Missed Connection

“I was wrong, and reckless then. You deserve so much better, and it is a wonder that you even stayed in the relationshi--” 

“Wait, wait, hold on. Kim said this? The psycho from a few years back?” Tracy was pissed and beside himself, but his curiosity trumped his incredulity and he wanted to learn more.  

“She did, apparently,” I said. “There are even a few strategically placed “tear drops” on the paper.” He and I both knew that was her manipulative style—take a few drops of Visine and put one or two near an emotional passage in a forlorn letter.  

Tracy was my best friend who witnessed all of this carnage in the late 1990’s. God bless him, he tried and tried to toe the line between “ditch the crazy gal” and “well, if it makes you happy.” The latter required him swallowing copious amounts of his pride. I could see right through it, but I appreciated the effort.  

So here I am, single, and worlds away from that old relationship. Literally and figuratively, as I am in Seattle, Washington. Back in 1997, I was a gullible fella who would have done anything a Southern Belle told him to. And in the Home of the Blues and Birthplace of Rock and Roll, I did. Tracy, being the long-suffering friend and fan of alliteration, likes to call it “Memphis Mayhem.”  

I call it a nervous breakdown.  

*** 

To call Kimberly a Southern Belle would be too nice. Devil in a Blue Hoodie would be more appropriate. She was sweet at first, as they all are. I was free to be me and all was well. It’s Memphis, we’re partying like it’s almost 1999, and I have my first girlfriend. I’m a late bloomer, but I would’ve sold my soul to make it with a girl back then.  

And I did. Soon enough, once I was lured, she didn’t even bother with red flags. She tossed them aside, instead opting for a checkered flag, signaling the end of my freedom. I was dead to rights, but I was in love. I think.  

“This is normal, we all go through it, right?” I asked myself and my friends. The whole gang looked at me like I was a newly diagnosed leukemia patient in denial. It got worse before it got better. She crossed all sorts of boundaries, stepping into my deepest family relationships, mandating what I do every hour of the day. I’m not making this up. I wish I was.  

In the end, I broke it off less than two months before the wedding. She had to cancel the wedding cake order, and I got my just desserts by leaving her high and dry. I gained a disturbing amount of satisfaction for the hurt I put her through.  

Over time, I was able to let things go. Shame on her for being that way, shame on me for letting her do what she did to me. We were young, and everyone is the way they are for a reason. I’m not the nicest person in the world, nor is Kimberly the most evil.  

Tracy and I would love to tell you “case closed,” as he was there by my side when the shit hit the windmill all those years ago. But trifling letters tend to pop up at the most inconvenient of times.  

*** 

“Dearest Walter,” the letter begins.  

Real original.  

“I hope this finds you well and that you have attained the happiness that you deserve. I have some feelings that I need to get off my chest. I know the timing is bad, and I don’t know your specific lot in life these days. But I was wrong so many years ago. I took advantage of you because I could. I was mad at the world and I took my self-loathing out on you.” 

I wondered where she was going with this. Most people—like my friend Tracy—would have thrown the letter away by now. Kim certainly has some nerve. And knowing her, there is an axe to grind. Nothing that she-devil does is without purpose, no matter how seemingly innocuous.  

“I don’t have much else to say, other than I am genuinely sorry, and I hope that you aren’t scarred by me.” 

A little presumptuous, I thought. Then again, who was I kidding? She had the power to leave scars. And she did; emotional skin graft scars. Many lovers since her have unfairly paid for her sins. These days, we call my actions “projecting,” I believe. The interpretation is broad. So let’s just say that I never really healed from Miss Kimberly’s wiles, and it manifest (another buzzword!) itself in subsequent relationships.  

“That’s it?” says Tracy, with more than a hint of thinly-veiled skepticism.  

“Hold up, there’s one more paragraph.”  

“If you like, we could grab a coffee sometime, perhaps? I’m a flight attendant and am based in Seattle. I saw a writeup of your band in The Stranger and figured a quick Google search might lead me to you.”  

Stupid internet.  

I flash a look that betrays any poker face aspirations I may have had, and Tracy goes pale.  

“Son of a bitch, you’re going to meet up with her, aren’t you?”  

*** 

I wade through all of her contact information, and go with texting. The less voice contact before “kickoff,” the better. I pick a bar. A classy bar.  

“You definitely want to be lubed up, but not ‘make an ass of yourself’ lubed up,” Tracy wisely points out. So I forgo dive bars and Applebee's and pick a trendy place downtown: The Glass Onion. Without doing any research, I go with it on logo and name alone. What’s the worst that could happen?  

