Strange Things Indeed

Writing the last story about Barbara, I feel myself pushed to write the story about how I met my first wife.  There are only so many truly profound moments in my life, and naturally I want to hold back on them, rather than rush forward and make the rest of this blog equivalent to an afterthought.  But sooner or later I'm going to tell this story, and since I've been thinking about it a lot, I suppose now's the right time.

Barbara and I lasted about four weeks ... and all through 1984 and 1985, romance was lean.  There were dates with girls, but not with women, and by the summer of '85, I'd grown weary.  That summer was strange, and deserves its own story; it ended with the sort of drama that makes teenage television, a drama that I wasn't part of except that I seemed to be the person that both sides turned to in torment.  By September, the dust had settled and amidst all the heartache and misery of others, I found myself quite alone as others licked their wounds.

Wanting a relationship for myself, one that was mature and meaningful, I was at my wits end for how to make that happen ... and that led me down the road to doing something that was surely reckless and a bad, bad idea — except that it turned out exactly as I'd hoped.

I apologise for this.  It sounds now, as I piece it together, that the plan was monstrous.  It was, I should say, an act of desperation ... and here I beg the reader to remember, as I go through this, that apart from the plan itself, I acted with decency.  As shall be seen.  Moreover, please remember, she married me, she loved me, she had a daughter with me and we were together for ten years.

In late '85, there was a movie theatre downtown that showed films after doing their main run at the theatre for $2 a show on Tuesdays only.  The rest of the week it was $5 a film.  Movies ran from 12:30 p.m. to midnight, in 5 different theatres, so there were plenty of choices.  My plan was to be there when the theatre opened, buy tickets for movies all day, then hit on women before the shows started, hoping that I could endear myself to someone in the 20 minutes or so that we might be sitting near each other.

Now, I should explain.  In that era, before a film started, the theatre was brightly lit.  No advertisements played, not even piped music.  People actually believed that a film should be shown to an audience after they'd sat bored, waiting for as much as half an hour, because the "film experience" was a greater contrast upon the senses.  Moreover, it was possible to comfortable find one's way to a seat, or find others already sitting in the theatre, under the full lights.

We need not comment on whether or not this was a better system.

It did mean that, sitting in a bright, quiet theatre, if one wanted to talk to someone else nearby, to strike up a conversation, it was possible to see who one was talking to and hear what they said.  As such, conversations with strangers used to happen all the time in movie theatres; so my plan wasn't quite as odd sounding as it would be if I tried it in a modern movie theatre.

This was Tuesday, October 22nd, still 1985.  I decided I'd go ahead and buy a day's worth of tickets, expecting my plan to fail.  So I bought tickets to see Back to the Future, St. Elmo's Fire, Creator (with Peter O'Toole), Witness (with Harrison Ford) and Teen Wolf.  I went in, casually waited on the first film and casually tried to start a conversation with two women that were sitting together.  It didn't go well.  Kind of a splash of cold water, to be honest.  Left a bitter taste in my mouth.  I let myself watch the Doc and Marty do their thing, not the first time I'd seen the film, and had trouble shaking off my stupidity.

But I'd already paid for the tickets ... and I'd seen St. Elmo's Fire before as well, and decided not to make any further attempts, at least not right away.

The remaining three films were all new to me, so I was good to give them a chance.  I'd sat waiting for the Peter O'Toole movie about fifteen minutes when a girl came in alone, stamped rather roughly along the row behind me and sat down.  I looked, saw she was cute, noted the book bag beside her and said, "You look happy."

She didn't hear me and asked, "What?"

And cool as a cucumber, I said, "I'm sorry.  But if I'm not obnoxious, I never meet anyone."

She grinned at bit; agreed that was probably true, and before she had time to think much about it, I pointed at the seat next to her and said, "Would you mind if I sat there?"

She said "Yes," sounding pretty sure of herself, so I stood up ... and because I didn't want her to give her too much time to think about the situation unfolding, I didn't walk down the aisle away from her and then back up her aisle.  No, I climbed over the seat and sat down next to her.  In those days, the way theatres were built, this wasn't hard.

As I climbed over the seat, I was thinking fast, I've got to convince her that I'm not a neanderthal.  And so, by the time I sat down beside her, knowing I needed to say something smart and strange, I had the line in my head.  At once I asked, "Who's your favourite Renaissance painter?"

Here's the thing about that.  I'd learned, the way to convince a woman that you're not just another run of the mill moron is to catch her off guard, confuse her, make her wonder about the entity she's suddenly faced with.  This isn't done by saying some rote line, however clever; it's done by saying something so completely off the wall that it breaks the woman's initial expectation.

