Same Bait, Same Fish

Same Bait, Same Fish.

By Susan Grant-Suttie

belgone2001@gmail.com

Word Count: 2,908

Bartel came over to my desk at work.  “What are you doing Friday night?”  Although he was the breath of fresh air in the stale office, it was not the rescue I wanted.  I looked at him, giving him the second look through a different set of eyes.  He had dark haired, long eyelashes, shorter than myself, Harry Potter style glasses, and he looked very much like an accountant in his university-style sweater and jeans with his stiff white shirt. Although mildly good looking, that was not enough for me. Or, maybe it was the florescent lights that made everyone look a little on the pale side. 

“Busy.  And, I do not date.”  I confirmed my nic-name of the Ice Queen with my flat reply not even looking up from my financial statement.  I found flowers on my desk and threw them in the garbage. Having come to the conclusion that men were boring egotistical chauvinists, I declined. Bartel circled around me for the rest of the day.  He carried heavy boxes back and forth making sure to pass my desk on his way to deep storage on behalf of financial services.  

He returned twenty minutes before the end of the day and started small talk leaning on the upper counter level of my desk above me.  He asked if I would be interested in volunteering with the Fireman’s Fund and collecting the teddy bears off the ice that were thrown after a hockey game.  Hockey again, it reminded me of the last bad date with Mr. Auditor who tried to wrestle me into his bed after.  But this was for charity.  I paused, I agreed. Overall, it was a worthwhile afternoon, for a not-date.

The next time he approached me he asked if I would help him volunteer for the Habitat for Humanity project. For that job, we had to dismantle extended logs and remove nails.  Looking back, I think that was rather clever.  No money was involved, we both felt great for helping, and it was not an ‘official date’ as I gave up dating.  Again I agreed as it was good to work beside someone for a great cause other than ourselves.  Maybe this younger man was a good guy after all. I began to think I was a little too hard on him when we first met.  He admitted to being the one who put the flowers on my desk.  We both laughed at the thought of him plucking flowers from university flower gardens on his way to work, but he kept his promise not to continue to put flowers on my desk.  We wouldn’t want him arrested by campus police.

I began to look at him differently, he wasn’t just another guy, but a younger man trying to get a degree in economics.  He was pleasant and potentially a good friend.  He was fairly good looking, and to his advantage a few inches shorter than me. I wouldn’t have to worry about him towering over me.  He tended to slick back his hair so he looked more like a film star from the 30s.  I mentioned that men don’t do that anymore.  He gave it up the next day.  I realized at this point there were a few years between us.  I was heading for a divorce, he was newly into adulthood.  Bartel mentioned that he just wanted to share time with someone with similar interests.  

The next day, Saturday, I got a phone call from a past boyfriend. I began to think of all that Parker had to offer. This man might make the grade.  He was intelligent, he ran his own finance company, he was financially secure, and well traveled.  He was very good looking, very tall, and socially upwardly mobile.  It was devastating when he did not talk to me for long periods of time, but he always called when his life dipped.  Maybe he kept recognizing I was good for him. He asked me if I would be a volunteer for a Lunchbag Fundraiser at the Glacier Hotel.  The downfall was, although it was a highly formal event, all volunteers had to stay in the silent bidding room to watch the items.  I went, knowing Parker would be there, free in the ballroom.  I dressed heavenly and waited in the room for Parker to show up.  Then I wondered if he was even around so I peeked into the crystal ballroom.  He was there in full tuxedo.  He was also with another woman, Cynthia McCormick, an aerobics instructor from Angel’s Fitness Centre.  She was in full gala gown.  I, on the other hand, was attired in a delightful little service dress in comparison.   He avoided me, he never came into the bidding room.  I was broken hearted having given this man the benefit of the doubt.  Men are dogs, I told myself. 

