Memoir

Memory is such an untidy thing; leaves cabinet doors open, clothes on the floor and crumbs on the counter. You can’t sweep it away, and no matter how you try to clean it up, it is what it is.

Jimmy R. and I were drinking at the Carriage House, the only gay bar, at the time, in Muncie. It was close by his house and the owners were friendly. The clientèle was interesting (i.e., lots of women hung out there), and they showed old movies on Friday and Saturday nights on a screen pulled down before the fireplace. They also owned a print of The Jolson Story and had a most eclectic taste. I believe this particular night they were showing Jesse James Meets Frankenstein’s Daughter and a Destry film. Bonus double feature.

Now, Jimmy and I had known each other for a few years. He was part of the 12 Mile (IN) Mafia that I had hooked up with in my undergraduate days, and we’d had some times together. We’d been neighbors, done tons of drugs at his house or mine, he’d slept with my ex-wife and been gracious enough to confess it and be relieved when I said “Good for you.” We were tight friends, in a 20s-something kind of way.

Anywho, this is probably February of 1978, we were conviving with a crowd of known co-recreants; the second feature was winding down, and at the table of 8 or so was a woman with whom I’d taken British Literature classes back in the day. For the life of me, I can’t remember her name, so I’m going to call her Linda. We were having a grand old time. “What ever happened to old…” and “Do you remember when…” That kind of thing. I was sitting next to her, and the atmosphere was getting pretty warm betwixt us, when Jimmy says, “Goggin, I got to go home.”

Well, it’s a little past 11PM and outside there’s an early spring ice-storm raging as much or more than my hormones, but, friends are friends, even though it’s only about 4 blocks to his house. I tell Linda that I’ll be right back and to keep my chair warm. I pay our tab and we say our good-byes.

Now, at the time, I was driving a ‘63 Impala, black and dented, 3-speed on the column and precious little holding it together. When we went outside, the weather was in a serious state of deterioration. Everything was coated in ice. Jimmy scraped rime off the windshield while I feathered the throttle to keep the Chevy running, defroster full on. Then we were off.

It’s only 4 blocks, ok. You’d hardly think one could screw that up. Once we got up the incline to Kilgore Avenue, only a couple hundred yards to Charles St., a half-right and ecce homo, we are there. Unfortunately, as we did the half-right, I decided to goose the straight-6, just for a little thrill. It was slicker than snot and we slid across Charles St. and posited the left front fender of that Impala up against a big old elm, or oak, or maple, hell, I don’t know, a big old tree. Let’s just say that it was definitely in the way and had crumpled up that fender to the point where it was impinging on the left-front tire. Various hoots, hollers and curses were ejaculated.

We jumped out to survey the damage. We weren’t thinking that fast, but fast enough to realize we were in a somewhat precarious position. Only a hundred yards from Jimmy’s house, but too drunk with a wrecked car. I popped open the trunk and pulled out the jack, one of those old-style with the pedestal, and used it to start prying the fender away from the tire.

About then, two young women, who lived right there and had heard the impact, came out to ask “Is everyone alright? Would you like us to call the police?” …….. “Yes and no, no, no!” I believe we replied in unison. Well, after a little sweating and swearing, I cleared the tire. We popped in, started her up, and crawled the remaining yards to Jimmy’s. Whew…. Another escape.

Now, clearly, by my own report, I was too drunk. But when I said to Jimmy, “Man, can I borrow your car? Linda’s waiting for me back at the bar.”, you can judge how drunk he was by the fact that he said “Sure.”

He handed me his keys, I jumped into his VW, pulled two rights and a left, and within 2 minutes was back within the cheery confines of the Carriage House. Linda was still there.

We ended up at a TravelLodge on the north side of town. “Let’s go to your place.” “No, that’s not good” (Read live-in boyfriend.) “What about your place?” “No….” (Read live-in girlfriend.) I had enough cash (this was pre-credit-card days) to score us a room, and we had a most commodious time.

Memory fails me here; I can remember checking in. I can remember driving her back to her car. But what I can’t remember is the actual details of what ensued in the meanwhile. I mean, I remember it being a very pleasurable experience, and the fact that I can recall it after 30 years speaks to that, but the graphic details escape me. You literate voyeurs will have to hang fire on that.

Maybe it’s just that casual sex is all about the intro and the exit. The physicality of the act itself is of a whole, merging with all the other physicality one has encountered. I can’t remember her face, or her name, just her presence at my right hand at that table at the Carriage House, the shape of her body, and the heat that warmed that ice storm, made me be stupid, and thawed me a little bit that night. Don’t believe I ever saw her again.

Memory is a bitch.