Chapter 87: Date, Interrupted

Friday, February 25, 1983

Ang and I decided on a triple date for tonight (with Paige and Jas, respectively).

Yes, triple. We’d gotten in touch with Candice and Sherry, and they were more than happy to join us. We all met up at the mall pizza place, munched pizza and salad, played a few video games for old times’ sake, and then headed to the movie theater to see a movie I was happy to revisit: ‘Local Hero’.

It’d been easily thirty years since I’d last seen it, and it held up very, very well. I’d almost forgotten that parts of it are set in Houston. That had us all amused. Everyone liked it, and ... what’s not to like? Interesting characters, interesting story, almost-but-not-quite a modern fairy tale, a bit of romance...

We all left happy. Sherry teased me about being the last guy left in the group, which amused me, particularly since she was the only one there I hadn’t done anything with (though I couldn’t say that, obviously).

Candice got me and Angie aside after Sherry went to the bathroom. Paige and Jas both tagged along with her, and I’m pretty sure everyone knew it was to give Ang and me a few minutes to talk with Candice alone.

“So...” she said, smiling, “Sherry and I are starting to plan. Like, really plan. She’s looking at something local, maybe, for a year. U.H. or the like. Probably not Rice. Then she’ll transfer where I go. It’s not set or anything, but ... we’re giving it a shot, or trying to.”

“I’m glad,” I said. “You two have seemed like a great couple.”

“We are,” Candice said. “And ... unlike Ang, I just ... still ... well. Okay. I could date a guy. I’m sure I could. But I love Sherry, and so I don’t have to, and I like that. Partly because — and I know you don’t want to hear this — but, any guy has to measure up to you, and that’s gotten harder over the last two years, not easier. Your bar is higher after we stopped dating, honestly. I know you don’t want to hear that, but ... why should I settle?”

“I don’t want to hear it, but I don’t want you to settle, either,” I said. “Nothing about this is easy.”

Angie nodded. “I don’t want to hear it, either. Oh, I mean, I’m all for sticking with Sherry if that works. Love who you love, and don’t settle for less. But, if you didn’t have Sherry, or any girl you had feelings for, you’d have to give guys a chance. No one is going to measure up to a guy you’ve known for two and a half years and who’s been there through what’s happened, but that doesn’t mean they couldn’t. It just means that your measuring stick is really unfair.”

Candice nodded. “Okay, point to you both. I didn’t really mean it quite that way, but ... yeah. Fine! We’ll see if we have what it takes, and if not ... next time I’m open to either. Well, unless I’m still at Duschene. If I am, then it’s gotta be a girl,” she said, grinning.

“I hope you do,” I said. “But I’m a sucker for happy-ever-afters.”

“Me, too,” Angie said. “Both, I mean.”

“That makes three of us,” Candice said, still grinning.

Sherry came back, smiling. “What were you three talking about?”

We all looked at her. “You,” we said, simultaneously.

That got everyone laughing. When we stopped, Candice said, “All good stuff.”

Angie nodded. “It was.”

I added, “I promise. Cross my heart.”

Sherry smiled. “Well, good. I’ll stop plotting my revenge!”

With that, we split up and went home. Tomorrow, most likely, we’d do ... more. Not tonight.

Saturday, February 26, 1983

I spent most of the day working. I had an English paper due in a week, and it was a good time to make progress on an outline. During my first go-round I’d seldom used outlines, but it made much more sense this time. My working process was to outline first, bounce ideas off people in Study Group second, then update the outline and write. I was, most likely, only going to do one version. My first draft would be my final draft. That part remained the same. I simply didn’t want to handwrite the same paper twice.

Things would be very different with word processors, but I hadn’t moved to one yet, nor had anyone at Memorial. Soon, but not yet. I’d probably be able to get away with it senior year, though the odds were...

I stopped and thought about it. The odds were that teachers would simply reject computer-printed output based on the ‘Daddy’s secretary typed that for you’ trope they’d used during my first go-round. That one combined sexism, stupidity, and implied cheating into a neat little package, didn’t it?

But now, I was a member of a body that could possibly change policy. We’d changed policy before, hadn’t we? It would also give me an excuse to make an unlikely ally — Mr. Hannity, who barely knew who I was this time.

Honestly, if I was a teacher I’d probably fight it on the grounds that dot-matrix computer output was just plain ugly. Of course, I knew that reasonably affordable laser printers weren’t all that far away. Oh, not affordable for individuals, not for years, but in a price range that allowed for shared computer labs to have a few. I’d printed nearly all of my college papers on laser printers that way, and that was less than two years away.

