The Master's Project (7) - Randy and Kathy

by Lubrican

Chapters : 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

Foreword

This episode resulted from a request by Wet Dream Girl to write something about real people, namely herself and her older brother, Randy. You may have read their story: "Kathy and Randy: As told to the Purvv" , which is posted at Storiesonline.org. The only problem with that was that I don't write about real people. I am inspried by real people, but I don't write about them. So if you want to read the real story of Randy and Kathy, you need to read the Purvv's story.

It just so happened, though, that her request ... reminded me ... of one of the interviews that happened in my project.

Bob

Chapter One

Someone once said that, if you sit a chimpanzee at a computer keyboard, eventually he'd write War And Peace, or one of those big long novels. What that meant was that, given enough time, random events will result an outcome that, otherwise, could not be predicted.

Somebody else said that truth is stranger than fiction. I'll let you be the judge of that, after you read this narrative.

It was a crisp autumn afternoon when I wrapped up the interviews with one of the last couples in my study. I stopped off at Wal-Mart to get a box of Little Debbie cupcakes, something I had a particular weakness for. I don't know if it was because they tasted good, or because of the company slogan: "Little Debbie Has A Treat For You". I saw that on the side of a truck once upon a time, along with a picture of "Little Debbie", whose panties were showing. I confess I had evil thoughts about the "treat" Little Debbie might have for me.

Anyway, when I got out of the car to go inside, I grabbed my clipboard, for some reason. It was probably habit, but I realized I was carrying it about halfway to the store and turned around to take it back to the car. My shoelace was untied and I stepped on it, tripping, so I bent over to tie it up. As I stood up, I saw motion out of the corner of my eye and looked to see the very startled face of a young woman staring through the windshield of her pickup truck, whch was coming out of a parking slot frontways as it struck me. I remember turning at the last second, so that it hit my butt, instead of my hip, and then the world spun.

You know how they say you can see stars when you get a good whack on the head? They aren't lying, folks.

Things got fuzzy for a few seconds. I remember a falling sensation and some very hard pavement. Then there was a pair of women above my face, screaming for help and, just as I realized the two women were actually only ONE woman, things just faded to black.

I woke up in the hospital. It was very comfortable and I didn't want to open my eyes. But the beeping of machines and the low jumble of voices told me where I was. The smell too. I blinked my eyes open and turned my head, which was the wrong thing to do, because lightning suddenly struck and forced this odd sound out of my mouth.

"He's awake," came a calm female voice that I knew wasn't all that loud, but still sent more pains shooting through my head. I felt like I had the mother of all hangovers.

Then there was somebody shining lights in my eyes and holding them open. My arms were under blankets and I couldn't move them, so I told whoever it was in no uncertain terms that I was not happy with the situation. I'm told it came out something along the lines of: "Mfph sumbah lily phoombah grahb!"

"Yes," said the doctor, as if he understood every word. "You have a slight concussion. There's no real damage, though. We're going to keep you here overnight, just to keep an eye on you, but you'll be fine with a little rest. Do you feel up to having a visitor? Your girlfriend has been waiting to see you."

My mind toyed with the idea that I suddenly had a girlfriend. Then that face was hovering over me again. The last time I had seen it was through the windshield of the truck that I remembered bouncing up onto.

"Are you all RIGHT?" she asked quietly.

"Yrg ran oberme," I mumbled.

"Yes," said the doctor wisely. "You were hit by a car. Don't worry about that, though. Your girlfriend says she got the license number, so I'm sure the police will catch the culprit. You just lie still for a while. You need to remain calm. Would you like a sedative to help you sleep?"

I shook my head, primarily because I was trying to marshall my thoughts and voice to explain that this woman was NOT my girlfriend, and the reasons she knew the license number of the 'car' that had hit me was because it was HER license number. Shaking my head, though, was a bad idea, as it turned out, and led to amazing pain, which led to vocalizations that promptly brought a sting to my arm and the world faded away once more.

This time when I woke up I felt a lot better. The pain in my head was only a dull ache now, and I was able to roll my head to one side without pissing off Thor. The woman who had run me down was slumped in a chair, sleeping. There was a young man sitting beside her in another chair, reading a magazine. He looked up and his eyes widened. Thankfully he didn't squeal or scream. He just poked the woman, who woke with a start.

