jobob
Rock n' Roll Doggie ALL ACCESS
A Story Without Me
Chapter 7: Birthday
Disclaimer and Author's Notes: Let the party continue! B's still sharing most of his personality with Bono. Bono is still not mine, darnit. The Author thought B might want to tell this part in first person. This is still fiction. It's now a week or so after The Author's birthday. As my father used to say, don't get old. The Author was busy writing her final library school paper on, and "other scenes" after, her birthday. My witty best friend made the observation about an Aug. 6 birthday and the anniversary of Hiroshima. Being born on that date also means, IMHO, you were born to love HTDAAB. Fun Geographical Fact: Detroit is actually north of its Canadian border. Another Couple of Facts (so you can better understand something J says): Ontario, Canada's drinking age is 19. The USA's drinking age is 21. Enjoy the party.
(Want to read the scene I can't post? E-mail me at jobobsemail-u2stuff@yahoo.com. Or you can PM me if you're a premium member.)
It's about 7 a.m. I woke up about half an hour ago, slipped out of bed, and put on my white bathrobe. Even though it is her birthday, J still has to be at work in about two hours. I kept her up late last night, so I turned off the alarm to let her get a little more sleep. I'm going to wake her up with breakfast in bed in a few minutes.
"B! Where are you! Why did you let me sleep past six o'clock? I need a shower, I need to wash my hair, I don't want to be late for work ... Do I have anything here to wear to work? Did you buy a new hairdryer to replace your broken hairdryer?"
Sounds like someone just woke up and saw the clock. And forgot what day it is.
"Happy birthday, my love. Have you already forgotten it's your birthday?" I walk into my bedroom with a tray for J's breakfast. Scrambled eggs, her favorite. Waffles. A small side dish of blueberries. An orange-juice-and-champagne mimosa in a champagne flute. A red rose in a vase. She's covering herself up with the sheet. As if she needed to be modest around me. Maybe she does. I place the tray before her, lean down to kiss her. I sit down on the side of the bed.
"Breakfast in bed. Served by a very handsome waiter. Ah!" she says, reaching for and sipping the mimosa, "A mimosa! Just like Aunt Josephine makes at Christmastime! Better, even, because you used real champagne and she uses Asti Spumante!"
She turns her eyes back to me, lets her eyes wander over me.
"Have I ever told you how good you look in a white bathrobe, B? I'd like to show you how I feel about seeing you in a white bathrobe. I can't right now, alas. Then my breakfast would get cold and I'd be late to work."
"You know, J, I can always warm your breakfast in my microwave oven. You know you don't have to be at work for a couple of hours and you know it's only a few minutes from here. You brought an outfit here to wear to work, and more clothes for tonight and tomorow. I bought a new hairdryer. And we don't yet know how quick we can be."
"Oh. That's a lot of knowlege for one morning. No wonder it all slipped my mind. Thanks for reminding me." She matter-of-factly tells me. Her tone becomes coy. "Oh, waiter, would you please take my tray off my bed? There's a nice tip in it for you. And come right back. Thank you." She puts the mimosa on my nightstand.
I happily comply. First, I take the rose out of the vase, hand it to her. She grins, smells the rose, then places its stem between her teeth. I take away the tray, come back, take the rose from her teeth.
And then I get my wish for her birthday.
Later, I put her breakfast plate in the microwave as she dries her hair. I declined her offer to shower with her. She does need to get to work on time. Instead, I go back to sleep.
After J leaves for work, I wake up and go about my day. I go for my morning run, shower, change into casual clothes. Then drive to Trader Joe's to buy groceries. Go to The Wine Store for some wine for tomorrow as a hostess present for J's stepmother. Do some paperwork from the office. Watch the Tigers game on cable. For once, the Tigers seem to be winning.
At the bottom of the fifth inning, I get a call from J's friend Margaret. Margaret and her friends Chris and Eric have planned a surprise party for J's birthday for weeks. They let me in on it last week, thinking I could distract J during the day (if she didn't have to work) and bring her to Chris's house at seven for the party. They were going to have a graduation party for J in the spring. Then J started working two jobs -- and she started seeing me, which J just told them about -- so the plans for the graduation party never came together. So now they're having a big surprise-graduation-birthday-meet-the-boyfriend party, all in J's honor. And mine.