Food for thought. Perhaps I’d start another little revolution at Memorial. The timing would, honestly, be perfect, though only Ang and I would know that. Most colleges already required typed papers (with typewriters available for a nominal fee), and that would shift rapidly to computer-printed papers, with increasing penalties for mistakes that could’ve been easily fixed in editing. It’s one thing to say white-out is okay, when you’re having to type the whole thing on a typewriter, but entirely a different thing when you can just fix the mistake and reprint the page.

Besides English (both reading and outlining), I left most of my other homework for Study Group. I didn’t have any other papers due just now (though History would have one soon) and we always went over each other’s homework in Study Group. Yes, we’d cleared this with all of the teachers. It wasn’t cheating as long as you did your own work first, then reviewed it with others. Simply copying the answers would be cheating, but then you’d crash and burn on the test. Well ... that or cheat, and we never cheated.

In the afternoon, Angie and I spent a bit of time together on ‘The Sound of Music’. Rehearsals were going well. I felt like we were well ahead of where we’d been on ‘Brigadoon’. By that, I mean the whole cast, not just the two of us. As a group, we were just a bit more mature, a bit more experienced, than the ‘Brigadoon’ cast had been.

I knocked off work around four-thirty, changed into dating clothes (dark green polo, black slacks), and headed over to Jas’s house. She was already ready when I got there, opting for a flowery blue silk blouse and a black skirt.

She met me at the curb and hopped in. “Hi, boyfriend!” she said, scooting over and giving me a hug and kiss.

“Hi, girlfriend,” I said, grinning.

“That still sounds more like the way a gay guy would greet me,” she said.

“Not the kiss, though.”

“No, definitely not!”

She scooted back over and buckled in. “Are we still going to that Thai place?”

“I thought so, unless you want something else?”

“Nah. I love Thai food!”

“I love Vietnamese, but...”

“That’s later,” she said, grinning.

I got us on the road. We talked over rehearsals, her English paper — different teacher, different book — and some of our Spring Break plan.

Dinner was very tasty, and not too spicy. When the waitress gave us the beverage menu, we teased each other about ordering wine or a beer, but we didn’t try, of course. There’d be time for that. This wasn’t it.

After eating, we browsed a bit at a used record store and a used book store, holding hands and picking a few things each. Both stores were familiar to me in a vague way. I knew that I’d shopped at them many times my first go-round, but couldn’t remember many details. We joked about catching a movie at the Varsity, but the porn back at Jasmine’s was much more ... tactile. And interactive. Though I gather plenty of shenanigans happen at adult movie theaters, I’d never seen any, and certainly never indulged in any. That might happen, but (as with alcohol) this wasn’t the time for it.

On the way back, Jas looked over at me. “I loved both dates this weekend, you know?”

“I know. I do, too. A relationship without either would be ... well, less of a relationship.” And ... don’t get me started, because I knew that all too well. We’d had plenty of pleasant ‘date nights’. A meal out, a movie or a show, things like that. It was romance, and sex, that were lacking. Not intimacy, per se. My ex and I had known each other very well, I thought — but, then, I also thought she knew herself very little.

She smiled, giving my hand a squeeze. “That said ... I’m looking forward to getting home!”

“Me, too. Meaning your home.”

She giggled. “I’d love to be heading to our home, but that can wait a while longer.”

“Sadly, yes, but happily only a while.”

Another squeeze, and a happy sigh.

The road back to Jasmine’s house took us from the freeway to a couple of major streets, then progressively smaller ones. It’s a pretty typical pattern for suburban America (maybe suburbia anywhere, but I hadn’t lived anywhere but America) and one I was very used to.

As with most places, there’s a bit less lighting every time the streets get smaller. Good for parking teenagers, sleepy families, and so forth.

I was reminded of one of the downsides just as I entered an intersection after stopping at a four-way stop. I looked to the side and caught a bit of moonlight reflecting off a car on the cross-street. One with no headlights, going much too fast, clearly not intending to stop at the sign.

“Jas! Car!”

She looked out the window and screamed. I can’t blame her; I would have, too. I was too busy jerking the wheel hard to the left and hitting the gas in hopes of catching the impact anywhere but the front passenger door, which is where I thought the other car was heading at the moment. I was also trying to lean on the horn.

