She's got to be ...

“Somebody’s Baby” by Jackson Browne, why do you haunt me so?

I don’t remember when I first heard the song, but it had to be sometime in 1982 when it was huge. I didn’t see “Fast Times at Ridgemont High” until years later – I’m sure I was in high school by then – so it had to be on the radio. I spent a lot of time during my youth sitting around listening to Q-94, the Top-40 station, and XL-102, the classic rock station. So one night or afternoon or morning or whenever I must have heard it. And I’m sure it made me sad. Even at 11 years old.

Distinctly I remember walking home from school and singing the song to myself. Passersby must have seen me and wondered what was wrong with the blonde-haired weirdo. I mean, what the hell did I know about love at 11? But the song reminded me of a girl. Her name was Heather.

She was the first girl that I would hazard to guess that I “fell in love” with. Although I know now that it was more of a crush – a really long one – but just a crush.

We had the same class for the first three years of school. I don’t remember ever talking to her, but I must have. I don’t remember hearing her voice, but it had to happen. I don’t remember if she liked me at all.

What I do remember is the day she left. Moved to some far-away place that I’d never see her again. Even though I’d find out years later, she moved just a few miles away to the neighboring county. Then, it might as well of been Paris.

I remember being at the bottom of the old concrete steps at Patrick Copeland Elementary School in my hometown of Hopewell, Virginia. The teacher told us all to say goodbye to Heather. She was moving away. I looked up those stairs and she was at the top, looking sullen. Over the years, I’d look at the class pictures she was in and always notice that about her. She looked sad. Never smiling. I wonder if that’s why I liked her, that inner sadness? No. That’s the 40 year old me trying to figure out the motives of an 11 year old.

It was a sunny day, but the giant school building cast a tall shadow over her. I looked up those monstrous stairs and felt very sad. I’d never see her again, I thought. It’s funny that I remember an exact thought from then. It’s a rarity of the rarest of rares.

However, it wasn’t the last time I saw her.

Just a little while later, I was at a Richmond Braves baseball game. It must have been the summer of 1983. I was with my family and my cousin. That’s when I saw her. My mom said “Hey, there’s your friend Heather.” How mom knew this, I have no idea. How we were “friends” I had no idea. But somehow, we ended up face to face.

And talking!

This conversation, I have no memory of. I do remember being there. Looking at her and being amazed. Eventually, we went our separate ways. And I was devastated. So much so, I made my cousin – who was a year or two younger than me – walk around the entire game. I used the pretense of hoping to catch a foul ball, going to different places to increase our chances. But really, I was scanning the crowd, looking for her.

I never did find her. I was quiet the entire ride home. I have no idea who won the baseball game that night. I figured now, I’d never see her again.

But, once again, I was wrong.

I remember singing the lyrics to “Somebody’s Baby” on the way home from school one day. I was walking up the hill in one of my neighbors’ yards gleefully singing about the angst of a school-boy crush. Not fully understanding it yet, I believe, but still knowing that it hurt that I wasn’t able to tell this girl that I liked her.

“I try to shut my eyes, but I can't get her outta my sight.
I know I'm gonna know her, but I gotta get over my fright.
We'll, I'm just gonna walk up to her.
I'm gonna talk to her tonight.”

It was a mantra of mine. I was so petrified of any girl by this time that I went into this shell of longing, of obsession.

One night, must have been a Friday, we went to the skating rink in Petersburg. I didn’t like going mostly because I couldn’t skate and felt like a complete dweeb when there. I knew I’d see the popular kids and they’d laugh at me. Thankfully, on this night I was with my sister and her friends. Some of her friends were cool kids, so by proxy, I was cool while I was with them.

One of her friends, Troy, was a year older than me. He was what I wanted to be. Cool with the ladies and a smiling, bubbly dude. Me, I was brooding and shy. Scared to say anything at anytime. I’d think of a great joke, but never say it out loud. Usually, someone else would say something very similar and get a huge laugh. Such was my life.