"Remember, B, tell her you're meeting Chris and me for dinner, and you're going to Chris' house to pick us up. Take her to the front door, he'll answer, he'll take you down to the basement. We'll all be waiting in the basement to yell 'surprise'."
She gives me the address of Chris' house, for the second time. "I'm terrible at directions, but it's near 16 Mile Road -- or Metro Parkway. Jo knows where he lives."
"I should be able to map it on MapQuest. And I have GuideSystem in my car in case we get lost." I'm not great at directions either. "Why does 16 Mile Road have four names anyway?"
"I have no idea."
Someday I hope to be allowed to live in the place where the streets have no names.
At six, I go to the library to pick up J. She's closing up the business and industry section. I walk in as she's filing new issues of Automotive News and Crain's Detroit Business in the newspaper and magazine reading room.
"I thought those were Monday magazines," I tell J. "And here you are on Saturday night, with what looks like Monday's issues."
"Each issue is actually printed and mailed out on Friday night so you can buy and read it on Monday morning," she says. "That's a little secret."
I'm in jeans, her favorite purple shirt, my favorite dark sunglasses. I take her back to my flat so she can change from her business casual blouse and slacks into a blue v-neck t-shirt, blue shorts, and sandals.
"So, we're meeting Chris and Margaret for dinner and a movie tonight?" she says, loudly, from my bedroom to where I wait in my living room. I decided it best not to watch J undress. We don't have the time for me to 'interrupt' her. "And we're to meet my stepmother and my family tomorrow at 10 a.m. for brunch at her house."
"That's right." Actually, we're meeting Chris, Margaret, and half the friends she's made over the last 10 years. No movie. I'll let her find that out for herself at seven. The brunch is to be a family party, with J's stepmother, her stepsister Sue, her niece Emily Sue the family "wild child," J's brother and sister-in-law, and her Aunt Josephine and Uncle Jeff. Her aunt and uncle's apperance may be another surprise for J, however -- she hasn't seen them since Christmas and she misses them.
We're in my car. Since she knows where the house is, and J almost always wants to be on time, she's giving me directions.
"Follow Big Beaver to Dequindre, where Big Beaver Road becomes Metro Parkway. No, love, I don't know why it has those two names. I do know Dequindre is the county line of Oakland and Macomb counties. Now get into the left lane, turn around back to the light at Dequindre and go north. Turn here, here, oh, don't do that! Ohh! Oh, now we missed the street! Okay, go north now to 17 Mile, go right, take a left at the first light -- I don't usually go to his house this way, I should have told you to turn earlier. But you just had to kiss me at that red light and make me forget about the turn, didn't you, B, you naughty boy? -- Another right into his subdivision, third street on the right."
I find the street. It's lined with cars, mini-vans, and trucks. Almost all American. One token Toyota. I wouldn't recognize any of them as belonging to anyone I know. J recognizes almost all of them, knows their owners.
"... and what are so many of my friend's cars doing here?!? Seriously, it looks like half the people I know drove over here tonight."
Smart woman, my J. Think quickly, B.
"They all bought new cars and decided to sell their used ones together? They asked for my help with a marketing plan?"
"Nice try, B. They're throwing me a surprise party, aren't they? And they asked you to drive me over here, didn't they?"
"Yes." What can I say, she forced it out of me?
"I'll bet they're all hiding in his basement rec room."
"You win."
"I love my friends. However, they are so predictable. I've never been to a surprise party in my honor before. I'll just act surprised. This should be fun."
We pull into Chris's driveway. I ring his doorbell. He and Margaret greet us, offer us a drink. We say yes.
"Jo, I have diet Coke. B, I'm guessing you like Guiness. I left it all downstairs in the rec room refrigerator. And it's cooler down there. Let's go down there for a drink before dinner," Chris tells us. He leads, J follows. J goes down the steps, he turns on the light. A crowded basement of people yells "Surprise!" and sings happy fortieth birthday, happy graduation, and happy new boyfriend to J.
"Sixty years ago, on August 6,1945, the first atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima. Twenty years later, in 1965, Jo was born in the USA. Coincidence? I wonder," Chris tells the laughing crowd. "Tonight, in 2005, we are here to celebrate the second event. You don't have to get bombed in Jo's honor, but I do have beer and wine available."
