Quatro

APIS4
A simple twist of fate. A puppy’s whiskers. A warm ray of sun on a cold winter day. The happy, endorphin buzz from a tasty mug of good coffee. The feeling of no stress at the start of the work week. On old song long since not heard yet heard again on the radio.
A beautifully captivating girl seen first at a silly triathlon and then again, seemingly randomly, at a rock climbing gym a short while later. And she remembers your name. And she smiles at you with a smile from her soul. And you’re not dreaming or dwelling in your usual fantasy world.
A simple twist of fate, Dylan said.
A simple twist of fate?, I ask. Perhaps. Whatever the case, it is profoundly auspicious and not to be taken lightly.
So I don’t.
I overcome my goofy self-consciousness and senseless fears, and I formulate a plan to pursue her. It’s—she’s not an occurrence to be taken lightly, and I realize that from the start of the second encounter. Self-doubt, loathing, fear, humility, whatever, need not be heard, for this is one worth the effort and, more compellingly, worth the effort to quash doubts and concerns.
Sometimes you do have to simply “just do it.” So I do, or at least I plan to with all of the earnest sincerity that I can muster. (For whatever it’s worth, it still makes me smile, for no singular human interaction during my brief but oddball tempestuous lifetime has ever, EVER, touched, moved, frightened, intrigued and utterly captivated me quite as much as those first two meetings. Even now the memory makes me smile. Even now; even in spite of everything.)
Of course, I miss the first opportunity, too busy being tongue tied and too busy getting jerked off the ground. Consider it me doing my part to validate the laws of physics. Rest assured, they are still safe.
So, I wait, I plot, and I work up to the eventual third encounter with Beth the Enchantress. Of course that means that for the first time in my life I actually care about the quality of my haircuts; much to the relief of my dentist, I floss regularly; I ensure my socks match…one another much less my outfits; and, I earnestly, seriously and desperately practice my lines in front of the mirror. Mind you, that’s not something I would normally advertise, specifically that Josh the Dork spends no less that 10 minutes every evening trying out gitchy lines in the mirror as a meager attempt to rehearse how not to blow it with Beth the Intoxicating. In this case, however, it’s worth mentioning if for no other reason than to emphasize the seriousness of the task at hand and the commitment with which I strive. Didn’t that sound pontificous?
Pontificous. Adj. Yet another stupid word made up by Josh Green as a result of his over-zealous use of poetic license.
“Hi, Beth.” Simple voice.
“Hello, Beth.” Low, resonating voice.
“Hey there, Beth.” Sultry voice (yeah…right; Josh the Toad and sultry are matter, anti-matter).
“Good evening, Beth.” Formal voice. Is it possible to be more than matter, anti-matter?
“Beth…I hear ya callin’” Oh dear God. I’ve even managed to gross myself out. For the record, my apologies to the boys in the band.
Now, you have to imagine Mr. Average Lanky Goof Ball (with the requisite big ears) standing in front of his bathroom mirror, clad in a rayon Hawaiian shirt (is there any other kind, really?), torn Bermuda shorts and Blue Converse Chuck Tailors, reciting these silly-ass lines to himself while striking GQ poses and trying to look as debonair as humanly possible. And failing. Hanging around in a buffalo stance would certainly be better, but the problem is that I—Joshua Green, college graduate, military aviator, Lieutenant, United States Navy, Josh the Nothing, Josh the Boring—am as uncouth, unsophisticated and un-debonair as they come. I am, quite plainly, “no-phisticated.”
And this exercise in futility is exactly that; futile. I’ve never been good at closing the transaction, and my awkward forays into Coitus-ville have always involved no small amount of initiative and aggressiveness on the part of my former female partners. Lucky for me, them not so much. Mass quantities of alcohol help too.
Anyhow, if it is a simple twist of fate that brought us together, then who the hell am I to ignore the possibilities? Methinks I shall simply have to suck it up and talk to her, pick-up lines and self-confidence be damned. Carpe chica, or so Chuck would say.
“Why hello, Beth. I was hoping I’d see you here again.” Honest voice, so sincere it’ll never work. But maybe….

One week later it does.
“Hiya Josh. How’s your package?” She giggles and only the on rush of blood to my cheeks manages to overcome the bleary, head swimming feeling that overtakes me as I breathe-in her presence. In addition to wit and beauty and grace, Beth also proves herself to have compassion as she notices my neon-tomato-red cheeks. “I, um, mean after that fall, well, I mean can you really fall up? Well,…you know what I mean. How are Lil’ Gene and Lil’ Paul.”
