The Thrill of the Deal

By Dale R Marquardt

This is a reflowable version of the book: THE THRILL OF THE DEAL which is a story of the American dream, realized through real estate. In it, we see how Midwesterner Dale Marquardt moved to California and used imagination, guts, luck, and good humor to build a $50 million income-property portfolio that changed his family's fortunes in a single g

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dale R Marquardt
• Release date: Nov 6, 2023
• ISBN: 9798987286333

Book preview

Introduction

I turned left on Border, toward the ocean. The street only extended one block before I was forced to turn right onto Sierra Avenue. On my right was a shabby mobile-home park. To my left was vacant land, hundreds of acres along the bluff to the ocean edge, an incredible sight, interrupted only by six fourplexes a hundred yards ahead. There were no houses anywhere in sight for perhaps a mile. For some reason, I continued to drive forward. At the short street called Del Mar Shores Terrace I drove into the cul-de-sac and saw a second incredible sight. A man with a hammer was pounding the stake of a white wooden sign into the ground by the curb. The sign had black, hand-painted words on it saying, For Sale by Owner and a phone number.

I drove ahead until I was across the street from the man, who had just finished installing his sign. I stopped and rolled down my window. There were two sets of three fourplexes facing each other across the street. His fourplex was on the left side of the street, and closest to the ocean. He looked at me and smiled.

What are you asking? I called out.

Seventy-five thousand, he told me. It’s a fourplex. It’s a good deal.

I’ve got $15,000 cash in the bank, I said.

That’ll work. My lender told me they could provide a $60,000 loan to my buyer.

My heart was thumping hard. Well, I think we can do business. What’s the next step? I asked.

Come on inside and let’s talk. He pointed at his fourplex. Meet my wife.

I parked the car and my own wife, Martha, and I followed him toward his front door. He stopped and waited for us to catch up. Martha had stopped in the middle of the street. I went back to talk to her. She took my hand. She was looking worried.

Are you serious? she whispered. I thought we were looking for a house in Encinitas. We never even got to Encinitas. The street sign said this is Solana Beach. Are you sure this is a good deal?

I think it is. I think it is! It’s mind-blowing if we can buy it. But at this point we’re just talking. It won’t hurt to talk, I told her.

I was excited, and I could not hide it. I wanted that fourplex.

1

It all began one evening in early April 1961, after dinner 
with an acquaintance, Jim Randell, from my hometown in Wisconsin. A mutual friend had told me that Jim lived in Duluth, Minnesota, where I had just moved, and suggested I call Jim. I was hesitant at first. I did not know Randell that well. He’d gone to a private school somewhere in the East and only returned to our hometown during summer vacations. My best remembrance of him came from seeing him strut around the town’s sole municipal swimming pool. He was a real Adonis: tall, handsome, well-built, and with wavy blond hair. The girls loved to watch him strut around. The guys did not. But since I had been given his phone number, I would be expected to follow up. And, frankly, I needed some social activity.

My company had sent me to Duluth just a month previously, and I hadn’t made any friends yet. Everyone at my ten-person office was older and married, so not good candidates to go out at night, searching the social scene. Sitting alone every night in my apartment, watching my black-and-white television, had gotten damn boring fast. So I called Jim. He was enthusiastic about going out to dinner. I was surprised, but pleased. Maybe a friendship might come out of it. I liked to golf. Maybe Jim liked to golf also. I had recently passed a local golf course and noticed that the snow had almost all melted away. Brown patches of winter kill were everywhere in sight, but if you’re a golf fan, you don’t care about the look of the fairway grass. You’re just ready to start playing again, no matter what.

Yeah, dinner sounds great, Jim said. Doggie Berg told me you lived here now. Let’s do it.

Great, I said. What’s a good day for you?

What’s wrong with tonight? It’s only five. I have no conflicts. How about seven o’clock?

That’s fine with me. You know the town best. You pick the place.

