1990

Eileen and I were in the basement looking for the old printing presses that had been stored there. The workload had more than doubled and we were trying any desperate measure we could, including hiring temporaries, resurrecting previously abandoned equipment that we had decided earlier was no good, and even hand-screening prints for small quantity orders.

On the way back up out of the basement, we stopped at the bottom of the stairs and she kissed me. This was before we had become more seriously involved, so any contact, even the slightest touch, meant something. As a matter of fact, I can't ever remember when the slightest touch did not mean something. That was the kind of relationship we had--or at least I had. I dont know, now that I think about it, exactly how she felt in this regard.

I backed into an alcove off to the left of the stairs and we began kissing more seriously. At one point, I subtlety maneuvered us into a position where my leg was between hers, but as if she had moved us into that position. I'd been planning to do this for a while, fantasizing about it, and this was my opportunity to bring the fantasy into reality. When the front of my thigh finally made contact with that delicate place between her legs, and I moved my leg seductively between hers, she suddenly pulled her lower body away from me, as if she didn't intend (and probably she didn't) for us to be that intimate, or as if the stimulation had become too much for her, as if, if she became any more turned on, she wouldn't be able to control herself. I was disappointed that she pulled away. I wanted to make her orgasm. (I wouldn't know until much later that the easiest way to make her come was to get her drunk and kiss her.)

She broke away and we headed up the stairs and one flight up, we met Mike Miller coming down into the basement. Thirty seconds earlier and he would have seen us.

Another day, a while later, Eileen and I had been in the stairwell, fondling and kissing. We heard a noise above us, several floors up, so we headed back toward the door. Just before I pulled it open, I turned back to her and gave her a final kiss, and at that moment, Richard J. came around the corner, having just (completely quietly) descended the stairs. There was no doubt that he saw us kissing. As we entered the floor, I said something like, "Now everyone will know." Eileen assured me that they would not, because no one understands a word that Richard says.

Richard had a severe speech impediment, and although it was true that I never understood a word he said, I knew of a number of people to whom he made perfect sense, Rita being foremost among them. Later, I was to understand the secret of interpreting him. One Friday night I went out after work to a bar with a large group of employees. As the night progressed and the crowd thinned out, I found myself sitting alone at the bar with Richard. He had been talking to me for awhile, and I had been trying not to pay attention, but he continued talking anyway.

After a while, having nothing else to do, I began to actually listen to him, and found myself picking out individual words he was saying. Richard, having had a lot to drink, talked incessantly, to me, despite the fact that I had no idea what he was saying and had been obviously trying to ignore him. But the more I drank, the more intelligible he began to sound. I began to make a game out of it, trying to count the number of words I could understand in a minute, which I measured by the clock on the wall.

Then, a strange thing began to happen. Slowly, over about a quarter of an hour, I began to understand more and more of the words, until I actually was hearing every word he said. The trick was, you had to pay attention, very close attention, and you had to acclimate yourself to the way he talked, and being a little bit drunk didn't hurt either. Then, I knew for sure what Rita and a few others knew, that Richard could be understood. And because he could, everyone in the company, I was certain, knew about Eileen and me.