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the hidden hand of god
CHAPTER TWENTY
FOUR:
THE OMEN
Written by Rick
Archer
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Rick Archer's Note:
As I have
chronicled, I acquired a myriad of
personality flaws during my
difficult childhood. These
flaws were directly responsible for
my failure in both love and career
at Colorado State. That said,
I am pleased to report that further
down the road the lessons I learned
would come in handy. Some
say the key to success is the
ability to turn handicaps into
assets. That is probably true.
The day will come when the terrible
misfortune I suffered at Colorado
State plays a key role in my future
success. Which raises the
subject of Good Luck-Bad Luck.
Was this terrible year part of God's
plan for me to succeed in the long
run? It definitely seems a
possibility.
The Hidden Hand of God
is a combined version
of two earlier books, A Simple Act of Kindness
and Magic Carpet Ride. I was 64 when
I first started writing. I began with
Colorado State. This was a natural starting point
for two reasons. First, it was the lowest point of
my life, Rock Bottom #5. Second, this was the
halfway point of my Epic Losing Streak, ten years of
endless failures followed by
ten years of painstaking effort in an attempt to overcome my difficult start in life.
One day I was walking with Marla and I told her about my book
"Good for you," she said.
"Where did you
start?"
"I began with the story of how I got
thrown out of graduate school."
"Oh, Rick, don't start there.
You have to tell them about your childhood first.
Otherwise no one will ever understand why you were so
screwed up when you started graduate school."
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Ouch! That hurt.
However,
Marla was right. Now
that you have read the story of both my childhood and
Colorado State, I have little doubt you agree with her. Previously I mentioned there was only one door open to
J.K. Rowling when she hit Rock Bottom.
Her only way out of her poverty trap appeared to be a children's book based on a vision she had several years earlier.
Given how many times Ms. Rowling had told there was no money in
children's books, she knew it was a long-shot. But what
choice did she have? It was the only door
available to her.
I was in a similar spot. My problems at Colorado State had
been so severe that I teetered on the edge of a nervous breakdown
upon
my return to Houston.
Desperate to find a way
to escape Rock Bottom, the day came when I could see
only
one door open to me: Learn to
Dance.
Considering I had zero natural talent for
dance, this too was a long-shot. Who is
crazy enough to think dance
lessons will put an end to
endless defeat at the hands of
one woman after another? Why
open a door with so little
chance of success?
As we
shall read in this chapter, a
very unusual event was
responsible for my decision to
learn to dance. Directly
related to the Curse of
Vanessa, every action I took from
here forward was motivated by my
futile search for a girlfriend.
In the process, my problems with
women inadvertently led to an
accidental
dance career.
Which
raises yet again the subject of
Good Luck-Bad Luck. My
terrible luck with women led to
the luckiest break of my life.
It really does make me wonder if
there is more to this world than
meets the eye.
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JUNE
1974, AGE 24
THE CLARK
FAMILY
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Upon my return to Houston in June
1974,
I was so devastated by my
failures at Colorado State I could barely
function. Seeking sanctuary,
I stayed
with the Clark family for the month of June.
Polly and Allen Clark were members of the
Houston Quaker Meeting who had become a second
family to me over the years. They were
kind enough to take me to Colorado three summers
in a row starting at age 11. I endeared
myself to Polly and Allen by reading books to
their three young children in the back seat
during long drives. Along the way I became
their semi-adopted son.
By chance,
the Clarks lived across the street from the
Houston Jewish Community Center. As a way
to deal with my crushing depression, I played
basketball and volleyball four nights during the
week, then mornings on Saturday and Sunday.
Other than that, I rarely moved from the living
room couch all day long.
In July I regained
enough strength to resume my life. The
term 'Walking Wounded' refers to persons
who have been defeated psychologically by their
experiences in life, but somehow manage to carry
on. Although I was emotionally crippled, I
could hold a job. I
found a dreary job investigating child abuse, then rented
the first apartment I noticed after exiting the interview.
I did this because I assumed I would be working
in the same building. That was my first
mistake. My office would turn out to be
ten miles away.
The second
mistake was my failure to properly vet the
residents. Since this was a spur of the
moment decision, it
never
occurred to me to
see if there were girls my age in this
small apartment project. When I discovered the complex
was 95% gay, I was fit to be tied.
Too late now. I had a lease, so
I was stuck with this place for at least a year. Feeling sorry for myself,
on a whim I bought a pool table as my first piece of
furniture. My savings drained, I used what little
money I
had left to buy an
inflatable mattress and slept on the floor. It wasn't luxury,
but it beat the alternative.