That’s when I saw her. She had her hair feathered and sprayed up. We were teen-agers now, I’m guessing ready for the eighth grade.

My sister saw her too.

“Hey, Randy, there’s Heather!” she said with a jab to my side.

I just looked at her. All night. I stood in the back, no ability to skate and no ability to talk. It was misery.

That’s when “Somebody’s Babe” came on. It was some kind of sign, I thought to myself. If I was ever going to follow through on Jackson Browne’s words of wisdom, it was now.

I mustered up the courage to skate over towards the rink. Grabbing hold of everything I could – tables, chairs, video games and other people to get to the rink. I looked at the people on it and swallowed hard.

She was coming towards me, smiling and laughing. She looked over at me and smiled. I smiled back and took a step on to the rink. At that very moment, the DJ yelled out “All the boys get off, it’s Ladies’ skate only!”

I heard this and panicked. I fell to the floor with a thud. I heard the laughing from Troy and all my sister’s friends. He zoomed over and helped me up.

“Better luck next time, man,” he said as he helped me to my feet and into a chair.

I watched from that chair the rest of the night. Heather skated by a bunch of times, but I stayed put. She looked at me at least one other time, those sad eyes back.

Later, Troy went up to her and started skating with her. She smiled and laughed. He held her hand.

I was devastated.

I went home that night feeling worse than the day she left Hopewell.

I knew I’d never see her again.

And I didn’t. Until Facebook came around.

But first, at some point I joined Myspace. In the ‘About Me’ section, there was a question for who you’d like to meet. I wrote something about dead folks – Joe Strummer, etc. – about famous folks – Julie Delpy, etc. – and another section I entitled “Again”. There I typed her name. I thought maybe someone will see it, maybe even her.

Never happened. My feelings were probably right. She was most likely married. With kids. A career. No thoughts of me at all.

I didn’t think about her, until one day I scanned in one of those old photos from elementary school. There were those sad eyes. Staring at me.

I started humming “Somebody’s Baby” a song that still caused a feeling of melancholy to come over me after all of these years.

It piqued my curiosity. I searched for Heather. Nothing.

Then, I narrowed the search by high school. And there she was. Staring back at me. A 38 year old version of her. Her eyes were the same, even if the face had changed.

It was strange.

I turned away and just went out with life.

Then, my birthday came. I was 39 now. Which meant, I always believed, she would be turning 39 the next day. For some reason, I always knew that her birthday was the day after mine. Why, after all these years I remembered that fact, I had no idea. Heck, I didn’t even know if it was true.

So, I went back and friended her. Not knowing what to think.

She accepted the friendship. I said one thing “Happy Birthday Heather!” on her page.

Days later, she responded. “Thank you, Randy!”

It made me smile. It made my heart skip, just for a second. But I knew, it wasn't going any further, and we never interacted again. Well, except for that same conversation. Every April.

Over the course of the next couple of years, I watched her go out of a relationship, move back to our hometown, then get in a relationship, then “it’s complicated” and finally “engaged.”

I myself fell in love during that time.

I’m glad I finally “talked” to the girl who inspired my love of music, or my attaching myself to music, to be more precise. I didn’t ruin the memory by geekily recreating that night at the Skateland and talking to her. Sending her a weird message about how I obsessed over her for 30 years.

Thankfully.

It’s better this way. No beginning. No middle. No end. Just a song.

holiday in cambodia

First the car died. That was in May of last year.

Then my favorite shirts started to fall apart.

Next, the only buddy I have here, stopped really hanging out.

Signs?

I thought for a moment. The last time my car died was in late 2005. I also bought a lot of new clothes that year. And, my girlfriend of six years dumped my ass early in 2006.

Yeah, I should take these things more seriously.

***

“When did you get so old?” she said, very matter-of-factly. “The last time I saw you, you looked no different than in college. Except your hair was short. Now? Damn, you look like a different person.”

