Like most guys of my generation, I had a military obligation. For a period of better than four years, I gave up my constitutional rights to be a proud protector of our sovereign nation. During the latter part of my career I was stationed near a little town called Carlsbad in Southern California. I’m proud of my service, and if you check the history books during the mid-50s, you’ll note that none of our national enemies ever got past Carlsbad.
Now be patient! There’s a rational reason for this preamble.
Part of the routine for one’s departure from this indentured servitude was called a “pre-separation medical exam.” This involves a so-called medical examination to determine if you’re physically fit and mentally prepared to be released into normal society. Also, to determine if I was physically acceptable to continue as a reservist, which was ridiculous because by law I had an additional four-year obligation, whether I wanted to do it or not. I think I probably provoked the psychological portion of this dissemination by requesting that this reserve obligation be transferred to the Waves. For those of you who don’t know what that is, it’s the female branch of the Navy. Some of my later friends and professional associates suspect I flunked the psychological portion of this examination. Over the years I think this was a paramount consideration in the relationship with Blue-eyes, however she stuck with me in spite of my abnormal behaviors.
The psychiatrist doing this portion of the evaluation showed me a bunch of ink blotches on cards and asked me what they reminded me of. Just to pull his chain, I told him they all had to do with something sexual. His response was that I had a really dirty mind. I told him I didn’t understand that comment because he was the one with the porno. That comment ended the psychological portion of the examination.
Part of this physical exam was similar to what you do to a horse, and that was to check out my teeth. The guy that did this was part of the medical team and a dental assistant. I think one of his comments was that my teeth were in good condition, however my gums were shot, and that I should consider having my teeth floated, whatever the hell that meant. I later found out that’s what you do to a horse, and you would know this if you read my story about a free horse named Dickens.
During that period, I spent very little time anywhere near my hometown. By the time I did return, I was shocked and somewhat disoriented at the massive changes and growth of this little semi-agricultural community. During my tenure in the military, I had taken numerous correspondence courses and had most of my lower division general education requirements out of the way. I thought about jumping right into the four-year college of choice and then decided I needed to try to get acclimated to the concept of study. I also needed some time to learn how to be a civilian again, not to mention seeking the companionship of the opposite sex. Like in chasing skirts.
I came to the stark realization that my study habits were nonexistent, and it took me a full semester at a junior college to develop some marginal skills. Further, I was not doing all that great in the pursuit and attempts at attracting members of the opposite gender.
Most of my friends had either moved or were married. I had a couple of buddies left over from the military that were going to the same college, and I eventually moved with them into this ramshackle Victorian house within walking distance of the campus. I had to get a part-time job because I was attempting to survive on my veterans benefits, which was next to impossible. Unfortunately, the VA had a habit of being late with payment checks, and I was living on a marginal cash flow basis.
My job at a gas station required that I’d be available during the Friday day shift and I usually got off work at around four. My two buddies had a friend living in another apartment and we had scheduled a permanent late-afternoon poker, pizza and beer party. I didn’t drink beer, but did take home the most money. This was nickel and dime stuff, so there wasn’t much chance that I was going to get rich or find a new vocation. On one of these occasions at the apartment complex, I was headed up to the poker game and ran into a guy coming down the stairs, and lo and behold it was the dental technician that had checked out my teeth. His name was Bob, and we got into a conversation. I told him I was headed to the poker game, and it turns out that he was a friend of one of the guys who lived in that apartment. Strange set of life’s little coincidences. Bob was to play a role in my life for over the next 50 some years.
During one of these games, in trots Bob with two females in tow. They were dressed in shorts and had sweaters that said “Parks and Recreation,” with little whistles on a lanyard around their necks. Naturally, we stopped playing poker for a while to chit-chat with these two gorgeous young ladies. One of them was about 5-feet-nine, with real blonde hair, a great smile and the most sparkling China-blue eyes I had ever seen. She looks a lot like an actress named Abby Dalton. I really didn’t say much because I was too dumbstruck, and probably what little I did say was so nonsensical that it made me look like an idiot. The other gal was about the same in most respects, and as a side note ended up as Miss California the following year. That’s how gorgeous these two were.
A little while later, much to my chagrin they left after we ran out of pizza. We continued to play, however, I must admit that I was distracted. The facts are I had been taking out a couple of ladies and had a date that night to go to a movie or something to that effect. I really wasn’t quite that financially destitute and was driving around in a fully paid-for three-year-old TR-3. Keep in mind, I was by then almost 22, and was considered by some of the younger females as rather old, knowledge and worldly. This created a distinct disadvantage.