So this is how I found out my lover is 40. No wonder her friends and family are making a fuss. No wonder J was coy about her age whenever I asked. All she would say was she was younger than me. J looks and seems too young to now be in her forties. No wrinkles, except for a few around her eyes. No gray hair, she must hide it well. She's not stuck somewhere in her past. J loves to learn and read and to keep up with pop culture and the latest news, just as you would think a librarian and Internet enthusiast would. I don't care about J's age. I prefer women my own age or older. They know more about life and love than younger women do. And to me, age is really a combination of your actual age and how you act your age.
She is genuinely surprised by this party. She is very pleased and happy they made such an effort, that so many people are here, and that they wanted to include me.
The party quickly moves into Chris' back yard, because there's more room to move outside and the evening is beautiful. There's a table with a large marble cake and party snacks. J's friend Dan has taken over Chris' backyard gas grill and is preparing hot dogs and hamburgers for everyone. Does everyone in America have a gas grill, or just everyone I've met so far this summer in Michigan?
J reads, laughs at, and passes around her birthday cards, most of which tease her about being Over the Hill or tell her her life as she knows it is now over. She also received some graduation cards congratulating her on her new degree and job.
I meet her friends, learn more about them, tell them about myself. And I talk to them, without telling them anything too personal, about J. Her friends are fun, they're easy to talk to, they're full of stories about J.
"Last summer, eight of us went to Stratford, Ontario, to the Shakespeare Festival," according to Angela, one of J's best girlfriends. Angela belongs to a lay religious order. Yet J tells me Angela loves listening to 1970s disco music and classic rock, and laughing herself silly at Three Stooges movie festivals. "We still call ourselves 'the Stratford Eight.' We had such a good time, but we didn't get much sleep. Saturday night, we saw 'Anything Goes' and went to a pub. We stayed up so late, I don't think Jo and Chris stayed awake through 'Macbeth' on Sunday afternoon. If you ever take Jo on a trip, B, make sure she gets enough sleep!"
"Years ago, many of us were in this group called Shirne Singles," John, who looks a bit like Homer Simpson but who is smarter and friendlier than his lookalike, tells me. "and, B, we used to have big dances. Hundreds of people went to our dances. They would always end at one o'clock. Some of us would stay until two and three in the morning cleaning up the church grade school gym and taking down all the decorations and chairs and tables. Then we'd go to this little restaurant near the church, have coffee and breakfast, and talk. One time, we stayed up so late, Jo pointed out to us how the sun was rising over the gas station right across the street from us. We just couldn't stop laughing about having been up all night and how funny it was to see the sun rise over the Amoco station."
"Hi, B, I don't think we've met. I'm Peg, I'm quiet, I'm shy, I'm tall -- so I'm not quiet and shy or tall, but I am Irish!" Peg -- a short, bubbly blonde with a good Irish name -- tells us when she sees us.
"So am I, love. I was born and raised in Dublin. It's always good to meet a pretty and charming Irishwoman like you, Peg. Does Peg stand for Pegeen?"
"Yes it does! Oooh, Jo, I like him! Tell B about The Friendship Party! And bring him to the next one!"
"You were babysitting for Brenda's kids last weekend, Peg! I brought B to Margaret's house last Saturday night! Peg was the one who taught us all how to play Sequence. B learned Sequence pretty quickly. Even with me as your teacher and partner, didn't you, love?" J squeezes my hand.
"J and I won twice out of the six hands we played. She's better at it than she thinks she is," I tell Peg about my experience at her favorite card-and-board-game. "I think people were starting to hate me! I've played a lot of chess and some poker in my time. I like playing games where you need to look ahead to the moves you need to make."
Yes, I officially met some of J's friends a week ago tonight during a small party at Margaret's house. "The Friendship Party" is a monthly dinner and board-games-and-conversation party between a group of 20 friends who have all known each other for years. First they -- we, since I suppose I'm part of it now -- all go out to dinner, then go to one of their homes. Some have married; most are still single. Peg is separated. Most of the marrieds didn't show last week, they were on vacation or had family functions to attend.
"Where are we all going next month?" Peg asks J.
