As we left T.G.I. Friday’s at about 1:15 a. m., I apologized to Ron and convinced him that it would not happen again.

Ron Overmeyer

My wife offered me her assurances. “Yes, I know Heathrow is one of the busiest airports in the world,” she said, “but Mike and Viv will definitely be there to meet us, and we’ll have plenty to talk about, and I’m sure the children will sleep during the five-hour car journey to Cheshire.”

I was totally pleased with the arrangements, because after a lengthy flight from Los Angeles to London with a five- and a two-year-old, I didn’t like the idea of my wife Paula trekking across the large international airport looking for the domestic flight terminal. This wasn’t so much a vacation for Paula but an important (and almost emotionally necessary) visit home to “show off” Jessica to all our relatives and friends, who had yet to see her, since she was born here in San Diego at Sharp Hospital just two years ago.

We had emigrated to the United States in September of 1978 with Josef, then age four months. And although Paula had witnessed (and survived) all the associated homesickness when leaving home and family, when Jessica was born it certainly made the situation a lot easier. She was our very own bit of Americana.

It was only natural that my concern was not just for Paula, but also in the interest of the children, as I regard myself as a devoted family man who spends as much time as possible with his children and beautiful wife of eight years.

Josef was excited, Paula was nervous, and Jessica didn’t really have much idea of what was going on as they boarded the British Caledonian DC 10 at LAX. Since we have been in San Diego we haven’t had much of an exciting social life, mainly settling for the inexpensive outdoor recreational activities that are part of Southern California, and that we can share with the children.

I would like to have been making the trip for maybe three of my family’s nine weeks in England, but although Citibank Mastercard had very pleasantly contributed the money for the flight tickets, Crocker Visa had supplied most of the spending money, and Mervyn’s of College Grove had volunteered a splendid wardrobe for the three of them, I unfortunately was unable to accommodate any additional sponsor to pay for my flight ticket.

The trip had been arranged since February, but knowing that I would miss the three of them, I hadn’t really deliberated on exactly what I would do with my time during the nine weeks, and more so, how would I handle the freedom? Simple things like staying in bed until 9:00 a.m. on the weekend just amazed me; not having to mow the lawn every second Sunday and to be able to jump in the car any time I felt like it and drive to a bar for a few Budweisers fascinated me. I can handle that.

I became realistic when remembering that I really must conduct some kind of discipline.

Nine weeks is a long time. If I’m not careful, I could kill myself. But what’s realistic about living on your own in a suburban three-bedroom house? Washing the dishes once a day, washing some clothes once a week, mowing the lawn, turning on the sprinklers occasionally. I can handle that.

As I turned onto Interstate 5 south, and with my Honda Accord in third gear, my imaginative mind was already cruising along in fifth gear and planning ahead for my nine-week unrestricted episode.

I think the word is naive. Okay! I’m not making any apologies here, but I have often slowed down when walking past the girlie magazine display on the way to the children’s candy stall at the local 7-Eleven. It’s just that my loving, caring, and financial responsibilities to my family do not allow me to trade my hard-earned pay for the thrill of looking at this kind of material. The situation was now totally different, as my family was now watching a movie somewhere above Wisconsin, and I was walking into a liquor store in Pacific Beach. If I was really going to capitalize on my freedom, I had to think logically and cover my tracks. Pacific Beach was a convenient sixteen miles from my observant neighbors in Lemon Grove, so in the limited seclusion of the store, the voyeuristic department of my brain said, “This looks good.’’

I tried hard to act nonchalant whilst looking at Hustler for the first time and became worried that customers at the other side of the store had head my “Gulp!’’ I had cash in my pocket that I thought I might have needed for a meal at LAX if the flight had been delayed, so I selected eight different magazines. I found it a distasteful thought to think that the guy behind the counter might classify me as some kind of dirty old man, so I set my mind to think of an innocent reason for my collection of pornography. As I placed the magazines on the counter, I lifted my head, cleared my throat, glanced casually at the people within a few feet of me, and said loudly, “Poor fellow, got taken into the hospital on Tuesday morning. Peritonitis, they think it is. Going to be in there for about two weeks! That’s a long time, you know! Poor chap needs something to look at!’’ (I was John Cleese in Monty Python's Flying Circus.)

