fourth times the charm

on chance encounters and never learning our lessons

my trusty verité tote

“You a butcher or a writer?”

“Hmmmm? Excuse me?”

The old man leaned up against his cane, adjusted his blazer. Pointed his pinky at my tote. With a labored breath asked again.

“Your bag, quite a showcase of knives. But you’ve been typing away at that computer long as I’ve been watching you. So, you a butcher or a writer, miss?”

“Hah! If I’m butchering anything, sir, it’s just the English language.”

“Look at this one. Beauty and a sense of humor. Yet she sits alone. You in the mood for company while I rest these weary bones of mine? Next espresso is on me.”

“Throw in one of those fancy Upper East Side scones and you’ve got yourself a deal, pop pop.”

---

Paul, the son of Portuguese immigrants, was born and raised in coastal Marblehead, Massachusetts. Despite his silk neckerchief, Cornell law degree, and 6 published novels, he was the epitome of New England charm without a hint of its elitism. A Vietnam War veteran with no shortage of stories to regale me with, I hung on to every r-dropped word. And you bet your favorite L.L Bean cable knit sweater I had questions. Obnoxious ones.

How much Jimi Hendrix did they really listen to in ‘Nam and was it “Machine Gun” on repeat? Did he keep an ice pick in his car year round? Was he a Dead Poets Society man or Good Will Hunting man? What’s with the fluffernutter obsession? How many times has he bumped into Stephen King? Was it mandatory to recite Robert Frost poems in lieu of the “Star Spangled Banner” at the start of their football games?

Good sport that he was, Paul graciously laughed his way through my nonsensical interrogation. I chuckle at my own jokes too, barely getting through that one about two Red Sox fans walking into a bar without tearing up at the hilarity of my trumped up Boston accent. “You know I’m not from Boston, right?” Yeah I knew, but my ignorant ass also didn’t care.

In the middle of picking the blueberries out of my overpriced scone, Paul raised his furry eyebrows and hits me with the question I’ve been dodging from my parents for the last decades worth of Thanksgiving dinners.

“What, no wedding ring? Or is that big ol’ rock in the shop for a shining?”

I nearly choked on that damn scone. Surely he knew better than to sass me. The knives on the tote should’ve been enough of a deterrent.

“Now don’t start that Paul, just when we were getting along so well. No, I’m not married but don’t get any ideas, gramps. That doesn’t mean I’m not spoken for either. Why’s your finger just as bare as mine, old man?”

His ocean eyes softly glazed over, no longer looking at me but through me. While his mortal body maintained a firm grip on his espresso, Paul’s spirit had travelled somewhere else.

With a heavy sigh he finally broke the silence. “Oh, this pointy prunes’ already been home to its fair share of wedding bands.”

---

He told me about his first wife, Nancy. His first love. Just two kids sharing an after-school milkshake and a dream. A dream they didn’t want to let go of when it came time for him to fulfill some other vow he’d taken, some exchange made upon birth. Time had come for Uncle Sam to make sure young Paul was going to make good on his promise. Shipped him off to Saigon to spend the next two years sinking into that quagmire while Nancy put herself on hold for him. She tried to wait it out, he explained, she really did her best. Thing was, while he was out there growing into a man, fighting the good fight against the Viet Cong, Nancy was becoming a woman back home without him. He showed back up at her doorstep no longer the boy she’d fallen in love with but a soldier carrying more baggage than her petite frame had bargained for. Even had a little girl they’d hoped could close up some of the space that’d grown between them.

For a short while it did.

Some three years after Nancy and Paul parted ways, he bumped into wife number two. Wendy. That fiery redhead almost dislocated his shoulder, elbow checked him so hard she sent his coffee and common sense straight to hell. Over a different drink, one much stronger than that dark roast he’d just lost, Paul could feel himself falling in love again. Who wouldn’t adore her, this firecracker with an infectious laugh. One scotch on the rocks and seven months later he’d made an honest woman out of Wendy. As honest as it was in her nature to be. That first date being in some pub wasn’t by coincidence, not for her. That was by Wendy’s design. Sure, in the beginning Paul didn’t mind the bottle always at her bedside. He always knew when it was time to close out the tab. Wendy, living life like it was a swanky open bar, never did.

Then Allison walked into his office. His Ali. He’d only been partner at the firm for some time when they took her on as a temp while Jamie, the main gal, was on leave. Ali always kept a pencil in her hair and on her last day that saucy, hazel eyed minx used it to jot down her number on a sticky note. Left it right there on his copy of the Bible. Paul saw that as a sign, Cupids little chubby hands at work. It took him a whole week to call her, fifty seven weeks after that to walk her down the aisle. Had he known the cancer would eat away at her stomach like it did, he wouldn’t have waited so long.

---

My espresso had gone cold. Scone went stale. Curious heart was heavy. I was sorry I opened my dumb big mouth, asking too many questions on a Sunday I couldn’t handle the answers to. What the hell kind of lesson did this old man intend on teaching me, other than everything ends?

“Paul, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to bring all that up.”

“Kid, those were some of the best years of my life. I’m one lucky son of a bitch to have found love, time and time again. Given the choice I’d do it all over. Hell, I am doing it all over. You didn’t let me finish.”

“Christ, there’s more? Don’t tell me you’re banging some young hottie now, Paul. I didn’t peg you as the Anna Nicole Smith type.”

“Ha! No. But I still am the Nancy type. Nancy and I, we’re getting married again. This spring. Surprised our daughter with the news just last week.”

Paul, well in his 70s, was giving love a second, third, and fourth chance.

“All of us were born with a hole in our hearts, and we go around looking for the person who can fill it, Sudana.”

“Which one of your New England poets said that? Emily Dickinson?”

“Close. Stephen King.”