The Escapades of Miss Annie Oak

by Gretchen Louise Glaser, 2002

As a child, I always rushed down the driveway for the mail the moment it arrived. The fact that the postman now drops the missives through a slot in my office door makes it quite handy. My ear has trained itself to recognize his tread upon the walk, and my blood races in anticipation of what interesting missives the mail might contain for me each day.

On this particular Thursday (Thursday is always my lucky day, as I was born upon that day of the week), I was sitting at my desk, staring at a boring essay I was attempting to write. I rarely attempt to write boring things, mind you, but the subject itself was so boring that nothing could make it less so.

Suddenly my ears perked up (though really, my ears never move or “perk” in any way—my capacity of hearing simply focuses on one aspect of the noise around me), and I knew the postman was on his way. As the mail fell to my floor, I noticed an unusual envelope. With the anthrax scares being what they are, I always take extra precaution with my mail. If anything looks suspicious, I open it promptly. All regular and boring stuff is treated with extreme sanitary procedure, and thrown immediately into the trash.

I stood quickly from behind my desk, and made directly for the unusual envelope. I say it was unusual simply because, while the direction was made in Arial, size 12, the return address was handwritten. It struck me as singular. Especially as the handwriting was so bad I could barely make it out.

The best way to solve a problem is by investigating it, so I took up a letter opener and slit the envelope. No powdery substance fell from it, so I knew we were okay on the Anthrax part. From the now ascertained safe envelope I drew a single sheet of paper. This was typed in Comic Sans , size 13. The author obviously had an affinity for varying fonts, as do I. I already liked him. (I had surmised the author was a “him” simply because the handwriting was illegible. A most honest mistake I assure you.)

The contents of the letter were more surprising still. Scanning it until I reached the closing, I realized I was holding in my hands a letter from the famous and well-beloved Anthony Harrison, author of I Kissed Marriage Hello. Having ascertained these facts, I began to peruse the letter more carefully. Anthony was writing a follow-up book to his bestseller, and wanted my help.

My help? Obviously not for co-writing. He could never have heard of me. Though my business card read “Ann Oak, Writer,” I was not altogether famous.

No, he wanted my assistance in gathering data. He surmised that since I possessed a writer's fine intellect and skills of observation, as well as a sense of daring (this he had gathered from my article on deer hunting and women, which was well-received on the western side of the States), I would be the perfect one to help with gathering some certain hard data for his future book.

He stated that he would call me, so after dancing a little jig, I sat staring at my computer screen for a full five minutes, before moving the mouse, disturbing the screen saver, and double clicking Internet Explorer. I typed in the address for his website and read the latest news. Anthony and his lovely wife, Wendy, had just welcomed their second child. And, sure enough, it said right there that he was working on a follow-up book, Chaperones and More , with the subtitle “keys for a kosher courtship.”

An hour passed as I distractedly worked on the boring essay. I did not know how much more boring it could become. However, I was being paid for the utter nonsense, so I continued to write the boring prose. (If it seems I am overusing the word “boring,” it is simply that it was.)

Suddenly, the phone rang.

“Miss Oakley?”

“Just Oak, sir.”

“Ah yes, I'm sorry, Oak. This is Anthony Harrison.”

“That's Ann Oak, Mr. Harrison,” I quickly inserted.

“I assume you received my letter, Anoke ?” queried the deep gravelly voice.

“Yes, sir, I did. Though it was addressed to Ann Oak. And that is who you intended to call, I assume, though you are murdering both my given and surname?”

“I had no intention of murdering anyone, I assure you, ma'am.”

“Ah yes, that's much better. Now, let's get down to business. You need help in researching for your book, I understand? Now, I love to help people and all, but is there to be any monetary compensation for this task, or simply the honor having my name on your book?”

“Both, I assure you, madam Oak.”

