Chapter 2 – Flashback

I had lost my new shoes two days after buying them specifically for this evening. “Emily, have you seen my new shoes?”, I screamed. Why she would know where I hid my brand new Johnston & Murphy loafers was well beyond me but I was in a hurry. She used to do a really good job of keeping track of my stuff for me even though she lived across town. Not so good lately.

“Where are you going?”, Em wanted to know. Now this question is quite profound due to the fact that I was having dinner with my dad tonight at some ritzy, pretentious, rich guy restaurant, which my dad was. Em had previously agreed to come with us. Pops was even planning on her being there, but the fact that she was in her favorite Saturday afternoon green colored sweatpants, the ones with the hole in the left knee and yelloe paint stain on the back, told me that she wasn’t going to make it again. She had a habit of forgetfulness lately when it came to things that were important to me.

I was completely annoyed at this point. I asked her if she was blowing the meet and greet with Pops again. I haven’t quite figured out why I torture myself with these arguement set-ups. You know the things I mean: “Are you going out dressed like that?”, “Where were you last night?, and now the ever popular, “Why aren’t you ready yet?”

I know that it must of slipped her mind, per usual, but the fact that I was running around in the silk tie I procured from the local men’s clothier, hunting for my new shoes should have jogged the old memory right? I guess not. I am not even sure why I keep putting up with this crap. Don’t get me wrong, Emily Rasmussen is extremely hot but there are many other lovely young ladies on this campus who wouldn’t mind hanging out with old Jack, at least that is what I keep telling myself. That damn Josh rides my back about dumping Emily but we have had a lot of good times, she and I.

“I just don’t feel like having boring conversation all night”, was her reply. I agree that my father keeps my interest like a 2 year old watching C-Span, but I was ready to explode. “We made these plans weeks ago, Em, and I think it is really shitty that you can’t make it again.” There was no winning arguments with her. She marched into my bedroom, the one that I share with her a few nights during the week, she hopped on the bed and flipped on the television. I was enraged, still standing in the middle of my tiny kitchen when her voice floated in from the back room. “You go suffer through with your dad, and I will be here waiting when you get back.”

There was no problem when she asked me to meet her parents. I remember that really long trip to Mamronek in New York state like it was yesterday. I, of course, had to drive the whole way in my 1985 Chevrolet Cavalier on a Friday. It was late afternoon in the middle of a February blizzard. The snow was flying sideways, pushing that 6-cylinder engine back and forth along the interstate. I was hoping that she would call it off due to the weather but it never happened. Daddy’s little girl just had to make it home to parade her new beau around like a show dog. Her father is New York State Democratic Representative Robert F. Rasmussen, Jr. A very respected business man in the area. He was your local All State Insurance agent who made a fortune in the stock market by mere luck. I can still here the lame story he tells about his wheeling and dealing, “I bet this Microsoft thing will make a few bucks!” I wanted to vomit all over his Armani suit. This guy shits gold and sweats arrogance. Apparently, my potential teaching degree was not a good way for a real man to make a living. “When I was your age, Jack…”, was a popular beginning to a lot of his sentences that night.

The converation steered its way to the ineveitable disaster. “How great is our President, Jack?” Not that I am a big politics guy, but my old man brought me up pro-Reagan and all I remember from our conversations between the haze of the wine and smoke from the Honduran cigars is that Clinton is not my old man’s favorite guy. The media and the comics got some good fodder from him but being born into a Republican family, I had to stick to my guns. Anyway, we got into this great big argument over President Clinton and how Representative Bob thought he could do ‘no wrong’. I proceeded to ask him if that was the name of his new Oriental intern. Suffice it to say, we left early and I never got another invite back. As I am sure you could have guessed, the ride back through Connecticut and up the Mass Turnpike was a silent roll. This was almost six months ago, but ever since, Em and I have spent less time going out together and more time arguing.

I walked into the bedroom having found my new shoes still in the box but sitting next to the garbage can. Luckily I was too lazy to take out the trash yesterday. I said goodbye to Em, stating that I wouldn’t be too late. She mentioned that lounging on my couch watching an old Tom Hanks/Meg Ryan flick on the tube would be company enough for the evening. I met Pops at the posh Aligator Club downtown, near Faneuil Hall. He was halfway through the first of our three bottles of Merlot. Thomas Alphonse LaFerriere III was one of Massachusetts’ top criminal lawyers. He was great at his job but not not so good at spending time with his boys and wife, which is why mom left him and moved my nine year old brother Tommy and I to New Hampshire when I was 12 years old. He had no problems when I told him that Alvirne High School’s Salutatorian was not following his old man’s footsteps and heading off to Harvard. He did; however, not feel that my choice of profession was up to par. “What kind of living can a teacher make?”, he would ask. As I sat down, he shook my hand and I could feel him scrutinize my style of dress. I thought I was conservative and sharp but maybe the Bruins tie was a little too cheesy. Two hours later, after sitting through some of his world famous Judge Markham stories, an epiphany hit him like a Roger Clemens fastball. “Wasn’t that Emily girl going to come with you tonight?”, he slurs.

I made up another lame excuse for her about having a paper due for one her medical classes. Yeah, that’s right. Emily was studying to be a doctor. Not just any doctor, of course, a cardiologist. I can see why her big shot father didn’t like the whole school teacher thing. I was hoping that Pops and I wouldn’t have to get into a conversation about my dating life. It was uncomfortable enough talking about my 3.2 GPA in subjects that he thought were useless. Pops let the subject of our MIA dinnermate go without so much as a hiccough. I’m pretty sure that as long as he had me to tell his bullshit law stories to he would be okay. I decided that I would share a cab home with my old man. He got dropped off at the wharf on the Charles River where he had his house boat parked and I scooted back towards Chestnut Hill dreading another potential knock-down, drag out with Emily.

I got back to my apartment around midnight only to find darkness. This is beginning to become a ritual. I was; however, blessed with one of Em’s world famous “I’m Sorry But…” Post-It Notes. This time she had to run out and have a drink with some friend that was down in the dumps about something I could care less about and she would call me sometime later Sunday afternoon. I proceeded to wad up the post-it and play trashcan basketball, pretending to be my childhood hero, Larry Bird. It hit the rim, bounced to the floor and scurried under the sofa, not to be seen from again until I moved following graduation. I managed to fall asleep in front of a M.A.S.H. rerun, spilling my twelfth Natural Light can on the grey shag carpeting of my living room. For someone that has a campus full of friends and a beautiful girlfriend, I felt very alone again.