Attorney Beauty, Ford Model in Tie

EID Memo #2

Jenny Mills is in a dead heat, photo finish as the most sexually appealing lady I ever encounter.

At Registration my junior year in college, I plan to use a cherished elective on a literature course. A walking dream, a vision, breezes by.

I squander the time already in line, following the beautiful pied piper. She enrolls in Appreciation of Art. To better appreciate her, I enroll also.

I never miss a class. Sitting directly behind Dana on terraced seats, I dreamily watch her stride in, heads turning, a female Moses parting the waves. Perfect hair and attire adorn her tall, slim body.

As a Pre-Med major with every grade point critical, I need an A in this course, which I obtain. But weeks after the course ends, I cannot tell you the difference in Monet and Picasso. I remain an expert in the moves and ways of Dana.

In an interview with our campus newspaper, Dana discusses the challenges of being a model for the Ford Agency, while also attending a challenging university.

As we say in Tennessee, I would lay a mile of communication cable to hear Dana fart in a field phone.

Not once does Dana look my way.

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A few years later, in July 2004, I enroll in a stationary bike-spinning class at a fitness club. I am not athletic, and I don't like sweating. Lifting weights and running are too much work. But at age 31, my pants are somehow shrinking. I need to do something.

I am Ted Ross, almost 5"10", about 180, with a medium complexion. My brown hairline retreats faster than a row of chocolate glazed donuts at a Weight Watchers meeting. I consider shaving my head, which is the fashion for balding white guys. To minimize my nerdy look somewhat, I use contacts, until my eyes get scratchy tired, which happens a lot.

A male cousin tells me I look like actor Tommy Lee Jones. I guess I do. But good looks are not Tommy Lee's strong suit.

In the bicycling class, I always mount Smokey, in the back, the middle of five columns, seven rows deep. In any room, when possible, I sit with my back to the wall. Don Corleone in The Godfather always sits with back to the wall, to keep an eye on bad guys.

Overweight Hazel, in her 50s, rides Old Blue to my left. Every class, Hazel chuckles and asks me to remind her of the names of our bicycle-horses.

During the warm-up in late August, a vision appears in the door. Everyone smiles and waves. Liz, the Group Leader and some others shout "Welcome back!"

Jenny Mills, obviously a regular, returns after an extended absence. After some remarks and hugs, she locates an open bicycle one row in front of me, a column to my right.

She enthusiastically waves and bows to Hazel. Her glance tells her I am new. But she mouths hello to me, a new minion to become another Jenny devotee.

At roughly 5'4", Jenny is too short to be a runway model, especially for the Ford Agency. At about 120, she is not thin enough to model for Ford, either.

She looks like a natural athlete, with good genes, but improved by workouts. Her light copper skin reminds me of butterscotch, likely enhanced by tanning but not needing much.

A workout pony tail clip holds her yellow, blonde medium length hair. Later I decide that she resembles Reese Witherspoon, but with a better chin.

Sparks shoot from her dazzling, brilliant, winning smile. I'll crawl through broken glass to make this class, as long as Jenny hangs here.

Eleven years after my first Dana sighting, Jenny is in a dead heat, photo finish as the most sexually appealing lady I have encountered. As we say in Tennessee, Jenny leaves a scent.

Warm-up time is over. I am loping Smokey. I already imagine Jenny without her clothes, as she alternates standing and sitting, while pedaling. It is hard to look elsewhere than to Jenny. But not too appear too obvious to Hazel I sometimes am keenly interested in the ceiling or the traffic outside the room.

Afterwards, I linger as long as possible, still pedaling, the workout warrior. Eyes please don't fail me while I steal glances at Jenny. After more hugs and remarks about her extended trip, which I gather was to Europe with friends, Jenny moves on to a body pump-light weight lifting class.

On the way out, I nonchalantly walk by the body pump room and steal a precious look at some beautiful yellow, blonde hair.

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A few classes roll by. Jenny usually pedals somewhere on the next to back row, close to Hazel and another couple of ladies she is especially chummy with, who as creatures of habit and early arrivals, aim for the same bicycle-horses.

She always smiles at me and says hello. I never think of anything to say.

Thoughts of Jenny follow me around all day, not good since I am in Residency at the area's most prominent hospital. All kinds of thoughts. Sexual. Walking along a beach, holding hands. Jenny just smiling at me.

In cycling spinning classes, one grows tired of cycling to the same songs of the Group Leader's playlist. Sometimes the Leader introduces a new song.