How about the London Road Inn—good fish place? It’ll be dark when we get there tonight, so it’ll be hard to see the view, but it’s a great place to go in the summer. Overlooks Lake Superior and the big ships coming in to load wheat. They toot their horns, and the bridge operator opens the split bridge and the ships sail under into the harbor.

Sounds interesting, I said. I’ll come get you. I need to learn the town.

Okay. Done. Hey, I’m glad you called, Jim said. Then he gave me his address.

I was happy to drive. I would have been embarrassed for Jim to see the big old house where I had rented a third-floor apartment. Having him walk up all those creaky wood stairs wasn’t something I would be proud of.

Jim’s address was a small craftsman-style house, neat and trim, and painted white. Since he’d gone to school back East, I assumed that he was rich, so he probably owned it. I had a flash of envy, but then realized that the house was within the financial range of anyone with a college degree. That was stupid, I thought, laughing. He was two or three years older, and many more years ahead of me in earnings and savings. I was just starting to cash my first salary checks. I would catch up someday soon.

Jim was correct about the London Road restaurant. It had large windows facing the lake and a nice, subdued atmosphere, dimly lit, with cushioned red leather booths in the 1950s style in fashion in those days. He suggested the salmon with a Caesar salad and I followed his lead. The food was terrific. We split a bottle of Cabernet, and soon were talking about personal subjects and getting to know each other better.

Jim told me about his group medical-insurance sales and the business’s problems. Too many potential clients were rejecting his sales pitch lately. His company’s rates were too high, and Jim was taking it personally. It was devastating to his ego. But then he switched the discussion to his social life, and that made him feel better. He told me he had just gotten engaged to his girlfriend of the past year. Then it was my turn to talk.

You say you graduated from high school in 1953, but you just graduated from college three months ago, Jim said. That’s eight years. What took you so long?

It’s a long story.

I’ve still got a full glass of wine left, he said.

Well, my father died when I was a senior in high school, I began.

I’m sorry to hear that.

Thank you. It was unexpected. Anyway, the money stopped coming in, of course. He only had $5,000 in life insurance. My mother had to keep that for emergencies, so she went to work at Winkelman’s Store, as a saleslady. I went to work at the first supermarket in town, out on Stewart Avenue, stocking shelves after school and on weekends. We both made a dollar an hour. My sister had a secretary job at Murray’s Foundry, but she had a boyfriend and they were talking marriage. She couldn’t help. We were in bad financial shape. There was no way I could afford college then, even University of Wisconsin–Madison, which was cheap for residents.

What did you do?

Had to get a job, and the only place I could make more than a dollar an hour was a factory—Marathon Corporation.

That big red brick building on Bridge Street?

Yes. It paid $1.75 per hour.

A bonanza at that point, Jim agreed.

It sure was then. The only problem—it was the night shift. Eleven in the evening until seven in the morning. But it was a full-time job. I could save a lot more there.

Sounds pretty grim. What about you and a love life? Working at night had to be hell.

Bonnie, my girlfriend, hung in there pretty well for two years. Then she fell in love with a guy in med school at Madison. I couldn’t blame her. It looked like I was going nowhere.

Hmmm. So you’re at Marathon.…

Yes. We had a four-man crew, hidden away in an isolated part of the warehouse, where even the foreman did not come. We were cutting meat boards.

Meat boards? What’s that?

Well, it was an odd operation. Two guys operated cutting machines. I ran an electric dolly, and I would bring the cutters big sheets of white cardboard that they would cut into various small sizes for pork chops, steaks, or roasts at the stores. I would take the cut boards to the packing man, and then I would haul away the pallets full of packages to the warehouse and bring more cardboard stock to the cutters.

God, I don’t remember meat boards, Jim said. Hey, do you want to order another bottle of Cab?

No, too much wine only makes me sleepy.

Okay. Proceed.

