Chapter 1

Although this is more Julie’s story than Sam’s, your introduction to her begins with her interaction with Sam in Chapter One, and continues with the interaction between the two in Chapter Three. There would, however, be no story without Julie and her love for Sam. And her story is the middle chapter (Chapter Two). Just as a house needs a firm foundation, love needs something strong holding it together. As I said, though the story begins and ends with Sam, Julie is just as involved ... indeed, even more so.

This is also my first attempt to write something expressing how a 25-year-old young woman would feel and think. Not easy for any guy, and especially for an old ... well, let’s just say 60-something and leave it at that. While every writer always hopes to hit a home run with every story, in the case of my writing about Julie, while I would like to hit at least a single or double, I would be happy to know if I am even at the right ball park and not looking for a baseball game at a football stadium. Especially looking forward to comments from the ladies out there.

Again, if this is the first of my stories you have read, I write about strong women. Women who are at least equal to the men, and often, even stronger.

I’m Not Lisa

By OldSarge69

I was just about to open the door to our breakroom (where our lockers are located), when I heard a rather exasperated voice.

“Come on, Julie, you know we are going to find out sooner or later! Who is it? Who is this mystery man who has you smiling so much this morning?”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” I heard Julie answer. “What makes you and everyone else think some man is involved?”

“You want me to list all the reasons?” I heard a voice I now recognized as belonging to Betty, one of our cashiers.

“Number one: You have smiled more this morning, in just a couple of hours, than you have the four years I’ve known you.”

“Number two: Someone will be talking to you and you just sort of fade away in your own little la-la land with this faraway look in your eyes.

“Number three: You are actually wearing a very, very nice blouse, and tight designer blue jeans, instead of those shapeless things you usually wear and the top three buttons of the blouse are unbuttoned. We can actually tell you have boobs.”

“Number four: You start blushing – there you go again – when anyone asks you who you spent the last three days with.

“And, last but not least, Number five: You are actually wearing makeup! Our Julie is wearing makeup! You have never... never ... worn makeup to work before. Not in the four years I have known you!

“Not to even mention your car was parked in the parking lot for three days and nights!

“Out with it, Julie! Who is he?” Betty demanded.

I continued standing at the door with it only open an inch or two, since I was the “he” in question.

My mind instantly drifted back to three days ago – my God, had it only been three days? – since our platonic friendship changed into a wild three days ... and nights?

I also realized that the “platonic” part of the friendship actually started to change about six weeks before that, with a simple phone call.

On that day, six weeks earlier, it was nearly time for me to get off work when my department phone rang: “Plumbing Department, this is Sam. How may I help you?” I answered as we had been taught.

Turns out the call was from Julie, whose title was Head Cashier.

“Hi, Sam, are you still getting off at 2:30?” she asked.

I said, “Yes,” then asked, “What’s up?”

“Do you have anything you have to do after work?” she asked.

“Well, you know how us old guys are,” I quipped, “We’re not like you high school kids! I had planned on taking a nap when I got home, then mowing the grass.”

I think I could hear Julie rolling her eyes.

That was actually a continuation of a long-running joke between us. I had spent two years working at Wilson’s Home Improvement in North Carolina before transferring to a store as department manager of plumbing in Marietta, Georgia, just outside Atlanta.

That first day I was taken around the store, meeting all the associates, and when I was introduced to “Head Cashier” Julie all I could do was stare. Julie was a very pretty, very tall (almost six feet), very slender girl who looked like she was about 15 or 16.

Yes, I know ... I was at that stage in my life (then 42), where all too many young people looked like they should still be in high school, but this was ridiculous!

“If you are already a head cashier while still in high school,” I asked, “what are you planning to do after you graduate?”

And, yes, she rolled her eyes at me.

“Hey, I am 22 years old,” she replied somewhat testily. “In fact, next week I will be 23!”

Apparently she got quite a lot of ribbing about her youthful appearance.

