He popped open beer number eleven and cranked up the stereo a little more. Earlier that afternoon he’d been informed that Nola had moved in with some cable guy from Haruf. It wasn’t like he was hoping to get back with her. In fact lately he had been celebrating his freedom. But for some reason, something about the news of Nola living happily without him made him a very thirsty man.
He stood in the middle of the living room as he often did, staring at the TV with the sound muted and the stereo blasting. Drinking beer and reminiscing of various girls he’d known - Diane - Amy - Peggy - Karen - Christina - Margaret - Another Amy - subconsciously comparing them all to Nola.
He found himself thinking about one in particular, Monica from Mowequa, Illinois whom he’d met when they were seniors during the 1984-85 school year. He had been the Regional President for the American Industrial Arts Student Association and she was the State Vice President of the Future Homemakers of America.
The Wabash City A.I.A.S.A. Club had sent him to a leadership training conference in Springfield, Illinois to mingle with several different student organization officers from various schools from all around the state. Besides his club and the FFA and FHA there were clubs about health and clubs about computers and a club for just about everything else he could imagine. He still remembered thinking how odd it was that some upstate schools had computer clubs while Wabash City High owned only one computer and the students weren’t allowed to touch it. Once everyone had checked into the Hotel/Conference Center the clubs’ officers were divided into teams and he lucked out and got stuck in the same group as Monica for the entire week. Even now he remembered how good she looked, how her long brown hair smelled like green apple shampoo.
So during those dull and redundant seminars he focused his attention on Monica. Beginning with breakfast at 8:00 and ending with the after-dinner group discussion the days were crammed with meeting after meeting. One night they sat through a talk on etiquette, then had to practice all the rules during dinner - scoop your soup to the opposite side of the bowl - don’t use your bread as a shovel. The next day brought a surprise visit from Zig Ziglar.
He’d been stuck in a room with three FFA officers who had mocked his old Black Sabbath t-shirt but later that night when he and Monica unlocked his motel room the Future Farmers were nowhere to be seen. He found an old Marx Brothers movie on the television and the couple snuggled up on the bed furthest from the door and he contemplated Zig’s quote, “A goal properly set is halfway reached.”
The two remained as close to each other as possible for the rest of the leadership conference and after breakfast that last morning the advisors dimmed the lights and screened a slideshow - highlights of the past week’s activities - still photos of meals and meetings and pool-side fun - and when the lights returned to illuminate the room he and Monica kissed goodbye - a movie-ending kiss right there in the center of the banquet room in front of God and all the state advisors and everyone else, including his own club advisor, Mr. LeBrace, who’d driven up from Wabash City to take him home. As he and Monica kissed the boys applauded like circus monkeys in blazers and ties as the girls looked on jealously though still elated that at least someone had found love - generic teenagers gathering around Monica and him like the supporting cast of yet another unbelievable Brat Pack adventure. Of course the movie would have ended perfectly with that kiss whereas real life moved on and unfortunately the promise to keep in touch faded away.
Now he killed his beer and opened another and before he knew it he was turning down the music and calling Information for Monica Whitney’s number. The operator couldn’t find her number though she did have a Mowequa listing for a Mrs. Whitney. She said for a small charge she could connect him with that number and he said, “Do it to it.”
On the fifth ring a woman answered and he asked if she knew Monica.
“She’s my daughter.”
“Well - this is a little weird but - ” and he proceeded with a quick rendition of how he met Monica, leaving out the Marx Brothers and a few other details. “We wrote each other a couple times but - ya know.”
“Well, Hon,” she said. “Monica doesn’t live here anymore.”
“Well - don’t suppose you’d give me her number, would ya?”
“I could - but she just got married last month so - ”
“Oh - well - sorry I bothered you. I just - I was just wondering how she was doing.”
“Well, don’t be sorry. She’s doing pretty well. They live over in Assumption.”
“Oh yeah,” he said, figuring their conversation was over. He cradled the phone between his cheek and his shoulder while unscrewing the cap from a bottle of bourbon that had been sitting on the coffee table, one of the large bottles with the handle made into the glass.
But Mrs. Whitney said, “So, you were in Industrial Arts. I guess now you’re probably an architect or something of that nature.”
“No, not really - I just - work - I don’t know.” He took a long slug off the whiskey and stared out the window though it was dark outside and he could see only his own reflection. “Actually, I quit the Industrial Arts Club when I got back home from that leadership thing.”