“Living quite contentedly right beside Lil’ Ace, I assure you.” I smile back. Brain to body—ATA BOY!
Her two friends look on quizzically. She’s obviously spoken about the Troll she met at the rock gym, but she doesn’t seem to have said anything bad. Perhaps there was something mentioned about the prince potential of the toad she met. They are sizing me up, I can tell, ensuring that the Big Eared King of Monotony is good enough for their friend. It’s a nice testament to the care they have for Beth, their friend, but, I think, it probably spells a quick demise for me. I am, after all, about as distinctive as a wart on one’s palm.
“Hi. I’m Josh, Joshua Green.” I offer a hand, albeit covered in climbing chalk and lacking previously referenced wart. “It’s nice to meet you.” Simple, and hopefully to the point.
“Oh, sorry,” Beth says. “Josh, this is Tanya and Jesse.”
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
They’re smiling, so that must be good, at least I hope it is. I don’t think I smell.
“Are you climbing alone tonight, Josh?” Beth places a hand delicately on my arm.
Brain to body—STEADY, LADS, STEA-DY.
“You’re more than welcome to join us. Right girls?”
“Yeah sure.” They’re smiling too. Either they approve thus far or they’re setting me up for a mega fall of epic proportions. I try not to focus on the latter even if it is the more likely proposition.
“Okay. I mean, I was, um, waiting for Chuck, but I suppose there’s no harm in climbing with y’all for a while.”
“Y’all?” the one named Tanya mocks with feigned shock.
“Er, um, I, uh, sorta grew up in Texas.” I stammer, adding with slight hysterics: “But I’m not proud of it.”
“Well, it’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Tanya answers while the other two chuckle and fasten their climbing harnesses. Have I mentioned before that Petzl harnesses squeeze all the right girly parts in all the right places? “It’s just that you don’t have any discernable accent, and the ‘y’all’ seems somewhat out of place.”
“Oh, well, my parental units—I like to call them that—are native Californians and used to beat the poo out of me whenever I spoke with a Texas accent.”
“Really?” All three recoil in sincere shock and disapproval.
“No, not really.” I’m blushing again, embarrassed because in my haste to make simple jest, I forgot that Californians are an enlightened breed and don’t typically beat their children. “I was just teasing. Nope, they’re just old hippies and they were intent on keeping me from succumbing to the South. It’s a silly story, really…all about transactional analysis, carob and Neil Diamond.”
They look quizzically. I think it funny, though, then again carob usually is providing you’re not being forced to eat it.
“So basically, you’re a nice young man who comes from Hippie stock but loves Kiss. Hmmm, interesting.” Jesse the brunette is grinning while she pulls on her climbing shoes. I start to answer but realize that; a) I’m not wearing a Kiss shirt tonight, and 2) I never mentioned Kiss to them. Then I realize that Beth must have said something about Josh the Possibly Mentionable. She realizes that I realize and it’s her turn to blush. Maybe, just possibly maybe.
“Common then, Tex, let’s get to climbing,” Jesse says as she takes me by one arm and Tanya takes me by the other and they lead me to the first wall. “You’re first up the rope.” Beth is smiling again, and that makes everything okay. I rope-in call “on belay” and start dancing up the wall, my heart as light as my feet.
“Hey Jess.” The voice comes from below while I’m locked off on a moderate sloper trying to calm the pump in my left forearm before I tackle a series of small crimpers.
“Yeah, Tanya?”
“Beth’s right.”
“About what?”
“He does have a cute ass.”
“And the harness is squeezing his package.”
“Mmmmm.”
What happens next is classic Josh the Goon. Beth’s shush comes out as a wicked hiss while I miss the crimp, take a sliding step off of the varnished jib and fall, slamming noodle first into the wall three feet down as the rope stretches, with an audible creaking only slightly less disturbing than the hollow sound of my head bouncing off the wall. Aaron the manager breaks-in on the pounding Nine Inch Nails and bellows on the PA: “Gooood evening, climb monkeys. Please note on the front 5.8 that our friend Wile E Coyote has come back for a return engagement tonight.”
Everyone laughs. I look down at the ladies. Beth is blushing for both of us while Tanya hands Jesse a one dollar bill. “See, I told you he’d fall.” Poof…Josh the Possible Maybe Prince turns right back into a toad, with a growing red welt on his noodle to boot.

