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Wake-Up Call

WARNER BOOKS

Chapter One

AS RON TOLD IT, he first saw me in 1994 while I was playing beach volleyball at the Jersey Shore. He said he'd had his eye on me from that very instant. I, on the other hand, was completely oblivious to his presence. In those early days, I wouldn't have paid much attention to him because he simply was not my type. Blond, strong, and blue-eyed, Ron was the straitlaced, wholesome all-American guy-a Fourth of July parade, complete with bursting fireworks.

That same summer, I was hanging out with a close-knit group of friends and we had a regular routine. Our summer life revolved around sunbathing, playing beach volleyball, surfing, and partying. We would religiously arrive at the beach by 10:00 A.M., eat breakfast, which usually included ham, egg, and cheese sandwiches and cheese fries, apply our sunblock, line up the volleyball schedule, and gossip about the parties that had taken place the night before. Sometime around five o'clock, the mass exodus from the shoreline would begin. Everyone would filter slowly off the beach, drop their beach chairs on the front lawn of the small beach barcalled the Yankee Clipper, and walk inside barefoot to grab a plate of nachos and a few Long Island iced teas. Everybody knew everybody else. It was a small, exclusive club of friends. Everyone was tanned, gorgeous, and looking to have fun.

The Yankee Clipper was an institution. You could feel the gritty floor underfoot-a combination of dropped peanut shells, spilled alcohol, and vagrant sand. The bar smelled like cocoa butter and suntan lotion. The music was always the same-cheesy, upbeat, and happy. When songs like "Rockin' Robin," "Sweet Caroline," or "Margaritaville" were played, everybody drunkenly chimed in. Arms were wrapped around waists of the people standing next to you. Haphazard conga lines would form. And every evening would end with the same last song: "The Summer Wind" by Frank Sinatra.

Around 11:00 P.M. what we called "the crawl" would begin. The crawl was the long walk either home, to the next bar, or to a private party at someone's beachfront home. Buzzed, sunburned, and feeling the cool ocean breeze on our faces, we would stumble along still barefoot, covered in sand, and wearing our bathing suits. There were no fancy outfits, no designer handbags, and nobody spent time primping and fussing with their hair. Baseball caps, cut-off shorts, and wrinkled linen shirts were all we needed for our three-month "come as you are party."

It was the summer after my first year in law school, right before I was leaving for Europe, when I first met Ron. I was drinking with a group of friends at the Yankee Clipper, and each time one of my friends or I finished a drink, the waitress appeared with another. And another. And another. As the evening wore on, so did the mystery as to who was sending over all of our drinks. The waitress soon began bringing over trays of shots and handing them to everyone. She continued to bring tray after tray after tray. It was verging on the ridiculous. Finally I asked who was sending over the drinks. She told me she was sworn to secrecy, but that our mysterious benefactor was in the bar and an admirer of mine. I was spooked, uncomfortable, and, frankly, wanted to leave immediately. My friends were intrigued and insisted that we stay-in truth, they were just enjoying all the free drinks.

Sometime after midnight, a very inebriated guy showed up with a tray of drinks. He knocked into me, nearly spilling the entire tray. He was pretty drunk. I looked at him, annoyed, and asked him if I could help him out with anything. He righted himself, looked me straight in the eye, and stammered: "I just want you to know I love you." Ron Breitweiser had spoken his first words to me. He was drunk, his eyes were bloodshot, and he was barely standing. All I wanted to do was to get away from him.

Nervously I looked over to the waitress, who pointed to him knowingly. I looked back at Ron as he stumbled some more and asked, "Will you go out on a date with me?" Quite put off by his forwardness and his drunkenness, I brushed him off by saying that I was leaving for Europe the next day, not to return until the end of the summer. I then turned to my friend Paul and asked him to walk me to my car. My only hope was that the crazy drunk guy (I still didn't know his name) would think I was dating Paul and leave me alone. Paul smiled at me, whispered into my ear, draped his arm around my waist, and ushered me out of the bar. The next afternoon I got on the plane and flew to the south of France to study law.

Deciding to take a summer abroad and study in Aix-en-Provence was one of my better law school decisions. It lightened my load for the following semester back at Seton Hall, and it provided me with an excellent opportunity to travel throughout Europe. Ironically, among the classes I took that summer was "Terrorism and International Law." It wasn't anything I was drawn to; it just happened to fit into my schedule. Since we had classes only three days a week, there was plenty of time to take off and travel. I spent the rest of my summer biking around Provence, rock-climbing and glacier skiing in Switzerland, hiking in the French Alps, swimming along the coasts of the Italian and French Mediterranean, and partying all night long before the running of the bulls in Pamplona.

