I Remember You — Shannon, pt.1
Love Looks Back — Episode 1: Shannon, part 1
Dating
Love Looks Back — Episode 1: Shannon, part 1
I’ve written so many of these things; I fear I may come across as some Lothario. But let’s be honest, if you’re a certain age… and you’ve never married… and you’ve only had a few long relationships… and you’ve dated rather consistently well, you’re gonna meet a lot of people.
In my case, it’s women.
And for clarity and to avoid any unnecessary confusion, I can’t say I loved every woman I may write about. I certainly cared about them at the time. And some I still do. But did I love them? No.
I’ve come to understand the kind of love that matters to me I’ve only felt less than a handful of times. I think Love Looks Back is a snappy subtitle.
Let me introduce Shannon, a young woman I met when I did a +/- 14-month stretch in Florida — not prison time, I lived there; however, arguably, they’re similar (I imagine, never been in prison.) After landing in the sunshine state, I got a job managing a restaurant outside of Jacksonville, about two weeks from opening.
I spent about ten years working in restaurants. All those years worked in the “front of the house” — waiting tables, bartending, and managing. I’d been part of opening them as an employee, and I have opened restaurants as a manager. The hours are brutal, and while the work isn’t hard, it’s tough because restaurant patrons can be, uh, let’s call it unique (if you’ve worked in one, then you know.) But, taken as a whole, the business can be a lot of fun.
While I enjoyed my time in the business(mostly), as I reflect on it, I feel the same kind of anxiety I get if I have to get a root canal. Also, like a root canal, you need a numbing agent to get through it. And in restaurants, that numbing agent is predominantly alcohol… although if you have other predilections, finding those is as easy as asking any kitchen staff member.
At this place, by the time I came on board, a large chunk of the hiring had already been done by the General Manager. So I hadn’t met or seen Shannon until I saw her bounce in for the first day of training.
I was immediately smitten.
It’s easiest to describe Shannon this way — picture Katie Holmes, but imagine Katie Holmes had grown up in the heartland, which is to say, Shannon was just a bit curvier. Outside of her good looks, I noticed right away that she had a big personality, a huge smile, an infectious laugh, and a sharp wit.
Shannon was the kind of woman who walked into a room and lit it up. She was attractive, for sure, but she had that “thing.” An aura about her drew you in, and when she was around, all eyes gravitated towards her. It’s not a trait you can acquire at a gym or through strict dieting, you’re either born with it, or you’re not.
And Shannon was born with it. Outside of her more obvious attributes, one of her more attractive characteristics, to me, was that she was the kind of woman who was clueless about this aura she had (or if she was aware of it, she played it like she didn’t know.)
In no way was I presumptuous enough to think if I had asked her out, she would’ve said yes. I did think about it, but I had some things to consider. I was coming off a self-imposed hiatus from dating and had only recently determined it was time to get back into the ring. And Shannon was the first woman since my ex-girlfriend who had struck me so hard. But there were two primary problems as I saw it:
I was her boss.
She was +/- 12 years younger.
The age thing didn’t bug me. It bothers other people much more. Anyway, regardless of the age difference, older or younger, I would argue that most women I have dated are infinitely more mature than me before and since.
It was the boss thing — that’s a slippery slope.
I’d navigated it just fine before. My ex and I met under similar circumstances, and we were together for five years; however, I wasn’t sure I wanted to traverse that terrain again.
So, I decided to wrangle my impure thoughts and sequester them.
It’s not uncommon for restaurant workers of one place to designate another as their after-work watering hole. There was also a bifurcation between chosen bars between front-of-the-house and back-of-the-house (kitchen staff). It wasn’t a hard and fast rule, but that was mostly my experience.
The restaurant world is a peculiar little ecosystem.
Our front-of-the-house crew had chosen a restaurant/bar down the street. Even though I often wanted a drink after work, management 101 tells you it’s never a great idea to commiserate with employees. Even less of a great idea when booze is involved; it was another slippery slope.
Come to think of it; the restaurant business is loaded with slippery slopes.
During those first two weeks after we opened, Shannon proved herself to be one of the better employees. And by better employees, this was Florida, so the bar was pretty low, but by any measure, she was excellent.
Shannon was also one of the stronger and more reliable servers. She was the kind of restaurant person who kept the oddly organized and mildly dysfunctional front-of-the-house train on its tracks. When a restaurant is very busy, and it’s running (and run) well, there is a kind of hum to it that unless you’ve experienced it, it’s hard to explain. That hum of the train can derail pretty quickly, so she was a great person to have onboard.
But Shannon also understood how to have fun, even in the thick of being in the weeds (very busy), and when to hustle. That may sound easy, but I assure you, it’s a delicate balance in a high-volume restaurant.
One of Shannon’s tools, both with customers and everyone else, was flirting. I can’t say we flirted during our shifts together. I also can’t say we didn’t. Not because I’m being coy, I’ve always been kind of clueless about that. I could see it with other people but never recognized it when it was happening to me.
There seemed to be chemistry there, but my radar sucked as a whole, and I was all kinds of caddywhompus up after my break-up and exile. Besides, there were the previously mentioned two points.
Shannon and I had fun, laughed with each other, and would sneak out for a cigarette now and again. By and large, it was innocent. Shannon was a vibrant and reliable work buddy, and if you’ve ever worked in a restaurant, then you know how important someone like that can be.
