It
is around 11:00 a.m. on a Monday in February, 1996 (and although I am not
certain, I believe it may have been the 12th) that I first meet my
future husband face to face. Like the
rest of the band members (with the exception of the newly unemployed)
Chris works a day job, but he happens to have Mondays off. It’s a surprisingly warm day for February:
No jacket required.
I
arrive at his address wearing a favorite thread-bare, fawn-colored sweatshirt
over grey leggings and suede fringed moccasin boots. Trademark bandana keeps the hair back, off my
forehead. My dogs are along for moral
support, but also because when I’m not gigging or rehearsing I bring ‘em almost
everywhere with me, anyhow. They’re
wearing their bandana’s, too.
Chris lives
on the 3rd floor in a three-story apartment building in Richmond
Hill. With Girlie and Lula flanking me,
I ring the bell. First, a static burst
over the intercom and in a few short moments, Chris comes down and stands
before us.
Everyone who
meets Chris comments about his height.
He is, after all, 6’ 6”. But
despite the fact that tall men have always appealed to me, when I meet Chris I
barely notice his height.
When
he appears at the lobby door: Grayish-blue eyes, thick black eyebrows and a
beard to match. A quick, courteous
nod. His gaze is open, friendly and
frankly admiring, as I imagine my own must be.
He looks at me in such a way that it’s like we’re already in
the know, in some kind of private club.
Odd, but then its not so odd, either.
And then,
there’s the dogs. These two gals are
notoriously picky and as soon as Chris opens the front door, he innately offers
the backs of his hands for them to scent.
They sniff heartily before they both lift their faces up at him: Two crazy grins, tails wagging vigorously in
unison. Pant, pant, pant.
Me:
“Hey.”
Chris:
“How’s it goin’.”
A
quick, shy-but-firm handshake between us.
That’s one large, warm, sturdy hand, alright. The dogs are bombarding him now, pushing each
other out of the way for petting time with this new, charming stranger.
Me:
“You’re good with dogs.”
Chris:
“Oh, sure.” He is gently patting their heads, scratching their ears.
Me:
“You have dogs?”
Chris:
“Ahh…no.”
Me:
“Then you’ve HAD dogs.”
Chris:
“Ahh…no.”
Me:
“Oh. Well, they sure like you.”
Chris:
“Sure, why not? What’d I ever do to
them?”
This
makes me giggle: “That’s true.”
A
quiet moment as the dog-petting-fest continues.
Me:
“So, here’s the tape.”
Chris
(taking the tape): “Okay, great.”
For
some reason, I say: “So this should all
work out.”
Chris:
“Sure, why not?”
Sure,
sure, sure…why not. Hmmm. We gaze at one another for a peculiar moment,
and it’s as if I’m seeing myself somehow: I can see myself the way he’s sees
me. It’s an imperfect, untarnished,
pure examination. Not decipherable,
this. Not known to me ever before. I almost have to shake it off, this heady
sensation.
Me:
“Ok - so I’ll see ya at rehearsal, then.
I’ll call to confirm the time.”
Chris:
“Okay, great.” He gives another of those
nods: “Bye, then.”
Me:
“Ok, ‘bye, Chris.” To the dogs: “C’mon,
girls, in the car.”
Girlie
and Lula linger, looking behind them at Chris (are you coming, too?). They’re visibly disappointed to be leaving so
soon.
As
we pile into my old white Chevy sedan, I look back also. Chris is watching us
with a bemused little smile on his face.
He gives me a brief, comical half- salute.
My
breath feels short, a lump in my throat.
I
can hardly wait to see him again.
* * * * * *
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