Get a Horse

Since the accident, I've read a lot of books, mostly autobiographical: Bryan Cranston, Life in Parts; Phil Knight, Shoe Dog; Trevor Noah, Born a Crime; Tina Fey, Bossypants; Jenna Miscavige Hill, Beyond Belief; Amy Wambach, Forward; Ray Kroc; Grinding it Out; Nora Ephron, I Remember Nothing. I'm hooked on autobiographies now, and when reading about other people's lives, what I enjoy the most are the stories. Some thing happened and we, the reader, get to be a fly on the wall watching the event unfold. I love that. In my blog, I don't think I tell enough stories. So, going forward, I'll work on rambling less and storytelling more...if I remember. My memory's not so good these days.

Here's a story...

I met Connie in 1976 when I got a job working for the President of Caldwell Advertising Agency, located in a mansion on North Washington Blvd.  My title was "Executive Assistant to the President." Sounds impressive but don't be fooled by the words. They're only words. Words to make the girl who gets the low-paid job catering to the big man with the big office in the big mansion feel more important than she actually is. But what did I expect? I could type and take shorthand, and I was not a man. It didn't matter that I was also smart. Without college or a trade, my options were few and always led me back to the secretarial pool.

There were four of us in the second-floor bedrooms in the big mansion. Two other companies shared our mansion, too. There was Herschell Caldwell, the President, CEO, and COO; Connie, a graphic artist, and another employee whose name I can't recall. And then me, the Executive Assistant to the President. Impressed? Don't be. I was a gofor as in "Carol Louise, go for coffee," and "Go for the mail at the post office," and "Go for the money our clients owe us or I won't be able to pay you this week," In addition to all of my other gofor jobs, I was also the debt collector.

Connie and I became fast friends. She was smart and easy to laugh and always up for an adventure and she was kind and gentle and good to her core. She wasn't dating anyone, and I was certain my ex-fiance would wake up one morning and realize he really did love me. He'd come back crying about how sorry he was, about how much he loved me; about...Oh, who am I fooling. He wasn't coming back, but I waited anyway.

Weekend adventures to another city or town became our fun thing to do. For a time I owned an MG Midget, and when it was working, which wasn't often, Connie and I would pack a picnic and go wherever the wind would blow us. One day, we drove by an airport on Allisonville Road, and Connie said, "I've always wanted to learn how to fly." We pulled into the parking lot, went inside, and less than an hour later we were both signed up for flying lessons.

We started out flying high-wing Cessna's, but after a few months,  I went across the airport to another flight school that used low-wing Cherokees. I always cringe now when a man calls a piece of metal--a car or motorcycle, for example--sexy, but I'm going say it even though it's cringe-worthy. I changed flight school's because I thought the low-wing plane was sexier.

Caldwell Advertising Agency folded, of course. Connie was wooed away months before we closed by a famous Indy magazine, whose name I can't recall. I know something was up because one day she declined to go to lunch with me; she never, ever said no. So I knew. I was eating lunch at my desk, when she quietly walked out the door, down the stairs, across the lawn to the curb where a man in a suit opened the back door of a black Lincoln Continental. She stepped in. The man closed the door, went to the driver's door, got in and off she went. She got an executive position (for real; not just words): Manager of the Graphics Art Department.

I opened the Classifieds again. Oh, how I hated looking for work. I was sick and tired of being a low-paid secretary. Surely there was something else out there for me to do. And then I saw it: Escort. Escort? I called the number because I was curious what an Escort was. The man on the phone was exceedingly friendly. He said that sometimes business men come to town alone. After a long day doing business things, they want to go to dinner at a nice restaurant, but they don't want to go by themselves. It was on the up and up, he said. Nice dinner and conversation. He said he had an immediate opening and wanted to know if I'd like to apply for the job. I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "What were you thinking?" Obviously, I was thinking the world was unicorns and Aunt Bee's Apple Pie and Mr. Roger's neighborhood and Dr. Suess' poems and pretty butterflies. I did apply for the job and was surprised when my interviewer said, "You've got the job." I'd never been accepted for a job that fast before. He said they would be calling me for my first assignment. When I got back to my apartment, the phone was ringing. My roommate, Lisa, answered it and said, "It's a man." Always thinking any call from a man might be Charlie, I answered with a sweet, isn't-she-just-adorable voice, "Hello?" 

"Hey, honey. How'd ya like ta git it on with me ta nite?" What? I hung up. What was that? I was confused. Lisa was the one who explained the "what." I told her I got a job as Escort and she started laughing hysterically. "Do you know what an Escort does?" she asked. I couldn't believe what she was telling me. The man had lied to me.

Connie met someone and our weekend adventures came to an end. I was desperate to find someone, too, but while I waited for that to happen, there was something I had always wanted to do: Get a horse.