my baby is (almost) a cenerfold—part one

My Baby is (almost) a Centerfold —part one

I was middle-aged, divorced, and dating a girl who was about to become a Playboy model.

What do I call this? Most of the scenes occurred exactly as written, except for the names and a few other changes. I stretch some things a little, so it’s memoir with poetic license. Technically it’s autofiction. I’ll go with that.

Years ago, back in the 80s, I used to work a four-day week and take Wednesdays off. A lot of dentists did so. I think they played golf. But golf wasn’t my game. I was a cyclist, a club rider; I even did some road races a few times a season. So, Wednesday was a good opportunity to do a long training ride up to the Santa Cruz mountains or even all the way to the coast from my apartment in San Jose.

But sometimes there was too much to do: charts to review, x-rays to read, treatment plans to compile, and in that case, I’d go to the office where it was quiet and empty and so some work in peace.

On one of those quiet Wednesdays a young lady walked in through my front door. Did my eyes light up when I saw her? Did my expression give me away? She was simply gorgeous.

“Hi,” she said. “Do you happen to have a key to Doctor Evans’ office?”

Dr. Evans was an MD allergy doc in the office next door to mine.

“No. The maintenance guy might have one. You can probably find him; he’s usually around the building somewhere.”

“Okay. Sure, I think I’ve seen him around. I’m Sherry. I just started working for Doctor Evans. Can you believe I went to lunch and forgot my keys?”

I tried not to stare. The girl was tall and quite pretty, an American blonde beauty with hair that hung in luxuriant flows down her back and off both shoulders. She could have been in a shampoo commercial.

But she was just a neighbor’s employee. I was professional and not authentic.

She walked out my door but was back just minutes later.

“Hey, sorry. I talked to the maintenance guy. He doesn’t have keys to the suites. It’s my Boss’s day off, golf or whatever. He expects me there to cover the phones. This kinda sucks.”

I put down the chart I was working on and looked up at her. “I can probably break in for you.”

“Really? That would be great. Would you?”

“Sure. Just wait by your front door and when I’m in, I’ll open it from the inside.”

“But there’s only one door. You’re not going to pick the lock?”

“No. There’s a sort of tunnel into all 8 offices. I guess even the maintenance guy doesn’t know about it. Just go out front and hang tight.”

Any burglar worth his tools would have access to every suite in the place if he knew the building’s weakness. I did a Pink Panther bit and forced entry. Once inside, near the back of the clinic next door, I went to the reception room, twisted the lock on the front door and pushed it open. Sherry was delighted.

She put her arms around me and whispered “Thank you. Anything I can do for you?”

“It’s okay. Happy to do it. I guess you could buy me lunch sometime, but don’t worry about it.”

“How about Friday?”

“Friday noon. You drive.”

“Okay,” she said and flashed a big smile.

She came by my office on Friday and seemed to cause a bit of a sensation with my staff as she was the kind of girl who even made women look twice.

Then we walked to her car. It was a green nearly new Alpha Romeo. I hopped into the passenger seat and she fired it up. The place we went to for lunch was only a few blocks away, but it was far enough for me to tell that the girl could drive. She even heel-and-toed her double clutch down-shifts decelerating smoothly and swiftly when she made the left turn into the lot.

At a little Mexican restaurant on Blossom Hill Drive, we sat in a faux leather booth. She ordered a taco salad and iced tea. I handed my menu to the waitress. “Yes, I’ll do the same,” I said.

“You’re what, twenty-five, thirty?” I asked.

She gave me a sly, almost half smile as though wanting to keep that to herself. “Almost thirty.” She said.

“And you’re not wearing a ring. Married, single, somewhere in between?”

“Oh, I’ve never been married,” she said, as if that should have been obvious. “And you?”

I caught myself hesitating but just said it. “I’m divorced. Have been for a couple of years.”

She pursed her lips as if processing that. “Kids?”

“Yeah. Three.”

“Are they here, in San Jose?”

“Yeah. So far. But my ex is talking about moving to San Deigo.”

