Meeting a Stranger

People who have never been online see any online activity as a perversion at worse, and a silliness at best – while meeting a woman in the appropriate manner (In Sisters this involved getting drunk and having her drive you home while you pretended to be simply tired from being such an extraordinary worker) is viewed as appropriate civil behavior, the idea that you might actually meet someone you have never even seen was considered flat-out foolishness. It kinda bothered me that my “friends” were more concerned about this part of the meeting than even venturing a, “You’re a damn fool for trying to drive that piece of crap over the mountain.” I suspect if I were driving that piece of crap to the local saloon, they might have mentioned that to me. They were triaging the whole thing and, as friends, I suspect they had my best interest at heart. And as friends, I could count on them to tell everyone in the town what a fool I was.

I was not going to be dissuaded, so I loaded up the Datsun and headed out .It was my plan to check into a motel and freshen up before I met this woman who would suddenly fall for me like a ripe coconut. Although a few more erotic fantasies slipped passed my moral sensors, I sincerely had no plan to use this room for anything but a staging place. Dinner was to be at 8 and, in an effort to be punctual, I arrived at the Motel at 4pm. The drive was more or less uneventful; only twice did I see fear on the faces of the drivers of oncoming cars as I slid and careened my way over the mountain pass. (I think that God shows God’s mercy by shutting off the lights early in winter, so we don’t have to see the contorted faces of those people who think they are about to die as a dirty green Datsun does a 360 directly in front of them.)


While some may think that arriving 4 hours early may be a bit eccentric, for me it’s normal. I hate to be late; I will leave early from places so that I won’t be late for the next engagement. Someone told me this was anal behavior, which was a nice way of telling me I was being a butthead, I suspect, for forcing them out of bed two hours early just in case.

But that’s another story.…

So, with four hours to go I did the responsible thing: I panicked !!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I mean, I suddenly thought, “Hey, my friends might be right! This person might be a homicidal maniac! She could be an IRS agent - or she might even be a HE!!!!” Believe there is nothing on cable TV that can prepare you for a moment like this. Nothing – zilch! I thought I would use up some time taking a shower, but the water ran cold after fifteen minutes - I was on a budget you realize. So I shaved, and shaved and shaved. I prepared as well as I could, and still had about 3½ hours left. I pulled out a book to read; it was about some true life horrific murder and it helped put my mind at ease. I watched the digital clock click away. Fifteen minutes later, I had still 3 hours and fifteen minutes left to go. Another responsible reaction: I shaved again and checked my deodorant (you can never be too careful about deodorant these days, especially if you’re going to meet a homicidal murderer who can smell fear a hundred yards away). Then I cleaned my fingernails, thinking that if I did turn up dead that maybe that would help some fledgling forensic assistant to better find out the identity of the mysterious woman. I checked my pants and my shirt, I adjusted my belt, and thought about shaving again and I debated on when to put on my cologne: too soon and it would have no affect, too late and it might be overpowering. These are important decisions and, if nothing else, good reasons to be four hours early. Decisions should not be made in haste; I suspect that decisions also should not be made while in a strange motel room lying in your underwear while reading a book on a homicidal manic, while waiting to visit a stranger. By the way, I was lying in my underwear so as not to wrinkle my pants. If I would have sincerely thought I was going to get “lucky,” I would have laid nude so as not to wrinkle my underwear. Talk about anal.

Well I could keep you on the edge of suspense and prolong this part; the thought of millions of readers caught up in the whirlwind of suspense, waiting to see if I get lucky at Denny’s almost makes me cry. It’s great to be an American!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Soon the hours had drizzled into minutes (in Oregon, we use rain metaphors a lot), and it was time to go.

And time for my next panic attack: I DIDN’T KNOW WHERE DENNY’S WAS!

I had totally forgotten to locate it. Now I knew that, after arriving four hours early, I might possibly end up being late. A scenario flashed in front of my anal-retentive retinas: The woman who would soon bear my children was going to walk into Denny’s and meet another man - taller, with more hair, and younger. I would be left eating alone in a booth, trying to decide on a nature burger or a Swiss cheese sandwich. Life, at times, is simply not fair. As luck would have it, as I was in a mild spot of despair, I passed right by the Denny’s - and with a squeal of bald tires and a rather large horn blowing in my ear, I dove into the Denny’s lot. It was 7:45 I was almost LATE!