Thanks for Waiting for Me

It was one of those extended family brunch get-togethers that my cousin Larry and his wife Joan throw twice a year. They have a spacious rancher that can easily accommodate the twenty to twenty-five people who show up, people of all ages, from toddlers to seniors. We're all related, either by blood or marriage. Most of these people over the age of twenty-five are married, making me, age thirty-five, one of the few exceptions.

Nothing too "important" happens at these things. We talk, catch up on each other's lives and consume the delicious food laid out on the dining room table. It's eat, drink, be merry and talk, keeping the talk light, avoiding politics or serious personal issues.

But a few months ago, the keeping the talk light changed, at least for me. My cousin Midge brought along one of Midge's good friends. Marisa was her name. In her late twenties, she was, I learned later, a nurse. Even before we began to communicate, my eyes flickered as soon as she walked in. I tried to be discreet, to no avail, but I was in good company from the way the other guys reacted as soon as they saw this young beauty with the fine features, long brown hair, blue eyes and porcelainlike skin. She wore white jeans that hugged her legs and hips tight enough to where you didn't need a vivid imagination to see what she looked like under those jeans and the green pullover she wore.

Midge introduced us as we were making our way around the dining room table, piling food on paper plates. "Bert, I'd like you to meet a friend of mine, Marisa Layton. Marisa, this is Bert Cramer, Doctor Cramer, I should say. Bert, I told Marisa you'd probably be here, the oldest cousin among us still not hitched." This must be some sort of match-making effort that Midge dreamed up, I thought.

Marisa and I said hi in unison, looking into each other's eyes. It was one of those awkward moments when you wonder what should come next, if anything. Marisa made the next move. "Midge tells me you're an orthopedist. You like what you do?"

"Very much. I've got too much invested in time and money not to."

"I understand. We have something in common then. I'm a nurse. Lately, I've been working in the ER, treating all sorts of patients, including gunshot victims."

"We have way too many guns in this country," Midge cut it. Midge stood a few inches shorter than Marisa's average height. She had short, dirty blond hair worn in a pixy cut.

Marisa frowned and nodded. "Too many guns and too many patients because of too many guns."

"Too many guns in the wrong hands," I said. "Some people shouldn't be allowed within twenty miles of a firearm, much less own one."

"Well, in my opinion," Marisa said, "we have too many guns, period. These high caliber, semi-auto weapons should be banned. I've seen firsthand the damage they do."

Few of my cousins knew about my passion for guns and shooting. I owned a couple of rifles. One was a.22 lever action, the other a semi-auto 9-millimeter carbine, a gun that would surely make Marisa's ban list. My four handguns included two.22 semi-auto pistols, a.357 revolver and a 1911.45. I supported what I thought was reasonable gun control such as background checks. But banning certain guns? I thought that impinged on our Second Amendment rights. Briefly, I debated whether I should mention my gun hobby, then decided it was neither the time nor place, especially when I wanted to get to know Marisa better.

The desire, it appeared, was mutual, gleaned from eye contact, the way she locked her eyes on mine, smiling much of the time as we talked more about our careers and other things we did when not treating people. We both liked mystery novels, thriller movies, classic rock, classical music and Chinese food. I was a registered Republican, she a Democrat. "But I never let politics get in the way of friendship," she said.

"No, me either," I said. "Arguing politics is a dead-end street. Ultimately, it's a personal choice, like food and fashion."

"Well put," she said.

By this time, we were alone in Larry and Joan's cozy den, sitting on the sofa, sipping white wine, while the rest of the company milled about and talked in the other rooms. Things were starting to get personal. Marisa liked my "mysterious brown eyes" and my six-foot, "athletic build."

I told her I thought she was beautiful. "But I know I'm not the first guy who's said that."

She drew a shy smile and said, "Well, you're the only orthopedist who has. And quite a handsome one at that. Anyway, it's always nice to hear."

We drifted closer to each other while trading notes on our exercise regimens. She was a regular at Brick Bodies, while I pumped iron at the Merritt a few times a week. I felt there was major compatibility here. The awkwardness we felt upon meeting was gone, replaced by a smooth rapport. I had little doubt that we'd be trading phone numbers before we left the house.

