Tandem

It was a summer afternoon in my small Missouri town in the mid-1960s, when I looked up from my efforts of mastering a hula hoop in time to see a man and woman whiz down High Street on their bicycle for two. I’d heard my mother sing the “Daisy, Daisy” song—one of my favorites, but had never seen the real thing, never believed such a bicycle existed that two people could share. It made me swoon, the epitome of love and togetherness. I tucked away the tiny memory and forgot about it.

The fall following my high school graduation, I married Scott, my blonde, blue-eyed boyfriend, despite being doubtful about whether “he was the one.” What I did know was that he was good enough, the boy I’d lost my virginity to a year and a half earlier, and in my Catholic-riddled eighteen-year-old mind, marriage repaired my premarital experimentation. Also, he enlisted in the Air Force. I was car-less, poor, and stuck. Getting hitched offered me freedom, a ticket out of town, perhaps even the country.

I left home chock full of generational and religious templates about marriage. I’d been specialty-trained by my passive, obedient mother who treated my father like a deity: A wife gets up an hour before him to look radiant and cook his breakfast, has dinner on the table within a half hour of hubby coming home, and ensures that her every action be about him. A wife cleans floors in such a way that company could drop by at any time. She irons and starches her husband’s shirts and slacks and folds his socks and underwear. She allows her husband full control of all television programs and household decisions. A husband earns income and the wife might have a meaningless, part time job, but only if it doesn’t inconvenience hubby in any way.

Scott got stationed in the armpit of Texas for vocational training. Within a week of playing my mother’s version of little woman, I was miserable being trapped in mid-century ideals. I wanted a part-time job, but we’d only be in the area for three months and only owned one car, which he took to the base. I could have driven him to and from his classes, but it was thirty-minutes one way. His classes ran from seven in the morning until three in the afternoon, so whatever employment I found needed the odd hours when I could secure transportation. My other option was walking, but the closest business was four miles west, a Pizza Hut. I opted not to apply.

Once Scott finished his training and got assigned to Colorado, I took a full time job as a secretary for a Denver finance company. In the big city, with my new job, I felt the world offered up opportunity. Yet, I felt stuck. After a year in Colorado, I realized I’d outgrown Scott. The only thing my husband and I had in common was being born and raised in our home town, a place he couldn’t wait to return to (his mother was already looking for houses on her block), and one which I never wanted to see again.

Scott couldn’t spell, was a picky eater (no vegetables or fruits), and in his free time only wanted to call his mother or watch TV (favorite show The A-Team) .

I emancipated myself with divorce.

I met my second husband four years later when I began a new job as a conference coordinator for the Hilton. I stood in the staff hallway outside a ballroom one early pre-Valentine’s evening, when the ballroom door flew open and the song “Celebrate” escaped, along with the sweet-faced, red-haired, smiling audio/visual guy who was checking the sound system. We looked into each other’s eyes and I flashed him my holiday “hug me” pin attached to my lapel. He did. Several months later, while we sat naked in a hot tub, I proposed we marry. Unlike my first husband, Marc was college educated and busy with musical pursuits (he was a drummer). He loved concerts, camping, and parties, nothing stodgy or old-fashioned or mother-related. He also loved cocaine and introduced me to it. We married at the Denver Firehouse Museum, a party full of champagne and merry-making. I felt “with-it” and cool. Unfortunately, his party-life continued long after I grew tired of it. I yearned for serious and stimulating talks, dinners at home, grocery shopping together, and finding a mutual goal besides “high.”

After we divorced, I vowed to really find myself. I was almost out of my twenties. Time to get on the right path. I followed up on a long-ago desire of becoming a cosmetologist and enrolled in evening classes. I dated a little, but I was through with bad choices. I sent a wish to the heavens: If I should ever have a serious relationship again, give me a sign that he was right, that he was “the one.” I wanted a partner, a good friend, someone who brought out the best in me and me in him. Make him tall and kind and handsome. Let me learn new things from him. Let me teach him something, too.

Two years later, I moved to California’s Bay Area to try to launch my beauty career. Hairdressing paid by commission only; therefore, I signed up with a temp agency to help supplement my income until I became established in a salon. One such temp job took me to a tiny strip of offices along Highway 4. I wore an ill-fitting beige suit I’d bought in a bargain basement to tone down my eggplant-colored hair, and the second I saw the 6’4”, dark-haired man in a leopard-print shirt, I felt a split-second jolt.

He introduced himself as John, a produce broker and the owner of the two-man office. Easy work. Lots of laughter. I ended up temping there six months. John was kind, amiable, funny, and loved chatting on the phone with clients. I met his wife and adolescent son when they visited the office, and I got along well with his other salesman. I learned it was his second marriage.

I adjusted to California, morphed my hairdressing attempts into an aesthetician role, quit temping, made friends, and met a few fellows. My ex-husband came to visit after eighteen months, a new, clean man, and we carried on a long-distance rekindling until I returned to Colorado to try again, strictly vowing to only be boyfriend and girlfriend this time.

John and I kept in touch the eleven months I spent in Colorado: a Christmas card from me, a few phone calls from him, and once an in-person visit when he had a two-hour layover at the Denver airport. I enjoyed our friendship and how well we talked with each other.

I didn’t enjoy my ex-husband. Sobriety didn’t fix our relationship. His judgmental nature and constant criticism made me hate myself, and him. I bought the wrong water-softening salt, made granola he didn’t like, chose a meaningless career, and brought in too little money. His scolding beat me down. When he went to a Christmas party as a plus one with another woman while I still lived with him, I snapped out of denial and finally got enraged enough to end things. I’d been my happiest in California and decided to move back.

I called my old boss and friend John in hopes he might have work available while I resettled, but he didn’t. I found a position with a beauty product company in San Francisco and moved to the city. After that company went belly up, I worked as a secretary for a property investment company. I also enrolled in marketing course at City College.

John would call from time to time. We were only an hour apart, but from different worlds: he’d been raised in Californian aristocracy (Atherton and dinners in night clubs), me in lower class, podunk Missouri (my parents couldn’t afford to buy me a PEZ dispenser). He possessed a college degree and owned a business. I owned a high school diploma, cosmetology license, and still searched for what to be when I grew up. Yet, John found me fascinating and smart, and I found him approachable and exciting.

It was in 1991, five years after we first met, when he mentioned he’d be in San Francisco one evening and why didn’t we have dinner together, his treat. He took me to a trendy, expensive restaurant down in the Embarcadero. The air molecules rearranged themselves into pink fluff as we breathed in and out, walking along the ocean front to get into his sleek, black BMW. We kissed outside my apartment door when he dropped me off.

I fought the attraction, wanting to remain morally intact. But I’d been sprinkled with pixie love dust. We saw each other from time to time, but felt the extra layer added to our friendship. We fought it, but couldn’t. John slowly taught me to trust and let people in. I taught him how to communicate and appreciate his accomplishments. When his marriage ended, we decided to give our relationship a serious go and cohabitate.

I owned a lumpy futon and a salvaged yellow Formica dining table. He didn’t have much either: a crockpot, a juicer, a pair of skis, and, to my heart-thumping astonishment, an old, white tandem bicycle.

I knew right then.