Can You Drive Me Home?
After hanging out with Bonnie in Ohio, I realized it was no big deal to leave home whenever I wanted to go. I had my own entrance after all, so who was going to stop me?
My parents – who never thought Bonnie was a particularly good friend for me – suggested that if I wanted to go somewhere, maybe I should visit my more responsible college friend, Debbie, who lived in Norfolk.
I’m sure they expected Debbie to be a positive influence on me. While I’d always considered Bonnie to be “my other half,” Debbie was my other other half. Debbie had genuine love and respect for my inner child; that was the part of me she knew best. She saw my drunken episodes as things I did, not who I was – unlike my view of me. I knew better.
I imagined Debbie as the person I would have been if I’d never picked up a drink. She was sweet and naive and responsible. She had a job in public relations. She had her own apartment, a car, and a whole weekend to entertain me.
She picked me up at the Greyhound bus station, and we cried and hugged like we hadn’t seen each other in forever, even though it had only been a couple of months.
We went out to eat and talked as though no time at all had passed. She told me about her job and her co-workers and her new crush, Norman – whose name was ironically also her father’s name – and I told her about Larry and Florida and leaving.
Then we went to a bar, where I drank enough to knock out an elephant.
As part of the fun, Debbie pulled me aside for an hour to discuss whether or not she should go home with Norman. While Debbie and I talked, I made googly eyes at a blonde guy across the room. He was wearing a flannel shirt and smiling at me as though I were the only woman in the entire jam-packed nightclub.
His smile was perfect.
After a few more rum-and-cokes, I wanted to talk to the guy instead of Debbie. I convinced her to go home with Norman – right now. Debbie left with Norman, giggling and thrilled, leaving me with her home address on a napkin so I could find her later.
I walked over to the guy with the flannel shirt. “Can you drive me home?” I asked, by way of introduction.
He blinked, briefly cocked his head, then said, “Sure!”
Minutes later, I was getting a tour of Norfolk from a complete stranger who was driving drunk through town. An hour after that, we stopped in the middle of the road to have sex. We laughed like children, like lovers, like friends. As the sun started to rise on the horizon, I told him that this was the best night ever, and that I wanted to keep his flannel shirt forever so I would never forget him or the most incredible night of my very young life.
He wrapped me in the flannel and I wore it, along with my cutoff shorts and bare feet, as I carried my sandals to Debbie’s door, knocking and smiling as a blissful Debbie answered.
Forty years later, Debbie is heart-wrenchingly dead and I don’t even remember the guy’s name. But I still have his shirt: disintegrating, huge holes, stuffing coming out. It’s my favorite shirt. It reminds me of my drunkenness, my stupidity, my good fortune, and my youth.
I wear it like a badge, an albatross, and a blanket.