Do I Know You?

How do we really know when we know someone?

"We could do the dead cockroach," Ray pantomimes holding his hands in front of his chest with his legs slightly raised. Six young men doing that around a table would certainly be enough to get us thrown out.

We are sitting in the Petty Offers Club. A friend; Harvey, suggested we come here for a Friday night. My rank isn't high enough for me to be here. He suggested, “Just walk in like you belong there.” It worked.

I am not here to get drunk and act stupid. Like some other twenty-year-old sailors, a strong desire to meet a member of the female sex motivates me. I have an extra obstacle; I am painfully shy.

During junior high and high school, while everyone was learning their social skills, I was obese. Popularity is a top priority at that age. No one wants to date the fat kid at the bottom of the social ladder.

After high school, six months of working in a warehouse took care of my obesity problem. Joining the Navy helped to keep the weight off. Only the abundant memory of being rejected repeatedly remains. I know conditions are different now; I just have scant memories of success. Women have become unfathomable creatures I am hopelessly attracted to in a mixture of desire and fear.

I usually try to meet women at places that serve alcohol. Somehow, a drink or two keeps the shyness at bay.

The crazy one, Ray sits across from me. A couple of his friends are also at the table. Apparently he has no trouble attracting women; however, he has the reputation of being an alcoholic.

Two women approach our table; one, Ray’s girlfriend, has long black hair. The other has shortish red hair; she takes the only other available seat. The seat next to me.

Having just arrived at the club, I am not very tipsy.

Immediately, one of Ray's inebriated friends starts making passes at the redhead. She points at me and tells the guy, "I'm with him." This is unexpected news, especially because I have never seen this woman before in my life.

She turns her head where I am the only one to see her conspiratorial wink.

"Do I know you?" at a low enough volume so Ray's friend doesn't hear.

"Just play along," she returns in the same low voice.

I have finished my beer and think. Since we are obviously a couple, perhaps I should lean over and give her an intense kiss. No, at twenty my sense of humor may be more sophisticated than "Dead Cockroach" but not by much. Besides that, I would not take the chance of being rejected in front of my friends.

Also at twenty, I am not that used to alcohol. I remember dancing with the redhead twice. My best recollection is her guiding my intoxicated body around the dance floor.

At closing, we all go our separate ways.

The next day, as I wake up, I realize how badly I blew it. Not only did I probably drink too much, I didn't even ask her name. My journey is far from over. Perhaps I should check the bookstore for something like 'Learn Confidence Approaching Women in Thirty Days'. I will not be of a high enough rank to enter the club by myself for almost a year. Most likely, last night was the last time we will meet.

The courtroom is small, about the size of two public school classrooms. Even under the best circumstances, going to court is stressful. My misfortune of being at the wrong place at the wrong time causes me to be here. By Navy standards, I witnessed a crime being committed in our barracks. The last thing I wanted to do was to have to testify against people I know.

Ascending the stand to testify, I look out at the courtroom. The court reporter is that redhead from the club! I recognize her instantly; her expression gives away a brief acknowledgment of recognition. Court is a serious place; we keep our knowledge to ourselves.

My testimony for the prosecution was fairly easy, just a simple recounting. After the defense finishes, however, I feel totally beaten up. It is their job to poke holes, but this guy was ruthless.

The court breaks for lunch. As I am leaving the building through a long hallway; there’s the redhead in a side office. She is sitting at her desk having her lunch. She gives me a friendly smile. It may not be an invitation, but it is not a rejection either. After the experience in court, I take a chance.

Walking into her office, "Do I know you?" The amused look on her face says everything and perhaps something I don't remember. "You're the guy from the club. Thanks for being my 'date', Ray's friends can be obnoxious."

I must look exhausted and still addled from the cross-examination. She continues, "Don't worry too much about the testimony; that defense attorney is aggressive. It was nothing personal."

With a thank you, I depart the building, leaving her behind again. It’s likely that I will probably never see her again. I know I have no desire to return to her workplace.

I am standing outside my new apartment. The style I would term it is faux English. The buildings are supposed to look like "Tudor". In fact, they are stucco under the facade.

Moving out of the barracks is something most people who live in the barracks aspire to. I am finally making enough money that I can afford a small studio apartment off base. I very much enjoy the solitude of not living with strangers.

Laundry is just one of life's inconveniences. I am in the apartment laundromat. It is just a small utilitarian building with a few washers and dryers.

As I am waiting for my clothes to dry, in comes the redhead from the club and courtroom.

"Do I know you?" as I stand to relieve her of the heavy basket of clothes she is carrying. I keep meeting this young woman. Perhaps it is chance; perhaps the universe is trying to tell me something.

