Pharos

CHAPTER ONE



         It was the second Wednesday in July, just past three o'clock in the afternoon and angry looking storm clouds were piling up in the not-so-distant distance.  I was in the middle of the Arizona desert during the yearly monsoons and my “check engine” light had just come on.  It was not the best time for this to happen.  Of course, after driving for a month and clocking more than 15,000 miles in that time, it was bound to happen; nonetheless, I would have appreciated more convenient timing.  Why couldn't this have happened while I was in Phoenix, an hour and seventy-five miles ago?  For that matter, why couldn't the Porsche have waited for an hour or so to crap out in Tucson?  Heaving a great sigh, I pulled over to the side of the highway and sat there, staring at the dashboard as if it would suddenly tell me what was wrong.  The engine suddenly died with a horrible wheeze and my air conditioning went with it.  “Fucking wonderful,” I muttered under my breath as I tried unsuccessfully to get the engine to turn over.  Instead of starting up, the car mocked me, making awful straining noises and coughing.  I popped the hood release lever and stepped out into the oven-like air.  Burning my fingers as I gingerly opened the hood, I stood there staring into the bowels of the Cayman and wondered just what the hell I was looking for.  I was not a car guy.  My mechanical knowledge lay exclusively with boats.  I could explain the difference between amidships and athwartships; I knew where the Devil seam was and that it wasn't fun to kiss the gunner's daughter. My lack of practical mechanical knowledge had been a never-ending source of disappointment for my late wife. 

         There didn't appear to be any leaks or steam rising from what I assumed to be the radiator, and I was relatively sure that the problem didn't stem from needing a new belt or filter or vital fluids, as I'd undergone a tune-up and oil change in Salt Lake City three days ago.  Muttering disgustedly under my breath, I dropped the hood and looked up and down the highway.  Nothing.  Miles and miles of oppressively hot and sunny desolate nothing in both directions.  I was in the land equivalent of the doldrums.

         I got back into the car and opened all the windows and took off my shirt.  I figured I was going to be here a while, why not get comfortable?  A quick glance into the cooler I kept on the passenger-side floor assured me that I wouldn't die of thirst or starvation any time soon; there was an entire unopened six pack of water in litre bottles, two packages of beef jerky and a couple of apples.  And ooh, a Snicker's bar, too.  Continued survival ensured, I dug in the glove compartment for my cigarettes and cell phone.  As I lit up a smoke, I glanced at the signal strength indicator on the cell phone and was surprised.  I had a pretty strong signal out here in the doldrums.  “Hallelujah!” I cried and dialled 411.

         “Information.  What city please?” asked a bored sounding female voice.

         “Uh.  Tucson, Arizona, I guess,” I said.  I hoped I was closer to Tucson than to Phoenix.  My last visit to Phoenix three years ago had not endeared the place to me.  The city was too much like Los Angeles – fake and snobby.  Tucson was a much nicer and more convivial city.  I had fond memories of spending an October weekend in the late 1970's there.  The women of the city were very welcoming and friendly.  And the booze had been cheap, too.

         “What listing in Tucson, please?” said the voice.

         “Um.  A Porsche or Volkswagen dealer.” I asked.

         “One moment and I'll connect you.”  There was a few clicks and then the sound of a phone line ringing.  A moment later, a less bored sounding female voice said, “Karité Porsche and Audi.  How may I direct your call?”

         I asked for the service department and spent the next half hour explaining my situation to the service manager, who couldn't believe he was talking to me, Jake Gordon, guitarist for Rough Waters.  He arranged for a tow truck to come and pick up my beleaguered car and even threw in a free loaner car for as long as I needed it.  I enjoyed my half-melted Snicker's bar while I made hotel arrangements and called my manager, Dan, to apprise him of my whereabouts.  The silly goat worried if I didn't check in with him daily.

         Two hours later, a flat bed tow truck lumbered up, and a large bearded man with arms the size of tree trunks swung down and ambled over.  He actually tipped his hat to me and said, “Howdy.  Name's Amos.  If you'll get your things, I'll load up your car and we can get back to town.”

