The Force of Destiny

It was the Sunday after the Friday when Team USA beat the Soviets in the so-called Miracle on Ice in Lake Placid, New York. Who could forget Al Michaels' now iconic call, "Do you believe in Miracles? Yes!" The upstart USA hockey team's upset at the 1980 Winter Olympics is the first thing Paulette Mirkin and Warren Kogan talked about when they met on that blustery February night at a singles mingle thing held in the community room of an apartment complex.

Neither of them wanted to go. Not Paulette who seldom attended "those dorky things," and Warren, because it was cold, he had work the next day and, like Paulette, wasn't crazy about hanging out at mixers. But they went, mostly out of loyalty to close friends that didn't want to show up alone. While Warren's friend mingled, he kept mostly to himself, sitting on a lounge chair off to the side, observing the goings on, glancing at his watch and counting the minutes to eleven o'clock when the thing would end. It's not that he didn't want to meet someone special; it's that he didn't feel drawn to any of the women he saw. No one really lit a fire under him; that is, until the tall brunette in tight jeans and a green sweater walked in, accompanied by one of her friends. She was "different" looking, he thought, not conventionally beautiful, but certainly attractive—statuesque, with legs a mile long and big, shiny hair that bounced and swiveled when she moved. He watched as she huddled with her friend, a petite, strawberry blond in a short skirt, checking out the scene. The strawberry blond wasn't bad either, but it was the brunette that found his interest.

He wondered why they arrived so late, just after ten, when the place was starting to thin out. What the hell, he thought, and got up from his comfy chair, walked over and said, "Did you all see the game on Friday?"

The strawberry blond looked at Paulette and shrugged. "I think he means the Olympic ice hockey game, Wendy," Paulette said. "We beat the Ruskies four goals to three."

"That's great news," Wendy said. "I wonder if our hostages in Iran know about it."

"I doubt those bastard radical Muslims would tell them," Paulette said. "They hate us."

Warren looked at Paulette "Are you a hockey fan?"

"Not really. I'd rather watch the figure skating. But my dad had it on so I watched. It touched a patriotic nerve, I must admit."

When he asked why they came at the eleventh hour, Wendy said it took awhile to convince her friend to go. "She knows this isn't really my scene," Paulette said, rolling her eyes.

Warren nodded. "What IS your scene?"

"Oh, I can think of a few places I'd rather be than here."

"I'm with you on that," Warren said, and then introduced himself.

Paulette responded in kind. But, instead of locking her pretty brown eyes with his, she appeared aloof and slightly on edge, scanning the room as if she were trying to find someone.

Just then, Toby, Warren's friend, came over. "Down on my luck all night and here you are talking to the two hottest ladies here."

Paulette looked away and shook her head. "See what I mean," she said under her breath.

Wendy had a very different reaction. "I've always liked beards on guys," she said, her blue eyes widening. Toby sported an inch of reddish-brown fuzz on his round face. He stood a stocky five-foot eight with a slight paunch. His wavy, sandy-colored hair crept to his earlobes and his eyes, light brown and narrow, gleamed with a little boy's sense of wonder. He wasted little time introducing himself and, less than a minute later, he and Wendy were becoming acquainted on a sofa a few yards away.

Warren expected Paulette to walk away any second. Her scene or not, she appeared as if she were looking for someone to connect with—and that someone wasn't him. But then she turned to him and said, "I like mustaches, just to let you know. And also guys who stand taller than me even when I'm wearing heels." Warren's light brown mustache covered most of his upper lip. Standing five-foot eleven, he did indeed eclipse her barefoot height of five-seven, now just past five-eight owing to the heels on her brown, Gibson Girl era shoes.

Warren smiled cautiously. "So far I've passed inspection."

"So far," she said, playing along, giving him a look that conveyed sarcasm at best, contempt at worst for the whole meet market thing. "Now tell me you detest these things as much as me. At least we'll have that in common."

"Detest is a strong word. I will say it's not my scene either, to quote you. I'm here to keep Toby company is all." Catching her look of skepticism, he added, "No, really."

"Like me, along for the ride, huh?"

"Yes, but I can't say I'd mind meeting someone special to connect with. And, despite your misgivings about these things, I'd say you're on the same page."