I spent the next couple of days gritting my teeth and put myself on auto-pilot. I decided to shop at the Birkenstock Grocery Store, a hippie place where I could avoid men, usually.  An extremely good looking German car mechanic stopped to talk to me.  Wolfgang Rizold was godlike in looks with a German accent to add to his personal spice. People passed him in the aisles glancing at him as if he were a celebrity.  He paused to ask me about some inconsequential matter, unsalted butter.  I gave him a cursory glance and wave of my hand as if I did not want to be bothered. Men, I reminded myself, are nothing but pack dogs, even in hippie town.  He was fascinated by me and continued to follow me through the grocery store.  Finally Wolfgang asked if I would wine and dine with him in the best of places around town - he was not one to cut corners when asking a woman out.  I implied that I might have time, although I was not committed to any offers.  This made him beg to spend time with me.  I looked like a disgruntled cat walk model, he looked like the cover of a GQ magazine.  We were obviously both hiding in the same place. I never thought to ask him why he was hiding.  He made me ponder the idea of allowing men near me only to treat them with distaste.  I agreed to a short coffee at the most expensive cafe in town, the following Monday.

He picked me up from work.  He was dressed in full leather and he drove me around the city showing me the homes he owned in his fancy Ferrari.  He said he used to be in a common-law relationship with a woman who went schizophrenic so he left her when she attacked him with butcher knives.  Those types of women are dangerous, he chuckled.  What a tale of woe that was. I nodded and in my silent voice said, ‘so that’s why he was hiding.’ He told me of his previous career being a secret service pilot with the German forces.  He was very alluring, especially with that accent.  What was really odd was that he never touched me, never asked to be physically close with me, he just wanted my company.   I began to soften.  Then I suspected, most of his stories were smoke and mirrors.  He filled out black leather pants with muscle amazement, had a European accent with a deep voice that made each word sound like dripping honey, and a mysterious past.  But bottom line, he was a mechanic who lived in one of Calgary’s lower class communities and he was going nowhere fast as a mechanic.  I clued in that most of his stories were fabricated. The car was from the garage.  He was a liar.  Why did I attract all the wrong kind?   I should have left him in the organic yam aisle where I found him. 

I went back into semi-automatic life again.

The next evening I arrived at my mother’s house for a short visit only to find two parents sitting in the living room with curtains closed waiting for me. My mother started the conversation.  

“Do you know he’s married?”  she started. I had one arm out of my winter coat.  Here I was an adult and my parents were treating me like a high school kid. 

“His wife called.”  My dad added. 

“His ex-common law wife is schizophrenic.  They are no longer together.“  I stayed calm but surprised how fast this happened. It had only been two days since I had seen him.  I hadn’t planned to see him anymore anyway but both mom and dad seemed so concerned, I could tell by the pulsing veins in dad’s forehead.

“We will not have any of our children be the cause of a marriage breaking up.”  Dad was very moralistic in his tone.  It was almost as if the entire city would be alerted by email if it happened and my parents would be pointed at while they walked their dog. 

Now I was shocked.  ‘I am an adult,’ I kept repeating in my head. How dare they treat me this way.  I hadn’t planned to see him again anyhow so I played their card instead of mine, I just agreed and said they were right and I came to my senses the day before.  I made it seem that they convinced me and I capitulated immediately due to their great wisdom.

I phoned Wolfgang the next night and told him about his common-law wife’s trick and demanded how she got my parent’s home phone number.  I was at the end of my tether regarding men, tall men, short men, and separated men, all men.  I would find other ways to entertain myself. 

I began to peruse the University Newspaper for an ongoing volunteer job.  That would keep me busy.  A PhD candidate, P.  Husa placed an ad in the university student newspaper asking for a reader.  I figured she must be an older woman looking for an assistant, someone who might be overwhelmed with the work. Women tend to put only first letters for names in publications.  We met up in the Administration Building’s coffee room.  It was a he, a him, a guy.  He was blind, finishing his PhD in Educational Psychology, and was at the University of Calgary as a student on a grant from Nigeria.  He was black.  Very black.  So black he was almost black-plum purple. I giggled secretly to myself because I wondered if he knew how black he was.  Calgary never had many black people and fewer still were on campus. We met and talked outside in the sun at a bench outside the administration building.  He told me his story.  He became slowly blind as a child in a small village in Nigeria.  At 13 he was almost totally blind from a river disease.  He was extremely bright and so he won awards and grant after grant to continue school.  Much of his research for his Ph D thesis depended upon written work but he could not read and so he needed a volunteer to read into a voice recorder.  Simple, I thought.  He can’t see me, so there is no attraction to be bothered with. 

