There’s a downside to committing my favorite stories to the page: it creates a permanent record. Can you say libel?
While I try to mask my subjects—and many of these tales are decades old—the best ones can involve actual reputational damage. Even if every word is true, there’s still the “asshole factor.” No one wants to be the person who drags up an embarrassing event that someone else has spent years trying to forget
The last piece I wrote was 100% true, and it had everything:
-A classic gold-digging bitch.
-The monied world of Southern Rhode Island real estate.
-More than one chef from Johnson & Wales.
-Enough HR violations to make your head spin.
We’re talking unsolicited ass-slapping and very public indecent exposure by a girl who had no qualms about who was watching (read that as more than me who was watching). It was the perfect storm of sex, shock, and local scandal. And let's be honest: who doesn't love a bit of gossip? A great story all around!
When I showed the draft to a friend, they panicked. “Don’t you dare upload that! People will figure out exactly who you’re talking about.”
I tried to pivot, rewriting it as a piece of fiction set in some far-off location, but it fell flat. It lost that raw, local flavor and the gritty immediacy that made it work in the first place.
They say truth is the ultimate defense against libel, but I’d rather not test that theory in a courtroom. The "discovery process" is a headache—and an expense. So...no!
**
So something lighter for now—a short piece to satisfy my obsession with story telling. I love telling memories that are burned into my brain and are itching to get out. This morning, I managed to lose both a spatula and a whisk, yet I can recount events from thirty years ago in vivid detail. Go figure.
**
I was amazed then, as I am now, by the bewitching power certain women possess over men. Having been on the receiving end, I know how fast you can be disarmed, losing your “game” in the rush to win her over. A woman who was in control the whole time, and was leading me to thinking I was.
That’s ninja level!
I’ve written about Nico before. She was one of those "born pretty" girls who learned to spend that currency without a hint of moral hesitation. Back when we worked together, our office held a mandatory fire prevention classes. They even managed to snag the local fire chief to give us the talk and a demonstration on how to use an extinguisher—a perk of working in a town so small the chief actually had the time for us.
He took us outside, where we formed a semi-circle around him. As he spoke, he punctuated every sentence and bullet point with the same frantic refrain: “Don’t wait! Call us... immediately!”
I was standing next to Nico. We’d gotten to know each other pretty well by then; she was twenty-four, and I was twenty-nine. I kept stealing glances at her—she had clearly decided to do herself up that day. Even now, I can recall the outfit perfectly: a plain white, oversized men’s Oxford with the collar popped, acid-wash denim shorts, and red-striped Pony sneakers. I’ve always been a sucker for thick hair, and hers was piled high and styled, a departure from her usual "pulled back" work-a-day look.
God, how I liked her. I wasn’t the only one, either. At least four other single guys in the office spent their days stealing those same glances, and—on occasion—we’d discuss her among ourselves.
The chief, who doing this presentation, wasn’t really talking to us; he was performing for her. While he’d occasionally address the rest of the group, his eyes eventually drifted back to her. To look at him, you’d see a typical guy in his late forties—married, carrying a bit of a gut, and settled into a cushy job overseeing small residential fires at best.
From the back of his SUV, he hauled out a 55-gallon drum sliced in half, a stack of cardboard, and a red extinguisher. He staged the barrel, tossed in the cardboard, and lit it. We watched the flames catch and climb. Then, flashing what he clearly thought was his most charming "come hither" smile and carrying the extinguisher towards her said:
“Do you want to try putting it out?”
Sure, don’t ask any of the guys or the other women there—go straight to the pretty little tart first.
Fucking Nico. I watched, with a sort of an amazement, as she flipped the switch into her "stupid, helpless girl" mode.
"Ohhh... I don't know... that thing looks real heavy," she said, her voice dropping sweetness she almost never uses.
I thought: BULLSHIT. I once saw you shoot skeet with a 12-gauge at the Tiverton Gun Club. You can handle a fire extinguisher.
Well, "Chiefy" felt obliged to step up. He got right behind her, cradling his arms around her to take the weight of the canister while telling step-by-step instructions.
“Good... good! Yes! Sweep side to side... Yes!” he said.
I wondered if he was getting an instant hard-on, pressed against her back. He was clearly loving every second of it. Hell, I would too if I were on top her like that.
You’re deadly, Nico, I thought. This is effortless for you.
**
I
asked her out once, right after she’d broken up with her BS in
Chemisty boyfriend. She shot me down with a kindness so painless and
numbing that I felt hypnotized. I wasn't even hurt. It took a few
days for the haze to clear, but I eventually figured out how slyly
she’d done it. Her exceptional feminine skills were staggering—she
had disarmed and calmed me so effectively that I left the
conversation feeling OK that we weren’t going out. That perfect eye
contact, softening voice, tilt of her head and the final nail in the
coffin...tracing her finger on my forearm as she spoke. Forget it,
stick a fork in me. I’m done.
Her excuse for blowing me off? “Oh, I’ve just broken up with someone... I need time, it’s been hard...you understand, right?” Sure. But a week after telling me that, she was dating the owner of a Portsmouth restaurant chain.
I wasn’t the only guy at work who tried his luck with her; she shot them all down, too.
**
Nico eventually went back to the chemistry boyfriend who would strike it rich in tech. They married, and I never saw her again—until her profile popped up on Facebook six months ago. She was divorced, wealthy, and time had clearly taken its toll on her face. Her “sell by date” had long since past. Then again, time has done the same to mine.
But man, what a girl. The feminine sexual power she wielded was incredible. It was like she carried a 40,000-watt Star Wars lightsaber and knew exactly how to swing it. A "ladylike" saber, —complete with a pretty pink beam and a soft, cream leather grip. A kind of weapon she’d love.
**
I’m asked all the time, “How do you remember all this? All these stories?” To be honest, I don’t really know; I just do. But after all these years, I find I really like remembering Nico and it’s easy for me too.
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