Near Misses
By S. E. Finken
()
About this ebook
A few years after the end of a long marriage, Mitch Hamilton considers getting back into the romance game. With wit and insight, Mitch tells the story of his encounters with prospective lovers. Some are touching, some are hilarious, and all are surprising. Mitch's narrative expands to include other encounters and ultimate thoughts on what makes our lives rich and fulfilling.
S. E. Finken
Steve Finken lives in Overland Park, Kansas. He received an MFA from the Iowa Writers' Workshop at the University of Iowa.
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Near Misses - S. E. Finken
© 2011 S. E. Finken. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.
First published by AuthorHouse 5/5/2011
ISBN: 978-1-4567-0068-3 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-4567-0067-6 (hc)
ISBN: 978-1-4567-0069-0 (e)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2011902128
Printed in the United States of America
Cover designed by Bill LaFever
Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any Web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter One
On the Friday evening of a Memorial Day weekend I was sitting at a little round table in a coffee house in central Kansas City. A giant cardboard sunflower on a string hovered above me. I had put down my paperback account of the life of Madame Bovary. Its slick cover was worn dull and veined. I was remembering summer, being thirteen and drinking from a park fountain after playing tennis with a friend. He was fun on the court, didn’t stop joking if you were beating him. After drenching our heads and shirts, we sat in the shade of a stone shelter. Two older girls from the neighborhood came by and talked to us. I was recalling how good it was to be cooled by water on a hot afternoon, to be laughing with pretty girls in pastel clothing, to have one swing my racquet while the other smiled at something I said.
A female voice brought me back to the coffee house. I can’t possibly eat all of this. I don’t know what I was thinking. Want some?
A woman of around thirty in a pink sweater and hospital whites was holding a plate with a large golden pastry on it.
Well, Carrie,
I said, my forty-six-year-old eyes squinting at the name plate pinned to her uniform pocket. I never overlook a gift course for my mouth.
I lifted my reading glasses from the table and put them on. Good-looking woman. I’m Mitch Hamilton.
Clever line, Mitch. Is it rehearsed?
Her curiosity seemed genuine.
More like a reflex. I work with so-called clever copy. Gift books, greeting cards, calendars, things like that.
Must be a fun job.
She set the plate on the table and sat down across from me.
She used a plastic knife to cut the scone in two, then put one section on a napkin and slid the plate over to me. I’m a nurse.
Just like every other woman on the planet earth.
Her eyes opened then almost closed. She looked above me and said, That paper flower has a pine scent.
A happy reminder perhaps that winter’s truly over and summer’s starting.
Happy holiday weekend.
Carrie raised a ceramic cup.
Only three coping days left.
Tell me about it,
she said softly. Her shoulders slumped and she looked down.
What’s a nurse girl like you doing in a mood like this?
I didn’t feel like going home after work. I’m with a doctor’s office on the Plaza. I’ll just tell you I’ve had a recent break-up. Not fun. I did not see it coming. Just wham, you know.
She looked hard into my eyes with a quick flash of anger.
You’re beautiful when you’re angry,
I said, hoping to lighten things up a bit.
Only when I’m angry?
She pressed her lips together. She was on the verge of either laughing or crying.
Let’s see if we can drown your sorrows with demon caffeine.
I took our cups to get refills. When I got back, she told me she was getting over a relationship that had lasted almost a year. Her hurting was as obvious as a child’s. I told her I could somewhat identify with her feelings.
Divorce?
A few years ago.
Ouch. Children?
A daughter. Megan. She’s in college out west.
You shouldn’t be in a dark coffee house by yourself,
she said, more composed as her attention shifted to me. You should be in a sports bar with your buddies, screaming at a big screen ball game.
I might scream anyway.
Carrie laughed and shook her head a little. She put her hand on mine and laughed again.
Tell you what, Carrie. I’m on my way to our company’s anniversary party. Crown Center. I can bring a guest. Be my guest. They’re fun people. No pressure.
I’ll need to change.
