Rule Number Three

Spring, Miami Beach

Life changing moments are all too rare, and they're usually not recognized as such until they are well past. Their significance and how they affect us for the long term is not readily apparent until some introspection takes place and then pow!, you realize that what you had thought had been a slow evolution of behavior or outlook actually occurred in one split second's worth of experience.

Such is the case with my viewpoint toward women. Where for the longest time I was under the false impression that my attitude was built over the distillation of many experiences, I now see that there was one specifice incident which affected me so profoundly, yet so sublty, that only my subconscious took note. Now, in 20/20 hindsight, it's easy for me to see why I've become the way I am.

I had been out rollerblading on a beautiful south Florida day. There were tourists and locals alike enjoying the sea air and scenery the South Beach district affords. As a guy in his mid-twenties, I'm easily distracted by the gorgeous girls who flock to where the scene is to see and be seen.

I had worked as a cabana boy at a local resort while I was in college at UM, so I had plenty of experiences with tourist girl and local honey alike. I own a successful business which allows me occasional midweek time to pursue wine, women and song. I've reached a point in my life that offers both great challenge and great reward, and I'm loving every second of it.

I was zipping along Collins Avenue, one block off the shore when I saw a little terrier-type dog running right down the middle of the busy street, heading away from me. I checked for cars, then hopped off the sidewalk and put on the afterburners. I came up behind him, my long stride and speedy wheels being so much faster than his tiny legs, and scooped him up with my left hand. I cradled him close to my body, then took another look behind me before moving back to the sidewalk.

The dog was just a puppy and appeared well-cared for. He had a collar and tag, but I figured his owner must be somewhere nearby. I headed back the way I had come, taking it slowly while talking to the little pooch to keep him calm. He settled right down, glad to be protected and off the street.

After backtracking two blocks and a half blocks I came to a stop outside a little café which had tables set up on the sidewalk. Just as I was about to ask one of the patrons if she had seen where the dog might have come from, a frantic voice called out.

"Sir, sir!"

She was behind me, whoever she was, so I turned and saw running across the street a rather frumpy looking young girl wearing baggy pants, a long sleeved shirt and a hideous floppy hat. As she drew close I saw the look of near panic on her face.

"Oh my God! Benji! Oh my God!"

"You can call me Chris," I said with a smile. The little dog was squirming under my arm, recognizing his owner. She gave me the tiniest hint of a smile for my attempt at humor then reached for her pup.

I handed Benji over and she brought him to her face, which carried a look of relief mixed with consternation as she scolded him for running off. She looked up at me and I finally noticed that she was neither a young girl, nor rather plain. She was stunning. She either knew it and chose to downplay it, or had no idea. I could barely take my eyes off her.

"Thank you so much!" she gushed, reaching out and putting her hand on my arm.

It was a simple gesture, but it conveyed a great deal of emotion. She felt the need to explain how he came to be loose, telling me the saga in great detail as she bent the brim of her hat back so she could look up at me. How she had looped the end of his leash around the leg of a chair while she went inside one of the little shops in the Lincoln Street Mall.

"They don't allow dogs inside," she complained, "even little ones like Benji that I can carry around with me. Isn't that stupid?" She looked up at me with big brown eyes the color of a mocha latte´.

"Anyway, he must have been startled, or maybe someone moved the chair, and off he went like a rocket. I kept looking out at him through the window of the shop, and saw when he got loose."

The poor girl was shaking like a leaf from nerves, so I suggested we sit down and get a cold drink. She smiled a dazzling smile and agreed, but only if she could treat. We sat at one of the tables which had an umbrella for shade. I took off my shades and placed them on the table, then kicked off my rollerblades. She removed her hat, allowing me to see for the first time her thick, raven black hair which framed a face unlike any I've seen before.

She looked Castilian Spanish, with a wee bit of Irish, and perhaps a hint of Polynesian thrown in for good measure. Her wide-spaced eyes were almond shaped; dark and moody under thick brows plucked to perfection. Her lips were full and inviting around a small, pouty mouth. High cheekbones and a delicate chin made her oval face a delight in symmetry. Talk about the face of a model. But her she was not tall enough to haunt the runways of the fashion world, and I suspected her body might be a bit too curvy, although I really had no clear picture due to the baggy clothes she wore. I noticed her skin was clear and pale, as if never touched by the sun. Not what one usually sees in South Beach.