         “Lovely, Amos.  I'm Jake, by the way.”  I said as I slipped my shirt back on and grabbed the cooler and two bags from the trunk of my Cayman.  I stood back and watched as Amos hooked my car up to a winch and slowly reeled it onto the flat bed.  Amos was surprisingly agile for such a big guy and he swung around my car like a large monkey, fastening chains and thick canvas straps and checking them for security.  Finally done, he gently patted my car's hood and stepped down just as the first rain drops fell.  He walked around the truck and opened the passenger side door for me and even held my stuff for me while I climbed in.  “Are you this nice to all your dates, Amos?” I quipped.

         He flashed me a smirk and climbed into the cab.  He said, “Only if I think they'll put out.”

         I laughed and shook his hand.  “I'll put out only if you promise to buy me flowers afterwards.”

         “Done deal.  You from Tucson?”  He strapped his seat belt and started up the truck.

         I shook my head as we pulled out onto the highway.  “No, I'm originally from Seattle.  I've been doing a lot of travelling lately though.  Haven't been home in more than six months.” 

         “Salesman?” he asked as he smoothly shifted through gears and the truck picked up speed.  I watched the scenery going by, distorted slightly by the rivulets of rain streaking down the window.  The desert could be beautiful; the last time I'd been through Arizona was during Rough Water's last world tour.  We'd played a show in Phoenix in late February and the land surrounding the desert was covered in orange, white and deep purple flowers.  Now though, the land was a parched and scorched brown, waiting desperately for the yearly rainstorms.

         I answered Amos's question with a shake of my head.  “I'm actually a musician.  Been touring a lot.”  It wasn't exactly the truth, but it was easier than the reality of my situation.

         Amos nodded.  “My wife's brother's a Sinatra impersonator.  Tours a lot.  Mostly Arizona and Nevada, sometimes California, but he got to play once in Branson, Missouri.”  Amos said this as if to play in Branson was better than playing at Carnegie Hall or Madison Square Garden.

         I nodded.  Although there was no comparison between Amos's brother-in-law and my band, who had played at both Carnegie Hall and Madison Square Garden and had several multi-platinum selling albums, I didn't mention this.  I didn't know how Amos felt about his wife's brother and I didn't want to risk offending someone who's biceps were easily as big around as my thigh.

         The ride into Tucson went by quickly.  Amos was everything one would want in a chauffeur – quiet, respectful, good taste in music.  We listened to a classic rock station for most of the ride and I was embarrassed to hear our first big single.  Thankfully, Amos seemed oblivious to my identity and I avoided the difficult situations of stardom.  I hated being recognized.  It wasn't just the invasion of privacy; it was the fact that I played guitar for a living and yet I was treated like someone special, like I'd cured the common cold or something.

         We pulled into the back lot of Karité Porsche and Audi at seven o'clock, just as the rain was tapering off.  The service manager had kindly waited so he could take care of me personally.  He promised that the service techs would look over my car first thing in the morning and he'd call me as soon as they could figure out what was wrong.  In exchange for a photo and an autograph, he handed over the keys to a brand new Audi A8.  Amos watched the whole affair with a smirk.  I shrugged my shoulders as if to say, “What can you do?”  Shaking hands once more with the service manager and with Amos, I strolled out to the loaner and got in.

         A short drive brought me to my hotel, a very swanky place nestled in the foothills of the Santa Catalina mountains that ringed the northern boundaries of Tucson.  My room overlooked a lushly planted pool area and a rich green lawn.  Thankfully, no one in their right mind would want to visit Tucson in the middle of the summer, so I had the place practically to myself.  I took a shower and enjoyed a frosty glass of beer, a medium-well Angus steak, and a smoke on the balcony of my room.  The moon slowly crept over the line of the mountains.  It was nearly full and very bright.  I toasted it and finished my beer and smoked a few more cigarettes.

         A young couple arrived at the pool.  She was very beautiful – long legs, long blond hair, tiny swimsuit.  He was less attractive, more of a Robin Williams type – small, furry and from the way she laughed, funny.  I was proud of him.  Guys like him deserved to get the beautiful girls.  She carefully picked her way into the water while he dove in, showing off for her.  She laughed when he surfaced and he splashed her before tackling her and dragging her into deeper water.  She wrapped her arms around him and gave him a deep kiss, which he willingly returned.  I began feeling like a voyeur and went inside, shutting the door behind me, shutting out the moon and the couple and a sudden stab of painful memories.          Susanna and I had been like the couple in the pool twenty years ago.  She was a beautiful girl when we met in 1974 at the marina in Seattle – long legs, long blond hair, tiny shorts.  She was a beautiful woman when she died two years ago – long legs, short blond hair, tight blue jeans.  Her peaceful face nestled on the white silk pillow of her casket was quite often the subject of my dreams and I'd wake with tears on my own pillow.