"He's awake," said the man.

The woman's eyes went wild for a second or two, and her head swiveled like she was looking for the lion that was about to pounce on her. She stood up and leaned over me again.

"I'm SO sorry," she said, her voice hushed. "I didn't see you and then all of a sudden you were just there, and I couldn't stop, and then you rolled up on my hood and I was so scared, an I know you hate me, but I didn't mean to hurt you, and OH PLEASE don't call the police."

She took a long shuddering breath, which wasn't surprising, seeing as how she had spoken for almost forty-five seconds straight.

"We'll pay for everything." she said meekly. Her eyes stared into mine and there was pleading in them.

The man's face appeared beside hers.

"You feeling better?" he asked.

I nodded.

"They kept you overnight for observation," he said. "We found your clipboard, and it had your name on it, so we knew who to ask for. They wouldn't have let us see you if Kathy hadn't pretended to be your girlfriend."

I liked this guy. He had told me more in thirty seconds than anybody else had told me the whole time I was there. He went on.

"They say you'll be fine. You're a little scraped up, but no real damage. Kathy's a little impulsive. I hope you'll be kind to us about this. It really was an accident."

Well, I wasn't in any position, just then, to assert my victim's rights, or whatever the bleeding hearts would call them, but then again I didn't feel all that badly. I tried talking again.

"Nothing broken?" I croaked.

He got a cup of water and held it to my lips. That helped.

A nurse came into the room.

"STOP THAT!" she scolded, taking the water from him. "You're not supposed to give fluids to someone with a concussion!"

I didn't like her. I was dying of thirst and my mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton. I wasn't crazy about the girl who had run me over either. The guy I liked. He had done something nice for me, even if it broke the rules.

"When can I leave?" I asked.

The nurse got all official on me.

"The doctor will decide that. You just lie there and get some rest."

"Correct me if I'm wrong," I said, "but haven't I been resting since yesterday?"

When they don't have a snappy official answer for you, they just turn around and leave. Nurses look good in their uniforms, and they're good for a fantasy or two, but in real life they're just mean, nasty women. Trust me on that.

OK, I know that's not fair, but that's how I felt at the time.

Anyway, for lack of anything better to do, I lay there and got to know my attacker and, as it turned out, her husband.

Randy introduced himself and Kathy, and then explained that, while he was wrestling a new 27" TV out of the store, Kathy ran ahead to drive the truck around to the door, since they had backed the vehicle into the parking slot and couldn't get to the trunk. That's when she and I met the first time. I knew I had been tying my shoe, and that bent over like that it was likely she hadn't seen me. In other words, it really WAS an accident. That and the fact that nothing much hurt except my head, made it seem less traumatic than it had before. I told them I wasn't mad, and that, as long as it didn't cost me an arm and a leg for the hospital visit, I wouldn't make any trouble for them.

Then I remembered the clipboard, which Randy said he'd found, with the sheaves of paper on it that, instead of leaving safe at home, I insisted on carrying around with me. Suddenly things were traumatic again.

"My papers?" I asked.

Randy leaned over the arm of the chair and came up with the clipboard, all the papers still on it, and I heaved a sigh of relief.

"What IS all that, anyway?" asked Kathy. She was amazingly upbeat, now that she knew I wasn't going to come after them for everything they had, which probably wasn't much. They were young, and dressed pretty much like I did.

"Research project," I said shortly.

"Boy, that must be SOME research project," she said giddily. "I mean all those notes about people doing all those things and stuff. It reads like a pornographic book or something!"

"It's about marriage," I said. I was still a little miffed at her, even though I knew she couldn't have helped what had happened.

"We're married!" said Kathy brightly.

I looked at her face and saw lingering fear in her eyes. I realized she was babbling ... trying to be sociable. I felt a little empathy for her. It must have been traumatic for her too. Too many people have a simple accident that screws up the rest of their life. Shit happens, but even so, it always smells bad.

"Relax," I said. "It was just an accident."

"I know," she said softly. "But I still feel bad."

To divert her attention I told them about my research project.

"We don't look much alike," said Kathy when I was done. "You'd think we would but ..." She stopped so suddenly that it caught my attention. That, and the fact that Randy tensed up and shot her a look that was full of warning.

