(Hell, I'd almost forgotten it was VD Day - it just wouldn't be RIGHT not to re-post this....)
Sooner or later, everyone falls in love.
With the perspective of 56 years, the process sounds like ‘falling in the toilet’, or ‘falling over drunk’. Regardless; everyone does it – even me.
Apart from my high-school girlfriend (who only 'went' with me so she could get a prom date), I'd never 'fallen in love' until after college (my Dad was right; leave women alone in college - you've too much to do. I entered college at age 18; finished a B.A. at age 20, and a masters at 22. Having seen what happened to some of my friends from their varying and ill-reasoned romps through Cupid's Grove during that time of their lives, I can only conclude I was correct -- but, again, I digress)....
I met Jenni through a work-friend. He said, "You'd like this girl, Will. She likes good wine and good food. She loves to cook. She's smart. I'd like you to meet her."
I relented and said 'yes'.
Now, I'd just purchased a pretty little convertible - a '76 Alfa-Romeo; it was my 'be nice to me' present for having finally completed an education after more 25-hour terms than I'd like to think -- and having my First Real Job was a good side-benny, too (which enabled the car – but yet again, I digress….)
I agreed to meet Jenni.
It was summertime in Oregon. Those of you who don't live here won't relate to my next statement, but I was to meet Jenni on an evening where the high temperature had been in the '90's, and it was likely to be warm, dry, and in the '70's around midnight. These are days that we treasure here in Oregon, because Oregon averages 30 days that rate a '10' - by definition, that's 'not a cloud in the sky and dry as a bone.'
This evening in June was one of them. I dressed for the occasion - a French-blue silk shirt and white jeans (it was, after all, 1976), and drove to Jenni's apartment.
She lived on the ground floor of one of those garden-apartment affairs that became so popular in the '70's and '80's; they had common-areas with lawns; everyone had their own separate entrance, and they had a patio with ornamental trees screening the back area from the pool. Jenni met me at the door.
She was lithe; blonde and blue-eyed with a Pepsodent-smile that would light up a room. We went to a little place I'd discovered with some work-buddies very recently, and time passed in a fugue-state which was only interrupted when we realized it was past 11:00PM.
Driving her home in the crystalline air with the top of the Alfa down, she reached over and held my hand. If there was a heaven, I was there.
We agreed to meet again that next Friday evening, and called each other every night until then. Everyone at work mentioned that "Will must be in love", and I was already making plans for our first Trip Away: The beach; The mountains? Extended weekend with travel? The possibilities -- what would I wear? No - gotta look cool. Can't worry....
And on it went, for a week, until Friday evening arrived.
Our heat-wave held, and I repeated last-week's performance (this time in a cream-colored silk shirt and khakis); we were going to Jake's, which is the oldest seafood-restaurant on the west coast and one of the finest.
Not wanting Jenni to sully her feet, I had the valet park the car. I checked us in, and we went to the bar to have a drink before dinner. Jenni suggested that we order a bottle of champagne. She loved oysters (a bit of a 'guy's gal', she was), and I ordered a plate of shooters.
This is when Jenni began to surprise me.
I poured her first glass of champagne, which she downed in one, and asked for another. I'd been raised around wine all my life, so drinking it was not a problem for me. I made the rather-fatal assumption that this was her upbringing, also, and poured her another. She downed it in two gulps along with a couple of shooters (the reason, she told me, was that she was hungry).
She consumed most of the champagne, and asked if we could get another bottle. I reluctantly said 'yes', and ordered one up. She proceeded to drink the first half of the bottle, at which point I could see that for whatever reason, she'd decided that getting drunk was the way to start dinner this evening.
When she almost fell into my lap, I decided it was time to go.
I cancelled dinner and asked that the car be brought around. Little Jenni - demure little Jenni, with the blue eyes and blonde hair - was totally crocked!
I helped her to her feet, and after a brief protest about dinner, she relented. I told her we'd get some coffee on the way. She didn't answer.
I got her into the car, got in myself, fired up the Alfa and pulled out onto Stark street. Two blocks, and I turned south on Broadway, which is the aptly-named widest street in downtown Portland.
On a Friday night like that one so long ago, Broadway is usually lined with people who are going from dining establishment to theatre to pub or just hanging out. This evening was no exception, and as I steadied the car to drive up Broadway, little Jenni made a gargling sound in her throat.
"Oh, stop the car, Will! Stop the CAR!!" It was obvious Jenni was in some distress, and I wondered what --
"Good merciful gods", I thought. "Cute, demure little Jenni is going to vomit."
I had to make the dread decision, and I had to make it THEN: Floor; or side?
I picked 'side', and grabbed the back of her head, turning it sideways. She rewarded this effort by unloading a quart of champagne and oyster-shooters on the side of my Alfa.
Everyone walking up and down Broadway's expansive sidewalks cheered, clapped, whistled, hooted, and Raised Hell, Generally. I was mortified. This was about the time Jenni let out a rather unladylike belch, followed by another half-quart of used champagne and seafood.
I drove her home. She didn't say a word.
I had to help get her into her apartment. I wasn't about to just dump her off, so we found her bedroom; I got her on the bed, and pulled the spread over her. She passed out and began snoring, immediately.
Leaving; I looked at the side of my Alfa.
It looked for all the world in the sodium-vapor lights as a Jackson-Pollack painting gone horribly wrong. I just shook my head, and drove to the Swif-T-Wash (one of those do-it-yourself car-washes on 99W in the little town of Tigard, Oregon (the suburb where I was living at the time).
I had four quarters in the glove box. Just enough.
I hosed down the side, doing my best to keep everything off my neatly-pressed khakis. Home; I simply stripped off and fell into bed.
The next morning, I went outside to inspect the side of my roadster.
I was horrified.
Now, in the '70's, paint-technology wasn't the best to begin with, and Italian paint was biodegradeable on the best of days. What I saw was an etched splatter-pattern, with little rust-bubbles already forming on the side-panels. The seam of the rocker-panel was solid rust, and I realized then that I hadn't opened up the gas-cap door when I washed the car –
I did. “Great,” I thought. " 'Stuff'.”
I drove to the Alfa dealership in a panic, and the fellow who was running the service-desk on Saturday (I think "Clarence" was the name in his shirt-oval) said, "Now, lessee -- what've we got? Dayum! That's a door - and a rocker - can grind that out, but it'll cost extra - quarter-panel - lessee behind this gas-door -- oh; dayum, boy! What WAS she eatin'?”
He did some simple math. "We can get you in day after tomorra. It'll come to $498, cause puke ain't cuvvered unner warranty." He said those last words rather loudly, for the rest of the shop to hear. The mechanics thought this was a great joke, and laughed accordingly.
$498. There went any idea of a vacation this year -- or anything ELSE this summer.
I scheduled the appointment, after being told that "Next time, just push 'er head down - that carpet's only fifty dollar!"
Jenni, for her part, never called me again; not even to apologize. The car was simply never the same again. Perhaps it was all in my head.
I've dated many women since then. I draw the line at oysters....