“Just stick with ‘ma'am,' sir.” Obviously, this man was better on paper than over the phone. Or maybe he just had a spectacular editor. How I pity her! (Once again, I was making an assumption about gender, but it just seemed that only a woman could understand this poor man's ramblings. His wife must be a saint.)

“Of course, ma'am. As you suggested, I shall both place your name on my book, as well as pay you for the somewhat lengthy task.”

He mentioned a sum that caused me to jump three inches, hitting my knees on the underside of my desk, and once again waking my computer from screen saver mode. I hadn't understood his book had sold that well.

“Have you had a rich uncle die lately, Mr. Harrison? If so, I'm sorry for your loss.”

A long pause ensued, followed by three sniffles. “But how did you know, Mrs. Oak?”

“You already mentioned my astute skills of observation. And by the way, sir, I am single.”

“I'm sorry, I'm a married man myself.”

“Goodness, sir, you misunderstood me! I was simply referring to you calling me ‘Mrs.'”

“Of course, my mistake. Now, as to the matter I wrote you about.”

“Would it be better for you to write me about the matter, sir? We seem to be making little headway.”

“What a marvelous idea. I'll have my secretary e-mail it to you.”

“Splendiferous.”

“What did you say?”

“Splendiferous, sir. It has Latin roots. Look it up sometime. Now, sir, thank you so much for your kind letter and telephone communication. I shall look forward with pleasure to your secretary's e-mail. Good day, sir.”

And with a click I hung up the telephone before he could make any further blunders on my name. It's not that I'm sensitive on the subject. I simply prefer to be addressed by my proper name. Though in reality, my parents named me Anne. My friends call me Annie, however I go by Ann. Maybe I am a confusing person after all, just as Fred says.

The next day was Friday the thirteenth. I am never one to believe in such things, but it really did seem I was having bad luck that day. The boring essay—on the metaphysical aspect of a song in Poe's short story on Roderick Usher—was not going well, and for once I was finding the rain dreary. However, a “ding” from my computer alerted me to new messages waiting, and with utter joy I perceived a lengthy email from Harrison 's secretary. Appropriately, her name was Angel. Who else could she have been to make sense of such a man?

Upon reading her explanation of the proposed task, I promptly picked up my telephone and dialed Fred's number (by heart, of course).

“Hello, Fred speaking!”

“My dear Fred speaking, you must rush to my office at once! Such news!”

“Hullo, Ann, is it dreadful or better than that? And should it be divulged over lunch? It is that time, you know.”

“Yes, it is lunch kind of news. I don't know what kind of information you'll call it, though—possibly a mixture of both.”

“I shall brace myself. And I'll pick you up in five minutes. ‘ Til then.”

“Adieu, Freddie.”

Grabbing my jacket, I avoided a glance in the mirror, knowing the wind would destroy what remnant of styling there was left in my hair. Fred was always more than prompt, and going directly to the door of my office, I found him waiting.

Our favorite hangout was a charming little place called “Jim's Café.” Jim was like a grandfather to us both, and he made plenty of steak for Fred, and salad for me. Of course, his was the only eating establishment besides two bars in our little Mayberry-like town, but it was out of enjoyment, not necessity, that we chose Jim's.

And it was at Jim's, after the steak and potatoes, and my chicken salad, that I told Fred my news.

“Mr. Anthony Harrison wants me to go undercover, as a Campus Dating Cop.”

“Undercover? As a what?!”

“You heard me, Fred dear. A Campus Dating Cop. It's a means of doing research, gathering data on relationships, and the like. It sounds fun to me, don't you think?”

“It's just picturing you as a cop, Ann, that is hard for me.”

“Freddie, you know me better than that! Remember what happens when people call me Annie Oakley?”

“Yes, well, your hunting skills aside, you don't have a mean bone in your body.”

“Too true. But I don't have to be mean—just observant.

“But what campuses might this take you to?”

“Oh, all the places roundabout.”

“Ah ha. And what might be your job description?”