Later that night after several successful successive climbs and fortuitous time alone with Beth to make small talk, share stolen glances and savor the occasional “incidental” brush up against each other, the four of us are at Old Town Mexican Café enjoying fajitas and drinking Patron Anjejo margaritas. Chuck never showed, and while I’d normally welcome his gregarious presence as a pressure relief valve of sorts lest I blow a tension gasket, things seem to being going well in spite of myself. The conversation is flowing easily although the initial tension as we sat down at the table was awkward. It is a four top in server parlance, and we’re not initially sure who should sit next to whom. Tanya protectively pulls Beth down beside her while Jesse sits next to me. I just crawl back into my numbing shelter of my familiar, uncomfortable skin and hope for the best.
And like any good Texas lad, I immediately wave over the server before the tension becomes any more apparent and place an order for all of us.
“Hi. We’d like four custom margi’s, por favor. Patron Anie, Grand Marnier, fresh lime juice—not the mix—over ice with salt. Oh, and chips and roasted corn salsa also please.”
“Jeez Josh, you seem to know Mr. Tequila fairly well.” Beth is smiling and the other two casually glance at their menus. A subtle raised eyebrow from Friend A to Friend B, perhaps? Is he an alcy, they’re thinking. And I know it; fortunately, I’m not and my mastery of my own non-emotional habits is something of an issue of pride, so I have neither issue nor hesitation with my response. I return fire.
“It’s a Texas thing, really. …Well, that and I go to Estero Beach for the volley- ball tourney every year. I learned between the two of them.”
“Did you go to school in Texas?”
“Yup, even got all three years of junior high school Texas history to prove it.”
“No, silly, did you go to college there?”
Jesse interrupts. “Wait a minute, Tex. You telling us that all three years in middle school were spent studying the history of Texas? Is there that much to it?”
It’s a fair question and still a sore subject with my parents. Granted, the history of the largest southern state is colorful and varied, but to forgo civics and American history in favor of the travails of Stephen F. Austin really is pointless and wasted by comparison. Unless, of course, you’re wearing a really big belt buckle. I don’t think the girls will quite understand. “No, not really. It’s a communal self-esteem issue of sorts, in Texas. Or a lack thereof. But I can proudly say that my crowning achievement of my sophomore year of high school, when I was finally allowed to study U.S. history, was learning that Ben Franklin wrote the Declaration of Independence”
“What? Ben Franklin? Don’t you mean Thomas Jefferson?”
“Are you serious?” Tanya asks while Beth looks with equal amazement.
I just smile while I allow the thought to hang on the air for a moment. Then I raise an eyebrow ever so slightly. The margaritas arrive and still nothing is said until I throw a curve ball.
“Did you know that tequila is a liquor derived from the distillation of the agave cactus, which is primarily indigenous to parts of central Baja California? The crop has been in decline for a number of years, and there’s some evidence to support the theory that a long-term drought combined with global warming has killed off most of the pollinating critters that support the plant’s reproductive capabilities. In essence, the agaves are dying for lack of love.” I draw it out. “Anyhow, when making tequila, an albuminous extract called aguamiel is produced by processing a flowering agave, which only happens once every ten years or so; the flower, that is, not the aguamiel processing.”
“Albuminous?…” Jesse.
“Shh. Pay attention, this is serious.” I continue with a moderate frown even if I am chortling inside. The girls are rapt. “The aguamiel is mixed with fermented agave juice, which the Aztecs called pulque—they also invented modern chocolate, you know--and then the mixture is re-fermented and double distilled to produced basic white tequila like Patron Silver. Certain production runs are drawn off and casked in oak barrels often previously used for sherry or port, thus aging the tequila and imparting upon it the characteristics of the particular alcohol that had been in the barrels before. Y’all with me?”
“Uh-huh,” all three nod.
“The process is not too far removed from how different single malt scotches are casked, although there’s obviously no peating in tequila production. Less scrupulous tequila makers will occasionally mix fermented cane syrup with their white tequilas, which is little more than a gimmicky way to impart more color to basic white tequila. Personally I think it adds a flavor akin to filtering the stuff through a used gym sock. And that’s why I won’t touch Jose, but that’s a different issue. Anyhow, older tequilas aged up to ten to fifteen years are re-casked, gaining more character and depth to their flavors while also growing ever darker. Thus the Patron Anjejo. You can even find some tequilas that are so old, so noble that it would be a crime to mix them in drinks. You sip them in a snifter, perhaps with a splash of spring water again not unlike a fine single malt or cognac. Oh, and yes, I know who wrote the Declaration, and yes, I’m messing with your heads although what I just said about tequila is true. Mostly.”
