Chapter Ten
Love Hurts
Don’t think for a minute that I had taken my eye off the ultimate prize, Cindy. In the three months between her starting college and my leaving beautiful Ohio, I called her so many times that Dad threatened to cut the phone cord and ban me from carrying change. Yes, kids, there was a time that you had to pay by the minute for long distance calls. Phones had cords and were not portable and, for some coinage, could be used inside booths on street corners. And, yes, you little smart alecks, we did have electricity and indoor plumbing in those days.
Anyway, at first, I called her everyday and we would chat for at least an hour. She was getting settled into the dorm and meeting a few people. She missed me terribly and was counting the seconds until I arrived. By the second week, we talked for thirty to forty-five minutes. She had a made few friends and was getting used to her classes. She missed me and was counting the minutes until I arrived. By week four, we were down to fifteen minutes a day. She had to hurry out to meet her buddies. She thought it would be nice to have me around and was counting the days until I arrived. By the time I left, we were down to talking every other day. She had to go outside to talk to me since her friends were making so much noise in her room. And she kept forgetting what day I was arriving. See where this is going? I didn’t.
So right before I pulled into Asheville, my first stop was at a Shell station to use the pay phone and call her. No answer. A bit odd for eight thirty on a school night, but I figured she must be studying at the library.
We finally made connection on day three with all the appropriate hugs and kissy-face type stuff.
“Mick, it is sooooo cool that you are finally here. I really missed you. And you look great. I can’t believe you already have a place to live. But, uh, what’s that smell?”
“Oh, that’s probably G34-x-B2. It’s a chemical they use at the plant and it sometimes colors the air in my apartment. Speaking of which, I can’t wait to have you see it. It’s got…”
“That’s nice. Oh, look. Here comes Tiffany. She plays lead oboe. Tiffany, come here and meet my boyfriend, Mick, from Ohio.”
“Hey.”
I don’t normally try to judge people based on their appearance and my first impressions. I fought hard not to do it this time. Tiffany was about five foot two tall and at least as wide. She had a nest of fly away curly grayish brown hair that covered all but the tip of her nose. From a distance, I truly might have mistaken her for a sheepdog. But, I’m sure she had a great personality.
“He smells funny.”
Or not.
“Oh, Mick, I’m in a bit of a hurry. We are having trilling practice in a few minutes. Can you come by and see me again real soon?”
“Uh, sure.” Trilling practice?
While she seemed happy about my job, pleased to see me and all that, deep down I think I knew that something wasn’t quite right. She seemed really busy, even the evenings when I was off (which were rare). Logistics were a major problem. She lived in the dorm at Lady of Lure (LOL). I had to pick her up in the front lobby and drop her off there. There was a strict “no boys in the room” policy which was even more strictly enforced by Beatrice, the front desk resident assistance. My attempts at charming my way passed her (“Surely a beautiful creature like you has had a member of the opposite sex up to her room on occasion. Can’t you just turn your head this one time?”) were met with a silent steely-eyed glare as she gripped and un-gripped a Louisville Slugger in her Paul Bunyan sized hands. On one occasion, I even tried my best Spy vs. Spy disguise subterfuge.
It was raining hard outside so I had an excuse for wearing the ratty trench coat and turned down fedora. I had even used a magic marker to fashion a slight mustache on my upper lip. My goal was to surprise Cindy in her room where we could progress our physical relationship beyond the public hand holding and kissing stage that we had been stuck in since my arrival.
“Pizza delivery for Room 423,” I uttered in my best Joe Cocker type gravel filled voice.
“Excuse me?”
I un-graveled just enough to be understood by Beatrice at fifteen feet and repeated, “Pizza Delivery.”
“Just leave it over here on the desk and I’ll let have her come down it get it.”
“Can’t do that, m’am. Last time I did that, the RA ate it and I almost got fired. Not that you’d ever do that, but it’s now against pizza company policy.”
“Well, then, hold onto to it and wait for her to come down to get it. What was that room number again?”
