I was striding down Main Street, in uniform and on the job, when I noticed a woman waiting at a crosswalk half a block down from the Darress Theatre. Her face wasn’t fashion model material, but I check out every woman under my 50/150 formula (under 50 years/under 150 pounds). I turned my head just as the sun peeked through hazy, morning clouds. From thirty feet, I assessed her image—slim, 5’ 7”, short hair, narrow face, slightly hooked nose. Then a dark blue Toyota Camry stopped to let her cross—funny, the details you remember. When she stepped off the curb, the world brightened.
Some people look better when they move. This woman was like that. In motion, she became vivid—her maroon turtleneck and blue jeans more stylish, her skin tanner, and her honey-brown hair shinier. The woman’s build was more athletic than slim and more supple than athletic. She wasn’t overweight, but her clothes stretched as if she had recently put on a few pounds. I hoped she wasn’t planning a diet.
From the middle of the street, she glanced toward me. In that instant, a chill gripped my spine, dissipating only when she focused her exotic eyes on something else. I leaned into the street to watch her approach the near sidewalk.
I can tell a lot about people from the way they start their stride. I call it the walking lead, the body part that moves a tick before everything else. Most men are “head” or “shoulder” leads. A head lead indicates impatience. The shoulder lead—common among athletes—generates momentum. A hand lead reveals the most about personality, usually gentle and artistic. A knee lead is graceful and precise, like a gymnast, but sometimes indicates aloofness. One almost never sees a foot lead, reserved for storm troopers and Frankenstein.
The hip lead is the most distinctive for women. It’s impossible to swivel without leading a hip. Such a walk, although a tad obvious for my taste, can be mesmerizing. The woman in the crosswalk had my attention, but she didn’t lead with her hip.
Few people lead with multiple parts, but this woman’s knee and shoulder began in unison—grace and power in the same motion. Trained dancers and fashion models have knee-hip leads, but knee-shoulders are exceedingly rare; I rejoiced as if sighting an endangered species. And there was more to her walk than the lead.
Striding in sneakers, she flexed her ankles—really flexed, so that each stride surged with energy. Beyond the rhythm such movement added, it told me she wasn’t a slave to high heels, for I have observed that women who walk on stilts don’t have flexible ankles.
I was never so sorry to have a pedestrian clear a crosswalk. I even waited, illogically hoping that she might re-cross, until a car honked. I was standing in the street. Instantly, I felt idiotic and stepped back on the curb. The woman entered the new J & L Self-Defense Studio, which struck me as odd—she looked like she could take care of herself.
I hang nicknames on engaging people; she instantly became Wanda Walker. Wanda didn’t know it, but she had become my new fantasy girlfriend. I am incredibly loyal to the women I admire from afar. Before Wanda crossed the street, I had fantasized about a well-endowed waitress for 467 consecutive days. Okay, maybe that count wasn’t verifiably exact, but “467 days” sounds more pathetic than “well over a year,” and my love life is nothing if not pathetic.
Had I known where Wanda slept during the preceding three and a half years, I might not have been so easily converted. I should have suspected something from her darting glare, but I don’t read eyes as well as walks. Especially women’s.
For a decent-looking, reasonably smart guy, I’m plagued with uncertainty around women, a condition the equivalent of facial warts. Women—particularly attractive ones—detect my lack of confidence with radar that defies explanation. For years, I brooded about my plight. Now, I accept it, although I ponder the injustice whenever a pretty woman ignores me.
My mother can’t understand why I don’t have more confidence. My theory is that I lacked sisters while growing up, so the everyday life of girls is an ongoing mystery. My former career as a computer programmer didn’t wow the ladies, and being a Parking Enforcement Officer is a step down from computer geek. The day I spied Wanda Walker, I had been writing parking tickets in Boonton for almost two years. Still, at 42, I looked pretty sharp in my uniform, even without the cap, which wreaked havoc with my hair.
Before you think, “Loser, loser,” remember that a man should be judged by who he is, not by what he does for a living. Still, I’ll admit that when I graduated from Rutgers, I never expected to end up as a male meter maid. Sometimes, things just happen. Ten years ago, I moved to Boonton to live closer to Mom—after Dad died. Then two years ago, she broke her right hip the same month that my department was out-sourced. With time on my hands and an extra bedroom in my apartment, I asked Mom to stay with me while she rehabbed. I started writing the great American novel and took a part-time PEO job as a week-to-week favor for a friend. My so-called friend moved to California. Week-to-week became month-to-year. Mom suffered a series of complications—bad luck and mediocre doctors—and needs a walker to get around. She sold the old homestead and started looking for a retirement community. Now, she has bonded with two other widows in the building and isn’t looking anymore. They visit each other daily and, once a week, go out for lunch in a kibitzing ritual.
But I digress.
Five minutes after falling for Wanda, I stepped into Devilish Delights to buy a cup of tea. Josie, the Main Street gossip, was behind the counter.
“Green tea to go,” I said.
My order should have taken ten seconds, but Josie always treated me like a prime source, since traffic tickets in a small town constitute dirt. She dawdled while fitting the plastic top on my cup. Today, I needed no such foreplay to get me talking. I eagerly cast my line. “I just saw a very intriguing woman walk into the new self-defense studio.”
“Oh,” Josie gushed in a voice that sounded about twelve years old. “That’s the owner, Maria Lopez.”
“No. I know Maria.” I had chatted about parking with Maria—a beauty who was out of my league—several times on the sidewalk. “This one is taller, tanned, short honey-brown hair…”
Josie furrowed her brow.
