by Anthony Payne
I met Marie in 1995.
Bill Clinton was in the White House and a computer animated film called Toy Story was ruling at the box office. That was the year that O.J. got away with murder and a couple of assholes blew up a federal building in Oklahoma City and bruised America's heart.
In May of that year I was a fresh college dropout, living in upstate Pennsylvania in a basement apartment that wasn't a whole lot more than a refrigerator, a single bed and a shower stall. Six months short of a degree in Architecture and having decided that higher education was not the right road for my life at the time, I had somehow managed to land a job that was at least somewhat related to my field of choice.
Five days a week, sometimes six if the job merited it, I worked as a grunt with a construction company installing drywall throughout the state. The work was hard enough, but the pay was also decent. Having landed a number of contracts with major real estate developers in the region, our crew was dedicated almost exclusively to projects that were new condo and apartment house constructions. Overtime was plentiful for the guys that wanted it, and for a kid with minimal expenses and not accustomed to having an abundance of spending money, life in the mid-nineties was a good deal.
Coming from a conservative rural Virginia upbringing where both my parents had married just after high school and raised seven kids on two minimum wage jobs, owning a partial college education and a job that allowed me to live the good life, was nearing a dream come true. Of course life is never perfect. There were student loans that needed to be paid. My apartment was part of an initiative designed to aid kids living away from home. I was OK for the time being, but once fall rolled around and they discovered my college career had come to an end, I would politely be asked to vacate the space. And then there was the fact that I had yet to inform my mom and dad that I had no intention of finishing my studies. That was the big one. That one was going to need to be addressed before September rolled around. But Labor Day was still three months away. For now, life was good.
We worked hard and we played just as hard. Construction workers, like a lot of guys in the trades industry, are no stranger to having a good time. A few beers or a pint of rye after work was an accepted part of the culture. As long as you punched in on time the next morning and carried your fair share of the workload, your fellow workers and your supervisors had no qualms with a man's drinking habits. In my case, my foreman was most often the guy buying the first round.
Jim Greene was a good foreman and a hell of a worker. He was the kind of boss who men wanted to work under, the type of man who would look the other way if you were a few minutes late or neglected to wear the mandatory safety gear. He had kind of taken me under his wing from day one. By my second week on the job, Jim had most of the crew calling me "College Boy" and treating me like one of their own. Jim Greene had an infectious way of enjoying life. He was also what many folks might refer to as a functional alcoholic. Life is a delicate balance.
Jim lived in an old farm house just on the edge of town. His wife Susan was a nurse at City General. Kids had come late for the Greene's (at least having kids in their mid-thirties seemed old through my twenty year-old eyes). The summer he started picking me up and dropping me off from work, their only child was just getting ready to celebrate her first birthday.
Jim was also my ride to work. That was how I met Marie. Marie Gates was his wife Susan's younger sibling and Jim's only sister-in-law.
I was introduced to Marie the first time I had dinner with the Greene's. I would have many meals with them that summer. They were good people who knew the value of a home cooked meal and some time in a real home to a young kid away from his own family. Marie was an artist who worked out of a co-operative gallery in what passed for the Arts District in a small blue collar city. Working a flexible schedule, she also doubled as a baby sitter, helping to fill the gaps on those days when Susan's night shifts began before Jim was home from work.
Marie was a looker. She wasn't a runway model or one of those perfectly proportioned women that live on the pages of magazines, but damned she was pretty. Average height with a healthy figure that made no mistake she was a woman, Marie was as attractive as any of the girls I had met in my limitative travels. But it was her personality that sealed the deal for me. Marie had a way about her, an openness that made being with her come easy and natural. Women had always been intimidating and awkward for me. Marie Gates was like no-one I had ever met.
The four of us, five if you count the little Marcy, had meatloaf and mashed potatoes that first night. I don't think Jim and Susan planned it as a set up or any kind of blind date. Honestly, I don't think the idea was going through anyone's mind. Marie was five years my senior and although she wasn't involved in a long term relationship, I doubt anyone would have even considered she might have any interest in a college dropout layered in drywall dust and sweat. No, they were just a nice couple inviting a new co-worker to supper. Marie was there after having spent the afternoon at the mall with Susan and the baby. It was just one of life's coincidences... a sweet and wonderful twist of blessed fate.
