In Which the Hero and Heroine Still Do Not Get Together

Just joining us? We’re taking a break from whining about how unfair life is and waxing romantic. Here, take a look at Parts I, II, III, and IV.

The next day, I found myself with some free time in the middle of the day, and I made my way back to Mr. WG’s office. You’ll never guess what he was doing! OK, maybe you will. Maybe you will TOTALLY guess that he was standing on his desk shooting rubber bands not at the stars, but at that same target with those same girls’ names written on it. Well, you’d be right.

And if you also guessed that WG would have something obnoxious to say, well, then you have been paying attention.

“Now that I see that you never do any work, I don’t feel bad about bothering you,” I said.

“Hey, you’re back!” Mr. WG said. He’s quick.

We bantered. I would tell you what we said, but I honestly don’t remember. I could make it up, but I already give myself all the good lines in this blog, and it’s a little unfair. Eventually, I left.

G2 from the All-Supply Closet continued to flirt with me. Mr. WG’s roommate gave me another ride across the base and also gave me their phone number. “Call us if you’re bored,” he said. I filed the phone number away for later.

And then it was Thursday, and that is the last day of the army workweek for most people in Israel, and so that is the day we do sponja.

Oh, I’m sorry, you don’t know what sponja is? Then I guess you never lived in Israel, where they THINK it’s an acceptable way to clean the floor. I’m here to tell you, not so much. It involves dumping a bucket of water out and then using a squeegie to shove it all down the drain, which is conveniently built right into the floor, often in the middle of the room. And if you think I’m joking, you haven’t read my new Internet boyfriend, Benji.

Anyway, it was Thursday afternoon. And Mr. WG’s secretary was washing the floor of her office. And when she was finished with the squeegie, Mr. WG took it from her and began washing the floor in his own office.

When I came to, I asked, “Why are you washing your own floor?” Because, people, understand that officers, particularly in the AIR FORCE, do not do such things. That’s why they think they have secretaries.

Mr. WG said, “Because that’s not her job.”

Well. This was something I had not yet encountered. An officer who didn’t think that his mere existence was reason for we mere mortals to kowtow. We talked for a bit, and then I headed out, back to work. And Mr. WG went back to… shooting rubber bands, I guess. Because he rarely did any actual work in the army.

Late that afternoon, I got back to my kibbutz and ran into a girl from the base. “Hey,” she said. “Mr. WG wants your number.”

“OK,” I said.

“So what is it?”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll call him,” I said.

She shrugged.

I went back to my room and proceeded to casually call Mr. WG’s apartment approximately 4,767 times. No one answered. G2 called and asked me out. I said OK. And then I called Mr. WG’s apartment one more time – and he answered.

“Well, you lose, because I already have plans tonight,” I told him.

“Um, what?”

I repeated myself. He paused and then said, “Well, maybe you could cancel your plans?” I declined. He launched into an explanation of how he had stayed late at the base to talk to one of his soldiers and midway through, he stopped. “How did you get my number?”

“Your roommate.”

He paused to ponder that. Then he asked if we could maybe make plans to go out on Monday evening. We could, and we did.