"Are you always this confident when it comes to reading people?"

"Only when I see girls like you scanning a room full of singles, checking out the merchandise, so to speak."

She stepped closer to him. "Girls like me...That's quite a presumptuous statement considering you don't know anything about me."

He tucked his hands into the pockets of his blue Dockers. "Well, I do know that you enjoy watching figure skating, that you're very pretty, have great skin, long legs and hair one could get lost in. Other than that, you're right, I don't know much else."

"Think flattery will get you somewhere, do you?"

"Maybe, if it's sincere. And believe me, it is." He saw a curtain of angst descend over her. "Pardon my presumptuousness again, but it doesn't look like you take compliments very well." She looked away, avoiding eye contact. "I'm right, aren't I? Why is that? I mean, you're this really attractive—"

"Warren, that's enough," she ordered, karate-chopping the air between them. Then she took a deep breath and said, "I'm sorry, Warren, it's just that you're..."

"I'm what?"

"Jeez, I don't know. Look, you seem like a nice guy, but I think it's time I make my exit." She looked over at Wendy and Toby, still engrossed in conversation. Using hand semaphore, she signaled Wendy that she wanted to split.

"You practically just got here," he protested.

"Somehow it seems longer." When Warren started to walk away, she grabbed his arm. "Look, it's not you, it's that I'm not real comfortable at these things. If you want to call me, my number is..." She spit out a ten-digit phone number.

"Is it asking too much for you to write it down?"

"I'm fresh out of pen and paper. If you're truly sincere, you'll remember it."

****

Paulette felt like kicking herself when she got home. She always felt like kicking herself when a guy showed interest and she acted that way, doing or saying things that might turn him off. She just turned twenty-one, and still couldn't get used to the idea that she might be pretty, that she might not be that ugly duckling she was made to feel like in grade school and middle school. Truth be told, she wasn't exactly the class princess when she was younger. The few photos she saved show a girl whose nose and mouth are too big for her face, with hair cropped short behind her ears and a body weird and gangly, skinny arms and legs all askew and a belly she tried to flatten by pushing on her stomach multiple times a day. Her schools didn't lack for cruel kids looking for targets, and she was one of their favorites. They called her "spider," "lobster" and other choice names. She suffered through long crying jags, mostly in her room but sometimes in class, leaving her profoundly embarrassed and ashamed.

Then, by eleventh grade, something happened. Guys began to notice her in a good way. She always had great skin, the proverbial peaches and cream complexion. At sixteen, her face got fuller and caught up with her features. Aesthetically, her long nose and full lips began to make perfect sense. Her belly flattened, her legs got fuller, and she let her hair grow. She went to her junior prom and then her senior prom the following year with Calvin Davis, a star on the school's wrestling team and noted hunk, at least that was the consensus among Paulette's envious girlfriends. Even so, her insecurities lingered. Calvin told her repeatedly how pretty she was, tried his best to erase the emotional scars she still carried. It helped, though not enough; she still didn't feel entirely comfortable when people said nice things about her looks, not through college and not now in her senior year at university. Which is why she didn't at least look for pen and paper so Warren Kogan could call her. She couldn't deny that she found him hot, liked the mustache as she told him, and the rest of him, the narrow wrinkles around his full mouth, his tall, athletic presence and even the way he parted his wavy, dirty-blond hair. He seemed honest, too, honest and direct, didn't give her a lot of the BS she'd heard from some of the guys she'd met since she and Calvin broke up during their freshman year in college.

She missed Calvin. More accurately, she missed what they had when things were good between them. He was her first real boyfriend, the first and thus far only guy she truly loved and that loved her. She wondered if that virgin kind of love ever totally flickered out. She felt she was "over him" as much as she could ever truly be over him. They still kept in touch from time to time, mostly by phone. Sometimes he'd drop over unannounced, like he did last time, almost a year ago. Months ago, a mutual friend told her that he and Mary Beth, an acquaintance of hers, were engaged. She felt happy for him—sort of. A part of Paulette wished it could have been her.

