Jessie & The Tornado Ch. 03

I laughed out loud, and then closed down the computer.

I spent the rest of the day working outside. First I went to a local garden center, explained about the three weed-infested flower beds, and bought some weed killer, then stopped at a rental place and rented a garden tiller.

I sprayed the weed killer in the flower beds, then plowed everything up, followed by another application of weed killer.

The guy at the garden center explained that after about two or three weeks, I would be able to start planting flowers. By then the weed killer would no longer be effective, but would have killed everything already in the flower beds.

I returned the tiller, then stopped at a local restaurant and ate.

During the entire day, I kept thinking about Jessie's last e-mail and would sometimes laugh out loud remembering how she called me "Methuselah," then wrote, "Up Yours!"

Then I would remember her face with the faint white line across her eyebrow, and how full and soft her lips looked . . . (stop it, stop it, don't even think about it!).

By then it was early evening so I returned home and checked my e-mail. Even though Jessie said it would probably be very late before she got back to her dorm, I was still vaguely disappointed there were no e-mails.

I unpacked from my trip, started washing clothes and getting ready to go back to work the next day. By the time I went to bed that night, there was still no e-mail from Jessie.

The next morning, however, I did have the promised response.

Dear Mr. Walker, Oh Ancient One (Sam)

Okay, I will accept your hypothesis (for the moment) that you aren't THAT old.

But someone did tell me you are old enough that you actually know which came first, the chicken or the egg! Is that true? And which was it?

Someone named a baby after you? Must have been really homely! (Grinning)

And I hoped he kicked you where it counted.

By the way, after he kicked you, did you fall face first into a flower bed and wake up (much later) with a mouth full of dirt and crying for your "Mommy"!!! (Evil grin)

You are seriously going to try to use the pathetic "blonde" excuse to explain my behavior?? Really, I expected something more from someone of your advanced age.

Now, as to your comment about "weakly kicked soccer ball," and "feeble soccer kick," I present this as a standing challenge. I will play against you, one-on-one, anywhere, anytime, anyplace (your choice) in a game of soccer. You can be the goalie, and I will let you see first-hand just how "weakly" and "feebly" I can kick a soccer ball. Just be sure to bring your medical kit BECAUSE YOU WILL NEED IT after I start bouncing soccer balls off your head, and any other part of your anatomy I choose! I do hope your health insurance is fully paid up.

I will be eager to hear your excuse as to why you will duck my challenge, because I know you aren't really man enough to accept!

Again, I want to thank you for your kind comments about how "hot" I am. At least I know that you aren't so old that you have completely forgotten what a female body looks like.

Your friend,

Jessie

P.S.: Oh, I did a search on the Internet to find out what the "USMC" meant on your cap. The only thing I could find was "Uncle Sam's Misguided Children." Seems very fitting for you.

I knew Jessie was probably already in class, but I went ahead and answered anyway.

Dear Miss Johansson, Oh Ye Misguided Young One, Jessie,

Question #1: What do you call it when a blonde dyes her hair brunette?

I have been sworn to secrecy, thus cannot reveal which came first, the chicken or the egg.

Actually, it was the cutest baby you have ever seen.

He kicked me in the chest.

I will just ignore your ridiculous comments about falling face first into a flower bed and crying for my Mommy. Really, that is beneath you – or at least it should be. But then again, you attend the University of Georgia.

I hope you do realize that there is, in fact, no such thing as a "blonde joke?" They are all documented case histories.

And I am MORE than happy to accept your challenge to a game of one-on-one soccer.

First, however, I must say I am becoming really concerned about the youth of today, and their apparent lack of a proper education at our so-called institutions of higher learning. Actually, does UGA qualify for that sobriquet?

And I will stop typing for a few minutes while you look that word up.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Are you back yet, after looking it up? Or is Georgia still using coloring books for dictionaries? What was it that former Florida head football Coach Steve Spurrier said after hearing about a fire at the main library at UGA several years ago: "The real tragedy is that some of the books hadn't been colored in yet?"