Later that day I was making a sale of some damaged vanities that had been marked down. The store allowed associates to make minor markdowns, but anything marked down more than 10 percent had to have approval of a manager or head cashier. And even as a manager, I could not do my own markdown overrides.

I immediately paged (on the overhead speaker) for a manager or head cashier to the plumbing desk for an override.

As it happened, Julie was the first one to respond.

The couple I was helping looked on in some amazement when Julie entered her override code into the computer.

“Are you a manager?” the woman asked, but I explained actually Julie was one of the head cashiers.

“I guess I should explain,” I continued, “one of the local junior high schools has a work-study program where students can actually get school credit by working for local businesses.”

Julie rolled her eyes again, but didn’t say anything. However, when she was finished she took a couple of steps away, then stopped and came back.

“Oh, I almost forgot, Gunny,” she said. “The senior center called. Their bus will be here to pick you up in 30 minutes to take you back to the retirement home.”

Julie then turned to the couple and added: “The retirement home has found that by keeping seniors active during the day, it delays the onset of Alzheimer’s and other neurological disorders. Unfortunately, Gunny was a late entry into the program and it is not possible to reverse the damage which has already occurred.”

Everyone laughed, and Julie walked away with the sweetest smile on her face. Unfortunately for her, I remembered she had said her 23^rd birthday was next week and by making a few inquiries I found out what day.

I ordered a very large cake with pink icing and, in huge letters, “Sweet Sixteen, Julie,” in a different color icing.

Unfortunately for me, Julie also found out my 43^rd birthday was just two days after her birthday. We are both Pisces.

She made a Bundt cake with black icing, with “Over The Hill” written on the sides. She also found the largest black candle I have ever seen (must have been three inches thick) stuck in the hole the Bundt pan left.

“I was going to use the actual number of candles,” she explained to everyone, “but the Fire Marshal said it would be a serious fire hazard so I had to settle for one candle.”

For the next two years Julie and I would tease each other about our respective ages. She would variously call me “Gramps,” “Old Man,” and other similar names, while I would tease her about being in high school, or even junior high school, and asking what she was going to do when she grew up.

Oh, and you might be asking yourself why, at one point, Julie called me “Gunny,” and later was calling me Sam.

Sam is my name. Actually, Samuel L. Johnson is my name and I retired after 21 years in the Marine Corps. For a considerable amount of that time my rank was Gunnery Sergeant (E7 paygrade), and all Marines call Gunnery Sergeants “Gunny.”

When I got out of the Marine Corps, they asked if I had any nicknames I wanted on my nametag, so I just said “Gunny.” This despite the fact I was actually a Master Sergeant when I retired. I thought it might be poor taste to put “Master” on my nametag. Actually, Master Sergeants are usually referred to as “Top” in the Marine Corps, but didn’t want to go through the endless explanations such an unusual nickname would cause.

Besides, I LIKED being called “Gunny”!

For most of the two years Julie and I had known each other, she usually called me “Gunny.” That is, when she was not calling me “Gramps,” “Old Man,” and other age related names.

And she also began telling an almost never ending stream of Marine Corps jokes. Almost every day she had a different joke about how dumb Marines are supposed to be.

Anyway, as I said Julie had called me about six weeks before and asked if I had any plans after work. After we joked a little about my taking a nap when I got home, Julie asked if I could do her a favor.

“I hate to bother you with this, Gunny,” she began, “but my father’s microwave died. I have already bought a new one for him, but just realized the box is too big for my Mini Cooper. Is there any way you could load the microwave in your pickup truck and take it to my Dad’s house?”

“Hey, it is NO bother at all, Julie,” I answered.

After I got off work, I loaded up the microwave and Julie rode with me in my truck – and must have both apologized for bothering me and thanked me for helping at least a half-dozen times.

“Look,” I finally blurted out, “you aren’t ‘bothering’ me AT ALL.” Obviously by now I was getting a little exasperated with the continual apologies.

