Left Brain, Right Brain

The right side of the brain is the control center for emotions, intuition, creativity, art and music whereas the left side of the brain is responsible for logic, language, reasoning, analysis and math. In 1981 an American neuropsychologist shared the Nobel Prize in Physiology for his work in split brain research and this work led to the right brain-left brain theory. To put this right brain-left brain theory in simple terms and in the context of stories like this, consider the case of a young man who has been dating two young women. One has shiny black hair, a face like a Greek doll, nice tits, hips and ass built for action, is a teller at Wells Fargo and whose father drives a ready mix truck in Petaluma. The other young woman, Miss Plain Jane, has ragged light brown hair, pimples, thin lips, no eye brows, a flat chest and is the only daughter of a 74 year-old widower who has suffered 3 heart attacks and who owns 11% of all Google shares. The right side of the young man's brain is going to be pushing him towards the black haired beauty. The left side, on the other hand, is going to go to bat for Miss Plain Jane.

I was looking uphill and expounding on sled handling techniques to two of the ski patrol trainees when frantic shouts interrupted me. Turning towards downhill, I saw a disaster beginning to unfold. The other two trainees who had been handling the Sun Valley rescue toboggan and Tom, the patrolman who had been playing the part of a victim riding in the sled, were lying in the snow and the sled was careening downhill and picking up speed. Bruce, my instructor colleague who had been supervising the trainees on the sled, made a run for the tail rope, but as he skied over it, the knot at the end knocked his skis out from under him and he went down too.

Just as I moved to go after the sled, a skier shot by me. At first skating to pick up speed, then crouched and tucked, the skier headed straight for the sled. Nearly on top of the rear end of the sled, the skier tossed his/her poles and rolled over the tail rope.

My "What the fuck?" was drowned by the shouts of the others and the action continued as the amazing took place right before my eyes. Continuing the roll, the skier came up with skis still on and fists clenching the tail rope. In what seemed like a fluid continuation of the action, the skier managed to get his skis across the fall line and start braking. The tail rope was sliding through his clenched fists. Surely he would get knocked over when the knot at the end of the rope reached his hands.

But there was no knockdown. The skier managed to hang on, skis braking, throwing up clouds of snow, bouncing over moguls. Slowly but surely, he brought the sled to a stop. Heart pounding, I realized what an exhibition of agility and strength I had just witnessed. I also began to realize that as instructor in charge of the exercise, I had just been spared some pretty serious reputation damage.

Getting down to the skier who had saved the day, I recognized him as a trainee named Clyde, to whom seconds before, I'd been explaining sled handling technique. Bruce, now up and back on his skis, came down and took over the handles of the sled. Everyone was speechless. I was the first to speak. Turning to Clyde, "Where'd you ever learn to do that?"

He replied in a distinctly non-Californian accent and with an economy of words that would have shamed Clint Eastwood and Robert Mitchum. "Didn't." After a noticeable hesitation, he continued, "Jis did it."

I probably went overboard with thanks and praise. His reddening face told me when it was time to shut up. In my defense though, the Sun Valley toboggans we were using weighed close to 150 pounds. You don't have to be a physicist or engineer to imagine the injuries a 150-pound sled, screaming downhill out of control, could cause to a person. On any ski slope at Twin Peaks on a weekend, there are lots of persons around to get hit. Put it how you want to, we were damn fortunate that Clyde got the sled stopped.

Bruce and Clyde took the sled down to a flatter place and we all took a break. I needed it to give my legs time to stop shaking.

After the lifts closed and we'd skied the sweep, I invited the four trainees to join me for a beer. That wasn't expected nor was it normal. At the time I thought I was doing it so they wouldn't blab too much over the morning's near catastrophe. (I was clearly at fault because with trainees running a sled, there should have been a second tail rope with a regular patroller on it.) In truth, there was another reason and I hold my right brain responsible because it was supposed to not let me get too interested in a young trainee named Clyde.

The other three trainees, being with my own San Francisco Patrol, I was already acquainted with. But not Clyde, he was with the Twin Peaks Patrol. Rolly, the mountain manager at Twin Peaks, had called me earlier in the week and asked if I could squeeze one of their trainees into my planned sled handling exercise. That trainee turned out to be Clyde.

