My Redacted Life: Chapter 17 (Cont._2)

School was out. Teachers were off for the summer. The Redhead would be around the apartment a lot I supposed, although she had evidenced no interest that I might be. All I knew about her feelings was a haughty “in your dreams, sucker,” look that she delivered so well.

I worked on the final stages of the Hope grant application, the place where nothing seemed to fit and things were always missing. As I struggled with this, amidst much swearing, a talent honed during my four years as “Barnacle Bill the Sailor,” the company prepared to go into the land development business. A bank had helped procure an option on a nice tract of land between two growing cities and Jack Castin had worked his magic in designing a wonderful modern subdivision.

Watching Jack work was as treat in itself. He was left-handed, in fact he once held the left-hand golf championship title for the State of Oklahoma. He would take pen in hand and, with great flowing arcs, streets and lots would appear, along with landscaped areas. Soon, a wonderful image peered back from what had been a blank sheet.

The women in the office thought he was wonderful as well. Drawing too many stares, and with such talent, he sailed unsuspecting into a sea of jealousy that was bound to erupt later. Stay tuned.

As for me, I had to go out of town to gather some data. That didn’t make my socks roll up and down, as they say. I imagined all sorts of things: parties to which I wouldn’t have been invited; my Redhead leaving on a date with a big tall basketball coach, her arm in his and her head resting lovingly on his shoulder, those wonderful eyes peering up adoringly from a circle of red hair; or an engagement notice in the paper.

I thought maybe I’d better forget about it and concentrate on what I was doing. The company wasn’t paying me to moon over a girl that had already promised herself to some fool. They were paying me to photograph wonderful old buildings, slated to be demolished in the name of progress. I was righteous, after all.

One evening after I finished the day’s work, I did drive to Texarkana, Texas and look up my old friends Gary and Dianna Toler. I found them living in a converted chicken house behind Dianna’s childhood home with a young daughter.

We visited and they sang for me, not the old songs, though. After several drug-filled adventures that had led them hitchhiking to New York City—where Gary had almost sold a song—and back, they had gotten into religion, the one where you go around knocking on doors on Saturday. They claimed it had saved their lives, recommending it highly. It had led to a child and a stable home, albeit a chicken house. It changed their music, and not necessarily for the worse. We got along fine, a good diversion from my miseries.

Talking to Toler always helped
to ease my troubled mind.

Seeing how content they were, I decided “to hell with the Redhead.” She may have gotten married while I was gone. Good enough for her. She could just go on learning the difference between a foul shot and a layup. I didn’t care if she chose bleacher-splinters over fun and excitement, her loss, not mine.

I pulled into the apartment building’s parking lot after dark when I arrived home. I grabbed my old sea bag full of dirty clothes from the car and started to my apartment. My neighbor stood behind her screen door watching me.

For a moment, I didn’t think she was wearing anything at all. I averted my gaze and headed for my door.

“Hey sailor.” Her voice caught me. Oh well, one little look wouldn’t hurt. Besides, both my affections and my attention were free to roam now.

I looked.

She wasn’t fully exposed. She wore her faithful peignoir. The backlighting had produced the initial effect. I tried to look her directly in the eyes. Gravity fought me like a demon.

“You just missed her.”

My heart succumbed to gravity as well.

“She asked about you.”

Gravity dissipated.

“Oh? Who?”

That laugh and that wink. “She said she hadn’t had anyone stare at her hind-end all week.”

“Oh,” I said, “you mean your sister’s friend.”

“No, I meant the Queen of England,” she said, then added, “You’ve really got a case of it, don’t you?”

“How old is she?”

How old is she? Couldn’t I have thought of anything more stupid to say?

“Old enough,” she said, laughing. “Take it from your friend here. Old enough.” She turned to close the door. The combination of light and sheerness of material gave me a quick glimpse of what I thought Heaven must be like. “Good night,” she said. “Sleep tight.”

I turned to my own door, thinking, “I’m not in Vietnam anymore.”