“Hey! Nice to see you too!” I replied. Yeah, I was hurt by that. I know my hair is gone. My teeth are crooked and yellow. But I’m still the same little kid inside whose heart you crushed back in 1992.

She’d been married. Divorced. Then married again since then.

Me? I’d been in three relationships. So, I guess I was keeping up. In some way.

She looked older. But she was actually sexier than she was at 22. Her curves were more defined. I guess you’d say she resembled a Jewish Courteney Cox now. Hell, is Courteney Cox Jewish anyway? Making that a really silly way to describe her.

“What are you doing with your life now?” she asked.

I loathed this about seeing old friends. Ones that I’ve stayed in touch with, but who haven’t really stayed in touch with me. Every so often they’ll remember to send me a card on Christmas. Maybe my birthday. But only after I’ve sent them one. Which I always do. But really, she’s got kids. She’s got a successful career. I’m just a guy she made out with a few times. A guy who fell for her, but she didn’t fall for me. I’ve always wanted to ask why. But I’ve always kind of had an idea of why. She was always very success driven. I wasn’t. She saw me becoming exactly what I’ve become -- just an average guy. Smarter than most, but not looking to get anywhere except to tomorrow.

I guess she was right. Either that, or I have low self-esteem. Well, I know I have that. So I still don’t know.

“You know, the usual,” I said.

She stared off into the distance. Her kids were playing on a swing there. I knew right then, I’d probably never see her again.

And here I am, three years later and I haven’t.

***

I walked in. She was blasting Aerosmith’s “Rocks” way too loudly for the dog. He was sitting in a corner, hiding from Steven Tyler’s dragging out of the word “Yooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooouuuunnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnng.” I didn’t blame the mutt for doing so.

Walking straight to the stereo, I turned knob to the left. The digital readout of volume went from 55 to 34.

“What’d you do that for?” she asked me.

“Sidney’s in a state over there in the corner,” I said. “I think he’s still mad about the whole American Idol thing.”

“Huh? You’ve never even seen that show,” she said derisively, knowing full well that I left every time she turned that God-awful abomination on on my 32-inch Toshiba tele. The non-high def kind as well. I refused to buy into the notion of “having” to buy a new, more expensive and more importantly -- cheaply made -- tele just so I could watch broadcast TV. It really seemed to fly against the whole “free airwaves” concept that supposedly the broadcast channels, including “public TV”, were given to us Americans.

Now, I hear the voices of the over-educated masses telling me that nowhere in the Constitution does it guarantee the right to watch “The Simpsons”. And yes, you are correct in this proclamation. But it also doesn’t say you can get amour piercing bullets for your guns that you only have for “family protection.”

Fuck. I need a beer. Another mindless day at work will do that to a person. I want to have sex, but I can tell by the look on her face, that she doesn’t. I figure I can just go in the bathroom, jerk off into the toilet and be done with it. Hope she won’t want me to move any furniture for a few hours, since my legs will be out from under me for a bit.

The kitchen is its usual mess. No dish has been washed for about two weeks. I can tell because even the old 1970s Hardee’s plastic cups I bought one day in a thrift store are dirty. She’s really a mess. But damn she’s cute. I’m a sucker, my dad would tell me if he was here. “Probably rank this one a 5, just because she’s so damn cute, otherwise, she’s a 2.”

I go to the back room. There, my hidden fridge is waiting for me. And by hidden fridge, I mean my cooler outside by the trash can. It’s in the 40s still at night, so the beers stay nice and cool. And I don’t need my mountains to turn blue to be able to tell.

I grab a Shiner Blonde, pop the top and take a long, deserved swig.

“Life’s good now,” I say, bastardizing the corporate slogan that my father has taken to saying way too much. I wonder for a moment if he’s in therapy? And if he’s seeing the same doctor that one of my Facebook “friends” is so obviously seeing. No one says “Life is Good!” that many times. I don’t fucking care if your life is peachy. You just don’t rub it in everyone else’s face on a daily basis unless you’re told to do so. Like being a prisoner of war in Cambodia.