Then my uncle Morton wandered in. Late middle-aged, bald and just under my height, he was my dad's brother, one of four boys who grew up in the city and now lived in the burbs. He wore dressy charcoal pants and an open-collar, long-sleeved blue shirt. To Marisa, he said, "If you're ever in need of an orthopedist, this guy will fix you up. He's an excellent doctor. He diagnosed a knee problem I had caused from going too hard on the tennis court that another ortho got wrong."

Marisa smiled and said, "Well then, I'll take that as a reliable endorsement." She patted me on the shoulder. "Bert, I'll consult you if I ever overdo it at Brick Bodies."

"Any time at all," I said.

Then Morton said, "So Bert, have you added any new guns to your arsenal since we last spoke?"

Oh, shit! I just remembered that my Uncle Morty was one of the few in my extended family who knew I owned firearms. I casually brought it up the last time we got together. He made no moral judgements, though guns weren't for him, he had told me.

Marisa's fun mood changed fast. "You're a gun owner?!" She slid away from me as if I had bad breath.

In a cautious tone, I said, "Ah, yeah. I shoot for recreation. It's fun and it's also a great way to relax. You look surprised."

She folded her arms against her chest. "I am surprised. And a little put off, to be honest. I mean, you're a doctor. You're in the business of healing. It seems like a contradiction to me. Look at our epidemic of mass shootings and school shootings, the daily gunplay on our city's streets and roads. As I've said, I've seen it all in the ER. All those shooting victims that would still be alive or in one piece had it not been for such easy access to guns."

My uncle drew a nervous grimace, knowing he had started something that he wished he hadn't. "Look, kids, I think it's best I leave you alone for a while," he said, then left the room.

Then Marisa asked, "Just how many guns do you own, Bert?"

I told her about the two rifles and four handguns. Then I said, "Look, I'm a responsible gun owner. Have you ever been shooting?"

She looked almost offended that I asked. "Certainly not. Well, I have a vague memory of target shooting with BB guns in summer camp. But that's it."

I was burned out arguing with liberal gun grabbers over the gun issue, so I didn't even attempt to explain Second Amendment rights, the right of the law-abiding to own guns for self-defense against criminals who always manage to get guns no matter how strict their state's gun laws. And then there's the joy, the fun, the healthy challenge of shooting. Try explaining that to an antigun person who's never done it, who will never entertain the thought.

My optimism went into the tank. Get her phone number? I expected to get slapped any second. "Marisa, I'm not sure what to say. Things were going great until my uncle wandered in here."

"Weren't you ever going to tell me?"

"In time, I guess. But after you told me your feelings about guns, I'm not sure. But even knowing that, I'm surprised you reacted as strongly as you did."

She turned away, and kept her arms folded against her chest. Then, after a few moments of silence, she said, "Look, besides what I see in the ER, there's a more personal reason why I'm so against people owning guns." She then told me that a close friend of hers was gunned down by her boyfriend in a domestic dispute. "The guy was an insecure, jealous control freak. He practically forced her to write out a daily itinerary of where she was going, and what she was doing. Finally, she had had enough and told him she was leaving. Only she never made it past the living room. He shot her in the back."

Marisa blinked and wiped her eyes. Finally, she looked at me. "Now do you understand why I feel the way I do?"

I nodded. "I'm sorry about your friend. Like I said earlier, some people should never be allowed around firearms. There are too many irresponsible hot heads with guns. But I'm not one of them. I can only hope you believe me."

"Yes, of course I believe you. And perhaps I overreacted. But Julie didn't deserve what happened to her. I still find it terribly upsetting. The guy got life behind bars. Small consolation considering the lives he destroyed, Julie's and her family who loved her. They will never fully recover from their loss."

It's amazing how quickly moods can change, I thought, during a moment of tense silence. Before the gun talk, I knew that Marisa had to sense the potential we had for a relationship. And now it appeared shot to hell, all because she couldn't get past my gun hobby. "Well, at least you're still sitting with me," I said in a Hail Mary attempt at comic relief.

She unfolded her arms. Then, drawing a curious look, she said, "Well, did you expect me to storm out of here?"

"Kind of. That is, after you slapped me."

She tried not to laugh, but it came out anyway. Then: "I'm not in the habit of slapping people just because they don't agree with me. And besides, I like you. It's..." She shook her head and sighed.

"I know, the gun thing. Can't you get past that? I'm not a bad guy once you get to know me. Gun hobby and all."

