Some things just aren't meant to be. Physical impossibilities, like apples falling up, or frogs singing The Star Spangled Banner. Things that are way too remote to count on, like rolling twenty consecutive sevens. Or, at odds of one in 175 million, you could include winning the Power Ball in that category, too. You can add to that list the way my friend Jason was feeling about striking up a lingering relationship with Nancy Peterson. It just seemed totally impossible!
Now I'd known Jason since high school, and I knew that he was a good guy. Trouble was that he was so completely, absolutely, through and through, scrupulously, microscopically honest that he projected his feelings to the world, including his lack of self confidence. He was incapable of putting up a brave, cocky front to make a good impression. How many times have you met some guy who came up to you with a friendly smile and firm handshake and said something stupid like, "Glad to meet you, sir," and you came away thinking, "Now there's a good young man, solid, sensible, intelligent. Got a real future ahead of him." Chances are the guy in question could be a forger or rapist or foreign spy, but his good first impression had carried the day. Now for every one like him, there are a dozen others whom you have barely noticed, or turned away from, who never even made it to the handshake because of the initial impression they projected. Fact is, I'm one of the favored few with the firm handshakes et cetera, which helped a lot when I was lining up investors. Jason, on the other hand, falls into the company of losers who never even get a turn at bat.
Okay, suppose you're that kind of a loser. Makes sense that after a while you'd become adjusted to it and you'd lower your expectations, right? Of course, and that's just what they all do, all except Jason. He came into my garage one day when I was working on one of my sports cars. They're a hobby of mine, and this one was a really sad-looking MGB roadster that would provide plenty of challenge for a few months yet. Oh, wait. You don't know me, do you? Then I ought to explain that I invented a couple of trivial gadgets that hit it off well with housewives, and then parlayed the income from those little beauties into a pretty potent portfolio that supports my wife and me comfortably whether we ever do another day's work or not. I bought a nice house on a small man-made lake, and then bought and demolished the house next door to build a garage that could house a dozen cars, six across by two deep, with additional shop space ahead of their front bumpers and an unfinished second floor that could be turned into another spacious home. Usually I can be found tinkering on my toys in my wonderful playroom, and in good weather I often keep the south-facing overhead doors open to let in daylight, fresh air, and the occasional neighbor who wants to indulge his curiosity or talk about the prospects of our floundering football or blundering baseball team. But on that day when I was removing the rear end of the MG from its accustomed perch on the rear springs, Jason walked in and I swear the air temperature dropped ten degrees and a cloud blotted out the sun.
I rolled out from under the car on my creeper and wiped my hands, looking at Jason and taking a wild guess. "Either the sky has fallen or you struck out with Nancy again," I ventured, and he nodded. The sky looked okay to me, so I zeroed in on Nancy. "Did you talk with her or just turn and walk away as usual?"
"Well, both. I talked, and she seemed friendly enough, but I couldn't think of much to talk about so I finally said 'Have a nice day,' and left."
"You know, saying almost anything would have been better than walking away. I bet if you'd said, 'I'd love to get into your pants!' she probably would have come back with some remark that would start a conversation. O you could try, 'I bet your pussy tastes better than ice cream.' Even if she'd slapped your face, she'd know how you feel about her and then you could go back later and apologize, and that would get something going between you two. How can I ever get you to think positively and go at this Nancy project as if you just know it's all going to work out? Maybe I ought to go at this from the other end, and have a talk with Nancy. How would you feel if I could tell you that she has a case of the hots for you? I wonder if that'd work?"
"No, don't say anything to her. That'll just make it worse."
"Nonsense. It can't get any worse. The worst thing that could happen is that she'd say she isn't interested in you, and then you can just back off and try with someone else. But I've watched her eye you when you weren't looking. I think she's just looking for you to make any advance at all and she'll pounce on you."
"Hah. Fat chance."
"Okay, here's how I'll leave it. You're probably right, so I won't mess you up. You just go on trying this your way, and I'll keep my nose out of it. Suit you?"
"Yeah, I guess so. Well, see ya around."
I waited till Jason had walked down the street to his house, and when I was sure he couldn't hear I pulled out my cell phone and made a call. "Nancy? Chuck Farmhill here. What's the best looking girl in the county doing on a beautiful afternoon like this?" "No, that's the whole reason I called, just to see how you are. But as long as I've got you on the phone, there's something important we need to talk about. Got time to drop over here to my garage? I can't very well go out on the street looking like this, with my coveralls on and all smeared with dirt and grease, but you always look so perfect that you'll brighten up the neighborhood as you walk over here." "Tell you what: just come in the garage. The doors are wide open. We'll grab a couple of iced coffees out of the fridge and go out on the patio and talk." "Okay, great."
I know Nancy, and I know a little bit about women in general. She'd take ten minutes deciding what to wear over here, then a half hour to shower and dry and style her hair, another half hour to dress and put on makeup so carefully that she'd look as if she didn't wear any, then finally make the five minute walk from her house to mine. So I checked the fridge to see that it was properly stocked, went out and arranged two chairs carefully on the patio overlooking the lake, put some CDs on the player, and then went back to work on the MG. I had the driveshaft wiped down and inspected and the universal joints apart when she arrived, looking like the cover of a women's magazine.
"Damn it, Nancy, how do you always look so stunning? And why? Got any idea how many of the housewives around here hate you? I don't know the exact number, but for a rough guess let's say all of them. How do the kids in your class pay attention to their lessons when they'd rather look at you?"
"That's why I teach the primary grades, get 'em before their testicles have descended. But I always get the most fathers out on parent-teacher conference nights, so I guess I haven't lost it yet."
"Come on out to the backyard." As we walked past the refrigerator I opened the door and waved my arm. "Help yourself to whatever you'd like." We walked down the hall past the rest room and the doors to the stockroom and the shop, and out onto the patio that was shaded from the afternoon sun by the house and the big acacia tree. We settled into the chairs that offered a view of the wide part of the lake, with the island off to our left, the clubhouse at the far right, and the waterfronts of a dozen well-kept houses in between.
Nancy led off the conversation. "I've got a good idea what you want to talk about. Want to bet on it?"
"Sure. A dollar says you're wrong."
"I wrote it down on this slip of paper." She pulled a little sheet from a memo pad out of her purse and set on the table between our chairs.
"Hold on while I write mine down." I pulled out a piece of paper where I'd been jotting notes about what I need to get for the MG, and wrote on the back. Then I pulled out a dollar bill. "Here's my money. Where's yours? Put up or shut up."
"Right here, but I really don't need it because I'm gonna win."
