wrong turns

Unexpectedly, I found myself in my old college town today. I took a wrong turn in Richmond, ended up on a road I’d never been on. It took me really close to my alma mater. So, I just kept on going. Driving around aimlessly has never been a problem for me. Sometimes, you end up in a cool new place. Most of the time, you pretty much end up back where you started. And I figure this time I did again.

Parking my car, I got out and started wandering around the campus. Many things have changed in the almost two decades since I left. New buildings. Trees bigger. Trees gone. Grass and weeds growing in places I used to sit with my bike watching folks saunter on by. It was, and still is, a habit of mine. I’ll get on my bicycle, ride around for a bit, then park it and myself on a corner and watch. Observation has been a pal of mine for as long as I can remember. If I’d ever taken a notepad with me in the early days, I could have had some interesting stuff. There is one constant in this part of my journeys, even way back then, the Dean Martin song “Standing on the Corner” echoes in my mind. I always wanted it to be like some movie where a band actually was there, behind me, playing the song while I just stood there in my tuxedo with a martini glass in my hand. Never happened though. Probably for the best.

As I wandered the streets of my old haunt, I got nostalgic. I do that. And when I do, the fucking Buzzcocks always pop into my head. At least the soundtrack to my mental illnesses would be interesting and maybe even sell well. Kind of like episodes of “Scrubs.” Great soundtrack. Same fucking story over and over.

After about an hour, I ventured into the neighborhood I spent my first year off campus. A lot of fun was had that year. So, of course, I took the steps necessary to go to my old apartment complex. It’s still there. Rickety as ever, but still standing. Figure it’s got a few more years before progress deems it too much of an eyesore. Then it will be gone. The place I lost my virginity. That was an interesting night. Bonfires of furniture, Milwaukee’s Best and public displays of affection. “Oh What a Night…” as Frankie Valli would have been proud.

Which is why it’s funny what happened just a few minutes later.

I turned left to go back towards campus. Hitting the main drag of stores, bars, etc. And there she was. The girl I lost my virginity to. Nineteen years later, there she was. Walking down the same damn street she walked down that night. I was told months after it happened that she had proclaimed to her friends that she was going to “take me down”. And she did.

I don’t regret it happening. I mean, I was 20 years old and really wanted to have it happen. Just would have liked it to be more memorable than six hours of heavy petting followed by me putting on the Black Crowes’ debut album and having sex for all of 11 seconds before passing out on top of her. Somehow, I remember that. Guess it was a memorable experience.

We dated for a bit. She was too fast and too much too soon for me. She ended up cheating on me in Jacksonville, Florida. Met up with a dude in a Hooters that I couldn’t get into because I had no false ID. Got in a cab to go back to the hotel, told the cabbie “Holiday Inn.” He said “Which one, buddy. There are dozens of them.” A $150 cab fare later, I finally got dropped off at the wrong one. But I had no money, so I said “that’s it.” Luckily, inside were the cheerleaders from my school. One of the dudes knew me from a year before, when I was chasing another woman, a women’s basketball player named Fran. He got my drunk ass to the front desk, they figured out which hotel I was really at, and got me in the right direction.

A few hours later, the girl who will always be the first came stumbling into our room. I was sleeping on the floor. She cuddled up next to me. I turned my back. She started fondling me. I pushed her hand away. I don’t remember the next day. It involved a drive from Jacksonville to Hopewell. The three sorority sisters dropped me off at my house. I think we hugged and kissed. She never talked to me again.

Now, here I am. Walking the old streets. I guess when you chase down the past, sometimes you actually find it.

I look at her. She looks the same. Just older. Hair is no longer red. It’s dyed black. I hear her voice. Her shrill laugh. I never liked her laugh. She’s on a cell phone. Walking closer and closer to me.

We meet at the crosswalk. I say “Hi, Katie.”

She’s no longer on the phone. Looking up, she stares at me. I know instantly, she has no idea who I am. It’s not that surprising. I had no impact on her life. Just bad sex and a dozen roses.

