. None of the employees had ever seen me interact in inappropriate ways with any of the kids; there had never been any complaints from the staff, the kids, or their parents. I could have probably rounded up twenty credible witnesses with no problem. Just being reminded of that banished most of my anxiety.
* * * * *
...the ex-Mrs. Jones’ harassment did not stop. Her attorney began calling me at work with a barrage of new ‘crimes’ I had allegedly committed against her brain-washed child. Not only were the calls putting my job at jeopardy, but I was getting very angry with the constant accusations. When I have done something wrong—at least since becoming a reasonably responsible adult—I have never had a problem admitting an error, apologizing for it, and doing my best to fix it. But I absolutely refuse to be as... submissive, if you will... when the accusations have no basis in fact. I finally told the attorney that if the harassment continued, if his constant calls at work didn’t stop, if Mrs. J’s highly imaginative accusations continued to escalate... I would contact an attorney myself and would sue her for libel, defamation of character; for causing the loss of my income; and for anything else I or a creative attorney could think of to hit her with. I mustered up all the strength and assertiveness I could during this conversation. It was enough. The phone calls stopped completely and the ex kept any new fantasies to herself.
* * * * *
Clem and I had a small, very informal wedding at a Unitarian-Universalist church in a bedroom community outside of Columbus... It was all sweetness and light and newly-wed bliss until we got home.
First thing that happened, Clem grabbed a beer, turned on the TV, and didn’t turn it off until we moved to Denver more than a year later, and then only temporarily. He watched sports almost constantly when he was home. The long conversations stopped. All the warm fuzzy moments were over and done with. Once we were married, he evidently no longer believed it was necessary to continue the whole romance thing.
We left a couple weeks later on our honeymoon—a drive west to visit Yellowstone and Glacier National Parks... We had packed a large, heavy-duty blue plastic tarp with our other camping equipment, along with some “just in case we need it” rope. I suggested that we use the tarp to make a shelter over the picnic table so we wouldn’t have to huddle in the car or the tent until the rain stopped. There were plenty of trees to attach the tarp to, but Clem wasn’t quite sure of how to do it. I took charge of the project, using some of the knots I’d learned from the cowboys when I worked in the High Sierra, and got our shelter up quickly, efficiently, and just in time. It had started to rain quite hard. Clem was very angry with me. Déja vue! He was angry because I knew how to do it and he didn’t. He evidently considered it a blatant assault on his manliness or something.
* * * * *
My pack was heavy. The trail was very steep. Clem, a jogger, bounded up the mountain. I lagged behind, all alone and a bit nervous. We were, after all, in grizzly country. I talked out loud to myself the whole time... or sang... or rang my bear bell. A few hikers passed me and reported to Clem that they had seen me along the trail and I hadn’t turned back to return to the car. I was practically crawling on all fours the last hundred yards or so. My feet were blistered and painful. And I was not just tired, but seriously pissed off, although very happy to have made it alive to the chalet!
* * * * *
The following spring or early summer, I was home alone when the phone rang. The caller asked for Clem. I explained he was out, that I was his wife, and would be happy to take a message. The caller was Carmen Cavallero, a very well-known piano player and band leader. He asked me to tell Clem that he had an out-of-town gig coming up and would like Clem to play.
I warned Mr. Cavallero that we might have to discuss it, since we had just completed our arrangements for a vacation in Montreal. It had taken a long time to talk Clem into the trip, our deposits were paid, rooms reserved, and we were not going to cancel, so whether or not Clem would be available depended on the dates Carmen needed his services. The two-week period overlapped the time we planned to be in Canada. My response: No Way!
Carmen told me I might want to reconsider, since the gig was in Montreal and all of Clem’s expenses would be paid. There would be two one-hour sets each night (or maybe it was one two-hour set...) after the dinner hour, and the rest of Clem’s time would be free, except for a rehearsal the night before the gig started. And the hotel was much nicer (5-star) than the
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