She shook her head as she pulled from her desk a large photo of them together, taken at the prom. He looked so handsome in his tux, with those strong, manly features that drove the girls wild. And she had to admit in hindsight that the girl next to him deserved him, complimented his masculine appeal with special looks of her own, her long hair parted in the middle topped with a large bow—she looked adorable. Her beautiful brown eyes sparkled, yet also hinted at sadness. She and Calvin were having problems, and she sensed it wouldn't be long before they parted ways. The picture used to make her cry. Now she just got wistful.

She started to put it back when the phone rang on her pink princess phone, her own private line that her parents had installed when they got tired of her tying up the main number. "Who the hell would be calling at eleven at night?" she said to herself.

"Yes?"

"I just wanted to make sure I had the number right. Now I can write it down. Hope I didn't wake you."

"Warren?"

"It is I."

She felt relieved he remembered her number. "Now you know."

"Right, well, I don't want you to think that I'm desperate or anything." He chuckled.

"Not a chance. You don't seem like the desperate type." She smiled from ear to ear. When he didn't respond right away, she said, "So, is that the only reason you called, to confirm my number?"

"That and to ask if you'd like to go sledding with me. The snow we had last week is now packed down hard. I know some great places to ride."

Teasingly, she said, "And what makes you so sure I like sledding?"

"I'm not sure. But, if nothing else, you'd look great in a ski jacket. So, is it a date?"

In fact, she hadn't gone sledding since she was a kid. She loved it then and had no doubt she'd love it now, especially with a guy like Warren. "Sometimes, Warren, flattery will indeed get you somewhere. Yes, I'd very much like to go."

****

Warren hadn't been sledding since high school, over ten years ago. He and his friends spent hours on the huge slope of the Eldorado Country Club. The hill started at the sprawling brick clubhouse and dropped about seventy yards. When he moved from his parents' home, his old American Flyer sled stayed behind in their garage, gathering dust. After packing it inside his light blue,'79 Honda Accord hatchback, he picked up Paulette from her parents' suburban, early sixties-era, four-bedroom split-level that stood in a cul-de-sac, and then drove seven miles to the Eldorado. Only club members could use their parking lot, so he parked on Medfield Road, which ran past the big hill that winter thrill seekers had been sledding on for close to a century.

Street lamps and outside lighting from the clubhouse afforded them adequate light on this cold, early Saturday evening. Warren pulled the sled from his car while watching others who had the same idea. The hill was alive with people on their sleds and flying saucers. "I wore my ski jacket just for you," Paulette said.

Warren thought she looked great in her blue on blue: blue ski jacket and jeans. Tan suede boots, tan gloves and a red wool cap completed her wardrobe. He wore jeans and a suede jacket over a classic maroon and white reindeer-patterned ski sweater.

Noises of the scene and season filled their ears in the cold night air, the joyful shouts, the sizzle of sled blades on ice, the crunch of snow under boots. They trudged up the hill, with Warren pulling the sled on a rope. Paulette playfully bumped into him. "I can be your snow bunny for tonight," she said. "Every guy should have one, you know."

"Okay, but you'll have to kiss me first," he said. He wrapped his free arm around her back and pulled her closer. "Is that okay?"

"First do it, then I'll let you know." For a full ten seconds, he planted his lips on hers. "Mmm, that was nice," she said. "Just what I needed on a night like this. Maybe we can do more of that."

"Let's plan on it."

They took their first ride sitting up, with Warren guiding the sled with his feet. Berms at the bottom of the hill kept people from ending up on Medfield Road. However, most didn't make it that far. More often than not, a sled would veer to the right or left, then stop or tip over. A few yards from one of the berms, their sled capsized, sending Warren and Paulette tumbling topsy-turvy. Paulette ended up on top. "I'm not letting you up until you kiss me again," she said, pinning his arms to the ground. "What do you say to that?"

"I'd say you've got a winning combination on me." Even though he was pinned to the icy ground, Paulette's soft lips sent a jolt of warmth through his body.

They smooched for close to a minute before resuming the sledding, individually and together. Up the hill and down the hill they went, working up a sweat, a prescription for feeling the cold even more. An hour later, they were damp and shivering and Warren suggested they go for some hot chocolate. Paulette got onboard with that idea, and it wasn't long before they were holding hands in a coffee shop booth over steaming cups of liquid Hershey topped with marshmallows.

Paulette gazed into Warren's eyes and said, "I've got Wendy to thank for talking me into going to that mixer."