"Okay, on this song, at the first chorus, I want the ladies to bark. Then at the second chorus, only the guys bark. Then alternate."

Twenty barking ladies giggle as they prepare, versus only three of us woofing guys.

Instead of barking, I bay like a Tennessee bloodhound. By far my best party trick. Jaws drop, including Jenny's. Everyone laughs, and looks my way, reflecting various levels of amazement.

At the second barking opportunity, I turn it up a notch, with a little twist. More jaws drop and smiling glances eye the baying hound against the back wall.

"Okay Ross, what was that all about?" asks Group Leader Liz.

"You mean, do I have to educate you city folks here in Phoenix?"

A couple, most notably Jenny, smiles and shakes their head yes.

"The first bay is the sound of an excited hound, starting on a raccoon hunt. The second bay is the sound of the raccoon after the hounds pick up the scent." I use the work "raccoon" instead of "coon" as we do back home, since blacks often resent any use of the term.

Jenny and Hazel laugh, gesture with their hands as if to say "Of course, that explains it." My semi-celebrity is established.

After the baying episode, Jenny moves beyond waves and hellos and tries to talk me up. I always mutter, partly for lack of anything to say, and partly because her good looks still blind me.

A Tennessee bloodhound bays at every session-a permanent song added to the playlist.

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One noon in the crowded hospital cafeteria, I settle in with a tray of meat loaf and vegetables.

"Hey Ross, nice to see you!"

I am stunned. There stands Jenny. High heels make her athletic calves appear even more erotic. A brown business suit compliments her light brown skin. I nod, feeling strangely like I have been caught doing something unseemly. Feeling guilty because I think of her so much.

"How is the food here, Ross?"

"It is okay, probably because I am used to it."

"Gosh, I am sorry you have to visit so much. I hope your friend or relative gets well."

"What brings you here?" My moving lips surprise me.

"My sister just had a baby! First time we have been able to visit! Lots of us were here. I stopped by to get a sandwich."

"Congratulations. Is everything going well with your sister and the baby?"

Jenny smiles and shakes her head. "Great! Everything is good! She has all of her fingers and toes."

She shifts, perhaps waiting for me to say something else. My well is dry.

"Well, it is nice to see you, Ross. See you in class, riding, what do you call it, Smokey?"

"Yeah, that is it. See you in class."

A lady's voice booms on the intercom. "Dr. Ross, please come to Room 327! Again, Dr. Ross, please come to Room 327!"

I stand up, grab my tray, and start for the door.

"Wait!" Jenny shouts. She moves her finger from my seat to the intercom. "Are you Doctor Ross? The Doctor Ross they just called for?"

I nod yes.

"I thought Ross was your first name!"

"No, my first name is Ted. A lot of people, including Hazel and Liz, think my first name is Ross. No big deal."

"Why didn't you correct me? You said that you were visiting a friend."

"You aren't wrong. All my patients are my friends."

I glance back at Jenny as I lean against the swivel door, carrying my tray.

She has not moved. She is studying me, her head tilted, wearing a small smile.

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Jenny is still friendly at bicycling class, no more, no less. Likely she has decided that I am either gay or have been gelded. Perhaps employing eunuch doctors is the latest insurance saving measure utilized by hospitals.

Ah, who cares? I still gaze on Jenny's backside and that yellow blonde hair, pedaling a row or two ahead, for a several sessions a week, for another month or so.

I turn as usual to maneuver past her after class one evening. She showers her fans with post workout attention. She grabs my arm. "Ross, wait a moment."

She pencils a note and hands it to me. "Ross, due to my work schedule, I cannot make this class anymore. I will try to get in here early mornings. So, I don't know when I will see you again. This is my number. Call me."

I nod and smile gratefully, at her courtesy.

"Good luck," I mutter. I have as much chance with Jenny as a monkey piloting an F-35 jet which streaks high above Phoenix.

Nuclear winter. In med school, we had discussed it. We docs, even the future shrinks, would work through it, until oblivion. I would miss her smile and enthusiasm, her "it", even more than her good looks.

A few minutes later, I exit the Men's Room and head for the exit.

"Ross, wait!" Jenny walks, almost marches, from an alcove.

"Do you know where the Starbucks on Camelback is?" Jenny asks.

"Yes."

"Eight o'clock tomorrow night. Be there. I will buy you a coffee."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

I feel unsteady. I need to sit down. "Because I have to work."