“And as far at thanking me, that’s not necessary either because isn’t that what friends are for,” I asked her and was somewhat surprised to see how much she blushed when I said the word “friends.”

“Besides,” I added, “it has been a long time since I had such a pretty young girl riding with me!”

This time, when I glanced over at her, the word “blush” doesn’t even begin to describe how red Julie’s face was.

Before too much longer we were at her Dad’s house and I carried the microwave inside. Julie also introduced me to her father, who was in a wheelchair. If I had to make a guess, I would have said her Dad was in his late 60s. Julie later told me he was actually 71 and I quickly did the math in my head and realized her Dad must have been 46 when she was born.

“So,” he began, with a big smile, “you are the retarded, I mean retired, Marine Julie is always talking and talking and talking about.”

If I had thought Julie had turned beet red in my pickup truck when I made the comment about her being a “pretty young girl,” that doesn’t even begin to describe how red her face was now, after hearing her father’s words.

“D-D-Dad,” she stammered, “you are embarrassing me.”

Come to find out her father had spent 28 years in the Navy, and if you didn’t know, there is a (usually) good-natured ribbing between Marines and Swabbies, which is one of the few family friendly terms I can use for Navy types.

Julie’s father, Frank Reynolds, had been injured in the crash of a helicopter, leaving him with a broken back and 100 percent disability from the Navy.

It didn’t take long to unpackage the microwave and place it on the counter.

Julie asked if I would mind, since we were there, if she straightened up a few things in the house and threw a load of clothes in the washer.

Frank had already invited me to have a beer, and I felt it would be somewhat rude to turn him down.

While Julie was busy in other parts of the house, Frank and I sat down in his living room and immediately began exchanging Navy/Marine Corps insults.

Just as I was taking a drink from a long-neck bottle, Frank asked me a question that left me gasping for breath. I mean accidentally inhaling part of a beer is not the most pleasant thing to have happen to you.

“So,” he asked, with a very serious look on his face, “just what are your intentions towards my daughter?”

“Oh, man,” I began, once I could finally breathe and talk, “don’t joke with someone just when they are starting to take a drink. You dang near killed me.”

“I wasn’t joking, Sam,” Frank answered. “Just what are your intentions towards my daughter?”

I was so shocked I couldn’t even answer for a moment or two.

“Frank, I don’t know what you are talking about,” I exclaimed. “Julie and I are just co-workers and friends. I have NO intentions towards her at all.”

Frank just looked at me for a minute before responding: “Well, for the moment I will give you the benefit of the doubt and accept your statement that you have no ... intentions towards my daughter. However, I do have to warn you my daughter has ... I am pretty sure ... some intentions towards you.

“In fact, I think that is why she invited you over here today, so I could meet you,” he added.

“Look, Frank,” I began, “I know you are retired Navy so I will speak slowly and just use words of one or two syllables,” (those comments earned me a salute! And I don’t mean a military salute, but a middle finger salute).

“Julie just needed someone with a pickup truck to haul the microwave over here! And I know you are probably thinking it, so I will go ahead and say it, ‘Someone with a pickup truck and a strong back and a weak mind.’”

At 6’2” and 215 pounds I definitely qualified for the “strong back” part.

“That dog won’t hunt!” Frank said.

For those of you not fortunate enough to be born in the South, the above expression might be considered a little strange, so let me explain: “That dog won’t hunt,” can be translated as, “Well, you have raised an interesting hypothesis, however after careful examination of all the relevant data I have come to the unmistakable conclusion your theory is not supported by known facts.” Basically, it means that something isn’t going to happen, or an idea will not work, or an obviously faulty conclusion has been reached. It is a very folksy, Country or Southern expression. There! Feel better now?

