Eleven Read online

  Eleven

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 1

  Intersection

  In each of us dual universes exist: the lives we create that become our reality and the parallel lives our minds imagine could have been. On rare, precious moments—those universes intersect and it changes the course of our lives forever.

  My intersection occurred in the autumn of my thirty-fourth year. I was not where I wanted to be in life. I had been divorced, with no children, for three and a half years. I lived in a shabby rental house in a not-so-good part of town; smack dab in the middle of a city in West Texas. My nine to ten hour weekdays were spent under the employment of a vile, arrogant boss who had absolutely no respect for women, or much of anything for that matter. In addition to my already hectic work schedule, I ran a transcription service out of my house and pedaled Mary Kay Cosmetics in order to keep my head above the water from the lingering debts my ex-husband had accrued. I was paying for his imported beer, two twelve dollar cigar a day habit, and international skiing excursions of which I had not been in attendance.

  I lived paycheck to paycheck. The debts were slowly, but surely, being whittled away. Paying them off was a hard pill to swallow, especially since I had absolutely nothing to show for my efforts.

  I learned the definition of community property the hard way. Paying for someone else’s luxuries when you live in near-poverty is a daunting, character building experience. In spite of what I had been through, doing the right thing became important to me. I had to hold on to what I valued most: the things at the center of my core that distinguished me from the people who had wronged me. If I lost that part of myself, I would lose everything.

  It became a daily struggle in determination; to not just physically survive, but to emotionally survive. The excruciating part was the fact that it lasted for so long.

  There were several times the thought would run through my head, “How did I get here?” Knowing the answer to that question didn’t make it any easier to bear the reality of the situation. I had arrived at this destination as a consequence of all the lousy decisions I had made so far. It was going to take a lot of good decisions to counteract the damage I had inflicted upon my own existence.

  Chapter 2

  The Little Cottage

  I referred to my residence as the little cottage. That sounded much better than a hole-in-the-wall dive. The house was very basic; a kitchen, a living room, two tiny bedrooms, and a bathroom that was big enough for only one person to stand in at a time.

  I could afford to live there. The rent was low, the utilities were reasonable, and the landlord cared enough to keep the house in livable condition. After all, the house had belonged to my landlord’s parents. This place had been his childhood home. It meant a lot to him to have someone dependable living in the house. I did my best to honor the sentiment the little cottage held for him. Obviously, there had been many wonderful memories made inside the walls of this little abode—there would be more to come.

  I enjoyed very few modern amenities. There was no dishwasher, no central heat or air conditioning, no walk-in closets. The washer hook-up was in the kitchen. The dryer was in the guest bedroom. Numerous times, I trudged from the kitchen to bedroom lugging a hamper full of heavy, wet clothes. The dryer did seem quite convenient when one considered the only other available option was using the clothesline in the back yard.

  There was a large farmer’s sink in the kitchen. I used a dishpan to make the washing & rinsing of dishes a bit easier. The kitchen had a 1940’s Roper gas oven into which a Pyrex casserole dish would hardly fit. The house still had the original linoleum floors in the kitchen and bathroom. The bedroom floors were covered with the original, closely woven carpet from the 1940’s. However, the living room carpet had been replaced with a drab, two-tone brown sculpted carpet in the 1980’s. During the hot summer days when the swamp cooler created a sweltering dampness indoors, the scent of spilled beer from the past college tenant’s parties would permeate the thick air.

  During the winter months, the intermittent click and “whooomp” from the thermostat triggering the gas floor furnace became a comforting sound that lent a certain homey-ness to the place. The heat radiating up from the 3 x 4 grate kept the living room wonderfully toasty in the wintertime. But the warmth rarely reached all the way into the bedrooms. There was much comfort to be found under the down covers of my heated waterbed. My ex-husband had once chided and laughed at me for purchasing the waterbed. But it had turned out to be a necessity in that little cracker box of a house.

  A rickety, glider swing was on the front porch, situated in front of the multi-paned front window of the house. In spite of the swing constantly beckoning me to come enjoy its comfort on warm summer days, I remained indoors. There were too many unsavory aspects of my neighborhood to consider an extended venture outdoors. However, the swing became a favored respite for several of the stray cats in the neighborhood. It was not uncommon for a couple of them to be found enjoying the shade of the porch and the gentle sway of the swing on sunny afternoons. They became so comfortable they barely opened an eye or swished a tail when they noticed me watching them through the window panes.

  Although the sometimes friendly fur balls were welcome company, the thought of becoming known as the “old-maid-crazy-cat-lady-on-the-block” stirred an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. So I guarded my privacy and only was only seen outside when walking from the front door to the one-car garage on the side of the house.