         After flipping through some channels on television and deciding that Springsteen was correct – fifty-seven channels and nothing on – I wandered down to the front desk and asked the night clerk to give me some advice on things to do while I was in town.  He suggested going out to the Arizona-Sonoran Desert Museum, or hiking at near-by Sabino Canyon.  Both sounded great to me and I made plans to go to the Desert Museum the next morning.  I had a sinking feeling that whatever was wrong with my Cayman was going to require a lot of time and probably a lot of money as well.  Filling my days with touristy stuff was a good way of taking my mind off the situation, both the situation with my beloved car and the situation that had me on what my best friend and vocalist Erik Samuelson called “Jake's Vision Quest”.

         I got undressed and slipped between the cool sheets.  The moon had topped the mountains and was shining through the sheer curtains on my room's windows.  I smiled softly and whispered, “Good night, Suzie.  I miss you, girl.”          



CHAPTER TWO



         Early the next morning, after a particularly delicious breakfast of Eggs Benedict, freshly squeezed orange juice and an excellent cup of coffee, I drove out the the Desert Museum.  The roads on the way there made me wish I had the Porsche – they were curvy and undulating and seemed perfect to test the sport suspension system.  The Audi performed decently, but I was really missing my Cayman.

         The Museum itself was an unassuming cluster of buildings painted the same colour as the surrounding desert and I almost missed it as I sailed by at 55.  The parking lot was more than half empty – a combination of the early hour and the lack of tourists brave enough to venture out during daylight hours.  After paying for my ticket and receiving a map of the place from a friendly elderly docent, I planned my tour.  There was a lot of life in the desert I had no idea existed – beavers and otters, big horned sheep, several species of cats and bears, birds and plants.  I was most interested in the cave exhibit and headed that way first.

         I rounded a corner and was confronted with the most beautiful view I'd seen in a long time.  The Museum was set high on a hill that overlooked a wide valley which was dotted with farms.  The land stretched out in front of me for miles, a flat valley surrounded by tall, rugged peaks with what looked like an astronomical observatory on the tallest mountain.  The valley was a patchwork quilt of varying shades of green and the mountains were contrasting brown, grey and purple.  The sky above was cloudless and a heart-stopping shade of the purest blue.  There was even water in the river that flowed in the middle of the valley.  I stood for a long time, looking out over the vista, wishing Suzie could be here to share this with me.  She'd have loved it.

         “Gorgeous view, isn't it?”

         I turned to find the speaker and was confronted with another beautiful view – this time of a woman, dressed in a plain white t-shirt, khaki shorts and hiking boots.  She was perched on a rock outcropping that overlooked the valley and had a sketch pad balanced on her lap.  She was young, probably about 30, and had long chestnut brown hair, creamy skin and a killer smile.  I nodded and tried to think of something witty to say but failed miserably.  “It sure is,” I said lamely, the view of the valley behind me completely forgotten.

         The woman slid down the rock face and landed in front of me, the sketch pad held in her left hand.  She tipped her head to the side and smiled at me.  “This is my favourite place to draw.”  She nodded, indicating the overlook behind us, and a tendril of hair slipped down into her face.  My hand was halfway up, reaching to brush the hair away before I realised it.  I continued the motion, covering my unwarranted advances by pushing my hand through my own hair.  She went on, oblivious to my sudden infatuation, her eyes fixed firmly on the view.  “It's amazing how fast the light changes out there.  I'm working on a whole series, doing morning and afternoon during the different seasons.”  She trailed off and looked at me with a half-smile.  “But you probably don't care.” 

         “Oh, but I do.  May I see?” I asked, indicating her sketch pad.

         She shyly held it out to me.  I looked at it and was amazed.  This woman was talented.  Her drawing was complex in its simplicity and had captured the way the light shifted and danced across the mountains in the distance.  “Wow,” I said.  “This is really good.”  I handed the drawing back to her and was rewarded with another heart-breaking smile.  My heart skipped and I was suddenly aware of being a walking cliché – love at first sight, being awkward in the presence of a beautiful woman and all that garbage.  Where was the confident rock god that had strutted across stages worldwide for more than 25 years?  I was beginning to think that he'd been kidnapped and replaced by a bumbling adolescent.