Well, the supermarkets around the country all used them. They put the meat on the boards and covered it with cellophane. We cut millions of meat boards in my time at Marathon Corp.

I’m sure you’re right.

Anyway, the foreman apparently never figured things out. My crew came to work at eleven in the evening, and by two in the morning we’d reached our quota.

Sounds great.

No. It was terrible. We only had to work for three hours, but we couldn’t punch out till seven—five long hours with nothing to do.

Yeah…. So how did your crew handle it?

We had meat board fights. We threw them at each other, all four of us. I got so good at it that I could take a stack of small boards, pork chops, for example, hold them in my left hand and fling them one at a time with my right hand, like a Gatling gun, at the other guys. I could flip my wrist and make the board curve, hit the other guys even if they were hiding behind their machines. It was like a snowstorm of meat boards in the air. We laughed like idiots. When the fight was over, there were so many boards on the floor that it took an hour to clean them all up.

Who started all this organized grab ass? Jim asked.

I don’t know. It had been going on for years when I got there. Some of the guys on my crew were forty years old. You had to do something for five hours every night or go crazy. You can only talk baseball or football just so long.

Okay. You couldn’t quit. You were saving money for college. When was there enough in the bank? How long did it take?

Two years. Then I went three years at Madison. Economics major. And then the Army drafted me, midsemester. Did my basic training at Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri. After that, radio school at Fort Chaffee, Arkansas.

Radio school?

Morse code. You know, da-da-ditty-dit. Then I was sent to Korea, Eighth Army.

Wasn’t the war over by then?

Yes. But much of the damage was still visible. Roofs missing on factory buildings. Machine gun bullet holes on walls. The country was war-torn. So poor. Everyone lived in tiny wood houses.

What did you do there?

They sent me to a military police company serving the repo depot area, where all GIs coming in or going out of Korea were processed.

And?

And they didn’t know what to do with me. The war was over. No need for code secrecy any longer. The MPs had no use for my skills. They only had voice radios in their jeeps. I wasn’t trained to fix radios. The captain decided I would run the company switchboard and play the records over the loudspeaker for reveille, chow call, and taps at night.

A disc jockey, Jim laughed.

Hardly, you could have trained a monkey to do what I did.

You did that your entire tour?

No, it got worse. Or, no, maybe better. The Army sent us a pole climber, but we had no utility poles for him to climb. The captain was already basically hiding me. Now he had to hide this new guy, Provost, from Smoke Rise, New Jersey. Nice guy, but what a dilemma. The captain finally decided that Provost and I would run the switchboard alternately—one week on and one week off.

You mean you worked two weeks a month?

That’s right.

You’re a lucky guy. Born to do nothing. How long was your tour?

Thirteen months.

So basically you worked six months, sitting on your ass and picking up the phone when the switchboard buzzed. And you said what?

‘Necktie Delta, sir.’ When I got home, it took me a month to stop saying that when the phone rang.

What did you do on your off-duty weeks?

I learned to play ping-pong in the day room, a sort of lounge where off-duty guys hung out to kill time. Meddich, a kid from Michigan, was always there. He was an expert at ping-pong. He taught me about topspin. Most people served by hitting the ball in the middle. That’s all wrong. You got to hit the ball on the top, to put topspin on it. That keeps the ball bouncing low over the net and your opponent can’t hit a return hard. He has to block it, which pops the ball up in the air, and I’m waiting there, ready to slam the ball back.

Obviously, playing two weeks per month, you got pretty good.

Yes. Only Meddich could beat me. Once Meddich shipped out for home, I was the best player in the two-hundred-man company.

So nobody new coming in could beat you?

No. Well, there was one person who always could. The mama-san could. She was the company tailor. But she didn’t live on base, so I didn’t count her as part of the company. She always played defense. Just blocked shots. Held the paddle with the handle pointed up. The volleys lasted forever. I hated that. I had gotten used to it being over immediately with the guys.

How long was your tour again?

