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My two year internship at the University of Rhode Island Public Relations Office paid off. Two weeks prior to graduation the director ? Rob Paradin ? called me into his office and offered me an entry level job as a writer / editor.

"We really don't have a position, Johnson," he said casually. "But you're such a fine writer we don't want to lose you. And you're already well-liked by half the faculty and newspaper editors in the state."

He handed me a formal letter with the job specifics. I quickly scanned the details until I found the salary. It was a good $3,000 a year less than average and at least $5,000 less than I could command at another college. On the other hand, a job in hand..., and I was young and single, so what the hell?

"I'm sorry it's not more," Rob said. "Best I could do."

He braced for disappointment.

"Thank you," I said, "I'll take it."

Now I've kinda got a Ron Howard thing going on ? unkempt bushy red hair, some lingering freckles, a forehead bill-boarding future baldness ? so I wasn't much with the ladies during my undergraduate years. I was more of the constantly working, lots of hobbies, intramural sports, going home once a month to play Dungeons and Dragons with my high school buddies kind of guy.

I don't drink but did get "lucky" a couple times after attending frat parties with some of the jocks I befriended by writing glowing profiles about them for the Campus Newspaper. But in general I was just one of the (more than you think) guys who drifted through college without a girlfriend or serious prospects. There had been a string of girlfriends in high school, but that was child's play; we all understand that after we've grown up.

During the second semester of my senior year the Public Relations Office hired a 26 year old graphic designer named Janice Watts. And dang. The other four members of the office have all been there for 15 years or more and were old enough to be my parents. To my amazement Janice spent a lot of time talking to me during the five to six hours a week I was in the office. In hindsight, I'm sure it was the fact that we were the two youngsters in the office and she needed an ally, but at the time, for the life of me, I could not understand why such a goddess was wasting her time talking to "Opie."

I'm 5'5". Janice is 5'9', weighs about 120, and has gorgeous brown hair that hangs straight and ends in a semi-circle just below her shoulders. She is tall and slender but has slightly oversized, round breasts. Her hips are narrow and she has a very small bottom. She wears a collection of single colored dresses that end just above her kneecaps. She goes for practical, not glam in her day to day appearance and accentuates her look with a lot of plastic headbands and hairclips. You could have pulled her from the opening sequence to "That Girl" starring Marlo Thomas. She is quiet and demure at work and an excellent artist. Rob and the other editors in the office rave about her work.

She has a hunky boyfriend named Roger (I have never seen nor met him) and two kittens. Our conversations at work ? she does the talking ? revolve around 1) problems in the office; 2) Roger; and 3) Milo and Trix, her "kitties". I don't pay much attention to whatever she's talking about but I welcome the opportunity to admire her physical beauty and feel adult when I get to hang out with her.

In the year since she joined the office, Janice has only said one thing that stood out to me. She said when she is nervous or anxious she needs a "little skin to skin" to calm her down. I assume she meant with Roger, but I was not sure exactly what the details were.

By the following spring a healthy competition had developed between us. A story I authored featuring a Child Development Center Director who felt we are teaching children to fear was picked up by the New York Times. A watercolor illustration she painted for the cover of the alumni magazine was featured at a local gallery. And so on. We began to bicker and jockey for position in staff meetings although we maintained our "office friendship" socially.

Rob called us into his office one day in March and read us the riot act.

"We're all on the same team in this office and the rest of the staff and I are tired of your bickering and competitive, negatives spirits. You have separate jobs that are both indispensable to this office and the mission of this University. We're not going to have a conversation like this ever again. Understood?"

We nodded humbly, said "Yes sir," and left the office. Ironically, we hadn't taken five steps before Janice pointed a finger at me, glaring, and said: "That was your fault!"

A week later we were both quiet during the staff meeting. Rob surprised everyone at the end by announcing he had received two all-expense-paid invitations to the annual Arts and Writer Conference sponsored by the Chronicle of Higher Education. The four day conference was slated for late April at the University of Notre Dame in South Bend, Indiana. He was sending Janice and isveçbahis me.

"If they have a session on teamwork, I expect both of you to take it," he called in our direction as the meeting broke up.

This was my first conference and Janice soon confided she had never flown anywhere in her life, so our excitement was mixed with a fair amount of anxiety. Conference week arrived and we flew to South Bend. Janice grabbed my hand when the plane took off and dug her fingernails

in the soft skin between my thumb and first finger for the first twenty minutes of the flight. Despite the pain the geek in me was thinking: "All right, I'm holding her hand."

We landed and took a taxi to our hotel, only to find out the hotel had accidentally given our rooms away. There were none left. The desk clerk spent fifteen minutes trying to find more rooms for us. No luck. In addition to the Arts and Writer Conference and two other conferences, it was the week leading up to the annual Notre Dame Spring Football Game, which for some reason attracts fans and alumni from around the world.

Janice went white. "What are we supposed to do?"

"There's a bed and breakfast down the road I could try. It's a little run down and off the beaten path, but the folks that run it are nice."

"Call them."

Estelle Murphy and her husband Jack have run "The Dickens" B