Open letter to *****

—“Of all the people I’ve met during my 77 years on this planet, you are extremely interesting. I find myself wondering what makes ***** tick.”
I would say that to *****, my lifeguard friend at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming pool.
The girl who grew up in that little burg south of where I went to college.
One of the few I know who can correctly pronounce “Scio,” as could her mother, who died recently, and probably her father too.
“When I first came to this pool three years ago, and saw you on that lifeguard stand: ‘she’s the pretty one. I'll never befriend her. She’s too pretty.’
Then you said hello to me by name.” Why in the wide wide world is someone so impressive saying hello to a lifelong scumbag?
“And now three years later we remain friends, despite the many flubs and foulups prompted by my feeble attempts to bridge the dreaded male/female gap.
There you are poolside, drifting toward me so we can talk.
I find myself thinking you could do a lot better.
We are two entirely different persons, you an aquanaut, and me a word geek. My head is so full of words my critics say “I think too much!”
Would you be so balown away by all them stars above that Cañon City campground?
I know I was, and I’m not sure my wife, who was incredible, would be.
“Billions and billions and billions of stars,” just like Carl Sagan said.
When this pool re-opened last August we met again, and it seemed you were happy to see me. I was happy too, although scared.
I don’t wanna lose this ****-girl, she may be a romantic like me. Billions and billions of stars romantic.
“If I am correct, and I’m probably not, I think you said something about your showing up as long as I did.
In which case I decided to continue showing up, even though I feel like I’m beating my head against the wall. My balance just keeps getting worse and worse.
If we made a deal it wasn’t ironclad like me and ******. She promised to never give up on me no matter how feeble and confused were my attempts at female interaction, plus my minimal socialization experience.”
She hasn’t. She’s always happy to see me, and smiles.
“And now I have a question for you regarding watching American Graffiti on my MAC.
Someone directed me to Amazon, and beyond that I’m lost.
Amazon is trying to shove ‘Prime’ down my throat — I thought I was just downloading to my MAC.
Born in the wrong century, I guess.”

• “Sigh-oh.”

Lori-Anne peaches

—“You are my second friend-contact at this store today,” I said to ****** at my supermarket’s self check-out.
“Number-one was ******, I said.
“******,” ****** said. “Your favorite Wegmans employee.”
“She is not!” I snapped.
“You know who my favorite employee is at this store?” I said.
“It’s you!” I said, pointing at her.
She blushed and bopped me.
Readers, I think she actually believed what I said.
“With you I’m at ease. I have to be careful with ****** lest I not be perceived a lonely hot-to-trot widower.
****** looks young, like she’s probably not married yet.
My wife died over nine years ago, so now you stand in for her.
You’re someone I can talk to.
And you’ll notice I mentioned my wife’s passing without crying,” at which point I started crying as always.
I think ****** understood: “this guy really cared about his wife.”
“My wife was flat incredible,” I whimpered.
“44&1/2 years she put up with me, although her mother messed her up almost as bad as me.
So my wife could forgive my madness. Her mother was a pill.”
“Lori-Anne peaches?” I exclaimed.
“So take ‘em back,” ****** said.
“Are you sure?” I said.
****** canceled my Lori-Anne peaches.
“Too mushy!” I said.
“Sounds like you’re an authority on peaches,” ****** said.
No Lori-Anne peaches for this kid!

Gone with the Wind

—“Another Scarlett” I said to a girl with hair dyed so red it normally woulda turned me off.
I was entering my Honeoye Falls supermarket and there she was checking out the lost-dog notices, etc. That supermarket has a community bulletin-board.
What did I just do readers? Just by saying something I told that girl I liked what I saw.
Our eyes met, and hers twinkled.
(“LUKE!”)
She liked that I liked her smile.
Her over-dyed hair went background, and we began talking.
“GOODIE; he likes talking with me.”
Her smile was fantastic.
“Scarlett O’Hara,” I said. “But I can’t remember the name of the movie.”
She took out her SmartPhone and Googled Scarlett O’Hara. She wasn’t turning me off.
“Gone with the Wind,” she said.
“That’s it!” I cried. “Scarlett with two ‘T’s’.
I had a dog named Scarlett; and one of the lifeguards at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool is named Scarlett,” I said.
“Her red hair is real, and my dog was an Irish Setter.
I always wonder why I never get smacked.
The other day it was an overly exposed teenager whose father never appeared to send me packing.
I’d made it a point to look only at her eyes instead of down her top.
That girl in my supermarket wanted to talk.
These extraordinary female encounters pile up.
I still can visualize all the sparkling eyes.

