How I Met Jim Fike

I am constantly asked how and when did I meet Jim. I have always left the details a bit fuzzy. To answer the question honestly, would cause me to admit to an affair with Jim while he was married. There, I said it. I am a hypocrite. I HATE infidelity, and damn it, I was a willing participant. So now that I outed myself, I’ll tell the story.

I got married in September 1973 to a Paul Steeger. I met Paul in my senior year of high school. His dad and my dad belonged to a Catholic men’s organization, and Paul and I met at one of the organization’s events. Paul was a good-looking guy, pitch-black hair, beautiful blue eyes, and a car. Didn’t take much to turn my head back then. He was funny and as interesting as a 19-year-old guy could be. Best of all, he was a bouncer at the Bayou in Georgetown on the weekends.

I hung out at the Bayou every Friday and Saturday night. I got to dance to local bands, really good local bands every weekend. I had a group of friends that were bar flies, music junkies, and local patrons who just came to dance. I met really, really talented musicians. Our social life revolved around the Bayou. In hindsight, it was pretty shallow, and in hindsight so was my relationship with Paul.

As I said before, Paul and I married in September 1973. I was working for Cooper’s Bakery, where I’d been working since high school. I was a jack-of-all-trades at the bakery. I baked, decorated cakes, made pastries, you name it, and I could do it. Paul had taken a job with a local car dealership selling cars. We were so young and immature when I think back to our marriage. Well, since I can only speak for myself, I’ll say I was too darn young to get married, but I’d have to say Paul was too.

So, a shallow marriage built on weekends at the Bayou. Screams success to you doesn’t it? I knew the day we had our wedding that I was making a big mistake. I was caught up in the Cinderella planning of the event and kept wondering why I was going through with it. I knew my parents would have killed me to put the brakes on. Seriously, they would have. I was 19 and Paul was 20. Neither of us had a clue what we wanted to do when we grew up. Insult to injury; we had the big nuptials in the Catholic Church. Heavy sigh just now.

We didn’t honeymoon, because we just did not have the money for it. Instead we spent a few days unpacking and putting our new condo together. Paul changed jobs like I changed nail polish. We were always short on money and every time I turned around we were buying a new car. Charge cards became our friends. Sound familiar to anyone?

So, to move forward: within 18 months I left Paul. In February 1975, I moved back into my parent’s home and left Paul with the condo. I was still working at Cooper’s bakery and honing my talents in the bakery business. Paul was jumping from one job to another. I can’t even recall most of them.

I didn’t rush to see an attorney; I was placated that we were separated and trying to move forward with our own lives. Hell, I was just trying to grow up. I became obsessed with earning money and paying off the charge cards we had run up. I dated a bit, no one in particular. I felt odd to be “separated” and always felt I would look like a fool or loose person to anyone I’d meet. At some point during our separation, I had to pick up some items at the condo and while I was there I found a pile, a big pile of unopened mail. So, I started opening the mail and was sick to find out that Paul had not been making the house payments. I was sick to my stomach and new I was in deep poop too.

I sat with my parents and we decided that I’d move back to the condo if I could get Paul to pay the back payments of condo fees, and house payments. We spoke with Paul’s parents and his dad was pretty oafish and after much deliberation, that is how it ended: Paul’s parents paid off the back due bills for the condo, we re-titled it in my name only and I moved out of my parent’s house again.

I was pressed to afford the condo, condo fees, car payment, and the monthly payments on the charge cards we had run up. So, I took two part-time jobs. I worked Tuesday through Saturday at Cooper’s Bakery. In the evenings and on Sunday I split time between the drugstore next to the bakery and the pizza shop on the other side. I also came to the conclusion that I needed to get a new full-time job.

I loved working for the Cooper’s, but the money I was making there was continuing to cripple me financially. If I could find a better paying job, I could give up one of my part-time jobs.

My dad worked for Wonder Bread and had opened the door there for other folks, so he opened the door for me and in 1975 I took a job in the accounting office. Seems rather funny that me, the, ‘I hate math girl’ went into accounting. It was pretty mindless work all in all. Looking back it was Stone Age compared to the electronic accounting now used by the same company. But, there I was pulling “bread delivery tickets” to reconcile them against monthly accounts.

It was fun to work there. I made some friends and everyone new my dad. He was well regarded and well loved there. It was nice to know that he was part of the “Wonder Bread” family.

The Wonder Bread plant was on Georgia Avenue next to Howard University. The smell of fresh baked bread permeated the air. I never tired of smelling it. And yes, it was not the best section of town. The accounting office was on the third floor of the plant. We would enter a side door by the loading docks and wind our way through the plant past the huge ovens where the heat would take away your breath.

