Winter 1982: Sticky Basement
I stand on the other side of the dance floor, beer in hand, half empty, half drunk.
People gyrate to the sounds of late 70’s and early 80’s rock. “fafafafa fafafafafa…Psycho Killer….” the Talking Heads were a favorite tending to get more people dancing, singing, and otherwise engaged.
It’s after midnight in the crowded basement of the Frat house. The capacity sign posted by the local fire department says “83”. There are easily twice that many at the moment.
She stares back at me, as if inviting me to talk with her. A slight smile? Hard to tell, but yes, I think so.
“Why don’t you go talk to her?” my hall mate asks.
“Good question.” I think to myself.
“I dunno.” I say out loud. “Not sure she’s my type.”
“What type is that?” He asks.
“Well, she’s probably gotta boyfriend.” I respond, ignoring his question. “I saw her with a guy last week.” I lied.
My friend disappeared, only to reappear moments later standing next to the co-ed, engaging with her in what looked like a lively conversation.
She looked over at me and smiled — a bigger smile this time.
Short, pretty with blond hair, she wore her cardigan sweater well. I knew she was smart, only smart girls got into our Uni. Mostly smart guys too. Some of us were exceptions.
Not a bad thing really, just sort of slipped through the cracks somehow.
Maybe the admissions counselor was momentarily distracted and accidentally stamped “Accepted” on my application rather than “Rejected”.
Never know really.
Also — my distant cousin, whom I had never met, but who was in the Engineering School, maybe he had a vote and went with family ties over logic and capabilities?
Never know that either.
I turned away, draining the half cup of beer and then turning to walk to the side of the bar — as a brother, I knew the tricks to get served more rapidly. As a senior, we had some measure of stature and respect — even if we weren’t on the football or basketball teams.
When I turned around, he was standing beside me again.
“She says if you’ll come over, she’d be happy to talk with you.”
I took a large sip from my 11th beer of the evening.
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“Thanks.” I tried to say.
I think what came out was “Nah.”
I turned away.
Whay was I so afraid? I’m 21 years old, been a campus leader for about a year, play Ice Hockey, had several dates and maybe you could call Molly a girlfriend even — for a couple of months over the summer…campanion really, not intimate. Just friendly.
But geez….why can’t I just relax, and find a way to well, be me.
I am (mostly) a good guy.
I think I am reasonably ok looking — long past my diaper wearing days of being Quasimodo.
You’d think I’d have the confidence.
And maybe then, I’d have a shot.
At a relationship.
With a real live girl.
But no.
I kept talking myself out of it.
Letting my brooding, analytical, self defeating nature overrule logic and hormones, and well, the natural order of things even in the artificial confines of an elite university and its houses of brotherhood.
Crazy thing is, I was likely at my most attractive self.
Playing hockey.
President of the Intra Fraternal Council.
In the paper alot for scoring or debating with faculty.
But at night, in the basement, in the crowded, warm confines of the rediculously loud, and sticky frat houses, I was just me.
A friggen wall flower.
Worse: a brooding, non communicative, stalker looking wall flower, terrified of having a relationship.
Focused on failure (based in part on attempts at relationships); holding myself back.
Until this very day.