• I coulda gone behind that bare-skinned teenager, but there wasn't enough room.

Back to the reality I prefer

—“You smile at me, and I hafta say hello to you.”
She giggled; she liked that I liked what I saw.
She was probably 16 or 17, and had rode bicycle along Lehigh Valley RailTrail, probably with her parents.
We were in the parking-lot next to the youth baseball fields. Many games were going on, and she was watching.
I’d hiked the rail-trail, and was headed for the porta-johns.
Cutie-pie — she wasn’t that cute — was wearing a bare-shouldered open tank-top that displayed a lotta cleavage.
What attracted me were her eyes. She looked right at me as I passed.
“Houston, we have eye-contact!”
Would that all male/female relationships worked that way. What matters is eye-contact, not sexual attributes.
I hafta hope what made her giggle was that I liked the eye-contact a lot more than what I coulda seen.
I’d made it a point to look only into her eyes, and not down the front of her top.
Amazingly there was no fatherly input; I thought later I mighta got slugged.
Although her father might weigh in later regarding what she wears.
I coulda gone behind her, but there wasn’t room.
“I hafta say something,” I said to another lady as I continued across the parking-lot.
“Normally I don’t say anything to anyone; normally I keep to myself. But I think I see real gray hair.”
She smiled gigantically: the gigantic “this guy noticed, and he likes what he sees.”
“My baby sister in VA is letting her hair go gray,” I said. “She brags ‘it’s the coming thing’.”
“Well, we ladies have to keep ourselves gorgeous,” she said.
“Gray is gorgeous,” I said, pointing to my head.
BAM! Another gigantic smile.
“I have it too,” I said as I walked away.
“Have a nice day!” she smiled again.
“Glad I said something,” I thought to myself.
Welcome home dude! Back to a reality much more pleasant than years ago.
Back from Altoony chasing trains with my brother.
I like doing it; I’m a railfan.
But he repeats the same sorry litany I endured all my life.
And now 70 years late I leave it behind.
I’ve made so many successful eye-contacts, I no longer avoid people, especially females. (“GASP!”)
“This guy actually likes women, and for the right reasons: talk, talk, talk, talkity, talk!”
I’ll not let some nattering-nabob-of-negativism dissuade me from striking up conversations with females = enjoying females.
Too many successes.

• “Houston, we have eye-contact” repeats “Houston, Tranquility Base here, the Eagle has landed:” July 20, 1969, first time humans were on the Moon.
• Both of these incidents are repeats of things I’ve done before. What matters is now I am much more inclined to strike up conversations, especially with females. This is the reality I’ve finally begun to enjoy 70 years late = a reality not distorted by Bible-beaters. (“GASP AGAIN!”)

It keeps happening

—“I’m guessing the reason you just waved at me was because I said hello to you the other day down at Wegmans.”
I said that to a cute mother rescuing her children from Canandaigua’s YMCA “child-watch.”
“Yep!” she smiled.
I recognized her bare-shouldered top even under her sweater. (“GASP!”)
Like most mothers her age she was a little heavy in her hips and legs.
But she was cute and her smile was ravishing.
I get to notice such things; it’s one of the perks of geezerdom.
Outside she told me she was headed for the bank. We spoke a little more about that.
Readers, I woulda never said anything to her five years ago. I woulda walked DIRECTLY outta that YMCA, then down the steps. The mere fact I noticed her woulda been DISGUSTING.
Things are so different since my wife died.
I strike up conversations with women willy-nilly.
By so doing I tell that lady she attracted me.
Which — perish-the-thought — she likes.
I pretty much kept to myself before my wife died. I didn’t wanna hurt her feelings; she’d feel threatened.
Beyond that I had no confidence.
A female strike sparks with a lifelong scum-bag? “No female will have anything to do with you Bobby!”
Now I’m headed straight for Hell, merrily striking sparks with all my “friends who happen to be female.”
She turns toward me, our eyes meet, and she smiles at me.
“Do not pass Go, do not collect $200. Fiery furnace for you Bobby!”
My childhood is being flip-flopped.
It keeps happening and happening and happening.

