1
He had graduated from high school over a year ago, Class of '68 in the small city in the Desert Southwest. Some of his friends had gone off to college the following fall, a couple had joined the military, two had been drafted, some had found jobs in town.
His high school girlfriend was one who had gone off to State. She had said, since they were going to be two hundred miles apart and she wouldn't get back home very often, perhaps they should 'expand their horizons' and 'be free to see other people'. So, yes, they broke up.
He was undecided about his future. He felt college was not for him and neither was the prospect of getting a job at one of the two major employers in town and working there for forty years and retiring. He felt there was something more for him but didn't know what it was at the moment.
He was working at the service station up on the highway on the edge of town and made enough to support himself and rent a dilapidated old farmhouse a couple of miles out. It was comfortable enough and isolated. He found he liked the isolation and didn't mind being alone.
He liked to read and sometimes did some writing as well. He had ideas, observations about the world from his own perspective and from his imagination.
He guessed that's why he signed up for a creative writing class three nights a week at the local community college. Maybe he would learn about the mechanics of writing. He had always done well in English in high school, well enough that he had taken literature classes his last two years and his senior literature teacher had praised his writing ability, his ability to tell a story, and encouraged him to pursue it. The first night of the hour long class was a bit of a surprise. First, there were only seven students who signed up for the class, and the other was that the instructor was a younger attractive woman.
She called the class to order and stood in front of her desk and introduced herself as Miss Thompson, then began to explain what the class was all about and what the students would be doing for the semester. She went to the board and outlined the key points of a story and explained what 'creative' meant when it came to fiction writing.
As the class ended, she assigned each of them the task of writing a short descriptive narrative of what the class was like on the first day and bring it in the following Wednesday night.
When the class ended, he asked her if the essays or works they did would be read aloud in class. She said that they would not unless the student gave permission and she would always ask permission first.
The following night after work he wrote a short two pages and turned it in the following class.
At that class, after her discussion and question and answer period, Miss Thompson asked them to write and imaginary biography of any of the other students based on impressions, not using names.
Things went along for the next week and at the end of one class, Miss Thompson asked him to stay for a minute. After everyone left, she said,
"Ray, I'd like to talk to you. Could me meet somewhere for coffee or something?"
He said they could and named a little all-night diner not far from the campus.
He was sitting in a booth with a coffee when she arrived. She smiled when she saw him and joined him. The waitress brought her coffee and menus.
"Ray," She started, "the reason I wanted to meet you after class is...well, I think you have a gift from the things you have written so far. As I said the third meeting, most of the 'first night class descriptions' were more like newspaper reports. But not yours. You....painted a picture. Even describing the smells." She sipped her coffee. "And the one about describing a classmate....do you know anyone in that class?"
"No, Ma'am," He said. "I don't know anyone there."
"You described a women in the class....I think I know which one... and in two pages told a believable, if fictional, biography of her. I was....impressed."
He took a sip of his coffee. "Thank you. It was fictional, but..."
"But what?"
"Well, I am young, but I seem to be a pretty good judge of people. Sometimes I can tell a lot about them just from talking to them or watching them."
"So, who was the story about?" She asked.
"Cheryl. She sits next to me."
"I was wondering, and I guessed right, but...."
He smiled. "She asked me if I'd go get a Coke with her one night after class. We talked a bit. Well, she talked...I listened."
"And you picked up on...."
"Oh, I don't know for sure, but....as I described her in the paper, she's desperate. She wants to be liked....loved...doesn't get it at home, so her father may be domineering and her mother...complacent. So, she's looking outside."
The waitress came back and refilled their coffees and asked them if they wanted to order. They both ordered pie, she apple and he lemon.
"And you mentioned...." She said.
He ducked his head a bit. "I probably shouldn't have put that in. That may have been...too much."
"No, I mean yes, it's maybe a little too far, but... no, you should write truth, even in fiction. What your characters see and what they feel. You described her as....what was it? 'Sexually aware and confused'? What does that mean?"
He looked out the window into the night and said, "Well, that wasn't too hard to guess and I didn't have to invent that part. She sat beside me and kept touching me. Putting her hand on my arm or....on my leg. It may be a stretch, but....she'll trade sex for love. Or the feeling of love. The belief that sex and love are the same thing, not knowing the difference."
She was quiet as the waitress brought their pie. She looked at him as she sat across from her, a slight wrinkle in her brow.
"Is there a difference?" She asked him.
"I think so...maybe..."
"Does this conversation make you uncomfortable?"
"Maybe it should, but it doesn't." He answered, looking at her.
She laughed. "You're old beyond your years. You could be a good....no, a great writer. Or a psychologist."
"Yes, " he smiled. "My girlfriend said I was born old."
"You have a girlfriend?"
"No, I should have said former or ex."
She ate her pie and finished her coffee silently. When she was finished, she said,
"I should go. But....would it be inappropriate for me to ask you to dinner at my apartment tomorrow night?"
"Yes, it would be inappropriate and yes, I will come to dinner tomorrow night at your apartment."
She removed a note pad and pen from her purse and wrote down an address and phone number and tore off the sheet and set it on the table along with three dollars to cover the pie and coffee and a tip. She stood.
"See you tomorrow night, then." She said and left.
He spent Saturday working at the station and afterwards went home, showered and changed and drove into town to her apartment, one of a group of single story detached apartments on a quiet street. He found her apartment and knocked.
She answered the door.
"Right on time." She smiled. "Come on in. Tea, soda... beer or wine? Dinner's almost ready. Spaghetti okay?"
"Great. I'll have a beer if you don't mind."
She told him to have a seat and she went to the kitchen and came back with two cold beers.