This was a union operation. I belonged to the Office and Professional Employees Union, the bakers belonged to Bakers and Confectioners, and the engineers belonged to Operation Engineers. We were three distinct groups of employees and when we ate in the lunchroom we segregated ourselves. The bakers in their white uniforms hung to one side, the engineers in their blue uniforms took the back left corner and the office staff kept court in the upper left corner. We all knew each other: we just didn’t eat together. And then one day, this handsome engineer came over to chat with me. He had that bad boy, wild child look about him. He introduced himself to me: he was Jim Fike.

It was a moment in time. I swear the room held its breath. Would I speak to him? Would I ignore him because he was an engineer? After all, we were the uppity office girls. I suppose it was his blue eyes and crooked smile (the smile I love so much) that interested me. So, I shook his rough hand and introduced myself back.

I suppose the world shook then. Never did I realize that simple introduction would tattoo a map through my entire life, a map still being drawn.

I may have been young and naïve, but I was pretty darn observant that he had a wedding ring on. I appreciate that he didn’t give me some tired old line that his wife didn’t understand him or happy crap of that sort. Nope, I asked him if he was married and he simply said yes. Then he asked if I’d like to have a drink after work and I said yes. What was I thinking? I’m telling you he had the smile of the devil himself. It was that damn crooked smile.

So, a few nights later Jim drove from Alexandria to Lanham and we went out for a drink in Annapolis. Annapolis! The town I love. The town where I spent time with Jim: again and again and again. I think Jimmy is probably nodding and approving that I have my condo here and am slowly relocating to our favorite town (next to Key West that is).

I knew Jimmy was married and I didn’t care. I used to tell my girlfriends I wasn’t trying to break up his marriage. I didn’t want to marry him; he was just a good boyfriend. His wife was a flight attendant, so Jim had plenty of time to date me.

Date we did. He had a key to my condo; he would go with me to visit my parents. Now that was tricky, because mom and dad had no idea he was married. My dad loved Jim. Hell, everyone that met Jim loved him. He had that smile…

Jim took me flying; we had weekends in Ocean City, Annapolis, Williamsburg and more romantic getaways than I can remember. I fell in love. Jim told me he loved me as well, but after all, he was married so I took that with a grain of salt.

I know that right now all my friends and family are shaking your collective heads. I have always spewed fire when I hear of infidelity in relationships, and I was knee deep in an affair. So, now that I am older and wiser, I’ll not try to justify the relationship, suffice to say, I was enamored because I was dating an older man and he made it easy to date him. I was struggling to pay my bills and could barely afford to put food in the condo. Jim never offered to pay my bills, but he offered excitement and weekends away. And, quite simply, I was madly in love with Jim.

We always went out to dinner and we spent incredible amounts of time in Annapolis. We loved Annapolis together. The “Upper Crust Saloon” was our favorite spot. The restaurant eventually became Riordan’s, but back in the day it was our place. I always had a soft spot for Riordan’s knowing that it had been the place of many romantic dinners, stolen kisses (literally and figuratively), and promises of never ending love.

During our affair Jim and his wife had a daughter. I suppose that was the slap up against the head that I needed. I knew I needed to stop seeing Jim. I needed a “real” relationship. I knew I was going to become the clingy, nagging girlfriend if I didn’t stop seeing Jim. I kept reminding myself that he was a fling from the start and I was the fool for falling in love.

So, I broke it off.

When I say that was painful, you have no idea. We worked at the same company and by then it was no secret that we’d been dating, Geez US H…..I’d broken the second sacred rule…don’t shit where you eat. Chalk it up to dumb and young. I learned my lesson.

I’d be working in the switchboard room, a little room under the steps of the plant, where we had to spell the operator on occasions. Jim would walk right in since the engineers had keys to the room. It was a struggle. He was pledging his love for me; I would cry that we had to stop seeing each other. He still had a key to my condo. He wouldn’t give it back. I wasn’t afraid of Jim, I understand now it was his last connection to me.

I came home to the condo one night after working my part time job and I could smell Jim’s cologne. He wasn’t there. He’d come by to grab his toiletries, and a few personal items he’d left there. He also left a note in the bedroom along with my key. It was angry and he was hurt that I’d broken it off. I was sad too, but knew I’d made the right decision (or so I thought). His parting words in the note? The last thing he said in that note? Fuck YOU.

Woosh…I took that like a punch in the stomach. Not that I haven’t said that to folks in my lifetime. But, it was harsh. We never fought, ever. We never said mean things to each other, ever. Jimmy and I always spoke to each other as lovers, confidants, and friends. I’m sure I cried a lot that night. A chapter had closed and certainly not the way I though it would.

Little did I realize that the chapter was the first, not the last, in a long story of Jimmy and Judi….

All for now,

The Widow Fike