“That dog won’t hunt!” Frank said. “And let me tell you why. First, if Julie just needed someone with a pickup truck who also has a strong back and a weak mind, then she could have called either one of her brothers! In fact one of her brothers lives less than a quarter-mile from here and has to pass my house to get to his house. She could just as easily have called him.

“Second, in the four years Julie has worked at Wilson’s, you are the only ... the ONLY... ‘friend and co-worker’ she has ever invited over to my house. And the first guy, at all, in over three years!

“Third, since my son and his wife live just a quarter-mile from here, one or the other is here almost every day where they take care of ‘straightening up,’ as Julie said, or throwing a load of clothes in the washer if it is needed.

“The fact that Julie brought you here, no matter what excuse she used, that she is wandering around the house, doing God knows what, can only mean ONE thing! She brought you here JUST so I could meet you. She is leaving us alone so we can get to know each other.

“Now, in fairness to Julie, it might be she doesn’t even realize the real reason you are here, or won’t admit it,” Frank said, then added with a smirk, “but I know my daughter better than anyone else in the world.

“You might not have any intentions towards her, but she definitely has the range, she is checking windage, and the crosshairs are lined up on YOUR face,” he concluded.

The comments about range, windage and crosshairs are ones immediately identifiable to anyone who has ever served in the military. When you are getting ready to take a shot, especially in rifle qualifying, you have to know the range (how far you are from the target), windage is a reference to the effect wind will have on a bullet, i.e., a strong cross wind can actually “push” the bullet to one side, and “crosshairs” should be understandable to anyone who has ever looked through a rifle scope.

Of course I was sitting there shaking my head, “No,” continually.

“Frank,” I said, “Julie is only 25! I am 45! I am more than old enough to be Julie’s father! There is NO WAY someone as young and pretty as Julie would ever be interested in me.”

“So you DO think Julie is pretty,” Frank asked, with a laugh.

I could feel my face turning red.

“Just because I think Julie is pretty doesn’t mean I have any kind of ... intentions ... towards her!” I declared, but could feel my face, for some reason, turning even redder.

“You, of course, have no way of knowing this, but my wife was 22 years younger than me,” Frank said. “So if she is going by our example she might think you are a little too young for her!”

By now Frank is laughing at me and the expression on my face.

“Look, Sam,” Frank began, “I don’t know how much longer Julie is going to pretend to be doing something in the house, but I do want to tell you something ... or perhaps it would be better to say, I want to ask you something.”

I was still too stunned to speak, so I just motioned Frank to continue.

“Julie would kill me if she knew I ever told you this, but three years ago she was engaged to be married,” Frank almost whispered. “Only she began to feel a little sick at work from something she ate and ended up leaving five hours early.

“When she got to the apartment she shared with her fiancé ... she found him in bed with her best friend. This was five days ... five days before the wedding. Julie ... Julie has a lot of trouble trusting people now.

“And this double betrayal nearly destroyed her. She was depressed for nearly a year. In fact, it wasn’t until this dumbass retarded Marine transferred into her store and began making fun of her age that she really started acting like the Julie of old.”

Frank laughed, and continued: “I still remember the first time she told me about you. Before that, whenever we talked she usually spoke almost in monosyllables. But when she told me what you said about her looking like she should be in high school, or even worse, junior high school, she was so mad her voice was trembling.

“It was almost all I could do not to laugh out loud when she told me what you had said. Not necessarily because I thought it was all that funny ... but actually it was ... but because for the first time in a year I knew my daughter was going to be okay. I used to worry about her so much.

“So I began telling her Marine Corps jokes she could use on you!

“When she told me about the birthday cake with ‘Sweet Sixteen, Julie,’ on it ... I couldn’t help it ... I laughed out loud. I don’t know who she was madder at then ... me or you!

“For the first six or nine months, whenever she mentioned you, it was always ‘that dumbass idiot Marine,’ or ‘that damn stupid Jarhead.’ Then that slowly changed to ‘idiot Marine,’ or ‘stupid Jarhead.’ And later that became ‘that Marine,’ or ‘that Jarhead,’ or, even more often, just ‘Gunny.’

