Of Emerald Eyes and Happenstance Part 10
For those of you who have been with me from the beginning, I offer my apologies for making you wait. Life, work, writer’s block, all are excuses that I could use for the delay. But it mainly comes down to the fact that I struggled with this section. I wrote it and started over probably 8 times. Part 10 is a bit pivotal in that it sets the tone for the rest of the book, so I refused to publish something that wasn’t my BEST effort and quality. I’m guessing that there will be another 5 or 6 sections, so look for those to come quickly due to the fact that I have a goal to complete the book by June 1, 2022. That will mean that I completed a novel in ONE YEAR.
Now, for those of you who are new to this story, you will need to go back to the beginning. At the end of May of 2021, I embarked on a journey to write a “serial novella” and to release a new section every 2 weeks. I did ok for the first 9 sections, but as you read above, part 10 has been a while coming. Click on the links below to find them.
**** THE FOLLOWING IS A WORK OF FICTION. Any semblance to a person, place, or experience is 98.8% fabricated.
**** Also, I’d like to call attention to the featured image, by the very talented, Chelsea McKenzie.
Acceptance, Hope, and Letdown
Time. Time has a long history of being one of those concepts discussed and argued amongst the learned. Theory and hypothesis, hypothesis and theory, back and forth, to and fro, all to no avail, with no perfect concrete standard established. Some months have 30 days, others, 31, and then, February, how messed up is that? There are moments, moments in life that pass as fast as a bullet train racing towards Hell, then there are those moments that pass as if they’ll never come to an end. I say this is all well and good, as long as everyone is on board with a less than precise standard.
For me, however, if anyone ever seeks to get it all right, they would certainly need to solve the equation of time as it exists inside a South Louisiana bar on a Sunday afternoon. Anyone who has patronized such a place on such a day would no doubt agree. I leave for the purposes of example, my bar on a Sunday afternoon in which I’ve detailed much of the story of my entire life, and the sun has not begun to set.
I don’t recall it crossing my mind at the time, but I guess I assumed at the end of her shift, Charla would have clocked out and waved goodbye, leaving Cullen and me with drinks to finish. Then, without Charla there as a “buffer” between old men, my deeply personal story would have lost its sail, dying of its own volition, thus leaving battle-scarred veterans of life, with only an amiable handshake and a goodbye.
But that wasn’t the case. Charla did clock out and she did leave the building but was gone only long enough to collect my dog and take her for a quick walk. I had circled the room a bit, checked on some of the patrons, and returned to my seat at the table. Cullen was still there, but to my consternation, I looked up to see Charla leading my pup across the barroom floor toward us, fresh drinks in hand. She handed Cullen a fresh beer and another double for me, and she said, “I took Tupe out for a walk, motioning to the always smiling Golden Retriever that was my near-constant companion. Straddling a chair, she said, “Ok, let’s get back to your bitch. Tell me how it all went down with her.”
“Charla my dear,” I started, “Bless your cold black heart. It appears that you possess a certain hostility towards someone you have never met and never even heard of until this very afternoon. And thanks to our new friend Cullen here, we now know that she is responsible for who I am today.” “You are right,” Charla replied, “I don’t know this person, but I don’t like the way she did you when you knocked her up.”
“Well, about that, let me continue the story.” Still a little bit uneasy and a lot embarrassed about allowing such private glimpses of my life to be aired, I warned, “And by the way Charla if you go blabbing any of what you have heard today to the rest of the crew around here, I’ll personally drive you back to Kentucky and drop you off.” “Yeah yeah,” she replied. “Just get on with it already!”
“Okay then. I think I left off after she and I had finished talking on the phone. You know, I contemplate life back then, back before cellphones, digital cameras, and the internet. My green-eyed beauty was hours away and me alone at home, I couldn’t just pick up the phone and call, long-distance calling was too expensive, so I was just there, stuck in my tracks, powerless and unable to be with her though she consumed my waking memory. I often wonder what my world would look like today if we had had cell phones then. Would it have changed everything, or are our stories just steered by fate and destiny? It has always been that way, I know this now. Because in examination of a life lived, I find it clear that fate alone carried the water, and destiny, well, destiny is the root of destination. So everything from the moment we spoke in the parking lot of the drive-thru until today even, was fate and destiny. Fate being the influences that caused us to do what we did, and destiny, or our destination, yet to be completely revealed.”
