I don’t have too many friends and last night, my married friends were with their wives. Lord knows were my single friends were. I, on the other hand, am in limbo, and on a Saturday night, options for someone like me, are few. I told everyone in the house, I was going out for a beer, and went to a local place that had a live band and people about my age. I walked through the bar to the area where the band was playing and found a small table in the back. As I scanned the scene after asking the waitress for a pitcher of Coors Light I locked eyes with a woman; pretty, blond short hair, about fifty, and at the table with her, a man. She smiled. I smiled back. Now this happens to me from time to time. I don’t understand it, because (trust me) I will never be mistaken for Brad Pitt. I sipped my beer as the band played their selections of late sixties music. The blond was glancing over at me again at the band started Van Morrison’s “Brown Eyed Girl” and for the second time this month, a memory was triggered of late fall and a twenty-year-old me, a beautiful girl and a Porsche.
After saving my summer’s wages from my job at the refinery, I purchased a poor boy’s dream. I got me a used but clean mid-engined Porsche 914. Green. In the fall, late at night, I would clip the roof into the front trunk, roll up the windows, and with the heat on full blast, take a high speed run at Route 29, that old two lane road that runs along side the Delaware between Trenton and Lambertville. In the area of the quarry, there is a chicane whose surface was dotted with reflectors, and, at night with the high beams on, lit up like curvy a runway. If my passenger was a guy, inevitably they would grab the door handle tight and growl, “Slow down.” But I remember this night, with the smell of smoke from the chimneys on a crisp late autumn night and my girl friends roommate, Emily. Her brown eyes were wide and bright as the wind streamed through her short dark hair that framed her pretty face. Her arms were raised, like on a rollercoaster, screaming, “Faster … faster,” until even I was scared to press my right foot any further.
“Sha la la la te da,” came the end of the song. Three quarters of a pitcher gone, the blond across the way smiled at me again. A slow song by the Guess Who was now up. Emboldened by the alcohol, I returned her smile and nodded toward the dance floor. Saying something to the man across from her, she stood, looked over at me and walked toward the band. I met her on the floor and held her close and the band played, “These Eyes”. Now I’m not sure what her relationship was with the man at her table, but I became fairly certain she wanted to take me home, this night, as she moved closer and pressed her pelvis tight against my right thigh. We stayed on the floor for the second dance, a fast song, “Secret Agent Man.” I know she wanted more, but I was already moving too fast, verging out of control. “There’s a man who leads a life of danger. To everyone he meets he stays a stranger. With every move he makes another chance he takes. Odds are he won’t live to see tomorrow.” A thrill maybe … but, tonight, … I just was dancing.
