The Plumber, New Jeans, and a Lie

The Plumber, New Jeans and a Lie

It was 1965. If you’ve watched movies from that time you know it was like another universe, a totally different world.

I was the eldest child. I had grown up sheltered. One of my parents almost always supervised any extra curricular events I was involved in and I was only allowed to go to parties in homes where they knew the parents would chaperone. Only dated two boys in high school and was still a virgin when I got to college, which was twenty miles from home, but seemed like an eternity away. Finally I was out of the nest, ready to fly.

I stayed in a dorm. Curfew was at 10:00. No boys allowed past the front desk. Girls had to wear skirts on campus. Are you getting the picture?

My grandparents lived nearby. They had a business in the town where I grew up and if they went there on weekends I often went home with them. Occasionally I stayed the weekend at their house. That’s where it started.

The hot water heater broke so they called a local plumber. As soon as he walked in the house I knew I wanted him to notice me. I hung around watching while he installed the new water heater, helping when I could. “My grandparent’s last name is Plumb. I met a plum of a plumber at the Plumb’s,” I joked.

“You think I’m a plum? I’m fifteen years older than you, divorced, have two daughters, live in a basement in somebody else’s house, and am not interested in a long term relationship.”

“Sounds perfect.” I told Bob which dorm I stayed in and he called later for a date. I spent every minute with him I could when I wasn’t in classes, or studying.

About a month later he asked me to go to the Chilcotin region of northern British Columbia with him, to visit friends. I had a three day weekend. Told my family I was going home with a friend. Not too much of a lie. But a lie all the same, something that always made me break out in a sweat, and that I was soon to be good at telling.

“I’ve never seen you in a pair of jeans,” he said the day before we left.

“I don’t have any. My mother wouldn’t let me wear them. She says they make girls look cheap.”

“What? Well, you need jeans and boots where we’re going. They still have snow. Do you have boots and a warm coat?” I nodded. “Okay, come on then. I’m buying you a pair of jeans.”

He took me to an upscale men’s clothing store downtown. Men’s jeans would look classy and fit well, he assured me. I tried on several pair until I found the ones.

Wow! Staring at my lower half encased in its first pair of jeans, I twisted, stretched, trying to get a better view in the dressing room mirror. Turning to look over both shoulders at my backside, I agreed with him. I pushed aside the curtain and stepped into the shop.

Wile e Coyote Howl! Bob told the clerk to put the jeans on his account.

The clerk smirked as he got out the ledger, smiling at me as he wrote the entry. “Is he your boyfriend?” he asked, loud enough for several shoppers, mostly men, to stop and take notice of us. I looked around, saw them look at Bob, then at me, and realized what they were thinking.

As easy as the jeans pulled up over my hips the lie rolled out of my mouth. I stared at the crowd and told the biggest lie of my life. “No. He’s my brother. The jeans are a late birthday present.”

“When was your birthday?” he asked.

“May.”

“Gee, that is late. It’s November.”

I decided to go for it. “I was out of the country until last week,” popped out the words before I thought where it was going.

“Where?”

“Spain.”

“Doing what?”

“Bullfighting.”

He dropped his pen and scoffed, “No way! Girls don’t bullfight.”

It was a time of change. Gloria Steinem was about to become an activist, spurring women to believe they could do anything. Only seven years until Title Nine, ensuring equal opportunities for women in education and sports. I wear jeans! Why couldn’t I be a bullfighter?

“They do now.” I searched my mind for what I had learned in Spanish class.

“Women have been bullfighting since the 1800’s but they are only now beginning to be accepted. I am in the first group of women to be trained professionally. I was over there a year, learning basic moves. I go back next week to continue my training. If I want to fight professionally I need to go to Mexico where female bullfighting is already established. My goal is to become a matadora. Watch.”

Grabbing a red sweater off a pile, holding it in front of me arms at my sides, I shook it three times, yelled ‘Olé!” and tapped my way across the polished oak floor, using tango steps I learned in ballroom dance class. I waved the sweater in the faces of those men as they stood watching, stunned. After I completed a twirl through the store I folded the sweater, put it on the shelf, and picked up my bag. Shoulders back, head high, I glamorously left the store in my new jeans.

Approaching the counter to sign his account, Bob eyed the clerk with amusement.

“Do you think your sister would go out with me before she goes back to Spain? I mean, she’s not dating anybody is she?”

Bob, still smiling, shook his head in an “I don’t believe this guy.” kind of way.

Finishing the transaction, realizing, the clerk said, “She’s not your sister, right.”

“No.”

“The jeans are not a birthday present?”

“No.”

“But she is a bullfighter. That’s true, right?”

“What do you think?”

That guy wins the prize for naive! Bob chuckled to himself, as he left the store, found me standing in the sunny chill, and unlocked the 240Z. We got in, surrounded by suitcases and snow gear, ready for a weekend in the Chilcotin.