One night after we’d finished service and everyone was getting ready to leave, Shannon came up to me: “Why don’t you come out for a drink?”
The immediate problem, as I saw it, was that Shannon had changed. Now for a 21-year-old in Florida, in August, who was acutely aware of her physical attributes, that means changing into as little clothing as possible. She was wearing a favorably form-fitting white tank-top, cut-offs, and flip-flops. She also had her black hair tied back into one of those messy buns I find particularly alluring.
She would’ve tempted the most pious of men — and I wasn’t one of those.
However, I was not to be swayed: “Nah, I gotta get home.”
She flashed a big smile: “Just one. Please?”
“Just one” in restaurant parlance means “Tipsy, but you can still drive okay.”
I replied: “I’d like to, but I really shouldn’t.”
“Okay,” she shrugged and turned to walk out.
She walked with a bit of extra swagger, knowing full well I was behind her.
When we got outside, she turned, flashing that big smile again: “Last chance. Just one. I promise.”
My mind said, “No,” but it came out as: “Fine. Just one.”
She rapidly clapped her hands in a silly manner: “YAY!”
I rolled my eyes as she giggled.
The majority of the waitstaff was there, cutting loose, probably spending 50% of what they made. The kind of cathartic release that takes place over a few drinks after a busy night can be a lot of fun. It must be what it’s like when evangelical Christians get so overwhelmed that they start speaking in tongues. Come to think of it, after a few drinks with a server, probably about as coherent.
True to form, I had just one. This is to say that I made it to the last call, was still standing, and was good to drive home. However, I was not so sober that I ignored the devil on my shoulder, but I was sober enough that I listened to the angel on the other one. I walked Shannon to her car, not out of chivalry; I had parked right next to her — on purpose.
I pulled out a cigarette and offered her one. She took it, and I held up my lighter.
She nodded: “Thanks.”
I lit mine: “Of course.”
We stood silently for a moment as we leaned against our cars until she asked: “So, what’s your story?”
“Excuse me?”
“What’s your story?”
“I’m not sure what you wanna know.”
She looked over her shoulder and blew out a plume of smoke: “What’s your deal?”
I laughed: “Thanks for the clarity. What the fuck are you trying to ask me, Shannon?”
“Are you married?”
“No. (Remember, this was Florida.) Are you?”
Shannon laughed: “Fuuuck, no. Are you involved?”
“No. Are you?”
“Nope.”
I leaned back against my car: “What’s up with the questions?”
“What? A lady can’t ask a few questions of the gentleman she’s drinking with?”
“A lady most certainly can, but I was asking you.”
She beamed and began laughing: “Fuck off.”
We finished our cigarettes and chatted for a few more minutes. It seemed like a few minutes anyway, but the parking lot was virtually empty by the time we looked around.
You have to understand that this was the before times. Cell phones were prevalent, but we still wore watches, and I looked at mine: “Oh shit, it’s almost 2 am.”
“Oh wow. We should go.” She turned to get into her car: “This was fun.”
I walked around to my car: “It was. Thanks.”
And so we drove off.
The end.
Just kidding.
We were both working the next night. There was now a little extra charge and tension throughout the shift. Still playful and fun, but now we had incorporated some innuendo into our exchanges and a couple of minor physically charged touches. Certainly nothing gratuitous.
These little charged exchanges were not as strong as some I would encounter later in life, but there was a spark to them.
As a wise man once said, you can’t start a fire without a spark.
After the shift, Shannon asked: “Are you coming to the bar tonight?”
“Yea. Probably.”
“Probably yes or probably no?”
“Probably yes.”
It was almost an exact replay of the night before, except this time Shannon and I spent a large chunk of the time talking to each other and not taking part in the jibber-jabber of the other folks. And again, we found ourselves outside after the last call, standing by our cars, talking and smoking.
When there was a minor lull in the conversation, I threw caution to the wind: “You wanna get dinner with me sometime?”
Shannon looked a little puzzled: “What?”
I started to think I was misreading her, but it was too late now: “You eat dinner, I’m guessing. I’d like to know if you would like to do that… with me?”
“Are you asking me on a date?”
Now I was sure I had misread her, but I was all in at this point: “Yes. I do believe that I am.”
“Why?”
“Whadda ya mean why?”
She looked like I had just asked for a kidney: “I mean, why are you asking me out? On a date?”
This was the first time I would encounter someone asking me why I was asking them out. Oddly, it would not be the last time: “Well, I guess because you’re fun, I enjoy your company, and I’d like to get to know you a little better.”
“I still don’t get it.”
Flummoxed, I had to explain this: “What’s to get? We go out. We talk, we drink a little, we eat. It’s pretty straightforward.” She was smiling as I continued: “It’s a yes or no question Shannon. I’d like to, but if you don’t want to, I’m not gonna be crushed.” Embarrassed as hell, but not crushed.
“I want to.” But I heard some hesitation.
“But…”
“No buts, I guess it’s been a while since anyone asked me out.”
I would eventually learn that it seemed like proper dating had become less of a thing in the five + years I was involved and in exile. I guess people just hooked up. Had I known that then, I could’ve saved thousands of dollars: “So, that’s a yes?”
Shannon smiled: “Yea, definitely. When?”
“When are you free?”
“I’m off Thursday.”
“As luck would have it, so am I. Thursday it is then.”
End of part 1