I was trying to kill some time before going to Flint's so I stopped at a cafeteria near the University.  A young woman with brown hair stood a short distance in front of me. She was dressed in a lavender skirt, creme-colored blouse, and black shoes with a small heel on them. She looked like she worked in a nearby office complex from the cut of her outfit. She surveyed the seating area behind us every few seconds as if she was looking for someone.

“How can I help you today, sir?” One of the old ladies in a white uniform, her hair netted and her hands wrapped in plastic, asked.

By the time I reached the dessert section, my tray was full, even though I wasn't that hungry. I looked down the line and she was still there getting a drink.

“Will that be all, sir?” Another lady asked.

“Yeah, that’s fine.”

I thought if our eyes met my chance of meeting her would increase, but when I looked up, she was gone.  

In the dining area, she sat alone but kept looking for someone.   

“Mind if I sit with you?”

She appeared startled but relieved.

“That’s fine.  I hate to eat alone.  I was expecting someone, but I guess my friend isn’t going to show,” she answered.       

“Maybe it was me you were looking for, and didn't know it,” I said.  “Sometimes fate throws people together. I was going to eat alone, but I saw you by yourself.  There’s lots of older people here eating the soft, overcooked food. You looked out of place.”

She laughed then looked around. She smiled. Her demeanor changed, and I could tell she was pleased by my interest.

“There are a lot of older people here," she said looking around. "What does that make us?”  

“We’re old people in training, I guess,” I said.  “By the way, my name is Billy.”

“Oh, oh, my name is Susan.  Glad to meet you,” she said offering her hand.

The lighting and the dark furnishings cast her hand into prominence. I noticed the absence of a wedding ring on her other hand.

“Not married?”

“Well, not quite.  I’m not sure.  I’ve been going with a guy for over a year.  We were engaged, but right now we’re not seeing each other.  We both wanted to cool it.  It’s such a commitment.  Marriage means the rest of your life together.  I want to be sure he’s the one,” she stated.

Her face turned serious and reflective.

“Men and women think differently about love and marriage,” she said.

“Who said we even think about it?”

“That’s true.  Men just think about sex. Love and marriage should be the foreplay before it.”

I cut a piece of over-cooked chopped steak and inserted into my mouth.  I finished chewing and put my knife and fork down.

“That’s an interesting thought."

“I got it from a friend of mine who writes poetry for greeting card publishers.  I was waiting for her when you showed up.  She must have gotten hung up on a poem she was working on.  She said she might not make it,” Susan said.

“My best friend is writing a novel. Maybe you and your friend would like to meet us somewhere,” I suggested.

Susan put her fork down. I think she was beginning to like me.

“Okay.  My boyfriend and I are split up.  I really think it’s over between us,” she said.  “We can meet you tonight. I know a place on Route 41.  It’s right before you get to the old elementary school.”

“I know where that is,” I answered. “We’ll meet you about seven o’clock.”

“It’s a date then,” Susan agreed.

We finished what we could eat of our lunches and walked together to the cashier.

“See you tonight,” I said and gathered up a mint and a toothpick.

~

I owed Flint for the Oxford pub incident when I got jumped by the long-haired drunk and his friends. I owed him for the time I got stoned and drunk and puked at the theatre and he drove me home. This blind date was a small repayment.

Flint looked up from his make-shift throne topped by an orange and white parachute canopy. He put down “The Deerslayer” by James Fenimore Cooper on top of his spiral notebook and peeled off his reading gloves that minimized the tremors in his hands.

“I met this hot chick at a cafeteria. She’s got a friend and they want to meet us tonight. Her friend writes poetry,” I said. “So you can make it?  You’re not going out with anyone?"

“Not tonight. Ellie stopped by the other day, and I told her I was dating someone else.  It was hard to turn her away, but I had to.  She’s broken my heart for the last time.  I know she’ll divorce Frank someday, but I won’t be there for her.  It kind of destroyed me,” Flint admitted. “I’ve got to get on with my life minus Ellie Windows.”