I didn’t mention to Cullen or Charla that today is my birthday. I’ve never been fond of the day or one to celebrate it, but the fact that it is my birthday, I suppose, might serve as an explanation for my walk down memory lane as well as Cullen’s recognition that I was not in sync with the ‘spirits.’ Of significance though, is that this birthday marks the first day of the year in which my father before me passed. I never expected to live past the age he was when he left this plane of existence, and if that is to be a self-fulfilling prophesy, then, I have a few less than 365 days. Mind you, not that I’ve witnessed some omen of events in place, I’m only referring to, due to genetics, it has always been my suggestion that I’d never be permitted to live past the longevity of my father or most of the other men possessing the same last name.
“So to recap, as I said, I spoke to her on the phone and we had ‘righted our ship’ and while I hoped and prayed that the rabbit would live, I was ready to accept a life with her and a young family. My story though picks up again in the weekend following that fateful phone conversation. She called again on Wednesday, and in her voice, I heard a tone of resigned surrender. She announced that she would be coming home for the weekend and that we should plan on breaking the news to our families then. I drifted off to sleep that night excited to see her again and I dreamed of life complete with a home on a corner, a picket fence, and children. For whatever reason, that was the image that I felt represented the epitome of a successful life, most likely influenced by the TV programs we watched back then. Somehow, we had learned what was expected of us, regardless of our hopes, dreams, and aspirations. In short, by the time that the eighties had arrived, the definition of what we were to become in life had become a bit blurred. We were inadvertently given an out. We were permitted to create our own destiny, or so we thought. We were taught to believe in the concept that man had the ability to choose his own way forward. Still, I was firmly rooted in an ideal of a small two-story house, a fence, a swing set, and green eyes and me, hand in hand, with a boy or girl between us, nothing but happiness ahead. The only problem was that I believe that I was only given half of the equation. I bought into the idea that one could be anything one wanted to be, but I suppose I missed the lecture on how to go about it.
I believed that I had choices, choices that I could make that would steer this vessel and assist fate along the way. But fate carries the water, takes up the laboring oar, and in the process, decides the destination. Our first meeting and subsequent days seemed at first to be the paragon of one of those serendipitous moments. From the start, we were so comfortable with each other, and normal relationship timeframes were collapsed, allowing us to believe that there was nothing “chance” about it. In my case though, I was a vessel without a rudder, at the mercy of currents I didn’t even know existed.
Friday came and by mid-afternoon, I began trolling the streets of town, hoping against hope that I’d catch her as she came into town and that we might have a minute or two alone before she had to yield to the wants and demands of her family. I doubted that there would be time for intimacy. Pregnant or not, I was a 20-year-old boy who could not argue with the hormonal yearnings flowing through my bloodstream. It didn’t help that she was the one who set the bar. She lit the fire that burned me from the inside out I mean, and I’m speaking of more than sex. The way I felt when I was with her, man, I wasn’t totally inexperienced before the night in the back seat of the ragtop, but a night with her transcended anything I’d known. Like a drug, I was hooked, I had to have her, and consequently, like an addict, I spent years attempting to recapture that buzz, trying to reach the ‘high.’ And no; it wasn’t just youth and inexperience. As I said, I chased that ‘high’ and I relived the moments with her over and over in my mind, always to the same conclusion, always that there would be no one better, never, not ever again. If I lived to be a hundred and twenty, I’d been given a glimpse that most men are never allowed, and me, for whatever reason, just one.
In the afternoon, I’d say about 4:00 PM, I began to think that I’d missed her, that she’d rode into one end of town while I was circling back. I figured, ‘oh what the hell, you knew it would be a long shot at any rate.’ But as if my doubt had served to conjure her presence, I was turning around in the parking lot of an appliance repair shop when I happened to glance across the street. The Mustang ragtop sat next to the fuel pumps of a service station. She was nowhere to be seen, but I didn’t know of another Mustang convertible in town. I assumed that she was inside the store, so I darted across the street, parked my truck on the side, and I positioned myself behind the gas pump so that I could surprise her when she walked up. I heard the little bell at the top of the shop door jingle as she exited the store. I stepped from behind the gas pumps and said something ‘cheesy’ inquiring if she knew anyone around town who was looking for a good time. She saw me, paused for a second, then she lunged toward me, leaping, wrapping arms and legs around me, almost knocking me to the ground. “I knew you would find me before I got home,” she giggled. She kissed me hard and then whispered in my ear, “I’m not pregnant!” Then released the pressure of her legs around me and slid down until she was standing, and looked at me, studying my face for a response. “Did you hear me? I said I started my period.” “I heard you. Yes, I heard you.” “Well,” she inquired, “what do you think about it?”
