GeekForce

BACKDROP AND PREAMBLE:

In the early part of the 90’s, I was a too-young honcho at a big salt plant here.  Like all young and newly empowered managers in humongous organizations, I first got brutalized by the older (and one or two level up) and more vicious killers (that mostly suffered from the ‘miniscule male member’ syndrome).  An example was a punishingly low-IQ egomaniac sales manager up north at the Chicago headquarters.  He  wasted no time in pinning my ears back. I provide all of this to reveal the backdrop of my life at the time of this story; this was where my mind was when the story below occurs.
THE STORY OF THE LADY:

All this seemingly ‘important’ stuff became relegated to a stroll in the park; office politics suddenly became but mosquito bites.  In mid-1994, my personal stuff, never that much disheveled, transformed into a blue-hot, sticky-blackish hue that dripped (my) fresh blood.  Then and now, I liken two trains crushing me from opposite sides.  Since I was surrounded by a league of my employees and responibilities therein, I had to keep all of its incessant terror bottled inside. Therapy or counseling, then and now, never scratched/scratches the surface of anything enveloped into a fire ring surrounding my heart.  The circumstances and severity were such that, for my protection from arrest for committing homicide, I left my house for a couple of days.

A lady friend in Webster (who’s since moved to NJ (exit 12)) to take care of her mom and dad scooped up my boys, the older of the two playing hookey from Kindergarten, the younger away from the sympathetic-to-his-mom legion of Special School teachers…I guess, anyway-educators deal with this crap daily, so they usually hear the mom’s side, distorted or not. Of course, they believe nearly all what they hear. I forgave them then, and still do. 

Teachers, thank God, finally are well paid, comparitively speaking.  When I was my sons’ age, they didn’t, and I picked up on this before I even finished, like, second grade. Meanwhile, though, I had called Beth, explained the situation with a rather genuine sounding voice, and she understood entirely. She told me to come over to her new house, and asked me if I had eaten at least something in the last day or two. She already knew me well. I didn’t lie to her; I hadn’t eaten and I had forgotten I was hungry.

I’m not entirely sure I’d ever receive such kind hospitality today, but I sure did then. Beth and I figured out a pattern without even talking about it.  I’d stick around in the morning  and watch her little girl (she and I became fast friends and still are; she is a young mom now, a couple of years older than Bianca…), I’d drive her down to the bottoms and wait for the bus, then I’d head north to cross the bridge and go to work.  I’d come back afterwards, and bring produce I’d pick up on the IL Rt 3 stands, and one night Beth crockpot-ed a bunch of tomatoes (the VERY best kind) and made a kickass soup.  I changed her ancient water heater’s relief valve and a few other ‘honey-do’ fix-it’ project stuff her farm crib had in store for anybody who cared enough to get done.Not only did she not marry her daughter’s dad, she vanished from him years prior and apparently vice-versa.  She’d talk about him, and he was a fighter (as in male v. male).  If that was so (and I’m sure it was), her little girl sure didn’t inherit the genes.

The best part?  We never laid a finger on each other.  Not way back then, anyway.  Often the words ‘need’ and ‘trust’ form an equation together, with ‘respect’ on the other side of the equal sign. 

I dropped off stuff in S Illinois yesterday, and I hadn’t seen her in too long, so I meandered toward the river accordingly and into town, and pulled into her hair styling shop (she bought it two or three years ago).  She looks better now than she did then, amazing as this is.  Naw, that’s not strange at all.  I’ve known for years that no matter how old I get, the very PRETTIEST ones are nearly my age (plus or minus ten or so). Her hug rather built me up and made me feel strong. 

Funny how that works.  She’s coming over to my squalid (interim) rental crib next week.  I’m thinking tomato soup in crockpot (with modern ’shitty-and-dyed’ overpriced tomatoes?? I guess I better find another main course) and Wild Turkey on the rocks, ‘til the bottle’s gone.    

We’ll catch up, and I’ll thank her for the fiftieth time. She’ll tell me that I look sad, and I’ll tell her that to be in her company makes me happy.
(ps-she doesn’t have a PC; if she did, this wouldn’t be out there for her to see-she’s smart that way..)