Sputterpub's Blog

“Joy’s kind of like a retriever: sweet but not real bright.”

My husband said that to our daughter, and she told me.

To put the scene in perspective, they are not young: 68 and 40.

I was shocked. I’d never heard the analogy before. I thought it was a disloyal statement to make about one’s spouse. And I knew it was untrue. About retrievers anyway. My last dog had been a mutt but her dominant quality and talent was fetching. Susie was very smart. And maybe it was the regular prednisone for all those allergies, but my pet’s disposition was not sweet.

It wasn’t true about Joy either. I have no argument about her (lack of) intelligence, but I’ve never seen the sweetness. And based on some of her careless cruelties when my kids were young and had to put up with her stepmothering, narcissistic and needy and petulant seem better adjectives for her, no matter how sincerely she has apologized recently.

It was disloyal of Hank to speak of Joy that way, but I am permitted to so-describe Orson. I met him on public transit a month ago and our fast acquaintance sparked some interest. Then we got together. Uh oh…

The man is ten years younger than I am. That’s okay. He’s tall and not unfit, physically. Again, good. But I’ve now spent two afternoons with him, talking and walking and talking and resisting his attempts to handle my body or get me to handle his, and I have to conclude that he’s probably innately sweet, but not real bright.

I don’t think I’m an intellectual snob. I’m educated and well-read, and I understand language better than most, but I’m smart enough to know how much smarter I could be. And once one exceeds a certain intelligence threshold (probably an IQ of 115 or so, if you believe in IQ), that’s good enough. Willfulness and resilience count more then.

The problem with Orson is I doubt he meets that threshold. And even if he does, and even if his trajectory demonstrates resilience, he’s too sad for me.

Admittedly, I’ve enjoyed talking about myself to him. In fact, I’ve savored describing myself to him, in my imagination, more than the reality of actually speaking to him. But I have spoken and I have listened to him speak. Here are a few of the things I’ve heard:

On the subject of tattoos: “No, I don’t have one. I’m a universal donor.” (I replied, “You mean you’re O positive?” and I thought, “Does he really think they’re cross-typing in San Francisco?”)

Regarding children: “I never had any. Never wanted any. The world’s too crowded now.” (I’m thinking: “Oh yeah. That’s why someone doesn’t have kids. Sure.” And when he indicated maybe he’d change his mind about that, and I blurted, “Orson, that ship has sailed,” he asserted that 57 is not too old to father a kid).

On-demand water heaters? He opined that they’re trouble. I asked why. He commented that because the hot water doesn’t run out, you’ll use too much. As if the length of time one spends in the shower is governed by the water tank…

I asked him if he’s involved with anyone (this was after I confessed it’s been at least a decade for me). He pondered for a moment, admitted it hasn’t been ten years with a smile, and then described his latest affair. It ran for three months – all of last autumn. He’d met the woman in a park, while walking his dogs. She was married but not getting any. They agreed on an arrangement, meeting every Sunday evening in the park, and fucking in the bushes. (“Say what?”) He acknowledged it was simple sex, with clothes on. He said they went to the movies once when her husband was away, but it was a bad flick. (I can’t count the number of ideas wrong with this story). Then he asked me if I thought his behavior constituted cheating (Me: “No. Adultery yes. Cheating no.”)

He asserted that he’s a “cheating bastard.” He said the last time he had a real girlfriend, with whom he spent most nights (still retaining his apartment but not using it much) and adopted a dog, after the relationship fell empty of all but dog care, he took up with a neighbor. The women found out and both of them dumped him.

He also declared that he’s an asshole. That comment was apparently an acknowledgment that he has some anger issues (who doesn’t?). But he qualified it by stating that he only exercises his asshole-ness when he encounters someone who’s a bigger asshole than he is.

He said he likes to read. I asked him what. “Right now, just some magazines,” he said sheepishly. And then he admitted, with obvious embarrassment, that his favorite genre is sci-fi. (I didn’t understand then or now what’s wrong with that.)

“What’s your biggest peeve?” he asked me the last time we were together. I couldn’t come up with just one. He announced that his is species extinction. (Peeve? He calls that a peeve? That’s a fucking grief!)

I don’t think he’s an asshole or a cheating bastard. I’m inclined to go with “moron.”

But he appears to be sweet. He’s been repeatedly disappointed, by his parents, his brother, the high school buddies who at a party injured him and gave him the disability that narrowed his future, and probably all the women he didn’t properly approach or cherish since. But he didn’t “eat his shotgun” back when he was 18 (he’s told me that story both times we visited), and he seems to be trying to live authentically.

It’s obvious he deals with frequent sadness. When I asked him how he treats his depression, he looked at me with a sincere face and said, “Exercise.” As far as I’m concerned, that was Orson being real.

It got to me. Almost made me receptive. So when we stood to say goodbye and he leaned in for a kiss, I responded. It wasn’t repulsive, but I can’t say my knees melted. Then he groaned a little, kissed me again, took my right hand off his shoulder, and tried to move it to measure his erection.

Whoa! My reflexes were faster than my mind. I spun from him and paced away, muttering “arrested at 17” (that was his age when the disabling accident occurred).

“I wasn’t arrested,” he said.

“Developmentally. Sexually.”

I should not see Orson again. I should change names, switch this to third person, and submit it to my writing group. I told myself (and him) that I’m not ready for sex with him, but I’d like to get to know him better. That there may be a spark upon further acquaintance. But as I type it, I know it won’t happen. He’s a dim bulb.