"We were talking about meeting at my house on the 24th and then cross the border to go five-pin bowling and eat ribs at Tunnel Barbeque in Windsor. We haven't done that since last fall. But I'm not sure how they'll allow B to cross. You think they would allow you into Canada and back into the U.S. with your European Union passport and your work visa, dear?"
"I'm sure they would, love." Border crossings are routine to me. I had no problems traveling to the UK and back into the US last month.
"B, you've never been questioned by a stressed-out U.S. Customs agent at the Detroit-Windsor Tunnel. Your saying you're not an American citizen would probably make his Saturday night," J tells me. "You'd at least be a nice change of pace from the drunk 19- and 20-year-olds coming back into the suburbs from the Windsor bars."
"Tell me about Dublin, B. How was it different from here?" Peg switches the subject. Thank you, Peg.
I tell her about the working-to-middle-class neighborhood I grew up in and all the little differences between America and Ireland. Like how you don't drive everywhere the way people do in Detroit, how much more expensive gasoline is there, how green and hilly the countryside is, how people go to the pubs to socialize, how people cope with Ireland's rainy weather, how soccer is the major sport and we call it "football," and the major divide between Catholics and Protestants. Before we realize it, a small crowd forms around us and our animated discussion. Peg and I seem to have become the life of J's birthday party.
Most of J's friends seem to like me. Except for Chris, our host. He's avoiding me. He's not talking to J much, either.
"Chris is definitely avoiding me, and I think people are starting to notice. I think he hates seeing me with someone else. Could we at least watch the 'PDAs' around him? No sense sticking a knife into the poor guy's heart by making out in front of him," she tells me a few hours into the party.
After seeing him give me a look 10 minutes later as Eric and I talk about our concerns over the latest white-collar layoffs at Ford, I excuse myself and go to Chris.
"Look, it's obvious you're upset with me tonight. You seemed upset with me last week, too. J told me you have been close friends for a long time. Is there something on your mind? Something you want to say to me?"
"Yes. You want to know what it is? This is it: Why is she with you and not with me?"
I remember what J. said to me in bed the night I came back from London: I want someone who isn't shy, who will tell me and show me how he feels, who wants a sexual, romantic relationship with me. How Chris meant a great deal to her as a friend, but she knew they would never tell each other they were anything more than friends.
As the old saying goes, Faint heart never won fair lady.
"I can't tell you, Chris. I'm sorry. I know she doesn't want to hurt you. I don't mean to hurt you, either. You can avoid me. Don't avoid her." I don't know what else to say to him without rubbing salt in his wounds. Or starting a fight. I leave, go back to Eric, say a silent prayer that Chris will find some comfort.
Soon, I see Chris talking to J again.
Around 11:30, people start leaving, start telling each other, gee, I guess Jo's not the only one who's not as young as she used to be. Remember when we used to stay up and laugh ourselves sick telling bad jokes until two in the morning? And we only left at 2 a.m. because the city of Berkley would have towed our cars from in front of Marie and Dan's house, or from in front of Drew's house, if we didn't get them off the street by 2 a.m.? Oh, yeah! Those were the days. I've got to get up for church in the morning, we've got to go. Bye! Happy birthday, Jo!
J offers to stay and help Chris, Margaret, Peg, and Eric clean up. They tell her no, this was your party, go home and let us take care of it. I escort her back to my car.
"See, love? Being forty isn't so bad. People throw you parties, they wish you well. So why wouldn't you tell me your age?" I ask her after we sit in my car.
"I've just felt funny about it, B. I mean, I don't *feel* forty inside. I know I am, and sometimes I really do feel my age. Many other times I feel like I'm still in my thirties or even my twenties. Then I still have times when I think I've done something immature, and I feel like I'm 13 again. What would be ideal to me would be to be in my mid-twenties, yet have the lifetime of experiences and knowledge I have now."
"Wouldn't it be great to again have most of your life before you, and to again have a youthful body," I say.
"My point exactly." J continues. "Around you, this summer, though, I've sorta felt that way. Like much of life is still before me. And like I have a new body." She kisses me. 'Take me home, B. We need to rest up for tomorrow. And my air conditioner's probably still broken, so we'll have to stay together at your place."
