Agendas, Motives, or Morals

My specification sheet for a mate listed attributes in accordance with importance: handsome, smart, had a job, good sense of humor, an over-all good person and single.

Handsome: I preferred my mate to look like the man in the Sears' catalog. Ya know, that big, strong manly man holding a Craftsman chainsaw in one hand and dragging an oak tree with the other.

Smart: When I first wrote my spec sheet, "smart" was lower on the list, but then after a couple of dates with pretty boys who just wanted to be arm candy, I moved it up to second. There is no future in dumb.

Job: After my first love and I broke up, I remember saying, "I can love a weed picker just as easily as I can love a lawyer."  I was young and naive and dumb. But I had also just spent nine years dating a lawyer who was hard to love, so maybe I wasn't so dumb after all.

Humor: Haven't we all heard it a thousand times? Laughter is the best medicine and it's so true, but for me humor is so much more; it's the antidote to blah, and everyone with a sense of humor knows blah is boring and wearisome. It pulls back the black-out curtains revealing the light. The light is always there, but it's those dang curtains that are in the way; if you're not laughing, pull back the curtains.

Good person: For the longest time, I thought everyone went to the First Church of the Nazarene. I presumed everyone knew the rules for being "good." So I didn't question agendas or motives or morals.

Single: Since I preferred heaven over hell, I didn't dare date married men, even though several approached me about their desire to do the nasty-nasty with me. Nope! Nah! No way, Jose! Not gonna happen. But not every married man thought it wasn't going to happen. Enter I don't remember his name, so let's call him Roger.

At RCA, there were six levels within the clerk/typist/secretarial positions: 6 - 11. In 1969 I started out at the bottom: 6. In 1980, before my son was born, I had made a dent in the plexiglass ceiling and had secured a job in Purchasing at the level of 42. Yep! I was moving on up. "Liaison" was my title and I have absolutely no recollection of what I did in that position, and since it has nothing to do with the story I'm about to tell you about Roger, let's move on, shall we?

My son was born on April 27, 1981. On April 30th he stopped breathing three times. Each time, the nurses revived him. The doctor called it Apnea. Jason was in IC for a week and then sent home with a monitor for a year.  I took a leave of absence and when I went back in 1982, guess what level job I got? That would be a 6. SIX! Yep! I was at the bottom again. But since this has nothing to do with the story I'm about to tell you about Roger, let's move on, shall we?

Within two years of returning to RCA, I was promoted to "Sales Administrator" in the Sales Department at a level 12--one pay grade over the highest paid secretary. AND I was single again. Jason and I were living in a small apartment on the south side of Indianapolis, and as my luck would have it, my recent pay raise kept me from having to rob Peter to pay Paul. But what does all this have to do with my story about Roger? Be patient; I'm getting there.

My inside position in the Sales department required me to communicate on a daily basis with outside sales reps--all of whom were male. Let me refer you to the sixth paragraph down from the top of this post: Good person. Enter Roger. Such a nice man this Roger. He was married with children; he was a devoted family man; went to church every Sunday; he liked animals, classical music, long walks on St. Pete Beach where he lived, and he talked to his mother every day. Such a good man this Roger.

One day, an outside salesman showed up at my desk. There was a sales meeting in Indianapolis and all outside salesmen were required to attend. Enter Roger. "If you ever come to St. Petersburg, look me up; I'll take you to dinner and show you the town." As it turned out, Jason and I had tickets to fly to St. Pete to see my sister in a few weeks, so I accepted this nice man's offer.

Roger showed up at Lynnette's apartment wearing a suit and tie. After introducing him to my sister and her roommate, we were off in his shinny, new sports car--a nice perk of the job, he told me. Would I mind if we went by his motel room so he could change out of his suit into something more comfortable, he asked me. Okay, stop right here. I know what you're thinking. But trust me on this. I thought nothing about it and said in a pleasant and accommodating manner, "Of course I don't mind." 

There was small talk all the way to the beach and when he pulled into the parking lot, he said he would only be a few minutes and then asked if I'd like to join him in his room. Okay, you're gonna have to stop judging me now or we'll never get through this Roger story. I followed him into  his motel room. He excused himself into the bathroom saying he had been working all day and was hot and sweating so he was going to take a shower. I stood by the window and watched the ocean and the people strolling along the beach. Roger came out of the shower with a towel wrapped around his waist. "I'll only be a few more minutes," he said. "Okay," I said. I was hungry and thinking about the dinner this nice man had promised me.

"Such a great night for a walk on the beach," Roger said. Would I mind if we walked to the restaurant. Of course, I didn't mind. But I was really hungry and hoped the restaurant wasn't too far way. We walked several hundred yards to a outside thatch hut that served only alcohol. Roger took a seat at the bar and ordered a drink; I asked for a gingerale. After a half hour and two drinks,  Roger and I began walking the beach again. This time, hopefully in search of a restaurant. The sun was dropping below the ocean when Roger turned toward what looked like a restaurant; Thank goodness, it was. We sat down at the bar and Roger ordered another drink and a gingerale. There was never a void in our conversations. We talked mostly about RCA and people we knew and Roger's interests. I wanted to say, "Can we please eat now?" But I didn't because Roger had invited me and I didn't want to appear ungrateful or pushy.

After Roger finished his drink, he said he knew of another restaurant that he liked better, so we walked on a dark beach back to his motel room where his car keys were. I waited outside for what seemed like a half hour but I'm sure it was only minutes. He came out of the room flustered because he said he couldn't find his keys, but then he found them and off we went in search of another restaurant. By now it was nine o'clock. I would have been happy with crackers. Anything! Food! I need food!

It wasn't to happen. What I wanted (dinner) and what Roger wanted (sex) wasn't to happen. Close to the end of this bizarre dinner outing, Roger finally made his intentions known. He had hinted all night long and I wasn't getting his hints. It wasn't until he said the words, "I want to  have sex with you," did I finally get it. I know what you're thinking. You're thinking I wasn't thinking, but if you're thinking that, you're wrong. Back then,  I thought--or maybe I wanted to believe--everyone knew the rules for being "good." You know them don't you. Oh, never mind. You're still judging me.