The guy behind the counter didn’t seem particularly interested, although he did grump an acknowledgement.

It was about 2:00 a.m. when I switched out the light to go to sleep.

I had never believed that people could become so involved with each other sexually in the strangest situations. There weren’t just pictures in these magazines, but all kinds of articles, and letters from males and females explaining experiences that they had in their office, railway trains, airplanes, theaters. Incredible! One lady had written a detailed article about her extremely social, social life. Who are these people and where do they live? I knew I would be going out for a few Buds during the next nine weeks. Maybe I might meet some of them. I can handle that.

Received a phone call from a business friend of mine named Ron on Saturday morning and he suggested we go out for a few drinks that same night, and as I was certainly intending to go out anyway, it seemed a good idea. Ron is about thirty-four years of age (three years younger than I), originates from Boston, is single, and portrays good-looking Italian features. I felt a little uncomfortable at first as we jumped into Ron’s Cutlass Brougham. He was suitably dressed in good-quality jeans and a casual shirt, and I was in a checked three-piece suit. My problem is that I brought with me from England seventeen three-piece suits, but no casual clothes. So I got rid of my tie and vest and said, “Let’s go, Ron! Let’s hit the town! Let’s get with it! Where’s the action, man?!’’

This outburst was completely out of my conservative character, but tonight I was on a personality change. The real macho me was coming out. A man about town who really knows how to live it up! Flamboyant! Adventurous! (I was Maupassant’s Bel-Ami.)

The evening nearly ended within the first minute because as we drove from the back of Ron’s apartment, he braked sharply to miss a cat, and I banged my head on the windshield, giving me a mild concussion.

T.G.I. Friday’s looked as good a place as any, and I ordered the first two of many Budweisers. Thanks to Ron’s good looks and my English accent, we acquainted ourselves with a number of young ladies who found our company amusing, although certainly not stimulating. It was conditionally agreed that next time we go out I will have bought some fashionable clothes, but for tonight, the plan was that I had spent the whole day at a convention and hadn’t had a chance to change.

Propped up at the bar, I felt good and relaxed, but one of my problems is that I can’t handle my drink very well; it’s not that I have a bad attitude or anything, it’s just that when I’m around strange female company I behave shyly, I become easily confused, and I suffer from a high degree of sensitivity.

As we left T.G.I. Friday’s at about 1:15 a. m., I apologized to Ron and convinced him that it would not happen again. We had been sitting with two sisters from Clairemont, one of whom had recently returned from two years in Canada and was now looking for a job in San Diego.

Ron was thoroughly enjoying developments with the other sister, and this one was not just giving me a bad time but was quite obnoxious. I was almost seething with anger at her display of rudeness when I swung my leg over under the table and our feet touched. I glanced down and automatically apologized, but was astounded at the size of her feet! I’ve been told that when I’m drunk my timing and diplomacy are not at their best, but what an opportunity to shout to her across the table. “Yes, I think I can get you a job at Lindbergh Field. With those feet you could kick-start Boeing 707s. And what kind of work did you do in Canada? Did you stomp out forest fires?”

Half a glass of Bud in the face is not as bad as it sounds.

During the second week, I went out drinking with Ron on three occasions. I had calmed down considerably. Ron had given me some words of wisdom on how to communicate with women, and I had purchased a pair of Calvin Klein jeans, he had loaned me a casual shirt, and we were enjoying the simple pleasures of bar hopping, or as we say in England, ‘‘pub crawling.”

At the start of the third week on my own I was into the second reading of my girlie magazines, and that now-familiar “gulp” came to my throat again when I found a few phone numbers in the back of one of the magazines, offering sex talk by calling a New York number. I forget her name but she was very explicit on the phone. I didn’t get a chance to talk as she hung up after a short while, but she was very entertaining.

During the housework in my third week — which I now found necessary — I worried about what to do with the girlie magazines when Paula returned. I could put them in with my twenty-five-year collection of English soccer programs in the garden shed, and easily sneak a look when returning the lawn mower. I can handle that.

Late May found Ron and me at the Del Mar Fair, where we took part in a dancing promotion for the 91X radio station and won a T-shirt. Paula says that I haven’t got much of an ear for music, but I think basically it’s a terrific lack of confidence, although I do remember once having a crowd of people applaud my dancing at a wedding in England. The only problem now was finding a disco that played the same Chubby Checker records.

