Fine Again

Chapter

1

I remember the first day we met.

And I don’t mean the first time we went out. I mean the actual first time we laid our eyes on each other, and the first time we talked. The first time we smiled at each other and gave each other shy responses. I know that maybe I didn’t come off as shy at first, but believe me I was.

That day started out like any other ordinary day in my life. I woke up, got ready for work, made sure my kids had what they needed for school, said goodbye to the wife, and went to work. At the time work was my job as a mechanical engineer at a materials handling company named Vector.

It was a Tuesday, just an ordinary Tuesday, and nothing special was happening at work, except for the daily rush to finish old projects and start new ones. That made it a perfect day to call my friend Bill Totes to see if he wanted to go to lunch.

Bill, a fellow engineer, worked for Raster Consulting, a company located just down the street from mine. He and I had previously worked together and had been friends for years.

I called him up around 10:30 a.m. to ask if he could escape the grind for a quick lunch. As in any business, escaping said grind was a crap shoot. Like me, he often got caught up in the minutia of conference calls or working sessions that would mess with the time table for the day.

Normally to get ahold of Bill, I had to call up Raster’s main switchboard and ask for him. His company, wanting a more personalized feel, had a receptionist to answer and direct calls. Raster’s receptionist, Mary Jane, and I were very familiar with each other’s voices, so when I heard your voice for the first time, it threw me off.

“Raster Consulting. This is Amy. How may I help you?”

Hearing your voice, one much different from Mary Jane’s sixty-something vibrato, it suddenly hit me that Bill had said Mary Jane was leaving for another job. But I didn’t recall him saying when.

“Umm . . . Hi. Uh . . . Bill Totes please,” I uttered, faltering on my words.

“May I ask who’s calling?” you asked.

“Mike Samstag,” I said, my voice mildly less shaky.

“One moment, please,” you replied, which was followed by the familiar click one hears when being put on hold.

I remember thinking, Whew! I made it through that, as sweat starting to roll down my neck. Having never been much of a social type, I’ve always had problems speaking to others, especially women.

“This is Bill,” I heard a moment later, thankfully ending the awful musak that was playing in the background.

“Hey man! The usual?”

“Sure!” Bill replied, recognizing my voice instantly. “12:05?”

“Done, and done,” I responded hung up.

When I arrived at Raster, promptly at 12:05 p.m., I parked my car, entered the building, and walked toward the front desk. Again, expecting to see Mary Jane’s motherly face, I stopped the moment my eyes fell upon the gorgeous woman now sitting just beyond the window.

“Can I help you?” you asked, very polite and professional.

“Ha . . . hi!” I stuttered. “Bill Totes please.”

“Oh! You must be Mike. I’m Amy. It’s nice to meet you.”

Instantly your familiarity threw me off. I could tell, from recognizing my name and the way you looked at me, that Bill must have spoken about me. This made me way nervous, of course, because I couldn’t fathom what he could have, or even would have, said about me. Like an idiot, I stood there for a minute trying to think of something to say or ask.

Before I could utter a word though, Bill appeared from around a back corner and stopped me in my tracks. “Hey Mike! Did you meet Amy?”

“Yes,” I replied as I looked momentarily toward Bill.

“Oh, good!” he remarked as he opened the inner door to join me in the waiting area. “Are you ready to go?”

I turned to face you then, and managed a, “It was nice meeting you, Amy.”

“It was nice meeting you too, Mike!” you replied as Bill and I turned and walked out the front door.

Once we were in my car, I looked at Bill and asked, “What was that about with Amy? It was like she knew me.”

With a wry smile, Bill said, “I mentioned you were coming to pick me up for lunch.”

“No,” I retorted. “I mean, what did you say about me? It was like she knew me.”

“I may have talked a little bit about you,” Bill taunted so he could see how I would respond.

Knowing this, I narrowed my eyes at him. “Do I have to ask? What did you say about me?”

“Not much. We were talking about music, and she mentioned she liked Industrial. I told her you did too, so she wanted to know more about you is all.”

“So what else did you say?”

“I just mentioned you were married and had a couple kids, and that you’re a great guy, okay?” Bill said defensively. I continued to stare at him for a moment before shrugging my shoulders and continuing to drive.

When we got to Mel’s, our usual restaurant, we worked our way past the lingering crowd and sat at the bar.

As we did on most days, Bill and I spent our lunchtime talking about work or venting to each other about crappy things others were doing to mess with our calm. But as we talked, my mind kept going back to you.

I mean, I was married and had no intention of leaving or cheating. But there was something about you that made me curious. Industrial music wasn’t one of your run-of-the-mill music choices, after all. The fact that you liked it, when most cringed at hearing it, made me wonder how you became interested in it.

When I felt a good amount of time had past — the time I believed mentioning you would sound as an afterthought — I brought you up again. “So, what’s Amy’s story?”

“She started last week. She has a boyfriend. They’ve been together for a while. I believe he’s a salesman.”

“Anything else I should know?”

“Not that I can think of. I’ve only known her a week,” Bill said, and then narrowed his eyes at me. “Why are you so curious?”

“I don’t know,” I said, in all honesty. “Maybe it’s just you two talking about Industrial music. Did she say any more about it?”

“She talked about a few groups I’ve never heard of, so I dropped the subject,” Bill said, and then changed the topic. “Are you ready to order?”

“Yeah, I’m getting the usual,” I am, after all, a creature of habit.

We didn’t discuss you anymore that day, although I wanted to know more. Speaking to Bill about you just felt awkward. So when we finished up, I dropped Bill off and continued on with my normal life.

The next time I saw you was about two weeks later. That day, when I contacted Bill about lunch, he asked if I would mind if a few others from his office could join us. If I remember, it was because your boss was out of town. After telling him it was fine, and secretly hoped you’d be one of the people joining.

As it happened, I was in luck. When Bill exited the building, he was followed by two fellow engineers, Keith and Dave, with you trailing behind. Bill - being the gentleman that he was - showed you to my front seat while he, Keith, and Dave piled into the back of my car.

We went to Mel’s as usual, this time asking for a table for five. As we each sat, I picked the seat opposite yours in hopes that we could talk. But I, being the shy and socially inadequate person that I was, didn’t know how to start the conversation. I worked out several possible opening lines in my head, but they all seemed lame. Working up the nerve, I finally just decided to start talking.

“So, Amy, I hear you like Industrial music?” I asked tentatively.

“Oh, Bill mentioned it?”

“Yes, he did. Can I ask who do you listen to?”

At this, you smiled and rattled off a bunch of names I had never heard of. I had always considered myself pretty knowledgeable when it came to different genres of music, but when it came to Industrial, you were the expert.

“Who would you say is your favorite artist?” I inquired.

“I’d say, hands down, Nine Inch Nails.”

“Mine too,” I said truthfully, having liked NIN since their early days in the Cleveland music scene. “In fact, I met Trent once.”

You perked up at this. “You did?”

“Yep. I met him years ago when he was with the Exotic Birds. Nice guy,” I added.

“That’s cool!” you said with a sparkle in your eye.

The remainder of the lunch was . . . how do I describe it? Nice? But nice seems to understate how much I enjoyed our conversation about music and life. Words seem to fall short on how much I enjoyed the time we shared. The first...