A couple of weeks later, I was headed to the poker game, and as I walked into the apartment complex I found this little tiny dog with a cast on one of his legs. I found the apartment manager and asked him if he knew who the dog belonged to. He said “Yeah, it belongs to the gals down in apartment number two.” So I trotted down there, doggie in hand and knocked on the door. Guess who answered? The blue-eyed beauty from the poker game visitation. Once I could control my drooling, I said “Is this your puppy?” She got real excited and said “Where did you find him?” I told her and she then thanked me and invited me in for a cup of coffee. I never made it to the poker game. We sat and talked for about an hour or so until her roommates came home. I found out she was a transfer student from UCLA and was a P.E. major, specializing in working with handicapped children. She had been born in a small town in Wisconsin and her family had migrated to the West Coast in the late 40s.
Naturally, I got her name and telephone number and said “I’ll give you a call if you’d like to go out some time.” She promptly told me that she had a boyfriend in Southern California, but she would go for coffee or maybe a pizza. I said “Great, I’ll give you a call,” but was somewhat disappointed and suspected that this event would never take place.
I tried calling her a couple of times, but she wasn’t home and I finally considered it as a lost cause. About two weeks after I had met her, during one of our Friday specials, in she walks with “Miss California” and begins to have a conversation with me and one of my roommates. I got the impression she was more interested in my roommate than me and was beginning to get relatively depressed. Finally, she looked at me and said “I thought you were going to call me!” I told her that I had tried a few times and she had not been there, and I didn’t leave a message. I suggested that we go get a pizza the following day. She said “Okay, I know this wonderful pizza restaurant fairly close by.” I told her I would pick her up, and she could show me where this place was. We talked for a few minutes and then she and her buddy left.
We went to pizza the next day and after we finished, it was still early and I suggested we go to a show or something. She asked me if I knew how to bowl. I told her that when I was a kid I used to set pins at one of the local bowling alleys, so I had some experience. When I was younger I thought I was pretty good and had a relatively solid average. I didn’t want to embarrass her by what I thought was my high skill-set at bowling.
So we went over to the local alley, got all the bowling paraphernalia and we proceeded to one of the lanes. I assumed she knew what going on because she didn’t just pick the first bowling ball, but rather sorted through a number of them until she found one she liked. I went first and got a split or whatever. It was her turn and I watched her and commented that she had great form. She thought I was talking about her approach, but candidly I had something else in mind.
She knew what she was doing. From that point on, I was relatively distracted because of her great form, as were the men on either side of the aisle. She beat me by about 10 pins, and as far as I was concerned that turned out fine. I didn’t want to humiliate her. The next game she shot 190 something and I didn’t get much better than my first game. The last game she shot was well over 200, and by then many of the other bowlers had stopped to watch her for her skills – as well as other things.
It turned out Blue-eyes had been a child prodigy. Back in Wisconsin her family had owned the local bowling alley, and by the time she was 12 she had shot three perfect games. She explained that she had what professionals call “a Brooklyn hook.” You figure it out. Like lots of kids with extraordinary skills, she lost interest when her family tried to pressure her into competitive bowling and she basically decided that the pressure part wasn’t fun, so she quit.
I took her back to the apartments and as we were walking to her door she told me not call next week because her boyfriend was coming up from Southern California. I was somewhat distraught at this news and also humiliated by having my ass handed to me at the bowling alley. I said something to the effect of “Okay! Maybe I’ll see you around!” and she said “That was fun,” and kissed me on the cheek, turned and went into her apartment. I figured that was that and chalked it up to another failure on my part with the opposite sex.
I didn’t call her that next week and quite frankly most of the week after. One day, I ran into Bob and he said “Hey, did that blonde get a hold of you?” I looked at him and by then I’m sure I was foaming at the mouth, stomping my feet while cautiously wondering what she wanted. I called her and we went to coffee the next day and she told me that she had broken up with her boyfriend. I’m sure I did a great job of containing my glee. I’m not sure, but I probably said something like “Gee, gosh? Would you like to go to a show?”
We began to date on a regular basis. More about Blue-eyes and the early stages later. She had some other rather extraordinary talents besides her bowling form.
Moral of the story, Never, never give up hope if you have a split, because maybe that pin will fall over by itself.
J.J. Addingnuttin 