In what seems like another lifetime ago, my buddies and I would toast ourselves with our favorite suds, generally strike out with the women in bars (a good thing, considering they were women in college bars), stumble furtively through the darkened University of North Texas campus and end up sitting beneath the bright lights in a booth of an International House of Pancakes (Where America sobers up™). I wonder if it was purposely perched on the edge of campus to facilitate the walking (albeit drunkardly, shaky, impeded) from Fry Street – the centerpiece of Denton's smoky stinky bar scene.
Beergoggles notwithstanding, and maybe being a lonely sort of guy at the time, many of the waitresses at that IHOP were totally hot. Even the youngest ones had seen it all after only a few shifts at The Hop and had likewise learned the art of drawing as much tip-money from foggy customers with flirtation, sisterly concern and french toast.
It was on such a night we met her, the "her" being a fellow college student trying to pay her way through school. Can't remember – it being thousands of moons ago – how the topic came up, but she told us her bicycle had been stolen. Luckily, I had just purchased a new bike and was looking to jettison my old one.
She was more than interested in taking a look at my bike, because her now-missing bike was her sole means of transportation. She lived in an apartment not far from work and the campus. Without a car or bike, she had to bum rides off friends or, even worse, plan further ahead and walk everywhere. In Texas, it is imperative to have access to some sort of wheels because the state wasn't built with public transit in mind. Everything is just too far apart. There are buses; urban centers now have trains. But independence is the thing, right?
We met a few days later, both wheels of my old ride peaking from under the trunk of my old BMW. She was a sharp haggler, and whittled my original asking price down to $80, but really, that was a good deal for both of us. She invited me into her apartment, where I met her male roommate (who slept on a rollup mattress in the living room) and saw the college squalor – yet unpretentious artiness – of her abode. I wonder how much more I could have gotten out of my college education had I had to work harder for it, rely on unmotorized transportation for all my errands, wonder where my next meal was coming from. Would I be a better person? Stronger? Able to cut my own hair?
She handed me four $20 bills, and I parked her new bike by her hole-infested sofa. She walked me back to my car, and we chatted about our jobs and whatnot. I was a reporter/photographer for a small daily newspaper at the time, and she asked me what my favorite part of the photography process was. I didn't say what I should have; maybe I wasn't focusing on the question. I said something about the moment I tripped the shutter, knowing I had something good burned onto the film, was probably my favorite part. That wasn't true, but it's because of my thoughtlessness rather than having any reason to lie.
My favorite part was having processed the film and, having gotten to the printing stage, rocking back an exposed piece of photo paper in the developer tray, slowly watching an image come to life. It was the best time you can have in a dark closet by yourself (with a bottle of Dektol). It's when the artist creates the art. It's that moment when the trigger is pulled and the sweet release of having produced something is realized. Sure, it was a kind of artsy answer, but she might have responded to it with a smile and a nod. Maybe we'd make plans to see each other again, talk about photography and art, grab something to eat other than pancakes. Do something other than ride bikes.
The reality was, I shook her hand and was off in my red German sports sedan.
Weeks later, I saw her again at IHOP (repeat self-inflicted haziness) and I asked her the lamest, dumb-guy question ever: "So, how's that bike treatin' ya?" She rolled her eyes, chuckled a little and said, "Yeah, that's nice." I missed another chance to be an actual person rather than some drunk idiot.
I have no illusions of a life-changing relationship that could have been. But sometimes I think back and wonder how I could have been a better person, maybe a friend, to someone who remained a stranger. For all the technology we have today (and I won't list it because the number of devices and means continue to multiply), human contact is still a necessity. Reaching out. Touch. Face-to-face interaction. Emotion. Love. Sex. Hugging. Shaking hands. A warm hand placed on a tired shoulder. Lots of methods for touch as well, of course, all classic and all wonderful beyond measure. I blew my chance at the time for what, back then, was much-needed touch on my way to who I am today. I certainly have a wonderful life now and don't want to change it, but missed chances suck.
Bummer.
I enjoyed this post.
We all have "the one that got away" stories. They're usually very poignant.
Thanks for sharing.
Good post.
Nice that you can look back at the scenario in a mature way.
I can't believe you can remember ANY of your UNT days. I had friends there while I was going to jr. college and we'd drive up there on the weekends. I can't tell you what we did, though. I can't remember. All I know is that Denton is a PARTY TOWN! Oh yeah - and they don't call "Fry Street" "Fry" for nothing! Heh.
I often think of how my life would have been different had I done something differently. But I truly believe that everything you do or don't go through is what makes you the person you are today. While I don't know you personally, I think you are a pretty decent, sensitive (yet manly! :) ) creative guy with a wonderful family and a knack with the written language. You shouldn't worry about missed opportunities.