Chapter 7: Birthday
Disclaimer and Author's Notes: Let the party continue! B's still sharing most of his personality with Bono. Bono is still not mine, darnit. The Author thought B might want to tell this part in first person. This is still fiction. It's now a week or so after The Author's birthday. As my father used to say, don't get old. The Author was busy writing her final library school paper on, and "other scenes" after, her birthday. My witty best friend made the observation about an Aug. 6 birthday and the anniversary of Hiroshima. Being born on that date also means, IMHO, you were born to love HTDAAB. Fun Geographical Fact: Detroit is actually north of its Canadian border. Another Couple of Facts (so you can better understand something J says): Ontario, Canada's drinking age is 19. The USA's drinking age is 21. Enjoy the party.
(Want to read the scene I can't post? E-mail me at jobobsemail-u2stuff@yahoo.com. Or you can PM me if you're a premium member.)
It's about 7 a.m. I woke up about half an hour ago, slipped out of bed, and put on my white bathrobe. Even though it is her birthday, J still has to be at work in about two hours. I kept her up late last night, so I turned off the alarm to let her get a little more sleep. I'm going to wake her up with breakfast in bed in a few minutes.
"B! Where are you! Why did you let me sleep past six o'clock? I need a shower, I need to wash my hair, I don't want to be late for work ... Do I have anything here to wear to work? Did you buy a new hairdryer to replace your broken hairdryer?"
Sounds like someone just woke up and saw the clock. And forgot what day it is.
"Happy birthday, my love. Have you already forgotten it's your birthday?" I walk into my bedroom with a tray for J's breakfast. Scrambled eggs, her favorite. Waffles. A small side dish of blueberries. An orange-juice-and-champagne mimosa in a champagne flute. A red rose in a vase. She's covering herself up with the sheet. As if she needed to be modest around me. Maybe she does. I place the tray before her, lean down to kiss her. I sit down on the side of the bed.
"Breakfast in bed. Served by a very handsome waiter. Ah!" she says, reaching for and sipping the mimosa, "A mimosa! Just like Aunt Josephine makes at Christmastime! Better, even, because you used real champagne and she uses Asti Spumante!"
She turns her eyes back to me, lets her eyes wander over me.
"Have I ever told you how good you look in a white bathrobe, B? I'd like to show you how I feel about seeing you in a white bathrobe. I can't right now, alas. Then my breakfast would get cold and I'd be late to work."
"You know, J, I can always warm your breakfast in my microwave oven. You know you don't have to be at work for a couple of hours and you know it's only a few minutes from here. You brought an outfit here to wear to work, and more clothes for tonight and tomorow. I bought a new hairdryer. And we don't yet know how quick we can be."
"Oh. That's a lot of knowlege for one morning. No wonder it all slipped my mind. Thanks for reminding me." She matter-of-factly tells me. Her tone becomes coy. "Oh, waiter, would you please take my tray off my bed? There's a nice tip in it for you. And come right back. Thank you." She puts the mimosa on my nightstand.
I happily comply. First, I take the rose out of the vase, hand it to her. She grins, smells the rose, then places its stem between her teeth. I take away the tray, come back, take the rose from her teeth.
And then I get my wish for her birthday.
Later, I put her breakfast plate in the microwave as she dries her hair. I declined her offer to shower with her. She does need to get to work on time. Instead, I go back to sleep.
After J leaves for work, I wake up and go about my day. I go for my morning run, shower, change into casual clothes. Then drive to Trader Joe's to buy groceries. Go to The Wine Store for some wine for tomorrow as a hostess present for J's stepmother. Do some paperwork from the office. Watch the Tigers game on cable. For once, the Tigers seem to be winning.
At the bottom of the fifth inning, I get a call from J's friend Margaret. Margaret and her friends Chris and Eric have planned a surprise party for J's birthday for weeks. They let me in on it last week, thinking I could distract J during the day (if she didn't have to work) and bring her to Chris's house at seven for the party. They were going to have a graduation party for J in the spring. Then J started working two jobs -- and she started seeing me, which J just told them about -- so the plans for the graduation party never came together. So now they're having a big surprise-graduation-birthday-meet-the-boyfriend party, all in J's honor. And mine.
