Roundup Man
written by: Fay L. Loomis
He was a college professor (psychology, literature), therapist (specialty pet bereavement), and author (sappy poetry). Seemed like a pretty good package, except for the poetry.
We connected on a dating site, exchanged emails, and talked on the phone a few times. In one of his photos, he wore a leather-finged jacket while riding a metal bucking pig. Bit weird, though could be a fun guy.
He fessed up that he’d been married twice. “Both divorces my fault,” he said.
I’d been married twice (divorced, widowed), so I went lightly on the judgment. At least he took responsibility for the failures. I was still the victim.
A Brooklyn resident, he was an upstater on weekends. His house bordered a golf course, and, good to his promise, he invited me for lunch at the country club.
When I pulled into the parking lot, I spotted him, sitting on a bench outside the door of the clubhouse. I gave a quick check in the rearview mirror to see how I looked, just as he opened the car door. He was short and stocky, like his photos, and wore a pale turquoise suede jacket that gave his skin a jaundiced look. The package wasn’t looking so good.
“Welcome to the club. So glad you could come. Beautiful day, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is. Thanks for inviting me. The grounds are lovely.”
He held my elbow and guided me to the dining room, staff voices peppering him with “Hello doctor.” A waiter came toward us. “Dining room’s closed. Why don’t you eat in the café?”
We moved on. I could see he was struggling to keep annoyance out of his voice, as he asked, “Inside or out?”
“I love being outside, the weather is perfect, the view as charming as if plucked from a fairy tale.” He beamed, as if he had created the scene himself.
We sat at a lakeside table and perused the brief menu.
“Sorry we can’t eat in the dining room. They don’t offer a lot here. Do you see anything you want?”
“Yes,” I lied. “Do you?”
He ordered a garden salad and vichyssoise. I ordered a shrimp cocktail and the soup, potato-leek on the menu. I settled back into the cushions, warmed by the sun, mesmerized by fountains spraying over the water, a pair of swans lightly brushing over the water. A slight breeze riffled the man-made lake.
“I’d like to take you to my house after lunch,” he said, pointing to the other side of the water. The view is magnificent there, too.”
I pulled myself up in the chair and said, “We’ve just met, and I prefer to wait until another time.”
“Of course. Didn’t mean to rush you. I love sharing my house and my dogs which I always bring with me when I come upstate.”
“What kind are they?”
“Golden retrievers.”
“I have a mixed breed dog. We take a lot of hikes together. She has become very protective since my husband died. I take her with me whenever I can, though I left her at home today, because the car would have been too hot.”
“The dogs love coming to this house. They can run around the yard, roll around in the emerald green grass. I keep it that way by using Roundup. The gardener here at the club shared his secret for pristine greens.”
I choked back the sound that wanted to screech from my throat, then blurted out “Roundup?”
“Best thing ever for keeping weeds out of the lawn and the driveway. I load up on several gallons at a time.”
This time I held nothing back, the word exploding from my mouth. “Roundup?”
“What’s the matter with Roundup?”
“It’s poisoning the world!”
“It’s such a great product. I don’t know what I would do without it. No weeds whatsoever. Can’t beat it!”
I wondered if I should leave, try to dissuade him from using the toxic stuff, or just get on with lunch. I decided on the latter, not wanting to make a scene with someone who might not even notice. I shifted the conversation to Steve Jobs and the upcoming introduction of the iPhone.
He jumped on Job’s invention. “Steve’s brilliant, a genius.”
“A narcissist,” I interjected, in a piqued voice.
“Steve’s going to revolutionize the world. We’ll never be the same . . .” He babbled on. I bolted my food.
“Thanks for the lunch. Gotta go check on my dog. I’m sure you understand.” I exited asap, without giving him a chance to escort me to the parking lot.
As soon as I got home, I sent an email informing him that we were Roundup incompatible.
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