Image by Etienne Boulanger
My Real Memoir
I’d been living alone for a few weeks now and cherished my little corner of paradise. But I’d also gotten a taste of how lonely and brutal a life of isolation can be. True, I had college friends, and I was an actor–I did plays, laughed and drank too much at cast parties. But I hadn’t formed any deep friendships. True, my old bandmates and I were bonded for life: We’d watched the sun rise over the Pacific, circled our hammocks in the woods and wondered which one of us a bear would climb over to get to our food.
But those moments were blips in an ever-expanding universe.
So I filled the empty space writing songs on my futuristic guitar and antique piano; borrowing implausibly perfect chords from Blood, Sweat and Tears and The Moody Blues; honing lyrics on Lewis Carroll, The Marx Bros, and Randy Newman. I even did a one-man show for the sad, saggy regulars at a local bar, but felt lonelier when I left.
Longing for community, I visited the battered girl upstairs, let the kids across the hall pound on my piano, and befriended the wrinkled Russians in the bungalow next door. Old Mr. Nickovitch insisted on giving me a dollar for driving him to the nursery and carting bags of manure, and Mrs. Nickovitch sweetened the deal by fixing me the best breakfast I’d ever had.
Still, I hungered for a deeper connection.
And then I met Gail. I was twenty and she was twenty-seven. No, no, no, no. Besides, she was short, with tufty hair, no make-up, a beakish nose and oversized glasses. Basically, an owl. But her mind, oh, Lord, her mind… A mutual friend introduced us after a Renaissance music concert, and I fell instantly in love with her brain. Our friend faded into the background while we stood beside her car, shrinking the universe. Finally, I asked if she’d like to come over.
She sat on my couch, browning my half-baked ideas, and I sat on the floor, budding her new-sprouted notions; making metaphors out of each other’s abstractions. There was a hole in her jeans above her knee, and as she spoke I began tickling her exposed skin. She smiled and continued talking. She was a very cute owl. No! This was insane. She was seven years older than me! I had to stop or she’d be offended and revoke my all-access pass to her beautiful brain. But I didn’t stop. And she wasn’t offended. Instead, she slid down off the couch and kissed me.
Gail was a literary loner, content to read, write her poetry, and travel solo; she rarely even dated. But somehow, I’d revealed an urgency she didn’t even know existed. And she fed my soul-baring hunger, coaxing even the most malformed parts of me out of the basement.
And then, after a month, Gail told me two things: First, she’d be leaving soon, moving back to the Midwest to complete her lit degree and teach creative writing. Second, she hadn’t been using birth control, because raising a baby made out of Us was the loveliest thing she could imagine doing.
I was stunned. “No! I can’t father a child and not be in its life! And I’m not ready to be a father, so, no!” And as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. But the day after she left, I began writing a musical play inspired by Marty, the girl whose heart I’d loved, and Gail…
The girl whose brain I loved.
My Real Memoir is a series. To read the next one, click here.
Oh my gosh! How did it turn out?
I saw her one more time before she left. We kept in touch for a few years. And, no, she wasn’t pregnant.
Well, thank goodness for that!
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Mitch,
Requited love. What a heart-filled story. Enjoy those memories. Gary
Gary Avants Forbear Productions * *garyavants66@gmail.com garyavants66@gmail.com
Thanks, Gary.
You bet.
Gary Avants Forbear Productions * *garyavants66@gmail.com garyavants66@gmail.com
What a wonderful touching story, Mitch. You had my heart in my mouth there at the end!🤗
Why, thank you, Sandy!
Can’t wait for the story of how you met a girl with a heart AND a brain that caught your attention. (I think I know her name!)
Yes, I think you do, Nancy. ;>)
Being attracted to someone’s brain is a good way to hone in on your forever friends. 🙂
It is amazing what happens when you drift through life without a plan. Relationships can mean different things to a 20 year old as opposed to ac27 year old. 😳
Very true, Hazel.
🤔
Touching.
Isn’t it odd how it becomes a matter of concern if the woman is older than the man?
In my mind, Pam, she was “an older woman.” In fact, I thought of her as “my Summer of ’42.” Are you familiar with that movie?
Of course! Doesn’t sound like she wasn’t a Mrs. Robinson older woman. Now that was definitely an older woman situation.
Very true, Pam. Nor was she a manipulator like the iconic Mrs. Robinson (so brilliantly played by Ann Bancroft).
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Nice post 🎸🎸
Thank you, Satyam.
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