Kim texts back. “I love that place! Me and my flight attendant friends go there all the time!” 

Fuck me. Now she has ‘homecourt advantage.’  

Normally, I like to be fashionably late to such affairs, but I wanted to get there early and scope things out. You never knew with Kim, and with her there was no such thing as being too paranoid. I wouldn’t put it past her to have a spy or two there in position already. Hopefully they were hot, at least.  

Focus, Walter. I arrive at the Belltown hotspot about fifteen minutes early. It’s floor-to-ceiling windows, and well-lit at the same time. Apparently a nice place to see and be seen, literally. Normally not my type of establishment, but I have my aforementioned reasons. What’s more, the pricey cocktails will keep me honest when it comes to sticking to my plan. Buzzed, yes; drunk, no.  

No matter what, I have Tracy waiting a few blocks over near City Centre. The ultimate dive bar, the Five Point, awaits. Although after clocking a brunette at the bar staring a hole through me, I wish I’d have stationed him closer. Her spy—who's not too adept at being conspicuous—is already here.  

And no, I’m not being paranoid. Kimberly wouldn’t hesitate to do something like that.  

Five o’clock arrives, but Kim doesn’t. The brunette approaches, and I break out into a sweat. Real smooth, Walter. She smiles, and I force some semblance of a grin. I purse my lips tightly, take a deep breath, all my body language asking her to speak first.  

“Hi there, I’m Amberly.”  

“Me too,” I say, as I offer a sweaty palm to meet hers. Shit.  

“I mean, Walter.”  

“Amberly Walter—it kind of does roll off the tongue,” she giggles. “You have the look of someone who maybe got the wrong place to meet someone. The same just happened to me, but since misery loves company, I wondered if I could buy you a drink?”  

“I might be stood up. An old friend from college was supposed to catch up with me and have a drink. I’m not losing sleep if she doesn’t make it,” I said. At this point, I was hoping for such a scenario. And I didn’t care if this Amberly gal was a spy, I was enjoying her company already. 

“I’d love a drink. Three fingers of Maker’s Mark, neat,” I said to the stone-faced bartender. To Amberly’s surprise, this is her go-to drink at a bar. She could be lying through her teeth, but I decide to let myself be charmed.  

“Uncanny, but ‘great minds think alike,’ right?,” she says, instantly closing her eyes and throwing her Auburn hair back. “Can’t believe I just busted out that cliche, but I’m nervous.”  

I’m intrigued. “You are?”  

“Well, yeah. I mean, I’m not the type to walk up to some dude at a bar and hit on him.” Relief! I was hoping that that was what she was doing. The bartender had a professional air of detachment, but one got the feeling he was being entertained. His smirk said as much. 

We finished our drinks. I hadn’t worried about Kimberly’s arrival, as chatting with Amberly was refreshing and disarming at the same time. I wanted to keep the night going, but felt regret that I would have to end it soon. She sees my expression.  

“Gotta run, I guess?” 

Before I can answer, my phone buzzes. It has stayed in my pocket the whole time, oddly enough. It’s Kim.  

“I am SO sorry, but my last flight got in late due to the nasty storm over the Midwest. Want to have a nightcap instead? Or maybe meet up tomorrow?” 

I smile, and look up at Amberly. “I have all the time in the world. Want to ditch this popsicle stand and head to a cool joint just around the way?” 

“I’d love nothing more,” she says with excitement. “I was only here because my friend chose it.” She and I both catch ourselves and glance sheepishly at the bartender, who’s closing out the tab.  

“Totally understand, I wouldn’t drink here, either.” The burly man then cracks a smile and wishes us well into the night. I send Walter a synopsis, and he agrees to give us our space. He is headed to El Corazon to see a favorite band of his. Amberly appears to send a communique as well, but I’m not going to get too caught up in any negative thoughts. I don’t know her, only what I’ve seen over the past hour or so. I just have to roll with things.  

We walk out into the brisk night without a care in the world. Almost. There is a bit of rain in the forecast, but what else is new in this corner of the world? Plus, it adds some romance to the adventure. At least that is the state of mind that we were rolling with.  

I never did get back to Kimberly. Not that evening, nor ever again. I was happy with Amberly, and perhaps most importantly—happy with my life as it was. Was it rude to not give Kim so much as a dismissive “we’ll have to raincheck?” Probably. But sometimes that’s the best way to move on. I have no regrets about the way things unfolded on that cold Seattle night long ago. I too was reckless, and I used the opportunity to go and grab the life I deserved.