She, as it happened, was a very smart woman.  Without missing a beat, she answered, "Raphael."  Now here's the second part — we've got to be able to talk about the thing we've just brought up, and where it comes to Renaissance art, I can.  I love Renaissance art, have since my early teens.  I knew Raphael quite well and thus, with both of us knowing much about the subject, the conversation was soon moving fast.  I really like Botticelli; it's his self-portrait that's there on my profile, painted by Botticelli.  We talked about Titian and El Greco, and agreed that these don't get as much attention as Michaelangelo ... and we began talking about liking smart people, and agreed we were both there to see Peter O'Toole, whom we both liked a lot, especially since he had a very high forehead which was something the girl liked.  As it happens, I have a high forehead.

We'd started talking about Laurence of Arabia when the lights darkened and the film started.  We settled in to watch the film ... and she was thinking the whole time, "If he puts his arm around me, he's toast!"

And I did no such thing. I just don't do that.  I explained in the previous post.  I'm prepared to wait ... until it's either plain she will, or she won't.  So we sat and watched the film together.  Wasn't great.  Wasn't memorable.  Peter O'Toole was good.  But I never saw the film again.

There was a food court near the theatre in a downtown mall.  If anyone here has seen the third season of Fargo, Ewan McGregor's office looks out on that mall.  She agreed, and only then did I learn that her name was Michelle.  We got some fast food and sat in the dining area sometime about 5:30.  We talked, and talked, and talked.  We talked about everything; her schooling, music, science fiction, books, travel, quite a lot ... but not about family and in those days, I didn't tell people right off that I played D&D.

Three hours went by and we were still sitting there.  The court stayed open until way after the last film at the theatre started, which I think was 11 p.m., so no one bothered us.  I remember I looked at my watch and said mildly, "I guess I've missed my last film."  She asked and learned that I'd ignored the tickets I'd had to Witness and Teen Wolf, and that seemed to mean a lot to her.  I laughed and told it was only four dollars, but it still seemed to mean a lot to her.

Past ten, she explained she had to start home.  I suggested a taxi but she insisted on the bus, so I walked her to the bus.  Then talked as we waited for the bus.  I had a monthly bus pass, which meant I could ride as much as I wanted, so I offered to get on the bus with her and she said yes.

We went up to her apartment in Bankview, where she asked me inside.  She had a one-room flat with a futon couch and a rattan chair, the sort that were like a big throne.  She made tea, which I drank by the bucket in those days, and we settled in, still talking.  Midnight, one a.m., two a.m. when by and we were still talking.  She edged the conversation around to sex somewhere about then and so we talked about sex for awhile ... all the usual stuff for the time, g-spots and the importance of clothing and things that seemed to matter then, which are awfully dull-talk nowadays.  She folded down the futon into a bed and we sat corner to corner, cross-legged, drinking tea and talking about sex.  Three o'clock went by.  I didn't know it, but by this time, Michelle was convinced that I was gay.

But the way I talked about sex didn't seem to add that way in her head, as she would tell me later.  So, at 3:30 a.m., by which time we'd known each other about ten hours, in frustration she asked point blank, "Are you going to make a pass at me?"

And I said, carefully, "Do you want me to make a pass at you?"

She nodded ... and we had sex until 6:30.

Then we laid peacefully in each other's arms for another hour, still talking, until she admitted she had a class and nine o'clock that she couldn't miss.  I gave her my number, got hers, gave her a hug goodbye and then I walked home.  On clouds, all the way.

We saw each other the next night again, and the night after that, and most nights for about three weeks, when we agreed that we did love each other and that we wanted to let things move forward without worrying about them.  And we didn't.  I asked her to marry me in July of 1986 and we were married on November 15 that year.

Strange things indeed.

P.S.,

When the movie The Pick-up Artist came out in 1987, we saw it together.  Watching the trailer on television, when Robert Downey Jr. says, "Has anyone ever told you that you have the face of a Botticelli and the body of a Degas," we laughed ourselves fit to kill.  No need to guess why.

Pick-up

It's May of 1984 and my last day of working as a statistical clerk for Gulf Canada, where I'd worked for two separate contracts over nearly 17 months.  The pay had been $33 an hour in present day money, $15 then.  I'm 20 years old, single, still living at home, not even paying rent there.  A few days before, I'd turned down an offer to go to school for two years at S.A.I.T., a technical school, to gain a certificate to work more thoroughly in the industry ... I didn't like the work, but the money was so good, I stayed as long as I could.

I was celebrating my departure from work with the members of Tau Ceti at a bar called the Penguin Club downtown, long since gone.  I'd gone to hang out at a makeshift practice studio a few blocks away, just to listen.  Can't remember the name of the place; it's a parking lot now.

