It was simply cheaper for the state colleges and universities to hire a bunch of part-time lecturers to teach one class each so they wouldn’t have to pay them medical benefits, vacations, etc. There were massive budget cuts to education in California.

These poor teachers, traveling from school to school, trying to cobble together the full-time equivalent of a job at four or five different schools, came to be known as “freeway flyers.”

I had to decide whether to join them on the California highways, or take a secure, permanent job, with all benefits, as the office manager of the Creative Writing Department.

And another choice, the sexual one: Did I want to live with my boyfriend of several years? Me, a bisexual, a believer in multiple relationships—did I want to settle down with this one person? In an open relationship, to be sure, but how would that work?

Marriage wasn’t even a consideration at the time, although later we did actually marry for—you guessed it—my medical benefits. He, too, was a freeway flyer, a teacher-librarian at several libraries and schools.

All of this poured into “This Isn’t About Love,” the major question of the story: Which is more fulfilling—a life of change, of danger, of excitement, or a safe and secure life (with benefits)?

I opted for security, taking the safe administrative job, living with my partner. Both choices have worked out well, and yet—even as I made these choices, there were regrets, expressed in “This Isn’t About Love.” Mainly, a loss of the life of the adventurer, symbolized by Ilka’s sex life and the man with no arms. What did that mean? Unloving—but then, this isn’t about love! It’s about sexual need, and insecurity, and a death wish—because what kind of future will there be for an old retired teacher with no income? Live now, because there is no future!

As I was making my safe choice, I was writing about the other possibility. As I reread the story, I feel nostalgia for that path not taken, “Ilka’s way.” I still wonder if she’s happy.…I still wonder if I’m happy….

The disconnected narrator, Chris, had something in common with me, perhaps more than I’d like to admit. She’s the part of me that’s a voyeur, observing other people’s lives without fully participating—often the fate of the writer. She denies who she is (repeating, “I’m not gay” and “I’m not gay and never have been”) and indicates at the end of the story that she’s the one who’s missed out on life. Chris cuts herself off from what she wants because she’s too well defended.

I love it when Ilka says, “How can I be defenseless against what I want?”

Did I really write that?

Blue Light

Steven Saylor writing as Aaron Travis