Bill parked his car outside the duplex she rented. His yellow Ford Torino beamed in the summer sun. He double and triple checked the address she had scribbled on the napkin. This was the place.
Doubt crept in. What if it’s a phony address? But he had to take that chance.
He took a deep breath, checked himself in the rearview mirror. He flicked the part in his thick brown hair, fussed with the collar of his shirt. Ready as he’d ever be, he got out of his car. On the walkway to her front door, his chest heaved with great effort.
He needed a moment to straighten his posture. He spread his shoulders as best he could. He dwelled on words of wisdom for a boost.
If you want to hit a home run, you've got to swing the bat.
He rolled his eyes. Good enough.
In a quick movement, he balled his fist and knocked on her door. He heard stirring. Ruth was home.
A nervous impulse made him clear his throat loudly. He surprised himself with the noise. Oh God, he hoped she didn’t hear that. He sounded like Bigfoot choking on sandpaper.
The door swung open. Ruth appeared. Petite and pixie-haired, she tilted her head gazing at him—uncertain but then pleased a second later.
“Hi,” Bill said.
“Oh, hi Bill!”
Ruth grinned. She was ready to go on a date. But not with this guy.
###
In the summer of 1973, my mom was 19 and waitressing at Petrie’s Restaurant. A hub on Main Street in Fond du Lac, the place was thriving that July. Aside from a reprieve on Mondays, Petrie’s never closed. They served the locals breakfast, lunch, supper, and drinks at the bar. There was a banquet hall in the basement. Aromas and noises rose up through the floorboards, adding to the stew of human activity.
Mom could stay upbeat in the face of rude customers, or return kindness with the best of them. She mastered how to balance a large tray filled with sizzling prime rib and gravy while getting quizzed on the menu. She floated through the commotion with a resilient smile.
At 22, my dad was a rookie police officer who worked the overnight shift. His slim build got him the nickname Barney Fife. He didn’t let the teasing get the best of him. He was quiet and observant, but tough and poised. He would endure a line of work that’s as stressful and tense as they come for over 30 years.
Brave as he was, there were certain things that made him a little afraid.
Like asking Ruth out--yikes.
The Fond du Lac police station was a few blocks away from Petrie’s. Officers were known to stop by on their lunch breaks, and sometimes they felt inclined to chat with the servers. Or at least work up the courage to chat with one of them… the next time.
The first time Bill spoke at length to Ruth, he was off-duty. On a Saturday night, he and two cop friends went to Petrie’s to down a few rounds of beer. The men found a booth. Bill searched for her, trying to seem aloof. His heart thumped when she emerged from the kitchen, balancing a tray.
He had noticed her a month earlier. The anticipation had been building. Maybe his swagger needed a boost though.
Chats with his pals began and ended, patrons came and went, the jukebox cycled from Elton John to Diana Ross to Grand Funk Railroad and so on, and three glasses of beer were drained in front of him—and Bill still hadn’t introduced himself. She’d go floating by from time to time. He’d turn his head slightly with a quick glance, but that was all.
"The Brewers sure got whooped today," Bill said, trying to ignore the subject at the center of his mind.
"Yeah, but Baltimore had Jim Palmer on the mound," his cop friend replied optimistically. "We'll get the win tomorrow. Dave May's having a heck of a season."
Bill rolled his eyes. This amateur with his head in the clouds.
"Dave May is no Hank Aaron," he said conclusively, content that his favorite team was going to lose.
An hour later, his pals said goodnight and headed home. Beer cupped in both hands, perhaps overthinking what he wanted to say and how to say it, Bill sat in the booth alone.
Thankfully, he got an assist. Ruth was friends with an older waitress named Corky, who was something of a mentor. Corky was kind and helpful to Ruth when she was new on the job, whereas other servers and staff had snubbed her and been rude anytime she had a question in the early days of her employment.
Corky was keen to the glances of the thin man at the bar. Ruth was about to take her final break of the night. She took a seat in a booth across the room, in view of Bill. Corky gave her a nudge.
“I think he likes you,” she said, pointing to him.
Ruth inspected the young man as if she’d never even noticed him before. Bill’s baby blue peepers got wide. He straightened his spine, managed a thin smile, and froze. Ruth got his attention with a simple question.
“Do you like me?”
It took him a second to unfreeze. He gulped.
Fastball down the middle, he thought.
“Yes,” he said.
“Well,” Ruth said. “Then why are you sitting all the way over there?”
It was a valid point, he soon realized. He stood up, grabbed his mug, and took the seat beside her. She lit a Pall Mall and they got to talking. He took a long drag on her cig when she offered. By the end of her break, he got her number and address. Bill closed his tab and left a generous tip of a buck-twenty-five.