I was speechless. I grasped for words and none were immediately forthcoming. My expression must have exposed my momentary confusion causing an unusual expression to form along her brow. Finally, I regained my voice, “I’m sorry. I’d convinced myself that I was going to be a father and that we were going to begin a life together.” “You aren’t relieved that I’m not pregnant?” She asked. “Of course I’m relieved. I can’t begin to tell you how relieved I am,” I said, wrapping my arms around her. “Good Lord above, yes, I am relieved. But I want you to know that I was prepared to go the distance with you.” We talked for a bit, both agreeing that we had dodged a very large bullet. “I have to admit though, the thought of the pitter-patter of the feet of little Cleatus or little Prudence, was growing on me,” I said with my best fake expression of lament. She cackled loudly and said, “If or when the day comes, let it be known that you will have no part in the naming of our children.” I smiled big, and followed, saying, “Ahhh, we have time for those decisions years from now, but I admit, I like hearing you refer to, ‘our children.’”
She began to make her exit, explaining that when she had scheduled her trip home, she justified it by telling her parents that she had something to discuss with them. Now that her reason for that discussion is no longer an issue, she has to more or less “fake” a reason for such an important audience with her family. She kissed me again, deep and long, her hands roaming up and down my sides, and then an ever-so-slight pass across a lower section of my body. My hands fell to her hips, then slid under her Ole Miss tee-shirt. Feeling her skin, I felt something akin to an electrical pulse that ignited neurons and coursed through my entire body, then exiting back through my fingers and back into her skin. She stiffened, her eyes closed, a wrinkle formed in her brow, and she sighed deeply. Parting my lips from hers just enough to whisper, “keep that up and you won’t be going anywhere for a while.” She rose up on her toes to put her lips to my ear and said, “I’m just giving you a hint of what I have planned for tomorrow night.”
I didn’t immediately recognize the full weight that had been lifted from me by the news she brought. The realization that there was no “bun in the oven” and the ramifications associated with it sort of landed on me at once. Not unlike meeting a driver going the wrong direction on a four-lane highway, seeing the oncoming headlights, but not immediately realizing the potential peril for everyone on the road. The brain registers that something is amiss, but the full gravity of the situation doesn’t register until after the vehicle has passed. Often though, once a driver understands that the situation could have easily taken a different outcome, the innocent driver has to exit the highway to gather themselves for a moment in order to continue to their goal.
I thought first of not having to embarrass my family, principally, I didn’t have to bring such disconcerting news to my precious Grandmother. I thought of the rumors that would be the hottest news in town amongst my friends and acquaintances, as well as her friends and family. The shame we would both feel as we faced people, knowing that everyone would know what we had been up to. I also thought about those college professors, classmates, administrators, and uppity fraternity brothers and sorority sisters that she would have to face. Those born with silver spoons up their asses, whose judgment she would encounter; all of whom would choose alienation of her, rather than acceptance; disassociation, rather than understanding and inclusion.
Yes, we had been reckless in yielding to our primal selves, allowing our basic hormonal instincts to take over, but now as an old man, I am confident that almost every human has had a similar experience. If not, then I have a tremendous feeling of empathy, because to truly experience life involves allowing oneself to throw caution to the wind, to allow the moment to supersede the reaction of the cautious. To coin a famous Nike phrase from the great athlete, Bo Jackson, “Just Do It,” well, I’m here to say that my green-eyed beauty and I did just that. We scoffed at convention, we refused to heed the stop signs, and we just did as we felt. Good or bad, right or wrong, we “lived.” Nothing more, nothing less, and I wonder about the thoughts of a person, approaching the end and lacking at least one such venturous entry to the books.