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Unwilling to go anywhere near a woman after work,
I
decided to join the Jewish Community Center as a way to
visit the Clark family on a regular basis, then play sports
afterwards. I led a very simple lifestyle. Go to
work, then choose between the JCC or shooting pool at night.
Now that I lived alone
in July, my loneliness became
increasingly oppressive.
I
brooded constantly over my disaster at Colorado
State. I might add that so far the new pool table had proven a poor substitute for
the companionship of a woman. The pain of this
loneliness was so intense I had to do something. But
what? One night as I practiced at the pool table, my mind
fixated on
the dilemma of finding the courage to approach a girl in a bar whom I did not know.
In Hindsight, it seems odd that I could not think of single
activity that would allow me to meet women in a less
stressful way than trying to pick up a girl in a bar.
A church singles group would have been the perfect
alternative, but that idea never crossed my mind.
Since there were no single women my age at work or my
apartment project, my only way to meet a girl centered
around bars. What would I say to her? I had no
idea.
We've been through this before, yes? Dating all the
way back to the days of Connie Kill Shot in college, I had been long
been afraid of a woman's rejection. But now the
problem was worse, much worse. Connie Kill Shot was a
grass snake compared to Vanessa's cobra. Just the
thought of approaching a woman in a bar was enough to
trigger a major panic attack.
My hands trembled so badly I could
not hit a pool shot to save my soul. Just the thought
of going up to a girl I did not know was so intimidating
that my heart was thumping and I broke out in a cold sweat.
I was shocked. What is going on here? This is not normal! The
intensity of my fear was way beyond ordinary.
I was anxious, I trembled with a strong sense of dread. I
was
lightheaded and dizzy. I had sweaty palms, increased
heart rate, shortness of breath and muscle tension.
These were
the physical symptoms of extreme fear.
This was Vanessa's fault, it had to be. I
was very angry to discover the Curse of Vanessa had followed
me
from Colorado
to Houston. I had a
right to be cautious, but I should not be overreacting to this extent!
My fear of rejection
was way more intense than it should have been.
The vision of a pretty blonde in a nightclub
should not be able to evoke the level of panic typically
reserved for life-threatening situations, but that is
exactly what was happening.
We have
now reached a key point in my story. I had just
realized my life-long fear of a woman's rejection had
worsened to the point of Phobia.
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Phobia is a form of mental illness.
I did not even have to see a woman for the problem to kick
in. Just the image of approaching an attractive
woman I did not know was enough to make me violently sick in my stomach.
It was even worse in person. If I
saw a woman I was interested in, I would sweat and tremble with anxiety. Phobias
are weird. They
make no sense to
the outside world, but the fear is real
to the afflicted person. Phobia is very embarrassing to talk
about. It seems so silly to a
healthy person. "Just go up and talk to a girl,
Rick. How hard can that be?"
A
friend of mine
named Caroline nearly drowned as a
baby. As an adult, Caroline married a man with
a swimming pool. One day at a party in her back yard, I
noticed Caroline give the
swimming pool a wide berth. She refused to go
in, even at the shallow end.
When I asked what that was all about,
Caroline told me she was terrified of
swimming pools, large and small. She
would not even go in her daughter's wading pool. I asked how she took baths.
Caroline avoided them by taking showers.
The swimming pool had the same power over
Caroline as the fear of a woman's rejection had
over me. I was so crippled, I wondered
how I would ever conquer this fear. On one level, I
knew that young women did not bite. However,
thanks to Vanessa, I learned a pretty girl had the power to
rip my heart out.
To me, a pretty girl was more dangerous than a
growling dog. I could get stitches for
a dog bite, but not another broken heart.
Fortunately my Rejection
Phobia allowed me to function in everyday life. All
I had to do
is avoid whatever it is I fear, in this case young women. It was so much safer, so
much easier to hide in my apartment every
night. And that is exactly what I did.
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July 1974, age 24
YOLANDA
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One of the curious aspects about Phobia is you can still function in everyday life. All you have to do
is avoid whatever it is you fear. Afraid of spiders?
Don't go in the cellar. Afraid of snakes? Don't
walk in the brush. Afraid of heights? Don't
climb the ladder. Afraid of dogs? Steer clear.
Afraid of girls? Hmm. Girls were a different
story. Much different.
Yolanda was
a sexy Hispanic
receptionist I met through my Child Welfare job.
She began
flirting practically the moment we met.
Since I was
having all kinds of trouble working up the courage to
talk to women who were strangers, Yolanda's
aggressiveness relieved me of the necessity of making
the first move.
Due to my
fear that a woman would find me ugly once she saw the
scars, I did not dare risk rejection by making the first
move. But if a woman made the first move,
that indicated she had seen the scars and did not
care. Vanessa had made the first move and so
did
Yolanda.
