HeartBreaking Work About Staggering Geniuses

This is the worst love story ever written. And almost all of it is true. I am going to tell it anyways.

Back in high school, I worked a part time job at a fast-food joint up on the hill in a small town in southern Pennsylvania. It was the best job in town, and I was happy to have it. It was an odd group of people, back, then, many of the Studious types, band members, those with a lot of drive, worked that job. If you were good with numbers quick on your feet and we’re fairly well spoken, you were generally hired. If you stayed at a long time or not, was more a question of culture? We worked together and we certainly partied together.

Most of the people who worked there were from our high school, I knew them before going to work there. Of course, some gave references. There was this one girl who worked there from a neighboring high school and her name was Cheryl. if I spelled it wrong, I apologize in advance because I never knew how it is spelled. I loved being on shift with her as she, in my opinion was one of the prettiest girls I had laid eyes on. This despite working amongst the greasy confines, serving food at our local McDonalds. She had big brown eyes, pretty eyelashes and pretty caramel colored dimpled skin. Her smile was crooked, with a gap in her front teeth.

When we worked together, she hardly talked to me and in general gave no indication at all that she was interested in me. And I was fascinated in her as I worked. I insistently, watched her out of the corner of my eyes hoping she would not notice. We rarely had shifts together as I worked late and she worked after school, which is probably a good thing at the time. Back then we were all pit bulls with pimples and adrenaline, sports and occasional studies. The thinking, brain power and social etiquette were not fully developed. We didn’t know that at the time.

I hate to admit this I don’t remember when and where I asked her out. Everybody has a romantic story to tell but I do not. I was terrified of rejection. This should have been a momentous moment in my life. I believe I had progressed past the point of passing notes in class. I guess I can rule that out as we didn’t go to the same school. Somewhere along the path to high school graduation, I asked her to go to the prom with me, and she must have said yes. If social media existed back then, my status would have read IT’S NOT COMPLICATED.

Even back then, I was not into the pomp and circumstance, associated with going to the prom. I picked out a brown tuxedo in a strip mall. My swanky tuxedo had a yellow shirt and a brown tie. I have no idea why I picked that out since I was paying for it myself it might’ve been on the bargain table. The subject of my teenage crush, she actuality talked to me about the prom and actually put a lot of mental energy into it. She picked out a yellow dress and I told her that the flower I like is baby’s breath. I didn’t know what that was, I think my mom told me about it one night. That’s what I decided I liked. It doesn’t seem all that much different than how I picked my prom date.

Leading up to the prom we went on maybe two or three dates and I believe most of them were parties. I remember one party where a guy hit on her, and she disappeared for a while. I was not really good at reading social cues, but I certainly liked her. I thought she was beautiful, and she seemed to be liking me a little more and more at the time crew closer. As I think about this silly little quirk in the cosmos, I am constantly reminded our brains were not fully developed at that age.

The prom seemed like a huge afterthought. Her father was a bulking policeman on The Mount Penn police force. I had never met the man but was intimidated by the idea of meeting him. My parents let me borrow the white Monte Carlo with the leather seats. My stepdad said there was to be no beer in the car and please don’t turn the car off with the radio running. Meeting Mr. policeman was a huge nonevent. I must say she did look absolutely stunning as she walked down the steps. She had on shiny earrings and her eyes sparkled in the late afternoon tilted sunlight. I put a baby’s breath corsage right above her left breath. The flowers were pretty.

I remember bringing out my perfectly harvested playlist for the ride to the event. I played a Chuck Mangione tape containing the song “Feels So Good”. That felt almost perfect. Eric Clapton’s Wonderful Tonight was tacky and until this day, I rue that decision. The prom was a bit of a whirlwind. And it was nice touching her bare shoulders as we danced.

Somewhere that night, I opened a bottle of champagne, and it was glaringly obvious I had not done my homework. And the genius in my underdeveloped brain led me to open the champagne in the Monte Carlo. That champagne bottle had been places. It sat hidden in the bushes just off of Butter Lane through two days and two nights. That is where we hid things purchases by those who looked of legal drinking age. My buddy Nick retrieved it from the bushes, and he gave it to on my ride over to meet Cheryl and her policeman father. All that work so that I could be permanently banned from ever driving The Monte Carlo. I should have driven my yellow Falcon.

I did turn the car off while the radio was still playing. But yes, it was nice touching her bad bare shoulders. For the most part we had a pretty decent time. We left as the song “Dancing In The Moonlight” was coming to a close. I had to be to work early the next morning, so I got her home much before the expected curfew. Her dress smelled of champagne, but I got her home on time. It wasn’t like she was going to call the police.

You know those love stories where the gal hops up on the horse, then rides off into the sunset and lives happily ever after. That didn’t happen here. We had one date after that, and we were both bored. My friends referred to her as Burger. We were mean that way. What a nickname to have just because we met at McDonalds.

We never spoke to each other again until many years later. Let me retype that sentence. We never spoke to each other again, until many years later her name came up in a conversation with my brothers and my stepdad. I am not sure how her name snuck into that conversation. We were sitting on the screened in porch at my mother’s house. It was a typical Delaware evening where not much was happening. Despite the roar of the frogs in the garden, the conversation veered in the direction of our respective proms. Family reunions are unsettling that way.

My brother stays more in tuned to the events in and around where we grew up.i actually actively stay away from it.

I asked him, off the cuff, more being a wise Ass, than expecting a realistic answer to this question. “Have you ever heard anything about Cheryl.” By this time, I had dated more than one Cheryl in my life, but he knew whom I was referring to.

My brother floundered for a second and then in an understated manner said. “I hear she is prostitute now.”

I didn’t ask any more questions.