My entire life might have turned out differently. I could have embarked upon a divergent path if only I had been sitting on the tailgate of my truck somewhere besides the drive-in that night. If she had circled around earlier or later. Ah, listen to me go on and on. I’m reminded of the old Dandy Don Meredith idiom, ‘if if’s and buts were candy and nuts, we’d all have a merry Christmas.’ But I was there and she came round, and she exhibited that confident air that so turned my head. I felt down to my marrow that I knew what I wanted. Exactly what I wanted. Regardless of the lack of concrete details, I believed the end result was in place, undisputable, and that the igniting spark was the only catalyst required. The rest would take care of itself. But the gods of fate and the gods of destiny somehow have a way of jerking the rugs from under a dreamer. Youth, inexperience, and plain ignorance fill in the gaps and blur the scenes between dreams and reality, and as Kris Kristofferson wrote, “dreaming is as easy as believing that it’s never gonna end.” One just doesn’t see the world as clearly at twenty as the one looking through lenses that have seen and experienced the world well past middle age. At twenty though, I was like, ‘no job? No problem, I’ll just get a job. No place to stay? No problem, I’ll find a place. No knowledge of life or what is required to make it all work? No problem. As long as we are together, we will figure it all out.’ I fully believed that if fool’s luck ended, we would still be alright, as long as we committed ourselves one to the other.
She called late Friday night, my mom and I picked up separate phones, simultaneously saying “hello.” I said, “I’ve got it, mom.” As always, there was no reply from my mother, but still, there was time that elapsed before I hear the click of her ‘ringing off.’ Again I say, “Hello” and I hear that angelic voice. She said, “Heeeey!” The word “hey” is just three letters, but in the South, “Heeeey” spoken in a drawn-out fashion was a ton more personable than if it had been spoken as written.
I was at home, sitting on “go” that Friday night, hoping that she would call with an invitation to meet up somewhere, but lacked confidence that such a proposition would be forthcoming. Instead, we just talked for an hour and a half; about her time at school, what she liked about it, what she didn’t, and of people she’d met from all over God’s creation it seemed. I couldn’t help but feel a tinge of jealousy, as I knew that she was meeting people, who had more, had seen more, and experienced more of the world than I. I imagined how I must compare in her eyes to them, how backward I must seem to her and how limited a future with me might be. I shook my head, almost involuntarily, as one would when breaking through the surface when swimming in a deep pool. I suppose that is a “tic” that I’ve carried for a long time as if the rapid shaking of my head back and forth might shake off a bad thought, an unpleasant memory, or the recollection of an embarrassing event from the past.
I awoke the following morning, my tank full, brave beyond fear, with faith covering any doubt. The green-eyed girl was mine and I was hers and we were merely starting chapter two of our story. I didn’t know it, but those rugs mentioned earlier were about to be jerked. Fate held one corner and destiny the other, and the “one, two, three,” countdown was just beginning. I was taught to believe that one person was not better than the next. That one family surname was as good as any and I had no notion that there were people in the world who believed otherwise. Whether it be the amount of money one had in the bank, or career or status in life that one held, I had always been taught that people were the same. I guess I never recognized that differences existed because back in my high school, it seemed that we were all pretty much in the same boat. We were not as up-to-date with styles and fashion, and what is more, we seemed oblivious to it. Others, I guess, just didn’t see things the same. After listening to her speak about college, of interesting new friends, and hearing the happiness in her voice after dodging that pregnancy bullet, the earlier self-doubt I had felt inched its way back into my mind. I had no idea that “negativity” would set the tone before the weekend was over.
It seemed that upon learning of the “special” guest of the evening, the parents of the green-eyed girl began to bombard her with questions. Since the time we’d spent, in terms of minutes and seconds was slight and couldn’t possibly have been enough in their mind to constitute anything meaningful, they immediately wrote it off as teenage infatuation. If they only knew how we had spent those few “minutes and seconds.” I learned later that her parents produced a long list of reasons why a relationship with me at that juncture in her life was a terrible idea. She volunteered truthful answers to their questions about me, unknowingly providing them ammunition to support their case that I was completely wrong for her. The short time we had known each other was one, but subsequent reasons included my lack of education, my lack of motivation to begin a career, something about the length of my hair, and the fact that I hailed from “the other side” of the river. Additionally, there may have been mention of an individual, possessing my last name, a generation or two removed, who might have slighted someone with the same last name as the green-eyed girl. Who knows, but today, I concede that I can certainly understand part of their argument. In all honesty, if I had a daughter who was just beginning her college career, I certainly would be guarded about any deadbeat guy who might prevent her from working towards her goals and aspirations. I can’t imagine any parent desiring less than the very best for their daughter, and getting stuck in a nowhere small town with nowhere ideas and nowhere to progress. So in that respect, I can’t blame them for being less than receptive to my sniffing around their beauty. But the way her asshole father went about the whole business was what got under my skin and at least to an “nth” degree, still is.
