“What do you look like?” she asked.
“I’m an aging babyboomer with a ponytail.” I pat myself on the back for throwing in the word ‘aging’ yet somewhere in my ego-colored brain there’s an unmistakable wince. She sounds young. But not too young. And cute.
“Okay, I’ll find you. There shouldn’t be too many of those in the coffeehouse at that hour.”
“Gotcha. See you at 3 on Friday.”
Click.
Too many of those? What did she mean by that?
Friday at 2:30 I walk into my bedroom closet to change my clothes. I meet her for the first time in a half hour and I’ve shifted into adolescent self-consciousness. Well, I could wear my baggie shorts, because they’re fashionable, but my legs are butt-ugly so scratch that. Better stick with jeans but with what shirt? How about my ‘Save Ferris’ t-shirt? That’s kind of hip and since she’s from L.A., she’s probably up to speed on Ferris Bueller. No, it’s too pretentious. Same with my Real Joe tee. Better to go generic.
I walk into the bathroom at 2:55 to comb my hair. I look in the mirror. Shit, my beard! I’ve not shaved my graying whiskers in the 3 days since my wife’s been out of town and her admonition “Do you realize how old you look when you don’t shave?” makes a return visit. So now what do I do? Hurry up and shave in 5 minutes so I look younger? Ah fuck it, I don’t look that bad. Do I?
Some sanity seeps back in. Why am I obsessing like this? I don’t need to. She’s an editor, a writing teacher for chrissake. I’m hiring her. This isn’t a blind date. Just relax.
I’m at my corner office in the coffeehouse, a perfect perch to watch the sidewalk traffic through the window and the in-and-out parade of mid-afternoon customers. Could that be her? No, looks too old. Her? Too young. Her? I hope not. Aw goddammit, I’m back in blind-date mode again. It occurs to me to pray. Help me just be. I don’t need to impress. I’m doing this to learn, to get better at the craft of writing, so help me park my fucking male ego or this is going to be a waste of my time and money.
A wave of relaxation comes over me, followed by a wave of just-right anticipation. I’m in student mode now, eager for guidance. Sonofabitch, the prayer is helping.
It’s 3:10 and she’s not around that I can see, so I start dialing her cell phone. As it rings, I see a thirtyish woman running across the street, blond ponytail bouncing in the bright sun, clutching an armload of papers and notebooks. I know it’s her. She spots me right away as she enters the coffeehouse, extends her hand for a shake, apologizes for being a bit late.
“Need something to drink?” I ask.
“Yeah, most definitely. I’ll be right back.”
Jeez, she IS kind of cute. And her slightly bare midriff is an interesting distraction. I flash back to a recent Zits cartoon.
The Dad: Jeremy, do you realize that when I was your age, we never saw a girl’s bellybutton, except at the beach?
Jeremy: You’re kidding! I guess that’s why they called it the Great Depression, huh?
But the prayer holds and student-mode returns. We exchange pleasantries and get down to business. She carves up my four essays with a seasoned teacher’s skill — enthusiastic about what I’m trying to do and my potential, but unmistakably direct about how far I have to go to get there. And prescriptive.
“I want you to read these three books.”
“You need to go cold-turkey on expository writing.”
“Here’s an exercise that I want you do on your four essays.”
“There are three or four articles you need to read.”
An hour later, we shake hands goodbye on the sidewalk. I’m still in student mode and I’m psyched.