“Of course not! You were a proper lady. It was late, and you were wet and cold. You changed in the bathroom, climbed into bed, and fell right asleep.” I tried to say that with a straight face. I’m not sure I succeeded.
Looking toward the neatly folded sweatpants at the bottom of the bed, she asked, “Then why didn’t I put pants on?”
She was laughing nervously and covering her face with the blanket.
“Oh, you are not a good liar,” she cried. “I am never going to live this down.”
“Then you lie about it, and I’ll swear to it. No one has to know. We were just two friends having a sleepover,” I told her.
She dropped the covers from her face and said, “Randy, don’t get the wrong idea about me. I’m terribly embarrassed about how I acted last night. This has been a really tough time for me. I was just looking to blow off some steam, and it spiraled out of control.”
I tried to act like this sort of thing was a common occurrence. “It happens to everyone, last night was just your turn.”
With concern in her voice, she said, “I hope your girlfriend won’t be angry when she finds out I spent the night.”
Where that came from was a complete mystery. I had made no mention, in the week I’d known her, of a girlfriend.
“Not to worry, there’s no girlfriend.”
A bemused smile appeared on her face. She laughed and said, “Oh, go on, a guy like you must have a girlfriend!”
The conversation had suddenly turned awkward. She, of all people, must have known guys like me never had girlfriends. I didn’t like her laughter, either. At that moment, it sounded to me like sarcasm.
I tried humor, always my first line of defense in embarrassing situations. “Yeah, you would think so but no.” Hoping to put an end to the conversation, I added, “I guess I haven’t been on campus long enough to meet anyone.”
Her bemused smile became a broad grin. The grin struck a nerve and triggered an anxiety attack. I could feel my face turning red with embarrassment. Maybe it was the concussion, but I was suddenly lightheaded. My heart raced, and I know I was perspiring.
That grin was her way of ridiculing me for being single. Was she just figuring out that I wasn’t one of the popular people on campus? I wasn’t a varsity athlete. I never wore anything with Greek letters on it. I washed dishes to pay my rent. For God’s sake, Meghan, read the clues!
Still grinning, she asked, “There isn’t a girl waiting for you back home?”
I had not expected it from her. Maybe it made her feel better to embarrass me after she had embarrassed herself the previous night. It was disheartening to realize she was no different than every other girl I knew. I was hurting on the inside but remained stoic. Never show that it hurts!
I answered dismissively, “This is my home.” Then I quickly changed the topic of conversation.
I let her know I was going to Clark’s Market to pick up some things for breakfast. Trying to pretend I was still a gracious host, I offered to make her something if she was hungry. While I was gone, she was welcome to shower. If her clothes weren’t dry, she was welcome to both halves of my sweat suit. If she had to get going, she should close the door behind her, I had my key.
I didn’t really need anything from the store. I just wanted to give Meghan the chance to get dressed without me in the apartment. I did need a couple of minutes, alone, to gather my thoughts. She would probably need less than two minutes to change and bolt out the door. I planned on giving her twenty and was hoping she would be gone when I returned.
The market was a couple of blocks away, and the cold morning air was therapeutic. I calmed down and began to see things from the proper perspective. Lack of sleep always made me crazy. I had no right to be angry with Meghan. She had better things to do than dote on me. Interacting with her would have been difficult under the best of circumstances. With a bruised brain, it was all but impossible to keep things in the proper focus.
Meghan was a nice girl who felt bad about messing up my face. She showed concern for a couple of days, and I had made way too much of the attention. It was foolish of me to think we could be friends.
With only four dollars to get me through the week, I couldn’t spend much at Clark’s. I picked up some orange juice and a Sunday paper. I took my time making a selection. They had papers from New York, Philadelphia, and the local Central Valley Courier. I figured I would never get to New York and never wanted to go back to Philadelphia. By process of elimination I chose the Courier. A small-time paper for a small-time town.
The small can of frozen juice concentrate and the paper cost me less than a dollar. I needed to be prepared in the unlikely event that Meghan took me up on my offer of breakfast. I splurged and picked up a box of tea bags, just in case.
Opening my apartment door onto an empty room, I winced with disappointment. I knew that I had seen the last of her. Even though she had made fun of me, I was going to miss her company. I could see that she straightened up and made the bed before leaving. I thought that was really nice of her to do.
With so little sleep, I was badly in need of a cup of coffee and started the pot brewing. While I was mixing up the juice, water started running in the shower. Either someone had broken into my apartment to bathe or Meghan hadn’t left. Honestly, I was leaning toward the break-in theory until I realized her shoes were still lying where she had kicked them off the night before. Completely confused, I put the tea kettle on to boil.
I pulled a couple of pans out of the cabinet and started cooking. The water boiled, and I poured a cup of tea. Meghan emerged, smiling, from the bathroom just as I was finishing the first batch of bacon. She was wearing the top and bottom of my sweat suit. I couldn’t think of a single reason why she was still in my apartment.
She motioned to the shirt and said, “Hope you don’t mind, my clothes are a mess.”
I said, “No, not at all, I did offer. Besides, it never looked that good on me.”
