Moving on Over

“There’s a wait so long, so long.  

You’ll never wait so long.”  

~Here Comes Your Man, The Pixies 

A startling amount of life’s adventures start out in a spirit of dispassionate inquiry. At least for me they do. It is Summer, 2005, and I’m in the mood to run it up the flagpole and see. Check the flypaper, see what’s sticking. Insert any number of cheeky colloquialisms here. 

“There, whaddya think?” I asked Willa, my roommate. I had just shown him my tongue-in-cheek word salad—no, word vomit—that I wrote for a MySpace bulletin. I’m looking for something semi-discreet, and I can do this in this medium, as none of my family is on the social media site.  

“You actually did it? Oh my. Let me know if you get any responses, I gotta hit the sack.”  

I’d yet to hit the post button to make things official, but then I pulled the trigger. The next thing I knew, all of my social media universe—all 257 on my friends list—was in the know about my predicament.  

“Need to get laid. Single Male, Disease-free. 27 years of age, (mostly) good references, celebrating almost a decade of serving the Mid-South. Serious replies only. Reason doesn’t matter—sympathy, lost a bet, et. al—I'm your guy. The fewer strings attached, the better.” 

And so began a...well, normal night in Olive Branch, Mississippi for me. At least at first. I was taking a break from the Smirnoff, and was engrossed in an autobiography. Temporarily gone were the binges that involved yelling at the sporting event on the TV. Also gone were distractions. Just me, the life story about some famous Alabama writer, and—as you’ve probably gleaned from the ad I posted—my carnal urges.  

These were rare times, where there was nothing to lose. It was hard to explain, but I felt that I was on the precipice of something. Only time would tell if it was writing the next great American blues song or clumsily opening up a new friend’s C-cup bra on a sweaty Southern evening. Either scenario would be a victory, honestly.  

My fingertips started to burn, telling me to find my way back from my lost thoughts and to put out the cigarette. It was late, and those burgers weren’t going to flip themselves in the morning at Jack’s Diner. I was 25 years-old and I didn’t have much to show for my life thus far. I was in a decent band, and I had a few short stories that had been published. But real change had eluded me. Sleep finally found me, with a host of ersatz scenarios that were likely to find their way to my doorstep.  

What I did find the next morning was not one of those scenarios.  

*** 

“Well, fly on up here then! I’ve been taking a break from sex, but for you I’ll make an exception! I mean it!!!!”  

Was I still dreaming? After rubbing my eyes and taking a deep breath, I was thankfully awake. And it turned out that the hottest and most intriguing gal on my friends list was inviting me into her bedroom. 2,500 miles away. Pixies fan, musician. Sultry but down to earth at the same time. Could drink me under the table, which was saying something.  

I go out to smoke, and attempt to process everything that transpired over the past nine hours. I know I have to make it quick, as I still have to get ready for work and send a response. “Read receipts” in emails suck, but they’re a part of life.  

In a few moments, I’m in front of the computer, and I’m surprised that I’m able to compose a safe response so quickly.  

“Well, I guess I’ll have to start saving up, huh, lol.”  

Gotta have the “lol” in this pre-emoji era that is 2005. I head to work, with my head in the clouds. It is a sunny day that isn’t that hot, and I’m just happy that any of the prior events have happened regardless of the outcome, if I’m being honest with myself. The shift flies by. On the way home, I pick up a cheap bottle of white wine. I need to simultaneously think and celebrate and figure out my next move. If there’s even one to be made, that is.  

And there is.  

Part of why this is so hard to process is that Amy—the sweet siren from the Northwest—possesses everything that my would-be dream girl does. Curvy, sassy brunette with bangs. Plays bass guitar in a band. Tattoos and olive skin. Parties hard but is responsible. Funny. Mature—she's seven years my senior—and so over the silliness of younger women and their traditional dating savoir faire. And the Pixies thing. She is my very own Kim Deal.  

This is my ticket out, in more ways than one, and yes—all of the puns intended. I go out to smoke and have my first wine in about ten days, all the while my mind is still on my MySpace account email, wondering if I got a ping. Normally adult beverages and smoky treats are relaxing, but I find that I have to force myself to do it. A watched pot doesn’t boil, as they say.  

I go back inside; the pot has boiled. She’s messaged back, telling me that I seem fun and she’s always dug me from afar. She said if I could swing a plane ticket up to tiny Bellingham, WA then she would take care of the rest. A place to lay, and a place to get laid. I’m young and stupid, why not? There was only one problem—I was lucky to find $48 at any given time in those days, much less a $500 round-trip plane ticket to Seattle, the nearest major airport.  

