Did I Want to Have Scott’s Baby?
After New Year’s Eve, Scott and I saw each other steadily for several more weeks. He still rarely spoke.
Everything we did involved music. We went to bars where bands were playing. We drove into Cleveland several times, hitting the nightclubs there. Everywhere we went, there was a ruckus so we didn’t need to talk.
In the car, we’d listen to tapes and Scott would drive wordlessly. I talked non-stop to make up for the silence between songs. I asked him questions about himself – his life before me – and he’d answer with grunts and two-word answers.
Sometimes I would talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and he wouldn’t even nod. I’m not sure if he cared that I rambled on, but I’m sure he knew I idolized his silence.
I didn’t need him to speak. Cool was my only concern.
Cigarettes, cocaine, and shiny silver beer cans were now a part of my life.
I was sure that my delusion of his coolness was seeping directly into me as I imitated his every move. What happened instead is that I developed two new addictions – cigarettes and cocaine – and believed this made me special.
To this day, it still amazes me that I believed I knew so much; I knew so very, very little.
Since Scott had no interest in hanging out with me on campus, and I had no interest in sleeping at his parents’ house, we stayed in hotels near whatever bar we frequented.
He didn’t talk at the hotels, either.
We’d zonk out at around 3 a.m. and sometime after sunrise, he’d wake me and drive me back to my dorm. There was no breakfast involved, just morning cigarettes to offend my hangover.
When Scott dropped me off, he’d say, “I’ll pick you up Friday at 7.” And that would be our next date.
We certainly did not talk on the phone.
After a couple of months of this deeply quiet relationship, it occurred to me that I might accidentally become pregnant. I hadn’t had a consistent sexual relationship before – not ever – so this was something I considered in depth.
Did I want to have Scott’s baby? No, I did not. As cool as he was, Scott didn’t strike me as great father material.
So one night in a hotel somewhere, I said to Scott: “I’m thinking we might need to start using some kind of birth control.”
He just stared at me. As usual, he said nothing. Then he went to sleep.
I thought this might require further discussion. So the next day as he was dropping me off at the dorm, I mentioned it again: “I really think we ought to start using birth control. I really, really don’t want to get pregnant.”
There may have been a slight sigh, or a grunt, but no words.
He was beautiful.
“Okay, see ya!” I said, hopping out of the car.
And I never saw Scott again.
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Epilogue: years later, I found Scott on Facebook. The fingerless gloves were gone, replaced by North Face black fleece. His coal black hair is now silver. His grown daughter looks like a movie star.
Scott gave up leather in favor of patterned shirts and chino shorts. He’s completely obsessed with golf.
Golf!
There’s not a single picture of a raw potato anywhere on his Facebook page, which I don’t fully understand.
But I am sincerely glad he walked away when he did.