As the weeks passed I saw more and more of Marie. I won't admit I purposely found reason to visit the Greene residence, but I also wasn't turning down any opportunity. I was quick to offer a hand when the subjects of wood splitting and house painting came up. I didn't mind repaying Jim's kindness with some weekend labor around his property. Susan liked the weekend shifts and more often than not that would equate to Marie being around. Even if she wasn't, I didn't mind a little work and a few cold beers. Like I said, Jim knew how to make life fun.
I also took an interest in the game of poker. Jim hosted a game almost every Tuesday night, another night that often meant a need for a helping hand with Marcy. I wasn't much of a player. Most nights I would bow out half way through the game. I lost a few bucks but it gave me more time with Marie. Maybe I played my cards right after all.
At that point we were just friends, maybe even just acquaintances. Marie always treated me in a friendly manner but our interaction was pretty much limited to the times when we both happened to be visiting at Jim and Susan's. I made a point of being there often. I liked being around her.
Marie treated me in a manner no other woman ever had. For one thing she always used my name. By then the majority of the people in my new life had fallen into the habit of referring to me as either "College Boy" (thanks to Jim Greene) or the even more juvenile "Danny"... sometimes extended to the dreaded "Danny-Boy". Marie never used either of those. Right from the get-go she called me by name. It was Daniel most times. Sometimes she would use my full name. "Well good afternoon, Daniel Jessup," or "Would you be so kind as to pass the salt, Daniel Jessup." If it had been anyone else it may have sounded hokey and sarcastic, but from her lips it sounded natural, it sounded right.
Sometimes she would flirt with me, and when the mood struck her, there was no lacking in sexual innuendo. She was able to do it in a way that always kept me wondering if she was serious or if she was just playing around. She would tease me about knowing what young guys thought about in the shower. Often she would pat me in the seat of the jeans on her way past asking me to move my "cute buns" so she could get by. More than once she had playfully (so I thought) threatened me with a good spanking if I didn't behave. "That's enough Daniel. Don't you make me put that pretty butt of yours over my knee."
Mostly, I would laugh the comments off. Other times I would come close to taking her up on her lewd remarks, trying to work up enough nerve to reach for her hand or brush my lips up to her face. Of course intention is usually stronger than action when it comes to young men and matters of the heart. Many nights I would go home alone, her words still fresh in my mind and the daydreams of being with her making things hard in my jeans. The fantasy would turn very real in early July.
I had my own company truck by late June. It wasn't much of a ride. The gas gauge was busted, I had to unhook the battery lead at night if I wanted enough juice to fire her up the following morning, and on the hot days when you rolled a window down it took two hands to roll it back up... but it was a set of wheels and it gave me a degree of freedom.
I got the feeling the truck was more for Jim's convenience than my own. My having a truck freed up a bit more of his drinking time. It meant he could splurge with a pint or two on the ride to work or maybe on the way home. Sometimes it meant a stop at the local watering hole for a few rounds after work. I didn't mind. He usually bought me supper and a beer or two (I wasn't a big drinker) and besides, it wasn't like I was rushing home to anyone. It never crossed my mind that Jim should have been. It was one of those nights, a night we took the long way home, that Marie taught me different.
It was a strip bar. I guess that didn't help the matter much. Although in reality, we didn't stop in to see the dancers. We stopped because it was along the route. We had just started at a new job site that day and the peeler bar just happened to be the closest bar between the construction site and Jim's. Jim wasn't a womanizer. He was a drinker. The fact that there were half-naked women walking around the joint was secondary to the booze. Me, well I was a normal healthy guy in my early twenties - I had no problem sitting around and enjoying the view.
It was the Friday of the July 4th weekend. I'll always remember that. Jim was packing a freshly cashed paycheck and we were looking down the barrel of a three day weekend. By the time I had milked my few drinks and Jim had downed more than his fair share, 5:00 had quickly turned to 8:00. Add in another stop to pick up a twelve pack and it would end up being closer to 9:00 by the time we pulled in his drive.
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