Leave it to academic shenanigans. My screwup at the University of Memphis summer school registration has led to a—you guessed it—$450 refund. I felt horrible using that cash, as I should have done something responsible with it. But adventure beckoned. I talked with Amy some more, and we were connecting in a scary good way. More than a mere ‘ho-hum, just don’t be creepy and then have a nice life when you head back to Memphis.’ We moved beyond pleasantries fast, and expedited any new person nervousness. I guess that happens when you open with “let’s have sex,” in not so many words.  

We were starting to fall for each other. Just one week in, we had graduated to phone calls. And the calls started getting longer and longer, to the tune of 4 hours a night. I booked my ticket. It felt amazing to take the leap. I was at what I considered to be a low point in my life. I’d failed at my career as a restaurant manager, and I’d failed at my return to school.  

As fate would have it, I was house-sitting for my parents, and the last day I had to do it was the day that I flew out. As my friend—and drummer for the band I was in—dropped me off at the airport, reality hit me.  

“Holy shit, I’m gonna be right next door to Canada in just a few hours.” He chuckled, but didn’t say anything. Neither of us did in that moment. Here it was, a hot and humid morning, and the moon was starting to give way to the sun of summer’s sway. I checked in to my flight, and got situated. It was a miracle I wasn’t drinking to calm my nerves. I guess I wanted to have my wits about me on this, the first day of the rest of my life.  

*** 

“Good afternoon, this is your captain speaking.” The man ferrying me to the next chapter in my life was going through his usual pre-flight spiel. “We are happy to offer you non-stop service to Seattle. And if you’re not going to Seattle today, well, you’re on the wrong plane,” he said, as he was taxiing to the runway.  

Once we were in the air, I played my favorite album at the time—Some Girls, by the Rolling Stones. More reality set in, as I saw the Great Plains fade into the Rocky Mountains. I was having a “what the hell have I done?” moment, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it at that point. Appropriately enough, When the Whip Comes Down came up from the album. It was an ode to paying the piper. The jig is up, indeed.  

Breathe, dude. You’re a grown man.  

Upon landing, I am beyond excited. I pass the security marker; the point of no return. “Now that’s fitting,” I mutter as I try not to sweat too much. I’m really wishing I could smoke before I see Amy. Meh, she’s a smoker, too, and we’ll go smoke and relax together.  

I forgo the escalator, as I want to scale the stairs as quick as possible. She’s just beyond the railing, and I can barely contain my excitement. My nerves are all over the place. Don’t think about it, just put one foot in front of the other. We spot each other at the same time.  

“Gah!!” We embrace, we kiss. We have our hands on each other’s shoulders, we kiss again. And embrace again. Time for that smoky treat. Words are surprisingly hard to come by. We already know a lot about each other—we'd already done the phone sex thing for Christ’s sake. We stare at each other and smile, as the nicotine and cool crisp air relaxes me. I already know that I’ve made a great choice, regardless of what happens.  

Now it was time to get my luggage and grab a drink with my new girlfriend.  

 *** 

It’s funny, the way that I’d always been able to acclimate quickly to new surroundings. I was settled in before I knew it. Getting a blowjob helped matters in the relaxation department. As did vodka. We were off to the races.  

Within two weeks—the trip was planned for three—I'd found a job and two bands to play in. It was decided mutually that I was up there to stay. My band in Memphis, my job, and most importantly, my parents we all going to eventually put in the loop. As in, the next seven days were going to feature some awkward and tough conversations. Time for email! 

The move was getting more and more difficult to hide. My mom was sending emails talking about the Memphis weather as if I too was experiencing it. “Um, yeah, it sure is hot, indeed!” Liar liar, pants on fire.  

Yet once I dropped the news, most folks were cool with it. The band was a bit peeved, but they moved on and are kicking ass to this day. There was an incredibly smart and attractive woman, Jenny, that was upset I left. Turns out she had a crush on me. Changed her major because of me. Was inspired because of me. I learned all of this about a year later, when Amy and I had split...and Jenny had moved to the Big Apple and met the man of her dreams.  

Dammit. 

“I’ll just catch the next bus, so to speak,” I told Willa over the phone. I ended up catching a few buses (and some other things), in fact. Nineteen years, one ex-wife, and a ton of flings and girlfriends later, I ended up moving back to my hometown.  

In an attempt to get lightning to strike twice, I moved back to the Northwest for a spell, for a different paramour. And then I moved to the Mid-South once again. I’d like to think that the story of my love life is still being written, like an engrossing novel that is about to head into the exciting third act. Everything prior has been but a teaser that promises to deliver on the final denouement.  

Unless I marry a celebrity and have to sign an NDA, I don’t think anything will top the stunts and triggers I pulled in 2005. The lengths I went through to hide it from some, and parade it in front of others. It was all worth it.  

In a perfect world, I would say something to the effect of “when the Autumn wind blows from the Northwest, I can hear it whisper her name.” No such luck. Although a catchy indie rock riff does tickle my muse for adventure again. You never know when there will be “a big shake on the boxcar moving.” 

Have love, will travel.