I fight through my awkwardness and try to be bold.

"Would you like to go out for dinner?" I ask. Much to my surprise, she agrees, and we arrange to meet later that evening. "This is embarrassing, but what’s your name?” I can tell she almost wants to laugh, but she simply says, "Linda".

Armed with her apartment number and my old Volkswagen, I take her to a restaurant I can afford. It's not romantic by any standard, but at least I can get to know her. Also, I will be able to order a beer so I can relax and become more conversational.

We sit in the seafood restaurant, picture a Red Lobster or an Applebee’s or any of those popular middle-class restaurants, then take it down a level. It's clean but not attractive.

"How long have you been in the Navy? I inquire. "Twelve years, and right now I am stationed with the Judge Advocate General at the base. I work for the judges.” We exchange information. I find out she is actually three pay grades above me and considers herself career military. I had joined for only four years, and that was to pay for college.

After dinner, I take her back to her apartment. I know some guys would try to invite themselves in. For me, I take the brave chance and give her a quick kiss at the door. "Would you like to go out again next Friday?" I ask. She agrees, so we have a date.

We see each other frequently. We have what some people would call deep rapport. Each of us listens to and mirrors the other’s hopes and dreams. For the first time in my life, I am completely at ease with a woman. Instead of rejection, I am constantly meeting with compassion and encouragement.

It has only been about three weeks, but we are spending all our free time together.

Lovemaking becomes one of our favorite activities. More importantly, we are friends. We do many of the things friends do and share. She has become my lover and best friend. To everyone we know, we are now a couple.

It's evening, and we sit in Linda’s apartment. Her place is more tastefully decorated than my hastily furnished apartment. She has a serious look on her face. I’m scheduled for rotation next month; I will probably be sent to Japan. In the military, this is always a possibility; it just didn't occur that it would happen to me. This is crushing news.

The Navy tries its best to station married couples together. It may not be too late.

After only three weeks of dating, Linda has become the most special person in my life. She knows more about me than anyone else. I feel as if I have known her forever. We complement each other perfectly.

Despite my fear, uncertainty, and other emotions, I persevere. My affection and love win.

I drop to one knee. "Will you marry me?"

It doesn't take her long; she says "Yes."

I have a wide smile, and joy bubbles up. I know that one-syllable word is going to send my life on a new trajectory.

We hastily make plans for a wedding a week from today. The state just to the north of us has a shorter waiting time. We barely have enough time for our rings to be sized.

If you picture the opposite of those storybook weddings, you may see our wedding day. Instead of a fairy tale, ours was a story of sheer determination.

Even before the wedding, things didn’t go as planned. The previous night, I was assigned a watch from midnight until eight in the morning. I am glad my 'best man' is driving because I am exhausted. Linda's friend sits in the passenger seat in the front.

My future bride rides in the back seat with me. She is dressed nicely. Being in the Navy, I am not used to dressing up.

Marriage by a justice of the peace in the next state is an interesting affair.

The vestibule we are standing in is only slightly wider than a standard hallway. There must be at least thirty of us waiting to get married. The clothes range from casual to full wedding dresses. We have our paperwork in hand and wait in a line, couple by couple. The Justice of the Peace says the wedding vows for one couple, then motions for the next.

Finally, it's our turn. Our two friends witnessed our vows. It is complete; we're married. Kiss, then move out of the way for the next couple.

We arrive back at Linda's apartment with plans of going out and celebrating with our friends later that evening.

Now that we are married, we do the first thing that comes naturally. We go to bed--to sleep. After being awake for almost thirty hours, I am exhausted.

A little while later, I wake up. Linda is still sleeping beside me. The enormity of what I have done envelops me. I have committed the rest of my life to this person. I look at her peacefully sleeping form and ask myself:

Do I know you?

It's almost half a century later. We have lived a life with some of the highest highs and some of the most desperate lows. Sexual attraction was important; love was even more important. What was probably the most important though was friendship and the absolute certainty that we had each other's backs. No matter how challenging life was, we always knew we could count on each other.

We don't move around as quickly anymore. Sometimes in the quieter moments, I look at my wife. I see not only the older woman she is now; I see her in her totality.

I recall the cute young sailor who helped draw me out. Hopeful and ambitious, the college student shines. The stressed-out systems analyst is present. When she pursued her true calling, a gifted junior high teacher emerged from the depths. The nurturing mother radiates. The kind 'old lady' college professor is there too. I see all these experiences as I look, almost like an overlay.

As I look at my wife in this light, I think of the one question I never have to ask:

Do I know you?