She opened her sweater wide.
Won’t we all?
I drove behind her silver compact car to an apartment complex on the Kansas side of the city and waited for her in my unquestionably reliable sedan. She came out in twenty minutes wearing a modest red dress and black high heels. Fresh lipstick and invisible touches of makeup had transformed her from pretty to gorgeous. Nice start to a long weekend.
As we headed towards downtown I gave her a rundown of my workplace. We’re not a large company. Somewhere over three hundred people. Besides publishing, we do some work for local advertising companies. We have a dozen in-house artists. The copy comes from a few of us inside and a network of free-lancers. Employees and guests at the annual shindig fit easily into a large hotel ballroom where a disc jockey plays the kind of music you hear at wedding receptions.
Inside I introduced Carrie to Eunice, the widow of the founder of Punchline Press. In her late fifties, she’s a trim handsome woman with untouched gray hair that she wears in a short athletic cut. That night she had on a glittering silver dress and dark smoky pearls and multiple metal bracelets.
Eunice is owner and CEO,
I explained to Carrie, who listened and raised her eyebrows and nodded. Eunice put a hand on my arm and leaned towards Carrie with a sly smile and said, More accurately, meddler in everyone’s personal life when I’m not blatantly pursuing hunky creative types like his royal cleverness, Sir Mitchell.
Oh, really?
Carrie responded, her lips pursed in feigned coolness.
Sometimes we jog together,
I explained. And it’s me trying to keep pace with her. She’s in great shape.
Ted Sorenson walked up with a cocktail in each hand. He was wearing a thin black t-shirt beneath a gray sport coat. He’s ten years younger than I am, taller than average, stays in shape. He’ll change his look to keep up trends. He’d just started wearing his dark short hair in small spikes with lots of gel. I pointed to his head and said, That reminds me. I’ve got to get my car in for a lube and oil change.
Oh, good, Mitcheroo,
Ted said flatly. He held up his drink glasses. Look, I’m taking this year’s bonus in booze.
That’s too much then,
Eunice said, grabbing one of the cocktails.
Not for a hardworking genius, not for the king of copy,
Ted protested. I’m always working, always looking for fresh ideas, always thinking. Just a minute ago I got an idea for a Christmas card. Two wise men. Frank Incense and Murray. Actually, they’re wise guys. Mafia types. One says, ‘A gift for you?’ The other says, ‘Fuggetaboutit.’
Carrie laughed sweetly. Eunice and I exchanged looks. I took Ted’s remaining drink.
Okay, okay, adapt, change, revise,
Ted said, pretending to be frantic. How about they offer to give the card recipient a ride to a Christmas party, then find out there’s no room in the trunk? Something like that. Huh? Work with me, people.
Nice try,
Eunice said. Maybe you should take a break and just enjoy the party.
Ted turned to Carrie. And you must be the Virgin Mary.
Carrie,
she said and held out her hand. He grasped it and held on.
Virgin Carrie then. Close enough. Divine, I’m sure. I have to tell you here’s no room at the Holiday Inn. You’ll have to spend the night at my place.
She came as my guest,
I said.
Oh, Mitch, you can have one of my old girlfriends,
Ted said with a dismissive hand wave. I’ve had so many, Carrie. Someday maybe you can be one. I treat ’em like disposable lighters. Use ’em up and throw ’em away.
He burns hot, he burns fast,
I said.
Carrie gingerly touched Ted’s arm as though it were a plugged in iron. You must be quite a man,
she said, her eyes wide with amusement.
A literal hottie,
I said.
Wait till you see me dance.
He took both her hands. I can twist and shout at the same time.
Carrie looked at me, hesitated.
Go ahead,
I told her. It’ll give Eunice and me a chance to discuss the direction of Ted’s so-called career.
Ah,
Ted sighed as he laid his head lightly on Carrie’s shoulder. Many are so-called but few are chosen for the big jobs.