“Oh. That wouldn’t be so easy. For you, I mean.”

“Sure. A lot of Southwest Airline miles.”

She smiled and nodded. “By the way, some friends and I are meeting here after work today. You might want to join us. My boyfriend will be here too.”

Oh, there’s a boyfriend. I felt a subtle drop in my inner temperature. “Sure. Okay. I might drop by.”

But I didn’t drop by that afternoon; I just went home, heated up some spaghetti and meat sauce and watched “Jeopardy” alone.

I saw her around from time to time the following week and she mentioned again that she’d be out having drinks with her friends on Friday.

I had a good week at the office and on Friday decided I’d stop in. The same little Mexican place. I spotted her almost immediately even though the lights were low. She was sitting at a table with four other young women and a couple of guys. She wore an off-shoulder top that was low scooped; it had white lace trimming that matched her high heeled boots. Not her work outfit certainly.

She seemed the center of attention, a golden sun with planets in spinning orbits, or a flame with a half dozen moths. I walked up to the table.

“Oh, hi!” she said and jumped up to give me a quick hug and then introduced me to the group. Boyfriend was Michael and I was struck by how unlikely he seemed, how unsuitable. He was shorter than she was for one thing, and while she was remarkably striking, he looked like an ordinary Silicon Valley nerd. He must have been making some good bank. To have Sherry as a girlfriend, I mean.

I extended my hand to shake when Sherry introduced him, and I found a dead fish on the other end. Either he didn’t give a damn or he didn’t know how to shake a man’s hand. I sat down at the table and scanned his face. He was not someone you’d call fat, but his face looked soft and doughy, like a big dumpling.

I was not a guy you would describe as confident in social situations. Maybe a typical dentist introvert. And yet, as I sat looking at his knock-out girlfriend and his little beady eyes peering from behind thick, round glasses, I thought to myself Gee whiz, guy. You don’t stand a chance.

  And I thought I did. Yes, I know. Without evidence.

Sherry tapped her glass to get her friends’ attention. “Guys,” she said. “This is him. My hero. When I locked myself out of the office at lunch a couple of weeks ago, this is the man who saved me. Doctor Callahan.” Then, looking at me, she said, “Um, is Bill okay?”

“Sure. Call me Bill.”

“Anyway, this is the guy. Broke in somehow and not through the door. And there’s no window big enough to enter. Really, Doctor, won’t you tell?”

I only smiled and shook my head.

“Well.” Micheal said. “A silent type. And a cat burglar, or maybe he can walk through walls.” I looked at his face. A rather unpleasant face, I decided. Also, he was drinking white wine. Effete little twerp, I thought and I ordered a Corona and a tequila shot.

He asked what I did and I told him.

“I’m a chemist,” he said. “Colloidal chemistry, if you know what that is.”

“We use colloidal chemistry every day, so sure I know what it is.” I didn’t mention that I had a degree in chemistry, but since he was probably a PhD, my bachelor's degree wouldn’t carry much weight. “Where do you work?” He told me he worked for a large processed-food company. Of course. His branch of chemistry plays a role in nearly all packaged-food manufacturing.

“What kind of car do you drive?” Michael asked.

“What?” Yes, I heard him but couldn’t quite believe that he would ask that.

“You know. What kind of car? I have a 911 Porsche.”

He mispronounced Porsche so that it rhymed with porch. Like your front porch with a porch swing.

I wasn’t about to get into a pissing contest here in front of his girlfriend. “I still drive a 1962 Volkswagen Beetle. The same one I had in college. Eggshell white.” I lied. Even so, my 924 Turbo wasn’t quite as nice as his 911. Advantage Michael.

 Looking at him, I decided I wanted to get to know his smiling blonde girlfriend better.

Was there a song for this? Paul Simon’s “April Come She Will” played softly on the restaurant’s speakers. Perfect. It was April.

I made small talk with Sherry’s friends, but all the attention seemed to center on her like gravity. I ordered another beer and straight shot.