         She took the sketch pad and tucked it into a knapsack at her feet.  “Thanks.  I'm Charlotte, by the way.”

         I took her hand and shook it, successfully resisting the urge to kiss a trail up her arm, a la Gomez Addams.  “I'm Jake.  It's nice to meet you, Charlotte.”  You have no idea how nice, I thought but didn't say.

         She flashed another smile.  “This your first time out here, Jake?”  She looked me up and down slowly.  “You have tourist stamped all over you.”

         I looked down at myself and decided that I probably did.  I had a camera hung around my neck and was clutching a map in one hand and a field guide to desert life in another.  I had even worn shorts and sandals, although before she died, Susanna had instilled enough fashion sense into me that I had forgone socks.  I laughed, “Yes, actually it is my first time out here.  I'm from the Northwest and we just don't have that many cacti up there.”

         “I wouldn't think so.  Too wet.  You and your family down for vacation?”

         “Nope, just me.  I've been visiting different states and decided that I had to visit the Southwest.  I guess I should have picked a better time.”

         Charlotte shook her head.  “This is a fine time to visit.  Most of the tourists only come in the winter so hotels and restaurants are cheaper and much less crowded.  And the weather's not so bad, if you stay inside between noon and sundown.”

         A docent leading a tour passed us by just then, and stopped to point out the view and Charlotte.  It seemed that she was well known.  Her paintings were sold in the Museum's gift shops and exhibited in many of the galleries around town.  As people lauded her work, she gave me a shy smile.  So that's what I looked like when fans were gushing around.  No wonder I was so embarrassed.  The docent eventually lead her group away and Charlotte said, “Sorry about that.  I'm surprised that people know who I am.  I just paint pictures, you know?  It's not like I'm a scientist or a Nobel laureate.”  She shook her head and reached for her knapsack.  Swinging it over her shoulder, she smiled at me once more.  “Well, I'm off.  It was nice to meet you, Jake.  I hope you enjoy the rest of the Museum.  There's some amazing views over at Cat Canyon.”  She turned to go and my heart stopped.  Quick, you idiot, my inner rock god screamed, don't let her leave!

         “Maybe you could show me around a little?  I mean, if you're not busy, that is,” I said.  Please, oh please, don't leave and take that smile away from me, I thought.

         She stood for a moment, as if weighing something.  Then she nodded and moved to stand close to me.  God, she smelled like summers on Puget Sound, fresh and clean and slightly salty.  She took the Museum map out of my hand and tucked it into her knapsack.  “You won't need this where I'm taking you.”  My knees went rubbery.  Then she took my elbow and led me to the very edge of the overlook.  “We begin our tour here, 250,000,000 years ago, when there was a huge inland sea covering this area.”  She pointed off to the right at some dark red rocks.  “That's a swamp, kind of like the ones near New Orleans, only without the alligators and yummy Cajun food.”  She smiled and took my elbow again and led me through the natural history of the area.  We toured caves filled with fossils and semi-precious stones, and riparian areas teeming with turtles, fish, beavers, and otters.  We spent some time watching the cats and foxes sleeping and I discovered that she was indeed right about the view at the cat exhibit.  It was even better than the one where we'd met.  She took a few moments to sketch something she wouldn't show me and then we were off again, this time to see some gardens and birds.

         When we paused outside the Ocotillo Café, I was shocked to discover that it was eleven thirty.  I was suddenly tired, sweaty and starving.  Charlotte took pity on me and got us a table in the Café.  The host and wait staff knew Charlotte and we were treated like royalty.  We were seated at a table near a window that afforded another amazing view of the valley beyond the Museum.  The waiter brought us cold glasses of a local beer and took our food order.  I let Charlotte order and she ordered grilled chicken with a sauce made from sweet plum wine and cactus fruit.  I raised an eye brow at this, but she assured me that I'd love it.  On the far wall of the dining room was a large picture, probably measuring three feet by six feet, of a sunset over a saguaro cactus forest.  At first, I thought it was a photograph, but after closer inspection, it turned out to be an oil painting.  I caught the signature – CB Wren – in the corner and looked at Charlotte.  “That yours?” I asked.