Returning home, I started my second year of law school. It was rigorous, but I always liked the challenge of being a student with a goal to achieve. I wasn't sure I wanted to be a lawyer-as an undergraduate I'd been drawn to the sciences and dreamed about being an astrophysicist or even a neurosurgeon. But the many years of training and medical residencies that a medical degree required made me feel restless and impatient. Law school felt like a smarter and much more practical choice. Besides that, I liked the idea of having three more years of educational structure-I knew it would give me more time to grow up before having to settle down and get a real job.

It was the fall of my second year in law school when Ron's and my paths crossed again. I'd been partying with my law school friends in Hoboken, New Jersey, and we decided to spend the rest of the night clubbing in Manhattan. Ron was a few years older than I, and he was already working on Wall Street. According to Ron, who told me the story of our encounter afterwards, it was on this night that he saw me stumbling through the PATH station with my law school pals. When he told me the story, I didn't believe him until he described what I was wearing and the people I was with. Once reminded of the occasion, I did recall the random night of partying (but not Ron), because it turned out to be an outrageously fun night and one of the rare occasions when my law school friends and I ventured into Manhattan. When Ron recounted to me how he had seen me that evening it struck me as strange, but more so, it struck me as fate. Now it gives me chills because I think about how serendipitous it was to run into Ron in the subway station of the World Trade Center on a night when I was out partying happily with my friends. If only he had known or I had known or anyone had known that so many years later thousands of people would perish in that very spot.

Six months later, Ron and I crossed paths again, but not by coincidence. He had finagled my phone number from a colleague at the law firm where I was clerking that summer. Ron called up cold-totally out of the blue. He first introduced himself as the guy from the Yankee Clipper who'd told me that he loved me. This immediately spooked me. Annoyed that one of my work colleagues would be so stupid as to give Ron my phone number, I was curt with him on the phone. Ron then began to tell me that he had seen me in the WTC/PATH train station that fall. I began to wonder if this guy was stalking me. Ron then asked about law school and whether I had a boyfriend. Wanting desperately to brush him off at this point, I told him that I had several-which wasn't exactly a lie. Completely undeterred, Ron asked me for a date. I declined. Hanging up the phone, I hoped that would put a stop to the pesky stalker named Ron Breitweiser.

But Ron was persistent. He would periodically call or send flowers. He seemed to pop up constantly wherever I was. I guess his persistence was a survival skill for him. Growing up in a rigidly Catholic family without any advantages, Ron knew that if he was going to make a life different from his parents, he'd have to blaze his own trail. He went to the University of Delaware and majored in business. He didn't get an MBA after college, he got a job. Hard work and perseverance were his ways of competing with those who had the privileges of wealth, class, and Ivy League educations. He got his first job by writing a letter to a man on Wall Street who'd written a book Ron admired. The man invited Ron to lunch, and by the time it was over, Ron had his first job. All he needed was a chance to prove himself.

I had several great guy friends in law school who were like older brothers to me. When Ron's persistence about dating me became an annoyance during the winter of my third year of school, I asked the boys what I should do. "Go out with him. Chain-smoke, suck down straight vodka, and act obnoxious." The boys assured me that the only way I was going to get rid of the "stalker" was to scare him away. Armed with my new strategy, I accepted the next time Ron asked me out.

We went to dinner at a crusty Irish pub named Harrigan's. When the waitress came to take our order, I told Ron I didn't eat and hoped he wouldn't mind if I continued to smoke. Ron was a militant antismoker. He was disgusted with my constant inhaling, and he didn't hide his utter disdain. I felt like my plan was working. I ordered another vodka on the rocks with two limes and then another. I lit another cigarette from the one I was about to extinguish. Ron tried to make conversation, but I refused to engage with him at any level. When he asked if I ever wanted to get married, I made it crystal clear to him that I had no interest in ever getting married or having children. Ron ate. I smoked and swilled vodka, playing the part of the ultimate bitch to perfection.

Unbelievably, the next day Ron sent me flowers and called to thank me for accompanying him to dinner. He was more than cordial. I was stunned. I'd expected never to hear from him again. Finally I ended the conversation by thanking him for the flowers and telling him that I was so immersed in my final year of law school that it would be impossible for me to even consider seeing him again. Ron left me alone for a while. I thought my plan had worked.

I graduated from Seton Hall Law School in May of 1996 and immediately began studying for the bar exam. One night at the Parker House, another favorite beach-bar hangout of mine, I was taking a much-needed study break with some of my law school friends. On my way to the ladies' room, I quite literally ran into Ron. I apologized for crashing into him.