We both heard a car door open and close outside.  Flint stood and walked to the back of the small house that Ellie had found for him. It was not far from her split level trailer in Thonotosassa which made it convenient for her to visit Flint when she got pissed at Frank. The only drawback was the puppy mill next door. The beagles barked and howled. It must have been feeding time.

“Tell her I’m in the bathroom,” he said.

“Take the toilet paper with you then,” I said.

He kept a roll on the table next to his reading chair. He grabbed it and walked to the back of the house.

There was a loud knock at the side door.

“Where’s Flint?” Ellie demanded.

“He’s in the bathroom.”

“When he gets out tell him George finally stopped by,” Ellie commanded.

“George stopped by?  Who is George?”

“Goddammit, Billy, tell him that George stopped by.  He’ll understand,” she repeated.

She slammed the door as hard as she did her car door and backed onto the highway. When Flint knew she was gone he returned to the living room.

“Ellie said George stopped by.  Who’s George?”

“George!?”

Flint appeared relieved.

“George is her period,” Flint answered. 

“Her period?”       

“Yeah.  She had her period.  She was freaked out and didn’t want to tell Frank.  She thought she was pregnant.  That’s why she’s been angry with me.  That’s why I went out with Jacqueline, the English lit groupie, and Angelica.  George came by!  It means she’s not pregnant,” he said.

“You’ll sleep easier tonight.”

“You can say that again. I’m unfit to be a parent. Fatherhood would be a disaster,” he said.

~

“You made it!” Susan said when she saw me that evening.

“Flint will be here in a little while.”

“See, I told you there would be someone for you,” Susan said and tapped her friend on the arm.

Julie was a stunning blonde.  I sat down on the other side of the table across from Susan.  The chair opposite Julie was vacant. This was great payback. The slate would be clean. I wouldn’t owe him for the Oxford incident or the ‘Seven Beauties’ debacle. My bill would be paid in full, if not in advance. Maybe, he'd decide not to leave Tampa for her and forsake the others: Ellie Windows, Angelica, Jenna, Jacqueline, the English groupie, the Aardvark, and the provost’s secretary. Maybe she was the Manifest Destiny he was always talking about.    

“When is your friend coming?” 

“He should be here soon,” I said. “We were celebrating earlier this afternoon about meeting you two tonight.”

But he wasn’t.

Flint didn’t show up during the first round of drinks.   I glanced at the front door every time it swung open. Old people. Cowboys. Rednecks. Hippies. No Flint Dupree.

“Can’t you call him?” Susan asked.

“That would be a problem. He doesn’t have a telephone.”

'No telephone' translated into a thousand different gestures of body languages but meant something very specific in their eyes. Uncommunicative. Distant. Recluse. Hermit. Possible asshole.

The waitress retrieved our empty glasses and returned a few minutes later with another round of daiquiris for the women and, for me, a draft beer with a head on it like a cumulus cloud.

I looked at the front door hoping that Flint would fulfill his promise and walk through it to embrace what I hoped would be his Manifest Destiny. Could concentrating on the door make him appear any sooner?

“Do you really have a friend?” Julie asked. “Maybe he doesn’t even exist.”

“Yes, I think he has a friend,” Susan said.

“I didn’t mean it exactly like that,” Julie stated then laughed at her friend’s reply.

I sat there excluded from the conversation, humiliated and feeling smaller and smaller like a psychedelic insect that Frank Windows might portray in one of his paintings.

“Do you think he has a friend that is going to show up? That’s what I meant.”

“That I don’t know,” Susan replied.

I had had enough humiliation. I retreated to the restroom to figure out what to do and met myself next to the Trojan dispenser, face to face, in the restroom mirror. I didn’t like what I saw: gloom and despair.

The window beckoned. My car was parked right outside. I could end this psychic flaying by tipping the garbage can upside down and using it as a step ladder to escape.  I had done my best to no effect.

I turned over the metal cylinder, spewing soggy paper towels across the tiled floor, and was just about to pull the screen out when I heard a familiar sound. A 750 Honda. It had to be my biker novelist friend, Flint Dupree.