A long, heavy five count punctuates the moment. I crack a slight smile. Beth lobs a chip at my head. The laughter commences.
“Okay, smarty….” Jesse laughs.
“So you did study something in Texas, although I wouldn’t be surprised if you didn’t learn all of that shpiel in junior high there too?” Beth adds.
“Well, perhaps, but mostly I read it from the Sauza placard above the bar behind y’all.” They look back and then turn back towards me. A volley of chips flies at my head. I think I might be returning from toad exile. “Yeah, I went to school—to college, in Texas too. UT Austin.”
“Whadya major in?” Beth.
“Besides bullshitting?” Tanya.
“And falling?” Jesse.
“And Kiss?” Beth again.
“Anthropology.” Me.
A silent, perplexed pause met only by my sincere smile.
“Wow,” says Beth. “What do you do with that, in the real world I mean.”
“Well, aside from messing with the minds of women I hardly know….”
“Oh puh-lease,” Jesse interrupts, “it’s not as if we haven’t seen your naughty bits from below.” She’s referring to the climbing harness again. I blush. Beth blushes. We all laugh. It’s good, mostly because I think the laughing is with me rather than at me.
“Seriously, Josh, what do you do with an anthro degree?”
I pause and grow slightly uncomfortable. I’ve always harbored a secret, terribly arrogant pride in the fact that I’m a Navy pilot and an officer. Perhaps there’s some plebian part of me that enjoys the elitism of being part of something that very few are able to achieve. Maybe I harbor a deeply repressed dilettante; I’m not sure and I sincerely hope not. Personally, I think it’d be much more fun to harbor a future military strong man or global potentate, but the odds on that aren’t too good. And I know I secretly relish my role as a member of the warrior caste even if it’s not the most politically correct thing to be part of. All of that aside, San Diego is like Norfolk or Pensacola or Jacksonville. It’s a Navy town, and unfortunately, we tend to make asses of ourselves, not exactly endearing ourselves to the local populace. Also, San Diego is a high tech center, full of highly educated, intellectually endowed and financially successful biotech and communications scientists and engineers. By way of comparison, my accomplishments are relatively minor and some would even argue—none too far from the truth—that military aviators are little more than the living embodiment of the Peter Pan Syndrome. Basically, we’re a bunch of eternal children who want to play with toys for a living. Thus, in the typical crowd here I’m the goon. My toad factor increases as I pause a moment longer. “I’m in the Navy, um, a pilot?” I offer with a rising inflection as if I’m silently asking “is that okay,” which I am.
“Oh. Well, there’s nothing wrong with that but I thought all you jet guys lived in Lemoore,” Beth answers.
“Yeah, what’s wrong with being in the Navy? My brother’s an Army Ranger,” Jesse adds.
“He’s got a cute ass in climbing gear too.” Tanya smiles.
“Stay away from my baby brother, tramp.”
“And a nice package too.”
“Skeez.”
“Why, you tryin’ to keep him all to yourself trailer trash girly?”
Everyone laughs. I’m still nervous. “What are you ashamed of, Josh?” Beth. My discomfort is apparently that evident.
“Well, sometimes you don’t know what type of reaction you’ll get here, being in the Navy and all.” The same old story as everything else in my life…discomfort within my own skin.
“How so?”
“I guess it’s because I came in right after Tailhook, and that tends to color my impressions of how I think others will automatically judge me. White, male, Naval Aviator, rapist, pig, fascist right-winger. You know….”
“And your thoughts about Tailhook are what?” Jesse is fishing and the test is being conducted once again.
I answer truthfully: “It was bullshit. It was something good that degenerated over many years, and groupthink lead a bunch of self-righteous pricks to commit crimes under the premise that they’d get away with it. Fortunately, they didn’t.” I pass, judging by the looks on Tanya’s and Jesse’s face. Beth looks relieved. “Anyhow, I admit that I was a ‘Topgun’ junky in high school, and any pilot who says differently is lying. I like what I do, though even if my degree has nothing to do with it.”
“What do you fly, Josh?”
“Yeah, are you a jet Topgun guy, Tex?”
“Nope. Just a humble helicopter pilot; kinda the blue collar of the aviation world. I fly out of North Island Naval Air Station. I do search and rescue.” Mostly combat search and rescue and submarine hunting and, if necessary, killing, but I choose to quit while I’m apparently ahead.