“Well, first of all, most colleges have rules about PDA, but few are followed. So, I shall enforce them. Using such means as approaching a smooching couple and asking for their marriage license. Etcetera.”

“My dear, I think the job will fit you perfectly.”

“I knew you would agree. Especially if I told you the price I'm being paid! Now, let us enjoy our Chocolate Mousse, and talk about you.”

It was the next Monday that I reported for duty at the first institution of higher larning . I mean, learning. The problem being, most of its attendees couldn't spell “learning” to save their life, let alone “institution” or anything else with more than three letters.

Anyway, I walked boldly to the front desk of Mayberg Community College , and asked to see the president.

“The President, ma'am? He's not here!”

“I don't mean, The President, capitalized proper noun. I simply mean the president, lowercase letters, of your fine institution.”

With a confused look, the female before me pressed a button and said, “Someone here to see you—I think.”

In a now more timorous voice, she directed me to the door at the left, labeled, “Dr. Mark Drew, President.”

Uttering thanks I little felt, I opened the door and stood before a small-looking man with eyebrows that made his moustache look small in comparison.

“Hello, Sir. My name is Ann Oak. I am here at the request of famed author Anthony Harrison. You may have heard of him?”

Not waiting for a reply, I continued. “His request is that I read the rules your fine institution has regarding physical displays of affection—commonly known as PDA—among your students, and then hang out on campus a few days to see how well they follow it. I doubt that I shall interfere very much with any procedures on campus, but as a matter of courtesy, I felt I should inform you of my presence.”

“Of course, of course. We shall be glad to have you. My secretary out there can fill you in on the particulars, but we really have no rules.”

“ No rules, sir? Surely a man such as yourself can appreciate the fact that taste and decorum in this area is necessary even on a secular campus.”

“We really have seen no problem. Kids will be kids, of course. But nothing utterly shocking has happened. Thank you, Miss Oaky .”

“Good day to you, sir.” I ignored the misuse of my name. In a college where they couldn't spell—and had no rules—how could I expect someone to pronounce a simple three-letter word correctly?

Walking out the door of the office, I discovered that the confused secretary was no longer alone, but sharing her cramped office quarters with an obvious admirer. He must have been a relic of the old days, for her brought her flowers.

“How nice of you, young man. When are you two getting married?”

“Oh, we're not,” he stated matter-of-factly, ignoring the bewildered look in the secretary's eyes.

“How interesting. White roses mean undying love and commitment, you know. Good day to you.”

I left a bewildered boy (I would say man, but he had not attained the title, though he boasted sideburns four inches long) stumbling over an explanation to a teary-eyed girl, who was seeing him in a much different light.

Happy to have set one couple onto the path of serious contemplation, I made my way to the library. It was my belief that little actual studying went on within its doors. Little did I know how right I was. Being on the younger side of thirty, I looked the college part today. No one gave me a second look as I meandered among the shelves to the further regions where, as I suspected, all the “let's meet at the library” dates were taking place. I accidentally dropped a copy of Webster's 1828 Dictionary on the heads of one kissing couple. They really needed to come up for air anyway. Then I approached another boy and innocently asked the girl in his lap how long they'd been married. Her questioning look was enough to send me from the room in disgust.

On the other side of the library I observed the few studious students on campus. “I congratulate you!” I exclaimed, upon entering.

Their heads popped up, as though they'd been awakened from deep sleep. Maybe they had. Oh well, at least they weren't kissing someone.

“ Congrads for, um, what, dude?” came the question.

“First of all, let me say I was remiss in those congratulations. Obviously you haven't been studying—at least not the English language—if that's all the grammar you can muster, boy. But as I was going to say to the rest of you, congratulations for escaping the snare of relationships and burying your nose in studying books instead of girls. I'm proud of you!”

Here again, I was met by blank looks. “Who are you, babe?” came the query, dripping flirtatiousness, from the other side of the room.

“My name is Annie Oak.”