He and Carrie moved quickly without seeming self-conscious to the open area where a dozen people were dancing in front of the d.j.’s table. The current song was lively with heavy rhythm. The pair moved well together and appeared to know what they were doing. I actually enjoyed watching them.
She’s very pretty,
Eunice said. "Striking really. That red dress and auburn hair.
She moves very gracefully. I might say alluringly."
Pretty as in pretty young. She recently broke up with a guy. I met her at the Coffee Horse.
What were you doing there, reading or writing?
Reading. Flaubert.
Glad to know you’re keeping up with the latest trends in nineteenth century foreign culture. That will keep our copy fresh and current.
She took a small gulp from her amber drink, a gesture I remembered from childhood when an older generation always seemed to be holding mixed drinks in social settings.
I thought coming here would take her mind off things, give her something to do. I talked you all up as fun people. I guess I didn’t need to say too much about Ted.
The music had switched to something slow and the new couple was touching lightly as they swayed and chatted.
You should ask her out on a real date, Mitch. You’ve been alone long enough. It’s time, dear boy.
Great. Then Ted could point out the age difference by saying dinner and a movie would be a Happy Meal and a cartoon.
Mitchell,
Eunice said as stared hard into my eyes. The problem with running away from life is that there’s no place to run to.
Ted and Carrie were still laughing when they rejoined us. The four of us spent most of the evening at a table together. We all got up for some of the goofy dance numbers and made small jokes as door prizes were announced and handed out. When I won a metallic toaster that worked for bagels and muffins, Ted said, Hey, Mr. Technophobe, want me to show you how to use it? It’s pretty complicated. I’ll stop over. We’ll tackle that bad boy together.
I had the sugary experience of finding a woman more attractive as the night passed along. Carrie employed the not uncommon female talent of holding her head with upturned chin and smiling to show display of bright teeth that showed off beauty at its best. I felt a lot older than she and tried to refrain from looking at her too long or too often. I took her straight home after the last song and nodded when she turned down my offer to walk her to the door. I hadn’t asked for her phone number and she hadn’t asked me to call her. The only overtly positive sign she gave was humming that final song as she walked away. Great legs.
The next morning I showed up a little before nine to play tennis with Ted at his racquet club after years away from the courts. While I was waiting for him in the food court I caught a glimpse through a doorway of a woman with short blonde hair wearing a multicolored leotard over white tights and a thick towel draped over her shoulders.
Scientists can determine a lot about a long gone dinosaur from a single fossil tooth. The size, shape and wear of an incisor tells hem the scope and curve of the jaw, which give them the dimensions of the head, which informs the configuration of the neck and so on and so forth until they have completed an entire skeletal structure. Then it’s possible to theorize with a high degree of certainty the layers of muscle and skin along with diet and level of ferocity. Three-dimensional computer animation shows the virtual beast moving and making some approximation of the grunts, growls, roars and sobs that would come from the chest cavity and throat.
Similarly, men believe they can assemble the same fairly complete picture of a woman from a quick glance into a passing car or a brief look at a jogger. While I was seated at a light beige wooden table with a cup of coffee, before Ted showed up, I put together a fast mental profile of the woman in the leotard of many colors. I imagined her briskly heading off to lead an aerobics class with women would appreciate her constant smile and perky encouragement. She would keep the towel near her on the floor and pick it up frequently to lightly rub herself because the vigor she brought to her job would cause floral scented perspiration to trickle down her high cheekbones and long graceful neck. She kept her compact body toned but she wasn’t obsessed. She’d drink a light beer at dinner while she chatted with her dining companion about what she was reading, a tome not overly literary but one the high end of popular fiction.
Ted came through the doorway that the blonde had just passed through. He paused and looked backwards before coming to my table.
I may sign up for an exercise class,
he said as he set his athletic bag on the floor. The frame of his racquet was much larger than the one on my older metal model.
I don’t think they’ll let you just watch.
Ted cringed and held his hand to his heart. Then he took a puzzled look at my racquet. Mitch, if you’re worn out from beating rugs, we can skip the tennis.
