The Snake

My dad got a job building an apple warehouse in Leavenworth Washington, where I spent my eighth grade year. Dad was on his third wife, and now I had a step-brother whose name I shall omit, because I am quite sure the name is so unique that it could be looked up without his last.

Socially, I had my best chance since I left Ohio to fit it, but I have never been one for politics, and playing the game to rise to the top is not my idea of a life well spent. I was told by several of my classmates that Patricia had taken a shine to me, and she was a cheerleader for the football team. I was attracted to her, but it was such a circus, and the school had us marked as a couple without any response from me. I confided my problem to a friend.

"There's all this pressure to just start going with her." I complained.

"Hey," he replied, "just go out with her for a while. I mean, have you seen her legs?"

"Yeah, she's hot, I guess. But I don't like being told what to do."

"Listen, just date her, she's a cheerleader. Date her for a while then dump her later. It will make you very popular and then you'll have it made."

But I couldn't do it. What I should have done though, is something other than give her the cold shoulder, because what has the power to raise you up can cast you down. And frankly, as hard as it was on me, it must have been really embarrassing to her.

I think though, that more than for any other reason, I was scared. She was hot, and would have been good for me to try "going steady" like all my friends were already doing. It would have initiated me into the fun and frolic of young love. But I wouldn't look for a healthy relationship until I was in my thirties. Instead, what followed was the first of many mistakes I would be doomed to repeat.

She was called the Snake by everybody in town. I met her at a volleyball game at the local high school, sitting in the bleachers. She was a flirt, and I couldn't resist. She kissed me in the parking lot outside, in front of a few of my classmates.

The word got around, and everywhere I went I heard the same sound, "Ssssssss," like air leaking from a tire.

We talked on the phone every day, and I became obsessed with speaking to her. Before long we were saying I love you, but I really meant it, or thought I did anyway.

I went to her house when her parents were out of town, and she took me to her room. I was totally clueless. Only now can I understand what she wanted, but I didn't know then. I didn't even know how to french kiss, and I asked her to teach me. That was probably the breaker for her, finally realizing what an innocent boy I was, not the hyper-spermatic man she needed.

A friend of mine told me that she had sex with somebody on "the hill" beyond the bleachers at the football field. I was heartbroken, I called her up, and when I hung up the phone, it was over.

I sat next to her sister in science class, who asked me, "have you ever french kissed a woman?"

I looked at her suspiciously, "not that it's any of your business, but no."

"Would you like me to teach you?" She laughed her cruel mocking laugh, and I knew that I was totally ruined.

Office Romance

Everybody has to learn the hard way.

She was perfect, for one half of one date. Casey was a secretary at IBM Mountain View, a pseudointellect, an ex-model (or is that failed model), co-dependently living with her harpy of a sister, and was envious of anyone holding a professional position of any kind. She hated everyone that held a higher station, but smiled and said good morning like Pollyanna playing the Glad Game.

I received my call to California adventure only a year and a half into my first programming job in East Fishkill, New York. I left behind more friends than any man could dare to want to stake my claim in California gold. These were the days before the internet boom, where I was fortunate to find myself on the bottom floor of an elevator that would only go up.

But in the game of love, I had everything to learn. In the pedantic style of my father, Casey taught me everything I needed to know, by demonstrating the dark side of romance, and left nary a stone unturned.

She was a whirlwind of despite. It wasn't long before I knew what was wrong with every one of my co-workers. She had a special disdain for the lead technical writer, an intelligent, professional and long, sandy blonde haired beauty named Anne from Nashville, Tennessee. Casey had a degree in English, and felt the position was one that she was well qualified for.

"You should talk to Anne's manager to see if he'll give you a chance at it," I said to her.

"I've already talked to him about it."

"What did he say?"

"We talked for a while, and he decided that I was far too intelligent to be a tech writer."

Casey was always too intelligent, too cultured, too far above the rest, alienated by her God given gifts. Alas, she was from New York City, a place that gaff hooks it's residents and spoils them for the rest of the world. To her, the nation was always a decade behind the city in fashion and politics. To be upstaged by some hick from Nashville was a horse pill she couldn't swallow.

So what did I see in her then? Her superiority complex was a challenge to me, and I had to take her down, but at the same time, psychologically, I saw my mother -- aloof, unavailable, and yet, there. I put up with her games, and called her when she didn't call back. Basically I made a fool of myself, but it would be for the last time. I tried to break it off twice, and each time she cried to prolong it, but it never got better.

Finally it came to an end. For three days she avoided me. There was no doubt what that meant, but I needed closure. I drove to her apartment in the morning before work, took a deep breath and knocked on her door. Casey's sister Veronica answered, her eyes registered surprise then narrowed to a squint. She yelled into the hallway next to the living room, "Casey, Scott's here," then snatched her satchel and brushed by without a word. Casey came to the door, head cocked and putting on an earring.

"What are you doing here?"

"So, are we broke up now?"

"Well, it's not working out, is it?"

"No it's not. I just wanted to hear the words."

"Ok, so we're broke up."

"Now how hard was that?" I smiled, and my relief was not feigned. It was finally over.

This wasn't what she expected. She asked me to get some coffee with her, so I accepted. After we sat down with our breakfast she said, "I have some advice for you. The next relationship you are in, have some pride in yourself."

"Casey, I do have my pride, but I loved you, and to me love has no pride. I just made a mistake in who I gave it to."

She just smiled.

"I have to tell you," I continued, "I feel as light as a feather right now. I'm just glad that we are finally through." Her face darkened. I wasn't being malicious; truth is a two-way street. "I can go back to feeling like a human again."

That should have been the end of it, but Casey started a campaign to destroy me at work. By now she was best friends with Anne. I was walking by Anne's office and heard, "here he comes," in harsh whispered tones. Inside, Anne and Casey were staring towards the door. The secretarial staff, once warm and friendly, now stopped talking when I walked by. It seemed like the whole office was talking about me, and it finally drove me out.

My dad always said, don't take a shit where you eat, the wise old sage that he is, but I prefer something with a little subtext: never dip your pen in company ink.