Panic sets in. I left the house in such a hurry, I have no recollection of locking the doors. Now, I’m 200 miles away. About to be 1,200 miles. There’s no turning back now. Of course, it could be worse. Much worse. I know. I’ve been there.
I was 21 years old. Stupid. Full of life, however. Happy almost every moment of it. Except when a girl decides I’m not worth her time. Which in college, had only happened twice so far, so not too bad. And neither of them seemed like love after a moment or two. Not like later in life. When it hurt. And continues to hurt.
My buddies and I were about to embark on an epic roadie. The plans of which had been planted months earlier when my best friend Josh’s buddy from high school, Nathan, said he had an epic place for us to stay. We all jumped in that night, six of us, with a rousing “Hells yeah!” We’d be in New Orleans for Mardi Gras. It was 1992 when the promise, the plans, they were made. We had a few months to sort it out.
Of course, we didn’t. Life for us geeky college guys went on. We kept playing spades late into the night. Drinking way too much alcohol and watching “Saved by the Bell” reruns instead of going to class. The future was so far away. The now, well, it was then.
One night, one of the dude’s said he was going to a party up in Northern Virginia. It was January now. Cold as balls. The prospect of some random party where I knew no one was a revelation. You get sort of tired of the same people in your fourth year of college. So, we packed ourselves into Josh’s CRV -- me in the back truck space, and headed up north on Route 29.
As always, we kept an eye out for the evil old man. An actual black man with a cane and a stepping hat. We used to see him all of the time. Never bothered him. Figured he was cursed to walk up and down this road by the devil himself. Or at least, that’s the story we made up. For all we knew, it was Robert Johnson, paying his debt for those 20-or so amazing songs.
The reason we fretted seeing him was simple. One time, a bunch of folk were piled up in another car. I don’t have details of the car, as I was not there. I have just second-hand recollections. However, they all said the same thing. A rarity for eyewitness testimony. Unless it’s been coached. And this, definitely needed no coaching.
The car was speeding up 29, music blasting and laughs being had. Then, someone pointed out the evil old man. Slowly making his way up the road. One of the girls in the car, not knowing the significance of the spectre on the road, decided to honk the car’s horn at him. In horror, all the guys watched as the old man slowly turned and shook his cane at the car.
While the ladies kept on laughing about it, the guys started to tell the story. No more than 10 seconds later, a shriek came from the back seat. “Oh my God! There’s a dead bird in here!” one of the girls screamed.
And there it was. A small mockingbird. Dead.
They pulled the car to the side of the road, flicking the bird out. No one talked, they said, for about 30 minutes. The evil old man had made his statement.
We never saw him again. But we always looked for him.
Upon arrival to the party -- located somewhere in Oakton, Virginia, at an apartment complex much like any other, except the buildings were all blue -- we parked the CRV and stumbled up to the door. There was snow on the ground, and we all had to pee. Drinking shitty beer while in route, always a good thought, never a good idea. We knocked at the door, some dude opened it up.
“Welcome, fellas,” he said, extending his hand to each of us.
The place was empty. Three people were there. Including one extremely good looking girl. We all kind of stopped for a moment. She had long black hair. A cooky green and red sweater and jeans was her outfit of choice.
Soon, drinks were had. Many drinks. And before I knew it we were playing drinking games. Soon, more people arrived. Yet I was fixated on this lady. As was my friend, Mark, who knew her from high school. But Mark didn’t have a chance. He was short. Fat. But damn he had a sharp personality. I was tall. Skinny. Long hair. But the personality of a bag of hammers. That is, until you know me. At least that’s what I tell myself.
Around 11 or so, me and this girl, her name was Katrina, I had managed to pry out. Went into the other room. There, we started talking. Dreams. Hopes. Life. College. Work. Etc. Soon, we were making out. I was floored. My hard-on told her everything I was thinking. But she was cool. She played it off. Teased it maybe? We exited back to the party.
A few minutes later, she was gone. Huh? I thought. But went back to drinking.
Mark waltzed over to me. I say waltzed because he had this shit-eating grin on his face and was light on his feet. Started whispering in my ear. He was going to hook up with Katrina he said. Ha. I thought. She’d been all over him. Huh? I thought. Drunkenly, I was mad. I didn’t show it, however, and kept drinking. About an hour or so later, Katrina called me over to the other side of the room. Behind a wall. She grabbed my crotch and started kissing me. I didn’t hesitate. Even though I knew what had happened with my buddy Mark.
We stopped after a few seconds as another girl walked in. She smiled at us. We separated again.
Around 4 in the morning, the party was washed out. Everyone was drunk that was still there. It really was just the original trio of us from Charlottesville, the dude who answered the door, and Katrina. Mark was passed out. As was Josh. The dude was doing a hit on a bong, and Katrina was rubbing my leg with her foot.