"And I owe Toby thanks as well. In a sense, they brought us together. Wendy, Toby and fate."

Her smile morphed into a look of curiosity. "Do you believe in fate?"

He chuckled. "You realize you just opened up a philosophical can of worms."

"Actually, you did by including fate as a cause of our meeting."

He rubbed his chin, pondering. "Well, I suppose I did. But I meant it more as a figure of speech."

She nodded and took another sip. "My freshman year philosophy professor kind of believed in fate. He dismissed the idea of free will. Free will is an illusion, he said. We're programmed by the particular way our brains work through our genetics and environment. We make the choices we do because of the way our brains respond to stimuli."

"I'd say it's a mix of both. I mean, I chose to approach you at the mixer because I find you very attractive, because my brain reacted in a positive way to the way you look, because it's wired a certain way. Yet I could have chosen not to approach you for fear of rejection, shyness, whatever."

"Yes, but our genetics and environment also play a role in that. If you'd been born with less than stellar looks and were used to rejection and ridicule, then maybe you wouldn't have approached me, regardless of whether or not you found me attractive."

"True, but ultimately it was my choice to make. People overcome their fears and anxiety over things all the time by sheer force of will, by choosing to do so." He paused to sip his drink. "Are you a determinist like your professor?"

"Um, kind of," she said, thinking back to those painful moments of her childhood. "Let's face it, conventionally attractive people get more positive attention than those who aren't so attractive. Therefore, they're more confident and outgoing. Not all the time, but that's generally how it works. We don't get to choose what we're born with, much less choose to be born at all."

"But we can choose to make the best of what we're born with. Agreed?'

She ran a hand through her hair and took a deep breath. "Sometimes, I suppose, for those possessed with the sheer force of will you mentioned. Not everyone is that strong or determined."

"You're right, not everyone is. Are you?"

"I have my moments." She paused, then said, "You know, the force of destiny is a curious thing."

He raised his eyebrows and grinned. "The force of destiny...I like that phrase."

"Yeah, me too. I got it from my dad's opera record collection. He listens to an opera called La Forza del Destino, the force of destiny. That old philosophy professor of mine would argue that the force of destiny caused our hockey team to beat the Russian team. "

"So, according to him, we were destined to meet. It was predetermined."

"I suppose, and, to extend the argument further, it's predetermined where we'll end up. Like it or not, Warren, we're mere puppets on the strings of fate."

"Puppets on the strings of fate...another opera in your dad's collection?"

She laughed. "No, just playing devil's advocate here, although I still lean toward the fate idea. Perhaps we're not exactly puppets. But I don't think we're completely free agents either."

"Well, from one semi-free agent to another," Warren said, "I'm glad we met, whether it was the force of destiny or for some other reason."

"And on that we can both agree." She raised her cup in a toast.

Later, after pulling up to her house, he said, "Well, are we DESTINED to meet again?"

She caught his glib tone and answered the same way. "If we want to, if the receptors in our brains fire a certain way that compel us to do so. Mine do. Do yours?"

"My receptors have been firing like crazy from the first time I saw you." He then leaned over and kissed her.

Breathing heavy, she said, "Then cut the engine and follow me in."

Warren wasn't sure what Paulette had in mind. If sex was on her agenda, how in the world would she find the privacy? She lived here with her parents, her twenty-four-year-old sister and fifteen-year-old half-brother. All of them were home, her middle-aged parents in the living room watching TV, her sister Pauline, in the kitchen munching on popcorn and her skinny half-brother Larry, traipsing around the house imitating Steve Martin: "I'm a wild and crazy guy!" Pauline was plain looking, built slimmer than Paulette and not shy about standing there (the kitchen blended in with the living room) barefoot wearing nothing more than an oversize Towson University sweatshirt that dropped just below her butt.

After they kicked off their boots just inside the door, Paulette filled her family in on the sledding and then retreated to her room, Warren in tow. "Paulette and Pauline," he said. "Was that by design or accident?"

"It's got a euphonious ring to it, doesn't it? Mom thought it was cute. Of course, my name came second."

"Right." Scanning the eleven by twelve-foot room, he focused on a bookshelf full of Barbie dolls dressed in various outfits.