Chapter 2 - American Girl
The Real Jeannine Price
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​American Girl
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August 1, 2018 was a typical, hot, humid, late-summer day in Hampton Roads, Virginia. Hampton Roads is the southeastern-most region of Virginia. It extends from Williamsburg to the southern-most and eastern-most boundaries of Virginia Beach where Virginia meets North Carolina and the Atlantic Ocean. Summers are long, hot and humid.
A number of mostly independent, incorporated cities and a few counties comprise Hampton Roads. Hampton Roads is geographically split in half by Chesapeake Bay. To the north of the Bay is what is colloquially referred to as the Peninsula, while to the south of the Bay lies what is called the Southside.
There are two main arteries you can take to cross the Bay between the Peninsula and the Southside. The first is the Monitor Merrimack Bridge Tunnel, or the M&M, and the other is the Hampton Roads Bridge Tunnel, or the HRBT, as locals call them. That August 1 morning of 2018, I was headed from the Peninsula to the Southside and into Virginia Beach where I had a 10:00 a.m. business appointment with a small, local construction company.
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I had called the company earlier in the week and spoke to a soft spoken and polite gentleman who identified himself as Bill, the owner of the company. Bill and I spoke briefly. Bill explained to me his office manager, Jeannine, would be able to help me further once I arrived at our meeting.
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As most locals to Hampton Roads know, both of the two Bay crossings are rarely predictable. Well - maybe they are. You can expect to hit delays in either direction, day or night. Most locals to Hampton Roads would describe travel by way of either bridge tunnel as a routine Hampton Roads traffic pain in the ass.
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As I made my way onto Interstate 64 near the Hampton Coliseum, I hit the backup to the HRBT. That’s a solid five-mile backup and it was already 9:30 a.m. I knew the backup would cost me thirty minutes or more so I telephoned the business. Since Bill told me I would be working with Jeannine that day, I called and asked to speak with Jeannine. The voice on the other end simply replied, “speaking.” I introduced myself and explained I’d probably be arriving 15 to 30 minutes late.
“No problem”, she replied. “I’ll see you when you get here.”
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I arrived at 10:15. I stepped out of my rental and immediately inhaled the water from within the drenched, humid mid-Atlantic air. To make myself presentable, I re-tucked the back of my cotton, blue-plaid button down into my khakis noticing it was already saturated in sweat. With my shirt tucked back into place, I quickly walked around my rental, opened the passenger door and started to gather paperwork I needed for the meeting. I stopped briefly to take notice of the deafening billows of happily-singing locusts hidden somewhere within the small strip of pine trees just to the east of Bill’s and Jeannine’s office. Damn it was hot.
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Their office was one of dozens in a professional office park. Each front door was painted with the same gloss red and adorned with the same brass door handle. Every door faced eastward - directly into the broiling early-August mid-morning sun. I approached #103 and as I neared the door, I was temporarily blinded by the bright sun’s reflection in the glossy red paint. I blindly grasped the warm brass knob, turned it and slowly pushed open the door.
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As I crossed the threshold into the office, I felt the relieving whoosh of cold, conditioned air. The interior of the office appeared dim as compared to the bright sun-lit outside sky, and my eyes, still searching for the proper aperture, only offered me shadows of movement. With my eyes still trying to focus, I heard from somewhere to my right the same voice that had, some 45 minutes ago, told me she’d see me when I got there.
“I’m Jeannine. You must be John.”
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My eyes hadn’t yet afforded me the opportunity to put a face with the voice, but when I looked toward the voice identifying herself as Jeannine, I could make out the silhouette of Da Vinci’s greatest portrait: the perfectly-shaped crown of a head where two perfect angles of hair draped downward toward both shoulders. As my visual focus recovered, I saw her for the first time. She stood up and reached across her desk to shake my hand.
Now, as I said, this was a business in the construction industry. I had the opportunity to visit many similar businesses before, and there is a stereotypical image of front office managers in the construction industry. They are typically short, overweight middle-aged females with short, unkept and somewhat greasy hair. Their upper lips may or may not sometimes have a fine mustache but are invariably wrinkled. Usually, when greeting me, they are smoking a cigarette held between two extended fingers each tipped with chipped, three-week-old press on nails, usually of a bright red hue.
