Theresa was a woman whom I wouldn't have normally found attractive. She was too thin-boned (approx. 155 lbs.), had limp 'n' dirty hair, and wore long dresses that revealed nothing in the way of leg. Her conversations would invariably concern witchcraft. Now, Theresa wasn't one of those poseur, black-clad, goth girls who live on the Peninsula and swear by Marilyn Manson. The place where she dwelled was scarier than even Transylvania, much less Newport News (Portsmouth, VA), and the sonic impulses that permeated from her $8.00 Emerson portable stereo were more frightening than anything the Antichrist Superstar could ever concoct (Michael Bolton). Quite frankly, Theresa scared the hell out of me!
Yet she won me over by: 1)exposing her breasts at a company picnic; 2)scratching my back with her long, orange-painted fingernails; 3)hopping on my lap in front of fellow employee "Craig The Preacher Man" and asking, "Can I be your pussy?"; 4)whispering in my ear that she wasn't wearing any panties; 5)demanding that I carry her up and down the workplace stairs for two weeks. Suddenly, going to work became a pleasure and not a chore. Theresa piqued my interest enough to the point where I asked her to have dinner with me. Instead of "yes," she replied, "Oh, I'd love to Gunther, but I've got seven hungry dogs and the clothes on the line." Though I liked her paraphrasing of the Kenny Rogers classic "Lucille," Theresa disappointed me with her coming out as one of those "dog people." You know, the kind who will buy two ounces of Ramen Pride noodles for their own meal and two-hundred pounds of Purina Dog Chow for Rover's. If you were to visit one of these people's homes, it would smell like the cook had prepared an unsavory stew of dogpiss, dogshit and mothballs. Looking at Theresa now, I began to imagine that her apartment reeked of this mixture.
Work became boring once again, as I sat at a minimum twelve-cubicle length from the orange-fingered pussywoman. This avoidance pattern continued for three weeks, until I saw Theresa attempting to cross the intersection of Lynnhaven and International Parkway at 4:30 in the afternoon. I turned my Horizon around and caught up with her in the mall parking lot. Theresa explained her car troubles to me. Her Chevette wouldn't start, and she tried running across the road in hopes of catching the TRT bus back to Portsmouth. The bus had already come, so she decided to walk home. I asked Theresa with amazement, "How in the hell does one walk from Virginia Beach to Portsmouth? Are you going to jog through the tunnel or what?" Without waiting for an answer, I told her to get in the car if she was interested in finding a quicker way home. Theresa accepted my offer. During the 70-minute drive, the only topics she discussed were witchcraft, dogs, and pretzels w/mustard. Why the latter was mentioned I know not, but it had echoes of the "Can I be your pussy?"-era Theresa I'd liked. Before she stepped out of my car, I told her to let me know if she ever needed a ride. Theresa said, "Thank you, Gunther" and kissed me on the cheek. That was the last time I saw her.
Sixteen days later, my co-worker Joyce (who swept the 1993 Miss Phone Sales Awards) delivered some disturbing news concerning Theresa's death the night before. The location? Intersection of Lynnhaven and International Parkway. The situation? She'd been trying to cross the busy road in order to catch a bus.
If transportation is a problem and someone offers you a ride, by all means take it. Never try walking from Virginia Beach to Portsmouth.
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