I Swear I'm Not A Stalker

Yesterdays post got me thinking about the ones that got away, and there have been a few of those. Of course nobody has ever believed me when I told it before, probably because I’ve always had a flare for the dramatic.

The funny thing about love is that when it fell overhead like a cloudburst, I usually had to ask if it was raining. Of course at home, soaked like a sea sponge, I was once again capable of basic math, but by then I didn’t have the numbers to add up.

I lived in Santa Clara some fifteen years ago. My friend Bob and I decided to buy mountain bikes in Santa Cruz, but we had to stop by his bank which was just down the street from the bike shop.
Bob had the personality that I would classify as type ice-breaker. Every group needs one; somebody who is fearless of beautiful women, able to introduce himself and his friends in the most intimidating of circumstances. The teller at the bank was vintage California, lean, tan, sparkling blue eyes and sun bleached, sandy blonde hair. She was the kind of beauty that severs the neural network connecting the mouth to the brain, unless of course your name is Bob.

In two or three sentences, the entire staff of Bank West was gathered behind the counter, laughing and cheering Bob’s decision to buy a mountain bike. I was dimly aware of all this as I watched her mouth, that bright smile that doubled her intensity.

We bought the bikes and rode them back to the bank, because for some reason, Bob needed to get more money from the ATM. The bank was closed now, and I felt a stab of disappointment that I wouldn’t see her again. I was a little short on cash myself, so I put in for forty dollars and stuffed my wallet in my bike pack.

“Is this the bike?”

I looked up and there she was, dressed casual now with her dad standing behind her. “Yeah, how do you like it?”

I got off and tilted it towards her. She ran her hands over seat, and then tried the gear controls and brakes. “Oh, this is very nice. Very nice.” Her face wasn’t more than a foot from mine as we looked at one another. I may not have been the Love God, but there was something carnal in that gaze we shared.

“Is there a good place to ride nearby?” I asked her.

“There are lots of great places to ride.” She was so excited as she explained to me a set of mountain trails she liked to go to. I wanted to ask her to come with me, but I felt a little weird with her father standing nearby, who was not threatening in anyway. Rather he seemed quite friendly. But I didn’t pull the trigger, and I went home a frustrated guy.

I couldn’t get her out of my head, so a week later I drove to the bank and waited outside for her to come out, feeling suddenly like a stalker. I saw her finally, so I got out of my car and walked to the ATM, as if I just got there. She looked at me as I went by and gave me a friendly hello. I did the same—and kept walking.

Insert chicken clucking here.

It gets more embarrassing, trust me.

So a month later, I actually opened an account. I went to her counter and she directed me to another window. If she recognized me I don’t know. My home address was thirty miles away, and it must have seemed very strange. I walked out frustrated again, but with a bad feeling this time. It was too late. I closed the account a month later, and vowed to at least say something to her.

“Aren’t you the one that gave me directions to some mountain trails,” I said like a total jackass. The Monte Python knight with a flesh wound had more sense.

“Probably,” she yawned without looking up.

It was one of those moments, and I’ve had quite a few, that I wished for the power to snap my fingers and simply disappear.