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From JoAnn Bates-Fine, Executive Assistant:

One of my favorite places to go on the Tripod site is the Work & Money section, so I'm going to tell a true story which is money-related, in hopes that it will help someone else out there in Web-land collect on an old debt.

When I was in the fifth grade, I fell in love with the boy sitting across from me in Sister Agnes Lorretto's class. He was so exotic, especially considering that he was new to St. Joseph's (there were 210 other fifth graders, and we'd all been together since first grade). My affection for "M" never wavered. During recess he'd steal my hat and I'd chase him around the playground. In sixth grade he sat across from me in Sister Mary Benedicta's class, and I let him copy every one of my answers on tests in Catechism, Spelling, Arithmetic, History, and Geography. In seventh grade I walked home from school with him, regardless of the weather.

In the eighth grade I grew about six inches taller than "M," and he started to ignore me. I thought my life was over. During the summer before I started high school, I blossomed into a very attractive young teenager. So my being taller didn't matter so much to "M" anymore. Throughout high school, he was my number one most-favorite boyfriend. The two of us dated lots of other people, but we always ended up back together. It was always platonic, which was the way things were back then. We danced and left room for the Holy Ghost between us. We went parking but always remembered that God could see whatever we were doing. We behaved when we went to drive-in movies, we behaved on my mother's couch, we behaved, we behaved, and it made it that much more delicious. I never cared that I was taller than "M" — he was still exotic and handsome to me, so I never really noticed his height.

I went to college, "M" went to trade school. I got married and moved away. "M" married a second cousin of mine, who is a few inches shorter than me and looks a lot like me.

Years passed. My first husband died. Hundreds of condolence and Mass cards arrived in the mail. One was extra special. It was the card with "M"'s handwriting on the envelope, with a note. I hung the envelope and the card on the refrigerator and told all my friends and family that, although I would always miss my deceased husband, life was going to be okay. I can't tell you how much getting that card from "M" helped me, and I don't mean to sound sacrilegious about the dead. I was happily married for almost 19 years, had two small children, and really enjoyed being my husband's best friend, partner, and lover. But I'd be dishonest if I didn't tell you that one of the things that got me through the funeral, was getting that condolence card from "M."

About six months after the funeral, "M" called me. He told me he was calling because he thought I'd need some help with getting stuff done around the house. I thought that was about the sweetest thing I'd ever heard. I really didn't need anything done but asked him if he'd like to go out for a cup of coffee. So, I hired a baby-sitter and met "M" at the Friendly's. Yup, I felt like a teenager again and yes, he was just as attracted to me as I was to him lo those many years ago. Sharing a cup of coffee together was a very civilized thing to do... but all those years of unrequited physical passion were dancing around in each of our heads, though unspoken.

A few months later, "M" called me again. He explained that he was in a desperate situation and could not tell his wife his problem. "M" needed to borrow $3,000 and told me he had no one to turn to but me. Would it be possible for me to let him borrow the money with no questions asked? Would I also be willing to let him have the money without knowing exactly when I'd get it back? Of course, I said. Meet me at the bank.

One of my best friends was visiting me the day "M" called to ask me for the money. She used to write the clues for a TV show called The Pyramid. I always thought she was just about my smartest friend. She told me again and again that I would be a complete and utter fool if I were to march into the bank and hand over $3,000 to "M" just because he asked me to.

Nevertheless, off I went to the bank. I met "M" in the parking lot and handed him the cash — with an extra $200 in the envelope, just because I felt so sorry about whatever he was going through.

Never heard from him again, never saw him again — until six years later. I was in the vegetable aisle at a grocery store and saw "M" picking out just the right apples. I smashed my grocery cart into his cart and told him that he had 36 hours to give me my money back, plus 10% interest. "M" told me he couldn't remember ever having borrowed any money from me. I told him it didn't matter if he remembered or not, it did indeed happen. Then I told "M" — in a rather loud voice — that if I didn't get the money back, I would be calling his wife, my cousin, and that I would tell her everything.

I got my money back. But the thing I'll always remember is how short he looked to me that day in the grocery store.

All the best,
JoAnn Bates-Fine, Executive Assistant (10/17/97)

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