“Hello?” she musters.

I kind of feel the world speeding up now. The Sam Raimi-moment coming on. I fight it off, however.

“Long time no see. What’s it been, 18, 19 years?” I say with a shit-eating grin.

“Yeah, must have been.”

This isn’t an actual truth. I saw her one other time. At a football game. I was with another redhead that ended up throwing me in the heap. Katie was wearing a mink coat on a 65-degree day. Laughing that shrill laugh and holding hands with someone. Probably the guy she dumped me for. I heard she married him.

I pointed her out to my girlfriend. “Hey, that’s the girl I lost my virginity to.” I think I said it too loudly, as my girlfriend smacked my shoulder with a right-hand punch. Or, it was just not the kind of thing you point out to your current girlfriend. Although the kind of girl I like would find humor in it. So things do work out for the best.

“You want to grab a drink?” I sheepishly say. There’s no way on earth she’s going to say yes. I’m dressed like I work in a record store. Dirty jeans and a 14-year old band T-shirt. My teeth are crooked and my head shaved.

“Sure, let’s go to Coups!” she says a little too excitedly. Then it dawns on me, she needs to figure out who the hell I am. There’s a nagging feeling she does know me, somehow, and now she has to have the answer. I remember her personality. That fits.

We go to Coups. On the way, I ask how her husband is. Great she replies. I ask about her kids. Great she replies, this time with a quizzical look. “How does he know so much about me?” she must be wondering. I notice she doesn’t return the question and answer portion of our re-acquaintance.

In Coups, I go up to the bar. I order a whiskey and ginger for me, a Singapore sling for her. She looks dumbfounded when I bring it to our table.

“How did you remember that I loved drinking their slings?”

“That’s the kind of thing I do remember,” I said. “How ‘bout you? What do you remember the most?”

“Not names, that’s for sure,” she replies.

“Yeah, I figured you didn’t have a clue who I was. But that’s OK.”

“Not fair, sir. You’re supposed to tell me now.”

“Sounds too easy. For you.”

“Damn straight.”

Oh yeah, she was a cussing machine. I’d forgotten that. I love it when ladies cuss. A good cussing lady is hard to find. So many try to keep that from popping out. Politeness and all. But there is a fine line. You don’t want her to sound like a Quinten Tarantino flick.

“Well, take a guess at least.”

“I don’t have a clue. You went to school with me, right?”

“Yep.”

“What fraternity were you in?”

“Wasn’t”

“Did you go to the Comm school?”

“Nope. Tried, didn’t get in.”

“Give me a clue.”

“Waffle House. Hooters. Black Crowes.”

“Is this some kind of redneck quiz? ‘Cause darlin’ you know I’ve got that in me.”

“Yes. I. Do.”

We chatted idly for another five minutes. Finishing out drinks. She asked me to tell me who I was, I refused.

“If I do that, somehow, this moment won’t last as long. Now, you get to think about me for awhile at least.”

“Well, that’s weird. But, whatever floats the boat.”

“You still say that, huh?” I hated it when she said floats the boat. Not floats your boat. I never corrected her then.

“Yep. I love that saying. Well, I’ve got to be going. Thanks for the drink and maybe we’ll see each other in 2030?”

“Maybe so. Maybe so.”

We hugged an awkward hug. She smelled the same. Perfume. Expensive perfume. Never liked perfume.

I watched her leave the bar. She wasn’t very attractive. Wasn’t really then either. I turned back to the bar.

“Let me have another,” I said to the rock-jawed barkeep. He certainly wasn’t looking to have a conversation with me.

As I took a sip of my drink, a redhead sat down next to me, turned my way and smiled.

“You look happy,” she said.

“Yeah, I just saw the woman I lost my virginity to. She didn’t know who I was.”

“That would make me fucking happy, too,” she said with a smile.

“What’re you drinking?” I asked clumsily.

“Whiskey and ginger, if you don’t mind.”

I thought for a second about wrong turns and right turns. Which one’s are better? Then I realized wrong turns are right half the time.