I don’t wanna lose her

—“Now you're flirting with me,” my jogger-friend said the other day along Lehigh Valley RailTrail.
“I am not!” I blurted.
Trap alert!
How do I get her to not think I’m coming on to her, yet I still think she’s pretty?
I’d noted my silly dog, who I lost to canine cancer last August, made it possible for me to strike up a conversation with my jogger friend. He got me used to talking with (ahem) “pretty girls.”
I’d walk the dog in a park in Canandaigua, and he’d lean into a pretty girl wanting to be petted.
“Oh what a friendly dog! Can I pet him?”
Here I am talking with yet another pretty girl — the kind I used to be scared-to-death of.
It’s my childhood of course: “No pretty girl will ever talk to you, Bobby! You are EVIL and disgusting!”
That’s the infamous Hilda Q. Walton, my sanctimonious Sunday-School Superintendent neighbor, who convinced me all males, including me at age-5, were SCUM.
70+ years late, thanks to my four-legged chick magnet, I’m able to talk with pretty girls.
My jogger friend told me her name was A*****, same as my number-two lifeguard friend at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming pool.
She’s also one “L,” same as my other A*****.
True, I inferred my jogger friend was pretty.
A similar indirect inference worked on my number-one YMCA lifeguard friend: “No pretty lady will ever talk to you,” and she said hello to me by name.
That was years ago, and she seemed to like it; she wasn’t suspicious.
(“She was cutting you slack!”)
I wasn’t coming on to her, but I inferred she’s “attractive.”
So how do I not lose this jogger friend? How do I tell her I like her, but I’m not coming on to her?
My number-two lifeguard friend is my go-to person for motherly advice. I don’t wanna lose her either.
Although I’ll probably run it past my number-one lifeguard friend too. I think I can, and I’ll probably encounter her first.
I been on-my-own since my wife died over nine years ago. I have no desire to remarry.
Although I enjoy talking with girls: girls-girls-girls-girls-girls-girls; oh how I love ‘em.
Every girl I befriend reverses my hoary childhood.
What I really enjoy is talking with them — they are so much fun to talk to.
“This conversation is turning into more fun than I ever expected,” a lady tells me.
“We could talk forever,” another lady tells me.
“You are so much fun to talk to,” a woman laughs.
“I hope we meet again,” my jogger friend said months ago.
My number-one lifeguard friend suggested I keep my mouth shut — let it slide — pretend I never goofed up.
A stellar suggestion, since it’s the same thing I did with her perhaps three months ago.
I’d firmly inserted my foot in my mouth, but I got her back, much to my utter amazement.
Unlike my father, that lifeguard doesn’t keep score.
I’m hoping my jogger friend doesn’t keep score either — I don’t wanna lose her.

• Yes, she was cutting me slack. She knows I mean well, but have little experience dealing with women.

