6.3.1982
I had to pick chicken or fish today. Rebecca wants to get all of the minor stuff out of the way ASAP so her mom can’t help with the plans. Not that I don’t blame her. Her mom is a bitch. Chicken or fish? That’s it? There are only two choices? Who thought of that rule?
It’s only a couple of months away, but it feels like Christmas Eve when you’re eight, and you can’t fall asleep because you just need to know what the next day is going to bring. I love this girl. P&R. Petey & Rebecca. Forever. And ever.
That’s what I told Chuck at the record store this afternoon when were browsing the New Wave section. With a Go-Go’s LP in hand, he asked “Well why else are you doing it? You love her and she loves you. That simple.”
And I nodded in agreement. I do love this girl. I just don’t know if I can spend the rest of my life with her. I mean, sixty years of wedded bliss? Married to the same person. Living with their faults, and them with yours. Sex with them. Only them. Raising kids. They’ll probably be brats because Rebecca will let them walk all over us since she doesn’t want to be her mother. My parents were happily married three years and couldn’t stand each other for twenty-three.
I ended up telling Rebecca that I wanted chicken for my dinner at the reception. Make sense I guess. I marry Rebecca Edwards in just a few weeks, and all I can think about is how much I don’t want to. But I love this girl. Maybe. Kind of.
I serve this dude’s rum & Coke, third in twenty minutes so I need to watch him sooner than later, and I start to wipe a glass clean. I look up. Our eyes lock. It’s only for a moment, and then someone walks between us. And then she’s gone. And I think with only a few weeks left before I marry Rebecca, I just fell in love. Real love. No maybe’s. No kind of’s. This is it. And now she’s gone.
6.6.82
For the last three days, she’s been in my mind. And it’s not like I even caught a glimpse of her for more than just a couple of seconds. But it’s those moments, they say, that change you. I don’t know. Maybe I’m reaching.
Fleetwood Mac comes over the jukebox as some rowdies from out of town start to push each other around. I think about a show I went to with Rebecca in 79, smoking pot in the parking lot before the show. And I think about how that only intensified the spectacle of Stevie Nicks twirling on stage. Rebecca turned to me and mouthed the chorus to “Say You Love Me”, and I think “this is it.” But it wasn’t.
The rowdies are kicked out of the bar and complain about the shoddy service anyway. For the last three days, Chuck and I have brainstormed every girl that we know that is a regular to see if the mystery girl could be related in somehow. And we’ve struck out on all accounts.
“You’re a million miles away,” Rebecca said to me last night, late, darkened bedroom.
“I’m right here with you, babe,” is what I reply with, but it’s not the truth. I was actually thinking about my brother Billy, somewhere in Florida, running a night club, living the high life. Two years younger than me, but always more motivated to succeed. He left in 77 after graduating from high school, and went down to Miami, or Daytona, or one of those towns where there are hot chicks at the clubs, loud music, and sun most of the year. He called Mom last Christmas to let her know that he had opened his club and wanted her to come down and see it. Mom didn’t seem anxious to do that, but finally agreed she would after the wedding, since I wouldn’t be around.
And I thought that maybe Billy should’ve been the oldest and I could’ve looked up to him like he was supposed to do with me. But that didn’t happen. He didn’t drop out of high school during his junior year, and he didn’t get Theresa Moltisanti knocked up one spring night in 76. He doesn’t have a five year old girl that he has to pay checks to every month but has never seen.
Rebecca rolled over at that point, and laid her arm across my chest, and kissed me softly on the cheek. And I did my best to shove Theresa and Annie out of my mind. And then “she” flashed across my brain again. And this time, my imagination allowed for me to see her smile, and wave at me, even though that hadn’t happened in real life. And I walk through the hatch in the bar, and to her table.
“I’m Petey, I’m twenty-four, and I have a daughter I’ve never seen. But I want to say you are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever laid my eyes on,” I say with dignity and grace, even though it’s probably the line that has the least amount of either that I can think of. And before she could respond, Rebecca shifted in bed, and my daydream was gone like that.
I finish pouring a pint of beer to some middle aged guy with a girl on his arm that was definitely not his wife. Springsteen being born to run blares through the speakers. And a tap on my shoulder as my back is turned. And then, she’s there. And she’s smiling. And I’m speechless.
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