More things one sees on the way . . .

Okay, kiddies, since you were so good for the last story, I'm gonna tell you another story. This is story is a sad mixture of humor and melancholy.

To quote Dave Barry, "and I am not making this up."

Once upon a time, about twenty years ago when I had fewer wrinkles and gray hairs, there was a man in my life we'll call Fred. We were on a project team together at Incredibly Big Manufacturer-of-computers company. We were friends and colleagues and then he started pursuing me romantically and I went along and we had several months of a good time together and stayed in touch sporadically through the years.

He always kept track of my birthday because it is eleven days before his (but many years after). A year ago we spoke on my birthday, and he started hinting that I should come east to visit him. After about ten days of multiple phone conversations each day, I made my travel plans. The week before my vacation, he would call me several times a day, but always at the wrong phone number. He'd call at home when I was at the office or on my cell during times when it was turned off. And if I tried to call him, my calls went unanswered. As the travel date drew closer, I grew more apprehensive. And yet I needed the vacation, so ignored my feelings.

When I arrived in Norfolk, I retrieved my baggage, then walked out to the curb where he was waiting. He watched me walking down the sidewalk toward him, but didn't realize it was me until I was standing in front of him speaking his name. He stowed my bags and we took off toward Virginia Beach. We drove on the interstate and I saw signs for the Virginia Beach exit. Two lanes were designated for the right exit toward the beach, and we were riding in the leftmost of those two right lanes. When we arrived at the exit, the two lanes peeled off, but Fred kept driving straight. After a minute, he realized he was driving on the shoulder of the road. He maneuvered the car back onto the righthand lane and started wondering aloud where the VB exit had gone. I suggested we take an upcoming exit, turn around, and go back to the VB exit. But, guy that he is, we kept going, circumnavigating the Hampton Roads area for 45 minutes until we came upon the VB exit again.

Fred had always taken very good care of himself and I knew that he walked no less than two miles each day. So the next morning, when he grabbed his car keys and asked if I wanted to go for a walk with him, I had visions of a lovely walk along the beach or, at least, the boardwalk. After five years of walking in the desert, Atlantic Ocean sand between my toes sounded pretty good. When we parked and got out of the car, he steered me toward Atlantic Avenue. I was a little disappointed, but figured when we got to the top of the walk, we'd come back along the shore. We started up Atlantic Avenue, but it was not a power walk, more of a saunter. Fred's head was always down, eyes scanning the pavement. At each side street, he'd say "I'll be right back" and walk a block out, cross over, and walk the block back. After a while I realized what he was doing; he was looking for lost coins! Every parking meter, every soda machine, every newspaper vending machine was checked for coins. Every coin was retrieved; every interesting-looking pen or pencil was retrieved. Toward the end of the walk, I was able to maneuver him out onto the beach for a couple of blocks and run down to dip my toes in the water. But the walk was all about the treasures he found. When we got back to his house, he dropped the coins into his coin jug and showed me the three large containers of pens and pencils on his kitchen counter, proudly pulling out his favorite pen find to show me.

After showering and dressing for the day, he settled down with a cup of coffee and the newspaper and I sat opposite him with a beading project in my lap. We conversed for a while, and then I noticed he was rather quiet. I looked across at him and saw he was sound asleep on the couch, 10:45 in the morning.

As the day wore on, the phone rang a few times and he never seemed to notice. If I called out, "Fred, the phone", he'd look at it, pick it up, press the "off" button, and say "Hello? Hello?", then press the "on" button and say, "Hello? Hello?", by which time the connection had been terminated. Finally I understood why he had not answered my calls — he couldn't hear them!

I asked him once if I could check my e-mail, and he turned his computer on for me and his Outlook opened. When I tried to open Internet Explorer to view my web mail, I was asked for a password. I asked him to enter the password, and he said he didn't know it. A neighbor had set up the computer for him and he didn't remember where the neighbor had put the password. This man who had a long and successful career with IBM was using his very powerful computer for e-mail and solitaire!

The next afternoon we went to the grocery store to pick up supplies and wine. As we stood in front of the wine display, Fred looked left and right, up and down. I asked what he was looking for, expecting him to answer "merlot" or "pinot grigio". Finally he pointed at a bottle of Corbett Canyon chardonnay and said, "like that, but not that one." I asked, "Red or white?", to which he responded, "No, blue." When he finally found what he was looking for, I realized this man who bragged over the years about his knowledge of wines was referring to the color of the label!

You know the saying, "everything old is new again"? Well, the moral of this story is that everything old is older than it was the last time you saw it.

Oh, in case you're wondering how the story ended, here's the "rest of the story":

I was supposed to stay five days with him, then go off to Western North Carolina to visit my mother for four days, coming back to spend one more day with him before flying back to Tucson. By the afternoon of the second day, I was text-messaging girlfriends up and down the East Coast, trying to figure a way to escape this vacation-from-hell. Using my mother's health as a ruse, I explained to him that I needed to get over to my mother's and would have to leave earlier than planned. My bead buddy Schermo came to rescue me and I spent a day with her in Virginia Beach, seeing her lampworking studio and meeting her daughters. Then she took me to get a rental car, and I headed for a two-day impromptu beading retreat with my singing and travel friend Risa in Northern Virginia. When driving back from my mother's to catch a flight out of Norfolk back to Tucson, I found a hotel near the airport and never called him again. I don't think he ever really realized I had not stayed as long as promised.

(Oh, and he had said he'd pay for my flight expenses, but I didn't have the heart to ask him for the money. I was out $500 for the vacation-from-hell.)

A month or so later he started e-mailing me again, suggesting he come to Tucson for a visit. I finally said to him, "Fred, we've both changed and moved on with our lives. I don't think that would work."

Life is funny — and sometimes sad.