  There was no garage door opener. The heavy door was attached to heavy, rusted springs and had to be pulled by two rope handles situated on the center of the door, then pushed up and overhead. The fact that there was no door going from the garage to the inside of the house became an important security feature for me. Being a single woman who lived alone in the inner city, it was necessary to take certain precautions. The only way someone could get into the house was through the front door or the back door—and they were both secured with locks, padlocks, and dead-bolts.

  At the time of my divorce, I was left without dependable transportation. Forced to rely on the charity of my parents, they allowed me to drive one of their old cars for a while. It was a mustard colored 1972 Ninety-eight Oldsmobile. The car was so long, it would not fit entirely into the garage. Therefore, the manual garage door was always a bit ajar.

  At least I didn’t have to worry too much about appearances in my area of town. In any other neighborhood, I would have surely caused the property values to spiral downward. One of my proudest days as a re-singled woman was the day I was able to purchase a little used Honda Civic that actually fit into the garage! Things were starting to look up—and every step in the right direction felt like a huge accomplishment for me.

  My prince charming’s armor had long-since rusted. He had fallen off his horse and ran into the sunset without me a long time ago. I knew my destiny was in my hands. I was the only one I could count on to make things better.

  I made the best of the situation—or at least I tried. My friends referred to my place as “grandma’s house”. That little shack was one of the few things in my life that could be considered quaint. I was fortunate to be living there during a time that “shabby chic” was in style. That happenstance afforded me a small modicum of dignity regarding my living conditions. I reminded myself on occasion that a large family in Romania
would consider my home spacious and luxurious. Umm—yeah.

  While it was rather painful to compare my situation with some of my friends who were happily married and enjoying the spoils of their husbands’ successes, I had managed to escape a marriage of hellish proportions. My independence was invaluable. I was simply starting off with a clean slate. I learned to be thankful—even for that little hole-in-the-wall dive; ahem, cottage. Although I longed for more, it would have to do for now. What I didn’t know then was—some of the most momentous occasions of my life would be spent within the walls of that tiny house.

  Chapter 3

  Eleven-Eleven

  During the time in which I had become re-singled, I suffered through a plethora of relationship calamities. My love life had turned into a roller-coaster of comedic proportions. Yet, it seemed everyone was laughing—but me. However, humor was my only defense. And it was better to laugh than cry!

  Ten men in row had left me for the women they would eventually marry. I swore the tenth would be the last. I declared that 11 would henceforth become my lucky number. After all, I always noticed the clock when it read 11:11. It had to be a sign—a good sign!

  My friends referred to me as “the transitional woman”. Any time they attempted to set me up on a blind date or introduce me to a member of the opposite sex, the running joke was, “If you want to get married, date her for 3 months, and you are guaranteed to marry the next woman you meet”.

  This admonition usually elicited counter-productive results. Most men left smoking tracks in their attempt to get as far away from me as possible. I assume the others took it as a challenge; to prove they were indeed “not the marrying kind”. Even they eventually succumbed to the spell. I do believe most of them are married to this day—and I’m sure my curse had something to do with the imminent change of their marital status.

  My romantic experiences became legendary fodder for my happy-hour group. All in attendance, mostly women and a few men peppered in for good measure, had been married and divorced—at least once. There was no judgment amongst this group of peers. Each of us understood all too well the trials of middle-age dating.

  Adept at the art of embellishment, I would regale them with tales of my boisterous break-ups. Quite often, I would garner free drinks offered up to the one in our group who could come up with the saddest divorce or break-up story. Usually, my turn at the barstool podium was saved for last. I took no pride in having the winning story—but there was no shame in winning the drinks. Should someone spin a more pathetic yarn than I, then I would have to settle for Diet Coke or water with lemon. Those options didn’t do much to dull the affliction of the lovelorn.

  It was quite a challenge for someone to steal my thunder with their break-up story. Our tight, little circle always delighted in fledgling members that had not yet been serenaded with our miserable anecdotes. I would decide which tale to tell based on the pathetic factor of the other participants’ stories. I had quite an arsenal from which to choose.

  In most instances, I began mildly by telling the story of the man who “Han Solo’d” me: when I told him I loved him, he replied, “I know”. That one would always generate a low “ooooooh” with a few chuckles.

  Should anyone up my ante, I would tell about the alcoholic whom I caught in bed with his grotesquely plump ex-wife, who happened to be named Edie.

  When he jumped up, hurriedly wrapped a sheet around his lower body so he could follow me outside to explain the situation; I turned to him and replied, “You can’t have your cake and Edie, too. Dumbass!”

  Best-breakup-line-ever! Alas, the spell’s power overcame him. He remarried his ex-wife. I’ve often wondered if he thought of me while eating his wedding cake.

