Ray told me to meet him at the yacht club right after work on Friday. It was a gorgeous, sunny day barely a breeze in town. If I could hurry up and get there by 5:30, he and a few others were departing for a short sail. If not, no worries, he would leave a guest pass for me at the front desk with carte blanche for anything my heart desired at the bar.
I felt out of place as soon as I arrived, driving my beat-up Honda Civic into a parking lot full of shiny Bentleys, Beemers, and Volvos. I collected my guest pass and made my way into the main room. I should have felt quite at home with so many Filipinos around. But I’m sure the Trumps were wondering what I was doing ordering a drink…I should have been serving alcohol behind the bar with the rest of my people.
Ray finally arrived. What a relief. We had a great time chatting and he proceeded to introduce me to everyone there that he knew. Everyone was actually really nice. We continued to drink and ended up having dinner there. It was probably the most perfect date I’ve ever been on: great view, good people, seamless conversation, yummy food…I couldn’t have asked for more.
We both agreed we had a great time. Plans for the next day? Call me. We would figure something out.
(Start scary music here.) He leaves 5 messages on my voicemail. Not one. Not two. Not even three, but FIVE. 1, 2, 3, 4, and yup 5. Yikes! I’m listening to my messages thinking, “If I get one more message from him, I’m going to call the cops!” At this point, I don’t even want to hear or see him ever again. Psychoaggressivemaniacstalker. But that Catholic guilt sets in. I had already agreed to meet up with him. I tell him to meet me and a friend at a bar.
When he arrives, his eyes lock on me for the rest of the night. He cannot stop staring. Then the psycho starts rubbing my shoulder and arm. I’m flipping out at this point—totally at my wits end. I tell him I’m ticklish and jerk myself away, but the dumb bastard continues his Lenny-like touchy-feely gestures. Yuck!!!
What a letdown. I claim tiredness and get ready to leave. All of us pile in my car, I drop psychopath off, but before he shuts the door, my friend calls out, “Keep trying, Ray. Keep trying!” That’s right, Ray. Sail, sail away toward that beautiful sunset I had believed in just the night before. Good luck and good riddance!
I love to read and write. You’ll rarely find me strolling around the city without a book, pen, or paper in tow. I’ve worked on yearbooks and newspapers. Hell, I cemented my love for books when I decided to major in English. What can you really do with an English degree?!
At the supreme University of Chicago Graduate School of Business (free advertising for my beloved alma mater), I set out to make the newspaper one of my main extracurricular activities, publishing several articles a quarter. A 2nd-year by the name of Booker Whitt came out with an advice column. He was quite the character and popularly known on campus as ‘The GSB’s Source of Reasoned Advice.’ Readers would write with questions and he would respond in blunt, slap-stick fashion.
Upon Booker’s graduation, I was delighted to find out that I had been selected as his replacement. I can’t say for sure what fired up the hormones during my tenure (possibly the high level of attractiveness in the Class of 2004), but the questions I received constantly asked my opinion on romance and dating. The stories from this academic powerhouse could have been prime fodder for the popular TV show Sex and the City. And here I was writing an advice column like Carrie Bradshaw did in the show. Truly bizarre!
I named the column AskVixen, paying homage to a nickname my mentor had given me in a spoof article he had written for the newspaper. The nickname was random, but turned out to be a suitable pen name.
I greatly miss writing that biweekly column. I can’t tell you how grateful I am to still receive emails from former readers telling me how much they enjoyed my writing. So I thought I’d have at it again. Thanks for entering Vixen Vignettes.