She laughed again, this time without struggling not to. "Not a bad guy at all, with a good sense of humor and I bet a good bedside manner as well." She inched forward again. "Bert, I know that not all gun owners are bad people. Most are law-abiding. If they weren't, there would be a lot more tragedies like what happened to my friend. But all it takes is one man or woman with a gun and a self-appointed mandate to kill, to settle a score or some suicidal maniac with a death wish determined to take people with him."

I couldn't argue, she was right. Instead, I said, "You make a valid point. But let me ask you this. From what you've seen of me thus far, would you like me more if I didn't own guns?"

After hesitating for a few moments, she said, "Honestly, I can't say I would. I'd feel more comfortable maybe."

"More comfortable how? Because I don't push my gun hobby on anyone. Shooting is something I do because it's fun. Some guys take up golf. For me, it's guns and shooting."

She began to smile, then laughed. When I asked what was so funny, she said, "I was picturing myself telling a girlfriend that I met this cute doctor who appears to check a lot of my boxes. The girlfriend says 'great, do you have a date?' And then I say, I turned him down because of his shooting hobby."

She had a cute laugh, a giggly, little girl laugh. I enjoyed watching her. Then I said, "Sounds absurd, doesn't it? I mean, that's like me rejecting you because of the way you feel about guns."

She nodded. "Talking about valid points, you're right. I hope you don't think I'm shallow. But since my friend's murder, guns have been an emotional issue with me."

"I understand. I just hope we can get past this and move on. Rest assured, I won't ever try to drag you to my shooting range, promise." I raised my hand. "Marisa, I see potential here."

"Well, so do I, Bert. Like I said, I'm still here, and if you ever get around to asking me out, it's a big yes."

"You know I will. But first, would it be too much to ask if I could kiss you?"

"Not too much at all. And you really didn't have to ask, although I can see why my negative attitude about guns gave you pause."

We began to get into it, slow and gentle. Our privacy was limited, and I suspected that someone else was going to wander in. Someone did. It was Midge, who caught us just as we decoupled. Grinning, she stood in the doorway, and said, "Well, it looks like you two hit it off pretty well."

Marisa ran a hand over her hair and said, "Yes, we sure have."

"Midge, were you playing matchmaker here? If so, it appears that you did good." By that mischievous smile, I figured she did.

"Not in the sense that I planned it or something," she said. "But it did occur to me that you might find each other, well, interesting."

I cupped a hand over Marisa's knee. "We do find each other interesting, don't we?"

"Yes, we sure do, even though I was put off by, well, Bert knows."

"My gun hobby, she means."

"Gun hobby?"

"Not too many people in our extended family know. Uncle Morty is one of the few."

"Bert knows my stand on guns," Marisa said. "Not something we have in common. But he convinced me that he's a good guy once I get to know him. Not that I needed convincing, because I sensed that even before I knew about the guns. "Anyway," she continued, folding her fingers into mine, "I'm excited about getting to know him."

"Well, okay," Midge said, "I'm glad things are working out. Meanwhile, I'll leave you guys alone. Carry on."

"I forgot to tell Midge what a good kisser you are," Marisa said, after Midge stepped out.

"More of the same then?"

"Please."

*****

We had our first date on one of those lovely, crisp fall nights, nights that energize the body and stoke the imagination when you're with a special person.

I picked Marisa up at her brick, two-bedroom rancher in my red Mazda Miata. It was a low mileage car I bought used, a fun car I drove to tool around in. My Subaru Outback I used for work and road trips. I liked her outfit, jeans tucked into brown suede boots, green twist sweater and brown scarf. I wore business-casual, tan corduroy sports jacket, blue button-down shirt, and khakis. She wore her middle-of-the-back length hair in layers, beautiful and sexy. "Love your hair," I said. "You don't wear it like that in the ER, I bet."

"Thanks. No, I sure don't. It's all business in there."

She stood by the curb, admiring the car. "Oh, I like this." An ex-boyfriend had one, she revealed.

I then asked, "Should I leave the top down, or will you be cold?"

"No, leave it down. It's a nice night." She looked up at the sky, clear enough to see the few stars one can see in a suburban metro region.