An eternity of a second or two later, there was a very, very loud, very scary noise that combined screaming, bending metal, engine noise, tires moving sideways on pavement, breaking safety glass, and ... for all I know, a band of demons joined right in. It was ear-splitting, it was awful, and it was terrifying.

When we stopped, my head was ringing and hurting. I had a feeling I’d hit the side window. How hard? I was still conscious, not seeing double, and my head felt better than after the bicycle wreck, so ... hopefully not too hard. I looked over. Jas was struggling with her seat belt and crying.

“Are...” I croaked out, then started over. “Are you okay?”

“My ... my neck hurts ... and I’m scared! Help me!”

I reached over and got the seat belt to release after a bit of a struggle, then helped her to my side of the car. As she moved, she looked into the back seat. The door pillar was crushed, the back door was crumpled and shoved into the car, and the other car’s hood was poking through all of that and a bit into the passenger area. On balance ... well, if he’d hit squarely, my car was a tank. Heavy steel, solid construction, all that. On the other hand, it had no airbags, the seat belts weren’t all that great, and the front passenger door could have crumpled inward. Even if the odds were in our favor, it was way too close for comfort.

She shuddered. “If ... if you ha ... ha ... hadn’t swerved...”

“Don’t think about it. I did.”

“I ... it...”

“C’mon, honey. Let’s get out and away, just in case.”

She scooted over with my help. She reached up and touched her head and neck a few times. I was immediately worried about whiplash. Come to think of it, my neck had decided it was pretty unhappy, too.

By this point, lights were coming on in a few houses. One door opened and a guy in a bathrobe came out. “Are you all right?” he called.

“Shaken up ... maybe injured, I’m not sure.” I croaked out. My voice was still not doing very well. “I don’t know how the other driver is.”

“I’m calling the police. Try not to move too much! That’s what they told us in first aid, anyway!” he said, going back into his house.

We looked into the other car. The driver was clearly alive. He waved a hand (or a fist, perhaps) and started beating on his door. From the way the car had crumbled, I wasn’t sure that door was going anywhere anytime soon, but he kept hitting it.

Since there didn’t seem to be any fire, or leaking gasoline, or anything else, I gave up on him for the moment and helped Jas to the curb. She decided to lie down, which rang warning bells.

“Honey?”

“Uh ... yes?”

“Don’t lie down, okay? I think it’s important that you don’t. You’re supposed to stay awake after a head injury.”

“I don’t know if my head is injured...?”

“Me, neither, but ... just stay sitting, okay?”

“Okay, but ... my neck hurts. What are you...?”

“I have to try to help the other driver. He might be seriously injured.”

“I ... uh ... okay.”

I went over, but before I got there some other people had come out of their houses. One of them, a fairly big guy, looked at me. “Kid, just go sit, okay? We’ll help the other guy.”

“Okay,” I said, and went to sit with Jas, holding her in my arms.

Perhaps five minutes later we started to hear sirens. Just about then, we heard something else, too.

“You broke my car!” a voice bellowed. The words were a bit slurred. I looked over, and they’d gotten the other driver out through a rear door. He was on his feet, if a bit wobbly, and heading over.

“You hit us!” Jasmine yelled before I could say anything.

“You cut me off! I had the right of way!”

“Sir, you didn’t ... for one thing, you weren’t using your headlights, and for another, we’d just continued after a stop, and you went right through the stop sign.”

“Of course I was using my fucking headlights! Who do you think I am?!”

“I think you’re the guy that just smashed into my car and nearly killed my girlfriend.”

“Why I oughtta...!”

Several of the helpful neighbors apparently realized this wasn’t going in a useful direction and got between him and us. Thank goodness, too. I’d been peripherally involved in a traffic accident with Daniel Winton (while Dave and I were visiting him in Austin) and a drunk driver, and that one nearly came to blows over a scraped fender. This damage was worse. Much worse.

My head was getting worse. I thought it was just the yelling, and the stress, but my ears were ringing.

Jasmine, too, apparently. She groaned a bit. “I don’t feel so good, Steve.”

“Honey?”

“I...” Whatever she was going to say was lost in sudden vomiting, a fair bit of which hit me. I felt myself going the same direction, but had just enough presence of mind to hit the grass beside us and not her or myself.

When she’d stopped, she suddenly chuckled, just a little. “Waste ... of good ... Thai...” Then she cut loose again, this time able to hit the grass on the other side.