I haven’t hit a tennis ball in a long time. I don’t now if I can get back in the game. I may not be able to remember the moves, the strokes, the trash talk. Maybe we should just sit and sip cranberry juice. Good for the kidneys.
Hard to get tanked on that stuff.
Not at my age.
Yeah, right.
Ted breathed a light laugh. A guy in his mid-forties has to watch it.
A tall woman with a pony tail, white shirt and black shorts, took his order for orange juice.
You’re still jogging, aren’t you.
That’s a generous word for it.
How fast do you go?
Beats me. About as fast as I can. I stopped timing myself about the same time I stopped stepping on scales. Ignorance is bliss.
Knowledge is nothing,
Ted pronounced with a professorial air.
Exactly.
Unless it’s carnal.
I picked up my racquet and faked hitting him on the head. You’ve got such a one-track mind, your parents should have named you Amtrak.
Ted pumped his arms and said in a muted shout, The little train that could, baby.
We played two sets on an indoor court. During warm-up I was able to get into an effortless rhythm of taking the racquet back a ways and hitting low hard shots that dipped from topspin after crossing the net and accelerated upon hitting the surface. Ted’s shots came back in a similar way, usually within a step or two of me, and we had many long rallies. The pleasant thwack of the ball on taut strings and the oblivion of concentrating on a simple synchronized task gave me a mild euphoria. I was more than willing to continue until Ted gathered the balls and hit a mild underhand to indicate that we were volleying for serve.
I served surprisingly well and moved okay, managing to win a few games in each set before Ted beat me. I didn’t go all out in chasing down sideline shots and I was ready to quit when our court time was up. We stuck around for lunch, turkey and cheese sandwiches and chips. We sat near a railing where we could look down on three courts below. Four men with gray hair, two with those raggedy beards that older men find attractive when they look in the mirror, were playing doubles in the center court. They wore shorts in earth tone colors and knee braces that surely contributed to their stiff semi-running.
So what’s with Nurse Carrie?
Ted asked as he brushed crumbs from the fresh white shirt he’d changed into.
What’s what with her?
Well, let’s start with great-looking and leggy, and we’ll go from there. Are you going to be asking her out?
She’s very sweet,
I said. And young.
Sure, for you.
You really think so?
I tried to sound unconcerned. Ted took a slow swallow of juice and mouthed a silent No.
He leaned forward, his usual smirk nowhere to be seen.
Look, you’re not an old guy,
he said. You’re in good shape, nice-looking in a strange weird kind of way. Hairline’s not moving back too fast. Not a big deal. Just enough gray to make you look wise, quasi-distinguished. You don’t see the way women look at you. They’re sly about it, but I see it from the side. They’re definitely interested in the Mitcheroo.
Okay, now you’re messing with me, making things up.
I’m serious.
It’s really okay. I can take it. Thick skinned. Wrinkly, but tough and thick.
You may feel like an old guy, resident of Geezerville. I don’t know. You married young, stayed married for a long time, got a daughter in college. You’re just now waking up to how much time has passed. You’ve been busy, head down, making a living, paying the bills, picking up disposable diapers then mailing tuition checks. Happened so fast. Taking care of personal and company business. Now that you’ve had a chance to slow down and look up, you have a sense that it’s too late for you to start something new, that maybe life has passed you by.
I was genuinely startled. It was a few seconds before I could say, Ted, that’s thoughtful, almost insightful.
The smirk came back to Ted’s face, That’s what I thought when Eunice said what I just repeated verbatim.
We both laughed and I turned to watch the seniors go at each other down below. A man with thick black wrist bands and a sleeveless shirt hit a feathery serve into the net. That oughta scare ya!
he shouted in self-disgust.
So,
Ted said. About the nurse.
She just broke up with some guy. Medium length relationship. We talked in the car. Both of us laid out that we weren’t looking for a relationship but that it had been fun to be in a festive setting for an evening. I’m not planning to pursue anything.
I didn’t mention that I had not experienced the early physical manifestations of romantic interest. No fluttering in the stomach, no excited chattering, no urge to phone her as soon as I got home.