We had a really good day at the fair, Ron and I. I bought a fiberglass airplane for Josef, a kitchen knife for Paula, and we both bought ten-dollar gold chains. On the way home Ron gave me his 91X T-shirt and suggested that I allow him to do something with my Anthony Perkins hairstyle. With my new T-shirt, the gold chain, and the Calvin Klein jeans, I was looking good. I was neato! I was hip!

That 91X music impressed me like crazy, so the following Saturday my car was in Progressive Systems just off Rosecrans at 9:00 a.m. for a stereo to be fitted. Next stop was Mission Valley to make a purchase at May Company. I parked my car underneath the shopping center, walked up the stairs, and caught my reflection in a store window. The black 91X T-shirt made me look quite slim, and those Calvin Kleins hugged my thighs, and I smiled at what I saw. It's called “transformation,” and as I walked through the crowded shopping center, I displayed a contented smile on my face. Some guy behind me was carrying a radio blaring out good vibes. Couldn’t help puckering my lips and clicking my fingers. (I was John Travolta in Grease.) Arrived at May Company and thought that Paula would kill me if she knew I was spending fifteen dollars on Estee Lauder men’s cologne.

If you’ve ever traveled Highway 94 west on weekday mornings, it would have been a familiar sight to see me bopping around in my car, shoulders rising up and down, head rocking backward and forward, and interrupting my finger clicking only to change gear. This is it! Utopia! Switched on! I’m a hunk of punk! Groovy! Rock on! (A quick glance in my mirror, because Ron had done my hair differently. A new wave.) Yeah! I was new wave! (Must stop off at the drugstore to see if I can get something for my hemorrhoids.)

I genuinely feel that my imagination was running a little crazy when in contact with women, because of all those incredible sexual-situation letters that I had read (and reread) in the girlie magazines. I must have looked a bit strange on a Monday morning.

Stood talking to the teller at the Bank of America on Midway with sex-crazy thoughts running through my mind and that pathetic Errol Flynn-type grin on my face.

Driving west on Friars one day with my new stereo blasting and my fingers drumming on the wheel, I stopped at the light and noticed the profile of an attractive young lady in a large Buick to my left. I wound down my window, glanced over casually, and gave her a smile whilst looking sexy by lowering one eyebrow and raising the other. (I learned that from Tony Curtis in The Black Shield of Falworth.)

Not surprisingly, she lowered her (electric) window and smiled back. And then she shouted, “How is Josef?”

Now I had a big grin as I turned down the music and shouted, “What did you say. Honey?”

Josef is my five-year-old son and this lady was his teacher at pre-kindergarten school.

By the fourth week Ron and I were really beginning to get around. We would hit the bars between four and five nights a week and generally stayed in the same area, which included Mission Valley, Rosecrans, Midway, and Mission Gorge. We were now into real serious drinking, and we were fast developing an understanding of each other’s sense of humor. We played one-liners off on each other and worked out a few routines, which, if the company we were in didn’t find funny, well, we certainly did. We were the compatible odd couple. Ron particularly enjoyed visiting the Black Angus restaurants around town because he could have a dance. My reason for liking them was because as each restaurant was built to the same floor plan, it didn’t matter which one we were in when leaving at the end of the night intoxicated, because we always knew exactly where the door was.

During my nine-week stint, only once did I come close to any serious upset, and that was one Thursday evening when I met Ron straight from work, and without eating anything substantial, drank from 5:15 until midnight. On this occasion I was in my Olds Cutlass wagon and we came out of El Torito in Mission Valley making a lot of noise, only to find a police patrol car parked out on the street. It appeared that the policemen were only involved in some routine paperwork, but within a few minutes they were casually noting our behavior and were naturally interested in any irregular developments.

My car was parked in direct view of the policemen, and I remember supporting myself with the back of my leg against the rear driver’s side of the car, whilst Ron very quietly, but with a lot of emphasis, warned me about keeping cool, calm, quiet, and without incident, slowly getting into my car and driving home. “Okay, I think I can handle this,’’ I said as I straightened my necktie, pushed my new wave off my face, exercised a responsible-sounding cough, said good night to Ron, and calmly got into the car. My keys were already in my hand, although I hadn’t locked the doors, but there was no ignition, the hand brake was missing, and there was no steering wheel! I had got in the back door of the car! (I was Peter Sellers in The Pink Panther.) I then took a deep breath, coughed again, slowly and competently turned my head to the left to be met with direct (although confused) eye contact with the policemen.