"Oh my gosh, I am so rude!" she exclaimed. "I haven't even introduced myself." She held out her hand for me to shake. "I'm Amanda Crosby. And as you know, this is Benji." She held out his little paw for me to shake first, and then her own. I chuckled and played along.

"Chris Stewart," I said, holding her hand for a split second longer than social courtesy demands. Surprisingly, she held onto mine even longer.

"I can't thank you enough," she sighed. "We just moved here two days ago --- we meaning my dad and me," she giggled, her emotions running a rollercoaster after the near tragedy. "Benji is still in city shock. He was a suburban pup, weren't you boy," she said as she scratched his back. "My dad's an airline pilot, just switching over from the military. We bought a condo and now here we are," she said with a dismissive shrug. "I guess it's better than Omaha, but it's gonna take some getting used to."

She looked at our surroundings. Palm trees, bright sun bouncing off windshields, people of all nationalities and shapes cruising the tourist shops, the sea air fresh and clean despite the number of cars and scooters buzzing the streets. It was February, and I could only imagine what Omaha must be like.

After releasing my hand she said in a perky tone, "In fact, you're the first person I've met formally, other than the concierge at the condo. So I guess this makes you the first friend I've made here in Florida! Can you believe that?"

I didn't know what to say so I merely smiled fatuously at her, liking her immediately but thinking she was a bit provincial.

"So what do you do, besides rollerblade and work out?" she asked in a frank tone, taking a long look at my muscular chest and shoulders under my tank top shirt.

"How much time do you have?" I laughed, looking away slightly embarrassed by her candor.

"All day," she replied, looking into my eyes. "Me and Benji are at loose ends while my dad's training out at the airport." She looked down at the table and let out a long sigh. "My mom died about a year ago in a car crash. She was coming home from work and it was snowing. A tractor-trailer jack knifed and landed right on top of her Miata. That's why my dad and I moved down here – to get away from all those memories."

I put my hand on top of hers and told her I was sorry for her loss, giving her hand a gentle squeeze.

"So you were about to tell me what you do -- you're a model or something, right?" She sipped her water through the straw, making her lips pucker. Very hot.

"Me? A model?" I asked in surprise. "No, I'm not a model."

"Well you look like one! But so does just about everybody down here, other than the tourists."

I shrugged my shoulders and gave her a half smile.

"Really!" she nodded. "You've got that tall, dark and handsome thing going, with the nice build and perfect teeth. If you don't model, then you should!"

"Naah, not for me, but thanks for the compliment. I'm just a simple guy who owns a business and does a few odds and ends here and there. I took today off because I'm caught up and decided I needed a break is all."

"So you live in South Beach?"

"For the last six years," I agreed. "I own a home a couple of blocks from here."

"So where were you from before?" she inquired.

"Melbourne, Florida. A little beach town up the coast a couple hundred miles."

"Sounds nice," Amanda said wistfully. "So how old are you," she added, trying not to sound too interested.

"Twenty five, going on forty."

"What's that mean?" she asked, her eyebrows arched in a puzzled expression.

"My college buddies always joked that I was middle aged before I was out of my teens. I guess because I've always been pretty ambitious and goal oriented. I promised myself I'd be able to retire by the time I'm thirty-five."

"And?"

"And so far I'm pretty much on track." I said, staring at those pouty lips and imagining all kinds of places where they'd fit. She was very nice to look at. "Maybe a little ahead of schedule," I said with a dismissive shrug.

"You mean you want to quit working completely when you're thirty-five? And do what after that? Work on the old tan? Pump iron and hit on the beach chickies?"

I gave her a look that bored right though her for the tone she used before replying that being ambitious and goal oriented doesn't stop at any age, thank you very much.

"I'll go back and get my PhD in ethnobotany and then do the traveling I've always wanted. Maybe look for new plants in New Guinea, or study tribal medicine with the Witotos of the Amazon. Maybe write a book or two. I'll even include a chapter about wiseass girls from Omaha who like to typecast strangers."