         She nodded and sipped her beer.  “Yes.  That was the first painting I ever sold.  The Museum is very good about supporting local artists.  They let us come out and set up easels just about anywhere and they've opened an Art Institute where people from all over come to learn and to teach.  It's really an amazing place.”

         Our food came and Charlotte was right about the chicken.  The cactus fruit had a light, slightly sweet flavour and paired well with the tangy plum wine.  We spent the next hour talking about all kinds of things – politics, art, books, movies.  She was incredibly smart, observant and funny.  She told me that she would be turning twenty-nine in November and I confessed that my fiftieth birthday was the following day.  “You're going to be alone on your birthday?!” she said after asking about my plans for the big day.

         “Yes, by choice though,” I said.  I hadn't told her why I would be alone.  I hadn't gone into the details surrounding Susanna's death and I wasn't sure I wanted to.  I didn't want to say or do anything that would jeopardise this wonderful day.  I was happier and more at ease than I had been in two years.

         “That's not right, Jake.  You can't spend the day you turn fifty by yourself!  Are you going to be in Tucson?”

         “Probably.  I thought I'd go for a hike or maybe a drive in the desert.”

         She shook her head.  “No, I refuse to let you be alone on your fiftieth birthday.  Let's do something together tonight.  Ever been salsa dancing?” she asked.

         “Dance?  No, I don't dance.  I'm a white guy from the Northwest.  Dancing's not my thing.  I will, however, go and watch you dance and maybe enjoy some salsa while doing it.”  I had the sneaking suspicion that Charlotte would be an amazing dancer.  She had youth and a lithe body on her side, whereas I was entering middle age tomorrow and had spent the last thirty years abusing myself with alcohol, various narcotics, cigarettes and loud music.

         She laughed.  “Fair enough then.  But before the night is over, I will dance with you.”

         I chuckled and finished my  lunch.  She was probably right.  I had always found it hard to refuse a pretty girl.

         “Um, Mr. Gordon?  Um.  Can I have your autograph?”  I looked up into the face of the bus boy, a teenager with a bad complexion and an even worse haircut.  I shot a glance at Charlotte, who had surprise stamped all over her features.  I nodded and took the pen from the boy and scribbled my signature on a napkin and handed it to him, heat creeping into my face.  Dammit, of all the awkward times for this to happen.

         “Thanks, Mr. Gordon.  You guys are the best.  I have all your albums.  And um.  I'm real sorry about your wife, too.”  The boy clutched the napkin and headed back towards the kitchen, blissfully unaware of the havoc he'd just caused.

         Charlotte was smiling at me and had an eyebrow raised.  I shrugged and took a long drink of my beer, draining the glass to give me time to think of how best to explain the last two years of my life in as painless a way as possible.  I swallowed and sighed, meeting Charlotte's amazingly warm caramel brown eyes dead on.  “Ever heard of a band called Rough Waters?”

         “Sure,” she said.  “They were pretty big in the late 70's and early 80's.  My brother has all of their albums.  He's slightly obsessed.”  She frowned for a moment and then a light went on above her head.  “Holy cow.  Their guitarist's name is Jake Gordon.  That's you!”

         I nodded, “Yeah, that's me.”  I left it at that, unwilling and unable to explain the boy's reference to my wife.

         She chuckled.  “And here I was embarrassed about being a very small time local celebrity.  I can only imagine what you must feel like.”  She looked like she wanted to ask about the boy's comment but was too polite to bring it up.  Instead, she finished her beer and signalled for another round.  I was thankful to her for not asking the questions that hung between us like a white elephant on a trapeze.  I confronted the elephant head on, unwilling to let the questions fester.

         “She died.  My wife, I mean.  She was killed two years ago.  By a bat-shit crazy fan.  I drowned my grief in a sea of drugs, mostly heroin.  I went into rehab.  I got clean and have been driving around the US and Canada for the past month.”  I'd spoken in a quiet monotone, no emotion flavouring my words.  It was out now though.  I had acknowledged the elephant and it was up to Charlotte if we discussed it further.

         She reached across the table and gently laid her hand on my arm.  I could see pieces of the puzzle clicking into place for her now – why I'd been away from home for so long, why I'd be spending my birthday alone, why I'd been reluctant to talk about my life.  “Jake, I'm so very sorry,” she whispered.  I could tell there were more questions she wanted to ask, but again was too polite to intrude further into my personal Hell.  I gave her a soft smile and said, “Thanks, Charlotte.”

