Chapter Twenty Four
It was the twelfth of February, 2013, two days before Valentine’s Day, and I had just finished teaching eighth-grade history to a room full of rambunctious kids who thought substitute teachers meant a respite from learning, and license to fun at my expense. I taught six history classes that morning (I preferred teaching English), and was now done for the day.
It was the beginning of the weekend, and I was giddy. I had been working up the courage to ask out on a date Deborah Leigh, the Human Resources gal at Fresno Unified School District. I was enamored by her, had been since she took the job nearly a year ago. There were times when I had minor issues that could have been resolved by a simple phone call to her, but I had chosen to go to the office and deal with her personally. She was lovely, inside and out, and her ring-finger was delightfully bare.
Four days ago (Monday) I inquired into her personal affairs, asked if she had a boyfriend. I hoped she couldn’t tell that I was so nervous that I feared fainting. The way she grinned upon my question was indicative that she suspected my motive for asking. And instead of aggravating my nervousness to an even greater degree, she quelled it. Her expression had brightened in a way that suggested that she had been long awaiting that very question from me. She proclaimed to be single, inquired into my own status. I matched her grin when I said I too was single. Too shy to ask her out just then, I said I had to be going and would see her again soon, and looked forward to it. She deflated, visibly dejected, and it was then that I knew wholeheartedly that she wanted to be asked out. Now four days later, today was to be that day.
Just because you sense that you’re going to receive an affirmative answer to your proposal doesn’t make you any less nervous asking—for me, at least. I was sweating up a storm, moist hands slipping on the steering wheel as I drove to the office. Valentine’s Day was two days away and I couldn’t fathom a more wonderful way to spend it than on a first date with Deborah.
To my dismay she wasn’t at the office. Another woman was. She informed me of Deborah being on lunch, wondered if there was anything she could do for me. I said I’d just wait for her to return. A half-hour later Deborah opened the glass door to the office smiling at me. Already the best part of my day.
“Hi there,” I said. “Do you have a few minutes?”
“For you…? I don’t, sorry.” She winked and gestured me to follow her, and into her private office she went, another glass door. I closed it behind us. She seated behind her desk; I sat in one of two chairs before it.
“Happy birthday,” I said right off the bat.
Her eyes widened, corners of her mouth upturned. “Thank you! How did you know?”
“I remember you mentioning it a while back.” Truth was, I overheard her telling a co-worker her birthday six or seven months ago when they were talking about signs, astrology. I had made a mental note of it.
“You’re sweet to remember,” she said affectedly. “I don’t remember mentioning it. Anyway, what can I do for you today?”
“Uh…” I swallowed. I wanted to ask her out right away, but apparently I needed more courage first. “I wanted to put in for some time off.”
She nodded once, her pleasant expression sobered just enough to hint at disappointment. Disappointment that I wasn’t there to ask her out, perhaps.
“Sure thing, Aaron.” I loved hearing her say my name. She turned to her computer, fingers on the keyboard. “Let me just pull up the—”
Her phone rang. She apologized and answered the phone, entered a conversation. I spaced out just then. I was gazing adoringly at her beautiful face, her full lips, imagining how they’d feel pressed against mine. My gaze drifted down to her shirt, which was buttoned a tad low, which wouldn’t have been a big thing if her chest was modestly sized, but it was anything but modestly sized. She was very well endowed. One button too low meant a heck of a lot of cleavage. It wasn’t overboard, she didn’t look like a tramp, but it was enough to please the discerning male viewer. I felt like a jack ass for looking at her breasts, returned to her eyes, which were fixed on me. She was grinning sidelong. She had caught me staring at her breasts! I felt like a total tool.
For the remainder of her phone call I wouldn’t look at her. I looked at the framed picture behind her. It was an Ansel Adams black and white of the Yosemite Valley. Half Dome was centering the photo. I stared at it, daydreamed of climbing it hand in hand with Deborah. I considered that this day, this hour, might start the first chapter of a new life, one shared with the woman speaking on the phone. Might we look back on this meeting ten or twenty years from now and laugh about how I got caught looking at her boobs? And how she denied my date-proposal initially before laughing and saying “I thought you’d never ask! Yes, let’s go out!” I sure hoped so.
I envisioned the two of us in a hospital room, Deborah looking harried and spent, a newborn babe in her arms while I filmed with an iPhone, tears in my eyes.
I saw myself walking our son to class on his first day of kindergarten. He had a sack lunch in hand, a lunch prepared by Deborah. I pictured him asking me about Jesus, and me sharing God with him.
I then saw myself driving my Tacoma in the mountains. The sky was dark gray, and it was snowing hard. Was it Yosemite? I thought it was, being that the Sierra’s were the nearest mountains. Deborah wasn’t beside me, though. I passed a 4,000 Feet Elevation sign, followed by a Lake Arrowhead 4 miles sign. I had never heard of Lake Arrowhead. There was a bird with black and white plumage perched atop that Arrowhead sign. As I drove past it, its gaze followed me, wings flitted.
“Hello…” Deborah drawled, waving a hand before my eyes. I returned to awareness.
“Sorry.”
She bit the side of her lip and returned to her computer, punched some numbers in. “So you’re going to be out of town this weekend then?” she asked. “For Valentine’s Day?”
“No. Why?”
“Oh I don’t know,” she said and blushed.
I didn’t want to prolong this one second longer. I subdued my nerves just long enough to say: “Would you like to go out with me sometime?”
Her expression would have been answer enough. “I’d love to.”
I smiled broadly. “Great. I was thinking we could do something on Sunday, Valentine’s Day. But if not, we could get together next week or something; whatever works best for you.”
“Sunday would be just great. Is that why you requested the next two weeks off? Do you anticipate the date being so horrible that it will take you two weeks at a mountain resort to get over it?” She giggled.
“Huh?”
“Nothing, I was kidding.” She straightened her posture and placed her hands on the keyboard. “So February fifteenth to March first?”
“February fifteenth to March first?” I repeated with a knitted brow.
“Is that wrong? Did I hear you incorrectly?”
“I said those dates?”
We wore matching expressions of confusion.
“Okay, what did I miss?” she asked. “I thought you said the fifteenth to the first… Lake Arrowhead…?”
“Lake Arrowhead,” I said inwardly.
“Did you want to give it more thought before committing to those dates?”
I was staring blankly at her. I focused and said, “No. Those are fine, I suppose.”
“Do you have family in Lake Arrowhead? I went there once when I was young. My aunt and uncle used to live there.”
“Where is Lake Arrowhead?”
“San Bernardino mountains,” she said. I must have still looked confused because she added, “Southern California? Near Big Bear? An hour or so from L.A.? You are familiar with Los Angeles, right?”
“Oh. That’s right. Yes, I am.”
“Are you feeling okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” I stood up. “Great, so this Sunday, right?”
“Sure.”
We exchanged phone numbers. She said she’d text me her address, and seven o’clock would be a fine
time to be picked up.