A Prisoner of Love Breaks Out

Yo! Tall Blond Engineer! The gig is up. I know all about you. And I’m gonna tell.

I write this in the name of all women who have ever been rejected, hurt and driven to high-calorie foods in the name of love. I write this column for all the victims of your big, tall, blond, heartbreaking carelessness. I write this column for my beautiful, sweet, intelligent friend who told me they named a holiday after her sex life--Passover.

Before I started dealing with editors, my heart was broken only once. Age 16. One day he loved me. The next day--I was history. Just because I wouldn’t prove my love.

I gave testimony. But this sucker needed proof! I mean, what was it we had there, a relationship or a new geometry theorem?

OK, so I cried and ate Eskimo Pies every day for a year. So I listened to Roy Orbison records nonstop. So I was a bummed-out, red-eyed, pie-faced, candy-colored clown. So I wondered: How come I wasn’t getting any new action?

After that year, I was ready to prove my love to anything in white buck shoes. And he needn’t have been tall and blond, either. I would have thrown myself at some short, bald stuff. I could love both fair and brown. I was desperate.

Well, those days are long gone. Except, as I said, for an occasional sadistic editor. As my friend Judith observed, “Editors are just like boyfriends in high school. They chase after you, and once you say yes they have no respect for you.”

I, like most women, have never rejected anybody. Except for Brian Finnerty. Once, in a dark hallway in 1959, Brian Finnerty twisted my arm behind my back and told me he wouldn’t stop until I said I loved him. After I said it, he let go. Then I shouted, “I hate your ugly guts!” and ran into my apartment and double-locked the door.

Outside of that, I never rejected anyone. Oh, yeah. Once in college, a guy I didn’t like tried to kiss me, and I started laughing and couldn’t stop. I’ll admit that lacked subtlety. But none of this even comes close to what you did with The Letter. Yes, you tall, blond engineering rat, I know about The Letter.

You see I found the letter in a gutter in Berkeley addressed to you, Tall Blond Engineer, at your post-office box. It had been sitting in the gutter covered with dirt for at least a week. At first I thought it was opened. Normally I don’t open other people’s mail. But as I was attempting to determine its openedness, it just kind of ripped apart and fell into my hands.

How do you think Sandy Martin is going to feel when she finds out you never even opened it? I think it’s safe to predict a run on Eskimo Pies at the San Rafael 7-Eleven.

She was obviously answering your personals ad. A lot you care, engineer-breath. And since you didn’t ask, I’m going to tell you what you’re missing.

Guess what--she likes old movies too. And guess what else. She took two (count ‘em) courses in non-Western music herself. Japanese music. Is that non-Western enough for you?

“Let’s try it!” she says. Exclamation point hers!

“Love to dance and do trips, ride bikes,” she continues. You get the picture, TBE. We’re talking about a trippy biker with little-ducky stationery who has been sitting by the phone for a month waiting for you to call.

And because I believe in love, Alfie, I’m going to give you one last chance. Write to me c/o this paper, and I will pass on the message to Sandy.

If she spends the rest of her life alone, sitting there listening to computer rock and watching old movies, it’ll be on your conscience, pal, not mine.

Meanwhile, I ask all the wives of tall, blond engineers the following question: It’s 9 a.m. Do you know what the SOB is doing?