Considering how starved I was for
company, I was pleased by this unexpected breakthrough.
Yolanda was a very pretty girl.
She
had light brown
skin, brown eyes and dark brown hair. Slender and
blessed with an impressive figure, Yolanda was an
unusually provocative woman. As we talked, I realized I
had never before met a woman quite so brash.
"Don't you think I'm
pretty, Rico?
Don't you want to date me, Rico? Why not
ask me out and take your chances? Who knows,
maybe you'll get lucky."
That was quite
an invitation. Yes, I did think she was pretty.
Yes, I did want to ask her out. Yes, I did
hope to get lucky? How about lunch?
I saw Yolanda later the same day. That went well, so I suggested we go
to dinner on Saturday night.
Yolanda smiled and said yes.
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To be honest, Yolanda
was not what you would call 'my type'.
Which is a pretty dumb thing to say
considering I had not dated enough women to
deserve a vote. That said, I
preferred women who reminded me of my St.
John's classmates... well-educated, smart as
a whip. For all her faults, Vanessa
was smart as a whip. Yolanda? A
different story. She was perhaps a
high school graduate, but I had my doubts.
At lunch on our first date, she talked
non-stop, but it was Cosmo stuff, you know,
food she liked, clothes, celebrity gossip,
hot guys in
movies and so on. I doubted seriously
Yolanda and I were headed to the stars, but
it was not like I had a wide selection of
women to choose from. Yolanda was a
good start, but who would be next?
It was mid-July 1974, nearly two
months since my dismissal from Colorado
State. My loneliness was so acute, I
had to do something. If I wanted to meet a woman, I
had to go on the prowl.
However, I could not make myself
do it. Just the thought of
going up to some girl I did not know
terrified me. Call
it paralysis, call it
stuck in the mud, any phrase will do.
I knew there was only one solution to the problem.
Sooner or later I would have to learn how to
make the first move. That meant picking
up women in bars, something I had never done
in my life.
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Unfortunately the rules of the game dictated it is the man's
job to make the first move. To do that, I had to overcome my fear of
approaching women I was attracted to. But how
does a guy learn to talk to
girls in bars?
Due to my lack of experience, I
was certain to be rejected. I
had to find some simple way to get to First Base that did not scare
me out of my wits. Unsure
how to overcome my oppressive anxiety, I wondered if there was a book
that might explain the principles of meeting women.
Yolanda had
done me a favor. She had gotten me moving again.
I was tired of remaining frozen
with fear here in my apartment.
Hmm.
Maybe there's a book that could explain the principles
of hustling women.
Once a nerd, always a nerd.
Struggling
to regain my confidence, I
decided to visit to a
bookstore. And, believe it
or not, I found exactly what I was looking for. Or
at least I thought I did until I started reading.
I ran across a used
paperback with a weird title,
The Mistress Book.
Given that I
owed my nine-year
St. John's education to a mistress
who ruined my life, I could not
resist a peek.
The author, Jim Deane, was a
self-proclaimed ladies man who
had written this book
as testimony to his lifetime of sexual
conquest. I was so
appalled by the man's
thinly disguised contempt for women,
I
put the book back.
To my
surprise, a rather odd thought made
me change my mind. I suddenly felt a
strong desire to know what
year it was written.
Which, in hindsight, was a very
strange thought. Who cares
what year this awful book was written?
Let me put this another way.
I have read hundreds of books. This was the only
time in my life I ever bothered to look what year a book
was written. And I certainly never anticipated
this disreputable book would
change my life.
I retrieved
The
Mistress Book
from the shelf and opened it back up. It was published in 1972.
So what? Big deal. Then I noticed something odd.
"To Vanessa. Who's sorry now?"
Standing there in shock,
memories
of Vanessa's deceit made my
blood boil.
This was too weird for words.
The coincidental appearance of Vanessa's
name in the dedication was so upsetting,
I had trouble breathing. A dark smile crossed my face.
I doubted this was the same
woman. Nevertheless,
the way I looked at it, any man
with a serious grudge towards a woman named Vanessa was a friend of
mine.
My anger was replaced by an eerie tingling. This was a
very creepy development. 'Vanessa'
was not a common
woman's name.
Seriously,
what were the odds?
Was this an omen?
Was the coincidence of Vanessa's
name God's way of telling me to read this book?
Given my superstitious nature,
it
sure felt that way. And
so,
for
the princely sum of one dollar, I purchased the book.
When I got home, I began
reading.
The book contained a
very interesting
suggestion.
"The fastest polite way
for a man to
get a woman he doesn't know
in his arms is ask
her to dance."
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