Courtesy
Political differences existed in the past, but they rarely permeated our lives to the point of civil upheaval. The Young Republicans were in full swing in the early 1970s (2011 Wikipedia) and held many political and social events. One such event was held at the top of the Sorrento Hotel in Seattle. It was a great way to mingle while enjoying the cheap drinks offered.
There was quite a diversity of personalities who attended these functions, so nametags made introductions easier. It was important for us guys to take on the air of legitimate Republicans who were not on the prowl for ladies, although that is exactly why we were there. Even if otherwise attached, it was necessary to check out this scene once a month for auxiliary possibilities.
It was a time of change regarding liquor laws that invigorated private clubs and parties, and a company called The Jet Set flew folks to vacation spots. Escaping the rain for Sun Valley, ID, was ideal for taking advantage of the deep powder, ice skating, and other winter sports.
After attending the first meeting and signing in, I was on the Young Republican’s mailing list. One day I opened an invite from them for a benefit they were hosting for the Seattle Symphony in a mansion on Queen Anne.
This would be a great place to take my new friend from Ballard, as she would be duly impressed with my status amongst my peers; however, I was very wrong. I should have known her state of mind when I dialed her number and felt the phone turn into a solid piece of ice. The icicles were dangling from the phone cord, and my breath turned into a fog as I began to speak. I mustered up a positive greeting, which must’ve been my first mistake, as she answered with a very curt hello.
“Our relationship is purely platonic; you have too many parties, and all your friends party and drink too much.” It proceeded downhill even further, so I decided telling her about the benefit would not be the best thing to do now. I was knee-deep in the ice as she ended with a stiff “Goodbye, Richard.”
Running short of time, I did as many singles would do; I reached for a chilled beer and my black book. The fundraiser was in three hours, so I gulped down the last of the 12-oz liquid courage and found the number of a gal who had laughed at my jokes while her date was playing pool a couple of months previously. I called the number and heard, “Patricia Stevens Modeling Agency, may I help you.”
Then, to get it over with, I said, “Hi, this is Richard Lehman." Before I could say anything else, she told me how much fun she had at our last get-together on a houseboat in Lake Union. I was beginning to feel better about asking her out.
I blurted, “There’s a party on Queen Anne at a mansion tonight. Would you like to go?”
“Yes, but I won’t have time to change after work since I live in Woodinville; I’ll have to wear my runway clothes that the designers give to the models as part of the modeling fee.”
She drove to my house, and all 5’11” of her got out of the car wearing thigh-high laced boots and hot pants. That turned my frown upside down! I served up a couple of 4 lb. gin rocks, and we laughed our way to the Queen Anne function.
Pulling up to valet parking, I could tell by the parking attendants’ faces my date was quite acceptable. I might have looked like a short bald sugar daddy walking through the entrance of the stately mansion, but I felt like a 6-foot debonair he-man with a full head of dark wavy hair.
It was an occasion where the fashion had been a suit and tie, at least, but like me, many of us found alternative attire at Bluebeards on University Avenue: bell bottoms, elevated shoes, and shirts with wide collars unbuttoned mid-way. All belt buckles were large, and the hairstyles were long. Even though I was lacking in this department, I did sport a good beard. The look did not pass muster in the conservative engineering firm where I worked, but for me, the denim look was the proper way to dress.
We got our name tags, and suddenly, young Republicans and friends from Madison Park (dressed in bell bottoms) surrounded us, saying hello and calling us by our first names. I found this unusual since no one had spoken to me before at the other meetings at the Sorrento. Could it be that this tall creature hanging on my arm had something to do with my newfound popularity? Nah, they were just friendly guys. Right.
We wound our way down many flights of stairs to the ballroom, where we were served better-than-average white wine, which was better than at past gatherings.
A window seat beckoned to us, so we sat there and chatted, the smile on my face a constant. Now here comes the best part. The crowd had grown, and everybody was having a good time. I turned and toasted my date, telling her what a great evening it was. I looked toward the long winding staircase, and there on the landing at the top were two young ladies, one with her mouth wide open, looking surprised. It was the young lady on a rant who earlier gave me 102 reasons why I wasn’t a great catch.
I raised my glass to her to indicate I was okay, as I thought she would be relieved, but she turned and left with her friend in a huff. How was I supposed to take this, I wondered. Maybe she disliked me so much that she didn’t want to even share the same room with me. Whatever the reason, I think her rejection of me opened many other doors.
My phone rang off the hook later that night, but I didn’t answer because I had a feeling it was her. She, who dumped me just hours before, was calling frantically to get the skinny on that evening. I laughed gleefully, knowing she was seething. The very idea I was having fun after her sanctimonious tongue-lashing was totally unacceptable. Not to mention that my date was a little more than average, which probably really lit her fuse!
I heard from the Dumper sometime later, and she invited me to dinner. I noticed a distinct improvement in our relationship on subsequent dates. I didn’t even have to change a thing about my behavior. I am not implying that creating an incident as I did was proper, but playing the green-eyed monster card can be crucial in the dating dance.
Reflecting on politics in the days of old, I do not remember the discomfort we are now experiencing. I am hopeful that we can figure out how to get along.