“That sounds fulfilling, Josh.” Beth says. A second round of margaritas shows up. “Do you think you’ll stay in for a career?”
“No, I doubt it. I like it enough, but it’s a ‘for now’ sort of thing. Some day I’ll have to decide what I want to be when I grow up.”
“An anthropologist?”
“Maybe, yeah, maybe I can go to Baja and study the impact of indigenous peoples on the cultural significance of the agave plant.”
“Or you could study bullshit.” We’re all smiling, and I suddenly realize that there’s no more protectiveness hovering about Beth courtesy of Jesse and Tanya. I think I passed the test.

By the time we roll out of the Café it’s well past eleven, so I offer to walk the three to their car. It’s a thinly guised veil to get a bit closer to Beth before the evening’s sojourn takes us down separate paths, but I offer nonetheless. Never-you-mind the fact that there’s nothing but tourists around us still enjoying the late night Mexican markets of Old Town and the only danger to the three—as if they couldn’t knock the crap out of any would-be attacker—is from the occasional falling meteorite. It’s San Diego. How bad could it be? But I offer anyhow. Much to my relief, they accept and Jesse and Tanya take station a discreet six or seven feet in front of us. They are graciously pretending to engage one another in conversion. I’m uncomfortable. For whatever reasons, group encounters are easier to act the clown with, whereas the single one-versus-one engagement is hard for me, very hard indeed. I want to tell her that I’m intoxicated with her and that I really, really want to see her again. In stead, my tongue cleaves to the roof of my mouth. Nice, the Toad-meter pegs in the red. Fortuitously, Beth is far more comfortable with herself and shows her compassion.
“I don’t bite, Josh.” It’s an offer. “Much.” It’s a soft tease, and I feel a distinct stirring in my naughty bits. The tease works. Whoa-boy.
“Oh, um, sorry. I was trying to figure out what to say so that I don’t blow it. Not that I’m blowing it. Not that there’s any ‘it’ involved. Well, um, at least I don’t think I was blowing it; I just wanted to make sure that I said the right thing. You know….”
“Josh?”
“Yes?”
“You’re babbling.”
I deflate.
“It’s cute.” She reaches over and squeezes my hand. Brain to blood—SAVE SOME FOR ME! SAVE SOME FOR ME!
“Thanks. I, um, had a really good time tonight, Beth.”
“I hope so. How often do you Navy airplane jocks get to spend an evening with three gorgeous women who aren’t hookers?”
Pregnant pause. Brain to self—WHAT THE?!
“I’m teasing again, Tex.”
“Oh, sorry? Aww jeez. Okay, I’m walking you to your car after spending this totally incredible, spontaneous evening with you and your really cool friends. I mean that by the way. Well, mostly. And I’m walking beside you blushing like I’m five years old and I can’t even figure out how to ask you….”
“Yes.” A statement from her, not a question.
“Huh?”
“Yes, I’d love to see you again. Tanya and Jess are options…you’re choice.” She’s beaming. The world is okay by me right now at this moment in time. “Here’re my numbers, home and cell. I wrote them down while we were in the restaurant. Please call me, Josh. I mean it.”
“Deal,” I manage. I’m dizzy. “Is two hours from now too soon?”
“Nope.” We’ve reached their car, and the other two are inside. “Oh, I should warn you, Josh.”
“What?” She’s close and her breath is making steam in the cool San Diego night air.
“I’ve got something to confess to.”
“Oh dear God, please don’t tell me that you’re really a man or leaving for a convent in the morning or both.”
“No, silly.” She’s giggling while she grabs two handfuls of my sweatshirt and pulls me down to her. “I’ve got another bet I didn’t tell you about. I need something from you to win.”
“What, anything?” I’m almost mumbling.
“Tongue, cutie, tongue.” And she kisses me deeply. And I kiss back. And a simple twist of fate turns into something extraordinary. She lingers a moment longer after our lips part; close, close enough in fact for me to feel the warmth of her breath on my skin. “Call me, fly boy.”
And with that, she winks, smiles and turns abruptly towards the car, raising her hands in a two thumbs up gesture to the other two who are pressed against their windows like children looking into a candy store. They erupt into laughter and Jesse obviously and plainly hands Tanya some sort of dollar bill. Beth hops in, blows me a kiss, the other two wave vigorously and the car drives off. Forget for a moment that I’m standing in the street and it’s night and it’s cold. I’m standing, savoring the lingering moment before it slips from present into past, from experience into memory.
And I’ve got a boner.
All in all, it’s a damn fine evening.