The Fifth Installment of Boardinghouse Reach
With apologies for being late (the holidays and a broken arm put a crimp in my writing schedule)
When I next ran into Colby, I apologized for my rudeness in ending our conversation so abruptly the last time, and made some effort to explain. In the course of things, I told him about my search for a new place to live and about the difficulties I was having with the hand-me-down car my mother had given me, a tricked-out British Sterling that was sitting stalled and useless in my driveway. (I was meanwhile driving a little Honda that someone had rear-ended—fortunately, with no injury to either Kyle or me—on the freeway.) Colby solicited my card, telling me that he had dealings with many landlords in connection with his work in the electrical trade; he would ask around to see if one of them had a nice place available in a neighborhood that would suit us. In the meantime, he engaged himself to stop by on Saturday and look at my car.
So there Colby was at my door, holding his toolbox, looking very much the working man. I was still at the phase of trying to look as well put together as possible every day. Not that I went around dressed for a photo shoot. But I was busy reformulating my sense of who I was in the world, and I wanted to make sure that the place I carved out was somewhere closer to the top of the heap than the bottom. Anyway, I was quite well aware of how deeply the way I looked affected the way I felt about myself, as well as the ways in which other people treated me. I felt that I owed myself at least a good starting place for a positive and self-confident mood every day.
When I answered the door and saw Colby there—looking shorter and stouter than I remembered him, with the interfacing showing on his shirt collar where the fabric had worn through from being washed so many times, with his shirt-tails hanging out of his sweater—I felt a pretty snotty sense of distance from the situation. If this man wanted to help me by getting my car running, then I would accept his help with graciousness and gratitude. But I didn’t feel any of the pressures one would feel, say, going out on a date.
I learned another lesson that morning about the packages that people come in. Colby gave every indication of being what he looked like: a blue-eyed, blue-collar guy; a typical all-American Joe who probably drank a lot of beer and watched a lot of television. And yet when he walked through the door and I introduced him in a cursory fashion to Fernando and Gloria, newly arrived from Brazil, Colby began to speak Portuguese with them. That was when the first little light went off in my head: this package is not an accurate reflection of what it holds inside. This package seems to hold something quite extraordinary.
Of course, I had no idea just how extraordinary Colby was at that point in time. All I knew was that this Nordic-looking person whose jeans exhibited the dreaded custodial sag was speaking rather good-sounding Portuguese with my new friends. Surely, I thought to myself, there’s a story here.
***
Part of my plan for the redesign of my place in the world involved breaking into the world of magazine journalism. Heretofore, various essays of mine had found their way into big-name publications; but I had neither the reputation nor the credentials required to land a regular string of gigs with national magazines.
Given my interest in travel and food, I thought I might try to carve out a special niche for myself in these areas. Initial queries to some of the bigger food and travel mags had yielded nothing but polite or even preprinted rejections. I decided to start at a lower rung of the ladder to build up a portfolio of articles to send out with my queries.
Thus it was that I found myself with the pleasant task of writing about a series of Wine Country restaurants that had won a set of awards in Sonoma County.
An article about the crown jewel of the restaurants on the list afforded me the opportunity to invite Fernando, Gloria and Colby out for an elegant dinner that I wasn’t cooking and somebody else—in the form of the fee for my article—would at least partially subsidize.
By then, Colby had the Sterling up and running. Kyle just loved pressing the buttons that made the sunroof open and close, and the lumbar region of the seat puff out or deflate with a subtle farting noise. Colby had put a lot of time into my car and I wanted to be able to thank him in some way.
The entire length of Gloria’s stay, after our initial day or two of bonding, evolved into one long going-away party for her and Fernando. Colby managed to be there throughout this time, bringing wine and other treats for the table, paying for dinners out, and making himself useful to me in a hundred small ways. He gradually let us in on bits and pieces of his very interesting life story, which included growing up with a European father, an American mother and two younger brothers in Central and South America (he and his brothers all spoke Spanish and Portuguese). I couldn’t help but be impressed as well with the immediate liking that Kyle had taken to him.