“That sounds mighty familiar. Do I know you from somewhere, Annie Oakley?”

The speed with which I drew the pistol concealed below my jacket made the slumping character straighten five full inches as he stopped dead in his tracks. “You don't know me from anywhere, boy, and I'm not interested in making the acquaintance of the college flirt, thank you very much.”

I was already planning to leave the campus in a moment. The unfortunate thing was, as I wielded my gun in one hand, gesturing wildly with the other to keep the jerk away from me, a dean or some such person came to investigate the noise. Thus my first day as Campus Dating Cop came to an end.

After such an unprofitable day, I figured that Mr. Harrison would not appreciate my findings. But I dutifully typed them up, and hit “send,” hoping Angel would prepare him for the worst. Much to my surprise, she emailed back in exactly twenty-two minutes saying that he had loved my findings, a check would be in the mail, and would I please send more observations whenever I liked.

A check always hastens a girl's activity, so I made plans for my next day to scope out a Christian college some miles away.

I invited Fred over for dinner. It was always nice to have someone to cook for, and I was in need of company after such a strenuous day. Besides, Fred was so easy to talk to. He was my best friend, and reminded me of the older brother I never had.

When I told him about dropping the dictionary, his response was classic Fred: “Oh Ann, you didn't?”

My look told him I most assuredly did. And he laughed until tears ran down his cheeks. I had to stop him by threatening to throw away the pumpkin pie. That made him serious in a hurry.

Tuesday turned out to be the day for chapel at the Conservative Christian College of Coburg . I thought their name sounded promising, and I much enjoyed the chapel speaker, Dr. Gary Derickson . At one point he made the statement, “I believe dating is a non-contact sport.” I clapped loudly. It was after about a minute of my standing ovation that I realized I was standing alone. Embarrassed, I concluded that they must be so conservative here that they didn't believe in clapping at all in chapel, even when they would obviously agree with such a statement.

After the service ended, I approached the speaker and thanked him profusely for his excellent job. “It was inspiring to hear of your relationship with your wife, sir. I'm sure the students appreciated knowing that it is possible to wait to hold hands until you're engaged.”

We enjoyed a thirty-minute discussion on the merits of Mr. Harrison's message in I Kissed Marriage Hello , until I reluctantly left to begin my work.

Once again, I began in the president's office. At least this girl knew what president I was looking for. When I added, “Aren't you cold in that skimpy blouse today, honey?” she gave me a blank look and directed me to his office.

Giving this president a similar spiel to that previous, I was met with even more approval.

“Why, Miss Oak, you are a blessing straight from Heaven. Help yourself to this book of college statutes. But, I'm afraid it won't be of much help. You see, years ago we decided to let our college be run without rules. You know, letting the Spirit direct our students. I'm afraid the results have been disastrous, but the rest of the faculty doesn't agree with me.”

“I do understand, Dr. Johnson. It will be my privilege to help you, and maybe some of the research for Mr. Harrison's next book will convince them otherwise.”

“I do hope so, Miss Oak.”

I was so thankful that someone other than Fred actually got my name right this week, that I shook his hand vigorously, thanked him again profusely, and said I must be about my business.

“Good day, Dr. Johnson. I'll come back to visit again soon, and tell you the result of my findings.”

The campus was beautiful, so I decided to get in my exercise while conducting research. But my walks are never as enjoyable without Fred, and considering that Tuesday was his day off, I whipped out my cell phone and dialed his home number.

“Hello Freddie dear. I'm here at the CCC in Coburg , and I thought you might like to help me with the research a bit. We could stop in at the cafeteria afterwards, you know.”

“The way to a man's heart is through his stomach, Ann. I'll be there in half a jiffy.”

“No rush. I think I'll be busy,” I sighed. It had taken me only the brief amount of time I'd been on the phone to happen upon my first couple.

