You could – honest, you really could: Become a Patron!
You had plans – you had big plans. You had love-of-your-life-this-is-forever plans – It was heart-attack serious. You saw the future; it had her name written all over it. The future was fantastic. You were in love with a Capital L.
You were knee-deep. Thinking about summer and Station 8 and Yosemite and maybe-maybe-maybe moving in together. You had it bad – she was the One. Both got accepted to Santa Cruz – both read Siddhartha – both liked B. Mitchel Reed. You had this vision of the two of you as “the old man and the old lady” – joined at the hip – baking bread and drinking tea.
Spring Break – Palm Springs – Sleeping bags – Festival – Sky full of stars – A “You’re A Nice Guy, but . . ” – letter. It showed up in your locker Friday afternoon – slamming on brakes – your mind; skidding straight into a ditch.
You didn’t see it coming – everybody else did. Not you. Dummy. You: shaking your head like a dashboard Spaniel.
Life was perfect – perfect girlfriend – perfect together – perfect fit – perfect kisser. Perfect breakup.
You both liked the same bands – you went to movies on weekends – you never remember what played. You were busy exploring. How could that happen?
She up and changed her mind. Your friends said “women do that”. She won’t answer your calls – she avoids you during passing period. You don’t eat lunch anymore. Your future; nosedive off a cliff.
You had it all worked out – down to the minute. You were all going to Palm Springs – you got tickets to the festival – 10 of you. Camping in the desert – totally romantic. You’ve been plotting since Christmas – you were finally going to be alone – all your parents were okay; safety in numbers they thought. You had ideas – two of you in one sleeping bag; blood rushing to your head thinking about it. Sweet mystery and downy flesh – stuff of books and songs and movies. Movies in French with subtitles and smouldering looks.
Gone – poof – whiff of smoke – evaporate. Future gone, straight out the window – see your heart; broken in bits, falling to the floor – you’ll never be the same, you’re convinced – cracked in half. Destined to be alone, never to get laid. People looking at you, pointing and shaking their heads – the world will feel sorry for you. Pity – oh swell.
Maybe if you climbed into bed – maybe if you went to sleep, maybe all year. Maybe it would go away.
Maybe the blonde in fifth period Geography – she’s been staring – she has amazing brown eyes . . .
Here’s over 90 minutes worth of B. Mitchel Reed from KMET on March 20, 1969.