“Oh - that’s a shame.”
His dog Jasper woke up on the couch and yawned and then stood up and stretched. He hopped down and casually strolled over and stared at the knob on the front door.
“That last day - when we said goodbye - I kissed her.” He stepped over, stretching the phone cord as far as possible, and let Jasper outside.
“Oh really?” There was a slight chuckle in Mrs. Whitney’s voice.
“Yeah - it was - ” He wanted to describe the entire scene but skipped ahead. “So on the car ride home - my advisor - who was just the main shop teacher at our school - got all weird.”
“About you guys kissing?”
“Said it looked tacky - making out in front of people like that - which we wasn’t really making out - we was just - ”
“Well, it sounds innocent enough to me,” Mrs. Whitney said.
“Yeah, I worked for him too and he was always bitching about something. Had a rich wife and they was building this ridiculous house. So it ended up - I just quit the job and the club. LeBrace - that was his name - Mr. LeBrace - he gave me the old ‘You’re ruining your future'. And really see, I was supposed to get this scholarship that he ended up giving to this other kid.” He pounded his beer and stepped into the kitchen for another, again stretching out the phone cord. “You know how it is.”
“Well, that’s too bad.”
“Aw - it was no big deal, really. I don’t even know why I’m telling you all this. I just - I don’t know - I just got to thinking about Monica and thought I’d see if I could get a hold of her - I mean - you know - talk to her - see how she’s doing.”
“Well, I’m sorry you didn’t get to speak with her.”
“No now, don’t you be sorry.” He opened the cold beer. “You’re not gonna tell her I called, are ya?”
“Do you want me to?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “There’s no need to bother her now, I don’t guess.”
“Oh, I don’t think she’d be bothered.”
He wanted to tell Mrs. Whitney about how it was like an 80’s movie when he kissed her daughter - and how the other kids stood around them in a circle and the room spun and how he could see the whole scene even though his eyes were closed - but he couldn’t find the right place to begin. Suddenly he felt like driving over to Mr. LeBrace’s mansion after all these years and kicking his ass.
“Guess I better get off here,” he said. “Thanks for talking to me.”
“Well - I’m glad you called.”
“I doubt that.” He squinted out the window, trying to spot Jasper.
“Yes - I mean it,” she said. “I was just sitting around here with nobody to talk to.”
“Yeah well,” he said. “That’s the same thing I was doing.”
He stood in the middle of the living room as he often did, staring at the TV with the sound muted and the stereo blasting. Drinking beer and reminiscing of various girls he’d known - Diane - Amy - Peggy - Karen - Christina - Margaret - Another Amy - subconsciously comparing them all to Nola.
He found himself thinking about one in particular, Monica from Mowequa, Illinois whom he’d met when they were seniors during the 1984-85 school year. He had been the Regional President for the American Industrial Arts Student Association and she was the State Vice President of the Future Homemakers of America.
The Wabash City A.I.A.S.A. Club had sent him to a leadership training conference in Springfield, Illinois to mingle with several different student organization officers from various schools from all around the state. Besides his club and the FFA and FHA there were clubs about health and clubs about computers and a club for just about everything else he could imagine. He still remembered thinking how odd it was that some upstate schools had computer clubs while Wabash City High owned only one computer and the students weren’t allowed to touch it. Once everyone had checked into the Hotel/Conference Center the clubs’ officers were divided into teams and he lucked out and got stuck in the same group as Monica for the entire week. Even now he remembered how good she looked, how her long brown hair smelled like green apple shampoo.
So during those dull and redundant seminars he focused his attention on Monica. Beginning with breakfast at 8:00 and ending with the after-dinner group discussion the days were crammed with meeting after meeting. One night they sat through a talk on etiquette, then had to practice all the rules during dinner - scoop your soup to the opposite side of the bowl - don’t use your bread as a shovel. The next day brought a surprise visit from Zig Ziglar.
He’d been stuck in a room with three FFA officers who had mocked his old Black Sabbath t-shirt but later that night when he and Monica unlocked his motel room the Future Farmers were nowhere to be seen. He found an old Marx Brothers movie on the television and the couple snuggled up on the bed furthest from the door and he contemplated Zig’s quote, “A goal properly set is halfway reached.”