She smacked me on the arm playfully and said, “No flattery today, I’m not in the mood.”
I told her I was surprised she had stuck around. I figured she would have headed for the hills.
“Are you kidding? You offered to make breakfast.”
I knew, first-hand, that hunger would make a person do strange things. I pointed to the tea cup on the counter and told her it was for her. She looked surprised and asked how I knew she’d want tea.
“How often have you come into Chet’s?”
“A lot lately, I guess, why do you ask?”
I laughed and told her, “It’s an occupational hazard. You can’t help memorizing regular customers’ orders.”
She challenged me. “What do I usually order?”
“If you’re really hungry, you order the Valley Omelet, toast, orange juice, and tea. If you’re eating light, it’s toast and tea.
She giggled and smiled, then said, “I’m really hungry!”
There was no confusing the sincerity of that smile. After recovering, I was soon at work on the stove. By coincidence, the Valley Omelet was also my personal favorite. I couldn’t afford all the ingredients Chet used in it, but I improvised as best as I could.
I fried some onions and green peppers, mixed two eggs, and added them to the pan. A couple of slices of cheese and some crumpled bacon finished the omelet, served to Meghan with two slices of toast and a glass of juice on the side. She was already on her second cup of tea.
I worked countless hours at my diner job but not just as a busboy. When I was slow, I’d hang out in the kitchen watching the cooks. It always amazed me how deftly they turned out plate after plate. Seeing my interest, one of the cooks told me to stop watching and start helping.
He started assigning me the simplest of tasks, but before long I was doing useful work. I had no desire to be a cook, but I was happy to learn. The more things I could do, the more hours
I could work. On busy days I spent more time helping in the kitchen than bussing tables. The cooks would insist I be scheduled when they knew it would be crowded.
When I could find the ingredients, at home I’d duplicate what I had made at work. I loved breakfast, so I spent a lot of time cooking eggs. I could cook eggs in every possible way, but omelets were my favorite. There were so many different ingredients you could put in one; making omelets never got old. I was confident in my work when I handed Meghan her plate, but I still held my breath as she took her first taste.
Her eyes lit up after the first bite. “Randy, this is phenomenal!”
“Thanks, you work in a restaurant long enough you learn a few things.”
“Seriously, you should be cooking at Chet’s, not bussing tables.”
“Chet’s grill is his mistress, you don’t dare lay a hand on her.”
“Do you make breakfast every Sunday? Can I come back next week?”
Her tone was half-serious, but I knew she was just being polite. The omelet couldn’t have been that good. I replied politely that she had a standing invitation. I was relieved that she was enjoying her omelet and returned to the stove to start on my breakfast.
It was a luxury having the time to linger over my plate, drink an extra cup of coffee, and read the entire Sunday paper. Meghan seemed content as well. We took turns swapping sections, and we were both disappointed when the last page had been read. Meghan offered to do the dishes after breakfast. I told her that wasn’t necessary. After all, I had experience at that sort of thing. Undeterred, she dried as I washed.
It was baffling how the mood of the morning kept changing. Tense when she woke up; I didn’t know how she would react to finding herself in my apartment. Lighter, with laughter on both sides, while she cringingly recalled the events of her Saturday night. Awkward, if not angry, when she laughed at me for not having a girlfriend. Since I returned from the store, the mood was relaxed; she was all sweetness and smiles.
Breakfast with Meghan had been so enjoyable I hated for the morning to end. Unfortunately, I had to be at work by noon. I told her I would give her a lift home if she didn’t mind riding in the Pinto. It would be less embarrassing than parading through town in my sweat suit, carrying last night’s clothes in a brown bag.
She must have drawn a mental picture of herself walking down Main Street because she laughed hysterically before saying, “Thanks, you’re probably right.”
After offering her a ride home, I couldn’t find my car keys. She watched my distress with amusement. It seemed as though her smile stalked me as the desperation of my search intensified.
When I finally found my keys and was ready to go, she dialed that smile up a couple of notches and said, “You were my guardian angel last night. Thank you for being a gentleman and a good friend. After all you’ve done, I still need to ask one more favor. My sorority’s fall formal is this Saturday, and I am suddenly in need of a gentleman to escort me. Would you mind helping me out of a jam?”
I’m quite certain there was an audible thud when my jaw hit the floor. Another anxiety attack washed over me like a wave. I had no idea how to respond to her invitation. I couldn’t even be sure I had heard her correctly. I just stood there with my mouth agape.
Meghan didn’t know how to take my lack of a response and appeared to be as flustered as me. “I hope that’s a yes.”
“Of course it’s a . . . um . . . formal? . . . Saturday? . . . um . . . yeah . . . sure . . . I guess. Me? You want me to . . . ?”
My own moment of clarity occurred, and I asked, “Is that why you kept asking if I had a girlfriend?”
“Yes, if you’re seeing someone, I don’t want to cause trouble,” she replied.
Chet was right, I could be thickheaded. My position as the village idiot was secure.
“If you do have a girlfriend, I won’t be able to go to my dance,” she lamented.