He walked to his Torino, his steps bouncing. She had given him the OK to visit sometime. Beyond that, he had no plan other than to come up with a plan. Driving home after midnight, he had Ruth and her info printed on a napkin. He rested his elbow out the window and breathed in the summer air. His hopes were soaring.
What Bill didn’t know was that earlier that night, Ruth spoke to a different man. Another bachelor. Cliff.
Some might say Cliff had a stronger approach. While Bill was a transplant from the village of Mount Calvary, Cliff was from my mom’s neighborhood, and he’d gained the approval of her parents. When the blond biker realized he liked my mom, he visited Petrie’s once or twice to dine and chat with her. He kept it casual until he calmly and decisively asked her out. His blond hair tightly groomed, clad in a black leather jacket, this was how he offered a date:
“Ruthie, have you ever been on a motorcycle?”
“No! I can’t say that I have.”
“OK, what about a plane ride?”
“Nope,” she laughed. “You got me there too.”
“Well, this Saturday, how ‘bout I pick you up on my bike, then we ride out to the Fondy airport? My brother’s a pilot. He can fly us over Lake Winnebago in his puddle jumper. You’ve got to see the view! Then I’ll have you back home by sundown. What do you say?”
She said yes. That Saturday she won the attention of two suitors. It was an accident, but someone was getting set up for a letdown.
###
Almost 50 summers later, I’m hearing the story of my parents’ first date on the back patio at my mom and dad’s house. Only, Dad is gone now. My mom sips on her Brandy Old-Fashioned and shrugs her shoulders to express, It was an accident.
I’m enthralled. I tap the side of my can of Pabst and give my two cents.
“You know, I got nothing against the miracle of flight. So, the pilot-brother is OK. But with this Cliff guy, ugh, I can’t stand motorcycles.”
“I was looking forward to the motorcycle ride,” she says, shrugging again.
“Nah, they’re overrated,” I tell her. “Totally obnoxious. Instant headache.”
“Well, your father never really liked those things either.”
“Yeah, he was smart. So! Dad’s looking overmatched here. And he had no clue he was such an underdog.”
“I guess not.”
“Well, I kind of know how the story ends. But in the long run, why did you choose him?”
“I don’t know. Something about him was just so…” she searched for the perfect word and finally found it with a sad smile. “Sweet.”
###
When Bill arrived at her door that Saturday afternoon, Ruth thought it was Cliff showing up 20 minutes early. In the bathroom, the knocking startled her and she had nearly dotted her forehead with eyeliner. She put the makeup away, checked herself in the mirror, and hurried to the entryway.
She studied him and they both said hi, as we know.
Bill had a week to craft that plan to sweep Ruth off her feet. Sure, he wasn’t going to offer the thrill of a motorcycle or the awe of aviation or an instant vote of confidence from her parents, but I knew him pretty well, and he had a few tricks up his sleeve. How did this man who would become a father of four to this woman make his big move?
He cleared his throat, casually this time. You've got to swing the bat.
“Can I go get you some McDonald’s?”
How was I even born?
Ruth was put on the spot. She had to choose between Bill and McDonald’s food or the James Dean-biker and his flyboy connections. It was no easy choice.
Actually… it was.
“Well, why don’t I just go with you?”
“To McDonald’s?”
“Yes.”
“Well, yeah!” he smiled. (I am tearing up imagining that smile.) “Let’s go there together.”
Ruth hurried back inside to get her purse. She returned to the porch. As she locked the door they both let out a quick, quiet laugh. No words were required, only the mutual buzz of beginning a first date.
Bill opened the door of his Torino. Ruth nodded at his gesture and took a seat. He got behind the wheel, feeling good as his heartbeat slowed and he no longer felt the threat of cardiac arrest. They drove to the McDonald’s Restaurant on Military Road.
Minutes later, Cliff rode up on his Ducati and parked in front of the duplex. He strode to the front door and knocked with vigor. No answer. He kept trying until he concluded no one was home. He had done nothing wrong but it wasn’t meant to be. Cliff would find his own beautiful bride someday, but on that day, my dad got the girl. And my mom was spared the unnecessary danger and splitting-headaches of a biker dude.
At the romantic hotspot of McDonald’s, the couple enjoyed burgers, fries, and Cokes. They sat at a booth in the corner and got to know each other better. Anxiety gave way to comfort, with hints of excitement. Bill even sprang for ice cream, the sly dog.
On the stroll back to his car, Bill found the courage to hold her hand. It took him a bit longer to summon it, but then he never really let it go.