I pondered how else to describe Wanda before saying, “Something foreign, kind of exotic, about the eyes.”
Josie stood on tiptoes; her eyelashes stretched to her frizzy bangs the way they did whenever she sniffed really juicy gossip. “Maybe she’s the mysterious partner.” Josie stretched out the word mysterious like a hissing snake.
“What mysterious partner?”
Josie leaned forward and whispered, “Well, Maria told me that she had a partner, an instructor, who wouldn’t be arriving until after the grand opening. That was yesterday—your day off.” (Everybody on Main Street knows which parking guy works on what days, and they jockey their cars, as appropriate.)
“Go on,” I said.
“I wasn’t introduced,” Josie said, “but I saw her. Rather angry-looking if you ask me. But I did get close enough to smell her White Linen.” She raised an eyebrow. “Nobody’s worn White Linen for years.”
“What’s the partner’s name?”
“Hmmm.” Josie posed as if she were a silent movie star trying to exude deep thought. “Something that starts with an S-sound. Cybil? No. Maybe Serena. I heard she’s part Peruvian and was moving here from Tennessee.”
“Tennessee?” I said, knowing that only minimal participation was required in a conversation with Josie. I coveted the cup of tea—still a few inches out of reach.
“Maria didn’t say much,” Josie said. “In fact, she was evasive”—more hissing—“You know, Ryan, when people are evasive, they have something to hide.”
“No?” I said with feigned enlightenment.
“Yes! And, although I haven’t confirmed it, mind you, I suspect that this Serena may be connected with South American drugs lords. Didn’t you read in the paper how they arrested a whole cartel in Nashville just last week?” She took a breath. There was no need for any input from me now—Josie was on a roll. “She has that shady look. Just like all drug dealers. Who knows where Maria met her; she’s Puerto Rican, herself. But that drug life won’t fly in Boonton. No sir-ree. Serena better watch her back, if you ask me.”
I smiled at the notion of watching Serena’s back.
Josie finally pushed my cup of tea forward.
“Thanks for the dope,” I said, laying down two dollars.
“Dope?” she whispered. “Dope? Don’t say that out loud, not with drug hussies in town. I don’t want to be associated with a person like that. No sir-ree.”
Sometimes, the best thing is to just nod, so that’s what I did. I drank my tea quickly, then headed downhill toward the Corner Pharmacy, old fashioned enough to have a sample of White Linen. On the way, two vehicles warranted tickets. The first was a pick-up that had been parked in front of the Post Office for three hours. The second was a Saturn that I had chalked two hours ago. I flipped open my pad and started writing. Melissa Hart burst out of a beauty salon. “No, Ryan, no!” She shook a key ring. “I was just about to move. Honest.”
Melissa is one of those women that Mom would like me to hook up with—attractive in a Barbie-doll way, bleach-blond, sweet as a Cinnabon, a churchgoer, divorced, only one kid. Maybe she isn’t my type, but the world would be a better place with more people like her. If I had known it was Melissa’s car, I might have cut her a break, but once the summons is written…
“Please, Ryan.” She fluttered fawning, green eyes, which looked about thirty. The rest of her face looked forty, her actual age.
“Sorry, Melissa. There’s nothing I can do.” I could have handed her the ticket, but out of habit I placed it under her wiper blade. “There’s a long term lot on Cornelia Street.”
“That’s always full,” she said, scrunching her face as if the ticket was the end of the world. Then, she tossed her hair back, like a model, complete with sultry pout. My ego appreciated her flirting, even as I suspected her motive. “It was only a few minutes extra,” she purred. “Right?” She was trying so hard that I felt sorry for her.
“Tell you what,” I said. “It was only a few minutes. I know your car now. Next time you’re over the limit, I’ll give you a pass. That’s the best I can do.”
“Okay.” Melissa turned and walked back into the salon, her posture regal, her gait swiveling. Normally, she was a hand-lead, but today she gave me the hip.
I chalked tires on the north side of Main while keeping one eye on the self-defense studio across the street. Thus distracted, I almost bumped into a woman pushing a baby carriage.
“Sorry,” I said. The baby was a cutie-pie. I smiled at her then at her mother, a woman whom I had never seen before.
“Do you know where the library is?” the mother asked.
“Another block up,” I said, pointing. “Have a great day.”
“Thanks. You, too.” She pushed the stroller up the street. I watched her walk—a shoulder lead, but that may have just been because of the stroller. I smiled, and I wasn’t sure why. Maybe because it was nice to wish a good day to a woman who was taken—a woman who was not, and never would be, in my sights.
* * *
I had discretion in setting my law enforcement route, so the next day, I hammered cars on the 500 block of Main. Once, I saw Serena in action through her studio window at 516, giving a lesson, but business was slow. Mostly, she stood outside in a black leotard, leaning against the facade, one foot raised, her shoe’s sole on the brickwork, rocking herself just enough so that she never appeared to be completely stationary. Her right hand hung at her side, fingers curled, as if caressing an invisible cigarette. Not that I was focusing on her hands. Leaning against the bricks, she appeared distinctly “harder” than when she walked. Her jaw was tense. She was damn good advertising for self-defense.
Every hour or so, I worked my way past the studio, content to watch her from across the street. When I came by late in the afternoon, she was standing out front in her regular clothes, a handbag slung on her shoulder. She smiled at me, almost like she had been waiting. I swear that she winked. Then she walked—her gait midway between glide and bounce—up a block and into the Darress Theatre.
