Becca, Chapter 1

Her plane arrives at 4:30 this afternoon. I’m not really sure how I feel about her flying 2,400 miles to come see me.

I met Rebecca at work. She was a cashier up in the front of the store. I never knew how old she was, but I always thought she was younger than me. Until I thought back on it many years later. That’s when it dawned on me that she probably was a year or two older than me.

That makes her 40 right now. Yet, I can only picture her as the young and quite beautiful girl that I knew for a couple of years.

The first girl who’s heart I broke.

We’ve been in touch only by writing letters since I moved from Virginia to Arizona. The best decision I ever made in my life, I guess, was getting in that old ‘84 Firebird and driving west. I wanted to be a journalist, I think. All that was for sure was the need to get out, to move, to breathe … and to grow up.

Those letters helped keep my sanity.

We never dated while we were friends at work. At least I never saw it that way. My thoughts were consumed by a girl who dumped me months before. A trend that I would repeat over and over, during the next 20 years, hence why it’s a trend.

This girl was different that any before. She didn’t go to college. She worked retail, and was darn happy to be doing it. And I liked that. Especially while I was working retail. Pulling in a huge $4.25 an hour with my degree in economics from one the best schools in the country. “A real shame,” I was told often during that period of my life.

However, it was good to go see a movie with someone. Have a home cooked meal made when my foot got severely sprained after playing basketball. Or even going up in a hot air balloon.

The thought of us being a “couple” never crossed my mind. We were just friends, hanging out and doing things that friends do. There was no kiss. Certainly no sex.

But that was what I was thinking about as I stood in Sky Harbor Airport. Did I want to try and have sex with her? Was this what this trip was about for me? Having sex with a girl who sent me photos of how flexible she was. A girl that I’d been playing truth or dare Madonna-style, in letter form for almost a year now.

I stared at the plane as it taxied into its final parking space. What do you call it? I guess parking space isn’t right, but I’ve never heard it called anything really.

It’s funny. You can’t do that anymore. Go right to the gate to meet someone. Fake terror spoiled all of that.

Anyways, after about 100 people, I finally see her. Her glasses a little too far down her nose as she struggled with her bag and a book. Her fashion choice of a sweater not exactly a good choice for early summer in Phoenix, but that’s ok.

“Man, she really is beautiful,” I think.

“Hey, Randy!” she exclaims and runs up to me.

“Hi! Great to see you.” is my answer.

We don’t hug.

We don’t kiss.

We just awkwardly look at each other smiling.

“You check any bags?” I ask stupidly. Back in the 1990s everyone checked bags. It was free and there was no limit on anything. Of course she checked bags.

“Uh-huh,” she says. “But I gotta peeeeeee.”

We scurry to a bathroom. She hands me her bag and her book. It’s a crossword puzzle book. One of the kind you get in a grocery store or a drug store. It’s very, um, colorful.

After getting her bags, we walk to my Firebird. It’s on it’s last legs by this time. Worn down tires, kind of begging to be changed, but it’s my first car and I didn’t do such things. I honestly hated getting the oil changed, but back then, it only cost 8.95 if you had a coupon, so…

We drive to my house. I live with an eclectic bunch. First there’s Kermit. He used to work for the government dismantling bombs. Was a dropout from Stanford. One day, one of those bombs blew up and left him with bad eyesight and shrapnel in his foot. Now? He works for MasterCard and smokes a lot of pot.

In another room is Ying-Chi. She doesn’t hang about much. Usually goes to her boyfriend’s pad. He sells pot. Lots of it. I’ve never seen so much GD pot in my life. Bags of it. Bags of bricks of it. Everywhere.

In the final room is Matthew. He’s a Mormon. Smokes a lot of weed too. So, I guess he’s got issues with John Smith.

None of them are home when I get there. Probably a good thing. The place does reek of resin, however.

“Do you smoke now?” Rebecca asks. “It smells like an ashtray here.”

“Nah, I don’t smoke,” I reply, thinking “And it’s really more of a bong water smell.”

We go to my room. I have a mattress on the ground, my stereo and a gaggle of 100s of dubbed VHS tapes. One of my roomies has a cable descrambler, so I’ve spent most of my weekends watching them smoke dope, drinking gin and dubbing movies. Movies that I would carry around for 15 years before finally getting rid of…

I have a problem with baggage.