C:\WS4\WOMEN.OUT
Brrrreakfast!
(C) Copyright 1999 by Richard Cheshire
It seems that I was the first man she'd ever been with who didn't just automatically expect her to jump up and cook breakfast.
Hey, I wouldn't want to jump right up & cook breakfast, why would I expect her to want to?
BT
Upon Meeting A Martian
(C) Copyright 2003 by Richard Cheshire
One of the tasks in the Rube Room was to take the multi-part printout that came off the line printers, and decollate the seperate sheets from the carbon paper between the sheets. We had a large machine to do this, with rough, sandpaper-like rollers that would carry the 8-ply paper across the rollers at the top of the bins, and each sheet would be seperated into an individual bin of the machine. The carbon paper was pulled through, and rolled up by the machine, and pulling the carbon paper was what propelled the paper through the machine.
One night, while fixing a "paper jam", I got my little finger caught between the roller, and the sheet metal of the bin. "My computer bit me", and while it hurt my pride, more than anything, I was beeding pretty good, and company policy had me haul my butt off to the local Hospital.
I threw some lines at the redheaded nurse, as well as a little inuendo, never knowing I'd run into her again. About a month later, I ran into her, and she remembered me immidiately (I tend to have that effect on people). "You're the guy who's computer bit him!", she exclaimed. That jarred my memory enough to remember her. We started chatting, and then she got this look in her eye. She was going to try to freak me out. She looked me dead in the eye, and said, "I'm a Martian!"
Now I've read Science Fiction almost since I could read. At the time of the story, I'd never been to a Science Fiction Convention, but that would be in another couple of years. In the mean time, I was thinking, "Oh, she thinks she can freak me out that easily, does she? Well, then, let's throw a little Martian language at her".
"I grok that", I replied.
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Anyway, we wound up in her bed within hours of that meeting.
Years later, I dropped by her house in Brooklyn (a center of Science Fiction fan activity in the New York City area) to visit her and her husband. A science fiction fan from out of town was staying at the house, and when I introduced myself as "Ozzie", he asked, "Are you the Ozzie in the photo"? "What photo?", I asked, and I was shown the last remaining copy of me in the space suit I'd picked up at the 1975 Space Suit Garage Sale held at ILC Industries in Dover DE. They'd made Apollo moonsuits for many years, and were cleaning out the warehouse.
I flew down for the garage sale. I bought the big, white outer suit for Rick Sternbach, and I kept the blue inner liner, that gave the suit it's shape. Before I sent Rick the outer suit, though, I'd taken the thing to a local portrait photography studio, and got a set of prints. Donna had the last one I knew anything about. Her husband Marc was kind enough to scan it for me, and e-mail it to me.
BT
How About Italian?
(C) Copyright 2002 by Richard Cheshire
We were at her former artist cooperative off of Union Square when the topic of dinner came up. "How about Italian," I asked. "They almost always have Eggplant Parmasian on the menu".
"Oh, that's just too trite," she replied. Jeremy heard her say that, but didn't hear our earlier conversation, and asked, "What's up"?
"Oh, Ozzie here was suggesting we go to an Italian restaurant for dinner".
"That's a great idea!", Jeremy chimed in. "Most of them usually have Eggplant Parmasian." Needless to say, Jeremy and I got along just fine.
Lily dumped him shortly after their trip. For all of his professed Feminism, she realized that, while I professed nothing, I gave her much more freedom than this fellow ever did. She had her own life in the Art World, and I had mine in the Computer World. Where we got together, fine. Where we each had our own thing, it was fun to share some of the interesting bits (like helping her at Street Fairs to sell her art and t-shirts), but I never wanted to infringe on her life. It was what gave her the personality I loved.
BT
The Woman Who Taught Me What 'Love' Is
(C) Copyright 2008 by Richard Cheshire
The rock group "The Doors" came to Rochester NY, and played The Eastman Theatre (part of the Eastman School of Music). I knew my way around the place, and especially where the back doors were. My buddy Dave and I met Ellen and her girl friend Jan in front of the theatre, and made our way around to the back alley behind the theatre. Across the alley was an unlocked door.
I looked up at the bridge across the buildings, six stories above the alley, and said, "I'll be back as quick as I can". I went in, ran down stairs to the steam tunnels, crossed under the street, and came up at the back door of the theater in less than 45 seconds. This was about 2 hours before the concert. I always ran "Operation Back Door" very early, because at that time, the out of towners think your local, and the locals think you're one of the out of towners. We got to the stage, found Jim Morrison, and I went into my pitch.
I explained we were there to present Jim Morrison with a Kazoo from the Star Jasmine Society of Rochester, a hippy group that met in Washington Square Park. Kazoo's were cheap, and the shtick was, music is for international friendship and peace. Whose going to stop a guy whose already in the building from making a Presentation of a Gift?
Ellen and Jan, however pulled a trick on us with no warning. They pretended Jan was hard of hearing, and they were communicating in ASL (American Sign Language). Jim was so impressed that a deaf person would come to his concert, that he drew them a picture of the kazoo.
We left the theatre, and went in the front door later with our own concert tickets. What really blew us away was when the instramental riff came in the middle of their signature tune "Light My Fire". It was all I could do to keep from jumping up and yelling, "That's my KAZOO" when he played it.
After that, it was back to my nerdy little existance, and Ellen started going out with a guy named Jeff. One day I stopped myself when looking at her at her locker, and had a brief conversation with myself.
"She likes this guy Jeff, right?"
"Yeah", I told myself.
"Well, what would you do if you could get her to yourself?"
"Um, well, I'd try to make her happy," I replied.
"Well, she looks pretty happy with that Jeff character, so it looks like Mission Accomplished. Lets get out of here."
"WHAT! Wait a minute!", but the logic was too good. It was years later when I read Robert Heinlein's science fiction novel "Stranger In A Strange Land", where I read the following line:
Love is that condition in which the happiness of another person is essential to your own
I'd already learned that lesson.
BT
When I started growing a beard.
(C) Copyright 2017 by Richard Cheshire
It was the second weekend of February in 1972 when I started to grow my
beard. How do I know? That's the weekend that NESFA, the New England
Science Fiction Association, holds their annual Boskone Convention.Back in 1970 I was stationed at Ft Gordon, GA for AIT (Advanced Individual training) for MOS (Military Occupational Specialty) 72B20, Communications Center Specialist. I was trained to be a glorified Telex operator. I suppose you should go read My War Story.
While stationed outside of Augusta Georgia, I met Sue M, a local girl that I kept in touch with after I left The US Army's SouthEast Signals School, and was stationed in Germany.
About the time that I got out of the Army, she went in, and she wrote me that was being stationed at Ft Devon MA, just outside of Boston. I wrote to her that I would be at the Boston Hilton for the Boskone Convention, and we planned to meet there, and then go out to dinner. I'd hoped to bring her back to see the convention after dinner to see if it was worth while persuing anything further with her. After all, if she couldn't handle Science Fiction, how could she be a part of my life?
One thing I remembered about our relationship in Augusta was that she didn't like "The Nubs". Actually, this was an advertising term that Gillette had come up with to describe (in a copywritable way) the stubble of an unshaved face. It was my plan to meet her in the lobby of the hotel, have her wait the brief time it would take for me to go up to my room and shave, and then go out to dinner.
Well, the short ending to the story is that she never showed up for the date, and I've never shaved my beard since.
BT
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