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Well, I can't wait any longer.

One thing you should realize is – and now seems to be a perfect opportunity to instruct you – that old age and trickery will ALWAYS overcome youth and skill.

So, I get to choose "anywhere, anytime, anyplace?"

Okay, I am a member of the local YMCA, so I choose the next Saturday you are home, at High Noon (just like in the old cowboy movies). The place will be the Olympic-size swimming pool at the "Y."

My goal will be the shallow end, and you can kick from the deep end of the pool, in about six or eight feet of water.

Old age, and trickery, Miss Johansson, ALWAYS overcomes youth and skill.

And yes, I remember what a female body looks like! Do you know anyone who has a nice one?

Your friend,

Sam

P.S.: Answer to Question #1: It is called artificial intelligence.

P.P.S.: USMC, Miss Johansson, is the last, best hope for America. It stands for United States Marine Corps, or a group of people who write a blank check to their country that says, "For any amount, up to and including my life." Although I will admit, at times, if you have ever been around any Marines, "Uncle Sam's Misguided Children" does have some relevancy.

By the time I left for work I still had not heard from Jessie, and then I was so busy dealing with one emergency after another, plus trying to get some sleep at the fire station, that it was the next morning before I had a chance to check my mail.

Wow!

Dear Mr. Senile Old Man,

You are the most arrogant, opinionated, chauvinistic, exasperating man I have ever met in my life!

Your e-mail is living proof that one of the perks of being OLD is that your supply of brain cells is finally down to a manageable size. Notice that I said your supply of brain cells is finally down to a manageable size, NOT that you were doing a good job of managing them.

Yes, we BOTH know someone who has a female body. A very NICE female body. Based on how your eyes were nearly bugging out of your head a little more than a week ago from ogling me, it is now obvious that the blood flow has fled your brain and settled elsewhere.

Your invitation to play soccer in the swimming pool is nothing more than a blatant attempt to get me into a bikini!

Well I ACCEPT your challenge, and intend to wear one of my most revealing bikinis. Chew on THAT thought for a while . . . oh, do you actually have any teeth left to chew with??

If you have enough blood supply left in your limited brain to continue to read this, then I will accept the challenge, based on one proviso. Oh, I forgot that you were a Marine. Perhaps you should ask one of the neighborhood fifth-graders what that word means. I have been told that only rarely do Marines or former Marines understand words with more than three or four letters.

In fact, at UGA, AFTER we finish coloring in the coloring books, we usually send them to the Marine Corps since everyone knows Marines can't color within the lines, and usually can't be trusted with crayons. They tend to stick the crayons in their noses and ears, and other disgusting places.

The one proviso (assuming you have now learned what that word means) is that after I bounce a few dozen soccer balls off your head, YOU have to take ME to MY restaurant of choice.

Assuming you have enough blood left in your pea size brain to make a choice, do you accept?

I will probably be returning home the last weekend in April.

Your friend,

Jessie

Xoxo

P.S.: Earlier today one of my friends told me that one of the nicknames for Marines was . . . I don't remember exactly (you know how much trouble blondes have remembering things) . . . Leatherbrain, or Leatherhead or maybe Leatherface? I know it was Leather-something! So far, based on some of your idiotic comments, I would have to think Leatherbrain.

P.P.S.: I do hope you realize that I have nothing but respect for Marines, and the sacrifices they make for our country. Thank you Sam, for serving your country.

P.P.P.S.: How was the Marine killed while drinking milk? The cow fell on him.

I was laughing my ass off and immediately hit "respond." Unfortunately I wasn't able to finish my e-mail since we had an extremely busy day so I saved my partially completed response in my draft folder, then finished it that night after work.

The entire rest of the day at work, however, I kept seeing Jessie's face with the little white line along her eyebrow and her soft, soft lips (stop it, stop it, and don't even think about it!).