She called that afternoon and immediately, I could tell by the tone of her voice that something wasn’t right. She asked if she could come over for a visit so that we could ride together to dinner that evening. I told her, “Of course it is alright. In fact,” I continued, “I would like to introduce you to my parents.”
Remember, this all happened a long time ago, and it all happened to a young man who had not yet been jaded by the world, life, love, and by people. I saw my world and I saw people through rose-colored glasses. Inwardly, back then, I expected any father to object to me or any other young buck having “carnal” knowledge of his daughter and I was familiar with the obligatory “meeting of the parents.” I was aware of how to make a good impression, of how to talk to the chatty mothers and I could recognize the stern, non-verbal communication coming from the dads. I don’t know about elsewhere in the world, but in the Deep South, it was standard practice for a suitor to project to the parents that they were good Christian young gentlemen. That dance has been going on forever I assumed.
The green-eyed girl attempted to give warning about what I might experience that night, but the confidence and inexperience of my 20-year old ego refused to allow me to accept it. I fully believed that I’d be openly accepted as a “righteous” dude, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. The mere breadth of the river demarcating the town border represented nothing more than a measurement to the inhabitants of one side, yet, to those opposite, it seems the expanse was seen more as an unfathomable chasm between the two peoples. I did not understand at the time that such behavioral constraints existed.
In short, her father took every single opportunity to humiliate me, embarrass me, and attempt to “dress me down,” to the point that I would just give up and forget about his daughter. He refused to introduce me to his friends and business acquaintances unless he just had to and then he dismissed me as “a friend of his daughter’s.” He purposefully belittled me, cut me off if I attempted to enter a conversation with any of his cronies, and answered questions asked of me, as if I hadn’t a mind of my own.
Eventually, the number of guests begin to thin, and as soon as the last of the “uppity, holier than thou” guests left the party, the atmosphere abruptly changed. Those still present seemed to relax and the bar area suddenly became the most popular place. Glasses of wine were exchanged for Strawberry Daiquiris, Amaretto Sours, Screwdrivers, Crown and Coke, Old Charter, and such. Music from the stereo changed from light background enhancement to country favorites like George Jones and The Oak Ridge Boys, and the volume tripled.
I found myself alone on the patio, standing there out of place, awkward, like a fish on land. Almost in a panic, I shifted weight from one foot to the other and my mind reeled, “what are you doing with your hands, stupid,” I berated myself. I felt like a giant spotlight was shining directly on me. I remember thinking that I needed a drink in my hand or something to hold onto, something, anything, that might make me feel less isolated and self-conscious. I looked around nervously, I found her weaving through the guests, like an angel. “You looked as if you needed a rescue,” she said, extending a glass to me. “Sorry, it’s only Coke, but my Dad is being more of an ass than I had anticipated. I didn’t want to give him another reason to bitch.” I smiled, “Coke is fine.” “Are you miserable?” she asked. With no immediate answer available, she again rescued me by telling me that I was doing fine. “I admit, I was a little thrown back. I half expected some disapproval, I’m accustomed to that, but I felt like he was almost picking a fight with me. Or at least, testing me.” She apologized again, and I grinned and said, “at least we didn’t have to tell him he was about to be a grandfather.” She cackled loud, prompting me to look around to see if her father had heard her. As suspected, he must have because he abruptly turned in our direction. Then a slow song came on and she clasped her fingers around the back of my neck and swayed her hips seductively, looking directly into my eyes with a devilish smile. At that point, I didn’t have to look to see if he was watching, I could feel the daggers his eyes shot across the room. I reached behind my head, found her right hand with my left, and pushed it out to the side. My right hand found the small of her back and I began to lead her in a “more proper” slow dance which included some distance between our bodies. She giggled and said, “Smooth move fraidy cat. You may have scored a point right there, he appreciates things a little more ‘traditional.’” A light came on inside my mind. “You enjoy PISSING him off, don’t you?” I grinned, “I would appreciate you not getting me killed in the process though.” Thank you.” I said. “For what?” she inquired. “Just for being,” I answered. “For being?” she looked up at me with a puzzled expression. “Yes, for being.” She raised up on tiptoes, stealing a quick kiss on my neck, affirming that she understood the depth of my reply. She looked at me again, eyes shifting from left to right, concentrating on one of my eyes, then the other. This is how I always knew that it was “real.” There was a “communication” that existed between us from the jump. Something I often questioned in my mind, something I never understood, something I accepted, and something that to date, I’ve never experienced since.
