Imagined Love at Every Turn

Men have to emagine that women who talk to them are interested in a relationship. If not, they end up as lonely old men, old bachelors.

I, however, at 57, am seeing the adage creep up on me that says there is no fool like an old fool. I am not particularly loathsome. I still turn heads albeit older ones or imaginary. But acknowledging that there is no fool like an old one and that it may have applicability in my life will not stop the fantazies of imagined love.

I was on the bus compaigning for Obama. I was sitting by myself because people, in general, then to avoid me. I imagine it's because I don't convey friendliness very well but lately, after seeing pictures of myself taken from behind, I'be begun to think that maybe it's because I take up too much room (I'm more broad shouldered than most). Or, maybe it's pheromones--who knows what it is. The point was that there was an empty seat next to me and this really sexy young woman reporter sits next to me and begins to talk to the foreign TV crew behind me. I try my best to ignore her but after a few minutes she turns to me and asks me my name and what I'm doing there. We talk for a while. Each moment felt like an eternity while I struggled to appear interesting to her even mentioning my novel that had been collecting dust and lying about my employment status (semi-retired, I said).

She kept her knee against mine but I am more mature than to think that meant anything. We finished our conversation and she went on her way to interview others. On the trip back home, I was waiting in line to get on the bus. She was stalled at the front of line looking for the ticket that the driver was demanding from her. Now, here is a woman from a major New York magazine fummbling for her ticket. Do I offer her mine? That would have been the gallant thing to do. But neantherthal that I am, If I can't expect anything from a woman (remember, "no fool like an old fool" plays in my mind all the time now) why should I risk being stranded in PA because of a femme fatale? I felt like a cad when I handed the driver my ticket and passed her by without saying a thing. Hey, men can be gallant to women in need but when it comes to a woman whom they perceive as someone who would tell them to "bug off" if they so much as suspected a hit coming on, well, that's a decidedly different situation.

She finally got on board the bus. No doubt some truly gallant man came to her rescue--or, she found her ticket. It was getting dark and I saw her interviewing others. As I never expected her to talk to me again, I extinquished the overhead light that accentuated me in the darkened bus. Sure enough, as she made her way to the back of the bus, she passed me by. No suprise there, I thought to myself. A long time went by as I held my Obama sign against the bus window. Initially, some may have seen it but when we hit the highway and it got dark, it was doing no good to anyone.

About 15 minutes before we got to Port Authority, who sits down next to me but my lovely vixen. Actually, she sat on the arm rest. No doubt in a passively agressive stance. She asked how I had fared. I struggled again. She got up after a few more questions and thanked me. My eyes followed her and her bewitching smile and then I noticed how the smile turned to disgust. Was it my breath? Did she know I harbored lustful thoughts? What a trooper she was to smile throughout the interview. But human nature being what it is did not allow the followthrough in deception. Her disgust of me came through loud and clear.

Those were the thoughts I held as I decended the steps of the bus with my Obama sign. The driver, whose telephone number was being asked for by the reporter (for verificaiton purposes she told everyone), held out his hand to me and I thought, shit, now that's great. Now this guy thinks I can't get off the bus by myself and she's right there witnessing the whole fiasco. I descended, indignantly no doubt, without his help and went past the lovely without so much as a goodnight to her.

A few days later, I found the article she had posted online. I was graciously mentioned in the first paragraph. I emailed her to thank her and she curtly thanked me. No more, no less; just a lot of fool going on.