“For the past six months it has usually just been ‘Sam.’

“Sam ... I know you said you had no ... intentions ... towards my daughter. I’ll accept that, but please ... please let her off easy if that is true.

“Don’t lie to her, and let her believe you care if you don’t ... but go easy on her. She is still very vulnerable. That is all I will ask from you.”

About that time we heard Julie yell out, from the kitchen, I assumed, “Hey, you guys ready for another beer?”

In a minute Julie walked in carrying three beers.

She handed her Dad one beer, then walked over and handed me another one.

Her Dad was sitting in his wheelchair, with a recliner just a few feet away. There was another easy chair on the other side of Frank.

And me? I was sitting on the end of a long couch with my left hand and arm draped on top of the arm of the couch.

So Julie sat down on the arm of the couch! I had to move my hand and arm to the left or she would have sat on my arm. She also immediately moved her legs over on top of mine and slid backward until her cute little butt was pressed against my left bicep.

Julie was just looking at me.

I glanced over at Frank just in time to see him pantomiming someone shooting a rifle, aiming the imaginary rifle at me!

I pantomimed shooting a bird at Frank with my left hand, the one Julie can’t see. Okay, I didn’t pantomime, I actually gave Frank a middle finger salute.

Damn Swabbies!

“What have you guys been talking about?” Julie asked.

“Well, I have been telling Frank how much I, in fact ALL Marines, like and appreciate the Navy,” I said with a perfectly innocent look on my face.

“Now why do I have trouble believing THAT?” asked Julie with a big smile.

“No, it’s true,” I insist. “Marines absolutely believe that the United States Navy is the world’s greatest ... absolutely greatest ... taxi service! They take Marines where we need to be, feed us along the way, drop us off at our assigned mission then get the hell out of the way so we can do our job! After the mission is complete, they pick us up, doctor us up if needed, then take us back home to get ready for the next mission to save life on our planet as we know it.

“The Navy is like an enhanced Uber ... but for Marines!”

That earned laughs from both Julie and Frank, but Frank had to add an “asshole” comment, which I think was probably directed at me.

“Hey, Julie,” asked Frank, “Do you know the difference between the Marines and the Boy Scouts? The Boy Scouts have adult leadership!”

“Did y’all hear,” I responded, “about the two old World War II veterans – one a retired Navy Master Chief Petty Officer and the other a retired Master Gunnery Sergeant – who met at a Veterans Day parade, then decided to share a few beers?

“The Swabbie, ooh, sorry Frank, the Sailor asks the Marine if he had seen much action during World War II. The Marine says he landed on Guadalcanal first, and from there went on to amphibious landings at Tinian, Saipan, Peleilu, Tarawa, Iwo Jima and Okinawa.

“‘Oh, just shore duty then?’ said the Swabbie!”

I couldn’t believe how quickly an hour passed as Frank and I continued to exchange good-natured insults and Navy/Marine jokes.

At some point – I’m not even sure when – Julie had picked up my left hand and placed it on her thigh with her hand on top of mine. I mean, yes, she was wearing blue jeans, but I still had my hand on her thigh!

And at least two or three other times during that hour, I would look over at Frank and he would be shooting an imaginary rifle at me!

Eventually Julie and I had to head back. I had just pulled into the parking lot at work (where she had left her car), when Julie said she wanted to buy me dinner for helping with the microwave.

I told her that was not necessary, but she absolutely insisted.

“Okay,” I said, “but Julie, you are NOT paying for my dinner! Even without my military retirement pay I know I make more money than you do.”

Since we were still in my truck, we drove to a nearby steak place and had a delightful meal. I am not exactly sure how it happened, but, yes, she did pay for dinner.

After I dropped her back at work for the second time, Julie shook my hand and again thanked me for the help with the microwave, then abruptly gave me a quick hug before almost running to her car. I could almost swear I saw some tears in her eyes after the hug.