Thirteen months.

Good God. You played ping-pong for six months and answered the telephone for six months.

You got it. The rest of the time, when I wasn’t doing any of those things, I read books and rode around the country in the commo truck. I saw a lot of the country. Lots of steep mountains with artillery placements on them. The Koreans were rebuilding Seoul. I saw them building multistory office buildings with only bamboo scaffolding lashed together. I heard they had done it that primitive way for decades.

And the girls. What about the girls?

Ah, the girls. Lots of them pretty. Wonderful skin. You probably didn’t know that Korean girls only have hair on their heads. Not one hair anywhere else on their bodies. Nowhere. None. It was a little shock at first.

Really? Are you serious? How is that possible? Jim insisted.

Don’t ask me. Obviously, a phenomenon of nature, I guessed, naïvely. But it’s true. When I told my houseboy, Sung Pil Suh, who took care of our Quonset hut, that American girls had hair on their arms and legs and pubic area, he shivered with disgust. He couldn’t believe I would love a woman like that. He lost respect for me after that. I could sense it.

This world sure can be bizarre, Jim said. Did your houseboy have hair anywhere else than on his head?

When I asked him, he only laughed. Had to be true, though.

Jim shook his head slowly, contemplating it all. Then he drained the last sip of wine from his glass and smiled.

Well, do you have any other wild stories? he asked.

No, I guess not, I said, thinking. Well, this isn’t wild. Just my flight home.

Okay, let’s hear it.

My first hop was from Tachikawa Airfield in Japan to Wake Island, a little dot in the Pacific. I was on a Continental Airliner, you know the ones with the round, vertical tail sections.

I know the ones you mean. The Connies.

It was painted black, with big white letters on it: MATS, Military Air Transport Systems. Every passenger was in uniform.

A third-party contractor to the military.

When we landed on Wake, they had erected a huge steel net on pylons over the beach at the end of the runway. It was to catch the planes if they ran out of runway and plunged into the ocean. It was a very small island.

I don’t know, Jim said. Steel net or ocean? Which was best? Crash or drown?

They must have voted for crash. Anyway, the next hop was from Wake to Hawaii. The Honolulu Airport terminal was tiny. Only had three walls. The fourth wall was open to the weather.

I’ve been there on a family vacation. Every day is eighty-three degrees. Great weather. I guess it could make sense.

All right, I said. Now I’m done with the past.

You’ve got some crazy memories, Jim said. I’ve really enjoyed our conversation.

It has been fun, I agreed. And dinner was great. Just like you promised.

My favorite place.

You ready to head for the barn?

Jim laughed. We’d had a good time. Maybe we could become friends. He picked up the dinner bill and looked at it briefly, then pushed his chair back from the table and stood up.

Split the bill okay with you? he asked.

Sure.

We paid and left.

2

In my car, as we started back to Jim’s house, he looked over at me. Hey, I’m feeling good. It must be all the stories and the wine. I’m not ready to hang it up at nine o’clock. How about a nightcap at The Flame?

The Flame?

It’s sort of a posh nightclub down by the harbor. Usually good music. The ladies like it. We might get lucky.

I thought you just got engaged.

I know, but she’s out of town for the weekend, at a girlfriend’s wedding in Minneapolis.

Is that a good reason?

Are you ordained, pastor?

I laughed. No, I’m not. Let’s head for The Flame.

At The Flame, we left the car with the valet at the curb and went inside. The one big room of the night club was noisy, with probably forty tables, most of them occupied. It was more brightly lit than the restaurant we’d just left and had white tablecloths and gold paintings on the white walls. The piano player, a black man, was playing and singing a nice rendition of Satin Doll. There was no one sitting at the piano bar, so Jim suggested we sit there. A waitress in a short black skirt came over immediately and took our order. Jim wanted scotch and water, and I ordered a tall vodka tonic, knowing I could drink a lot of those, in case the evening ran later than just one nightcap. Now the pianist was singing You must take the ‘A’ train to go to Sugar Hill, way up in Harlem. Duke Ellington, I thought. Most people were involved in their own interests at the tables and not paying attention to the music.