I didn't expect her eyes to tear up, or for her to take me so seriously. I thought her tone had smacked of condescension, but I didn't mean to hurt her feelings. I looked out at the street.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "It was rude of me to assume that just because you look like a beach stud that you are one," she apologized.

"No apology needed, Miss Crosby. A simple mistake."

I motioned to the waitress to bring the check. When she came I spoke in rapid Spanish to her, which caused her to give me a dazzling smile and answer back in the slurred, lazy patois of rural Cuba.

"Wow, you speak great Spanish. What was it you just said to her?"

"Nothing really. Just flirting. Typical beach stud comments."

"Ouch! You're not gonna let me up from that are you?"

I was thinking how much I'd enjoy pinning her down, all right, but not in the way she meant. "I'm just kidding, Amanda. I told her that she served the best bottled water in south Florida, and that she could count on me as being one of her most loyal customers from here on out."

"That was nice!" she exclaimed, trying to get us back onto positive footing. "I speak pretty good French, and a little German. I lived in both countries when I was little. A military brat, remember?"

I asked her in French if she had ever been to Provence, one of my favorite places in the world. She gave me a startled look, stunned by my sudden new talent and responded quickly in fairly good French that all she remembered about France was the military base where her father was stationed and riding the train into Paris.

"You see, Miss Crosby," I explained, "I'm doing my best to prove to you that my being out here on rollerblades is not especially normal for me. At least on a weekday. So I'm showing my education off. Please forgive my immodesty."

"I like it. You can be as immodest as you want with me, Chris" she replied. As soon as the words had crossed her lips she blushed a bright red, realizing what she had just said.

I laughed, and changed the subject by asking Amanda her age. I put a ten dollar bill under the check and told the waitress to keep the change as she passed back by. I got another great smile and I could see it bothered my new friend.

"Eighteen," she sighed. "Just graduated high school and still trying to figure out what I want to do with my life."

Benji was beginning to get antsy, so I suggested we walk for a bit. I led her back through the Lincoln Street Mall, keeping to the shade wherever possible.

"I'd like to go to art school," she said suddenly. "I've always wanted to sculpt, but my parents joked that the world doesn't need another starving artist."

"Are you good at it?" I asked, interested. "Have you tried working with clay or anything?"

"All the time. Ever since I was able to crawl. Clay, wood, sand, bits of metal, even tar off the roof. I won a bunch of crafts awards at county fairs and stuff, and my art teacher said I had real promise. I love taking a chunk of something and finding out what's hiding inside...", she said, letting her voice trail off embarrassedly.

"It sounds like it's a passion for you, Amanda, and there's no motivation more pure than that."

"You really think so?" she asked looking up at me.

"Absolutely," I said with finality. "It's our passions which define who we are as people. It robs our lives of meaning when they are left to wither on the vine."

I walked us across the open courtyard of the mall, aiming toward a specific art gallery I knew. "Do you know the works of Frederick Hart?"

"He's the guy who did the statue of the soldiers for the memorial in Washington DC. The Viet Nam Memorial."

"That's right," I agreed. "He also developed a technique in sculpting using Lucite acrylic. It's really quite beautiful."

We came to the gallery and in the window were several of his pieces placed on pedestals and lit from underneath to accentuate the image seemingly carved inside an ice cube.

"Gosh," Amanda breathed staring through the window, "they're fabulous. I'd love to know how he did them."

"I've got a book about the artist and his work at home. I'll let you borrow it if you'd like. As long as you promise to return it in good shape..."

"Oh, I will! I promise." She moved to a different position to get a closer look at one piece in particular which caught her eye.

"They have some other works of his inside if you want to go look at them," I suggested. "I'll stay out here and watch Benji."

"That's OK," I can come back another time. It'll give me something to do. And I don't want to impose on you any further...," she said, sounding a bit sad.

"No imposition at all," I countered, making her brighten. "Look, if you want, I can run home and grab the book and meet you somewhere. Maybe for lunch? My treat?"

I normally wouldn't offer to go out of my way to loan something to a veritable stranger, but she seemed like a nice kid, lonely and in need of a friend. Plus, there was something about her. Under that floppy hat and those baggy clothes I suspected was the body a sculptor would love to behold. And I wouldn't mind, either.

