Road Trippin in 1973
Estimated reading time: 14 minutes, 26 seconds
Driving to Florida
“Richard, how are you?” I was not sure if they were speaking to me to someone else. I had stopped by the campus for a quick bathroom break and a few memories. I turned to face a group of friends I had known as a student. “It is you? How are you,” one of them asked?” He then mentioned that the girl my friends in Brooklyn called my “imaginary girlfriend” was coming down the stairs.
She was halfway down the stairs of the Student Union Building when we locked eyes.
I had dreamed of a reunion for the last nineteen months, but now that it was about to happen, my body began twitching, and despite a smile, words seemed unable to leave my mouth.
I finally spoke. “Nice to see you. I was driving thru and needed a bathroom break.”
There was a barrage of questions about what I was doing and how they were doing. It felt like I was in the middle of a championship ping pong game.
I listened to and responded to the questions; I looked at the five friends. Three of the boys stood off to the side. My “imaginary girlfriend” and the other boy were so close that they would be the same object if they were any closer.
“I should go soon; I am driving a car to Miami, and I need to be there tomorrow.”
“It is late in the day,” someone said. “Why don’t you stay for the night.”
The boy standing closest to her said. “I have an apartment, and you can stay with me.”
I was tired and hungry, so I accepted the offer. I had dreamed of a reunion, but this was not like the dream I had had nightly for almost two years.
Dinner was enjoyable. I was at one end of the table. On my left in the middle was the young woman I had kept loving even when I had never heard from her. To her left was the boy whose apartment this was.
Someone asked. “What are you doing in Brooklyn?”
“I am a tenant and community organizer,” I responded. I filled in the details, although I wasn’t sure they were interested.
We continued to chat after dinner.
“I should go to bed soon. I have to be up early to start my trip,” I said after looking at my watch and seeing it was almost midnight.
The couch on the far side of the living room was my assigned spot.
The other roommate agreed to drive her home.
I got ready for bed. The girl I had put my life on hold for went into his bedroom. The other boy had a bedroom across from where the couch was. I heard them giggling not over a joke, but the way lovers communicate.
“We can’t do it now; he is in the other room,” she whispered.
The air conditioning ducts carried every word she spoke loud enough for me to hear.
After she spoke, I was sure I heard them kiss.
“It can be dangerous for a girl in there,” she said while standing by the couch where I was sleeping.
All I could do was a feeble smile.
“I am going to be in NY in January. I would love to spend some time with you in the city.”
I yawned more to bring my hands to my face. I felt tears dampening my eyes.
“If you are in NY, let me know,” I said half-heartedly.
I gave her my work and home phone numbers even though I had mailed them in one of the many letters I had sent her.
“I have to go,” she said.
I had not even gotten a hug, much less a kiss.
Why had I not accepted it was over when I took the night train from Georgia to NY in February of 1972?
Instead, I had daily romantic dreams that we would meet, run off into the sunset, and live happily ever after.
I got out of bed and went to the bathroom. I needed to cry uncontrollably and alone.
After what seemed like hours, I dried the tears on my face and said to no one but myself. “It’s over.” The only response to my cry was the flushing of the commode.
Thirty-four months since I met her, it ends not with hugs and kisses but with tears in the bathroom of her new boyfriend’s house.
I tossed and turned during a sleepless night.
As I got in the car the following day, I would return to Brooklyn on September 9.
Where will I be on October 10? November 11? December 12? Or, any day in 1974? Or 1975?
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After almost 48 years, I recently lost my wife, Jan Lilien. Like The Little Prince, Jan and I believed that “The most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or touched, they are felt with the heart.” This blog is a collection of my random thoughts on love, grief, life, and all things considered.