The two remained as close to each other as possible for the rest of the leadership conference and after breakfast that last morning the advisors dimmed the lights and screened a slideshow - highlights of the past week’s activities - still photos of meals and meetings and pool-side fun - and when the lights returned to illuminate the room he and Monica kissed goodbye - a movie-ending kiss right there in the center of the banquet room in front of God and all the state advisors and everyone else, including his own club advisor, Mr. LeBrace, who’d driven up from Wabash City to take him home. As he and Monica kissed the boys applauded like circus monkeys in blazers and ties as the girls looked on jealously though still elated that at least someone had found love - generic teenagers gathering around Monica and him like the supporting cast of yet another unbelievable Brat Pack adventure. Of course the movie would have ended perfectly with that kiss whereas real life moved on and unfortunately the promise to keep in touch faded away.
Now he killed his beer and opened another and before he knew it he was turning down the music and calling Information for Monica Whitney’s number. The operator couldn’t find her number though she did have a Mowequa listing for a Mrs. Whitney. She said for a small charge she could connect him with that number and he said, “Do it to it.”
On the fifth ring a woman answered and he asked if she knew Monica.
“She’s my daughter.”
“Well - this is a little weird but - ” and he proceeded with a quick rendition of how he met Monica, leaving out the Marx Brothers and a few other details. “We wrote each other a couple times but - ya know.”
“Well, Hon,” she said. “Monica doesn’t live here anymore.”
“Well - don’t suppose you’d give me her number, would ya?”
“I could - but she just got married last month so - ”
“Oh - well - sorry I bothered you. I just - I was just wondering how she was doing.”
“Well, don’t be sorry. She’s doing pretty well. They live over in Assumption.”
“Oh yeah,” he said, figuring their conversation was over. He cradled the phone between his cheek and his shoulder while unscrewing the cap from a bottle of bourbon that had been sitting on the coffee table, one of the large bottles with the handle made into the glass.
But Mrs. Whitney said, “So, you were in Industrial Arts. I guess now you’re probably an architect or something of that nature.”
“No, not really - I just - work - I don’t know.” He took a long slug off the whiskey and stared out the window though it was dark outside and he could see only his own reflection. “Actually, I quit the Industrial Arts Club when I got back home from that leadership thing.”
“Oh - that’s a shame.”
His dog Jasper woke up on the couch and yawned and then stood up and stretched. He hopped down and casually strolled over and stared at the knob on the front door.
“That last day - when we said goodbye - I kissed her.” He stepped over, stretching the phone cord as far as possible, and let Jasper outside.
“Oh really?” There was a slight chuckle in Mrs. Whitney’s voice.
“Yeah - it was - ” He wanted to describe the entire scene but skipped ahead. “So on the car ride home - my advisor - who was just the main shop teacher at our school - got all weird.”
“About you guys kissing?”
“Said it looked tacky - making out in front of people like that - which we wasn’t really making out - we was just - ”
“Well, it sounds innocent enough to me,” Mrs. Whitney said.
“Yeah, I worked for him too and he was always bitching about something. Had a rich wife and they was building this ridiculous house. So it ended up - I just quit the job and the club. LeBrace - that was his name - Mr. LeBrace - he gave me the old ‘You’re ruining your future'. And really see, I was supposed to get this scholarship that he ended up giving to this other kid.” He pounded his beer and stepped into the kitchen for another, again stretching out the phone cord. “You know how it is.”
“Well, that’s too bad.”
“Aw - it was no big deal, really. I don’t even know why I’m telling you all this. I just - I don’t know - I just got to thinking about Monica and thought I’d see if I could get a hold of her - I mean - you know - talk to her - see how she’s doing.”
“Well, I’m sorry you didn’t get to speak with her.”
“No now, don’t you be sorry.” He opened the cold beer. “You’re not gonna tell her I called, are ya?”
“Do you want me to?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “There’s no need to bother her now, I don’t guess.”
“Oh, I don’t think she’d be bothered.”
He wanted to tell Mrs. Whitney about how it was like an 80’s movie when he kissed her daughter - and how the other kids stood around them in a circle and the room spun and how he could see the whole scene even though his eyes were closed - but he couldn’t find the right place to begin. Suddenly he felt like driving over to Mr. LeBrace’s mansion after all these years and kicking his ass.
“Guess I better get off here,” he said. “Thanks for talking to me.”
“Well - I’m glad you called.”
“I doubt that.” He squinted out the window, trying to spot Jasper.
“Yes - I mean it,” she said. “I was just sitting around here with nobody to talk to.”
“Yeah well,” he said. “That’s the same thing I was doing.”
