Eureka Memories: Hometown dating doofus to lion king to disaster

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It's the type thing that could only have happened in a small town.

Knowing it could, really, only have happened in Eureka doesn't make me feel a great deal better.

Nearly 20 years later and I feel like a moron.

I'd gone through a messy divorce after I'd fouled up a marriage taking my wife for granted and investing all my time in my two sons and hobbies that most 34-year-old men wouldn't have time for after a long, hard day at work.

I was 35, raising two kids (having a blast) and divorced. After a self-imposed, six-month ban on even thinking of how women fit into my post-divorce life, it occurred to me that I'd never really dated.

Damn! I knew I should've paid more attention to my wife. I cared about her and I lost her to a one-eyed truck driver who carried a big knife in his boot ... because I didn't pay enough to attention to her in the final months of our 13-year marriage.

I was working out every day at Cal Courts to burn off the stress of life reimagined for my kids and I. I wasn't the single guy cruising the only health club in town trying to pick up women. I worked. I raised my kids. I went to the gym.

My frame of reference for this new life stemmed solely from work, the gym and being a dad.

Working out at the only health club in my hometown meant that I was seeing the same women all the time. And, the only place I'd ever see women was at the gym.

I knew that I wasn't ever going to be good at the bar scene. It was 1989 and Club West and The Ritz were Eureka hot spots for people much younger than I was. The fact that I hadn't had a drop of alcohol since about 1981 made making the bar scene a questionable decision for me, too.

The last time I picked up a woman, all I had to do was walk across the Eureka High School girls' gymnasium floor and ask her to dance. We danced. We dated. We got married. Then, she met the one-eyed truck driver.

In month eight of my six-month, self-imposed ban on thinking about women -- I saw the most beautiful female I'd ever seen at Cal Courts.

I'm not exaggerating, OK? She was beautiful.

She had long, dark brown hair that fell all over the place in long, loose curls. She had near perfect, dark-complexioned skin. Brown eyes. Stunning smile.

She was, I decided, exactly the female I'd want to date at this point in my life. The last thing I wanted was to get seriously involved with a woman. Well, the last thing I wanted was to be divorced, but that ship had sailed. So, if was going to date -- why not imagine it being with a woman who fit the simple-minded physical requirements every man keeps stored away in his mind?

Plus, the amazing creature frequented the only place I went outside work and home. So, she was perfect. Her being a club regular made her more attractive.

On the most surface level ... the woman with the long, dark hair and pretty smile was ... perfect. She was erotic.

I know. Eureka. I was 34. What did I know from erotic? She was small-town erotic. She was also exotic -- to a man who only knew the women at Cal Courts. A man defines exotic and erotic for himself.

No pick-up line I'd ever used would work with this woman. I couldn't walk up and say, "Do you wanna dance?" or "Hey, would you like to go to the winter prom with me?"

Then, one day, I noticed she was looking at me.

I'm not that guy who thinks every woman is looking at him. I've never imagined being that guy who thinks he brings to the table the things that attract women's attention.

I'd been married awhile so, really, I figured that I was invisible to women.

The first time I saw her looking at me, I turned away. Thus, I broke the first law of displaying mutual attraction. I learned over time that making and maintaining eye contact is the first step.

She wasn't one of the women who waltzed around the health club loving all the attention she got. She seemed impervious to it or innocent. I couldn't decide, but I liked the idea of her ignoring the men crusing the health club looking for women.

Our eyes met a few more times from across the club. I smiled. She smiled.

Oh, yeah, this took weeks. I saw her all the time, but it took weeks to get from, "Is she looking at me?" to "I think she might be interested in me," to "Oh, there she is ... I'm gonna go talk to her ... "

Then there was a period of talking myself out of going to talk to her. It's hard to be 35 years old with the social skill set of a 14-year-old boy.

One Sunday afternoon, her and I were the only people in the club. I built the nerve required to approach this lovely brunette.

I decided I would say something like ... ah, I had a whole thing planned. I'd say I'd seen her at the gym a lot, joke about working out alone on a Sunday, then introduce myself and then ... then ... then, I hoped she'd take over the conversation.

I finally managed to be in the same part of the weight room she was in and walked up to her. That was a victory, honest.

She looked at me and smiled. A second victory!

"Hi ... I've seen you around here ..."

Oh, God! She'd seen me see her around there. What an idiot! I trashed my plan and cut directly to introducing myself.

She was shy. Comfortable enough talking, but shy. I thought that'd make it easier for me because I was incredibly bashful.

I could've sworn she was slightly thrown by me approaching her.

I figured she was put off by the sweat running down my face or something. But, it felt, to a guy who hadn't really done that type thing, like she was surprised yet pleased that I would approach her like men were always approaching women at Cal Courts.

She introduced herself. Her name was Heather and ... I didn't catch her last name because all I could her was my heart beating in my ears. She had a Latino last name, I knew that much.

Oh, I had some moves.