Suddenly Jim stood up and pointed toward the door, smiling a big smile.

See that knockout who just walked in with the three older ladies? That’s an old girlfriend of mine. I’m going to see if she’ll join us.

He waved at her until he caught her attention, then beckoned her to come join us. The young beauty spoke briefly to a tall blonde lady in the group as the three of them were being seated. Then she started to walk across the dance floor toward us. When she entered the light of the singer’s spotlight, I could see that she truly was beautiful, a brunette with a wonderful smile. I was immediately drawn to her. Classy dresser, too, I thought, admiring her dark blue suit and pink silk blouse. She was still smiling as she walked up to where we were standing.

Martha, Jim announced, now smiling also. So nice to see you again. Long time no see. Maybe two years?

Yes, it’s been a long time, Martha replied.

They did not shake hands. They did not hug or kiss. I remember thinking those were good signs. There would be more emotion, if the fire still burned. Maybe this would be my lucky night. More important, while she was speaking to Jim she kept glancing at me. Eyes are so enlightening when judging if there is any interest. Jim was stiff competition—there was no doubt about it. But he was engaged now. That had to make such a difference. Still, my best hope was that their relationship had not ended well.

I want you to meet my friend, Dale, Jim said.

Hello, she said.

She was now looking at me all the time. She was smiling a warm smile that said, I like you. I smiled back at her.

A pleasure to meet you, I said.

I’ve never met another Dale.

That’s because the other Dales have all changed their name.

She laughed briefly. Don’t like your name?

Not really.

I don’t like Martha either, she confessed.

I do. You’re the only Martha I’ve ever met. What’s your last name?

Mathis.

Martha Mathis, I repeated. I like the alliteration.

Hey, what is this? Jim interrupted. Am I invisible here? Let’s sit down. How about a drink.

Yes, I agreed. How about your lady friends? What do you think they want to drink?

Probably old-fashioneds, Martha guessed.

That fits, Jim joked.

Still the smartass, Martha said. She had instantly caught the connection between the ages of her friends and the name of the drinks.

Absolutely!

And what would you like? I asked Martha in the pause that followed.

Chardonnay, she said.

I flagged down our waitress, ordered for both tables, and told her to put all the drinks on my tab.

You ladies out on the prowl? Jim asked.

No. We were at Northland Country Club, playing bridge in a tournament. No drinking allowed. So when we won, we decided to celebrate by coming here for a drink.

So you had the big cards, tonight? I guessed.

"Yes, we did. And I really did. Bid and made two grand slams."

Whoa, that’s something, I said.

You like bridge? she asked.

I do.

I do, too.

Maybe the two of us were creating our own little relationship. Things seemed to be going well. I was encouraged.

Will you two stop talking to each other like I’m not even here? Jim interrupted.

Okay, I said, start talking.

Well… Jim asked, are you still flying with American?

Yes, I’m just home on vacation. Wanted to see Mom.

That blonde with your three ladies. That’s your mother, isn’t she? Jim asked.

Yes.

I thought I recognized her. She was a redhead last time I met her.

Well, you know women, Martha replied.

There was a lull in the conversation while the waitress brought Martha’s drink. Martha got her chardonnay, but only toyed with the glass. The three ladies had, indeed, ordered old-fashioneds. They waved their thanks when the waitress brought them.

Are you still domiciled in Chicago? Jim asked.

Yes, still there. Flying out of O’Hare.

And is Avis still your roommate?

Yes.

I always felt like I was renting a car when I was calling for you, but she answered the phone, Jim said with a laugh. Then he laughed even harder, enjoying his joke.

You’re hilarious, Martha replied.

Jim was pleased, I am?

No, she said flatly.

