Glory Days

[Originally published on my old blog, circa 2007]

 

Sophmore year, college.

Her name is Wanda.

We work together at Sears. She runs the grill in the employee break room, and gives me extra fries with my hot dog. (And that’s not a euphemism.) I eventually ask her out—Friday night, dinner and a movie.

It’s a cold and icy January eve when I pull up in front of her house in West Haven. I get out of my bright orange Dodge Omni (for real!) and see the garage door is open. I creep up the treacherously slick driveway, careful not to fall on my half-frozen butt. I make it to the top and step into the well-lit garage. I can see it’s attached to the house, so I knock on the door. No answer. Next to the door is what I think is a doorbell.

Note: We never had an automatic garage door opener—or closer—in my entire life. The only lit buttons by doors I’ve ever seen up to this point are doorbells. It’s true—stop snickering!

I reach over and ring the “doorbell.”

The lights go out and the garage door starts closing behind me. Not really understanding what is happening (not to mention nervous to start with about being on a first date), I automatically turn and run toward the closing door. Images of Indiana Jones in my head, I duck and jump through the rapidly shrinking space—

—and hit the icy driveway. I don’t have the benefit of a third-person perspective, but even as it’s happening I know I have to look like a living cartoon as I slide full speed out of control down the driveway, arms flailing, legs spinning, furiously trying to keep my balance and probably screaming something along the lines of “SHINOOOOOOOLA!!!!”

I eventually—mercifully—come to a crashing heap at the bottom of the driveway.

After making sure I’m in relatively one piece, I pick myself up, dust myself off and make my way back up the driveway. As I get to the top, I see Wanda in the front bay window. She is purple from laughing so hard, shaking her head.

It’s our first and last date.

* * *

Junior year, college.

Her name is Maria.

She’s actually a campus police officer, a few years older than me. We meet during a lecture from Larry Linville—Frank Burns from “M*A*S*H.” (Don’t ask me why.) She decides that for our first date, she’s taking me to dinner at a nice (read: wear a tie) Italian restaurant in New Haven.

It’s a comfortable late September night—no ice this time. She’s dressed sure fancy, hair’s up, pearls dangling above perfumed cleavage. Dinner is pretty good, I don’t spill any sauce on my shirt or my purdy new tie. From the way she’s talking, I’m thinking she’s a little off, but hey, she’s buying, the place is swell and I’m polite. What could happen?

After dinner, she suggests we go back to her studio apartment to watch TV, which we do. The Mets game is on, and they’re winning. I plunk down on her day bed.

“I’m gonna go slip into something more comfortable,” she says, heading into the bathroom.

“Good idea,” I say, loosening my tie and slipping off my dress shoes. She closes the door. “I wish I could put on my sweats, too,” I mutter enviously.

A few minutes later I hear the bathroom door open, but the game is close now and I’m fixated. I hear her cough and glance over.

She’s standing there in nothing but a sheer white neglige.

“Ohhh! Something more comfortable!” I say, and start laughing. I mean, who actually uses that phrase! Come on.

Apparently, she isn’t all that amused by my amusement.

It’s out first and last date.

* * *

Senior year, college.

Her name is Annie.

It’s spring break, and I’m in the Bahamas with my buddy Primo and about six other college friends. It’s been a fun week, from gambling in the casinos to drunken revelry. We’re having a pretty good time, without a doubt.

We decide to go on an all-day cruise and snorkeling trip, where along with about 30 other tourists—families and springbreakers both—we’re taken to a tiny, remote island. Allegedly they filmed Huey Lewis & The News’ “Happy to Be Stuck With You” video here, and after seeing the clip, it’s hard to deny. (The same lizards and chickens are even there!) We meet a gaggle of girls that are also on the excursion, and after some great snorkeling and a few glasses of rum punch (I swear the natives drink it like water), I settle down in a hammock under a big palm tree, swing in the breeze and actually forget my name for a while. I’m that relaxed and the place is that beautiful.

It’s allllll good, mon.

Finally, the sun dips on the horizon and it’s time to go back. I gather my stuff, my buddy Primo and head back to the boat, which is moored on the beach. As I make my way up the gangplank, I see the gaggle of girls is already on board. Just as I reach the top, a straw hat flies from the deck above me, over my head and down into the water alongside the boat. “My hat!” I hear a young female cry.

“Don’t worry, I’ll get it,” I say, figuring here’s a chance to play the chivalrous knight card. I hand my stuff to Primo, and not exactly 100 percent clearheaded, grab the railing and sit down, figuring I’ll just slide myself under the railing and drop about six feet into the shallow water where the hat is bobbing. I swing under the railing and out into the Caribbean, expecting to gravity to take over.

But I don’t drop.

In my fuzziness, it slowly dawns on me that my shorts are hooked on a cleat (that anvil-shaped thing on a boat that they tie ropes to). I’m suspended in mid-air, dangling sideways by my shorts, arms flailing, for what seems to be about 30 seconds. In reality (not rayality), it’s probably about three seconds.

RIIIIIIIIP!

“Ahhhhhhh!!!”

[*SPLASH!*]

Fortunately, the water’s hip deep, and I quickly get to my feet and inspect the damage. My shorts have been shredded on one side, leaving me in a loincloth-like piece of clothing that even Johnny Weismuller would hesitate to wear. If I had been going commando, this story would’ve been rated NC-17. Instead, I sorta gather up what’s left of my shorts with one hand and retrieve the hat with the other. I get back on the boat.

“All right,” I’m thinking, “Whoever this chick is that lost her hat better be worth it.” A lot of people have witnessed my “selfless” act and are chuckling (none louder than Primo). Finally, a man and a freckled 8-year-old girl step up to me.

The man is trying to keep a straight face. “Uh, Annie, tell the man thank you for saving your hat.”

“Thank you,” the girl says, giggling.

“I’ll buy you a new pair of shorts,” the man quickly offers.

“It’s okay,” I say, ignoring my ever-reddening cheeks and handing Annie the hat.

It’s our first and last date.