After that, Julie and I would either have lunch or dinner once or twice a week for about six weeks. And even though I always offered to pay, we would alternate who paid.

And most meals would end with a little hug. Some hugs, however, would last longer than others.

While I still thought it was impossible Julie could be interested in someone as old as I am, I have to admit ... I was really starting to look forward to our shared meals ... and especially the hugs.

Our last meal together was perhaps the most memorable.

We had finished eating and were standing in the parking lot at the restaurant when, as usual now, we exchanged a hug.

Then, for some reason, I leaned down and kissed Julie!

I mean it was a little nothing kiss. Just a quick peck on the forehead.

To tell you the truth, I didn’t even realize at first what I had done. Not until Julie leaned back, smiled and asked softly, “Why did you do that?”

Once I actually realized what I did, I quickly started to apologize but apparently Julie had other ideas.

Julie interrupted my apology when she put both hands behind my head and pulled my head down and kissed me ... on the lips.

“Now we are even,” she said, adding, “now you don’t have to apologize anymore.”

Julie quickly walked over to her car, unlocked it and got in, then waved as she drove off with the biggest smile I have even seen on her face. I was still standing in the parking lot wondering just what happened. I remember at one point I even raised my fingers up and touched my lips.

Finally I got in my truck and drove home. To tell you the truth, however, I really don’t remember the drive.

About all I remembered is how soft ... how incredibly soft Julie’s lips were.

The next phase of our relationship began just three days earlier with the worst possible news and with me seriously wanting to kill my younger brother. And that is NOT just a figure of speech! If my little brother had been standing anywhere near me when I heard what he told Julie ... then one of us would probably have ended up in the emergency room ... or worse.

Before I get into that, let me explain a little something about Wilson’s Home Improvement. The company has a number of different corporate schedules that are assigned to employees based on their job title or description.

For instance, Schedule A might include one head cashier, four or five cashiers, the managers of plumbing, flooring, front end and millworks and the sales specialist for seasonal.

Schedule B might include another head cashier, another four or five cashiers, and the managers of appliances, the garden center, lumber and building materials, plus the specialists for flooring and plumbing.

Schedule C might include another head cashier, four or five more cashiers, and the managers of paint, hardware, seasonal and electrical, plus the sales specialist for appliances. Not all departments had sales specialists, and some actually had two, but if there was more than one specialist in a department, they were always on different rotations.

Each of the three shifts actually worked different hours. For instance, during week one, Schedule A employees might open on Saturday, Sunday and Monday, be off on Tuesday and Wednesday and work a mid-shift on Thursday and Friday. Week two rotation might find them working a mid-shift on Saturday and Sunday, being off on Monday and Tuesday, then closing on Wednesday, Thursday and Friday.

Week three might see those employees being off on Saturday and Sunday, then opening on Monday and Tuesday, working a mid-shift on Wednesday and Thursday, then closing on Friday. The next rotation would see them also closing on Saturday, being off Sunday, then working a mid-shift on Monday and Tuesday, then opening on Wednesday and Friday after also being off on Thursday.

Then the schedule would start over.

The theory was that there would always be at least four department managers opening and closing (plus the assistant store managers who worked their own weird shift). Then during the busiest part of the day there might be seven or eight managers around.

Julie and I were assigned Schedule A, so we usually worked the same hours. That, of course, was also subject to change due to vacations, but still most weeks we worked together.

Schedule A had just begun its new rotation so I (and Julie) had already opened Saturday and Sunday and on this Monday I also had to be at the store at 5:30 a.m. The good news – I would be off the next two days.

When I pulled into the mostly empty parking lot, there was a car parked right beside where I usually park.

I pulled in, turned the lights off and turned the truck off. As I was getting out of my truck, Julie came walking up.

“Don’t go inside, Sam, don’t go inside,” she pleaded, almost crying.