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margie 1
margie 2
margie 3
margie 4
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| *The Heart of Marjorie* |
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| I had to get a TB test to student teach in 1983. I went to a new doctor in town who had recently opened a family practice. The paper did a piece on him and I learned he had a background in cardiology. I sat in his office as he attended to something and I looked at the heavy, old-fashioned-looking, yet obviously modern stethoscope lying on the desktop a couple of feet away. Looked like it could do some serious listening. He also had a life-sized human heart model on a display pedestal on his desk. Sort of gave me the creeps. I hoped that he wouldn't get any ideas about having me lift up my shirt to "check the old ticker while you're here" or anything like that. To me listening to the heart is a sexual act, so I don't take well to getting stethed by a male. I trust I'm not alone in this view... Anyway, he jabbed my arm with the TB, well- test prick- I guess you'd call it and thankfully didn't try to "get fresh" with me. A few weeks later the paper ran a story about this doctor taking over as the school physician after the retirement of old Doc McGeezer- a man whose job I coveted with contemptuous envy. In August the main street of Waterville has an art festival which includes a "sidewalk sale"- sort of a lawn sale for stores- a chance to dump off shopworn merchandise to bargain hunters. I got hired by a clothing store to bake in the sun and harass customers. The manager was a Phil Silvers type who would sidle up to me and loudly whisper (he proved this was possible), "Ask them if they need to be helped. I shouldn't have to keep telling you that..." Then he'd pretend to pile pants while he eavesdropped on my "sales pitch". When it comes to employers, I can sure pick'em! Fun bastard, he was. The customers usually expressed their condolences to me regarding my employer and would leave happy. I was a pretty good salesman, actually. I discovered I had a remarkable knack for guessing a woman's jeans size. And I also had the sense to keep it to myself when it exceeded a certain limit. But Howard's kibitzing and antagonizing were taking its toll. I dreaded every moment when he was around- which was most of the time. I felt like quitting. Getting bullied by an idiot is something you expect when you're a kid, but I was twenty-five, so it was particularly humiliating. But then something happened that made the job a lot more tolerable; I acquired a new co-worker. Her name was Margie. She was a pale-skinned (blue-veined and burn-prone) strawberry blonde. Pretty green eyes. Wore her hair Liz Montgomery-style, combed straight back with a retro black hairband. She was probably five-seven, and no more that 110 lbs- "built tall"- thin-chested. I could picture my hand spanning her armpit to armpit when I was introduced to her. The manager promptly put us to work, sorting the piles of clothing into some kind of order. Of course, I immediately got a good look down Margie's blouse as she rummaged though the pile. I had just bought my first diaphragm-style stethoscope and the thought of pressing it against the pink plane of her warm chest extended my gear instantaneously. She had the most achingly stethable chest I'd ever seen- a smooth padding of flesh over the apex region- no folding (the true aficionado can picture these details with painful clarity). It hurts to contemplate this even now, sixteen years later... And for a breath-robbing moment, I thought this gorgeous seventeen-year-old was braless. But she had one- just cut low. Damn low. I had known since I was nine that this was a decolleté brassiere (thank you Sears catalog!). Margie didn't really need a bra- it provided concealment more than support. Hmmm. Most likely has pale areolas consistent with her pastel color scheme, I thought. Pink like a bunny's nose, or bubble gum. I couldn't stop picturing her stripped to her chinos and espadrilles, and ready for a stethin'... How lovely heaven will be! And beyond this sort of appeal, Margie was one of the nicest, kindest, funniest girls I'd ever met. She was disgusted with guys her own age. And she was fond of me. She "got" me. Quickly got a handle on the sorts of things I'd find amusing. I was soon looking forward to going to work and baking in the sun for another eight hours so I could talk to her and listen to her laugh. She was a good listener and a good storyteller- an all-too-rare combo in humans. Margie was something special. One day, after I'd known her a couple of weeks, I expressed a gloomy desire to toss off a six-pack and hit the hay early that night. It had been a tough day. Howard had been in a mood. "Not me," she said, "I've got to do my running tonight. I haven't done any for like a week now... I've been such a slug lately." Then she seemed to be trying to recall something. "What's tomorrow?" she asked me. "Wednesday," I said. She shook her head. " No, I mean the date." I told her it would be the 17th. "Oh, shit.... " She walked off in a hurry and approached Howard. "Sir, I forgot... I have to go for my physical (lightly taps her chest) tomorrow morning. Can I change with Janey?" Howard absorbed this with no more interest than if she'd said she was going to be mowing the lawn or something. Of course, my gear extended instantly. I could not believe what I heard. I honestly thought it was an auditory hallucination brought on by suppressed desire and too much sun. Howard gruffly asked her when she had to be at the school. Ten. He said she could show up to work at nine, and help set up for a half hour (the hardest part of the day), then leave and come back "...after you get your physical." I felt faint and short of breath. Margie returned and shook her head as she piled pants. "I can't believe I forgot about that, "she said to me. "I'm such a moron." "So," I croaked, "is the physical for- like- cheerleading or something?" Hard to act casual at 160 bps. Margie playfully slapped my arm in mock indignation. "Do I seem like a cheerleader to you?" "Well, sort of..." I offered sheepishly, with a shrug. "Sorry- just kidding... No, it's for cross-country. I'm awesome. Seriously." The rest of the day was a fog to me. Overload situation. I had to conceal an acute erection as I tried (and failed) not to think about Margie's upcoming physical. And for the remainder of the day she would unwittingly torture me with painfully evocative incidentals involving tomorrow's logistics, giving it an undeniable reality. She worried about my handling the sidewalk art show crowd by myself. "But", she said, "if the doctor would do me first, I could be back in a half hour and you wouldn't have to move your lunch hour or anything." This characteristic sweetness and consideration only added more poison to the fluids she had stirred up in me. I assured her that I'd have no problem handling her absence. But when a woman wants to feel guilty, there's no stopping her. I set some personal bests that night. Seriously, I wonder what the twenty-four hour squirt record is. I probably was on pace to shatter it, that long, long night. I tried not to envision my little Margie, stripped to the waist, as the doctor pressed the chunky Sprague chestpiece firmly against the ribs beneath her left nipple. Desire can drive you to tears when you've wrung your other fluids dry... In less than twelve hours a heart specialist would examine my beautiful and sweet and funny distance runner friend with that potent-looking stethoscope. Serious auscultation going on. Beyond my ability to imagine, frankly- but I tried nonetheless. I had no choice. And to Margie this warranted no more privacy than a trip to the dentist. A lot of people are like that when it comes to this sort of thing. And of course some are not. Tomorrow would be a challenging day. That was for certain. NEXT PAGE: http://www.maxpages.com/margie/margie_2 |
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