Hmmm,
Ted mused, finger to lips, eyes looking to ceiling. So what I’m hearing is that this hot redhead is, how you say, available. Unattached, as free as the proverbial bird.
You can call her if you want to. She’s a lot closer to your age than mine. She’s a nurse. Seems like a good thing to be. A profession that a good person would get into.
I do like goodness,
Ted said, the smirk now aroused to a grin. I’ve got a poster of Joan of Arc over my bed. Burning at the stake. Talk about a hot babe.
This time I really did pop him on the head with my racquet.
How ironic,
Ted observed. If I were wearing a toupee, that really would be a rug beater.
That does it. I’m outta here.
I gathered my stuff and stood up. What are you doing the rest of the day?
Don’t know. No plans yet. Might go to the do track tonight. Interested?
I’ll see how long I nap. Don’t wait for me. I’ll call if I’m going.
Several days a week and sometimes at night gray hounds race at a track north of Kansas City. After Kim and I split up, I would drive there once in a while, traveling the fifteen miles of highway that rose and fell in long slopes. I rarely bet on the dogs. I preferred to put the minimum two dollars down on horse races that were televised live from various cities around the country. Horse races had a higher degree of predictability than the hound events. Unlike dogs, a heavy favorite never tripped and rolled wildly on the first turn and then popped up to trot with flagging interest in the general direction of the finish line.
Horse races last three times longer than dog races. The outcome remains in doubt down the stretch. You get a more sustained and intense adrenalin rush for your two bucks. I seldom laid out more than twenty dollars in total and I could usually win at least a few races. The entire experience would end up costing no more than a single movie ticket. And sometimes I came out ahead.
The track was a bridge of diversion between errands and jogging, household chores and reading, golf and solitary or group entertainments in the evening. Like a shark requiring constant gliding through salt water to maintain a flow of oxygen to the gills, never stopping to rest and risk deep thinking, I drifted through the leisure hours, chomping down one morsel of activity after another without really considering how much pleasure I was experiencing.
I almost always went to the Woodlands track by myself. That way I could leave whenever I wanted, after a few races or a few hours. I didn’t lose more money than I felt comfortable about because I was sticking around to keep someone company. I bet on horses that paid roughly even odds, those destined to win regularly and pay about what was wagered. No long shots. No miracles in the mud. I couldn’t expect to win big, but I also wouldn’t be hurt too badly when it was all over.
Beamed electronically from hundreds or thousand of miles away, the colorfully shirted jockeys on the television screens in large hope areas next to betting windows look like glittering passengers on bulbous rafts bobbing smoothly in a tight pack on a swift current until the final turn when one or two of the horses pull away and sprint to the end.
For six weeks in the fall there is live horse racing on a track across from the one where the dogs run. I only went on those afternoon events a few times, placing my inconsequential wagers and wandering down to the finish line where I could see the races end just a couple of yards away. Up close the picture hanged quite a bit. Tons of straining animal muscle bounce chaotically on the nearly lumbering beasts. The bright shining shirts and goggled faces of the jockeys have a thick splattering of mud on them. By the short oval journey’s end the faces of horses wear expressions of pain and panic.
At the time, in the first year of divorce, I saw similarities between the horse racing and romance. The picture is pretty on the stylish Country Club Plaza shopping and dining district where couples hold hands in horse drawn carriages or a woman in a short skirt rises on tiptoe to kiss her boyfriend or lovers smile in the serene glow from a candlelit table. Love appears to be a thing of many splendors.
Get closer and it can be a different thing. In a movie theater ticket line you might overhear a woman giving a detailed account of her frustrating work day to a man whose single syllable responses are desperate pleas for silence. At a marble topped bar a man in a funereally dark suit is giving opinions on everything from politics to pin stripes for a female companion whose voice you never hear but only presume from the pauses in the gas bag’s cadence. Not so good.
And yet. It is hard not to feel a sharp longing when I see a