But it’s his birthday today. He asked without a leer for a little time with me tonight. I’ve agreed to serve him a berry pie and beer.

That’s the last Mom wrote. She didn’t submit anything to her writers’ group the next morning. She didn’t go to the office. A day later I got the call from her assistant. I did what I could remotely and then traveled here. To find her place abandoned and this draft in her office.

It’s just not like her to disappear. Especially without word to me. I’m trying to get the police to pay attention, but I fear she’s with a cheating bastard asshole. Or was. 

Del’s an attractive person, but no one would accuse her of beauty. Her facial features are on the large side: not chiseled or refined. She was born a brunette in a culture that favors blondes. She grew hands and feet that were above average in size, and she required corrective lenses till her cataract surgery. That was eight years ago. Del is 67.

She walks well. She has excellent posture. She developed an outgoing, laughter-loving personality to compensate for her lack of coltish youthful loveliness, and that has aged better than beauty. She garners enough admiring glances from strangers to know she could look worse.

But she hasn’t often been propositioned, approached, or harassed the way prettier girls report. No stranger has ever exposed himself to her. In fact, she numbers the occasions of sexual insults at two.

When she was 16, she was propositioned by a well-dressed black man, on a cable car. She was shocked at the time. Mostly because she had her 13 year-old brother with her! How would that work? She practically spit in the man’s face as she voiced, “You creep,” grabbed her brother’s upper arm, and got them off the conveyance.

The scarier event occurred three years after that. By then she was a sophomore at Cal. It was a bright spring day, and she’d spent it in San Francisco with her roommate and a gay friend of theirs. They had hitchhiked into the city and that’s how they returned to the East Bay.

The guy who stopped for them was oldish, white, and drove a two-toned VW van. Glen got in the front seat and the two young women rode behind. The driver exited 80 at Ashby and that’s where the friends split up. Del was heading to her boyfriend’s place on Alcatraz, which was the direction the driver was going. Her friends got out of the van and planned to thumb a short ride north.

The driver invited Del up to the shotgun seat and she moved forward. He put the van in gear and they left her friends. After he made the expected right turn and proceeded a block, he pulled over, looked at Del with a leer, and spoke. “Let me see your panties.”

She doesn’t remember if she said anything before opening the door. She was astounded – the demand came out of nowhere. She was perplexed – even if she did flash the dude, what would he say next? But mostly she was active – right hand levering the door handle, right foot over the running board and to the ground, when the driver blurted, “No! Wait! Oh jeez. I’m sorry. Get back in. I’ll take you where you’re going.”

For what it’s worth, she thought then and after that he was sincere. But she jumped out of the van, shooting “No way!” from her mouth like bullets, and striding forcefully toward Ashby without a backward glance.

Half a block later she broke into a run. By the time she’d traversed the rest of the distance to where her friends still stood, she was shaking and shook up.

That’s it. Nothing worse. But of course she retained the memory.

Half a century passed. She finished college and made her way through her reproductive and earning years as well as she could, which was well enough. She came out the other side with two grown children, four grandchildren, an ex-husband, and a decent-enough retirement account that she didn’t have to fret about basics. Her relationships with everyone but the ex-husband were good.

She’s been single for half of that time. She describes herself as enjoying her 26th year of marital recovery. She wouldn’t mind a little company, especially some weekends and for traveling, but no one is introducing her to an eligible companion, and her tentative excursions into senior Internet dating have not been fun or fruitful.

A month ago she met a man. They were on the same crowded train, and had a fast, two-stop conversation. She exited with his card and the notion that she’d like to talk some more.

They met deliberately a couple of weeks later. She wasn’t as impressed as she had been at first. She learned that Orson was a sad soul. That shouldn’t have surprised her – for their initial conversation she’d been almost manically happy (coming from a fun, wine-laced lunch) and he’d confessed to being down. She must have been misled by his quick questions and answers.

He was ten years younger than Del, less read or educated, and not as attractive. She’d taken a first impression away of “beige,” and that continued to resonate for her. He was pale of skin, what hair he had seemed colorless, and although he wore jeans and a gray long-sleeved shirt, he somehow left a khaki-toned image behind.

On the plus side, he was over six feet tall and not fat. He could walk. He was into asking and answering. He made it clear that he wanted sex, which was both flattering and bothersome. Del didn’t care to fuck Orson, but she wasn’t averse to getting to know him better, and she thought something might come later. Maybe. She was comfortable telling him that. He seemed to accept it.

They got together again. He brought his dog over to meet her, and they took a long walk. There were no lulls in their conversation. Each had plenty to say. Del found her own words more interesting than his, but she didn’t have a bad time. When they returned to her place, Orson walked up behind her and began rubbing her neck and shoulders. It felt nice. He nuzzled her neck and told her she smelled good. She didn’t stop him. She let him turn her around then and kiss her. But as she pulled back, he took her right hand and tried to move it downward between them. She realized he wanted her to feel his erection. She spun away from him and blurted something about his arrested development.

He apologized. She said okay, and indicated that she’d see him again. But maybe not. She thinks of him daily, but can’t find it in herself to be eager to see him. She likes describing herself to him, in her head, but she has to admit she isn’t feeling the need to speak the descriptions out loud.

Mostly, though, she’s hesitating because her mental image of Orson bears a striking resemblance to that long-ago dirty old van-driving man.