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Jeannine was not that stereotypical front office manager. When she stood up to greet me, she looked me nearly eye-to-eye. If I stood six feet tall, she most certainly was 5’10”. Her striking feature was the contrast between her bright, blue eyes and her jet black hair.
Her hair. There was once a time I swore I’d write The Book of Hair. That was when I thought I could tell you everything about a woman from just one glance at her hair. That was before I met Jeannine. Before, that is, I learned that even the most perfect hair on a woman’s head can be analogous to lipstick on a pig.
Jeannine’s hair - it was perfect. Not one strand was out of place and it flowed all together like one heavy, silk blanket. It was long - extending half way down her back. She had no bangs - perfect. At the top of her head her hair was perfectly gathered and pulled backward and kept together by a subtle, black buckle. No. This wasn’t the typical small construction business front office manager.
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As Jeannine introduced herself to me, Bill entered the room. Jeannine moved from behind her desk and walked toward the copy machine located across the font office opposite her desk. Yep - she was definitely 5’10”. She wore a short-sleeved, black, low-cut, cotton top, and her long arms were exposed from the mid-point of her upper arm downward. Her upper arms were thick; however, from her upper arms downward they were disproportionately skinny and noticeably lanky. On her right arm was a freshly-inked complete forearm sleeve tattoo still wrapped in clear, cellophane dressing. On the other arm were some spotty, patch work tattoos - not what I would typically consider attractive and what I would consider to be more representative of that stereotypical construction front office manager.
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Her steps toward the copy machine were long and somewhat awkward. Her legs were proportioned to her arms: very long - and skinny from hip to foot. However, her long legs and arms were disproportional to her short, chubby torso. Her jeans draped low across her ass like she had recently lost weight the seat of which were saggy and unfilled.
Her gait was - well - it was awkward, too. I guess the best way to describe it was like watching Bigfoot walking through the woods in the infamous 1967 Patterson-Gimlin film.
On her feet she wore a pair of black, cloth-strapped-over-the-toes flip-flops. Her feet and toes were long, too, but tipped with perfectly-manicured toe nails.
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While she gathered the papers from the copy machine, I briefly made small talk with Bill who soon disappeared back into his office. Once she gathered the papers from the copier, Jeannine reseated herself at her desk. As she shuffled through the papers, I noticed that, like everything else except her short, pudgy torso, her hands were even long and skinny from which purple veins visibly bulged through. Her fingers were crazy long too. But, like her toenails, they were tipped with perfect, French manicured nails.
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Overall - she was Amazonian by any measure and without any doubt whatsoever to the contrary not the type of woman I’d ever been attracted to. But, for reasons I couldn’t understand, I couldn’t keep my eyes off her.
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It must’ve been her striking appearance. She had a beautiful face and her brilliant cobalt eyes were such the contrast against her black hair.
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As we began to discuss business, she seemed to outwardly fawn over me and made me feel like the only person in the room. Throughout our meeting, other employees and contractors at the business came and went. No matter how much I efforted to engage in conversation with the others, Jeannine talked over me. She was the loudest mouth in the office - bar none. She projected her voice over everyone else and her nasally voice drown out the voices of anyone around. Her voice was as big as her body was large.
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At some point later in the day, I asked Jeannine to call into the office some of her workers so I could speak with them.
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“This one - Miss Morales?” I asked Jeannine.
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“Well. She only speaks Spanish and she’s on a job right now.”
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“It’s no problem. Please call her and I’ll ask her to stop by after she finishes up.”
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“Well. She doesn’t really trust ‘gringos.’” Jeannine giggled, thinking she was funny using a Spanish slang term. When she giggled, I noticed she loudly snorted mid-giggle.
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“Let’s see - here’s the number you have for her. I’ll just give her a call.”
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“Well. She won’t answer unless I call her from my cell.”
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“Okay, please call her and get her on the line. I’ll chat with her.”
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Jeannine called Miss Morales, got her on the line and handed me her cell phone. I chatted with Miss Morales briefly in Spanish - and she ultimately agreed to come by the office and speak with me.
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“Wowwwwww,” Jeannine said, “You wanna’ come work for us?”
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I remember thinking to myself, ‘Not particularly. You apparently employ immigrants, probably undocumented, and label them as contractors so you can avoid paying all the payroll taxes you’re required to pay. You’re a Department of Labor dream to investigate.’