"I guess we just don't look much alike," she said, blushing a little. She darted her own look back at Randy.

"How long have you been married?" I asked.

Kathy took a breath, but Randy put his hand on her arm and she didn't say anything.

"It's been about five years," he said.

What seemed odd about that was his characterization of the time as "about" five years, and her lack of response that he didn't know to the day how long they'd been married. It wasn't so odd that he didn't know. What was odd was that she didn't react to that.

"Not everyone in my study looks alike," I said, just to keep the conversation going. "Lots of those types of couples seem very happy."

"Oh, we're happy!" said Kathy, perking up, like I had suggested they weren't.

I still don't know why I said it, but the fact is that I did: "Well, would you guys like to join the project?"

"What would we have to do?" asked Randy, looking a little guarded.

"Oh, it's just an interview process, where I ask you questions," I said.

"The questions that were on your papers?" Kathy blushed.

"That's the ones," I said.

"And people didn't mind answering them?" She looked startled.

"Most of the time it was no problem. I guarantee confidentiality. When I publish the paper there won't be any names in it," I explained. "Not real names anyway."

"What if we're not ... like other couples?" asked Randy.

That seemed like an odd way to look at things. The philosopher in me responded to that.

"Well, no two couples are the same," I said. "Everybody is different."

"Yeah," was his only response.

I could tell that they were uncomfortable for some reason, and I didn't really need anybody else in the study, particularly if they had only been married for a short time, so I dropped that line of conversation and we talked about various other inconsequential things.

The doctor came sweeping into the room, along with three other younger people in white coats, and he picked up my chart. He began going over it out loud and I realized that those with him must be students, or interns or something like that. They talked about me like I wasn't there for a while and then all agreed that the tests they had run indicated no lasting brain trauma, and that I could go home. Then they left. Not once did any of them speak to me directly.

When they were gone Randy offered to give me a ride back to Wal-Mart, where my car was still parked. I got up out of bed and, as I staggered a little bit, the hospital gown, which was on me like a robe being worn backwards - and not tied - drifted off my shoulders and slid down my arms. I was dizzy, and ended up falling back onto the bed, unable to break my fall because my hands were all tied up in the gown.

"Oh!" squealed Kathy.

The gown had covered my face when I fell, and I dragged it off to find that my lower torso - my very naked lower torso - was exposed to both of them. I pushed my gown-covered hands down to cover my groin.

"Maybe you're not quite ready to go after all," commented Randy wryly.

"I'm getting out of here," I said firmly. "Just give me a minute to get used to standing up."

Kathy scurried out of the room while Randy helped me find my clothes and get dressed. The nurse came in and barked at me for getting up, and I barked back at her because the Doctor had said I could go home. I ended up in a wheel chair, being pushed by Randy as we picked up a subdued Kathy and they took me out to the entrance of the hospital. Once I wasn't in the building it was suddenly just fine for me to walk, and I got the hell out of there before they decided to hog tie me and do more tests, or whatever.

The trip from the hospital back to Wal-Mart wasn't nearly as uncomfortable as I thought it would be. Kathy, other than being a bit of a motor-mouth, was really ... well ... cute, I guess. Some women affect a man because of their looks, at least initially. But most women have a much stronger affect on a man based on their personality, in the end. I can't tell you how many times I've been around a beautiful woman who was wrapped up in promoting that beauty above other, more practical things. Kathy was one of those women who just loved life, and she loved everything about life. She had a positive attitude and was interested in all the things that comprised her life. She could find "meaning" in almost anything. She was one of those people who counted her blessings fairly continuously, and celebrated each one.

The best example I could give you is her conversation on that trip. After they arranged to pay the bill at the hospital, and we got to the parking lot, Randy said "I'll drive," in that way men have of saying "I'll drive, because the last time YOU drove, you ran OVER some poor shmuck." She knew exactly what he meant - both of us did - but she took it all in stride.

"Fine. That will give me more time to talk to Bob," was her reply.

She sat in the front seat, but turned sideways so she could talk to both of us. She didn't seem to be the least bit offended that she had been stripped of her driving rights.

"This is all kismet, you know," she said, once we had gotten moving.

