Turtles and dirty old men

Ten years ago, before there were little Beans or the Honda, when Hyacinth was still just a puppy and I drove a convertible, I sold my first house for a tidy little profit and purchased Maison Bean, which needed some work before it was habitable—little things like appliances, central heat and air, washer-dryer hookups, new fixtures, and lots and lots of paint. And while all of this was taking place, Hyacinth and I were living with Mimi in her condo, and every morning I got up and swam laps in the pool.

One morning while I was swimming, something large and inhuman plunged in the water. It scared the hell out of me, and I scrambled out of the pool with alacrity I didn’t know I possessed.

The big thing was actually a 25-pound turtle that had crawled up from the bank of the pond to sunbathe, except that he inadvertently tumbled in the pool. In the ensuing hour, Mimi and I ran around the pool a la Lucy and Ethel with a bucket and a net, colliding into one another, screaming, finally scooping up the turtle, which we released, but he was obviously turned around and confused, and he ran right back into the pool. The second time we caught him, we walked down the bank to the pond and dumped him in.

Sometimes when I told that story, depending on how many glasses of wine I had, the turtle morphed into a 500-pound sea turtle (it’s not entirely impossible) that had to be shot in the fin with a stun gun and heaved out with a crane.

Beans are storytellers and turtle in the pool started out as my story for the summer of 2001… until one day when I had lunch with Stanley, an affluent retired judge, and after lunch with Stanley, I realized that the turtle story wasn’t all that, and I replaced it with the Stanley story.

Stanley was the patron and moderator of an annual Philosophers’ Roundtable Retreat. For three days, half a dozen members from various professions in the community and a dozen students from two local colleges got together and discussed everything from the Bible to Martin Luther King Jr., from Socrates to Henry David Thoreau. The readings led to discussions about modern life.

I met Stanley when I was one of the community professionals participating in the roundtable. Stanley was a sweet old man—about 80. He was short and fat and bald and he wore coke bottle glasses. He was also charming and intelligent and I enjoyed his company, so when he asked me to lunch for the purpose of discussing people I knew who might be interested in taking part in the roundtable, I immediately said yes.

Stanley lived halfway between my office and the restaurant, so I drove to his house, and I rode with him in his Cadillac. I had broiled salmon on a bed of mixed greens and a glass of chardonnay. I don’t remember what Stanley had. I do remember that we talked about adultery.

I’m not sure how that subject wormed its way into the conversation, but I know I didn’t bring it up. On the surface we were talking philosophically, but at the same time, there were undertones. I made my position clear—husbands do not interest me.

And, for heaven’s sake, he was 80 if he was a day, like a good 45 years older than me with a heart condition—like old enough to date Grandma Bean, so he couldn’t be suggesting that he and I…. Could he?

No. He couldn’t. I perished the thought.

When we got back to Stanley’s house, he asked me into his study so that he could write down my contacts for the Philosophers’ Roundtable. In his study, Stanley started to write down the names, but then in a senile moment, he switched gears and went to the powder room instead, but he paused first and hugged me on the way.

I didn’t know what to do. I must have been two feet taller than Stanley, so I patted him on the head.

When he returned, I made noises about needing to return to the office.

And then Stanley, who must have taken a Viagra in the loo, said, “You can go back and spend a boring afternoon in the office… or you can stay here and have oral sex.”

Holy mashed potatoes and gravy. He just said that. To me.

It isn’t often that Beans are rendered speechless, but this was one of them, so I laughed instead and got the hell out of there.

When I told Mimi, she was incensed.

Papa, on the other hand, got tickled and said someone—Hugh Hefner maybe—should give Stanley a medal.

“Jenny,” he said, “it’s not like he was a physical threat to you. You could have kicked his ass. Give the guy credit for trying.”

Give him credit?!

I gave him credit all right.

I sullied his damn reputation, aged him by 12 years, gave him a bad hearing aid and an oxygen tank, and I’m still telling the Stanley story.