Pick Up

The summer is coming shortly to a close with just two more weekends to go. So far I haven't picked up, and I don't mean a drink. Without a doubt, it's been one of the longest, hottest, loneliest summers on weekends that I can remember. Slim pickings this year on my trips over to Block Island. Seems I've made little connection with people to play or bond with. There was one young man who not only looked intriguing but was genuinely interested in my writing after I had taken him hostage to listen to one of my stories. He was having trouble staying sober. Also his car had burnt up which meant that I'd be picking him up and taking him home like I used to do with my children. No thank you. Once in a while on Sunday mornings just for the change, I go to another black smack den on Thames Street in Newport to buy the "Times" and sit on the benches outside. Last Sunday I really had the antsies l sprinkled with self-pity; I was determined to make connection with the first person I met. No sooner did I sit myself down when a rather attractive man in his fifties, sitting on the next bench fixing his pant leg to get on his bicycle said, "The only thing in that place worth getting is the coffee and danish." I whole-heartedly agreed. What are you doing today in Newport? says he. Why I'm lonely, and I'm here to meet someone. This took him quite by surprise, but he made a quick comeback: This is your lucky day. We had some fun talking. He told me he was from Connecticut and in real estate. I told him I was an entrepreneur for fifteen years. Will you be in town for a little while longer, he says. Oh no, I must get back to my office. And once there I will go directly to the VIP envelope where my bankbooks are kept. This exercise seems to dilute my loneliness. One night hostessing at work, I sat a party of one. It was slow, and he asked if I would join him, I felt it was harmless in spite of the fact that I rarely sit with customers. He had just gotten off the plane from visiting his motherland, England. He identified himself as a corporate lawyer here in town, single, never married. We seemed to share a lot of the same values. After a while, even my small cup of espresso could not keep my eyes from closing. His jet lag was surfacing also. I'm afraid I said good night first, leaving him with little else to do but say good night too. My Contessa side was almost sound asleep and replaced by my Amazon side which I'm sure gave an intimidating message to my very proper Englishman. Now there's this other man who's more my style. His smile is seductive in a boyish way. When I was a young girl, I remember getting who I wanted. It was like a game, you knew right away if the other person wanted to play. This guy looked like he'd like to play, but needed permission to do so. Whether that permission was to come from him, his mother, or wife, I haven't been able to find out yet. It all started last year; I'd see him at different places. Never do I wash my car, and there he was getting gas. He showed up at the Dunes Club on the rare occasions I was invited there. On the beach he seemed more relaxed making his smile even more seductive. He even said a few words, like "Oh. We meet again!" On my way to San Francisco last Thanksgiving, when I switched planes, there he was in Chicago's, O'Hare Airport. I had on my bad suit and was looking good. I was on the up elevator, he was on the down with two children. We gave our waves. This meeting gave spice to an already interesting fantasy. Recently he's been popping up at my favorite black smack cafe. Now I've seen him almost everyday for a week. He sits with two ladies I know. Does he like the smack there like I do? Is he there to see more of me? The other day, he was in line for coffee, I was right behind him. "Hi" was all that came out of the two of us. Was it the reality of our morning faces that caused us to look in two different directions? Yet he seemed to have no problem with the two women he sat with every morning. I took my coffee to one of the outside seats where I was joined by my friend Tony, who described himself to the likeness of a tuna hanging on a hook after being captured. Hardly a threat. Another morning, I was befriended by a fellow who has tattoos all over his arms, He was looking a little sweaty, and not from coming off the squash court. I'm now losing my image to be sure. Oh well, time to get my medicine: I'll walk into the church where the meeting has started. The fellow speaking is an ex-football player telling us he has just picked up a drink. He really doesn't know why, he had gone to a wedding and felt lonely. "Who knows," says he, "I just picked up the drink. But I'm here now." Somehow hearing about someone going out there again-- the tattoo guy and all the guys that I've known over the years from the program, some even with no teeth, the least of God's brethren, that I have walked with on my way into sobriety-- centered me again to my world, grateful for this day of sobriety. I've recovered now from my healthy bout of summer flirtation even if it did go on only in my head. Next month, I'll be sober twenty years; those one day at a time's got pretty tough and a shoulder to cry on looked good to me. So glad I never did get all that I asked for: those fantasies that come mostly in the summer, then disappear like the leaves in fall, leaving me bare to weather one more winter with no extra baggage to pick up.

Copyright; Ruth Mahoney 20-Aug-88