I got up to go to the bathroom. While peeing, she walked in. After I finished up, she started kissing me. Before too long I had her shirt off and her pants off. A few seconds later, we were fucking. A minute later, I was done.
“Did we just fuck?” she said.
Now that puts a guy in his place. One second, euphoria. The next, a Sam Raimi moment of the mind.
We looked at each other. Put our clothes back on. She grabbed my hand and we went to sleep together on the floor.
The next morning, everything seemed normal. We all went to eat at Denny’s. We talked. We laughed. She gave me her phone number, said she had a work-related event -- a formal of sorts -- and wanted to know if I wanted to go. Wow. I thought. This knockout of a woman is interested in me. Even after last night. We made plans to try and make it happen.
On the ride home, Mark asked about her. He said “man, she really digs you. What happened last night?” Me, being a 21 year old dude, told everything. He was flabbergasted. “Good for you, dude. You wear a rubber?”
I hadn’t of course. I was drunk. I was stupid.
A day later, she called me. We talked for hours. Then, I had to ask. “Katrina, do you remember the other night?”
She said, “not really. But I woke up in a great mood. And I was holding your hand.”
“Yeah, but do you remember what we did?”
“What do you mean?”
“We had sex in the bathroom.”
Silence. Oh shit.
“We did?” she finally spoke.
“Yeah.”
“Did you have a condom?”
“Uh, no.”
“Shit,” she said. “That was stupid.”
“I’m clean,” I tried to be cool about it.
“That’s good. But I’m not on the pill or anything.”
Whoops I thought. I hadn’t even thought about that. Typical dude way of thinking. Every girl I’d been with up to that point -- a whopping two -- had been on the pill. I guess I figured they all were. Especially drop dead gorgeous women in Northern Virginia.
“Well, I’ve got to go,” she said.
“Ok,” I meekly agreed.
I called her a few days later. We awkwardly talked about nothing much. Finally, I asked if we were still on for the formal. She said no. In fact, she added, we shouldn’t talk anymore. “I’ll only call if … you know.”
My head slumped down. Blew another great chance.
“Ok.” I said. We hung up, lingering just a moment. I could tell she was too. Eventually, she put the phone down. Dial tone.
Being the 21 year old fool that I was, I got on with life. No worried. No nothing.
The day came in February where we met to go to Mardi Gras. We all got together and waited for Nathan. And waited. We called. Left messages. No dice. Finally, it was getting late. We needed a plan.
“Let’s just go anyway,” I said.
“You’re nuts,” Gordon replied. “Mardi Gras. No hotel. No plans. You gotta be kidding.”
Josh piped in “sounds like a reasonable one to me!”
Finally, Nathan called. He wasn’t coming. He hadn’t made the housing arrangements. Sorry, was his only excuse. Twenty years later, he’d be in prison for drug trafficking. But that’s a whole other story.
The bunch of us finally rallied around my idea. We were all heading to the cars when the phone rang. Jim, one of my roomies answered it. We all said, “we’re not here.” Jim nodded. He said “Hello.” Then listened. Looked at me and mouthed “it’s Katrina?”
Sam Raimi moment No. 2 in the last few weeks.
Panicked, I told him to tell her we’d already left for New Orleans. “Take a message.”
I watched him say it. Well done actually. He hung up the phone.
“Any message?” I asked.
“Nope.”
“I’ll call her when I get back.”
We got on with the trip. The entire 18-hour ride down, she was all I thought of. When we got to town, the traffic was atrocious. We got into town and headed towards Tulane. Down there, we were stuck in traffic. We all got out of the cars, peed beside a church and watched beer cans trickle out of the cars. I brushed my teeth. Josh joined it.
Bourbon Street beckoned. We drank. We drank some more. I got a bit depressed. I was an ass for not taking that call. In a shitty bar with a fat lady on top of it giggling her exposed boobs, Josh asked me “what’s wrong chief?” I told him. He sat in silence. Finally, slapping me on the back before saying “well, enjoy this trip. Ain’t nothing you can do now.”
He was right. I’d man up when I got back.
Six days later, which featured sleeping in our car in various locations, sneaking into the dorms at Tulane to shower and even one night crashing, we were back on the road for home.
I got there, crashed out. But before I did, I saw that piece of paper with Katrina’s ugly scraw on it. Her name and number, written in light blue magic marker. I dreamed of her that restless night.
In the morning, I called. She was at work, her roommate said. I left a message, apologizing for taking so long to call back. But I was in New Orleans. Had no idea she’d called. Lie? Yes.
The day went on. No call. So did the night. And the next day and the next.
I tried one more time. Left a message.
She never called back.
I still have no idea why she called. I know she said she’d never call unless. So my mind always thinks that it was the unless. And I can only sit here, 18 years later, almost to the day, and wonder.
