Teach
01-23-2008, 10:58 AM
"Bon jour." "Bonne chance," the hostess added. "Merci. Tres Bien," I replied. I took a second look at the hostess that had just greeted me. Her name-tag read "Michelle." She was the spitting image of another Michelle I had known many years ago. I was, at the time, in Paris. No, not Paris, France...that was 6,000 miles away. But, the next best thing: Paris Las Vegas. I was staying downtown at the GN, but I made my obligatory trip to the Strip to check out all the hotel/casinos and, of course -- their racebooks. This would be my first visit to "The Paris."
As I marveled at Paris's architecture and decor, I couldn't get out of my mind the Michelle I had known back in MA. I was then a 22-year-old first-year teacher. I recall that I had taken Michelle to the track on one of our first dates. She was great company. She'd be laughing and joking. She made that day at Suffolk a very enjoyable one.
As I remember, I first met Michelle when I attended my step-brother (my father had remarried) Steve's wedding. I was seated at a table with several other young people. I was talking with another guy when this plump (I prefer Rubenesque), young woman sat down in the seat beside me. She introduced herself, "Hi. I understand that you're Steve's step-brother. Let me introduce myself; I'm Michelle Boisvert. I'm a friend of the bride."
Well, at first I didn't know what to make of it. Yet the more Michelle talked, the more I enjoyed her company. I quickly learned that whenever you talked with Michelle, it was never about her but always about you. In the course of the next fifteen minutes, Michelle would ask me all kinds of questions about myself. I felt comfortable. In the course of our conversation, I found out that Michelle was also in her early 20s and that she worked in Boston as a secretary. If I could use one word to describe Michelle, it would be --- congenial. In fact, I would later affectionately call her: "Miss Congeniality."
That evening, Michelle and I talked some more and also danced. Now that I think of it, I have to chuckle; we must have looked like "Mutt and Jeff." I was a relatively tall, thin-as-rail, six-foot-one stringbean; Michelle, was an ample five-foot-two. Yet, there was a simpatico developing. Call it a chemistry. The more I was in Michelle's presence, the more I liked her.
That following week, I asked her to a movie. If I recall, we went out for a drink afterwards. On the second date, I took her to a drive-in theater. We ended up "necking" and "petting" throughout most of the movie. On our third date, we went to an amusement park south of Boston. I then took Michelle "parking" at "Chickie" (Chickatawbut Rd. in the Blue Hills Reservation south of Boston). What is it about cars that turn men into contortionists.
Well, I had been dating Michelle for a couple months when my father said he wanted to have a heart-to-heart father-and-son talk. It went something like this: "Walt, I see you've been dating Michelle." "Yes, Dad," I replied." "I don't know if she's right for you, Son," my father continued. "Steve (my step-brother) tells me that's she got quite a reputation. (he paused for a moment and then said) I understand she sleeps around." I said, "I don't know that for a fact, but it could true." I added, "I'm not marrying her; we've just been dating. We're good friends." My father finished by saying, "I just thought I'd mention it. I'm not telling you what to do or anything, but... (and then his voice trailed off)."
The next time I saw Michelle was a Sunday afternoon. We had made arrangements to play tennis. I recall I was running late because I had borrowed my father's car that day. However, my father himself happened to be running late (the domino effect). I should have called Michelle to tell her that I was going to be late, but I didn't. When I finally arrived at Michelle's, house she was noticeably (and understandably) upset. She thought I had "stood her up." But Michelle was not the kind of woman who could stay mad for long. Moments later she was smiling. I could tell she was happy to see me.
Actually, she looked quite inviting. She would have never been mistaken for a centerfold model: a thin, hollow-checked waif. Yet she did look quite attractive. She was wearing this tightly-fitting black tennis jersey and white shorts. Well, we played tennis for about an hour and then headed back to her place. When we got to her parents' house, she told me her parents wouldn't be back till later; they were visiting her brother and his wife.
Seconds later, Michelle plopped herself down on the couch; I sat down next to her. In an instant, we were kissing and embracing. Moments later I noticed that the zipper to Michelle's tennis shorts had somehow become unzipped (I didn't do it). I could see her creamy-white "panties" and a hint of her ample bottom. As my hand slid toward her pants and buttocks, she thrust her tongue into my mouth. Michelle then said coquettishly, "Let's go upstairs (her bedroom was on the upper level)." At that instant, I thought for a moment and then said, "I don't think we should" (my main concern was that her parents might drive up at any moment and if we were engaged in carnal knowledge when they walked in the door...).
We spent the next ten or fifteen minutes "petting" and "necking." I never did take Michelle's pants off, but I must admit the thought had crossed my mind.
About half-hour later, Michelle's parents pulled into the driveway. As they walked in, we made every effort to make it look as if we had been innocently talking (I doubt we succeeded). When Michelle's parents eventually sat down with us in the living room, I talked with them briefly and then left. As matters turned out, I would take Michelle out a few more times; but, frankly, our dating became more and more sporadic. Eventually, it stopped when I accepted a teaching position on Long Island, NY.
A couple years later, I returned to Boston. My step-brother had called shortly after I returned to tell me that Michelle was "gravely ill." "She has stomach cancer (although she herself doesn't know it)," he said. "Where is she?" I asked. "Mass General," Steve replied. I headed over that afternoon. When I did enter Michelle's room, what I saw made me sick. This formerly effervescent, convival person. This woman, whose smile could light up a room, looked gaunt and pale. Her face was drawn and sallow.