Dear Jessie,

Question #2: Why did the blonde protest the results of the Olympic swimming event she was participating in at the London Olympics?

I received your e-mail, and must say I am completely appalled at the numerous errors contained within.

Before I get to the core subject you tried (in your limited way) to address, I simply must discuss these errors.

I can only hope that if you ever find anyone willing to give you a job, then that person is himself or herself a graduate of UGA, so they won't notice your grammatical errors.

For instance: "Oh, do you actually have any teeth left to chew with?"

Really, Miss Johansson! I would have thought that even grade school students in Georgia were aware that the proper phraseology is: "Oh, do you actually have any teeth left, with which to chew?"

And yes, I have a mouth full of teeth. And they are all my own.

What do you get if you put 32 Georgia football players in the same room?

A full set of teeth.

When you are signing your name with an "X" it is only necessary to use one, and it is not necessary to add any additional letters.

Now to address some of the issues raised in your rambling, disjointed e-mail.

First, Marines don't need to color within the lines. That's why they make explosives. We can just blow the lines to bits.

Second, my blood supply and blood flow is fine. Thank you for your concern.

Third, Yes, I will concede that you have a female body, but it is just unfortunate that you also have a blonde's brains to try to power said female body.

Fourth, Yes, I did (once or twice) glance your way as we were weeding my flower bed. I was afraid your mind would wander and it is too small to be out on its own.

Fifth, after our soccer game, I will agree to take you to your favorite posh, upscale restaurant, although I have to confess I haven't been to McDonalds since shortly before my freshman year of high school.

I guess I had better stop counting now, since I have already reached the number of fingers you have on one hand. I don't know if you have had advanced math class at UGA yet, where they teach you to count on the fingers of your other hand, plus all 10 toes.

Your friend,

Sam

P.S. After finishing fourth, she claimed all the other swimmers were cheating while they were participating in the Breast Stroke. "They were using their arms," she claimed.

P.P.S.: The actual term, Miss Johansson (which I am sure you already know), is Leatherneck. That goes back to the ancient days of sailing ships (back when I first joined) when Marines were issued swords and would frequently engage in sword fights while boarding hostile ships, or fending off attacks on their own ships. To prevent swords from chopping off heads, the Marines wore leather collars about three or four inches high around their necks. I suggest you read and remember: there will be a test on this later!

P.P.P.S: I knew you were just teasing me Jessie, about what USMC meant. Believe me, I was not offended, and was laughing. One of my all-time favorite jokes is: What is the difference between the Marine Corps and the Boy Scouts? The Boy Scouts have adult supervision. If you have ever seen a group of young Marines together . . . then you would know exactly what that means.

P.P.P.P.S.: Did you hear about the blonde who fell off the horse and was nearly trampled to death? Fortunately the manager of the Wal-Mart came out and was able to unplug the horse.

I had barely gotten any sleep at the fire station during my shift so I was getting ready to go to bed when I read her response.

Dear Sam (Leatherbrain, or whatever),

So you are claiming that you glanced at my female body, and all its charms, "once or twice?" Is that your story? Okay, then if it took us an hour to get the weeds out of your flower bed, the first glance lasted 30 minutes, and the second glance lasted 29 minutes, 58 seconds! I have never seen ANYONE stare that long without blinking before.

I can easily count to 22. That is ten fingers, ten toes, and two of something else that you couldn't take your eyes off of, you old pervert! I have it from very reliable sources that Marines, however, can only count to a maximum of 21 . . . you figure it out!!!! Actually, only exceptional, truly gifted Marines can count that high . . . the average Marine (like yourself????) can only count to 20 and a half!

What? No comment about my wearing my most revealing bikini?

Bring plenty of money, because it will NOT be an inexpensive meal at McDonalds.

Wow! It will be kind of like our first date!

Your friend,

Jessie

xoxo means love and kisses

As I started to read Jessie's e-mail, I have to confess I had the biggest grin on my face and laughed out loud at her claim of the amount of time I spent looking at her. When she started talking about counting, I was laughing so hard I was nearly crying, and already planning my response.