A bit of quick and desperate thinking and I sprang into action. I shuffled around on the back seat of the car for a few moments, administered a serious frown, walked efficiently to the back of the car, opened the tailgate, grabbed the first document that I could, and then promptly sat in the driver’s seat staring at the piece of paper as though my life depended on it.

Because I was now drinking a lot and certainly not eating any quality food, I decided to try and counteract any potential weight problems by running three miles a day during my lunch hour at Mission Bay. Starting at the rest rooms near the information center, I would run to the bridge near Sea World Drive and back, and then have a cold shower and sunbathe for thirty minutes. I had definitely lost some weight since Paula had left, and I had also developed quite a tan. And with my 91X T-shirt, my Calvin Klein jeans, my gold chain, my Estee Lauder cologne, and my new wave, I couldn't help but feel as though I was causing a few female heads to turn when “stepping out” four or five times a week. Unfortunately, I also noticed a degree of jealousy creeping in from Ron as I established my new image, because he claimed the reason the girls turned around and looked at me pass by was because of my flat feet. (I have a tendency to walk like a duck.)

July 7 found me parking my car and walking three blocks up Park Boulevard with sunglasses on, my false tooth in my pocket, wearing a Chargers T-shirt, and one of those stupid hats that they wear in Lemon Grove. I was also conducting a limp with my right leg. (Got the idea from a guy robbing a liquor store in The Onion Field.) The purpose of this exercise was to disguise myself to anybody that knows me and who might recognize me entering the Capri X-rated theater.

Couldn’t think of any reason not to sit in at one of these “skin flicks,” the disguise was successful, and the visit went without incident. I thoroughly enjoyed both films but justifiably complained about the sound quality of the second movie. The manager (who was very accommodating) received a ninety percent white smile when he gave me a voucher to return and see another show for free. I can handle that.

Generally speaking, Ron was also on a “new lease of life” and was thoroughly enjoying our hectic social relationship, and was delighted with the consistent number of girls that he was meeting, and eventually following up on.

However, he found it a good idea one evening to contact an ex-girlfriend and arrange for her to bring a friend and meet us at El Torito the following Saturday. We had enjoyed a number of Budweisers elsewhere as we tripped down the steps (on time at exactly eight o’clock) to be greeted by a wave from the far comer of the room.

I’m sure Ron meant well, but although his ex-girlfriend’s friend was very pleasant, unfortunately she had a severe eye problem, prominent buck teeth, and added to that, she was overweight. Within about twenty minutes of our arrival, and with Ron and his ex-girlfriend laughing hysterically whilst talking about old times, I signaled to Ron that we visit the men’s room. (Crowded men’s rooms always remind me of what I imagine the scene was seconds before the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre: all those bodies lined up facing a brick wall.) As I stood there looking in the mirror at Ron whilst I was checking my new wave, I said, “I don’t think these two are the barrel of fun that you made them out to be, Ron. And I don’t want to be critical, but the one I’m with has eyes that are so crossed that I bet when she cries, the tears run down her back, her teeth are so buck that it looks as though her nose is playing the piano, and she’s so fat that I bet when she has a shoeshine, she has to take the guy’s word for it!”

Not a bad idea meeting them in El Torito because as the men’s room is next to the entrance, we could walk straight out the door. Giggling like mischievous schoolboys, we ran to the car and, jumping over the grass verge, I said, ‘‘Where to?”

“Black Angus!” said Ron.

We were the carnal cavaliers! Vigilantes of vice! I can handle that.

On this particular night I was following Ron on El Cajon Boulevard, and when I stopped behind him at the lights at I-805, I thought it a lot of fun to slowly push him through the red light. But immediately after I began pushing him and he felt his car moving forward, he pressed hard on the brake. He swears he wasn’t aware of the situation, but anyway my front bumper latched over his tow bar and we traveled five blocks down El Cajon Boulevard locked together, Siamese-style.

The same evening I also drank a little too much. Waking up at 9:00 a.m. on a beautiful summer’s day, I threw off the bedclothes, threw off my pajamas, threw open the window, and then threw up in the bathroom.