"Kismet?" I asked.

"You know ... fate. I ran over you for a reason." She said it like it was obvious. "There was some reason we sere supposed to come together like this."

"Couldn't we have just bumped into each other and said 'Hi'?" I asked.

"She DID bump into you," said Randy wryly.

Kathy was unfazed.

"Joke about it all you like," she said brightly. "But the fact is that things happen for a reason. I believe that firmly."

Then, like her running me over, and the 'fact' that it was ordained by the stars, wasn't nearly as important as it had sounded, she changed the subject and asked me all kinds of questions about where I lived, and what I was studying in school, and what I was going to do AFTER school and things like that. That morphed into questions about how I felt about this political situation, or that story in the news. She jumped around with the verbal alacrity of a late-night TV comedy show host, talking first about one thing, and then changing subjects for no apparent reason. At first I thought she was just still nervous, but it didn't take long to realize that she was just a happy-go-lucky person who was interested in almost anything. She wanted to express her own thoughts on things, and was interested in mine. It was suddenly like we had known each other for years.

Randy was a little different. With man-to-man relationships, it usually hinges on the competition factor. Men tend to compete with each other. If they can't compete on the basis of looks, then the urge to compete manifests itself in other ways. They'll compete about which football team is better, or which way of navigating through the city is better, or even who knows the most obscure facts about something nobody cares about. Sometimes they'll even compete over something so simple as a handshake.

Randy, though, was more comfortable with who he was, and the competition factor just didn't play into things. He just drove, and made a comment here and there. He didn't have to ask any questions. That was Kathy's department, apparently. I hadn't shaken his hand yet, but by the time we got to Wal-Mart I was sure that when I did, his grip would be firm, but not strong, and that he'd probably give a double shake.

Women don't understand the importance of shaking hands. The roots of the handshake go back to ancient days, when an open hand was a sign of peace, because it didn't hold a weapon. The clasping of hands made it so that neither hand COULD snatch up a weapon and kill the other guy. Handshakes were a sign of trust and vulnerability back then. The military salute is based on the same concept. An open hand is shown and offered in respect. It wasn't intended to BE a competition. Somehow we men have turned it into that, at least sometimes.

When men compete in a handshake, grip is the first part of that. There is sometimes a subtle squeezing, as if to find out which one can crush the other without actually doing any crushing. Then, if one of them feels more powerful than the other, there is a single shake, as if to say "There! You now know who is the stronger!" If both men feel like they've won that first round, the shake will often go on, for three or four shakes, as each one says "There!" over and over again. Often that is punctuated by what sounds like a compliment. "Wow, what a ham," translates to "OK, you're strong, but I can take it." Sometimes a man knows he can't compete, and presents a limp hand to his opponent, as if to offer something that will creep out the stronger man. The intent there is not so much to just submit, as it is to communicate "Let's just get this over with, OK?" Some men DO submit, and that is usually communicated by a frenzied multiple shake kind of thing, where one of them has the urge to snatch his hand back.

But not all men compete in a handshake. Sometimes it is really an offer of courtesy. That is the firm-but-not-strong grip, with a double shake that says "I don't mind touching you, and in fact, I'm glad we got this opportunity to show each other respect."

A good handshake announces cooperation, not competition.

I tell you all this because, when we DID get to Wal-Mart, and I got out to get in my own car, he DID give me a good handshake, along with a simple "Thanks," which I understood meant "Thanks for understanding that accidents happen, and for not ruining the day of my mate, whom I love dearly, even if she drives like a woman."

I tell you all this because I want you to know how smart I am, and how on top of things a sociologist is when he enters into relationships with strangers.

I tell you all this so you'll be impressed, and overlook the fact that I was completely clueless as to how important this couple would someday be in my life. I'm trying to distract you with socio-babble, so that when you find out how clueless I really was, you won't pay any attention to that.

Kathy, no doubt still feeling guilty for what had happened, said: "You have to come over to our house for dinner. I probably owe you a month of dinners to make up for almost killing you."

Poor college kids never turn down free food. I may have mentioned this before. So I accepted.

"OK," I said.

"Saturday?" she asked. "Lunch?"

"Deal," I said.

I had forgotten all about ... kismet.

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