A Day in the Life...

Ok, so this story is slightly embellished, but almost all of it is true. It happened after church a couple weeks ago as I unsuccessfully tried leaving. Only in real life. Seriously.

I head out to my car in the church parking lot, say goodbye to a friend as he makes his way to his car, and I almost make it to mine…just another ten feet. And then he spoke.

“El dia es muy bonito, no?”

I glance around and don’t see another Mexican around so I assume he is talking to me. I pause as I turn towards him, “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“Oh, I thought you spoke Spanish. Aren’t you Hispanic?”

I give a small laugh, “No, I’m sorry.”

“Oh, I thought you were. Were you in the Hispanic service?”

“Nope, sorry. And my Spanish is really bad so I try not to use it.”

“My English is really bad, so I try not to use it either,” he laughs. “My name is Mac*.”

“Hi, I’m Lissa. Nice to meet you.”

He is an older man—40s I’m sure. I didn’t think too much of him talking to me since members of the Hispanic church are often very friendly even to strangers (strangers from church, that is). I didn’t mind talking to him at first—it’s what you do at church after all, but he didn’t seem to want to quit. My car was right there. Just ten feet behind him. I could be home-free if he’d stop talking…

Small talk small talk small talk…

“Yeah, my wife—well ex-wife—left me about five months ago—last September actually.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Must be tough.”

“It is, it is. I have three children, and my wife won’t let me see them.”

“Aw, that’s too bad. How old is your oldest?”

“He’s eighteen—going to the high school.”

Small talk small talk small talk…

“No, I’m not actually from here. I just came back to visit some family for the weekend.”

“Oh, so you don’t live here?”

“No, sorry.”

“So do you come back a lot?”

I gave him a fake—but sympathetic—grimace. “Not really. I live in Monmouth, so I only come back once in a while for family visits. I really don’t make it back here that often.” I was finding it more and more necessary to stretch the truth into a lie.

“Monmouth? Isn’t it by Independence?”

“Yes, they’re right next to each other.” I was more than a little surprised that he would know where my tiny town was. “How do you know Monmouth?”

“I used to live there—well in Dayton. And McMinnville…Dallas…Amity.”

My eyes started wandering. Specifically to my car ten feet behind him. I was glad I wore my sunglasses to church.

“…I lived there a long time ago, when I was eighteen. But I got speeding tickets—five of them—and they sent me back to Mexico.”

“Oh yeah?” I humored him with a small laugh. “Did you go to school there? Western Oregon?”

“Oh no. I was living with my parents. We worked in the fields.”

Big surprise, I thought without remorse.

“So what are you doing in Monmouth?”

“Oh you know…finishing up school.” The truth-stretching became an outright lie.

“That’s cool. I have a friend down in Corvallis.”

“That’s nice.”

“Yes, I visited him a few months ago. I go back there fairly often to visit.”

“Well that’s cool.”

“Maybe the next time I go, I can stop by and see you.”

“Oh yeah? Well I really like Monmouth. My fiancé and I have an apartment together. You know, living in sin and all. It’s not so bad when we live right across from our church. We just hop on over to church and confess our sins, and start the week with a clean slate.”

He stared at me blankly. I had never been so glad to be wearing sunglasses. His small talk questioning had finally focused on his evident interest in me as more than a fellow church-goer. He was interested. And I was mad. Not the insane mad, more like the upset, irritated, you-are-really-annoying-me, kind of mad. At this point, lying had become less of a convenience and more of a necessity. Oh, and it also gave me some satisfaction to be making an outright mockery of him by exposing his interest. What can I say? I am a cruel heart-breaker.

“I should give you my number in case I’m ever over your way.”

Now it was my turn to blink blankly. Did he not get it? Here I am, trying to dismiss him and he doesn’t get it. Wow.

“You can call me the next time you’re in town too.”

“Um, yeah sure.” I stumbled over my words. I can’t believe he doesn’t get it.

“Do you have a number I can reach you at?”

“Um, I’m getting a new phone soon so I don’t know what my new number will be. If you just write yours down, then that’ll be fine.” Why was I encouraging him?

He handed me his number on the back of the bulletin. I took this as a cue to get the hell out of there, pardon my French. “Okay, well it was nice meeting you. Have a good day.”

“Yes, you too. Give me a call sometime so I can have your number.”

I just smile tersely as I get into my car. This is insane. Utterly insane. He’s old. He has a child who’s a scant six years younger than me.

I am NOT step-mom material, nor am I interested in providing a green card, thank you very much.

*Name has been changed to protect his privacy (but not his dignity).