After a succession of late nights and early mornings, and what was developing into a crazy, physically masochistic existence, it was a pleasure to call up a couple of English friends of mine, Ronald and Jeff, who own an English newspaper in La Mesa called Union Jack. After complimenting a twelve-pack of Coors and reminiscing about Manchester United’s success in English soccer during the Sixties, Ronald suggested that we drive down to a restaurant in National City, which I think was called the Curry Pot, for an Indian meal. It was close to 11:00 p.m. when we finished a delicious curry, and when the owner and his wife had ushered the last customers to the door, they joined us at our table.

We talked about English and Indian customs for a while, which was the first intellectual conversation that I had been involved in since Paula left, but as it got closer to midnight, I started experiencing the dreaded “elbow-slipping-off-the-table” routine, and found it difficult to keep my eyes open. The discussion had apparently turned lightly to Eastern religion, and the restaurant owner, trying politely to involve me in the conversation, asked me what my opinions were of Buddha. I wouldn’t go as far as saying that I insulted him, but in my half-unconscious state, I had just grasped the tail end of the question, and trying to appear in control, I replied, “Oh, I think it’s much better than margarine!’’

It had been rather cool when I arrived home about 2:00 a.m., and I found it necessary to have the car heater switched on. I stopped the car at the bottom of my inclined drive (as the hand brake doesn’t work) and proceeded to walk up and unlock the garage door. Sitting back in the warm car, which was positioned right across the sidewalk, I felt positively drowsy, and as the engine was switched off, I just put my head back for a few moments.

My self-respect took a real knock at about 7:30 a.m., with a large number of schoolchildren, on their way to meet the school bus, all leaning on the car, staring through the windows, giggling, and making rude remarks. The mothers with their strollers were having difficulty getting past my car, and were very concerned with what the children had seen in the car that had caused all the excitement. There I was, my jacket lying across me, my shirt unbuttoned, my necktie all screwed up; my hair stood on end, my head was tilted back, I was naturally unshaven, and my mouth was wide, wide open. (I was Ray Milland in The Lost Weekend.)

Saturday came round, and Ron picked me up at my house in Lemon Grove at about 6:00 p.m., and our only concern was where we would be having our first drink for the evening. We looked like a pair of real likely lads as we drove north on Imperial for Highway 94 west out of Lemon Grove. I dropped the sun visor and checked the tan and the new wave, which I wondered whether Paula and the children would appreciate on their return next week. My 91X T-shirt was in the laundry with my Calvin Kleins, so tonight I had donned my English Burtons (the tailor by appointment to Her Majesty the Queen), black corduroy suit, red gingham shirt, and black tie. (I had bought this set of clothes about six years ago after reading that Yoko Ono regarded it as very avant-garde.)

“Are there any good bars here in Lemon Grove?’’ Ron asked.

“Not really,’’ I said. “I went in one once, and I thought I noticed sawdust on the floor, so I asked the bartender if that was sawdust on the floor, and he said no! It’s last night’s furniture!”

That joke was used on multiple occasions on that particular night, and when the company you are with changes every fifteen minutes, you are guaranteed a laugh every time.

I guess it was a combination of all the sunshine, the usual dashing around to get the first Bud down me, and eating only a TV dinner pizza, which caused me to feel weak at the knees and a severe discomfort in my stomach. It was between 11:00 p.m. and midnight, Ron and I were at the bar at T.G.I. Friday’s, we were in company with a couple of ladies, and I noticed that distinctive dreaded salty taste in my mouth that tells me that I am about to throw up. I was also having difficulty focusing my eyes. “Ron, I gotta go to the men’s room!”

I walked as swiftly as I could, down the stairs, out the door, and turned right. I headed across the parking lot and managed to reach some wasteland between a large building and Highway 163. There was some friendly activity between a couple as they eventually got in their car, during which time I had crouched behind a bush out of range from the lights, with my black suit providing the camouflage. (I was Hardy Kruger in The Great Escape.)

I needed to get further away from the parking lot as I feared this was going to be a long night. I scrambled about fifteen yards south and directly between the large building and 163 I felt quite safe from any “assistance” as I dropped to my knees. Like Jekyll turning into Hyde, I wasn't going to share this spectacle with anybody. Self-disgust is not a spectator sport. The vomiting lasted for maybe twenty-five to thirty-five minutes and now most of the pain had gone. I could hear the distant voices from the parking lot, and I had a feeling of tranquility.

