May 21
And then there was Sarah. I’ve never believed in love at first sight. Lust, yes, but not love. Yet from the moment I saw her, something clicked inside me: I knew I wanted her. And I don’t mean I wanted merely to sleep with her, though that certainly figured on my agenda. I wanted to know her and I wanted her to know me; I wanted to love her and for her to love me. But that, apparently, was not what Sarah wanted.
We did indeed work closely together. We sat in adjoining cubicles, and since she knew the office end and I knew the plant, it became natural for us to ask each other questions. She was funny and smart, and our senses of humor fit well together. She seemed to both respect me and trust me. But she wouldn’t date me.
“Never crap where you eat,” she said. No matter how close we got on the job—and some days, it felt like electricity filled the space between us—at the end of the work day, she said goodnight and we went our separate ways. I lived in the bachelor pad then, a converted garage with a hot plate and a bathroom. I’d go home and bemoan my failure, watch TV, and work on my models. I’d started a mine complex—not a big one, just a mine head with a lift to raise ore out of the shaft, and a hopper to hold it for the rail cars, and a house for the lift motor. I planned to add a Ford Model T up on blocks, with a belt running to the motor house to run the motor. I’d seen that in an old photo of a mine up in Colorado. I didn’t know for sure that they’d powered lifts that way in Mojave Desert mines, but it would make an interesting model nonetheless.
But for weeks on end, I lost interest in modeling. I'd watch TV instead, wasting the evening hours while the mine complex sat unfinished on my work table. At night, I’d lie awake in bed thinking about Sarah and asking God why he put her in my life if only for her to remain at such a distance. It didn’t seem fair. In my adult years, I’d dated quite a bit, but had never met anyone who made my insides feel warm in the way that Sarah did. And though she wouldn’t go out with me, I had no desire to date anyone else. As a result, I remained celibate for nearly a year.
“Never crap where you eat,” she said. No matter how close we got on the job—and some days, it felt like electricity filled the space between us—at the end of the work day, she said goodnight and we went our separate ways. I lived in the bachelor pad then, a converted garage with a hot plate and a bathroom. I’d go home and bemoan my failure, watch TV, and work on my models. I’d started a mine complex—not a big one, just a mine head with a lift to raise ore out of the shaft, and a hopper to hold it for the rail cars, and a house for the lift motor. I planned to add a Ford Model T up on blocks, with a belt running to the motor house to run the motor. I’d seen that in an old photo of a mine up in Colorado. I didn’t know for sure that they’d powered lifts that way in Mojave Desert mines, but it would make an interesting model nonetheless.
But for weeks on end, I lost interest in modeling. I'd watch TV instead, wasting the evening hours while the mine complex sat unfinished on my work table. At night, I’d lie awake in bed thinking about Sarah and asking God why he put her in my life if only for her to remain at such a distance. It didn’t seem fair. In my adult years, I’d dated quite a bit, but had never met anyone who made my insides feel warm in the way that Sarah did. And though she wouldn’t go out with me, I had no desire to date anyone else. As a result, I remained celibate for nearly a year.
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