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Shovel 4 | Jul 18 2002

I’m not certain, but I think Jeannie’s face may have been pockmarked in places. When I try to remember it, I can’t see it; I just have this vague sense of holes somewhere in the vicinity of her cheeks.

I was attracted to her; this I know. I was attracted to her but couldn’t act on this attraction out of respect for Carol’s feelings.

Carol was the gardener.

I was the manager, officially. This meant that I booked guests, prepared breakfast, and cleaned the rooms. Unfortunately, only three people showed up the whole time I was there: two cyclists and an older guy. Mostly I just wrote and went for walks in the hills. On weekends the owners drove down from the city and took over. The weekends were the busy time.

I didn’t like the owners and neither did Carol. We became friends by disliking the owners together. We would play a game called Who Can Say The Meanest Thing About Them.

One night Carol got drunk and told me how she felt. This left me no choice but to say how I felt, which she said she already knew but still had to hear. That was painful. And then Carol’s friend Jeannie came to visit.

It was a situation.

Supposedly to get away from the owners for the weekend, I got a ride with Jeannie back to Boston. After about five minutes, we pulled over and started kissing.

As I remember it, and this I may be totally making up, her stick-shift kept getting in the way.