My First Silk Shirt

by Pamela Rice Hahn

One of my most frequent fantasies involves being the only female in a roomful of dignified men, each dressed in a dark custom-tailored suit and a power tie.

While growing up in a small Ohio farm community, I could only imagine the stylish world I read about or saw on TV: a world where men wore something other than bowling shirts, coveralls with mid-thigh black (or
fatigue green) rubber boots left unbuckled to the ankles, or white socks with their Sunday suits.

I left the five hundred people in my hometown behind and set out for the big city hoping to find fame, fortune, and men with fantastic wardrobes. I longed for some class. Perhaps I could find it in a place that actually had a couple of stop lights. I knew somewhere there was man without a toothpick sticking out of the corner of his mouth.

The right clothing can project the power of a man in a way that a coordinated purse and shoes could never do for a woman. It’s unfair actually. But with the exception of a pastel-colored leisure suit ensemble (what mystery writer Les Roberts refers to as a “full Cleveland”), a dark shirt with a white tie, a shirt that doesn’t completely cover a beer gut, or jeans slung so low you-know-what shows when he bends over, a man can
wear about anything and really command a presence.

All this may seem rather petty, but at the time I really didn’t have anything much more serious than this about which to be concerned. The Vietnam War was already a memory. The free love movement never did quite make it to our area; girls still had reputations. And AIDS was a diet candy. Even if it was spelled differently, it reflected my biggest concern at the time: thick thighs.

With this in mind, picture a group of ladies in the various stages of being single and looking for some male companionship.

Brenda, Julie, Connie, Martha, Rhonda, and I spent more weekend nights together than we would have preferred. We’d go out of town, since once someplace has become your hometown, there’s that unwritten rule: the
hunks live somewhere else.

Our typical nights usually ran about the same. Brenda would say, “And to think, I could be home nice ‘n’ comfy on the couch with my pillow and blankie.”

Julie would add, “For this I’m paying a babysitter?”

Connie was always worried about missing a call from Peter. She’d mention that for our benefit, wanting to give the impression of her faithfulness and devotion to the jerk she’d been seeing for the last couple of years. We
each knew that if Connie was alone that weekend, it probably meant that she and Pete had had a fight. That meant that he would be spending the weekend with his ex-wife, so Connie would be thinking about spending the weekend with whomever she could find.

Batting her skimpy eyelashes, Martha would demurely whisper something like, “If I could only overcome my shyness.” Actually, Martha was a crotch grabber. Very subtle.

Rhonda always said, “Maybe if I’d worn a different shirt.” Rhonda had the lousiest fashion sense of our little group. She’d buy jeans on sale that were always too short and then sew a contrasting colored band of material around the hem to make them long enough. The shirt she wore always clashed with the hunk of fabric stuck on the legs of her jeans.

I usually wrote poetry on the napkins since I had, unfortunately, never mastered that special eye contact followed by a sweet smile-type of courage that going out looking requires. Connie was a master at it. She was seldom lonely when Peter wasn’t around.

I was also the one who had been complimented recently with: “You have nice muscle tone for someone your size.” Yes, thick thighs are a hereditary curse. I usually had a sliding scale of confidence, so that night
it was about as low as it could go.

We managed to have a few good times together. As the reader of the group, I was always trying out new advice. Once I experimented with my possible psychic powers by trying a technique that promised that, with the
proper concentration, I could will myself to surround someone with an attracting white light of good vibrations. It worked, too. Actually, I tried it
several times that evening. Unfortunately, each time the zapped stranger came over to our table, he’d ask the person sitting next to me to dance.

This night we were at a bar just off Route 53 near Lake Erie because Julie had gone to high school with one of the guys in the band. (She’d graduated with more people in her class than were in my home town.) We were about as excited as six people can get who know they have nothing better to do on a Saturday night than to travel thirty miles to hear somebody named Alvin sing.

Julie had been carded on the way in. “I didn’t remember that I had my daughter’s teddy bear clips in my hair until I got in the door,” she said, flipping a strand of her hair back over her shoulder, “but it wasn’t until I reached inside my Snoopy change purse to get out my license that I really got embarrassed.”

Our table conversation later that night was up to “not too bad for a local group,” so things were pretty well proceeding according to their normal schedule.