I skipped my usual bike ride the following Wednesday, even though I was caught up on my work. I dropped into Dr. Evans’ office next door. Sherry was alone at the front desk, casually dressed in jeans and a cotton shirt.

“Thought I’d just come by to say hello,” I said.

“Oh, sure. Want to sit down for a bit?” She pointed to the second chair beside her and I took it. “I’ve finished with my billing and stuff,” she said, “but I do have to stay and cover the phones. How about you?”

“I had some work to do, but I’m done. I’ll probably go on home in a few minutes.”  I noticed the look of her long legs in tight jeans, and the fit of her top. But only for a moment. I looked into her brown eyes and tried to keep it casual.

“I brought my lunch,” she said. “Want to stay and have a bite with me?”

I did. She went to the back office and returned with a brown paper bag containing potato chips and a tuna sandwich. She gave me half and we sat at the desk and ate together. She scooted her chair close to mine; she slipped a napkin unto my lap. Her fingers brushed against my thighs.

Bright, shiny distractions can easily lead a man off course. Odysseus knew the danger of the sirens, yet still wanted to hear them, so he had his men tie him to the mast. I was building a dental practice. Care, skill, and clinical judgment on a life-long learning curve. And I was intent on fitness, riding my bike 200-300 miles every week, and my Wednesday rides were a part of that. But now something new beckoned.

There was wisdom so old that Greek was not yet a written language.

And what did I do the following Wednesday when I had a 75-mile training ride scheduled? Yes, I dropped by the office next door. I shared a sandwich with Sherry who sat close by my side and when it was time for me to go, she kissed me. Not much of a kiss. Not even what I’d call a real kiss. But she kissed me goodbye.

And a week later, of course I skipped my training ride, and when we kissed while sitting at her front desk, her lips parted and we kissed very sweetly, then, no denying, hotly. Then she said, “I can just take all this off,” pointing to her jeans and top with both hands. She kicked off her shoes then proceeded with the rest. I wondered if she had planned this all along.

And why in her boss’s office and not my place or hers? I didn’t think to ask.

Afterward she asked, “Was, I good enough for you?”

What a question. She must have known what she was. She had probably been told she was magnificent, wonderful, stunning for years. “Absolutely,” I said.

I did not ask about her boyfriend.

Three nights later, I took her out to dinner. I drove her to TGI Fridays just up the 280 from San Jose.

The hostess showed us to our table which was in a dining area four stairsteps down from the hostess stand. Just as we were about to take our seats, I saw a young man at the top of the stairs staring just a little too long at Sherry, then as he started down the stairs, he stumbled over his own feet and tumbled down the stairs landing at the bottom with a impressive thump. Apparently unhurt, he scrambled to his feet and looked around to see whether anyone had witnessed the fall. He was embarrassed to see that quite a few people had and some were laughing.

“Well, that was something,” I said.

“Oh, that,” she said. “Happens all the time.”

Sure. Everybody noticed Sherry. Some guys even got stupid at the sight of her. I understood.

We ordered dinner and red wine and while we were waiting, Sherry said, “Oh, I have to tell you about a party I went to last night. It was on a yacht up in Jack London Square. Big deal of a party. Everybody all dressed up. Anyway, a guy came up to me and said he was a photographer for Playboy, and he wanted to do a photo shoot of me. ‘Ha,’ I said, ‘Sure, Buddy, I’ve heard that line before,’ and I blew him off.

“Then this morning one of my girlfriends called me and told me that he really does work for Playboy. I was so upset, but she’s gonna get me his contact information so I can call and apologize. Maybe ask for another chance.”

“Wait. You mean you really would pose for him?”

“Oh, hell yes! I want to be famous, you know. I think I can be. I’ll tell you something, when I was a little girl, my parents asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I said, ‘I want to be famous. Where can I go to Famous School?’”

An instrumental version of “Moon River” played softly on the restaurant’s speakers. I knew the words, though Andy Williams may have altered them. Two drifters chasing a rainbow’s end, or something like that. Her dreams. My dreams. Maybe I was out of my mind. I smiled my dream, and I saw the waiter approaching the table.