You had this habit.
You’d stare off into space. Harmless. Wandering mind. Lofty thoughts. No thoughts at all.
But sometimes – your nonchalant gaze into the vast imponderables of the universe would make eye contact.
Accident – oops, excuse me – didn’t mean that – never mind.
Not so fast.
You forgot – you didn’t realize you were living in the realm of the absolutes – that age where everything was desperate – best it was ever going to be – worst it was ever going to get.
No middle. Wishy-washy did not exist. Not on the planet of sixteen year olds.
You had no idea who she was – you had seen her a few times, walking down the hall between classes. Eating lunch and talking with her hands – kind of loud – made lots of proclamations – definitely not your type.
Your unconscious gaze was met with her piercing inquiry – a half-raised eyebrow – a self-conscious grin – a look that could melt concrete.
She thought – she got it in her head – she was convinced you were hitting on her.
You snapped out of your ethereal wanderings, shaking your head and miming apologies.
Buried your head in a book – any book – anything to break the mistaken moment.
Tap on your shoulder. Look up – it’s her; face-to-face – eye-to-eye.
Introduces herself – Brenda – doesn’t look like a Brenda.
You exchange pleasantries and reiterate you didn’t mean to stare at her – you have this habit – totally left field – didn’t mean a thing. Sorry if she got the wrong idea and so on and so on.
Did you want to hang out after school? Go someplace? Maybe eat something?
You had nothing better to do – it was a school night.
Besides, no girl has ever asked you out – usually the other way around. She must be insane – that’s it.
Yet, you still said “sure”.
Meet after school – bus stop. With any luck she’d forget – didn’t mean any of it. Just trying to freak you out.
Three o’clock – standing at the bus stop. Number 7 to Pico pulls up. You dodged a bullet – in line, waiting to get on. Car idling behind the bus. Horn goes off – Yellow Camaro being obnoxious. Turn around to look at who the asshole was behind the wheel, banging out a headache to a bus not budging anytime soon.
It was Brenda. You could turn and run – you could bolt past everybody in line; get on the bus and hide. Or you could calmly walk over, get in the passenger side, look at the flaming red interior, ask when she got her license and how did she score the car?
She had the license for a week. She got the car from her brother who was off in the Marines someplace. He told her to take care of it. Fair deal.
The car had a big engine and Brenda had a lead foot. Flooring the accelerator and jamming on the brakes every half block. Your first thought was the resale value of the car would be nil by the time her brother got it back. Your second thought was spending the night in a hospital emergency room after having wrapped yourself around a tree or a retaining wall.
You fumble for your pack of Camel filters and light one, rolling the window down. She glances over and her eyes light up. She smokes too. You’re starting to have doubts.
You screech to a stop in front of Factor’s Deli on Pico.
She tells you she works there on the weekends. Food’s free.
You get out of the car. She wraps herself around you and plants a lip-lock that a bank vault would envy.
Your mind is scrambled – you are short-circuiting and getting excited in all the wrong places.
You make it inside and grab a table near the kitchen. Food is the last thing you’re thinking about. What she looks like naked is what you’re thinking about.
Brenda is beaming as she scans the tables. She spots a waiter coming towards you. She nervously grins.
He shoots her a glance of icy proportions and ask what she wants, not looking up from the pad while he scribbles the order.
Pastrami, Rye, pickles, Cole Slaw, Mitz Cola.
He turns to you. If death sentences could be transmitted through eyes, you would already be in a morgue.
You sputter out “the same”. He scribbles, leaves – and says nothing.
You turn your head to Brenda with a question mark on your face.
She tells you he’s her ex-boyfriend. He goes to UCLA. He’s harmless.
Maybe, but . . .
For the next hour you are dodging hate stares. You’re convinced he’s going to pull out a gun.
Brenda was blissfully unaware as she asked you all the pertinent questions; any girlfriends? What’s your dad do? Do you like Jethro Tull? Want to see Jeff Beck? Where do you live?
On your way to the bathroom you are cornered by the purported “ex-boyfriend’ who was fully prepared to beat the crap out of you.
Seems they didn’t break up – they just had a fight. She stole the car. She had an attack of guilt and said she was going to return it. Said she had a new boyfriend and didn’t want any hard feelings, but those were the breaks.
Normally, you would cut out the back and magically disappear. Unfortunately, you left your notebook in the car along with your homework assignment. You could leave anyway, but you had a day to turn in a paper and if you got so much as a D you would be crucified and blow any chance of passing eleventh grade.
Great. On top of everything else you can now add Shill to your list of life experiences.
His urge to kill eases as you confess to being just as confused as he was, considering the situation. You apologize – total misinformation – beyond strange. But; no harm – no foul.
Having averted an otherwise bizarre situation, you turn and leave, walking out to the dining room, hoping to make an exit a soap opera would be proud of.
No sign of Brenda anywhere.
On your way out, the Cashier hands you your notebook along with a hastily scribbled note on a piece of paper. “Sorry – I think you’re a sweet guy”.
You finally made it home. Focused on homework and typing. Making it all the way to midnight before you finished and fell into bed.
Your mind was racing, thinking how totally weird the day was – all because of some strange habit you didn’t even know you had. You roll over, turn out the light and turn your radio on.
And just then, the phone starts to ring – and ring – and ring.
Finally your mom answered. From what you can make out of the muffled conversation she tells the caller you’re asleep.
You breathe a sigh of relief.
But somewhere in the back of your mind . . .
Here’s 45 minutes worth of Johnny Williams at KHJ from May 19, 1971.
Authors note: This is a work of complete and total fiction – nothing in this piece bears any resemblance to anyone, living or dead. It is purely a coincidence.