Then he walked in.

I couldn’t help but notice him. His clothes were neat! Granted, they were casual. Not the suits I prefer. But, they fitted him so well.

“Now there’s one Trish should zap,” Julie offered.

“Are you kidding,” I argued. “And watch him ask you to dance?”

Our table was about five tables back from the dance floor. Julie and Rhonda were seated to my right on the vinyl-covered bench attached to the wall with Martha, Connie, and Brenda seated across the table from us on chairs.

“He smiled at me,” Connie announced, turning her back to us. This was her standard response.

“I think he smiled at me,” I whispered to Julie, embarrassed that he might have noticed my staring at him.

“I think he did, too,” she whispered back. “Go for it.”

Instead, in an attempt to not appear too desperate, I pulled some business cards out of my purse and started shuffling them. Then I decided to try smiling back. After all, I had practiced in front of a mirror all day.

He stood at the bar awhile talking to Jack, a guy Connie had gone out with a couple of times.

“Funny we never noticed him here before,” Connie commented.

“He seems to know Jack,” I added.

Our table conversation was abruptly stopped because Alvin and his friends had just ended their break. It’s hard to exchange subtle comments when you have to shout over the noise of a rock band.

So, we stared instead. At least I did. Prince Charming himself could have ridden in on his white horse - I was always looking for him to - and I wouldn’t have noticed. Unless, of course, he was wearing a suit.

About that time, he took off his jacket. He unbuttoned his shirt sleeves and rolled them at the cuffs. About that time, I started to drool. His forearms were incredible. Some women like well-developed biceps. Not me. I look at the area between the wrist and the elbow. If that part of his arm is skinny, forget it. His wasn’t.

Then he smiled again, so I mouthed (with a smile, of course), “Come here.”

He sort of tilted his head like he didn’t understand what I meant, so knowing my mother was nowhere around to see how bold I was being, I patted the bench beside me.

He started walking toward me.

I started to think about crawling under the table.

He smiled again, looking right into my eyes.

I panicked.

He sat down. Next to me. Our thighs touched, for God’s sake.

Oh boy, now what do I do? I thought, so I leaned over, touched his arm and whispered in his ear, “Why don’t you ask me to dance and if the answer’s ‘no,’ will you please keep smiling so my friends won’t know I’ve just been rejected?”

“I don’t dance,” he told me.

“Huh?”

“Actually, I can’t dance.”

“Uh, I can’t quite place your accent,” I stammered, trying to change the subject before he deserted me. “Where are you from?”

“Africa.”

“Oh.” I knew I was definitely impressing him with my vocabulary.

“Actually,” he said. I remember that part distinctly. He said ‘actually’ a lot. “I’m from the Canary Islands.”

“Oh,” I said again, not knowing what difference that made. I didn’t know that the Canary Islands were near Africa, but I wasn’t going to let him know that. He probably already figured I didn’t know how to talk. I couldn’t risk having him think I was stupid, too. Instead, I asked, “So, what are you doing here?” Not much better than “You come here often,” I know. But, it was the best I could do on short notice.

He leaned back against the wall. He started to put his arm around me, but instead began playing with my hair, twisting it around his finger.

“You have very beautiful hair,” he said. At that time it was still a very light natural blonde. It was also long, almost to my waist.

Then he answered, “I’m here to pick up a cheap.”

Some women might have been offended by that. I was probably just too naive to think he could have been talking about me, which is just as well. I’m sure if I would have slapped his face or something that could have messed up the rest of our conversation.

“What can you pick up cheaper in Ohio than you can get in the Canary Islands?” I asked.

“Actually, I picked it up in California. I just left the turnpike and drove until I found someplace to stop for a drink.”

I must have looked puzzled, because he added, “I picked up my cheap in California. Cheap. J-e-e-p.”

“Oh, jeep,” I said with a laugh. I repeated it a couple of times until he could almost pronounce it, then gave up. I bombarded him with questions: Don’t they build jeeps in Germany or anywhere closer? Why California? I ask lots of questions when I’m nervous.

“I had a four-wheel drive custom-built in California because we have so much rough open country,” he told me. “After I closed my art gallery out there, I started driving my cheap to New York. It’ll be shipped home from there. I’m flying home Monday.” (Just my luck.)