Colby followed through with things, remembering the voltage of the battery Kyle asked him to get for the little weather radio Stewart had given him shortly after moving out (Kyle listened to the droning, staticky marine weather reports during those weeks when Stewart was out of commission, clinging to something he knew had to do with his suddenly absent father). Colby not only noted the way I liked my lattes then—tall, single shot, low-fat milk—but would often show up with one at just the opportune time. He said it was a function of being a contractor, needing to remember the myriad details of what was needed for a particular job. But it felt like something deeper rooted in Colby’s personality and spirit—a sort of mindfulness, a sense of being awake to the people and things around him and a sense of abundance inside that made him able to respond.
More lights were illuminated as Colby and I drove back and forth together between my house and Grand Auto with the Sterling’s battery. Here was a man who really listened—I could see it in his face when he spoke. But he didn’t just listen. Colby listened and he talked, too—talked with humor and intelligence and what struck me as an exceptionally high level of astuteness.
I took notice. But my idea for myself at this pass in time was to be in amongst a constellation of intelligent, charming and delightful men and women. I wanted to see if I could successfully date several men at the same time. I had decided to guard my newfound independence.
Our plan was to rendezvous with Fernando and Gloria, who would drive up to the Wine Country the day before in a rented car. Colby was to pick me up in his truck (as the Sterling’s reliability on longer outings had yet to be determined). We would meet at the restaurant, which would no doubt roll out the red carpet for us, as they’d been forewarned by the magazine of my arrival.
I decided to go for broke and dress up in a stretchy black velvet number that my friend Nancy describes as being approximately the size of a dinner napkin. Suffice it to say that the back is low and the hem is high. It’s a smashing dress, especially when worn with sheer black stockings and high heels.
I was fully prepared for Colby to show up at the door in work clothes, deciding that I wasn’t going to be so petty as to let that matter. We weren’t going out as a matching pair of salt and pepper shakers, after all: we were just two grownups going out on a date. Colby was free to look however he wanted to. So was I.
He showed up, albeit out of breath and about half an hour late, gleaming from a shower and shave and wearing clothes he’d obviously just gone out and bought. It was the best bouquet I ever got—definitely, from Colby, a mark of esteem.
During the process of clipping off the price ticket he’d neglected to tear off his shirt, we got into a little romantic clinch there in the doorway, a short but highly charged kiss on the lips. Then I hopped into his truck and we headed for the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge.
A lot can happen on an hour-long drive. And, of course, there’s something to be said for the mood-altering affects of wearing a velvet mini-dress, high heels and French perfume. Trucks also offer the old-fashioned but charming amenity of one continuous front seat. Colby and I sat pressed together on this drive, enjoying this newly electrified version of our budding friendship.
I love and also fear this stage of things. The charge between your two bodies, no matter where they touch—hands, elbows, knees—could power at least a low-wattage light-bulb. You’re like the light-swords in Star Wars when they touch. You are suddenly sexualized and potentially lethal. You are past the point of no return.
It didn’t hurt that we had one of the most delicious and festive meals I’ve ever eaten, savored and washed down with rare wines, over the course of three hours. It didn’t hurt that we were seated in the choice table by the fireplace, or that the waiter, sommelier and the executive chef himself hovered within pouncing distance of our table, ready to respond to the slightest indication of want. Nor did it mar the romantic mood that, given the imminence of Fernando and Gloria’s departure, we were all four of us like people who have found their soul-mates on a transoceanic voyage and know that they soon will have to say goodbye, with no idea when they will ever have the opportunity to break bread or raise a glass together again. Colby and Fernando had bonded as deeply as Gloria and I. It was theirs to share their cryptic, manly observations while Gloria and I walked on our high heels with a slightly tipsy sway toward the ladies’ room. It didn’t hurt that we felt the eyes of the restaurant upon us—that we felt beautiful and desirable, or that the room seemed to grow utterly quiet as we made our way back to the table.
Fernando and Gloria stayed that night at an inn within stumbling distance of the restaurant. Colby, with steady hand, drove me to a place he knew in the Marin Headlands, overlooking the massive struts of the Golden Gate Bridge and a wind-swept view of the sparkling lights of San Francisco. The moon was obligingly full. We soon had the windows opaque with steam.
To be continued on Tuesday, January 2nd…
