A proposition one can’t refuse
But I refused anyway.
I had been dating a man, casually at first, then more seriously. For a few months. In general he was funny, gentle and decent. We did not discuss marriage.
He kept the grounds at a sizeable and elite private school, and part of his pay was an apartment on the grounds.
He drove an old pickup, well kept. He loved that vehicle. He was 70, I was 65.
One afternoon, a different man used his voice to call me.
He was furious and subdued alternately. The tale he told was that some :;$&@ had hit his truck and scratched it, on school grounds.
He marched to the Headmaster’s office and demanded to be heard. The secretary said the Headmaster was busy with parents of a potential new student and would be with him directly. He ignored her and walked into the HM’s office shouting obscenities about the scratch on his truck. The Headmaster tried to de-escalate but after almost half an hour, security was summoned, and eventually the police.
He fought the police and managed to get himself arrested.
He was in custody. He called me, angry, not at me. At the world that had allowed his truck to be scratched.
In a second, the narrative flipped completely. “I’ve been thinking. I’m going to build a little cabin in the truck bed and just explore the US. We’ll see EVERYTHING!”
The only response I found was, “We?”
He laughed. “Sorry. I forgot the part about proposing to you. Let’s get married. When I get out of jail.”
Let’s don’t, I thought.
I worked his daughter’s phone number out of him and called her. I removed myself from the equation. She asked, “Is he taking his meds?”
“Meds? For what? He told me he was taking blood pressure meds. That’s all I know.”
She sighed. “I’ll take care of it. Thanks for calling.” She hung up and I was delighted.
It was several months before he called me again. The truck bed cabin, he admitted, was not workable, but when could we get married?
As gently as possible, I told him we were not getting married. He was sad but not aggressive.
“Okay. Bye.”
That went down about ten years ago. For years, he would call and re-propose marriage. He went to live with his ex-wife who was battling cancer on the East Coast, but he still called about getting married.
It’s been a good year since the last call, which I interpret as either he’s walking West to do wedding planning or the chariot swung low.
I had been dating a man, casually at first, then more seriously. For a few months. In general he was funny, gentle and decent. We did not discuss marriage.
He kept the grounds at a sizeable and elite private school, and part of his pay was an apartment on the grounds.
He drove an old pickup, well kept. He loved that vehicle. He was 70, I was 65.
One afternoon, a different man used his voice to call me.
He was furious and subdued alternately. The tale he told was that some :;$&@ had hit his truck and scratched it, on school grounds.
He marched to the Headmaster’s office and demanded to be heard. The secretary said the Headmaster was busy with parents of a potential new student and would be with him directly. He ignored her and walked into the HM’s office shouting obscenities about the scratch on his truck. The Headmaster tried to de-escalate but after almost half an hour, security was summoned, and eventually the police.
He fought the police and managed to get himself arrested.
He was in custody. He called me, angry, not at me. At the world that had allowed his truck to be scratched.
In a second, the narrative flipped completely. “I’ve been thinking. I’m going to build a little cabin in the truck bed and just explore the US. We’ll see EVERYTHING!”
The only response I found was, “We?”
He laughed. “Sorry. I forgot the part about proposing to you. Let’s get married. When I get out of jail.”
Let’s don’t, I thought.
I worked his daughter’s phone number out of him and called her. I removed myself from the equation. She asked, “Is he taking his meds?”
“Meds? For what? He told me he was taking blood pressure meds. That’s all I know.”
She sighed. “I’ll take care of it. Thanks for calling.” She hung up and I was delighted.
It was several months before he called me again. The truck bed cabin, he admitted, was not workable, but when could we get married?
As gently as possible, I told him we were not getting married. He was sad but not aggressive.
“Okay. Bye.”
That went down about ten years ago. For years, he would call and re-propose marriage. He went to live with his ex-wife who was battling cancer on the East Coast, but he still called about getting married.
It’s been a good year since the last call, which I interpret as either he’s walking West to do wedding planning or the chariot swung low.