“What’s your name?” I asked him. I had less time than I’d hoped for.

“Tony,” he said. He told me his last name, too, only I can’t remember it. I guess that’s why I’ve never been tempted to call him.

“Mine’s Trish. Or Trisha. That’s short for Patricia, after my mother.”

We talked for at least an hour about my growing up in a small town, his going to private schools, my being the oldest of six kids, his being an only child, his colleges and art studies, my mother’s worries while I was going to college that if I got too smart I’d have trouble finding a husband, his age of 32, mine of 25, his never being married, my divorce, and his wondering why I’d let my body go when I had such a pretty face. (I didn’t ask him why he was losing his hair.)

We held hands.

He looked in my eyes.

I thought I’d die.

“I think one of your friends is trying to get your attention,” he finally said.

“I can talk to them anytime,” I told him, ignoring the others.

“Aren’t you going to introduce us?” Martha asked. Actually, to coin a oft-repeated phrase, she blurted her way into our conversation. The band was on break again. I guess she needed something to do. (If she would have reached over and grabbed his crotch, I would have killed her. Literally.)

So, I sighed and said, “Tony this is….” I introduced him to everyone around the table and got that out of our way. I turned my back on them as soon as I was done and hoped they wouldn’t bother us anymore. They didn’t.

Then he held my hand some more. I still get those shivers in the pit of my stomach just thinking about it.

“Did you drive?” he asked after an uncomfortable pause.

“Yes, but….”

“Would your friends mind if we’d leave?”

“They probably would,” I answered, “since they rode with me.”

“Should I follow you home then?” he asked.

Someday I’m going to learn how to not show my initial reaction. I don’t know if I had silently responded to that question by looking scared or what, but before I could answer, he asked, “You’ve never done this, have you?”

“Huh?” I really can sound intelligent sometimes. I guess this wasn’t the time.

“You’ve never gone to bed with someone you’ve just met, have you?”

I shook my head.

“I thought not. Why don’t you walk me to the door?”

I told the girls I’d be right back and slipped my hand into Tony’s as he stood up.

***

For a moment I thought about leaving with him. Connie could have picked up somebody who’d have taken them home.

We walked out of the bar and around the corner.

We stopped at the door. Tony leaned against the brick wall. I laid my head against his chest. I’d been waiting all evening to feel his shirt. I knew it had to be silk. It was.

“It’s probably just as well. I don’t think you could have handled it,” Tony said. “Innocence is commendable, I guess.”

I just looked into his eyes and said nothing.

He touched my face with his left hand and brushed my hair away from my mouth. I always shudder when a guy touches my face. I loved it then. Still do.

He smiled for a moment. My bottom lip quivered. Then he kissed me. A soft, tender kiss. And yes, I saw fireworks. I hope he did too. At times I remember thinking he was somewhat a rich snob. But for a moment at least, I felt him leave his conceit behind.

“I couldn’t do that to you, Trish,” he said as he placed both his hands on my shoulders. Pulling my head back down to his chest, he added, “I really don’t think you could handle tonight knowing that you’d never see me again.”

He kissed my forehead before ending our embrace. Then he walked out the door. He didn’t look back.

I leaned against the wall for a moment, took a deep breath, then turned and walked back into the bar.

***

You know, I would have let him come home with me. I could have worried about everything else - later.

Sometimes, when I feel like escaping for awhile, I read a romance novel. Other times I imagine that had he spent the night with me, he would have become so obsessed that I would have seen him again. And again. That’s what always happens in the novels. And I love happy endings. Of course, I call them happy beginnings. I met mine in church. He wears dark socks with his suit now.

###

Copyright © 2001-2008 Pamela Rice Hahn
All Rights Reserved

Author bio:

Pamela Rice Hahn is the author of The Everything Improve Your Writing Book, Lazy About Grilling, Journey to the Center of the Internet, Macmillan Teach Yourself Grammar and Style in 24 Hours, The Unofficial Guide to Online Genealogy, and 13 other books. In addition to her editing and design work on The Blue Rose Bouquet; Pam has also created a number of other Web sites, including Chronic-Illness.org, GenealogyTips, Fawnn.com, and CookingWithPam. You can learn more about her by visiting her personal Web site.

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