This mess I have made

A lot of shit went down in 1985. My grandmother Mama Ruby had a stroke and died right in front of me on the blue and white checkered linoleum of her kitchen floor. It was also the year the Dire Straights came out with the Brothers in Arms album. You could not turn on a radio without hearing Mark Knopfler grumbling about getting your money for nothing and your chicks for free. There was only one season that year: summer, and it rained everyday.

During the summer of 1985, I was taking an “Into to Psychology” course at the Dunwoody campus of Dekalb Community College. I had a huge crush on a curly-haired, trench coat wearing classmate named Wendy Ivey. Wendy was four years older than me, which put her at a respectable 23 years old. Understandably, I lied to her and told her that I was also 23. I think she believed me. Wendy was one of many ex University of Georgia students at Dekalb whose grades had fallen on hard times. She was attending Dekalb College to jump start her GPA, make a little money working at the newly built Galleria Mall and hopefully return to Athens one day.

Wendy was the coolest girl that I had ever met. She liked to drink beer and talk about going to Scotland. We were going to be expatriates. One day we skipped class and hung out by the old mill ruins at Vickory Creek in Roswell. It was jungle hot that day and while Wendy worked on her tan, I drank sun-warmed beer and attempted sneaky glimpses at her cleavage (which was more than ample). Another day, she took me on a long car ride to visit her boyfriend in Athens. We listened to Bob Marley on her car cassette deck for the entire trip. It was the first time that I had heard the song, “Jammin” and I loved it. Wendy’s boyfriend lived with his roommates in a typical “guy apartment” full of empty beer bottles and a bong adorned coffee table. He was tall and blonde and nice and funny, so understandably I hated him. I remember standing uncomfortably by the “tree that owns itself” while Wendy and her man tried to work in some abbreviated loving in his cleanliness impaired apartment. I remember thinking, “Here I am with a fucking tree and he is inside with her”. “I am such a loser”. Finally she immerged from the frat cave, flushed and happy and talking about going to see a band called the “Swimming Pool Q’s”. The ride home was not near as fun as the ride out, and an electrical short began to form in my head as the beer worked on the area between my brain and mouth. I don’t remember what I said, but I do remember that the vibe in the car got thick and uncomfortable and Atlanta seemed a hell of a long way away.

Wendy was a great proponent of psychedelic experimentation. In an effort to cure my own curiosity and incur her favor I arranged through her to purchase a vehicle to transport me and a friend to an alternate reality. Under the guise of borrowing a text book, I rushed to her house one evening and collected the aforementioned substance on two Chiclets-sized pieces of paper, resting deep between the pages of chapter 8. It was this attempt at impressing Wendy by engaging in one of her favorite pastimes that eventually soured our friendship. In short, I never paid her the ten bucks for the product (ten bucks was a lot of money in those days). Those ten dollar bills became the piece of sand that irritated the oyster. Only instead of making a beautiful pearl, it made a great black sore spot in our relationship. Two, three, four times she asked me for the money and each time I turned out empty pockets. My lack of repayment for my purchase was due more to irresponsibility than intention. For some reason I was sure that she would turn away my ten and credit my purchase to the house. I was childishly wrong.

Time went by and after many weeks of trying I finally got through to Wendy on the telephone. The level of irritation that she had towards me was made evident through a voice that seemed to be forced through a clenched lips.

“I am engaged to a real Scotsman, now”
“I met him on the beach”
“Oh, really” I said. “Are you going to get to go to Scotland?” I asked her.
“In a month”
“That’s great” I said with regret and jealousy in my heart.
“You know I still work at the radio station” I said trying to thin out the slow and heavy conversation.
“I gotta go, my mom needs me”, she said not interested.
“Okay” I said meekly and listened to the finality of the dial tone.

That was the last time I spoke to Wendy. Man, I sure can make a mess. Some fuck ups you never get the chance to fix.