In our conversation, I tried to be upbeat. Optimistic. It was hard. We must have talked for about a half-hour. I could tell she was tired. Michelle was almost dozing as we spoke. I kissed her on the cheek and said good-bye. As I walked out of her hospital room, I vowed that I would not remember her as she was that day. Tears began streaming down my face. I said to myself, I will always remember Michelle as that happy-go-lucky, smiling, upbeat woman that I had met and dated. She would always be my "Miss Congeniality." Michelle Boisvert died three weeks later.
As I marveled at Paris's architecture and decor, I couldn't get out of my mind the Michelle I had known back in MA. I was then a 22-year-old first-year teacher. I recall that I had taken Michelle to the track on one of our first dates. She was great company. She'd be laughing and joking. She made that day at Suffolk a very enjoyable one.
As I remember, I first met Michelle when I attended my step-brother (my father had remarried) Steve's wedding. I was seated at a table with several other young people. I was talking with another guy when this plump (I prefer Rubenesque), young woman sat down in the seat beside me. She introduced herself, "Hi. I understand that you're Steve's step-brother. Let me introduce myself; I'm Michelle Boisvert. I'm a friend of the bride."
Well, at first I didn't know what to make of it. Yet the more Michelle talked, the more I enjoyed her company. I quickly learned that whenever you talked with Michelle, it was never about her but always about you. In the course of the next fifteen minutes, Michelle would ask me all kinds of questions about myself. I felt comfortable. In the course of our conversation, I found out that Michelle was also in her early 20s and that she worked in Boston as a secretary. If I could use one word to describe Michelle, it would be --- congenial. In fact, I would later affectionately call her: "Miss Congeniality."
That evening, Michelle and I talked some more and also danced. Now that I think of it, I have to chuckle; we must have looked like "Mutt and Jeff." I was a relatively tall, thin-as-rail, six-foot-one stringbean; Michelle, was an ample five-foot-two. Yet, there was a simpatico developing. Call it a chemistry. The more I was in Michelle's presence, the more I liked her.
That following week, I asked her to a movie. If I recall, we went out for a drink afterwards. On the second date, I took her to a drive-in theater. We ended up "necking" and "petting" throughout most of the movie. On our third date, we went to an amusement park south of Boston. I then took Michelle "parking" at "Chickie" (Chickatawbut Rd. in the Blue Hills Reservation south of Boston). What is it about cars that turn men into contortionists.
Well, I had been dating Michelle for a couple months when my father said he wanted to have a heart-to-heart father-and-son talk. It went something like this: "Walt, I see you've been dating Michelle." "Yes, Dad," I replied." "I don't know if she's right for you, Son," my father continued. "Steve (my step-brother) tells me that's she got quite a reputation. (he paused for a moment and then said) I understand she sleeps around." I said, "I don't know that for a fact, but it could true." I added, "I'm not marrying her; we've just been dating. We're good friends." My father finished by saying, "I just thought I'd mention it. I'm not telling you what to do or anything, but... (and then his voice trailed off)."
The next time I saw Michelle was a Sunday afternoon. We had made arrangements to play tennis. I recall I was running late because I had borrowed my father's car that day. However, my father himself happened to be running late (the domino effect). I should have called Michelle to tell her that I was going to be late, but I didn't. When I finally arrived at Michelle's, house she was noticeably (and understandably) upset. She thought I had "stood her up." But Michelle was not the kind of woman who could stay mad for long. Moments later she was smiling. I could tell she was happy to see me.
Actually, she looked quite inviting. She would have never been mistaken for a centerfold model: a thin, hollow-checked waif. Yet she did look quite attractive. She was wearing this tightly-fitting black tennis jersey and white shorts. Well, we played tennis for about an hour and then headed back to her place. When we got to her parents' house, she told me her parents wouldn't be back till later; they were visiting her brother and his wife.
Seconds later, Michelle plopped herself down on the couch; I sat down next to her. In an instant, we were kissing and embracing. Moments later I noticed that the zipper to Michelle's tennis shorts had somehow become unzipped (I didn't do it). I could see her creamy-white "panties" and a hint of her ample bottom. As my hand slid toward her pants and buttocks, she thrust her tongue into my mouth. Michelle then said coquettishly, "Let's go upstairs (her bedroom was on the upper level)." At that instant, I thought for a moment and then said, "I don't think we should" (my main concern was that her parents might drive up at any moment and if we were engaged in carnal knowledge when they walked in the door...).
We spent the next ten or fifteen minutes "petting" and "necking." I never did take Michelle's pants off, but I must admit the thought had crossed my mind.
About half-hour later, Michelle's parents pulled into the driveway. As they walked in, we made every effort to make it look as if we had been innocently talking (I doubt we succeeded). When Michelle's parents eventually sat down with us in the living room, I talked with them briefly and then left. As matters turned out, I would take Michelle out a few more times; but, frankly, our dating became more and more sporadic. Eventually, it stopped when I accepted a teaching position on Long Island, NY.
A couple years later, I returned to Boston. My step-brother had called shortly after I returned to tell me that Michelle was "gravely ill." "She has stomach cancer (although she herself doesn't know it)," he said. "Where is she?" I asked. "Mass General," Steve replied. I headed over that afternoon. When I did enter Michelle's room, what I saw made me sick. This formerly effervescent, convival person. This woman, whose smile could light up a room, looked gaunt and pale. Her face was drawn and sallow.
In our conversation, I tried to be upbeat. Optimistic. It was hard. We must have talked for about a half-hour. I could tell she was tired. Michelle was almost dozing as we spoke. I kissed her on the cheek and said good-bye. As I walked out of her hospital room, I vowed that I would not remember her as she was that day. Tears began streaming down my face. I said to myself, I will always remember Michelle as that happy-go-lucky, smiling, upbeat woman that I had met and dated. She would always be my "Miss Congeniality." Michelle Boisvert died three weeks later.