It was the summer of '81, the last summer of grade school right before I started junior high. On this particular day, I was over at my buddy Noel's house, where we were trying to find some mischief to occupy our time. He clapped his hands, "I know what we can do. Follow me." With that, he grabbed a handful of dimes from the kitchen counter, stuffed them in his pocket, and headed for the front door.
We cut through a park and strolled over to a nearby convenience store just across from the railroad tracks. Buying a couple of Cokes, we loitered outside, sipped our drinks, and watched traffic ply the road in front of us. A train happened by and we counted freight cars as they lumbered past. Throwing back the last of his Coke, Noel headed for the phone outside the store and started flipping through the tethered phonebook.
"Who you callin'?"
"A girl." He had my attention. I stood there and had to think about it. Nope. I don't think I'd ever called a girl before, but here I was, getting a primer on how to execute this ambitious maneuver. Scanning the alphabetized listings, Noel found the young lady of interest. He flicked a dime into the coin slot and dialed her number with a deftness that belied his years.
What followed was, to me, an unfathomably laid-back, easy-going conversation. From the one side I was privy to, topics ranged from her family's plans for the weekend, what she thought of the new #1 song from Casey Kasem's countdown, and if she was in to the drama coming out of Southfork on Dallas reruns. Finally, 20 minutes later, he hung up the phone with a parting "goodbye" and a goofy smile on his face.
"How'd you do that? How do you talk to a girl for that long without gettin' squirly?
"Pfft. You just call her and talk. How hard is that?"
*sigh
I love Noel like a brother, but at that moment I really wanted to punch him. He may as well have said, "Pfft. You just strap into an F-16 and take it for a spin. How hard is that?" I guess he saw my exasperation so he tried to expound on his tutelage.
"OK. Look. Do you have your eye on anyone?"
"Umm..." There was that one girl living over at the housing on the CB base. "Yeah."
"Well, alright!" He clapped me on the shoulder. "Do you know her number?"
"Umm. No."
"Well, what do you know about her?" He was thinking favorite group or song, so my answer completely flummoxed him.
"I know the license plate number off of her family car," I said, hopefully. But it was his turn to sigh as he rubbed his eyes while shaking his head.
"Jeez, Wayne. I don't... Let me get this straight. You don't know her phone number."
"Nope."
"But you know her license plate number."
"Well...yeah. I see it when I ride by her house all the time. It's easy."
"Wayne, man, that's not easy. That's just....weird." I raised my hands and shrugged my shoulders in full agreement. With a resigned shake of his head, he turned to walk back into the store. Girls 101 would have to wait for a while. "C'mon. Let's go for the high score on Defender."
"Cool. That's definitely easier."
Sadly, my dorkiness ran deeper. Around this same time, I actually memorized the lyrics to today's song in the event a chance to serenade that cute girl ever popped up. Not only was it "not Top 40", but the album I had was from Engelbert Humperdinck. Ladies have been breathing a collective sigh of relief since 1997 when I went off the market.
It did not bode well for Andrea, though.
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