“No, ma’am, I don’t have that much time. I’ll just run it up there.” I took a step toward the stairs. I had given her a fake room number (Cindy was in 306). I knew that if I could get to the stairs, I could lose her. In fact, if I threw the pizza box at her to distract her, I’d be gone long before she could…
“I can’t quite place you yet, but I think I know you. And if you’re thinking of throwing that fake pizza box at me and running up those stairs as I try to find that fake room you gave me, think again. I was top of my class in the T.J. Hooker baton throwing school. You break for them stairs, and you’ll have a trademark side-up thirty-two ouncer bouncing off your private parts faster than you can say William Shatner. And what in the heck is that thing on your lip?”
Damn. Time for Plan B. Too bad I didn’t have one. I looked behind her and shouted, “Oh, there you are.” She may have aced the TJH baton course but she was absent the day they covered the oldest tricks in the world. As she turned to look, I made a mad dash out the front door into the stormy night half expecting to get cold cocked by some flying lumber.
So, why didn’t I just take Cindy to my place? Well…
“Jesus, Mick, this is where you live? I thought I was going to be asphyxiated just coming up the stairs. That’s assuming that I lived through the climb.”
“Baby, I admit, it’s not the Taj Mahal, but at least we are finally alone. Let’s take advantage of it.”
“I’m sorry, Mick. If I stay here another thirty seconds, you’re going to have to have a clean up on aisle three.”
So much for my place.
We tried the cliché boyfriend / girlfriend things together for several months, except for the serious making out thing. At eighteen, that was a pretty major exception in a relationship. She introduced me to more of her friends. Most were music majors and were slightly more polite than Tiffany. However, despite my rugged good looks and finely honed sense of humor, I did not feel completely accepted by them. Perhaps the combination of being a Yankee, not being a college student, and not worshiping at the altar of classical music made for non-congruence in the confluence of our worlds (how’s that for a non-collegiate Northerner you band snobs?). But I wasn’t resentful, was I? They also threw rather strange looks at Cindy when I was around. Whenever I mentioned our plans for future wedded bliss, her band mates would either giggle or go silent.
It all came into clear focus the night I stopped by campus unannounced. I thought I was going to have to pull another night shift at the plant. At the last minute, the schedule changed. I had the choice of either sweating a river in a rather odiferous apartment or dropping in on Cindy and, please God, avoiding her band pals.
I tried the dorm first.
Beatrice was her usual charming self. “She’s not here. I think she went to practice. What is that? Did something die?”
I was definitely going to have to do something about that G34. I think my nose hairs had become immune to it.
I managed to find the band room. It helped that the building directly across from the dorm had a big bass clef chiseled in stone on its facade and a statue of a drum major in front using his knee to try to knock out his teeth. I entered the building and used my powers of deduction to find the practice hall. Of course, the multiple signs that said “Practice Hall This Way” were of some assistance.
There were no lights on in the
practice hall and the fading twilight outside its windows didn’t help much either. I could make out lots of music stands and a percussion section. I could also detect a complete lack of occupants. I turned to leave when I heard what I would have described as a “trill” coming from behind a door in the far wall of the room. Ah ha. That must be where the flutists do their fluting.
As I got closer, I noticed the words “Band Director” etched in the small glass window inset into the door. I also noticed that the “trilling” sounded rather odd and slightly off key. One glance through that window probably changed my life forever. And in retrospect, I believe in a good way.
Cindy was practicing her breathing technique. It looked like it was on her band director’s lungs. She was sitting on his lap, had him in a major lip lock and was trying to lick his tonsils. The trilling was coming from him. He had his eyes shut and, I think, she did too. Her head slightly tilted my way and, for a brief second, I thought I saw her open one eye as a little smile crossed her otherwise occupied lips. I turned and did my best to make a stealthy escape. I felt an odd sense of betrayal and sadness mixed with an even odder sense of relief. While I knew it was over between us, I did hope that she would make first chair. Well, at least third.
Cindy never called me after that evening and I never tried to contact her again. So, did I turn tail and run back home to Fairview? Not hardly. I liked Asheville and really enjoyed working at Woodland.