Your Soul Mate – for at least twenty minutes.

If you had a dollar for every time . . . 

You just wanted to meet somebody. You just wanted to meet somebody who “got” you.

You just wanted to meet somebody who liked the music you liked.

You just wanted to meet somebody who wasn’t interested in showing off.

You just wanted to meet someone who wasn’t interested in your stickshft.

Okay – you had a ’57 Ford Fairlane. Maybe not fancy – maybe not something you’d find at Irwindale, but it was a car and it was yours and you paid for it working overtime at Chicken Delight.

You had a working drivers license – you were even smiling when they took your picture. Took Drivers Ed in Summer School – gave up three whole months of Station 8 – not one single Hot Dog on a Stick. Didn’t look at a tube of Coppertone all Summer – just study – memorize turn signals – drummed speed limits into your head. Aced the driving test on the mockup car. You were set.

So maybe the car smelled a lot like fried Chicken and Cole Slaw, even if you did light incense all the time. There was a grease stain on the front seat from one too many family dinners that leaked. The passenger side door didn’t always open when you wanted it to and would occasionally fling open when you didn’t.

But you were a good person – you could afford to pay for dinners and movie tickets and all the date-oriented expenses.

You had manners – didn’t instantly go for the tits when you made out – used Listerine. Got your hair cut at Cosmo-Sardo’s on Sunset. Changed your underwear often.

But no. You didn’t have a Camaro – didn’t have a Mustang. Didn’t look like you played drums or even bass – always looked like you were in hock. Wore the same shoes every day. You weren’t a status symbol.

You didn’t quite fit in. The girls you ran into all looked bored or interested in patterns on walls. Ironed their hair – had wardrobes – had boyfriends at UCLA – wouldn’t be caught dead with a guy their age. Big plans – big allowances – big careers in mind – big houses and big swimming pools.

One of your friends confessed they were all out of your pay grade – you needed to stick with girls in Junior High. Or the ones who lived in Libraries. The ones who wore glasses or had braces and bad skin. Glasses were okay – braces weren’t forever – bad skin they had Phisohex for. You could work around those.

Libraries? You’ve been to those; a lot. Never met anyone there – ran into a bunch of old guys who smelled like cigars, reading back issues of Galaxy Magazine. Nobody younger than fifty – even the librarian. You called it The Fossil Factory.

But there was Fairfax and there was Canter’s and there was The Free Press 

Bookstore and Kazoo across the street. And it was that particular Saturday night you went exploring.

Saturday night in October – got off work – tank full of gas. You and your pals, hanging out in front of Canter’s, listening to Sire Bob greet people with his usual “Vot’s happening, Sire?” – families with kids didn’t quite get him – but you and your pals did. Sire Bob looked just like Erich von Stroheim in Sunset Boulevard – a movie you knew inside out.

After a while you decided to go across the street to the Bookstore.

Your Soul Mate – opening boxes, stacking books, arranging shelves. 

You gasped – it had to be loud enough because she turned around. Your jaw flew open – she smiled. She took it as a compliment – you had every intention it was.

She finished arranging all the Sri Ramakrishna books and asked you your name. You went blank – she was amused.

For some reason, you felt this compulsion to tell her your life story – you just yammered – you don’t even know what you said – it was like she pushed a button and all your lights came on and Life Story came flying out.

That Saturday night you were convinced there was a god – and running into Stephanie gave you proof, big proof there was one. She was a movie fanatic – she went to the Museum every Friday night  – Stephanie loved Miles Davis, Mahler and The Mothers of Invention  – she didn’t believe in makeup – she saw The Beatles at Hollywood Bowl. She held your hand – she kissed you seriously – Stephanie was twenty.   

Oh.

You were heading in the direction of 18 – you were a Junior. You didn’t have the heart to tell her. You nodded your head a lot and pretended your hearing was bad.

She took the bus, but she asked if you’d drive her home. You lived with your parents. They had expectations you’d be home at a reasonable time. Two a.m. was usually the max, but this one had dawn and birds chirping written all over it, even if it was a Saturday.

You weren’t going to give up a golden opportunity. So you made excuses about the Chicken and to avoid the grease spot on the front seat.

She lived in Silverlake so you had plenty of time to dig up a good confession.

You finally blurted it out and she didn’t seem fazed – she thought it was mildly funny.

But she did have a confession of her own to make.

She was married. She pointed to her left hand. She also said her husband was a musician; a bass player and you might have heard of him.

You were busy picking up pieces of your mind as the car behind you honked since the light had been green for a while.

The capper was her inquiry if you were interested in a three-way.

Three-way?

The old man was bi-sexual and it would be fun – she promised.

You missed the fun part – your head was busy exploding while your mind was disintegrating into space dust.

You heard about three-ways but you didn’t think they applied to you.

So you calmly declined and dropped her off at her place.

No kiss, but an invitation to join them if you felt like it sometime.

She smiled – she winked – you went the dashboard Dachshund route and nodded your head.

Driving down Sunset, you turned your radio on and the high energy sound of Wolfman Jack from XERB blasted from your speaker.

Perfect soundtrack – perfect ponder – otherwise, Perfect Saturday night.

And to go along with all that pondering, a half-hour of Wolfman Jack from XERB on October 1967.