After what he did and after meeting him, I couldn't help myself. I needed to know more about him. When you want to find out more about someone, there's a fine line between polite curiosity and nosiness. I cautiously worded my first question. "Rolly said you're doing lots of skiing. You live up here somewhere?"

"Sort of. Housesitting. Friends of my parents have this house up here. Don't use it in winter. Worry about a break-in."

"So a good deal for everybody -- like win-win?"

"Yeah." After a few seconds hesitation and probably in response to my questioning look, he became more talkative. "Dad and Mom live in Sacramento. I went to high school there."

So I was right about the accent. He hadn't grown up in Sacramento. Right away that morning when we'd met, I'd noticed the accent, not strong, just noticeable and pleasant. No not just pleasant, actually sort of sexy, almost addictive. Great Plains? Wyoming? Idaho? Southwest? Arizona? Utah? But there was also a faint touch of Oklahomese. Could he have grown up in California's Central Valley? In the Central Valley, there were communities where 2nd and 3rd generation descendants of the Dust Bowl migration still speak Oklahomese.

Fuck politeness, I had to know more. "So you grew up somewhere else -- not in Sacramento?"

"It's kinda complicated. Dad's an operating engineer -- heavy equipment operator -- bulldozers, graders, loaders, that sort of thing. Used to be a boomer, you know, chased the big jobs. We moved a lot. Oklahoma, Wyoming, Montana, Idaho, Arizona."

"But now your folks are in Sacramento?"

"Yeah. When I got old enough for high school, Mom said we couldn't be nomads anymore. Then Dad got work on a big interstate job around Sacramento and they stayed."

He was starting to open up. I liked hearing his voice and I liked hearing what he had to say. "Interesting the way your mother saw your family as nomads."

"Yeah, that's how it is with boomers. Rented houses, trailer parks, I counted up once, went to 5 different grade schools. But, hey Kitty, you sound like you come from somewhere else too. Like back east, but not 100% so."

My curiosity about him still wasn't satisfied but I found myself so pleased that he was interested in me that I couldn't help giving him a sketchy version of my background. I told him that my mixed bag accent was from being originally from Boston and then going to Minnesota where I finished high school and went to college. I didn't want to elaborate much. The story behind why I moved in with an aunt in Minnesota is not something I wanted to get into with him -- or anyone else I didn't know really, really well. Fortunately, Clyde didn't ask about that.

"So then you went from Minnesota to California?"

"By way of Seattle." I didn't want that to go any further either. Some people, particularly men, get intimidated when I tell them I have a PhD and that I'm a tenured professor at UCSF.

He must have sensed that I wanted to hold back and had the street smarts to change the direction of the conversation. "Somebody said you're a nurse. Did I get that right?"

"You heard right, Clyde. Gave me a big advantage in passing the first aid test."

He nodded and grinned understanding. Then turning to look at me, he spoke in a soft confessional tone of voice. "Kitty, I'm a little weak on the first aid end of things." Then in a slightly different tone that had a unique effect on me, "You could probably teach me plenty."

The second sentence could have been taken as a compliment, but the tone of his voice said it was more -- like an opening line. I knew I should tell him he should just volunteer to help out the nurses in the first aid room. My left brain was frantically telling my right brain to keep the lid on my emotions, but the battle was hopeless. The only concession I made to the left side was to keep my tone of voice neutral. "If you want Clyde, you can ski with me tomorrow and I'll sign up for a half day in the first aid room so we're sure to get some action."

"You'd do that? Sounds like a winner. Let's shake on it!" When we clasped hands to shake on it, his calluses told me that whatever work he did, his hands really caught hell. I had avoided asking him what he did for a living because I was pretty sure he hadn't gone beyond high school and he might have some low-paid, low-skill job that he wouldn't be very proud of. It turned out that I was right on the first count and very wrong on the second.

That night I dreamt about something I'd never experienced in real life - rough callused hands fondling my breasts. When I woke up, my legs were apart and my crotch felt wet. I knew I had to get things under control.

