Tuesday, March 31, 2015

Looking For Hayes

A few weeks ago I did a fast read of one of those high interest beach books that features a hero with the somewhat odd name of Hayes.  He zoomed into the foreground of my life picture in a very special way because  I decided to look for him.  I didn't even begin to imagine how challenging this little project would be.

Hayes is 6' 4" tall, weighs 225 pounds, has chestnut colored hair that falls just to the nape of his neck, and has unusually intense blue eyes. He's in his late 30's, maybe early 40's. He wears tight jeans, hiking boots and a flannel shirt with a heavy ski jacket because the setting is winter snow.  He's muscled, coordinated, and agile.  He's clever, funny, sympathetic, and treats women with twinkly eyed charm. He can cook, shoot firearms, chop wood in minutes, change sheets, and tend wounded guests.  He can make accurate judgments about other people with a quick read of body language.  He jumps higher, hits harder, runs faster and looks better than most male contestants in any kind of sporting event. You get the idea. Oh, yeah-he really likes to read. All the walls of his cabin are lined with full bookshelves.

I looked for him at the grocery store. The men there were all older or younger and were dressed like they just rolled off the couch to quickly replenish the beer supply during halftime. I looked all the way to Gresham and back while transporting grandgirls from one place of fun spring break activity to another.  He didn't drive any of the trucks I saw or work in any of the garden centers I passed.  Home Depot!  Of course, he'd be there for sure I thought as I trailed behind my husband who was  looking for some sort of special electrical equipment.  Some of the guys here were hard to see because they looked out from faces coated with paint spray or sawdust.  Hayes would never do that.  He'd use a handkerchief from his own pocket to clean off his face and slap the sawdust off his jeans before he entered the store.

I was really hoping I'd find him Friday morning when we regularly meet our friends for breakfast.  Nope.  He must not care to eat in a loud, kid-filled egg and pancake house smelling of hot syrup and bacon.  His breakfast is probably lean and healthy and he puts it together in his sleek bachelor kitchen.  Maybe I'd spot him at the riverside bistro where we went for dinner that night.  I looked everywhere.  There were some possible candidates but they were all really too old to fit the bill and besides, they were sitting at the bar trying to make small talk with the bored servers who just wanted to get on with the night and meet their boyfriends later.

Let me tell you, I grew more and more determined to find this man.  But  a few more scouting forays caused me to give up figuring I'd have to go to southern California or maybe Manhattan to find this particular guy.  I concluded that such a male exists only within the exciting pages of a mystery romance or lives somewhere close to where people regularly get their bodies and faces recreated by their plastic surgeons. He's for sure not anywhere in  my world unless he's in the ski lodge at Timberline, maybe?  A cattle ranch in Central Oregon?  A helicopter pilot at the Coast? Owner of a large and successful business downtown?  You tell  me and I'll go find him.

 

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