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No matter how many things I found unattractive about her, I found a chemical, natural attraction to her. I believed that, for whatever reason, I was meant to cross paths with her. It was a raw and distinct feeling I’d never felt before. I felt I’d known her my whole life and in lives already come and gone.​
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After an entire day with Jeannine, I prepared to leave. As I was leaving, she pulled a business card from its holder on her desk. She flipped it over and scribbled on it 10 digits.
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“If you have any questions at all, here’s my card. On the back - that’s my personal cell number. Call me anytime.”
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“Okay. Thanks.” I gave to her one of my cards and headed toward the door to leave.
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I walked back out into the broiling mid-afternoon heat and loaded up into my rental. I left wondering if I’d ever see her again. I left wanting to see her again.
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About an hour after I left, my cell rang. I didn’t recognize the number although it was the same number Jeannine had earlier scribbled onto the back of her business card.
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“Hello - this is John.”
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“Hey John - uhhh it’s Jeannine. I was wondering if you would wanna’ meet me and Bill at the Oceanfront. We figure we owe you a drink.”
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“Nahhh - I probably shouldn’t until we wrap up business.”
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“Okay. I understand. If you change your mind, we’ll be a Mahi Ma’s at the Oceanfront.”
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“Yeah - I’m not headed toward the Oceanfront. I’m headed back over to the Peninsula.”
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“Oh. Shoot. Sorry. I figured you were staying out near the Oceanfront on business.”
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“No. I have work on the Peninsula tomorrow so I’m headed the opposite direction.”
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“Well. I can meet you out that way later if you’re free.”
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“Sure. But I though you said you were with Bill.”
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“Uhhh. Yeah. You got me. I’m with Bill but he’s leaving. I was hoping to meet you for a drink. I’ll head closer to you if it works.”
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“Okay. Tell you what. I’ll meet you somewhere halfway off 64.”
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“64’s a long road.”
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“Oh, a smartass, huh? You know what I mean. Halfway between where I’m at and the Oceanfront. Right off 64. I’ll find something and text you where we can meet up.”
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“Okay.”
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I thumbed through a quick Google search for bars and restaurants in Norfolk somewhere on Military Highway and found an Uno Bar and Grill that looked perfect for a casual meeting with her. I was starved and knew I could get a cheap plate of the best sirloin tips around. I texted her. “Hey. See you at Uno on Military at the intersection of Virginia Beach Boulevard.”
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“Okay. See you there. I’m getting an Uber from the Oceanfront. It’ll be 45 minutes or so.”
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When I arrived at Uno, she was already seated at the bar with a drink in front of her. She was as loud as she was earlier in the office and as beautiful as I remembered her. Once seated, I had to inquire about the large, half-sleeve tattoo still apparently healing.
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Jeannine tried to point to the art which was still somewhat difficult to see thru the clear cellophane wrap.
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“This is a landscape. This is a wolf. I love wolves. And it’s all draped in an American flag in the background.”​
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“Okay. Okay. I see it now. You remind me of a Tom Petty song. Shoot. You are a Tom Petty song. A not-so-typical construction office manager with perfect hair - with an American flag inked forever on your forearm.”
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I noted over dinner she had become a different person than she was earlier in the day. She had several drinks while I ate and sipped on a few beers. Her drinks of choice were a double Captain Morgan Original Spiced Rum with Diet Pepsi. If it were even possible, she got even louder and more unfiltered the more she drank. She said shit that no other woman I’ve ever known would say. I was fascinated by her - her personality. It seemed so very genuine, blunt and to-the-point. Or was that the alcohol?
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As the evening wound down, she ordered an Uber. When her phone alerted her it was five minutes out, I walked her outside. As we stepped into the dark, heavy-hot night, Jeannine led the way. She reached back and clutched my right hand in her left. With a vicious jerk of her arm, she pulled me into her closely and without hesitation, kissed me like no woman had ever kissed me before.
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This woman was unlike any woman I’d ever met. I was burning to know more. As I drove out of Norfolk, I Bluetooth-ed my phone to the rental’s stereo, looked up Tom Petty’s Greatest Hits and let Tom serenade me all about a girl who was raised on promises and knew there was a little more to life … somewhere else.
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TO BE CONTINUED
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