Experience, both personal and professional, had biased me against certain types of relationships. For one thing, I had long ago sworn off hooking up with colleagues at work or guys in the ski patrol. If there was promise of something long term - well that would be different, but the promise would have be damn strong. But a quick hook-up for sex, no way, the potential for complications was just too big.

Another thing my personal and professional experience had taught me was the danger inherent to relationships with big age gaps. A wife at 38 and a 21 year-old husband? It works at first, the wife likes Junior's virility, Junior likes wife's experience and lack of inhibitions. Later, wife is 57 and junior is 40, she's post menopausal and losing libido fast. He's going to start looking at 20's and 30's.

Then you take the 38 year-old bridegroom and the 21-year-old bride. He's horny and still virile as hell, she's nice and juicy -- their bed is going to get a workout. Later, hubby at 60 has trouble getting it up, wife at 43 still has big needs and if she's paid attention to her weight and appearance, it's only a matter of time before some 40 year-old neighbor or colleague senses her needs.

I hadn't asked Clyde how old he actually was, but I didn't need to. Almost 20 years of nursing experience gave me the ability to estimate ages within a few years. I knew he wasn't more than a year or two past 21 and that made him my junior by over 15 years. Good grief, I was old enough to be his mother! I made up my mind that there would be no hookup and no future with him and I resolved to act towards him in a way that he clearly understood that there wouldn't be either.

The next morning he was waiting for me in the patrol room and we got outside in time to be on the first chair up. After the incident the day before, it didn't come as a surprise that his skiing was a lot stronger than mine. I lost count of how many runs we got in, but it was probably double what I'd usually get in.

When you ski with someone, it entails riding with that someone on the chairlift and not many folks can resist conversing on those10 minute rides. Although Clyde was pretty stingy with words, I still managed to find out that he was 21 years old and worked as a carpenter doing concrete forming. His profession, of course explained his rough calloused hands and strength. It also turned out that he was an enthusiastic mountaineer, both summer and winter. I knew some people in the patrol who did ski mountaineering but not to the extreme that Clyde did and that explained his awesome endurance. Already then while skiing with him, it crossed my mind that his endurance might be a positive contributor in a certain indoor activity.

We spent the afternoon together in the first aid room. A good half dozen accidents came in and I made sure he was in the middle of all the diagnosing and re-splinting/re-bandaging. I stayed cool and professional and avoided all conversation that even approached being personal. When we parted that afternoon, he thanked me profusely and I praised his ability and told him he'd have no trouble passing the first-aid part of the patroller test.

When we shook hands goodbye, his calluses reminded me of the need to keep my emotions under control. That turned out to be easier said than done. Already on the drive back to San Francisco, my mind kept wandering back to the dream of his callused hands on my breasts. I squirmed in the car seat as I tried to convince myself that I wasn't getting wet down there.

Monday at work was okay, tired from the weekend, a class to lecture to in the morning, a few hours of hospital duty in the afternoon and I was too pooped for sexual fantasies.

The rest of the week didn't go as well. The dreams started on Tuesday night with his callused hands fondling my breasts, but I woke up before it went any further. Wednesday I didn't wake up quite as soon. By the time I awoke, one of his hands was in my undies and I liked it. Thursday night the dream came back with a vengeance. Beginning with the callused hands fondling my breast and crotch, I didn't wake up until a naked Clyde was on his knees between my legs and about to enter me. Looking up at the ceiling, I realized that I was very, very wet and needed relief. I gave it to myself -- accompanied by the image of a naked muscular young Clyde.

After showering and dressing, over coffee I vowed to avoid getting involved with him and to do everything possible to avoid contact. The first step would be to ski that weekend at Alpine Meadows instead of Twin Peaks and thereby avoid seeing Clyde.

On Saturday, my left brain won out and I went to Alpine. After skiing, there was the usual beer in the base lodge with some of the other patrollers and friends. Some of us decided to have dinner together and one of the guys, Harry, suggested a steakhouse in Tahoe City. That didn't please me for fear of running into Clyde so I, with all the casual politeness I could muster, suggested 'The Old Stage House' near Carnelian Bay. Luckily, Harry and the others liked the idea and we ended up meeting there shortly before seven.