"What about Friday afternoon or Friday night?"

"I have to work then, too."

Jenny gazes at me, without expression. She shifts from foot to foot, twirling her hair with two fingers. This is uncharted territory for her.

"Okaaaaayy...when can we meet?"

"Around mid-morning Sunday. But that is not guaranteed."

Jenny grins and twists her body from side to side, in a kidding way. "Ross, aren't you in church on Sunday mornings, when you are not working?"

"Sometimes. But not this Sunday."

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We meet in the parking lot, arriving within seconds of each other. Her feisty new BMW compared to my aging Chevy Impala is a good metaphor for Jenny versus me.

Jenny encounters a friend as we enter. They exchange hugs and pleasantries. I venture ahead, so that she does not have to introduce me.

We order coffee. Tan shorts, a sky blue sleeveless blouse and gold sandals make her scrumptious. Except for the one time hospital encounter when she was dressed up, I have never seen her out of work-out clothes.

What am I doing here, with the gorgeous Jenny Mills? Get real, man. So my thoughts race, in a millisecond.

We settle in. "Ross, I have been trying to get you to ask me out for some time. Why haven't you?"

I stare at her, dumbfounded. Sometimes even with patients, I am too honest. But I am working on it.

"Why would you, with everything you are, want to go out with me?"

Jenny's mouth is open, as if I am kidding.

Someone squeals. Another old friend arrives. Jenny stands, they hug and talk. She introduces me as Ted Ross, not Dr. Ross. Finally the lady says goodbye.

"If I heard correctly, the two of you were cheerleaders together. Which high school?"

Jenny squirms and clears her throat. 'No. College. Here. Arizona State."

I stare at her. My mind flashes. I, the President of the Chess Club, am interviewing for a summer lifeguard job. The quarterback and a linebacker are in the hall, ready to interview after me.

"Where were we? Oh yes, I remember," she says. Jenny crosses her arms, hand on the opposing forearm, and crosses her legs.

She looks at me and then gazes away, thinking. She waggles her foot. Again, she is Reese Witherspoon, probably from a scene where she is dealing with a difficult Johnny Cash, in Walk the Line.

After an eternity, she smiles at me. "Why don't we start by just talking? Let's see where it goes."

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"Okay."

"So...you are from Texas, right?"

"No. I am from a small town in central Tennessee."

"Oh, that's right. Tennessee, not Texas, bloodhounds. Do you keep a hound in your apartment?"

I grin. "Yeah, the neighbors love that baying in the middle of the night. No, I am probably the first generation in several that does not own bloodhounds. My Dad always has three."

She smiles. We are at least on the road, out of the rut. "Where did you attend college?" she asks.

"Vanderbilt, in Nashville."

Jenny raises her hands, makes the victory sign, and wiggles her eyebrows. "Oh! Vanderbilt! Impressive!"

She studies my face. "Actually, you resemble the actor Tommy Lee Jones, a Texan."

I nod. "I've heard that before." I don't remind Jenny that good looks are not Tommy Lee's strong suit.

"I gather, for some reason, that you could go away to college. Why did you stay here, where you grew up?"

"I was ready to go to the University of Colorado, when my parents convinced me that if I stayed here, they would let me live in the dormitory, sorority house, wherever, but they would not drop in on me. It worked out well. They kept their word. I dropped in home whenever I wanted to visit and get some home cooking.

I am 26. I've only been away from her four years, including three years at USC Law School."

I mock her. I raise my hands in the victory sign, and wiggle my eyebrows. "Oh! Southern Cal! Impressive! I gathered at the spinning class that you sat for the bar exam in July. Did you pass?"

"I won't know until early November. But I am not worried. I start work for the District Attorney's Office next week."

"D.A.s Office. Good for you. You should be a prosecutor."

Jenny grins. "Why?"

"Because you are so good looking, that the jury will always decide for you."

"Actually good looks, according to studies, hinder female trial attorneys. But, handsome male attorneys supposedly have an advantage.

No one knows why for sure. Perhaps it is the remains of chauvinism that hurts female prosecutors with male jurors. Perhaps female jurors resent pretty women. Male jurors don't seem to have a problem with handsome attorneys.

Where did you go to medical school?"

"Southwestern, in Dallas."

Jenny leans away and smiles. "Oh! Impressive again! Top ten med school!"

"Well, between tenth and fifteenth, in most surveys."

"You picked up a Texas accent during your stay in Texas. You sound like my Dad's West Texas cousins."

