Blue Eyes Crying in the Reign

The other day I ran into a poem I wrote after an encounter that took place when I was about nineteen years old. It reminded me of the story I'm about to tell.

I was walking down Main Street in Columbia, South Carolina, with my college friend Sonja, a natural blonde with striking looks. Just the other day my two brothers wrote on Sonja's Facebook page that she's the most beautiful woman they've ever known. She's still beautiful today, even though she is in her seventies.

I digress.

Back in the 1960s, I was as I am now, overweight with mousy brown hair and plain looks. I don't think I'm ugly, but no one ever accused me of being beautiful. When I was with Sonja, I expected her to get all the attention from men, and she did, except for this one day, when two handsome men came walking up the street toward us. I whispered to Sonja, "That guy's gorgeous!" I secretly pointed to the blond fellow with blue eyes that seemed to smile all on their own.

She said, "Want to meet them?"

Knowing they would both be more interested in her, I said, "Don't bother."

At that moment, the other guy stopped in front of us and said, "Sonja?"

"Great to see you," she said, calling the brown-haired fellow by name. Let's say he was Greg.

Greg grabbed his buddy's arm. "This is Buster. Buster, this is my friend Sonja. We went to high school together."

Buster nodded at Sonja but turned to me and said, "And who is this lovely lady?"

"I-I-I'm Bobbie," I stammered, smitten with his blue eyes cutting into my soul.

"Very nice to meet you, Bobbie," Buster said, never turning his beautiful eyes away from me.

"Y-you too."

"See ya," Sonja said. She pulled me along.

I felt like a rubber band snapped when Buster broke his gaze and walked away.

The next day Sonja called. "Buster and Greg want to meet us for a Coke. Want to go?"

"You bet!"

We picked a day, time, and place, and my heart fluttered with excitement I had not felt in a long time. I had visions of being alone in a dark place with Buster, his blue eyes coming closer, closer, closer, until our lips, eager to touch, found each other, moist, tender, eager. . .

Yes, as a college student interested in journalism, English, and creative writing, I often wrote scenarios in my mind of how romantic scenes might unfold in my life. I had not yet learned to let life take its own course.

At last the day arrived. Sonja had no interest in Greg or Buster, but she came along for the meeting, always a good friend to me.

I slid into the booth opposite Buster, and again his bright eyes bore into mine and his smile lit up the room; all the romantic clichés in the world were taking place. I thought I even heard bells and banjos playing.

“So what do you girls do?” Buster asked.

“Do?” Sonja asked, deadpan. “We walk, we talk, we eat, we—”

“I mean are you working?” Buster corrected.

“No, we’re both going to Carolina.”

Gregg nodded. “College. We didn’t go. We went straight to work.”

“Where do you work?” I asked.

Buster responded. “XYZ Finance Company.”

“Oh,” I said. I thought I heard a banjo break a string. I had a low opinion of finance companies. I don’t know if they exist today, but back in the 1960s, they preyed on the poor, charging outrageous interest and rooking the unsuspecting into borrowing more and more money, until they were deep in debt.

I fell silent.

Greg and Sonja continued to chat, and my silence must have gotten to Buster, because he pulled a pen from his shirt pocket (which should have been a clue, but I missed it) and began writing on a napkin. He wrote large block letters and filled them in with black ink, taking a long time. I appreciated that I no longer had to contribute to the conversation while he stayed busy and quiet, and I sipped my Coke and wondered what to do next.

After five minutes or more, Buster raised the napkin with pride and showed it to me. He had written “XYZ Finance Company. See use for money.”

It took me a few seconds to realize he meant us, not use. He had found the most reliable way to turn off a woman devoted to proper grammar and punctuation. All the bells and banjos struck a jarring chord, stopped dead, and fell to the ground.

I do not remember how I got away from Buster and Greg, but I did, as soon as I could. How could someone so handsome be so illiterate? Why would an illiterate person think he could reach me through writing a message that proved he could not spell a two-letter word?

Was I harsh to reject him so quickly? Perhaps, but our gut feelings are usually right. I could not see myself with someone who could not write a four-word sentence without errors. His sparkling eyes would have to find someone else.

I had no us for him.

                                                                                   ***

For more stories about my many encounters with the opposite sex, subscribe to this blog and watch for the book Neurotica: One Woman's Lifetime of Lust, Love, and Letting Go. The stories in the book will not appear in this blog and vice versa.