"Remember, B, tell her you're meeting Chris and me for dinner, and you're going to Chris' house to pick us up. Take her to the front door, he'll answer, he'll take you down to the basement. We'll all be waiting in the basement to yell 'surprise'."
She gives me the address of Chris' house, for the second time. "I'm terrible at directions, but it's near 16 Mile Road -- or Metro Parkway. Jo knows where he lives."
"I should be able to map it on MapQuest. And I have GuideSystem in my car in case we get lost." I'm not great at directions either. "Why does 16 Mile Road have four names anyway?"
"I have no idea."
Someday I hope to be allowed to live in the place where the streets have no names.
At six, I go to the library to pick up J. She's closing up the business and industry section. I walk in as she's filing new issues of Automotive News and Crain's Detroit Business in the newspaper and magazine reading room.
"I thought those were Monday magazines," I tell J. "And here you are on Saturday night, with what looks like Monday's issues."
"Each issue is actually printed and mailed out on Friday night so you can buy and read it on Monday morning," she says. "That's a little secret."
I'm in jeans, her favorite purple shirt, my favorite dark sunglasses. I take her back to my flat so she can change from her business casual blouse and slacks into a blue v-neck t-shirt, blue shorts, and sandals.
"So, we're meeting Chris and Margaret for dinner and a movie tonight?" she says, loudly, from my bedroom to where I wait in my living room. I decided it best not to watch J undress. We don't have the time for me to 'interrupt' her. "And we're to meet my stepmother and my family tomorrow at 10 a.m. for brunch at her house."
"That's right." Actually, we're meeting Chris, Margaret, and half the friends she's made over the last 10 years. No movie. I'll let her find that out for herself at seven. The brunch is to be a family party, with J's stepmother, her stepsister Sue, her niece Emily Sue the family "wild child," J's brother and sister-in-law, and her Aunt Josephine and Uncle Jeff. Her aunt and uncle's apperance may be another surprise for J, however -- she hasn't seen them since Christmas and she misses them.
We're in my car. Since she knows where the house is, and J almost always wants to be on time, she's giving me directions.
"Follow Big Beaver to Dequindre, where Big Beaver Road becomes Metro Parkway. No, love, I don't know why it has those two names. I do know Dequindre is the county line of Oakland and Macomb counties. Now get into the left lane, turn around back to the light at Dequindre and go north. Turn here, here, oh, don't do that! Ohh! Oh, now we missed the street! Okay, go north now to 17 Mile, go right, take a left at the first light -- I don't usually go to his house this way, I should have told you to turn earlier. But you just had to kiss me at that red light and make me forget about the turn, didn't you, B, you naughty boy? -- Another right into his subdivision, third street on the right."
I find the street. It's lined with cars, mini-vans, and trucks. Almost all American. One token Toyota. I wouldn't recognize any of them as belonging to anyone I know. J recognizes almost all of them, knows their owners.
"... and what are so many of my friend's cars doing here?!? Seriously, it looks like half the people I know drove over here tonight."
Smart woman, my J. Think quickly, B.
"They all bought new cars and decided to sell their used ones together? They asked for my help with a marketing plan?"
"Nice try, B. They're throwing me a surprise party, aren't they? And they asked you to drive me over here, didn't they?"
"Yes." What can I say, she forced it out of me?
"I'll bet they're all hiding in his basement rec room."
"You win."
"I love my friends. However, they are so predictable. I've never been to a surprise party in my honor before. I'll just act surprised. This should be fun."
We pull into Chris's driveway. I ring his doorbell. He and Margaret greet us, offer us a drink. We say yes.
"Jo, I have diet Coke. B, I'm guessing you like Guiness. I left it all downstairs in the rec room refrigerator. And it's cooler down there. Let's go down there for a drink before dinner," Chris tells us. He leads, J follows. J goes down the steps, he turns on the light. A crowded basement of people yells "Surprise!" and sings happy fortieth birthday, happy graduation, and happy new boyfriend to J.
"Sixty years ago, on August 6,1945, the first atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima. Twenty years later, in 1965, Jo was born in the USA. Coincidence? I wonder," Chris tells the laughing crowd. "Tonight, in 2005, we are here to celebrate the second event. You don't have to get bombed in Jo's honor, but I do have beer and wine available."
