Upon arriving in Newport in late 1994, I was excited to live on the Oregon Coast and thrilled to start a job at what looked to be a great start-up operation. Finding a girlfriend was the next item to cross off my list.
I had help immediately. My boss, Keith, and his girlfriend, Diane, wanted to set me up with a young lady Diane had known for years. The plan was to have the four of us meet for lunch. Unfortunately, that did not happen. The woman in question didn’t feel like meeting anyone. I was disappointed, but it was out of my control. Or was it?
Let me stop here and say that life experience has taught me this type of situation is almost always a dead end and a good place to stop, regardless of the urging from other parties involved. This wouldn’t be a story worth telling, however, if I hadn’t plowed forward. The stop signs along the way couldn’t have been any more red, but some guys learn the hard lessons in dating through humiliation.
The woman was a teller at the bank where our radio station had an account. She became known as “Bank Girl” around work. Diane thought Bank Girl would go out with me if we just had a chance to meet. She encouraged me to take deposits over, strike up a conversation, and see if she would have lunch. I took a trip or two over just so that Bank Girl would recognize me; no one wants to go to lunch with someone who just walked in off the street.
Soon came the big day of asking Bank Girl to lunch. The bank itself was five minutes from work, but the trip took the better part of half an hour. There was the long drive down every side street along the way, the dry mouth and profuse sweating while sitting in the parking lot, and then the fair amount of time spent pretending to fill out deposits slips that were completed before I got there. A bundle of nerves. What could possibly go wrong?
I handled the business part of our interaction and then popped the question regarding lunch. She said no. She just wasn’t interested in dating anyone. There was a little bit of salesman in me — the whole overcoming objections strategy. I told her it was just lunch and asked what it would take to change her mind. She said, “You would have to move mountains.” Hmmm. Let’s just say the drive back to work was a lot shorter than the drive to the bank.
While glad that I had put myself out there, I was feeling a bit dejected, especially since there had been a fair amount of energy expended. This also happened on the day I felt completely overwhelmed with all the audio processing material I was reading as part of my broadcasting training. While talking with Keith about my struggles, I also mentioned the Bank Girl incident. Keith prided himself on being good with women, so I followed his lead on an idea.
We headed over to Walmart that night, and I purchased a couple of Matchbox vehicles: a dump truck and a bulldozer. The next day I made little signs for each of the vehicles that read: “Clarke’s Mountain Moving Services. Call: 541-574-9889.” The number was my home phone, and the plan was to take these over the following week and impress her with my creative solution to her problem.
Informal focus groups suggested this was a fantastic idea. Most women I spoke with said they’d go out with a guy who did this, and if she wouldn’t — run, Clarke, run! During this time Keith suggested calling a friend of his who had dug out the ground at our transmitter site. This friend had a backhoe, and Keith was sure he would be willing to park it in the bank lot if I needed a real prop, rather than a toy, to make my point. That seemed a bit much, and I stuck with the Matchbox machinery.
A week later I returned to the bank, brimming with confidence. After making my deposit, I asked her about lunch again. She said I’d still have to move mountains. I pulled the toys from my pocket and told her I had something to help do the job. One of the other tellers smiled while observing this. Bank Girl watched me roll the dump truck back and forth across the desk. She looked down with a half smile and said…”maybe.” Elated, I smiled and told her she could keep the trucks and that I’d talk to her soon.
When I got back to work Keith asked how things had gone. I told him she still thought I needed to move mountains, but a lunch date had been upgraded to maybe. He had another idea for me to get a more definitive answer the next time I made a deposit.
A week later I’m back at the bank. After another business transaction, I pulled a serving spoon out of my back pocket and set it on her stand. She asked me what it was for, and I told her it was for moving those mountains even if I had to do it one spoonful at a time. While it would have been nice to receive points for a creative response, she lost her temper instead. In a rather loud voice she said she didn’t know why I kept coming back; she told me the answer was no weeks ago! Meekly, I asked — again (yeah, really) — what it would take to change her mind. She said that time would have to stand still. Turning three different shades of red, I hightailed it out of the bank.
When I returned to the station, Keith asked again how my quest had gone. I told him. He mentioned the local junk store in Newport had old broken clocks for sale. I could go pick one up and take it in to Bank Girl to show her that time was standing still. NO! NO! NO! Being detained by security was becoming a possibility. It was time to move on. Her loss!
Keith and I talked about the Matchbox trucks many times after this debacle. I always thought they had probably been thrown into a drawer and that she’d remember me when she came across them some day. I figured it would be a great story she’d have to tell with pangs of regret. Maybe if this was The Notebook. Turns out, she wasn’t the sentimental type. Years later I learned that she had given the toys to a couple of neighborhood boys the day I gave them to her at the bank. So much for the excogitating that went into THAT plan!
Sadly, this was not my only dating train wreck in Newport, but it was one of the more memorable. Dating in a small town is a book that writes itself. As a colleague of mine put it, “I have to give you credit. You were always willing to abuse yourself in your chase for the ladies.” Guilty as charged. Funny how when I met the right person a decade later, the histrionics weren’t necessary.
More to come in Part XIII…