Pop-feminists joke that a woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle. What do the fish have to say?

With a sigh, I leaned back in my chair to practice meditating on dour thoughts. I felt numb, angry and betrayed.

Just then, my office door swung open, distracting me from my gloom as Fran Lupis came breezing in from a late lunch.

"Oops!" she said with an expression that said anything but, "it looks like you had bad news for lunch, Lois. Maybe now isn't the best time to discuss my raise...?"

"Come on in, Fran," I grumbled. She was a good friend with broad body-builder's shoulders, and I needed one of them to cry on, just now.

"This must be bad," she observed, arching one eyebrow as she plunked down onto the red paisley comfortable chair sitting across from my desk.

"If watching everything I've worked for go down the drain is bad, then ..." I waved one hand in a helpless gesture.

"Uh," she gawked, "aren't you exaggerating just a little bit? I mean, last time I checked, which was ..." she made a production of looking at her watch, "...about two seconds ago, you were still the company's only female vice president, still successful beyond your 'wildest dreams of avarice,' and I'm still your much envied Administrative Assistant." (I shot her a particularly nasty look for that one; she knows how much I like "Voyage Home") "So," she continued, settling back in the chair, a prim look on her face. "What's the problem?"

I love taking the wind out of her sails when she gets that smug expression on her face. But this time was different - it wasn't fun. I handed the memo to her.

"Executive Vice President," she read, half to herself. "even though you are a tremendous asset...not chosen...Not chosen?"

Usually good-natured with an infectious sense of humor, Fran is not the sort of person you want mad at you. Where I am a brunette of medium height with ... well, lets just say a classical European figure, she is blonde, tall, and radiates a full-figured athletic aura that is positively magnetic. Unless she is angry. She was angry now. Both brows arched as she stood to her full six foot height, her face flushed, blue eyes hard glittering orbs.

"We're not out of the running yet," she hissed. "We'll fight this!" She paused, looking down at me as I watched with eyes round. "We'll fight them on the sea, we'll fight them on the beaches, we'll fight them in the streets, we ..."

"Fran,..."

"...will never ..."

"Fran, it's Garth Donaldson," I blurted out. "It's got to be."

"Ooh!" she growled, eyes narrowing as she strangled the space before her with hands held like claws. "I knew this smelled of a special kind of louse!"

She stopped, a nonplused look transforming her expression from ferocity to gentle concern. "Oh! I'm sorry, Lois," she said quietly. "I forgot how you feel about him."

Our soon-to-be Executive Vice President of Transoceanic Import Lines, Garth Donaldson was handsome, well-connected, arrogant and pragmatic. I should know. In the three years since I'd left him, he'd built a reputation for himself at Transoceanic as an empire builder. In just three years. It seemed an eternity, though I could recall the events with yesterday's clarity.

It began in Belgium at a trade show in Antwerp. Five hectic days culminating in an evening to dine, mingle and network. The evening air felt crisp and invigorating, a fitting end to a profitable event, with many deals closed on a hand-shake. Garth would be pleased, I'd thought with sensuous satisfaction as I anticipated my return home. Although the stay had been pleasant and well-spent, I was eager to return to my lover. So, during the afternoon break, I'd exchanged my tomorrow afternoon ticket for a night-owl flight. After this one last social hour, I'd be on my way home a day early.

As I made my way back into the main ballroom, I saw Bill Edwards, an arbitrageur who frequently carried Transoceanic's paper.

"Lois!" he called, striding through the crowd, a look of delight on his friendly, slightly pug-faced features. "There you are."

"You didn't think I would leave and miss this, did you?" I laughed. Bill and I were old friends.

"No, no, no," he persiferated. "But there's someone here I want you to meet."

Leading the way to where a number of people were gathered, he excused his way through and spoke to an elderly gentleman in French, stepped back and I found myself standing face to face with Louis de Male.

The House de Male has a reputation. A good one. So good, in fact, that you can't help but be suspicious of exaggeration. Well, I was. At least, until I met the patriarch.

Think of John Houseman as Professor Kingsfield. Got it? Now think of Charlton Heston as Moses, then add the twinkling eyes of Bill Cosby and you have the integrity, charisma, and charm of Louis de Male. Standing at just over six feet, with his burly broad shoulders and craggy features framed by a shaggy white mane, trim beard, and jet-black bushy eyebrows, he stood out like a ... well, he stood out. And though I've learned since that he is in his seventies, he moved with a grace and assurance few men of any age possess. My instant inclination was that here was a man I could trust implicitly. And I did.

Bill started to say something, but the patriarch gently cut him off.

"No introductions are necessary, I think," He looked at me with good-natured serenity in his clear, forest brown eyes, taking my hand in his. I felt safe, clean, protected. "Mademoiselle," he rumbled, bending to kiss my hand. "Your splendid reputation precedes you. I am deeply honored."

"Me?" I squeaked, polished and professional as ever.

A slow gentle laugh. He moved closer, nodding as though he had something important on his mind, and looked intently into my eyes. "Listen to me, I want you to come work for House de Male."

He raised his hand, cutting me off as I started to protest.

"I value people of ability. More than that, I admire integrity, and I believe you are too good for Transoceanic."

"I, ... I'm very flattered, M. de Male, but I like what I do and, lovely as Europe is, I could never move away from Seattle. It's my home."