"Gee, I'd hate to put you out, Chris. I mean, you've been so nice to me already, and I'm just taking up your time on a day you were planning to spend doing stuff more fun than entertaining dumb old me."

I wondered who had killed this girl's self esteem. Probably the same people who tried to crush her dreams, but I didn't say anything. My own parents tried to talk me out of studying botany and organic chemistry, my minor and major in college. They said with my ear for languages I should pursue business and international law. Gack! What a great way to ruin something I enjoyed.

"Look Amanda, all I need to do is hop on my scooter, go home and catch a shower and a change of clothes, grab my cell phone and I can be back in less than an hour. I'll meet you right over there by those benches."

"You have a scooter? Cool! Does it have seats for two?" The thought of buzzing around tropical paradise on my little Honda Reflex Sport really appealed to her.

"Yeah, there's room for two," I cautiously agreed. "You mean you want to come over and wait while I get ready," I asked, sounding like I wasn't too sure about the idea.

"If that's OK. Sure, why not? I mean, you're not some kind of weirdo or anything, are you?"

"If I was, do you think I'd tell you? I don't mean to sound preachy here, but you gotta be careful here in Miami, Amanda. There are all kinds of predatory people, and some are just rotten to the core."

"Maybe so, but I trust my instincts, and they tell me that you're all right. I'm a big girl, and I'll take my chances on you," she said, again giving me that look that was innocent and appraising at the same time.

I had left my scooter chained to a parking meter on the sidewalk of a street just off Collins, a few blocks away. We chatted about this and that as we walked to it, little Benji working four times as hard to keep up on his little legs. I stopped half way there and poured some of the bottled water I still carried into the cup of my hand and let him lap it up. He was thirsty, and wagged his tail furiously the whole time he drank.

"You see? If you were some kind of creep, I don't think you'd be giving water to my dog, much less rescuing him from traffic like you did," she pronounced with the certainty of the truly naïve.

I gave her a funny look to let her know how inane I found her remark before replying, "And I'll have to counter that remark with this: The biggest asshole I've ever known – a guy who purely hated people and only wished to do them ill – was the biggest animal lover I've ever seen. Pardon my French."

Amanda giggled, liking that I wasn't afraid to curse in front of her. "I don't think asshole is French, Chris, but I get your meaning. And you're right, I will be careful. But I still say I think you're a very nice man and that I have no doubt that you'll treat me with the respect and consideration a man should to a lady."

Which triggered in me another memory, this of one of my father's pithy sayings, which went like this. "Treat a lady like a whore, and a whore like a lady." I kept this one to myself, naturally.

I handed her my helmet, which she adamantly refused, saying that if I didn't need one, neither did she. I put it back in the carrier and off we went, with Benji riding securely in a little backpack that she wore, like a papoose. She said he loved riding in it and it saved his feet when the ground was too hot or too cold.

She clung tight at first, both her hands gripping my sides, but soon she relaxed and sat back far enough to be able to look around. I putted down Ocean Drive, pointing out the topless beach, the gay beach, the fat, white tourist beach, Little Brazil, the volleyball courts, a couple of outstanding restaurants, the Versace mansion and a few other notable places. She pointed to the southern tip of the island and the condo tower she had recently moved into. Nice.

I meandered my way home, taking the back streets, since drivers in south Florida are with only a few exceptions complete idiots, either recently arrived from third world countries where the week before they were piloting a donkey cart, or retired Yankees down to live the good life in their oversized land boats, too wide for the narrow streets and for the little old men and women driving them to safely navigate. I motored up the alley behind my house bordered by a twelve foot high viburnum hedge, then squeezed us through a narrow gate and under an awning connected to the rear garage.

My home is situated on a canal connecting to the Intracoastal Waterway of Florida. I have two boats winched up inside the boathouse and two Yamaha wave runners.

The back yard of my home is a jungle of tropical plants, many rare and collected by friends who smuggled them out of countries where they were protected from export, like Viet Nam, Peru and New Guinea. Huge trees shade the ½ acre rear lot, so I can grow just about any kind of plant, from gingers to mossy epiphytes, to vines and lianas to broad leafed philodendrons. A narrow path winds throughout the yard, and there's not a blade of grass to see.