That changed completely when I read her comment about "our first date." Then when I saw the part about "xoxo means love and kisses," I think all the blood drained from my face.

Before this, I had just been exchanging very playful banter with a new friend. A friend who just happened to be a woman. Men who are friends tend to insult each other all the time. It's just part of who we are.

Suddenly it was no longer just playful banter.

April was still a few days away, so that meant it was less than eight months since my Debs had been killed.

I didn't respond to Jessie, just turned my computer off.

My first thought to myself was, "What in the name of God are you doing, you idiot?"

How did just joking around with a new friend suddenly turn into a date?

I don't know how long I just sat there staring at my now blank computer screen, but it must have been hours.

I finally got up and tried to go to bed, but I continued to think about what was going on, what I had done, how much I had screwed up . . . and mostly think about my beautiful, precious Debs. My mind got stuck on how much I loved her and missed her and how I now felt like I was somehow betraying her memory.

I didn't get much sleep that night. Every time I would fall asleep, I would start dreaming that someone was chasing Debbie. I was right behind them both, trying to catch the guy who was chasing her. But no matter how fast I ran, I could never catch up.

Each time the dream would end the same way. The guy would reach out, grab Deb's long red hair and jerk her to a stop. She would scream, "Saaaammmm!" and I would wake up, drenched in sweat.

When I got up I checked my e-mail and there was another one from Jessie. It started with an old man joke, then she said she had to go to class and would write more after school ended. I did not answer her.

I ate some cereal, and resumed working outside for the rest of the day, trimming the boxwoods in front of the house and gathering up all the old limbs I had cut off.

I did not check my e-mail the rest of the day, I just finally went to bed where I fell into a deep, deep sleep. I don't remember dreaming at all, but when I woke up the next morning my pillow was wet where I had been crying in my sleep.

When I finally checked my e-mail, I had two more from Jessie. One from the night before that contained another old man joke, plus a Marine joke, and a second e-mail she had sent only about 10 minutes earlier. This one had no jokes, but simply asked if I was okay, and if everything was alright.

Jessie had now sent me four e-mails that I left unanswered.

I spent the rest of the day working outside, but in the back yard this time.

When I finally checked my e-mail again, I had another letter from Jessie with several old man and Marine Corps jokes, then she told me about her day before again asking if everything was alright.

I again went to bed without answering her. The next morning I spent most of the day working outside again, but when I finally checked my email just before leaving for work she had not written anything to me.

Within minutes of arriving at the fire station for the beginning of my 24-hour shift, we were dispatched for a traffic accident with injuries. While on the way back to the station, we were called to a car fire. That was followed by another traffic accident, so it was nearly midnight when we got back.

This time, when I checked, I had two more e-mails from Jessie. The first, which she had sent around six pm simply asked how I was, and if everything was okay. Several hours later she had sent a second one, and this time she asked if I was upset about something, if she had done something to make me mad at her.

I knew I had to try to explain. It was not fair to Jessie to let her think she had done something wrong, when it was my fault – all my fault.

Dear Jessie,

Please don't be upset. But the truth of the matter is . . . there is something wrong. And it is me.

I like you Jessie, I really do. But I really think it would be better for you to find someone who has a lot more in common with you than I do.

You need someone who is fun to be around, who enjoys the same things you do. Probably someone closer to your age than I am.

I am so sorry that I apparently led you to believe otherwise.

The fact of the matter is I am damaged goods. And I just realized how damaged.

The fact is I am a long way – a long, long way – from starting dating again.

It has only been a little over seven months since my wife was killed, and I can't, I can't . . . that's it, I just can't. Not when I still love her and miss her so much.

I hope that someday you can forgive me, but right now I can understand if you hate me.

Right now, I hate myself for feeling like I led you on.

I hope that someday we can be friends again.

Sam