By HEATHER CATHLEEN COX
Staff Writer
reporter@sbnewspaper.com
Heather Cathleen Cox
Since I’m definitely no authority on the subject, I find it interesting that several people have asked me to write a column about dating. I’ve never been married, and I’ve had two long-term relationships which each ended after years of dating off-and-on; then, there was my failed engagement. How’s that for a 20-some-odd year existence?
Be that as it may, since I absolutely love hearing from readers, I will accept the topic – but only with this fair warning: If you’re seeking a nicely bulleted “5 Surefire Things to Do to Find Your Soul Mate within the Next Three Days” type of dating column, penned by The Love Doctor, this may result in disappointment.
Life is short, so I won’t patronize you by saying “this happened to a friend.” What you’re about to read happened to me.
I had fallen ill with the wintry crud also known as “sick of college.” The December weather in San Marcos was wet and around 40 degrees, but I would soon be voyaging to Costa Rica to enjoy a semester in the tropics.
In between finalizing arrangements with financial aid and preparing my apartment to lie dormant until my roommate returned from winter break, I found myself wearing sweatpants and a hoodie, sitting in the lobby of a Jiffy Lube next to a wild stack of work (I was freelance editing at the time). Essentially, I was minding my own business, waiting for my oil to be changed.
Even consumed in a mess of paperwork, I could feel his eyes. A guy in his early 20s, ruggedly handsome, wearing a uniform saturated in grease was bold enough to not look away when our eyes met. He led with small talk.
Once the initial feeling of annoyance passed (I had been legitimately consumed in finishing my work), I became open to the idea of conversation and whatever service this assistant manager said I needed, especially when he added he would provide said additional service at no cost. I was polite, paid for my oil change and went on with my evening.
“Wait. Who?” I asked as an unknown caller began to identify himself as the aforementioned assistant manager from an hour prior. When I seemed less than elated to learn that he had violated a customer file to access my telephone number, he added that the call was for standard “courtesy” purposes. Then, he invited me to dinner. I know lying is wrong yet still said, “I’ve already eaten.”
“I play guitar,” the guy said out of nowhere, without acknowledging that I had just shot him down. “I’ll call you later and play you something.”
He called back within the hour and played me some songs, over the phone, one after the other. His voice and playing skills did, sadly, leave room for improvement, so in hindsight, I can’t provide a good reason for humoring him – aside from the fact that in between semesters a college town is like a ghost town, and I had been lonely.
Intermittently, between songs, the guy told me about his life and his aspiration to manage a Jiffy Lube store before age 25. Mostly, I kept the phone on speaker (muted of course) and chimed in with “uh huh” every few minutes, in between busy work.
Somehow, he convinced me to have lunch with him. I suggested my favorite deli. When I arrived, I ordered and paid for my food, and sat at a booth where he later joined me and spread his arms across the back of his seat. In conversing, we seemingly had no common interests, and to make matters worse, with every other word he spoke he flexed his bicep muscles, one of which had a barbed-wire tattoo around it. He appeared as if he might be watching himself flex through his peripheral vision.
He was moving his elbows inward, then stretching his arms out, sometimes flexing one arm at a time and occasionally both simultaneously. He had great arms, but I had definitely not ordered such a spectacle with my tuna wrap.
So instead of waiting for the train to fall off the proverbial track, I abruptly stood up and said, “I have to go.” It could have seemed like a brash statement, as neither of us had finished our food, but in hindsight I’m surprised I lasted as long as I did.
As the guy leaned in for a hug, I shrugged him off saying, “No, I’m sick. I would hate to get you sick” and left the deli at a speed comparable to a slow jog.
This encounter reminded me that smart women should not set lunch dates with men who utilize company databases to find love, and I decided it would be best not to talk to the guy again. Over the next day-and-a-half, however, I was gifted multiple long-winded voicemails describing play-by-plays of his day, where he ate lunch, how he spent his 15 minute break cleaning his truck, and in one message he even explained that he wanted to write me a song.
Although I love America, I couldn’t have been happier to be leaving the country. Before I left, I updated my voicemail with an extended absence greeting, inclusive of my e-mail address and date of return.
I had been in Costa Rica almost a week when I first had an opportunity to check my e-mail. Guess who’d emailed me every day? In one e-mail, he referred to me as his angel of mercy, sent from God. He also wrote me a poem which yielded the same eerie feeling I get after watching a horror flick alone, at night.
When I came back to the States and checked my voicemail, which included a three-minute (I’m guessing original) song courtesy of the Jiffy Lube guy, I felt it would just be a matter of time before he called back. I had mentally prepared myself to handle the situation, so I answered within the first two rings when he called, my first full day back in town. I kindly asked him to leave me alone, a gesture which led to another series of voicemails (containing at least one more song) and several speeches accusing me of leading him on.
It took nearly two months – and a new boyfriend (insert one of the previously mentioned, failed long-term relationships) who was not quite as kind when he asked the guy to quit calling – before I would be free of this person.
While I cannot say for sure if this assistant manager ever got the opportunity to run his own store, I, for one, certainly run the other direction whenever I see a Jiffy Lube. My condolences to the good people of Jiffy Lube and those who expected a moral in this week’s Heather Hopes.
Read this story in the Nov. 4 edition of the San Benito News, or subscribe to our E-Edition by clicking here.
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