"Interesting last name! My family came here from Portugal and changed their last name from Rodriguez to Rodgers. How do you spell your last name?"

It didn't come of my mouth as smoothly then as it easily as it springs to mind today.

Still, bells and whistles were going off in my head. She was still standing there, smiling. And, she spelled out her last name. I listened carefully.

I maintained eye contact, a little like Charles Manson explaining himself during his probation hearings, I'm sure.

She spoke softly and I couldn't hear much. I only heard myself saying, "Yippee! Hooray! I can't believe it!"

I decided I'd take my small victories and leave with a smile on my face.

She didn't give off any sort of, "Don't ever dream of talking to me again, jackass" vibe. I took that to be a definite go-ahead to spend days and days contemplating what I could do next to know her better.

It didn't take long to realize that we'd talked for five, six minutes but I didn't know anything except her name and that she spoke the same language I did.

When I'd last dated, tons of things were givens. We were all the same age. We had roughly the same backgrounds -- kids at Eureka High School, right? What was there to learn?

Ah, I couldn't sweat what I didn't know so I looked this woman up in the phone book. There it was Heather With the Latin Name I Could Spell ... in Eureka. I scribbled down her number as I sat, alone, at my kitchen table.

She didn't blow me off when we'd met. The worst thing she could say to an invitation to a movie was ... oh, I thought of lots of terrible things that could happen if I actually even got her on the line. Who was I kidding?

I telephoned any way.

Heather sounded legitimately happy to hear from me. Well, given that I hadn't called a woman out of the blue in decades I supposed she sounded happy. She sounded happier than my ex-wife had the last time I'd spoken to her.

The small talk I practiced went OK. I steered clear of stuff I was really interested in like, oh, my sons and my custody case. She wasn't hard to talk to but I still didn't have a ton of chatter in my brain so I cut to asking her if she'd be interested in a movie, maybe dinner.

"Yeah ... sure ... I mean ... when?"

There was extended silence as though she was thinking things through. Cool. I was in no hurry. As long she started by thinking enough to agree to go out because ...

I was king of the jungle! When she said, 'yeah..." I ruled my world. The black clouds disappeared. The sun came out! All I needed was a marching band to play the Lovin' Spoonful's "Do You Believe In Magic?"

Only in Eureka could a small-town Dating Doofus who couldn't even imagine speaking to a woman wind up on a date with the woman he chose first, a gorgeous woman, an exotic, erotic woman who would get him back into dating shape.

I rocked! Where was that marching band, baby?

"Oh, how about Thursday night?" I said, returning to earth long enough to remember that I worked Friday night and that my kids had games all weekend.

Silence from the other end rattled me, but nothing could have prepared me for ...

"Aww! Thursday? I can't! I've got lots of homework ..."

A college girl? OK. Cool. Men my age dated college girls all the time ... in the movies and stuff.

"My parents don't like me to go out on weeknights either ..."

College girls go out when they feel like it.

I'd asked a high school girl on a date.

My euphoric self-talk turned to something like, "You incredible jackass! She's not even 18 years old? No wonder she seemed naive and surprised and ... her parents don't like her to go out on weeknights???"


To my credit, I kept myself from crying out, "Please, tell me you're at least 18!"

Hey, I know lots of men with solid reputations who wouldn't have blinked at the idea that she was young ... a girl who looked like a woman. They'd have focused on the "Yeah, sure ..." and the "Aww ... I can't."

I had a prize catch on my line and she was hooked. All I had to do was be patient, reel her in on a weekend ... and be able ignore that her parents didn't like her going out on weeknights.

My not immediately suggesting a weekend night threw her, I'm sure. I don't think many guys who asked her out and had her accept stammered about the date and time.

Boys were surely falling over themselves to date her any old night she was free.

Briefly, I hoped that I seemed like a cool, sophisticated adult who lived life on the edge and thought she was more woman than girl. Ideally, she'd think, I had lots of women and if she couldn't make it, too bad. Maybe I'd impressed her as some type of swinger as I talked my way off the phone.

So, I felt beyond stupid? So, I felt like a complete jackass? She could at least have a good opinion of me.

I tried to believe that knowing a girl bursting with beauty and sexuality would date me was just a good thing. Finding out that she was 17 would turn the whole deal into a tawdry memory and a complete loss for me. I really needed a win.

First time out of the box ... landed the woman o' my dreams ... except she was a girl.

Time passed. I stayed away from Cal Courts at the times I typically had noticed Heather working out.

I had this vision of shooting baskets with my sons, then 10 and 8, and a girl closer to their age than mine walking up and saying, "What about dinner?"

"Dad ... you were going to dinner with my friend Bobby's sister!"

Six months or so after the phone conversation, I noticed a tour group forming in my newspaper office lobby. High school classes often killed a day touring the newspaper plant.

Of course she was in the high school tour group! Of course!

Still just ... you know ... gorgeous ... based on what I could see from hiding and peeking at her from around the door of the conference room.