She could go toe-to-toe with Jim. I liked that. She was not only beautiful and nice, but also had a sharp wit.

I was only trying to make conversation, Jim said. There was a long pause. No one knew how to start again.

I really should be getting back to my ladies, Martha finally said.

No, Martha—stay, Jim said. We’ll drive you home. Okay?

Yes, I agree. Stay, I added.

She looked at Jim and then at me. All right, she said at last.

I did not want her to leave. I felt certain, with her now threatening to leave, that Jim would shape up and stop trying to be funny. I wanted her there, next to me at the piano bar, so I could look at her perfect profile and listen to her speak. I did not often get a chance to sit so close to such a lovely girl.

Jim turned the conversation to his complaints about his work problems—the same story I’d already heard at dinner, so I hardly paid attention. But when Martha entered into the conversation at last, I listened to every word. She was facing a big decision with her job. She’d been a stewardess at American Airlines for four years and had always flown on two-engine propeller DC-3 aircraft. Now those planes were being phased out, in favor of the big, new jet airliners. That meant returning to American’s hub in Dallas and going through training again to learn her new duties on a jet. Beyond that, she would find out if she would be transferred to a big eastern city, as had been rumored. She said she was not sure she wanted to go through all that. She said she hated change. I liked that part of the story. I did not want her going to Dallas.

When it was my turn, I told them briefly about my new job, handling insurance claims. I had only been in the job for two months, half of that time training at the home office in Wisconsin. So I did not have much to talk about, yet.

By then, Martha’s lady friends had waved goodbye and left and it was almost ten thirty. We all agreed it was time to head home. I was excited by the prospect of walking Martha to the door of her mother’s home and asking for a date, and maybe even kissing this wonderful girl that I had just met.

I paid the bar bill, and we left The Flame. We retrieved my car from the valet. Martha said she liked my car, a 1959 Bonneville convertible. White body and top, plus whitewall tires and red leather seats.

What a beautiful car, she said.

Thanks. Just bought it from a hometown hero, a guy named Bud Heymann. He’s a reserve catcher for the Cincinnati Reds in the National League. He doesn’t get much time in the game.

Wow, it has a good history, too.

I was impressed. She knew it was a big deal for someone to make it to the big leagues in baseball. Many girls would not know that. I liked sports and it was good that Martha did also.

It was a short drive to Jim’s house. As we approached it, Jim said, Just drop us off at my house.

What? Immediately I was angry. When was that decided? I’d only been out of their presence for a few minutes, when I went to the restroom. I wasn’t prepared for this turn of events. Jim was engaged—what was he thinking? I thought his engagement would take him out of the picture. And Jim had said we would take her home. Not he—we. That was the operative word.

But Martha was silent. What had he said to her? Or maybe it was my fault. I hadn’t asked her for a date or her phone number. Maybe she translated those omissions into a lack of interest on my part. I was stupid, I thought. I had waited too long, thinking I had time for all that at her mother’s door. Now it was too late.

I didn’t want to start a nasty argument with Jim, or perhaps even a fight. Girls didn’t like conflict. So I said nothing. Jim had won, but it was only the first round. The fight was not over. Tomorrow, I vowed, I would ask him for her phone number. Then I would call her to explain my seeming reticence. She would learn both sides of the issue. She could make her decision: Jim or me. Yes, I thought, I would win then. That was a better way to address this sudden mess.

Conversation basically ceased after Jim’s announcement. I dropped them both off at Jim’s house and we all said goodnight. I sat behind the wheel and watched them enter his house, watched the lights come on inside. Even then, I did not drive away. I waited for a few minutes, just in case Martha changed her mind and appeared at the door. When nothing happened, I finally gave up hope and drove to my apartment. I went to bed, but not to sleep.