It turned out to be a really pleasant and fun dinner. Lots of good humor, everyone was raving about the prime rib and the wine was flowing. I regretted haven driven because it forced me to temper my wine consumption. Some had desert, I didn't. Instead I just continued taking tiny sips of wine and engaging in conversation. It was then that our table had a visitor. Clyde had been having dinner in another room of the restaurant and on the way out, he saw our group. Knowing most of us, common courtesy dictated that he stop and say 'hello.' But good-manners Clyde didn't just come over, he went around the table and shook hands with all of us. Again, those callused hands on mine and images from my dreams of the week past came roaring back. Then one of the guys insisted that Clyde sit down and join us. I was on the side of the table with the most room so that was where an alert waiter placed a chair for him.

Before the waiter could leave, Bruce asked him to bring a glass for Clyde. He was quick to temper the offer. "Okay, but just a half glass. I have to drive and I don't even want to think about getting a DUI."

With him sitting right beside me, staying platonically friendly was a lot harder and I soon found myself giving up - completely. Clyde couldn't have helped notice my changed body language and tone of voice, but he made no move to connect on a romantic level. The clock was ticking and I had this tingling feeling. Finally I got desperate. The last thing I wanted was to go home alone. An idea flashed in my brain and I hashed out a plan that drew on his mention of a DUI. I just had to patient until the right time came to put it into action.

As the party was breaking up, I made my move. "Clyde, I drove here alone too." Then came my big lie. "I've had a few too many glasses. Would you mind terribly if I asked you to drop me off at my condo?" The question was superfluous because I knew full well he wouldn't mind. To complete the ploy, I acted a little tipsy as we walked to his pickup.

When Gentleman Clyde opened the door for me on the passenger side, my hopes went up that his driving me home was not just a platonic friendly act. In the driver's seat, he turned the key and as the motor sprung to life, a female country-western singer's voice poured out of the speakers. He hit the "OFF" button so fast that I turned to him with a questioning look. He took a sharp breath and explained. "I'm probably the only skier around Tahoe that likes C and W."

I didn't know what to say but I thought I needed to say something. "Nothing to be ashamed of."

"It's one thing to be ashamed. It's another to piss people off." Then he went on with something that made my heart leap and my crotch get wetter. "And I sure don't wanna piss you off, Kitty."

Things were now really looking up for me and I had to choose my words carefully. "It wouldn't have. It's your truck and you're driving me home. Besides, all those years living in Minnesota didn't go by without me gaining a respect for country music."

"But you still don't really like it?"

"I just never got into it. The thing is, as a real country music lover once told me, 'when country is bad, it's really bad and there's lots of bad country out there'."

At first he just nodded agreement. Then his answer. "That's why I put in a tape deck. Got the good stuff on tapes. Don't have to screw around with the crap on these dingbat radio stations."

Thinking my chances with him might improve if I humored him on the subject of music. "Clyde, how about showing me the country you think is good?"

He didn't answer, he just switched the tape deck back on and fumbled a little bit, fast forwarding to get to the piece he wanted to play.

Oh let's go all the way

When you love half way someone's got to pay

I won't accept the part of you so let's go all the way

Love me day and night and I'll know it's right

Love me till I hear you say oh let's go all the way

I didn't get the lyrics to the rest of the song because Clyde started explaining. "That's Norma Jean. Real nice melodious voice, a little twangy for some folks. Not for me though."

He left the tape on and Norma Jean sang a couple more songs before I had to start giving him directions to my condo and he switched the tape deck off.

While Norma Jean was singing, my mind was busy coming up with a plausible and innocent way of getting him into my condo. The best I could come up with was another superfluous question. As he pulled into the driveway outside my condo, I posed it. "Clyde, would you like to come in for a nightcap? Or maybe just a cup of tea?"

"A hot tea would be just fine. I still have to drive home."

The first part of his reply was okay. The second part was disappointing because I didn't want him to drive home that night. If we had a whiskey or two, I would have the opportunity to say he really shouldn't drive. Maybe he just didn't want to be too forward.

Inside, coats hung up, there was a nervous tension in the air. I was pretty sure we both had the same thoughts in mind but neither of us could decide how to initiate what we wanted to happen. I broke the tension by inviting him to make himself at home and indicated the couch.