I went every second lunch to read to him.  He smiled a lot at me while I read.  Occasionally he stretched out a hand wanting to hold mine, which I allowed believing it was a way he sincerely thanked me.  He asked to please drive him home, one day.  He was so soft spoken, non threatening and rather charming.  At his basement apartment I learned a lot more about blind people.  He was very clean.  He showed me how he cooked, he told me how he knew where his bus stop was.  He was totally independent with his cane, except when he was caught in the automatic sprinklers and then he said he didn’t know where to run. I felt he was becoming a good friend. My faith in men was returning.  I invited him over to dinner.  I was rather proud of my work that I had completed with him.  He was so different from any man I had ever met. 

I told my mother I was getting friendly with a wonderful man who was within inches of finishing his PhD in Educational Psychology.  Mom and Dad were both impressed that I might be on my  way to choosing a bettering partner.  That Saturday afternoon I picked him up to drive him to my parents.  I tried my best to give a good description of my parents to him.  Eventually I stuck to the bare details and I would let both make their own impressions. 

As I was helping him out of my car, my nineteen year old brother was at the lower windows.  He was still living in the basement forever preparing to go to Vancouver.  He gave me a look of disbelief and amusement.  Regardless, I gave him the finger and stuck out my tongue knowing my friend would not see my childish behavior.  I walked Peter into the house with my hand on his elbow and called my mother from the kitchen.

“Pleased to meet you Mrs. Litness.” He said in such a gentlemanly manner in his Nigerian accent.

“Pleased to meet you too, I hear you are going to be a doctor soon.”  She said this rather calmly while her eyes went large and met mine after her once over.

“You have done lovely things with your home, Mrs. Litness,” he jested.  “It is so bourgeois.”

“Thank you,” she replied.

“Mother, that was a joke, he’s blind.”  I injected flatly.

“Oh, yes!” Mom laughed.  Then she mouthed the words, ‘He’s black!’  I nodded and I mouthed the words, “He knows.”

We sat down to a family meal.  Peter asked my parents to describe me because he was told by someone at the university that I was very pretty and wanted to know if it was true. 

That was my last time with Peter.  On the way home to his place, he mentioned to me that the upper class couples in his country were multi-ethnic and cross racial.  He was also returning to Nigeria for a few months.  I smiled and promised I would write in my kindest voice.  I felt no spark between us, I saw no future for us, but I was more than pleased to work with him on his thesis.  I also suspected that he wanted to marry me to aid in his plan to become a Canadian citizen.  I didn’t want to complicate my life in that way.  I still had a divorce on the radar. 

Bartel Richards was always on the horizon too.  Popping around, bumping into me on campus, bringing me something I might be interested in.  One Friday night I was meeting a couple of friends from work at a 1970s dance club. I loved dancing. I was also looking forward to a girls night out.  Normally I did not associate with the work girls, I did not see us interested in similar things, but dancing was another matter.  Bartel had popped over with my parking pass that I had left behind at work. Thank goodness he was working late that day.  I came down the stairs with my black leather mini-skirt hugging my behind, high black leather boots, and a black angora sweater that fit so tightly my boobs looked a size bigger.  My hair and makeup was club perfect.   I took the last two steps slowly and asked, “How do I look?”  I wanted that ‘wow moment’ and expected his eyes to widen, bulge, or at least pop. 

Bartel looked at me carefully.  After a pause he said, “Same bait, same fish.” Ouch.  I thought he should be the first to say something positive.  I decided to brush it off because I wanted to go dancing, no matter what his opinion.  Again with my inside voice, I whispered to myself, ‘asshole.’

Unfortunately at the dance club I discovered his words were correct.  My clothes were nothing but dog bait.  Every man who had an extra five bucks bought me drinks, tossed me lines, flashed game show host smiles, and filled my ear with fruitless fantasies. I was there to dance with work friends.  Men were there to get lucky.  I came home earlier than expected and tossed my boots in the closet from the bedside.  Bartel was right but I didn't want to tell him that.   

I began to ruminate about what Bartel said, “same bait, same fish.”  What was I doing attracting the wrong man? I reflected on everything from my clothing choices to my behavior to my expectations from others. I was caught between instinctively wanting a man and hating them at the same time.  I was at a place of decision with wise advice...from a younger man.   I grew again as a person. I had lost a marriage, lost friends because of the marriage, wanted a man, did not want a man.  What did I want?  I wanted a friend, something I had lost and maybe had found but did not recognize immediately.  I sat and thought about how older than his age Bartel was.  I hoped to see him the next day at work, maybe I could ask him out for a hot chocolate.