The end of the song was approaching and again, she raised up and pulled my ear to her lips. “He’s had a few now, so it is a good time for us to get out of here, c’mon, let’s see if we can find my mother.” We exited the “dance floor” still hand in hand, and she led me in the direction of the kitchen.
With the assistance of hindsight, I understand today what I did not back then. Essentially, I had found myself in the presence of a controlling, and probably an alcoholic man who viewed his household as his kingdom, his family as his subjects, and harshly ruled over them, applying a strict and narrow set of rules. His wife had been indoctrinated into his “system,” and had learned how to “run interference” for their children. This explains why her mother needed to be found to assist in navigating our exit. Again, I say in hindsight. What I saw that night was just an asshole.
We found her mother in the kitchen, frantically arranging some hors d’oeuvres on a platter, no doubt a response to his latest command. “Mom, we’re about to leave.” Her mother barely raised her head from her task. “Ok, honey. Give me just a second to finish up here and we will go find your dad.” I followed behind, all the while observing the protocol, attempting to glean any information that might prove helpful in future dealings with the family. We located him with a small group of men just as they all broke out in laughter, obviously a result of the punchline of an off-color joke because the laughter ceased and the men all suddenly busied themselves with their drinks. “Honey,” she said, “the kids are about to go. You wanna tell them goodbye?” He looked up at his wife, then at his daughter, at me, then back at his wife. His demeanor changed from jovial to serious in an instant, all traces of the previous raucous laughter a thing of the past. It was as if no one wanted to look at him directly. This included me, but I made myself anyway. I may have been young and dumb, but I assessed the situation and determined that he might be apt to see my eye contact as a gesture of respect. Of course, there was the possibility that he would see it as defiance on my part. Either way, I surmised that if a precedent had to be set, I wouldn’t be the one bowing down. I caught a disapproving stare from him and I stepped close, shook his hand, and thanked both of her parents for the invitation. Our hands were together, locked in a firm and manly handshake, neither of us tightened nor loosened our grip. In my mind, it seemed that the entire universe had come to a screeching halt, frozen in time, like one of those TV scenes. There we were, two Alpha males, postured there and refusing to blink. The incident probably lasted for a second or two, an innate and universal practice as old as time itself. I looked into his eyes and saw the timeless struggle that occurs in males of almost every species on Earth. When age, wisdom, and experience are challenged by youth, vitality, and strength. In the somewhat “supercharged” moment, I relaxed my grip, nodded slightly, and stepped back. I don’t think it was a conscious choice, but I’ve always considered it a wise one. He didn’t scare me, fear had nothing to do with it. What I saw was best described as a poignant expression in his eyes. I remember because I was briefly perplexed by it, taken aback. But now, NOW, I am in contact with that same emotion from time to time; a brief self-assessment revealing a tinge of self-doubt, followed by a glimpse into the future when that “half-step” robbed of us by age becomes a whole step. Then several steps.
By that point, I was aware that he had been in the bottle but he didn’t appear to be at all impaired. I learned, however, that he had enough on board to ramp up his pride, enhance the “assholish” part of his personality, and I momentarily regretted loosening my grip. He raised his voice and said, “What’s the matter boy, you can’t afford a car of your own? Do you think you can use MY daughter to chauffeur you around? As your ticket across the river to our world?” A white-hot burst surged through me as I recognized that fueled by alcohol, the “bully” in him was about to intensify. I could hear my pulse in my ears, feel the pressure build in my chest, shoulders, arms, and fists, as synapses in the limbic system of my brain lit up like fireworks on the fourth of July. She grabbed my hand and led me away as her mother stepped toward him in an attempt to redirect his attention. With a deep breath, I calmed and summoned the strength to look back with a smile and offer a goodbye wave. My polite smile was answered with disdain and I knew that it was best that we left. The alternative? Regret, nothing but regret and irreversible consequences for me, for him, and for those collaterally damaged in the fracas.
We spoke little as she drove through town in the opposite direction of my house. For the first time since we had met, an awkward silence hung in the air, and I wondered if she was pissed with me, pissed with her father, or just plain DONE with me, with anything, and with everything associated with this nothing small town. My thoughts were still consumed by the comments of the bully. I could vividly see in my mind’s eye, the absolute and total “beat down” that I’d like to put on him. At the same time, I couldn’t deny the feeling that her hopes, dreams, and goals were more closely aligned with the collective thoughts of academia, and of punching a one-way ticket for Shangri-La.