So this is how I found out my lover is 40. No wonder her friends and family are making a fuss. No wonder J was coy about her age whenever I asked. All she would say was she was younger than me. J looks and seems too young to now be in her forties. No wrinkles, except for a few around her eyes. No gray hair, she must hide it well. She's not stuck somewhere in her past. J loves to learn and read and to keep up with pop culture and the latest news, just as you would think a librarian and Internet enthusiast would. I don't care about J's age. I prefer women my own age or older. They know more about life and love than younger women do. And to me, age is really a combination of your actual age and how you act your age.
She is genuinely surprised by this party. She is very pleased and happy they made such an effort, that so many people are here, and that they wanted to include me.
The party quickly moves into Chris' back yard, because there's more room to move outside and the evening is beautiful. There's a table with a large marble cake and party snacks. J's friend Dan has taken over Chris' backyard gas grill and is preparing hot dogs and hamburgers for everyone. Does everyone in America have a gas grill, or just everyone I've met so far this summer in Michigan?
J reads, laughs at, and passes around her birthday cards, most of which tease her about being Over the Hill or tell her her life as she knows it is now over. She also received some graduation cards congratulating her on her new degree and job.
I meet her friends, learn more about them, tell them about myself. And I talk to them, without telling them anything too personal, about J. Her friends are fun, they're easy to talk to, they're full of stories about J.
"Last summer, eight of us went to Stratford, Ontario, to the Shakespeare Festival," according to Angela, one of J's best girlfriends. Angela belongs to a lay religious order. Yet J tells me Angela loves listening to 1970s disco music and classic rock, and laughing herself silly at Three Stooges movie festivals. "We still call ourselves 'the Stratford Eight.' We had such a good time, but we didn't get much sleep. Saturday night, we saw 'Anything Goes' and went to a pub. We stayed up so late, I don't think Jo and Chris stayed awake through 'Macbeth' on Sunday afternoon. If you ever take Jo on a trip, B, make sure she gets enough sleep!"
"Years ago, many of us were in this group called Shirne Singles," John, who looks a bit like Homer Simpson but who is smarter and friendlier than his lookalike, tells me. "and, B, we used to have big dances. Hundreds of people went to our dances. They would always end at one o'clock. Some of us would stay until two and three in the morning cleaning up the church grade school gym and taking down all the decorations and chairs and tables. Then we'd go to this little restaurant near the church, have coffee and breakfast, and talk. One time, we stayed up so late, Jo pointed out to us how the sun was rising over the gas station right across the street from us. We just couldn't stop laughing about having been up all night and how funny it was to see the sun rise over the Amoco station."
"Hi, B, I don't think we've met. I'm Peg, I'm quiet, I'm shy, I'm tall -- so I'm not quiet and shy or tall, but I am Irish!" Peg -- a short, bubbly blonde with a good Irish name -- tells us when she sees us.
"So am I, love. I was born and raised in Dublin. It's always good to meet a pretty and charming Irishwoman like you, Peg. Does Peg stand for Pegeen?"
"Yes it does! Oooh, Jo, I like him! Tell B about The Friendship Party! And bring him to the next one!"
"You were babysitting for Brenda's kids last weekend, Peg! I brought B to Margaret's house last Saturday night! Peg was the one who taught us all how to play Sequence. B learned Sequence pretty quickly. Even with me as your teacher and partner, didn't you, love?" J squeezes my hand.
"J and I won twice out of the six hands we played. She's better at it than she thinks she is," I tell Peg about my experience at her favorite card-and-board-game. "I think people were starting to hate me! I've played a lot of chess and some poker in my time. I like playing games where you need to look ahead to the moves you need to make."
Yes, I officially met some of J's friends a week ago tonight during a small party at Margaret's house. "The Friendship Party" is a monthly dinner and board-games-and-conversation party between a group of 20 friends who have all known each other for years. First they -- we, since I suppose I'm part of it now -- all go out to dinner, then go to one of their homes. Some have married; most are still single. Peg is separated. Most of the marrieds didn't show last week, they were on vacation or had family functions to attend.
"Where are we all going next month?" Peg asks J.