Noting the unused laptop lying on the bench, I decided to use a new tactic on this pair. “Are you aware, young man, that there are many definitions of PC? One of which, I believe, you are displaying too much of at the moment.”

“There's no law against having computers on campus,” spoke up the girl in his lap.

“Oh no, but there is an unspoken rule that physical contact should be kept to a minimum between unengaged couples,” I informed her.

“Dude, you're off your rocker. Who ever heard of such a thing as PC of that sort?”

“Check out AcronymFinder.com next time you're on your other PC. Until then, please keep the physical contact down, as I don't see an engagement ring on that pretty girl's finger.”

“Whatever,” came the reply as I walked away.

Hearing the familiar sound of Fred's '83 Ford, I meandered towards the campus visitor's parking lot.

“Any luck, Ann?” was Fred's first question.

“Come see for yourself, sir.”

He joined me as I made my way toward the center of the campus. “Looks like you better ask them if that kissing is legal, Miss Campus Dating Cop,” said Fred, pointing out a couple half-hidden under the weeping willow.

I approached with a business-like manner, tapped the boy on his shoulder, and inquired, “May I see your marriage license, please?”

Briefly looking upset to be stopped from his current activity, he then laughed. And to my surprise, he said, “Of course. I carry it with me but never thought I'd be asked! See, we're one of the few married couples on campus, and I always wanted to have proof ready in case I got in trouble for kissing my wife. And may I ask who you folks are?”

“I'm Annie Oak, and this is my friend Fred. I've been hired by Anthony Harrison to do some research, under the guise of Campus Dating Cop. You can't imagine how delighted I am to meet you. How refreshing, after all the other couples I have encountered in the past few days!”

“Why, imagine that. Mr. Harrison is our favorite author, isn't he dear?” spoke up the beautiful young lady.

“Yes, please give him our regards,” agreed the young man. “It was his principles that we applied in our relationship, and we've been happily married for six months now. Megan will just barely finish college next spring before the baby comes.”

“Congratulations, you two! And thanks again for the encouragement. Looks like I'll need it,” I added, glancing around me. “Listen, I'd love to chat, but I'm on duty. Why don't you drop by my place sometime for a cup of coffee, Megan?”

Bidding them goodbye, Fred and I went on. With a cop's instinct, I moved nearer a couple who appeared to be studying. On closer observation, it became clear that more snuggling was going on than anything else. Remembering that I'd seen the same guy squished next to a different girl two rows ahead of me in chapel, I asked, “Didn't you recall that dating is a non-contact sport, you player?”

“I don't think I've ever heard such a stupid idea,” he said.

I gave Fred a look that said, “I give up,” and walked toward the campus office building. He moved briskly ahead to open my door, and waited for several other girls to walk through the door as well. They looked at him like he was an alien.

After joining me for a moment in gawking at the couple sitting on the couch in the lounge area, Fred took over. “Don't you have a bit much PDA going on here?” he inquired.

The guy took a few minutes to disentangle himself , then stared at Fred. “How did you know I have two PDA's, dude? I thought I left them in my coat.”

“I was not speaking of a personal digital assistant, though why anyone would need two I can't imagine. I was speaking of your public display of affection. Such things hardly belong in private, let alone in public.”

Fred shook his head in disgust as the guy returned to his girlfriend without so much as a “good day.” Offering me his arm, Fred led me from the building.

“I think you've had enough research for one day, Ann. I don't even want to see what they do in the cafeteria. Let's go to Jim's Café.”

“Alright, you poor dear. This undercover work is a bit much for you. I'm ready to turn in my badge, too. I think I've accumulated enough evidence for Mr. Harrison's book. But Fred,” I paused with a worried look, “do you think I should be holding your arm? I don't want to be a bad example.”

“It's called being a gentleman to escort a lady,” Fred smiled. He then drew my attention to a couple hugging and kissing for all they were worth, while standing in the middle of the plaza for the whole campus to see. “At least we aren't doing that.”