I laughed at her. “Meghan, with an hour’s notice, you could ask any guy on campus. Are you really sure you want to ask me?”
She looked at me as if I was insane and said, “I know that’s not true, but, if I could ask any guy on campus, I can ask you.”
“Of course you can, but . . . ” I stopped in midsentence. I felt horrible for misjudging her but still had difficulty accepting her invitation.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Meghan, last week you were dating the quarterback. I’m a busboy with a busted nose. People will expect you to do a little better.”
She gently touched her finger to my, still, very sore nose. “The quarterback I dated had his nose broken twice. Maybe I like the look.”
“Are you sure? I mean . . . you know . . . it’s just that . . . honestly . . . people will say I’m not really in your league. I don’t want you to be embarrassed.”
With a smile, she said, “Randy Duffy, consider this your major league call up. Do you have a suit? You’ll need to wear a suit and tie.”
“Oh yeah . . . sure . . . of course I do.”
She said, “Good, my dress is navy-blue. You’ll need to get me a corsage. Try Williams Flowers on Main Street and ask for Mary Williams, she’ll help you.”
Relieved that the matter was settled, she sighed and said, “Then we have a date for Saturday.”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” I replied. Then I started wondering where I was going to get a suit.
Bottom of the Second Inning
There was only one place to buy a suit in the town of Central Valley. The nearest mall was over an hour away. Whether you needed a suit, a sofa, or a lawnmower you had to go to Goldman’s Department Store, next door to Chet’s. It had been a fixture in Central Valley for generations.
Mrs. Goldman started working there as a teenager. She caught the eye of one of the Goldman boys and married into the family. The Goldmans had all passed, and she was on her own running the business. I often saw her gazing out the store window watching traffic on Main Street. I got in the habit of waving to her as I passed the store on my way to work.
I told myself I needed a suit for senior year job interviews. Buying it for the dance would let me get more wear out of it. I had money in a savings account, for tuition, that I couldn’t touch. Likewise, the rent money was off limits. That left only my new tire fund. I was so close to a new set of tires that I had already been checking prices, but a date with Meghan Mallory was too good to pass up. Parking the car and walking around town was a viable option. The Pinto would have to wait.
After my last Monday afternoon class, I was suit shopping and fortunate enough to have Mrs. Goldman wait on me. She recognized me and was eager to help.
“What can I get for you, young man?” she began.
“I need a suit.”
“What do you need it for?”
“Mostly, I need it to look good next to a very attractive young lady wearing a navy-blue dress. I’ll also need to be able to wear it to job interviews, as well.”
“When do you need it for?”
“It’s for a dance this Saturday. I just got the invitation, or I’d have been in sooner.”
“That shouldn’t be too difficult,” she said. “You would want something in black or gray. I think either would work for you.”
We looked through the racks and decided on a black suit that was reasonably priced.
“Do you need a shirt, shoes, belt, or tie?”
“Yes Ma’am.”
“Which do you need?”
“All of them.”
She paused. “My goodness, how are you fixed for money?”
“I hope I have enough,” was all I could say.
“Let’s see what we can do for you. What size shoe do you wear?”
I told her the last pair I bought was a size ten.
“Oh good, I can let you have the display pair for half price. I have some dress shirts t
hat are going on special next week. I’ll give you the sale price today. Maybe Chet could loan you a tie to save some money. If he doesn’t, you still have time to find one.”
I doubted Chet owned a tie, but it was worth asking. She promised the suit pants would be hemmed by Friday. Dressing for success took every last dollar of my tire fund and then some. I left Goldman’s and walked across the street to Williams Flowers. As Meghan suggested, I asked for Mary.
“I need a corsage for a girl wearing a navy-blue dress,” I said.
“Are you going to the Delta Theta sorority dance this weekend?” she asked. “We’re getting a lot of orders for that affair.”
I told her I was, and she asked for my date’s name. I told her it was Meghan.
She looked surprised. “Meghan Mallory?”
“Yes, Ma’am, do you know her?”
“Yes, she’s a lovely girl. She ordered all the flowers for the homecoming game. I thought she was dating one of the football players.”
“She, apparently, broke up with him. Meghan and I aren’t dating, we’re just friends,” I replied.
When I picked up the corsage on Friday, she told me there was no charge. Meghan gave her so much homecoming business that she was happy to make a gift of her flowers.
Saturday afternoon, I got a haircut and then tried on the suit. I hadn’t been this dressed up since high school graduation. There’s something about a new suit and fresh haircut that boosts a guy’s self-esteem. A glance in the mirror made me decide I didn’t look too bad. Even the railroad track on my face seemed better.
With corsage in hand, I fired up the Pinto and headed for my date with destiny. I didn’t want to pull up in front of her sorority house in my wreck of a car. I parked behind Chet’s and walked the last couple of blocks.
It was a struggle to keep my anxiety in check while I walked. I had dreamt the night before that her invite to the dance was just a sick joke. In my dream I showed up in my new suit, carrying the corsage, to find Meghan and Eric together on the porch. Everyone laughed at me and asked, “Did you really think Meghan was serious?”
A Life On College Hill Page 6