I stepped down from the trash can and headed for the lobby. My mood was the same, but I quickly brightened. Flint finally pushed his way through the front door.

“Flint, over here.”

He towered above the middle‑aged couple who followed him.  He walked in my direction, stumbling then teetering to one side.

“You okay?” 

“I had a visit from George.”

“George is Ellie’s friend,” I reminded him. “It’s her period for Christ ‘sake.”

“George Dickel,” he corrected me.

That presented a problem. After I left him he must have sat on his Aztec throne and gotten sourmashed.

I looked over at the two women seated at the table.

“He finally got here,” I said, pointing at Flint who was dressed in a long sleeve white shirt, blue jeans and smooth, black boots.

Before I could introduce him to his dinner companion, Julie, Flint sat directly across from my date, Susan. He grabbed a piece of paper from his shirt pocket.

“It’s a poem I wrote about Natty Bumpo,” Flint said.

Julie looked confused. “The Deerslayer” was probably not on her reading list. She glanced at Susan and then at me.  Susan’s demeanor turned to a glare. I lowered my head and stared at the menu. Flint read his poem about Natty Bumpo, “The Deerslayer.”

“I don’t get it,” Julie said when he finished.

I took a slug of beer.

“What’s it about?”  Susan added.

“It’s not something for a greeting card,” Julie remarked.

“You gotta be kidding me,” Flint sneered. “That’s something The New Yorker or The Atlantic Monthly would publish, not a lousy greeting card.”

I coughed. Beer spurted out my nose.    

“Julie writes poetry for greeting cards,” Susan explained, “and is quite successful at it.”

“Greeting cards?!” Flint guffawed.

Julie jettisoned out of her seat. She headed towards the door.

I took money out of my wallet and dropped it on the table.

“I’ll be back,” I said to Susan.

“I’ll be okay.  I can’t leave without Julie.  She’s driving. I’ll wait here for her.”

I followed Julie.  She was athletic, and I had already envisioned a second date with the four of us playing tennis, Flint’s favorite sport where the lowest score was ‘love.’

“Love means you got nothing, but you gotta have balls to play,” Flint always said.

 She walked out the door to the side parking lot. I caught up when she turned down a dark road that led to a nearby subdivision carved out of an orange grove.

“Let’s take a walk,” I suggested when I saw the anger on her face.

“I’ve never met... I’m not going to say it,” she fumed.

“He’s drunk,” I said, trying to apologize.

“He needs to think about other people’s feelings.  What’s wrong with writing for greeting cards?  It’s challenging,” she said.

“I don’t buy many greeting cards,” I admitted.

“Women love them. It shows that you are thinking about them. And by the way, you were supposed to be with Susan, and I was supposed to be with HIM,” she said.

“I get it. You’re upset because you got stuck with me instead of Flint!  If that’s what pissed you off, let’s go back, and I’ll say something.”

I was used to it. Women preferred Flint to me. Who could really blame them? I was going to college but I was blue collar and worked in a battery factory. From one to ten on the excitement factor I was a minus ten. Flint was a biker novelist waiting to inherit his mother’s estate in Virginia. In tennis parlance that was match point.

“I’m going back anyway,” she said and turned in the opposite direction.

When we got to the parking lot, we both stopped in our tracks.

“That’s disgusting,” Julie groaned.

Godammit. I agreed.

Susan’s back was pressed against the galvanized metal fence surrounding the parking lot.  Her blouse was open. Their mouths were locked together.

“I’m leaving,” Julie shouted.

Her voice interrupted them, and Susan broke away from Flint.

“I’ve got to go.  Julie’s my ride,” she said.

She balled up her brassiere, buttoned her blouse, then walked hastily to Julie’s car.  It didn’t take long before both women got in and sped away.

“You were supposed to be with Julie, and I was supposed to be with Susan.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

"I don’t know. I guess I should have. We’ll never see them again. They were goddesses too. They hated us.”

“Susan didn't hate me," Flint said.

Goddammit, he was right. He took the poem “Natty Bumpo Rides Again” out of his shirt pocket. Her phone number was scribbled on the bottom of it.

"I owe you,” he said.