Читать книгу Stories I'd Tell My Children (But Maybe Not Until They're Adults) - Michael N Marcus - Страница 8

While in college in the late 1960s and for several years thereafter, I was involved in a number of unpleasant romantic relationships.

They all started out fine, of course, with young women who were beautiful, smart, sexy, funny and good cooks; and—much to my amazement—they somehow perceived me as handsome, smart, sexy, funny and a good cook.

Invariably, the women turned out to be less than perfect.

Two were heavily into drugs. One of them was a drug dealer who was contemplating suicide.

One was a thief. She even stole a concert poster from the wall of my apartment.

One decided she wanted to try being a lesbian for a year. I was scheduled to be her last man. That was a big burden. Would it be my fault if she didn’t come back?

Another thought she could finance college through prostitution and wanted me to be her pimp.

And another wanted me to help her make bombs.

Although the sex, food and conversations were good, there was clearly something missing in the stability department, and I wondered if it was my fault.

Did I make them this way?

Do I attract nutty women, or do I drive women nuts?

These days, I don’t remember which alternative I thought was better.

And I’m not even sure that one is better.

Back then, though, I wanted to find out.

It was time for an experiment.

I abruptly ended the relationship I was in, and decided that for 30 days I would become socially passive. If Sophia Loren was standing naked next to me in the supermarket checkout line, I resolved to not look or speak, unless spoken to first.

I planned to just go through life, minding my own business for a month. I’d keep my mouth shut, and see who’d show up.

The first few weeks were boring but tempting. I never saw naked Sophia at Stop & Shop or Ursula Andress in a wet white bikini at the Post Office, but there were a few hot babes I would have at least spoken to under normal circumstances.

Late one night I was on a bus operated by Public Service Coordinated Transport, somewhere in the middle of New Jersey. The bus stopped at a rural convenience store. I was sleepy and there wasn’t much light, but I saw two people get off the bus, and then an absolutely gorgeous red-haired woman got on, carrying a small suitcase.

The bus was nearly empty. The redhead could have had two seats for herself, or sat behind the driver or next to a jock or a priest, but somehow she decided to sit next to me. I was flattered, curious, horny and hopeful.

Even if I didn’t complete my research project, maybe I’d get lucky.

We immediately started talking and laughing and touching. It was wonderful. We were soul mates. This was the match made in heaven. After ten minutes, I thought we’d known each other for years. I was ready to spend the rest of my life with her.

We had some long kisses in the moonlit bus, and eventually got around to learning each other’s names, biographies and travel plans.

She told me her name was Cheryl, she was 24, born in Hackensack, and had graduated from Montclair State University with a BA in anthropology.

She also told me she had killed her husband, was running away from the Greystone Park State Psychiatric Hospital in Parsippany and would perform oral on me if I gave her enough money to get to Pittsburgh.

How did she know to sit next to me?