I had complete disregard for the welfare of my clothes as I lay there with my face resting on the damp soil and the noise of the northbound drivers on 163 providing an almost melodic lullaby, as I felt a masochistic pleasure with my exploding headache and my search for subconsciousness.

It was the severe cold that awoke me at 4:00 a.m. My watch face was badly scratched, my black corduroy suit was in a disgusting mess, my headache was still in evidence, and I was stiff all over. As I lifted myself to a kneeling position and then sat back on my heels to consider how I would clean myself up in some way for the three-mile walk back to my car outside Ron’s apartment, the first thing I saw nearly made me throw up again. It was the neon lights saying, “Holiday Spa Health Club.”

I didn’t feel too bad on the way back along Camino del Rio South and then up Texas Street to collect my car, except for the cold and my decadent appearance. To conceal the mess I was in as much as I could, I was now wearing my jacket inside out, and wondered how Yoko Ono would describe me now. I was also concerned about giving a satisfactory explanation in the event that a police patrol car pulled alongside.

Glad I kept a spare key in one of those magnetic boxes that fit under the bumper, as when I reached my car, I then realized that I had mislaid my bunch of keys, probably on the wasteland behind T.G.I. Friday’s. (My very own “terra firma.”) I drove straight home knowing I would find a window open, as my house keys were on the missing bunch, and a warm bath and bed was my motivation. (I can handle that.) True enough, I found the dining room window open at the back of the house, and now all I had to do was remove the screen and climb through.

I had tremendous difficulty in trying to remove the screen and thought that really, it shouldn’t be that much of a problem. I tried levering it at first with my car key, but it just wouldn’t bend quite enough. In frustration, I started banging the stupid thing with my fist, but it wouldn’t budge, and I thought, “This is ridiculous! It’s only a damned screen! ’’ I honestly tried for something like fifteen minutes, pushing it, pulling it, twisting it, the bloody thing wouldn’t come out! Eventually in my desperation I dashed into the garage and picked up the machete (axe). I was now sweating, I pushed the hair out of my eyes, my unshaven face was itching me like crazy, and I gritted my teeth as I crazily plunged the machete through the screen. (I was Jack Nicholson in The Shining.) I had a lengthy bath, washed my hair, and spent the whole day just lying on the sofa, half watching anything that moved on TV, with the volume turned off, and feeling positively fragile. I was physically and mentally exhausted.

I will never drink alcohol again.

The following night I was in a bar on Ingraham Street having accepted an invitation for a few drinks from a former work colleague of mine named Tyrone. Tyrone is black, hails from New York, has a terrific sense of humor, and is one of life’s nice guys. Everybody should have at least one friend like Tyrone.

Understanding his sense of humor, and the fact that I hadn’t seen him for nearly six months, I had rehearsed my line of attack before I sat down with him at the bar.

“Nearly didn’t make it, Ty. Had a freak accident this morning as I drove down my drive. It had rained during the night, the driveway was wet, and as I turned onto the street, my little Honda, oh so slowly, just rolled over onto its side.’’

Ty’s eyes got even bigger and his mouth widened. “What happened? Were you okay?” he said.

“Well, I was kind of trapped in my car, but fortunately both the sets of neighbors from each side of my house came out to help, and they dragged me out. They were Mr. and Mrs. Smith, and Mr. and Mrs. Ball. I’ll tell you one thing, Ty, I’m glad I was dragged out by the Smiths!”

I had no problem drinking six Budweisers and then we followed a crowd of guys that we had met back to some guy’s house in Pacific Beach to watch Monty Python's Flying Circus on TV. Although not understanding a thing about drugs, it was quite evident that something would be readily available at this guy’s house, and as I’d had quite a few experiences during the last nine weeks, here goes another one. I can handle that.

I had heard mainly complimentary things about ‘‘popping a joint,” and in fact, someone had once told me that they were less harmful than alcohol (that was a big deal, after my near-death experience on Saturday night). The atmosphere at this guy’s house was, to say the least, unusual. Everybody sat around the room so quietly and with very little talking, while they passed these cigarettes. I began a whispered conversation with a girl to my right called Linda, who continually made hilarious statements. Everything she said I found amusing, and I felt my laughter was beginning to embarrass her, but still she continued talking. I figured that she was some kind of professional comedienne, as her line of wit was just incredible!

