SEAFOOD

The second write-up was a proposed remedy for a deteriorating liaison, namely, get yourself a GOOD TRAVEL AGENT because if you’re in a bad romance, you’ve got to get out of town.

So, if you’re going to get out of town, where should you go? My recommendation is to go where it’s temperate and there’s water. Why? That type of scene is serene, relaxed, and generally a magnet for the opposite sex who tend to be in a holiday-type mood when in such an environment. Such a setting makes it easier to fall into a situation that can lead to romance—or at least some adult fun. River, lake or ocean doesn’t matter as long as a resort atmosphere is there or nearby. Me, I preferred salt water.

There you go! Tell her (or him) good-bye forever, recruit an associate to help you choose a destination, and get out of town; on to a new life. Now, a beach city doesn’t guarantee the absence of another bad romance, but people there are often in a transition or temporary (like holiday) phase, and chances are they’ll move on meaning you may not have to. Plus, such areas are rife with potential new paramours. It’s a veritable smorgasbord. BTW, my opinion is that eligible single members of the opposite sex living at the beach be labeled metaphorically as “seafood”. Makes a kind of offbeat sense, doesn’t it? Meanwhile, there are activities like surfing, volleyball, sailing, carousing, and meeting new people—some who are in the same boat as you. I always thought the jackpot would be finding a lady with a place at the beach whose father owned a liquor store.

While there are many qualifying destinations in the US—east, gulf, and west coasts; there are also the Hawaiian Islands, the Mediterranean, and places like Bondi beach in Australia to name a few. For me it was Manhattan Beach, California.

But here’s a warning: One must choose a “travel agent” with care. To illustrate what I mean, check out the following examples.

Riblet and Rimer.

Rimer never had anything resembling a successful (or even viable) romance during the years of high school nor those immediately afterward. He made the decision to permanently leave his Ohio burg for the beach cities of Southern California, but having wrecked his car, and losing his driver’s license in the shit-storm that followed, Rimer needed a good travel agent—and a traveling companion with a car. Riblet listened to Rimer’s case and opted in. it turned out that his girlfriend of six years had given him the old heave-ho which left him heart broken and in a lover’s despair. Rimer provided a solution, but the trouble was that Riblet’s logic was flawed. He thought: I’ll show her by threatening to move to California. When the realization hits that she may never, ever see me again, she’ll ask me not to leave. I mean, who throws away a six-year relationship? If not, I’ll definitely go but be ready to return when she acknowledges her mistake. Yeah, that’s it. That’s the ticket.

Unfortunately, Riblet’s former main squeeze reacted by congratulating him on his choice, wishing him well, and excitedly telling him about her new (and improved) beau. (Hey! That sounds like laundry detergent.) Riblet was devastated and in a “how-could-she” state of shock. The staggering revelation steeled his resolve to leave still thinking she’d come around eventually. The psychological process of denial was full-on.

At last, the duo was on their way to California anticipating a thrilling reality of new, waiting potential romantic partners. Oh, boy-oh-boy! However, the journey began on a rather ominous note; that is, after driving a ONE WHOLE HOUR, Riblet pulled into a motel. He lamented about his lost girlfriend during the short drive, which angered Rimer. Rimer later recalled that Riblet blubbered himself to sleep that night. The next two days weren’t any better, and perhaps even worse. At the halfway point in St. Louis, Riblet couldn’t stand the loss any longer, so he turned around, and headed back to Ohio listening to Rimer curse at him all the way. They completed the return journey in one day.

The payoff? Riblet’s former girlfriend refused to see him and married someone else. He never really reached acceptance and slank away to Columbus. Rimer turned into one of those goofy, liquor-dependent town characters mothers warn their children about. Day after day, night after night, he walked (haunted?) all over town stopping at his favorite taverns and asking if driver’s licenses were easy to obtain in California.

The tragedy occurred because Rimer did not have himself a good travel agent.

Hull and Myers—yeah, that’s me.

Both of us had amicable breakups with local girlfriends. Hull’s lady moved to New York to work with a talent agent, and mine became a flight attendant. Each relationship was expected and intended to be temporary. I only label both as bad romances because the girls beat us to the punch in pulling the plug. We were the dump—EES. NOTE: It’s always better psychologically to be the dump—ER.

After college I joined a company in Chicago and was assigned to Detroit. At the time, the Michigan metropolis had a booming economy. After a year and a half, and several bad romances I returned, to Ohio to visit my parents and ran into Hull at a local watering hole. We had been best buddies in high school. Hull mentioned that he was moving to SoCal to complete his undergraduate studies at UCLA—and why didn’t I come along? Surfing and the beach life had always appealed to me so I told him not to leave without me.

I quit my job, we piled into a Triumph TR3, and off we went with only one little hiccup along the way—the TR3 lost a throw-out bearing in Albuquerque. After a day for repair—a foreign car mechanic amazingly had the part—onward to the promised land we went.

Hull became excellent at having “good” bad romances. During our time, mostly in the South Bay beach cities, he married and divorced three times managing to remain friendly and on good terms with each ex. He once described himself in a publication as “being happily married and divorced numerous times”. His final liaison lasted 16 years—until the end of his life.

Once during a romantic dinner with his final flame he asked, “Linda, would you do me the honor of becoming the next ex Mrs. Hull?”

She had the good sense to say “no”, and they continued with dinner as if the subject had never been broached. All remained well with their relationship.

Based on Hull’s happy and successful life, one may conclude that he had a terrific travel agent—mainly, me.

Well, that leaves just me. Manhattan Beach was loaded with flight attendants and young teachers and the vibe was party-on 24/7. It was almost too much for a naive 20-something Midwesterner, but it’s amazing how fast one learns to adapt to a new environment. Over the first four years I had between 15 and 20 on-and-off relationships with a variety of young ladies. Although brief, they tended to be intense, and looking back, I cannot label any of them as bad romances. Also, it was often a blurred line relative to who the real pursuer was. Like the old song said, “Who’s zooming who?”

Then it happened. I found “the one”. At the time of her passing we were married 56 years and seven months.

It turned out that I also had a terrific travel agent—namely, Dennis Hull.

So, there you have it: a bad romance, a good travel agent; and in conclusion, give me some yellowtail and send me to jail, man, with a little red snapper on the side.

Miss you babe, Geno

P.S. Shrimp and rice? Mighty nice.

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