Ninth of December

I went on a date last night. It was the first time I went out with a woman, one-on-one, in quite a few years. I showered and got ready in my room at the house, and as I slipped into my Carolina Blue Hugo Boss shirt and dark designer blue jeans, my thoughts drifted to my new mystery friend for the evening.

Her name is Luisa.

Luisa, 44 years old, never married and proud aunt to two beautiful nieces, ages 13 and 10. She stands at 5 feet tall, has long flowing black hair, and these pretty yet sad brown eyes which match mine nicely. She is, perhaps, the only Jewish girl, born and raised in Marlboro, New Jersey, with the name Luisa. I love it.

As I pulled my black Mazda out of the house’s driveway, made my way down Throckmorton Street, passing the cemetery on my left and got onto Route 9 heading north, my mind veered to the last time I went on a “first date” in Freehold, New Jersey.

Her name was Candy, and she was 16 years old in September of 1987.

Similar to last night, only driving a 1986 bright red Camaro and the driveway being at my parents’ house, I hit Route 9 north and picked up the auburn-haired cheerleader, with the cutest freckles on her nose, for a dinner date at Wendy’s and a trip across the parking lot to the movies afterwards.

We listened to Springsteen’s “Dancing in the Dark” through the car’s cassette deck, and I imagined being the guy who gets the girl, and together they would dance the night away, into eternity.

Last night was a little different. Although that very same Wendy’s still exists, in the very same spot (the movie theater does not; it’s a Crunch Fitness now – not nearly as romantic), I did not take Luisa to the home of the squared hamburger, but I did think about it for a quick moment.

No, my new friend and I went to a nice Italian restaurant down in the center of town, complete with white tablecloths and a waitress who was visibly annoyed when we didn’t order alcohol. Luisa was stunning, dressed in a black and white party dress coupled with black high heels. We shared a pear salad; she ordered blackened salmon, and I got something smothered in marinara sauce. Louisa had a giggle at my expense as she pointed out the red stains which now covered my finely pressed shirt.

We were dating like two teenagers hoping to get a kiss at the night’s end, yet discussing some very adult topics: love, heartbreak, children, loss, failures, and successes, to name a few. Some stories had us laughing like high schoolers, while others brought forth misty tears only understood by adults who have been hardened by the world.

At the end of the evening, I drove Luisa home and walked her up the stairs and into her apartment, where she invited me to stay for a cup of coffee. We sat on her couch, and she kicked off her heels. We continued our conversation deep into the night as I watched the moon’s bright eggshell white glow over Luisa’s left shoulder and out her large picture box window.

I left Luisa in the wee hours of the morning, happy but not quite ready to return to the rooming house yet. So, I drove. I drove past Wendy’s and past the movie theater, or at least the building that used to be the movie theater. I drove past my childhood home. And I drove to Candy’s house.

I had heard that her parents had moved out years ago. I stopped the car and put it in park along the curbside near the driveway. The new owners painted the house a greyish blue and put a swimming pool in the backyard. But that basement window along the left side of the house, the one Candy would open late at night so we could kiss without her mother knowing, that was still the same. Those two garage doors, the ones Candy and her sister would open for me so I could quickly pull my car inside, hiding it from the neighbors, when her parents weren’t home and I wasn’t supposed to be there, well, they were still there to remind to me of unbridled teenage passion.

I lost touch with Candy, as time moved on. I heard she got married, had a couple of kids, and lives somewhere down on the Gulf of Mexico. I’m glad I don’t see her today. I wouldn’t want to face her in my current condition. If she ever thinks of me, I want it to be the 17-year-old version of Jason Rogers, picking her up in that Camaro for a Friday night date. As for Luisa, this is the only version of JR she knows: a broken-down old man, his best years behind him, and the only things left to his name are a few halfway interesting stories. I hope she enjoyed our evening together as much as I did.

I wrote this passage in the library where I worked when I met Candy, so many years ago. I could see myself as a young man, floating through the bookstacks thinking about her. A time when I was vibrant, energetic, and colorful. I also wrote this story in the same clothes which I wore on last night’s date with Louisa – complete with the red spaghetti sauce stains still visible near my shirt buttons. I felt alive for the first time in a long time, and I’m just not ready to peel that sense of youth off and throw it in the dirty laundry basket.

I listened to Dancing in the Dark on my drive home today, right before I hit the publish button on this piece. The song’s lyrics remain the same, but the meaning to me has certainly changed over the years. I grudgingly, and unwillingly, had to say goodbye to the notion of those young kids dancing their way through life together, but now embrace the man who wants to change what he sees in the mirror and is in search of that human connection which will give him a little push.

“Man, I ain’t nothing but tired. I’m just tired and bored with myself. Hey there, baby, I could use just a little help…”