I'd known Dan, Alice and Barry about five years.  I was present when this was filmed in 1982; Barry, who posted the video on youtube, is the drummer at the back.  Dan and Alice were married.  The venue is a place called 10 Foot Henry's, which had a literal 10 foot tall painting of Henry from the long-forgotten comic strip on wood.  The figure survived, repurposed for a restaurant much later, as shown in the picture ... but the bar, which featured indy punk music, didn't.  It was demolished to make room for the city's commuter train.

If the reader can imagine, while the band sings Bathed in Dark Light, imagine me about 20 feet to the right of the screen, dancing by myself, looking for all the world like Peter Wolf.  I love to dance. The dance floor was huge there, and most of the time the room was only half empty; but no one would dance with me then, as they were all too shy or they thought dancing was stupid.  So I learned to dance alone.   I was described at the time as looking like a man dancing with a knife in his back.  I didn't care then, and I don't care now.  I'll still dance alone if I'm on a dance floor and no one will dance with me.

Anyway, the Penguin club.  We were served by a very strong-featured, wonderfully sharp-tongued server, whom I bantered with for a couple of hours as the band and I chatted and hung out.  When it was time to go, I went along as they headed to where their car was parked, but I only went about a hundred steps before stopping dead in my tracks.  Dan asked what was wrong and I told him, "Gotta strike when the iron's hot."   I turned around and ran back to the restaurant, picked a table and sat down ... and when the server came over, I asked her straight up, when did she get off work.

She said a couple of hours.  I asked, if I wait, want to get a drink?  She agreed, and two hours didn't seem that long.  I said I was single.

Barbara wasn't sure.  She didn't know me, and naturally she began to have doubts.  I had no preconceptions about what might happen; I meant what I said.  I was happy just to get together with a girl for drinks, particularly liking that she was sharp-witted and sarcastic. Once upon a time I could have recalled the back-and-forths we'd had, but it's been too long.

I learned early that if a girl likes a guy, and doesn't feel rushed or threatened, she'll come onto him.  Before meeting Barbara, I'd already become something of a pick-up artist; not because I wanted to sleep with a lot of women, but because I wanted to meet "the one" and I knew that wasn't going to happen without some effort on my part.  So, like I said, having met Barbara, the iron was hot and I struck.

As chance would have it, just as she began to doubt what sort of fellow she'd made a date with, and was seriously planning to back out, a panhandler came in to ask for change.  This part of Calgary was like that then, and yes, the Penguin Club was that kind of bar.  But I liked it, it had character; it reminded me of those drinking holes that turn up in Toulouse-Lautrec paintings, and I considered myself an artist, though a writer of course.

Anyway, I politely suggested that I wouldn't give any money, but if the fellow wanted me to buy him something to eat and drink, I was willing to do that ... so long as he didn't ask me for alcohol.  He took me up on it, I ordered him a soup, and he and I chatted while he slurped it up.  I had time to wait, and he wasn't a bad fellow, just not happy with the world.

It saved me with Barbara, though I didn't know it until later.  In her mind, the date was definitely on again.  I'd aroused her curiosity, not only because I was generous, but because I got on with the fellow.  He bowed out about 8:30, and she got off at 9:00.

We walked a few blocks and found a club on 9th Avenue, near the Gulf Canada building.  I was fixed, an easy drinker, I didn't push her to do anything and we talked pretty steady though the place was too loud.  She asked about me and I asked about her, and after an hour or so, because she was curious, the subject came around to sex.

Now, I know, the internet; guys here don't like to talk about sex ... but for the record, it does happen, and a 20-year-old hetero can't help thinking about it.  By the time I met Barbara, I'd already had an intended for marriage who went her own way.  I was experienced.  Let me stress, though, that it was Barb that brought the subject up, though as I would find out, she had her reasons.

I tell people all the time, getting together with the right person isn't about hiding ourselves, hoping they'll like us.  It's about revealing as much stuff honestly about ourselves as possible ... so that if we say something that resonates with the listener, the road will be paved before us.  That night was a case in point.

I could see I was getting on with Barbara; it was past ten, she was laughing and enjoying herself.  But that didn't mean it was gonna work out, and like I say, I just don't assume that it will.  So when she asked, frankly, if I had any kinks, I told her honestly — as it was certainly true at the time — that I had interests in bondage and discipline.  I didn't elaborate.  I just said it.

Barbara called the bartender, paid for our drinks, grabbed my hand and pulled me straight out onto the street.  She practically ripped my arm off.  Minutes later, we were in cab, going to her place ...

And that's where I'm leaving this account.  Someday, when I'm maybe eighty, I'll tell the rest.  But not today.  Farewell.