3

I lay there for hours. Images of her flowing through my mind. The smile on her face as she walked up to join us. When she’d slid onto the high stool at the piano bar next to me, she arched her back momentarily, and showed her nice bottom in her tight skirt. She had a nice top, too. Perfect. She was really perfect. I tried to guess what it might be like to put my arms around her and hug her tight and kiss her. Would she like that? Would she like to French kiss? And what else? I did not want to think about what she might be doing with Jim. I did not care. We all had lovers in our past. You have to forget all that. In fact, it actually made us better lovers in the future.

I finally fell asleep at about four and slept until noon. I shaved and showered, but I knew I was not going to work that day. I was too upset with my life. After lunch, I called Jim. He said he did not want to talk about last night. I asked him what that meant. He didn’t answer, and when I asked him for Martha’s phone number, he said he wasn’t ready to give it to me yet. I was not prepared for that type of answer either. I had thought he was a nice guy. I’d been giving him too much credit. Now it seemed he was trying to make up his mind between Martha and the girl he was engaged to. What a devious bastard. I didn’t want him now as a friend. Made a friend. Lost a friend. All in just a few hours.

Over the next two weeks I must have called Jim a dozen times, and always got the same nonresponse. There were no Mathis names in the phone book either. Since I didn’t know her mother’s last name I was at a dead-end there also. What a dummy I was. I should have spoken up at The Flame—or in the car. I should have fought for Martha. But I’d never dreamed Jim would turn out to be such an ass.

Finally, on April 18, 1961, a date that will live in my mind forever, Jim gave me Martha’s phone number. Her mother was married to a man named Marv Bruton and they lived on Branch Street in the east end of town. I called Martha immediately.

Hello, Martha, it’s Dale.

Oh my God! I’m so happy you called. We were just going out the door to drive to the market when I heard the phone ring. I said to Mom, ‘Maybe that’s him,’ and I ran back inside to answer it. And it was you. Oh, I’m so happy you called.

Jim wouldn’t give me your phone number. I tried for two weeks.

That sounds like him. I never saw him again after that night at The Flame. He tried a few things.

That instantly made me feel better. Much better. Jim had tried. But not succeeded.

Would you like to go out to dinner tonight? I asked.

Yes. I’d love to. What time?

I’ll pick you up at seven. Jim gave me your address, on Branch Street.

That’s the only thing he did right. He wouldn’t tell me your last name or phone number either.

Well, forget him.

Yes, let’s do that. Is it dressy or casual tonight?

I thought I’d wear a sport coat. We’ll go to the Black Bear Lounge.

Dressy, she responded. I’ll be ready.

Love at first sight—for me at least. I’d known many girls, but no one like her. Excitement again, just like the first night. I didn’t know if I’d ever had a phone call that made my heart beat that fast. I could feel it thump.

When I picked her up, she was wearing a black suit, white blouse, and silver heels. Classy, as always. I didn’t know if I was ever that interested in a girl’s clothes before. I kissed her once, briefly, before I put her in the car. It was only a mile or so to the Black Bear Lounge, the restaurant in the fanciest hotel downtown that had gotten its name when a bear had wandered into town and crashed through a big plate glass window years back.

The lobster dinner was excellent, as I expected. I bought an expensive bottle of wine. I didn’t know about wine, so I let the waiter, an older gentleman, make a suggestion and followed his lead. I’d never spent that much for dinner before, but I was happy to do so. I wanted to show this girl a good time. I wanted to impress her.

Martha wasn’t interested in going anywhere for a drink after dinner. It was dark and almost nine o’clock. I was glad she said she wanted to go home. I thought both of us might have the same thing on our minds. That one little kiss earlier was not enough. We parked in front of her mother’s house. It was a corner lot and there was a streetlight, but it was across the street and dim. The night was cool and our breaths were warm, so the car windows fogged up and made the car nice and cozy. I had the radio on low, playing torch songs on WGN, the Chicago station that brought us Pierre Andre and American Airlines ’til Dawn. A wonderful atmosphere. We talked and kissed. And talked and kissed some more.