In less than a half hour, I pulled into the parking lot of a popular French bistro located in an early twentieth century, Cotswold design strip mall in one of Baltimore City's nicest areas. The city's crime problem was well known, but violent crime was rare in this grand old neighborhood, with its late Victorian and Edwardian era homes. It was one of the few places in the city where you felt reasonably safe at night. The key word is reasonably because years ago, a woman walking her dog was shot and killed just a few blocks from here during a robbery attempt.

The stark wood décor fit the tone and age of the place, lit by brass chandeliers attached to engraved glass globes. This was Marisa's first time here. "It all looks so good," she said, perusing the menu. Any recommendations?"

"You'll like anything you get here," I said. "Tonight, the grilled swordfish looks best for me."

"Okay, we'll be surf and turf. I've never tasted venison before, so I'll go with that."

"Wine too?"

"You know it."

After the waiter took our orders, she asked, "So, are you in with a group of orthopods or alone?"

"I'm with a group based at GBMC Hospital. We each have our specialty. Mine are hips and knees. There's a great sense of gratification making it possible for people to return to the life they knew before their joints wore out. Athletes especially because I can imagine how I'd feel being sidelined from my own activity."

"Not to embarrass you, but I bet you're the best looking of the bunch."

I nodded. "You're right on with that." I paused to watch her reaction. "No, look, I consider myself an above average orthopedist. Looks-wise? Average. I say that minus any false humbleness."

"Well, okay, but to me you look like you stepped out of some superhero movie. The build, the strong features and eyes that refused to let me look away when Midge introduced us."

"Marisa, you did me one better, because I couldn't take my eyes off you the second you walked in the door. Not to embarrass you."

She chuckled, then said. "That's an embarrassment I'll never tire of."

"So let me hear more about YOUR work. Do you ever get burned out in the ER."

"Like you, I love what I do. But it can be exhausting at times on a heavy shift, lots of people coming in, one right after the other, which requires you to make quick decisions on priority, especially when we treat gunshot victims." She covered her mouth. "Sorry, I didn't mean to bring up guns."

"Hey, that's okay. Look, if I worked in the ER treating gunshot victims, I might have a different view. You guys are on the frontlines of medical care. Lots of blood and gore. I get it"

She reached over and took my hand. "Bert, I so wish to kiss you right now."

"The feeling is mutual." I glanced over her shoulder to see our waiter coming our way carrying a tray full of food. "And I believe our order is coming."

*****

"That was so good," Marisa said when we stepped out of the bistro. "Thanks for taking me here."

"You're very welcome. And I don't know about you, but I feel like working off some of those calories. Care to take a walk?"

"Yeah, those potatoes were quite filling. Let's do it."

For those who walked regularly for exercise, this area was ideal. The development was built on hilly terrain and the streets were laid out in a winding, circuitous pattern. And if your architectural tastes included century-old houses with wrap-around porches set among thick old trees, this could be your go-to place to take a stroll or power walk, particularly in this season of leafy, colorful foliage.

Once away from the lights of the strip mall, we fell into each other's arms, hugging and kissing in the dark, our bodies pressed close. The mutual desire that had been building over dinner came pouring out. "I'm giddy with anticipation," she said.

"I'm guessing we're anticipating the same thing."

"Yes, I'd say we are."

We strolled along the streets, holding hands, picking up threads of our dinner conversations, interspersed with laughter. The distinctive scent of fall from piles of leaves filled the crisp night air. This area was darker than many in the city, owing to the arboreal landscape, coupled with a minimum of street lighting. Predators looking to rob and/or harm people might see this place as ideal for doing what they do. Still, I didn't anticipate any trouble, not in this upper-middle class neighborhood where crime was low, even at night. Nevertheless, being preyed upon, given the city's overall high crime rate, wasn't entirely absent from my mind. I didn't tell Marisa that, preferring to focus on the fun, romantic time we were having.

That changed when, while headed back, I got the sense that we were being followed. An older man months ago explained on a You Tube video the same thing to police after he was assaulted by five juveniles in the city. He began to run, but it was too late; they caught up with him. One stuck a gun in his face, demanding everything he had. By instinct, he began to fight them off, and paid for it with a beatdown, plus being robbed of his cell phone and wallet. I didn't want that to happen to us, but I sensed it could, when I began to hear footsteps. Sure enough, when I turned around, three hooded young men were headed our way, and I didn't think it was to party.