  Knowing it would clinch my victory in the event anyone else offered up a heart-wrenching tale, I saved the best for last and only used it in dire circumstances. Only then would I recount the bawdy details of discovering one of my lovers was indeed a transvestite. You could always hear a pin drop during my recitation of the scene. There would be gasps. Jaws would be dropped in shock. They wouldn’t know whether to be repulsed, feel sorry for me, or laugh.

  I would simply smile with a wink and tell my opponents, “I’ll have a martini, extra dirty with three olives.”

  Bada bing!

  Not to worry—the spell was cast even upon the transvestite. He supposedly married the next person he met. However, I never found out whether it was a wedding or a commitment ceremony. I’ve oft wondered who wore the dress.

  On the outside, I was smiling and laughing. On the inside, the pain was real and raw. Although the stories were self-deprecating; I much preferred to throw the punch-line, as opposed to being the punch-line. And the martini brought on a warm, welcome buzz.

  Once again, I found myself asking the question, “What did I do to deserve this?”

  When happy hour was over, I would go home—alone. I would wash the day off my face and crawl into the safe, secure haven of my waterbed—alone.

  The pillow would muffle cries and absorb tears as I pleaded to God, “If there is a good man out there, Dear Lord, please help me find him—or help him find me. Please.”

  Chapter 4

  S

  I was broken. I was tired. I was fed up with the losers who seemed intent upon hurting me. It was time for a change. There was necessary work to be done. I needed to pull myself up by the bootstraps, put my big girl panties on, and deal with the mess I had made of my life. I wanted to blame the whole world, the universe, fate, karma, kismet, sorcery, mankind—anyone; instead of facing the source of the problem. The common denominator for each of my failed relationships: Me.

  The problem did not lie within who I was, but rather in whom I was choosing. Somewhere along the way, I had forgotten my value and my picker had gone haywire. As I looked back on my recent forays into the dating world, it was easy to come to the realization—I deserved so much better. And I was the only one who could fix my picker! I obviously needed to use my brain to make my decisions from now on. My heart was an idiot!

  My mind was made up. No more settling for less than I deserved. No more damaged, used, jaded excuses of men who were carrying more than enough baggage to share. The time had come to raise my standards. If I expected someone to appreciate me as a woman of substance and value, I was going to have to find a man of equal proportions.

  Thank God for my girlfriends! They were always there for me and carried me through every heart break. The men would come and go: the women in my life were constant. Not all of them had been through the same situations I had experienced. But they had faced their own challenges and disappointments. They knew—they understood.

  On a lazy Sunday afternoon in late August, we gathered at a friend’s pool for last dip of the year. As we floated in the warm rays of the sun and sipped icy Margaritas, we concocted a plan for my future. We created the blueprint for my perfect match. We called him “the S man”: which became our pseudonym to define a man who embodied all of the relevant “s-words” we could think up. We decided he must be smart, stable, secure, sincere, successful, sensitive, spiritual, seductive, sexy and…sensual.

  That’s not too much to ask for, right? But where on Earth was I going to find him? I had already looked everywhere with no luck. Yet I knew he existed. I closed my eyes—and I could feel him out there; waiting for me.

  Chapter 5

  Empty Tank

  Since all but two of the girlfriends had dates that Friday night, we planned a girls’ lunch in place of happy hour. We rushed in from the middle of our work-day and quickly placed our orders so we could get to the business of gossiping and catching up.

  My friend at the opposite end of the table leaned forward with a mischievous grin and inquired, “Hey, have y’all heard who is single again AND back in town?”

  My other friend exuberantly answered, “Yes! I heard! AND you know who he would be perfect for?”

  All smiling faces turned their attention to my end of the table. I swa
llowed the sip of sweet tea I had just taken into my mouth. Great! I sighed, feeling the gnawing suspicion that I was about to be the target of yet another infamous set-up.

  “What? No, I haven’t heard. I mean, who? Who are y’all talking about?” I cautiously asked.

  Our lunch platters were served and as Southern women have the propensity to do, everyone began to engage in conversation at the same time. Between nibbles of soup, sandwiches, and salads; the comments began to fly in every direction across the table.

  “His daddy died, so he came back to take over the family farm and ranch land in Texas.”

  “I heard they have land in Colorado and New Mexico, too.”

  “Yeah, lots of oil wells on their land in New Mexico.”

  “His mama said that he will be living here, but traveling back and forth between the ranches. He got tired of the rat-race in the Metroplex. He wanted to be closer to home.”

  “Have you seen him lately? Oh, God, he’s so freakin’ handsome!”

  “Oh, girl! If I wasn’t already taken, I would go after him myself!”