         We finished the rest of our meal in an awkward silence.  I wanted to leave so badly but was afraid of hurting Charlotte's feelings.  I was into this girl like I hadn't been into a woman since I'd first met Susanna.  When the bill came, I immediately grabbed it and handed it back to the waiter with my credit card.  “Please, Charlotte.  You've been so wonderful.  Let me do this for you, all right?”

         She nodded.  “But only if you let me buy dinner and drinks tonight.”

         I laughed ruefully.  “Still planning on dragging my pathetic ass out?”

         “Even more so now.  You need some fun,” she said as we left the restaurant.  She took my hand and held it tightly.  I impulsively wrapped my arm around her shoulders and pulled her close to me.  She smiled up at me as we walked and said, “Want to see where I work?”

         “Yeah, absolutely,” I replied.

         She took me into the Institute and we walked through the gallery.  Everyone there knew her and she stopped and chatted with the receptionist while I looked at the art covering the walls.  There were many amazing paintings, lithographs, sketches, and photographs.  Quite of few of the oils and watercolours were by Charlotte.  While Charlotte excused herself so she could visit the ladies' room, I asked the receptionist if any of Charlotte's paintings were for sale.  The receptionist, an elegant older woman, nodded knowingly and indicated a small watercolour of a solitary saguaro topped by a crown of white flowers.  “I know for a fact that one is her favourite.  It's for sale.  I could arrange for you to pick it up later or I could ship it to you.”

         I purchased the painting and made arrangements to have it shipped to my home in Seattle.  I heard Charlotte returning and said quickly to the receptionist, “Don't tell her, all right?”  She nodded  and returned to her desk.  Charlotte took my hand again and she said her good-byes to my co-conspirator as we left.

         I glanced down at my watch.  It was two o'clock already.  I hadn't heard from the Porsche guy and I was beginning to worry.  As I walked Charlotte to her car, we made plans for the evening.  She said she'd come to my hotel and pick me up at eight for my birthday celebration.  I impulsively hugged her, holding her tightly and close.  She returned the hug and kissed me softly but on quickly the lips.  “See you tonight, Jake.  Eight o'clock sharp in the lobby of your hotel.”

         I watched as she got into her car, a red 70's model convertible VW Beetle.  She smiled that heart-breaking smile and drove away.  I stood there for five minutes, watching as her car got smaller and smaller, then I turned and went to my own car.  My thoughts were occupied by Charlotte during the drive back to the hotel and the beautiful landscape outside the car's windows went by largely unnoticed.

         My cell phone rang just as I was parking the Audi in the hotel's parking lot.  It was the service manager at the Porsche dealer.  It seemed that the transmission had gone bad and a vital part needed to be shipped in from Los Angeles and would arrive the next morning.  Since it was already late on a Thursday and the service department would be closed over the week-end, it looked like the earliest I could leave Tucson was going to be Tuesday morning, which would give the dealership two days to work on the car.  I sighed.  Since getting out of rehab a month ago, I'd been on the road non-stop.  I'd driven from Seattle to St. John's, Newfoundland, and turned right around and driven back across country to Vancouver, British Columbia.  From Vancouver, I'd gone up to Whitehorse in the Yukon Territory and then into Anchorage, Alaska.  And then feeling the need to see some of Mexico, I'd driven from Anchorage, intending to go to Cabo San Lucas, at the tip of Baja California. Knowing that I'd be stuck in once place for longer than a day made me panic a little.  But what could I do?

         I went immediately to the hotel's front desk to make sure that I could have the room through Tuesday.  The clerk laughed and said I could have the entire floor for that long if I needed it – there were only a few reservations during that time and the hotel was more than able to deal with them.  I was relieved; at least I wouldn't have to worry about finding somewhere to stay.  I also asked about appropriate clothes for my date – I guessed it was a date – with Charlotte that night and the clerk said that Tucson's dress code was decidedly casual and I could get by wearing a nice shirt and some slacks.  I went up to my room and tried to figure out how to kill the next three and a half hours without tearing my hair out or biting my nails down to nubs.  I was nervous, mostly about being out on a first date, but Charlotte's threat to get me to dance played on my mind as well.  My last first date had been twenty-five years ago and had ended disastrously.  I had spilled an entire plate of marinara sauce on Susanna's white dress.  Frankly I was surprised she agreed to go out with me again after that, let alone marry me.