2 Year Itch Part 1

     On Veteran's Day 1966, I think, Barbara  and I were out clubbing on a holiday Friday night. As odd as that sounds, it is true. My usual escape partner was Ruth, but she had deserted me via her marriage. We were at The Blue Moon, I recall, in Latham and I think Mr. Mood was playing there live. This may have been our first stop, though it's possible we'd been to the Circle Inn. We occasionally went there, but it was rather off-putting because entering you had to pass the circular bar of ogling guys. Ruth and I typically would end up at Faye's where we were welcome and sometimes had breakfast at Thornie's with the owner and bartender, Frank and George. But this night was different.
    B. and I were sitting at a table, like good girls, not at the bar where we might have been labeled as promiscuous. A man approached and asked B. to dance. (It turned out he was an engineer; they soon arranged a date, but I don't know what happened  to that potential romance. I'll have to ask.)  While they were off dancing, Dave appeared. We danced and at the end of the evening, he asked for my phone number. That was the standard ritual back then.
    Dave had arranged for our first date to be dinner at Wallie's in Greenwich. We never got there because Dorothy intervened and, as an alternative so I wouldn't be abducted or such, invited us to her home on Wetsel Road for dinner with her and Gus.It was fortunate, as Dave, used to city driving, ended up getting lost on the way to my house and drove all the way up beyond Greenwich anyway. He said he felt like he was driving to the end of the earth. I don't remember what we ate at the King's residence, but recall a rollicking good time. Dave, working with his brother then who owned a Baby Butler franchise, did a sales presentation there in the trailer home. It was hilarious, but not out of the realm of reality then as Dorothy and Gus were hoping to start a family in the near future.
      At the end of the evening, Dave drove us to my house in his 1955 Porsche convertible, and as we rounded the curves on the dirt road, I vowed that, if I got home alive, I would never get in that car again. It is possible I did , but since I had a  much newer car, we mostly rode in that.
    **This memory, the beginning anyway, came to me today on the long ride home. I always, in stretches of time, have to have something on my mind, so different from Dave.  When we would be taking long car trips to Cape Cod or Niagara Falls, or North Carolina, he would sit and drive, showing no emotion, never, ever commenting on the patterns or intrusions of other drivers. I would ask, back in those early days, what he was thinking about as he drove. His answer was always the same. "Nothing, " he would say. "I'm not thinking about anything."
    I always need something to think about, and as it happens, my thoughts are always in the form of words, the written kind. Either awake, or at night, half asleep, I write essays, confessions, treatises, complaints, even poems. As  I translate from thought to written word, some remain unwritten, some are written and appear in print, and some are printed and deleted. I never know for sure which will be which, but I do know I'm compelled to continue. Next time, O Blog, I may get to the 2 year time limit.