My stomach was beginning to hurt, but still she came out with this flow of one-liners, and I felt that I was choking through laughing, and my stomach muscles were hurting so much that I had curled off my chair and was now in a kneeling position on the floor, with my head bowed down.

Once I had calmed down and wiped the tears from my eyes and regained my composure, we did manage a few moments of sensible conversation, until she asked me how I had managed to scratch my watch face. My reply to that was, ‘‘I was ironing the drapes and I fell out of the window.” I never laugh at my own jokes, but that one had me back on the floor again.

We then got ’round to discussing the economics of living in the U.S.A. compared to England, and I told her that my wife and I are very poor. During the incessant laughter that now included her, it was a good two minutes before she managed to say, ‘‘How poor are you?” 1 then told her, ‘‘Because we are so poor, we can’t afford to buy laxatives, so we have to put Jessica on the potty and tell her ghost stories.”

That one cracked me up so much that I decided to disregard my chair and stay on the floor. She then suggested that a good way to economize was to buy a chicken for the free eggs. My reply was that I had tried it and I had run into a problem. “The chicken swallowed a rubber band, and it laid the same egg seven times.”

This stuff was definitely a lot different from alcohol, and this became very clear when I started losing my train of thought, which included one intelligent question that I asked somebody. “Tell me, do you walk to work, or do you take your own lunch?”

I found it necessary to spend a whole vacation day cleaning the house for Paula’s return. I mowed the lawn, vacuumed throughout the house, and did a bit of grocery shopping. The girlie magazines I gave to the guy whose house we were at the previous night, and the Calvin Klein jeans, the 91X T-shirt, and the gold chain were given to a guy that I picked out of a crowd in the Greyhound bus terminal downtown. I stopped off there on my way to LAX, parked in the white zone, and with the jeans, etc., in a brown Food Basket sack, I just gave them to the first guy who looked my size and looked as though he needed them most. He was grateful. I combed out my new wave and gave Ron the Estee Lauder cologne.

Paula was delighted to see me and glad to be home. It was good to have them back. Josef spent the whole day opening English presents that he had bought for me. Jessica for the first twenty-four hours behaved a little shyly.

The following Friday we were driving to Alfie’s on El Cajon Boulevard for some English fish and chips, and as we slowed down alongside a bus stop, standing there was the guy that I had given the clothes to at the bus terminal. It wasn't his face that I recognized, as I had only seen him for a second, but it was the 91X T-shirt, the gold chain, and the Calvin Klein jeans. It could have had the suspense of a Hitchcock thriller, as we were within a few feet of him waiting for the traffic to move, but there was no way that he would have recognized my face either. I couldn’t help but notice that Paula was looking straight at him.

As we turned into Alfie’s parking lot she turned round to me and calmly said, “You know, you really must get yourself some more ‘with-it’ clothes, like a good pair of designer jeans and some ‘switched-on’ T-shirts.”

I can handle that.

ABOUT THE CONTEST

Appearing in this issue are four of the seven winning entries in the 1983 Reader writing contest — the second-award winner and three honorable mentions. Also included here are several entries that did not win cash awards but which we felt were nonetheless deserving of publication. Next week’s issue will include the first-award winner, the two remaining honorable mentions, and space permitting, more noteworthy stories that did not win awards.

We received a total of 439 submissions, 249 of which were written by women, 179 by men, and eleven of which the author’s gender was unknown. In length the stories ranged from 6500 words to one handwritten side of a three-by-five notecard. When placed on a bathroom scale, all that verbiage weighed in at about thirty-two pounds.

Many contributors simply told a joke, often in less than two typewritten pages. A remarkable number of entries bore testament to San Diego’s status as a haven for refugees from other parts of the country; eventful tales of migration outnumbered any other single topic. An equally remarkable number of entries clearly were not intended to be amusing at ail. Special recognition is extended to John Ward’s students at the Valley Center Middle School, all of whose stories were delightfully fresh and entertaining. We sincerely thank everyone who participated in the competition.

Next week: A wedding surprise, an Italian momma, “normal” neighbors, and more from the 1983 Reader writing contest.