I grin and wave my hands as if I will make an earth shattering observation. "Rural West Texans sound like us from rural Tennessee. It's pretty simple. Most of their ancestors, came from Tennessee and Kentucky, trappers and hunters turned cowboys.

Why did you become a lawyer?"

Jenny laughs. "I'm still trying to figure this out. Partly process of elimination. I knew I did not want to be a business person, a CPA, or salesperson. But I have worked with disadvantaged kids since early college, actually even some in high school. I think I might like to prosecute child molesters and those that make and pedal teen and child porn. But you have to work up to that."

"You said you left here for four years. Law school is three. What about the other?"

Jenny grins. "I took a year off between college and law school. I worked in Honduras, mostly giving shots and teaching English."

"Me too! Well, almost the same. I took a year off in college. I worked in Guatemala, mostly giving shots and teaching English."

"Habla espanol?" asks Jenny.

"Un poco."

Jenny rattles off thirty seconds of Spanish.

I raise my hands in surrender. "I confess. My Spanish is pretty rusty."

We lose track of time, discussing the differences between the two countries, and the variances in objectives and approaches for our two non-profits.

"Ted, this place starts filling up about 11:30. Want to get a sandwich before the rush?"

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Around one p.m., we discover our mutual love for baseball and tennis, as spectators and fans. Her Dad played minor league baseball, and keeping up with it helps her connect with him. This kills another hour.

"Ted, want to go to the park for a little while?"

We glance at both cars. "I prefer to ride in your BMW, if you don't mind."

Jenny laughs. "Sure, get in."

We follow the walkway that surrounds a small man-made lake.

"Why did you become a doctor?"

"I decided I no longer wanted to be a veterinarian."

She smiles, waiting for more.

"I wanted to help animals since I was real young. But animals cannot tell you where it hurts or describe the symptoms. That weeds out a lot of potential vets.

The default positon seemed to become a medical doctor. As in intern, I decided on either Urology or Pediatrics. Long story. The latter sort of has the same issue that a vet has. Babies and small children cannot tell you where it hurts."

"What about Gynecology?" Jenny grins and asks.

I laugh. "Not a chance."

"Why not?"

"Not for the reason you may suspect. My mother died when I was five. Dad has not remarried. Came close, but I was grown by then. My paternal Grandma died young. My other Grandma is not a people person. I am an only child. Almost all my close cousins are boys. I have not been around women enough to be totally at ease with them.

Male Ob-Gyns have to be reaaalll... comfortable with women, to compete with female ob-gyns."

We walk awhile. Jenny thinks this over. "But you have had female patients so far, haven't you?"

"Yeah, I do okay with them. But not enough to make a living as an ob-gyn."

"There must be something else. You simply did not decide to become a doctor after you figured out that you could not handle being a vet."

I skip a pebble across the pond. "I read a novel, which was principally based on the writer's early years. As a boy, he witnessed the death of a mother in childbirth in rural Georgia. It changed his life. He became a doctor."

Jenny smiles. "Run With the Horsemen, by Ferrol Sams."

I'm shocked. "That's right! How did you know that?"

"I majored in English. The title is excerpted from the Book of Jeremiah in the bible. 'If you run with the footmen and they weary thee, how will you contend with the horses?'"


I pat Jenny on the back, the first time that I have touched her.

"You lead cheers, you charm everyone in spinning class, speak Spanish, and quote Jeremiah. What do you not do?"

Jenny blows on her nails and rolls her eyes. "I am just a woman of many talents."

"Another reason I chose Urology as my specialty is that after I am fully certified, I can work something close to a normal forty hours. That will allow me to read for pleasure, my favorite hobby."

She turns to me, pleasantly surprised. "A reading, literate doc! How impressive! I love to read, too!"

The next two hours fly by. The only writers I am familiar with are American writers from the Hemingway era forward. But I hang with Jenny on those.

Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Steinbeck, Faulkner, Mailer, Updike, McMurtry, Roth. We discuss them all. We cover some non-fiction, too.

We both love the same hot 2004- era writers-Carl Hiasson, John Grisham, Fannie Flagg, and Chris Buckley.

I say, "Okay, which book and what character says 'Dix puts Shakespeare in the shithouse?'"

"The Dog of the South, the quote from Dr. Leo Symes, novel by the great Charles Portis."

"That is right!"

I wave my hands like a conductor. In unison, we both say, "And they still have not found Dix's keys!"