"Ah so," his eyes lit up. "Your Seattle, a city of seven hills like Rome, no?"

"Six now. They leveled one."

"The price of progress," he growled. "How much is really worth it? But," he brightened, changing the subject, "we have plans to open a second District Office in the United States. We have one in New York, of course; my people advise me to open the second in San Francisco." His eyes twinkled. "I think Seattle would be better, if you were there to run it. It would be a good match!"

I was tempted.

"Say at least you will consider it. Please."

Here stood one of the wealthiest men in the world, the woebegone look of a puppy on his face as he teased me with an offer no sane person would refuse. What could I say?

"Of course I'll consider it."

He smiled and took both my hands in his, pressing something into them. "Here is my card. Call me and say yes." Another moment he searched my eyes, then he nodded to himself, turned and walked away.

The feeling of his presence lingered after like an expensive cologne - unpretentious, confident, understated. I basked in its afterglow, his praise and acknowledgment warming me as, far above autumn clouds, I settled more comfortably into the seat of the jetliner winging me home.

It was raining as I stepped stiffly off the plane at SeaTac International airport. They say it took ten years for the local Port Authority to select the location of the airport. Some say the site was chosen for being close to the residence of the then president of Boeing - back before the first 707 jetliners turned it into a corridor of constant thunder. Others believe the location was favored for being the foggiest, windiest, rainiest spot in the state. Whatever the reason, it was raining and my midnight blue BMW was parked on the top level of the garage. The drizzle pattered a gentle welcome on my head as the wet wind pelted my neck, sending streams down my spine. I was not a happy camper.

Nevertheless, I was back a day early, eager to get home, take a long hot bath, and snuggle with Garth. But when I got there, the bed was already occupied.

She was an implant-enhanced dye-job who looked like she made a hobby out of catching rare and exotic diseases at the local meat markets. Stunned, I stood with my mouth hanging open as Garth raked his meaty hands through her hair, his hirsute muscular chest and flat belly heaving.

Garth is blessed with the youthful features of a red-headed country boy - all freckles, beguiling blue eyes, pug nose and impish grin. No look of guilt or shame shadowed those features just then, only a wicked, thin smile as he laughed, mocking me.

"Lois," he hacked. "What a surprise! Care to join us?"

The room seemed to spin and I felt like a great weight was pressing down on me, and my heart pounded as I struggled to breath.

"Come on," he leered, "Shawna won't mind, will you Shawna."

I fled the room, chased by his mocking laughter. I ran without thinking, without packing, driven by deep pain and the need to get away.

As it turned out, our entire relationship was a ploy to derail someone he saw as a competitor in his bid to eventually run the company. I was just someone he was using to further his career, and though at first it felt like someone ran a buzzsaw through my heart, in the end it made me more determined to stay and fight. He may have enjoyed our nights together, but I wasn't about to give him the satisfaction of seeing me run, even though I sometimes wished I had accepted M. de Male's offer.

Then, finally, after three years, it all seemed about to pay off. Our Executive Vice President had been promoted and was transferring to Corporate, and there was every indication he was going to designate me to take his place. Until I got the memo. Now, it looked like Garth had won, after all.

"I don't know, Fran, I just feel so tired."

"Listen," she said, briskly, "why don't you take the rest of the day off. Go for a drive, get away from the city for a while, leave the grind to me," she nodded, "maybe tomorrow will bring better news."

She was right. I needed to get out of the office. Wearily, I maneuvered through traffic and headed south onto the freeway toward Des Moines, and the marina where I keep my catamaran moored.

Nestled across the Sound from Vashon Island, the Marina offered a haven of solitude from busy city streets, clogged freeways and jangling telephones.

No short piers, so it's good for long walks.

It was early evening by the time I got there, and the fog was already rolling in. Even so, several people, couples mostly, strolled the water's edge taking in the timeless setting of boats creaking in their slips -- expensive cabin cruisers, sleek runabouts, graceful sloops, their single masts swaying with the swell and ebb of waves tamed by the boulderous breakwater before embracing hulls of fiberglass and laminated wood.

The salt air and lowing of a distant whistle buoy helped to calm my nerves, leaving me reflective of perils discovered too late.

Buoys mark shallows where a vessel might run aground and founder: they signal safe passage through the hazards of nature. But where are the beacons to help women find good men.

Men, so many of whom seem destined to a life of adolescent egocentrism.

I remembered once upon a time when a young woman fresh from college, with ideals untried, untarnished by life's bitter lessons, enthusiastically joined a man to build a dream. How grand it had all seemed, then; how long ago, now.

Turning onto the fishing dock, I passed slowly down its narrow length until I came, at last to the lighted platform at its end. The steel railing pressed cold in the darkness against me as I leaned back to look up at the hard silver moon shrouded in gray clouds. "This is only a temporary setback, you can still realize your dreams," I told myself, then outloud, "And all men be damned!"

As frothing waves lapped upon the shore, fog enveloped the harbor, and the whistle buoy hooted a somber warning.

Regards

Rod Van Mechelen

Rod Van Mechelen is the author of What Everyone Should Know about Feminist Issues: The Male-Positive Perspective (the page now includes several articles by other authors), and the publisher of The Backlash! @ Backlash.com. He is a member of the Cowlitz Indian Tribe and served for 9-1/2 years on the Cowlitz Indian Tribal Council.