At the stoplight in town by the police station, she pressed a button to retract the convertible roof and cranked the stereo to eleven. At the green, she stomped the accelerator, the surrounding downtown buildings reverberated the sound of loud music and squalling tires and I looked back expecting to see blue lights and cop cars, but found only wafting grey smoke. In no time, we were out of town and redlining towards the clearing where it all began. Finding our place, she parked and we exited the car. It was a dark night with lots of stars out, but the moonlight had not yet reached us through the trees. Still, without a word spoken, we made our way to the front of the car where I leaned against the grill and pulled her into me. In silence, we held each other close in the darkness until our eyes began to adjust and the moon slowly appeared.
Without parting our lips, I felt her pressing something into my hand. Immediately, I recognized the shape of a small square packet there. I knew instantly what it was and allowed a slight chuckle to escape between our locked lips. Then we both laughed, making light of the colossal risk we had taken before. To show that I was on the same page, I retrieved my own from a pocket and showed it to her. We both tore into each other, going at it like wailing banshees pulling and tugging at clothing until we were sock footed in the dirt, mud, and mulch of the clearing. We stopped only briefly as I handed her the packet. She extracted the contents, rolled it on, then raised up and leaned back against the grill of the car. I moved forward, kissing her hard and she responded by biting my lower lip and raising one leg up and around my hip. I laid her back across the hood of the Mustang, raised up on tiptoes, and found my mark. Our lovemaking that night was hard and rough and frenzied, every ounce of pent-up energy, feelings, and emotions awakened and bursting for release. I looked at her and she looked at me. Eyes wide open, it seemed as she was trying with all of her might to totally engulf me, and as if I were trying to consume her, merging 2 bodies into one. I’m yet to forget the look on her face as strands of light showed through the trees, both obstinate and determined as if on a mission. Within minutes, we collapsed, practically hyperventilating as we gasped for air. The muscles in my legs were in knots from the exertion and my socks were wet and muddy from digging in the soft dirt, seeking traction. She caught her breath a bit, and said, “How about that Ron?” I raised up, still hassling for breath, and inquired, “Who is Ron?” “My Dickwad Father,” she replied. A little slow to the take, an awkward laugh escaped my lips, realizing the role her father had played in the act that we had just completed. “Damn! So that answers a question or two that I had,” was all I could come up with. Simultaneously, we broke into uncontrollable laughter.
We rummaged around, helping each other find articles of clothing. I would have been embarrassed by the way I went at her, but she seemed to possess a better understanding of the event than I, so I didn’t mention it.
Years later, I watched a movie where Cindy Crawford and William Baldwin acted out a similar scene in the boxcar of a train. I thought, “While I wouldn’t recommend doing it that way, given the same opportunity, I wouldn’t turn it down.”
We sat in the car, music playing softly, and carried on a meaningful conversation about her hard-handed father, her need to succeed in school, and her need to extricate herself from her current home situation and gain her independence from him. She confessed that the older she had gotten, the more exasperated she had become with her mother for putting up with her father’s bullshit. I listened intently, making mental notes for my own edification while making supportive comments all the while.
Knowing that she was more than likely “on the clock” as far as her father was concerned, we had to cut our time together short. Having used homesickness as her excuse for the unscheduled trip home, she couldn’t very well spend all of her time with me. She started the car and drove me home at a more acceptable rate of speed than before. As we drove, we held hands and listened to the radio, the cool night air blowing into our faces and flowing through our hair. I remember thinking that even as crazy as the night had been, spending time with her was infinitely better than with anyone else I knew. We made plans to meet up on her way out of town the next day and said good night.
That night, I lay in bed, combing through my memories of the evening while fresh on my mind. The sex, as frenzied and hot as it was, left me with feelings of guilt because it was totally opposite to my more “genteel” opinions as to how the act of lovemaking should be. But beyond that, my opinion of the overall night was less than favorable. Sleep caught up with me and I dreamed of being on a trip, my road was blocked with brick walls and as I approached each obstacle, I‘d have to tear it down, only to find another up ahead. Alongside the road, stood a giant hourglass with sand pouring from the top through the narrowed center toward the bottom. The whole scene made me feel uneasy, rushed, as if I was up against the clock and time was running out.