I think I made her happy

—A friend, a fellow transit bus-driver, retired like me from Regional Transit Service (RTS) in Rochester NY……
Noted my frequent mention of the attire of “pretty-girl,” the attractive 21-year-old “main-squeeze” of my niece’s 40-year-old ex-husband.
I said that “pretty-girl’s” attire was meant to project her as eye-candy, a deeply-cut dress, and her obvious lack of a bra.
I noticed of course; I’m a guy, and I’m attracted to girls. (“GASP!”)
But what really attracted me was her smile. It was ravishing, her eyes too, and even her eyebrows.
(“Change the channel Luke!”)
If I may say so, I think my liking her made her smile even harder.
“YIPPEE! A guy likes me as a person instead of as eye-candy.”
I was more attracted to her smile than her cleavage.
Her dress was marginal. A dishrag sorta. All it had was a deeply-cut front. It was kind of frumpy.
Facially she’s a stunner. Outta shape but a joy to talk to.
She smiled and smiled and smiled and smiled and smiled. I think she liked that I paid little attention to her sexiness.
We were at the delayed wedding-celebration of my brother’s only son.
He married a few months ago during the pandemic, but it was only a civil ceremony. It wasn’t the full-blown wedding-celebration most weddings are.
I was the only one of my remaining siblings to come. I’m first-born of seven; me at age-77, then three youngsters remain. (My brother is one of them.)
Home to near Boston is a seven-hour drive.
I thought I could do it, since the car I have now, a 2017 Ford Escape, is much easier to drive than what I had previously: a 2012 Ford Escape.
My brother got me the new Escape. Since he retired from power-generation, he went into business with a friend flipping cars.
They purchase used cars from auctions, etc. then groom them for resale. My new Escape is a lease-return.
I hafta be careful to not let it go above 90 mph on interstates.
And most of the trip to my brother’s home is expressway.
Can you say “cop-bait?” At least it’s not red.
I traded him my old Escape, plus gave him 1,000 buckaroos. We figger the transaction saved me about $1,000.
I wondered why my niece’s ex, and his eye-candy girlfriend, were even there.
A wonderful opportunity for my niece’s ex to display his sexual prowess.
Show up at this shindig with his overly exposed eye-candy.
Except eye-candy seemed more attracted to me — perhaps the father-figure she never had.
And then she pleasantly discovered that over the past few months I’ve gotten very good talking with women. (“Impossible!”)
WOMEN LOVE TALKING!
So let ‘em; encourage ‘em. Don’t interrupt, don’t cut ‘em off, don’t even ask for clarification — that can wait.
A female talking with you is precious. That means she wants to talk with you.
Don’t try to take over the conversation.
Preparing to eat, eye-candy and loverboy came to sit at my table.
Then eye-candy sat right next to me.
Then when an opening occurred she struck up a conversation with me on-her-own. Usually it’s me.
Plus the one she’s talking to is the one who got so good talking with women. (“No way José!”)
We began talking with each other.
The usual mindless chatter: I get to hear her pretty voice, and she doesn’t hafta defend herself.
She quickly noticed I was more interested in face-to-face eye-contact, than glancing down the front of her dress.
“YIPPEE!” she might think to herself. “A guy who actually likes me as a person instead of a sex-object.”
At age-21 she’s not suspicious of all men yet.
Talk, talk, talk, talkity, talk!
I almost lost her once.
Primary rule regarding complementing an attractive girl: don’t be direct; inference only!
Mayhap she also noticed I didn’t wanna lose her.
Our yammering drifted to the death of my wife. Per usual I started crying.
“I wish I could find a guy who cared about me as much as this guy cared about his wife.”
She tried to console me, gently stroking my shoulders.
Enter loverboy: “Gotta get hottie-girl away from this guy. She’s too attracted to him!”
Uhm HELLO! I’m 77 years old: way over the hill, although I don’t remember a hill.
I’d only be the approving father-figure she perhaps never had.
Since my beloved wife died, I’ve encountered many women, some of whom became friends.
I strike sparks with a few of those “friends who happen to be female.” We enjoy each other’s company.
It’s hardly sexual or even romantic. It’s more just talking with each other, swapping emotions back-and-forth.
Enjoying each other’s company.
They are females of course; and I like females: it’s a designed-in trait.
Every once in a while I run across a female who could use my liking her.
I look at those photo-booth pictures I put on this blog-site before, and there’s eye-candy at my side smiling extravagantly.
She looks happy: “Goodie, a guy who actually likes me as a person. He likes me. I can tell.
With him I’m not eye-candy.”
I think I made her happy; I see it in her smile, which I’ll probably never see again in my entire life.

• For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS) in Rochester, NY, a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and environs.

Loose as a goose

—“This is turning into a really fun conversation,” my female contact said. She was laughing and smiling profusely!
“Of course it is,” I thought to myself. “I start talking with a female and we strike sparks.
“You are so much fun to talk to,” a lady once told me.
“We could talk forever!” another said.
“I hope we meet again,” another once told me.
(“Baloney!”)
I was at my supermarket self check-out. A lady was talking to the male self check-out aide, and she was wearing a Finger Lakes Dentistry uniform.
Our eyes met, and “Tell me everything,” I said to her. “I’m looking for a dentist here in town. I gotta drive a half-hour just to go to the dentist. That’s a pain in the neck!”
I did it again readers. The mere fact I said something to her told her she attracted me. (“Toss me that remote Luke!”)
“We’re right on Main Street,” she said. “Do you know where the old Pizza Hut was?”
“Are you kidding?” I shouted. “My wife and I never ate out. We made our pizza ourselves!”
“Yada-Yada-Yada-Yada-Yada!”
I’d finished self check-out, but we were talking — and laughing.
A pretty lady once told me what women love most is laughing.
“You guys got a website?” I asked.
“I’ll give you my card,” the lady said. Her name was *******.
“You call this number, and those ladies will tell you if your insurance qualifies.
And they better be friendly, because I’m the Human-Resources manager.”
“Can I talk dirty to ‘em?” I asked.
We laughed.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I drove city bus in Rochester so I know all the lingo.
Regional Transit,” I said; “where every paragraph, every sentence, every phrase, and every word was modified with the F-bomb.”
She laughed; she wasn’t offended.
I had a guy take umbrage at mere mention of “F-bomb.” I didn’t actually use the word.
“I am so glad I said something to you,” I said to her. “I usually don’t.
And I made ya laugh — nyuk-nyuk-nyuk-nyuk-nyuk!”
She then helped this old geezer pack his groceries.

• For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS) in Rochester, NY, a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and environs.