"We were talking about meeting at my house on the 24th and then cross the border to go five-pin bowling and eat ribs at Tunnel Barbeque in Windsor. We haven't done that since last fall. But I'm not sure how they'll allow B to cross. You think they would allow you into Canada and back into the U.S. with your European Union passport and your work visa, dear?"
"I'm sure they would, love." Border crossings are routine to me. I had no problems traveling to the UK and back into the US last month.
"B, you've never been questioned by a stressed-out U.S. Customs agent at the Detroit-Windsor Tunnel. Your saying you're not an American citizen would probably make his Saturday night," J tells me. "You'd at least be a nice change of pace from the drunk 19- and 20-year-olds coming back into the suburbs from the Windsor bars."
"Tell me about Dublin, B. How was it different from here?" Peg switches the subject. Thank you, Peg.
I tell her about the working-to-middle-class neighborhood I grew up in and all the little differences between America and Ireland. Like how you don't drive everywhere the way people do in Detroit, how much more expensive gasoline is there, how green and hilly the countryside is, how people go to the pubs to socialize, how people cope with Ireland's rainy weather, how soccer is the major sport and we call it "football," and the major divide between Catholics and Protestants. Before we realize it, a small crowd forms around us and our animated discussion. Peg and I seem to have become the life of J's birthday party.
Most of J's friends seem to like me. Except for Chris, our host. He's avoiding me. He's not talking to J much, either.
"Chris is definitely avoiding me, and I think people are starting to notice. I think he hates seeing me with someone else. Could we at least watch the 'PDAs' around him? No sense sticking a knife into the poor guy's heart by making out in front of him," she tells me a few hours into the party.
After seeing him give me a look 10 minutes later as Eric and I talk about our concerns over the latest white-collar layoffs at Ford, I excuse myself and go to Chris.
"Look, it's obvious you're upset with me tonight. You seemed upset with me last week, too. J told me you have been close friends for a long time. Is there something on your mind? Something you want to say to me?"
"Yes. You want to know what it is? This is it: Why is she with you and not with me?"
I remember what J. said to me in bed the night I came back from London: I want someone who isn't shy, who will tell me and show me how he feels, who wants a sexual, romantic relationship with me. How Chris meant a great deal to her as a friend, but she knew they would never tell each other they were anything more than friends.
As the old saying goes, Faint heart never won fair lady.
"I can't tell you, Chris. I'm sorry. I know she doesn't want to hurt you. I don't mean to hurt you, either. You can avoid me. Don't avoid her." I don't know what else to say to him without rubbing salt in his wounds. Or starting a fight. I leave, go back to Eric, say a silent prayer that Chris will find some comfort.
Soon, I see Chris talking to J again.
Around 11:30, people start leaving, start telling each other, gee, I guess Jo's not the only one who's not as young as she used to be. Remember when we used to stay up and laugh ourselves sick telling bad jokes until two in the morning? And we only left at 2 a.m. because the city of Berkley would have towed our cars from in front of Marie and Dan's house, or from in front of Drew's house, if we didn't get them off the street by 2 a.m.? Oh, yeah! Those were the days. I've got to get up for church in the morning, we've got to go. Bye! Happy birthday, Jo!
J offers to stay and help Chris, Margaret, Peg, and Eric clean up. They tell her no, this was your party, go home and let us take care of it. I escort her back to my car.
"See, love? Being forty isn't so bad. People throw you parties, they wish you well. So why wouldn't you tell me your age?" I ask her after we sit in my car.
"I've just felt funny about it, B. I mean, I don't *feel* forty inside. I know I am, and sometimes I really do feel my age. Many other times I feel like I'm still in my thirties or even my twenties. Then I still have times when I think I've done something immature, and I feel like I'm 13 again. What would be ideal to me would be to be in my mid-twenties, yet have the lifetime of experiences and knowledge I have now."
"Wouldn't it be great to again have most of your life before you, and to again have a youthful body," I say.
"My point exactly." J continues. "Around you, this summer, though, I've sorta felt that way. Like much of life is still before me. And like I have a new body." She kisses me. 'Take me home, B. We need to rest up for tomorrow. And my air conditioner's probably still broken, so we'll have to stay together at your place."
this story! Thank you for another great chapter, can't wait to read the next one!! 
Me too can't wait for the next chapter!!!