As I looked up, I saw his blue eyes looking back at me and his amazingly huge, bright smile. He gushed, "Wow! How are you? Remember me?" I stumbled, took a step backwards, threw a quick smile, and said, "Sure. How are you? Would love to talk, but I'm just leaving." I used the bar exam and the studying I had to do as my excuse for rushing away.

The New Jersey bar exam was four or five weeks away. In the interim, Ron did his detective work and found out the date of the exam. He was hatching another plan. When I returned home after the two-day exam, I found a huge double bouquet of long-stemmed red roses on my doorstep with a note that said: Hope you did well on the bar exam. Ron. For the first time, Ronald Breitweiser had caught me off guard-in a nice way, something that rarely happened to me.

My aunt and my best friend, Paul, came over and saw the enormous bouquet. I asked them what they thought I should do. My aunt said, "Give him a shot." Paul agreed. They looked at me, laughed, and said simultaneously: "He is persistent." I called to see if the florist had Ron's number.

She said Ron was hoping I would call and had told her it was okay to give me his number. I immediately called to thank him for the flowers and he immediately asked me out to dinner. I hesitated. He said, "Come on, you have to. Today is my birthday." It was August 4, 1996.

This time I actually put some effort into getting ready and wore something other than my usual uniform of jeans and a little white T-shirt. When Ron arrived, I was in a short, simple black dress and flat black sandals. He was wearing ripped jeans and a wrinkled blue shirt that looked like it was plucked straight out of the laundry bag. I was incredulous. "This is how you dress to take me out on a date? On your birthday? Are you joking? Couldn't you have at least ironed your shirt?"

Immediately, I decided to change into something more casual. As I was threw on my own pair of ripped Levi's and wrinkled shirt, I was thinking that he was clueless, totally clueless. Ron stayed in the kitchen chatting with my grandmother about working in New York City. She and my aunt told him that he was crazy to work in such a filthy, dangerous place. They asked him why he wanted to work in the city. There was so much crime and it was so stressful. Did he really want to commute every day? The World Trade Center had been bombed three years before, on February 26, 1993. My grandmother asked Ron what he would do if something like that happened in his building. "I'll tell you what I would do. I'd run like hell and get outta there."

We said good-bye to my family and drove to his parents' house, which was about an hour away, to have birthday cake. I should have realized the significance of meeting Ron's family on our first date. But I was oblivious. Ron had told his family, particularly his older sister, a lot about me. So when I walked into their home I felt very much under the microscope and uncomfortable.

We finally left his parents and drove to a quiet Italian restaurant. During dinner, the conversation was playful and easy. Ron confessed to me that he thought I'd been a real bitch the first time we went out. I said that I had been trying to make him leave me alone. He smiled broadly and beamed, asking, "Aren't you glad I didn't?" I answered him honestly: "Yeah. Actually, I am glad you didn't let me scare you away."

Early the next morning, I stopped at a farm stand and picked out a huge sunflower and placed it in an Evian water bottle. The night before, I'd learned that Ron was training to be in the Golden Gloves, an amateur boxing competition. After the farm stand I stopped at a card store and found a vintage postcard with a photo of a small blond-haired boy with boxing gloves on his hands. On the back of the card I wrote, Thanks for being persistent. I drove over to the beach house Ron had rented for the summer and left the sunflower and the card on his back doorstep. From that moment on, we were inseparable.

Ron was working in the city, and I was living on the Jersey Shore. By the end of our second month of dating, in September 1996, Ron had moved in with me at my aunt's guest cottage and was commuting to New York City every morning by bus. It was a romantic whirlwind. Every week Ron sent me two huge bouquets of flowers. One went to the courthouse where I was a judicial clerk, and another was sent home. He left me little notes and cards in my brief bag, in the car, on the mirror in the bathroom, and even on the container of half-and-half I used for my morning coffee.

Ron had discovered a very romantic side of himself. When we couldn't see each other, we talked for hours on the phone. After we watched a movie, Ron would brainstorm to figure out a romantic follow-up related to the movie. After seeing Braveheart with Mel Gibson, Ron bought an antique white lace handkerchief and a flower similar to the one Mel Gibson receives from his love in the movie. Ron wrapped the flower in the handkerchief and left it on my pillow one evening. After we saw Message in a Bottle, I opened the refrigerator three mornings later and found an antique blue bottle with a note from him inside.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Wake-Up Call by Kristen Breitweiser Copyright © 2006 by Kristen Breitweiser. Excerpted by permission.
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