A Joyful Irony

Life is full of the unforeseen—twists and turns and ironies that crop up when we least expect it. What happened to me recently underscores the point.

First, let me take you back, way back to the late fall of 1965 at a place called the Baltimore Civic Center and a rock group called the Rolling Stones. The Stones were on their second American tour that November when they dropped into town, famous for its steamed crabs and birthplace of the Star Spangled Banner. The group was riding high (no pun intended) with a number one single on America's Top 40, Get Off Of My Cloud. Satisfaction, which would be high on the list of greatest rock songs, had been released the previous summer. They weren't quite as popular with the general public as The Beatles. However, rock fans that favored a raw, bluesy sound, along with a bad boy image to go with it, might pick the Stones over the Fab Four.

Larry Rudo and Burt Winaker, neighbors and high school buddies, were two of those rock fans who went to see Mick, Keith, Charlie, Bill and Brian on that Saturday in November. They went to hear the music, not meet babes. But, as luck would have it, they did both when the two girls they were sitting next to, Jill Adler and Sarah Hershey, struck up a conversation. Both girls, like Larry and Burt, were serious Stones fans, the guys told me later. They didn't scream and swoon, they grooved on the music. They exchanged phone numbers and plans to see each other after the concert. Sarah and Burt fizzled out for reasons lost to time. But Larry and Jill started seeing each other, which is where I entered the picture, mainly because I had access to a car during weekdays. In fact, I was the main driver in our carpool group going to and from our high school, a stone Gothic pile built in the late nine-teen twenties. The "castle on the hill," it was called, for obvious reasons.

Anyway, the following week (the Stones concert was on a Saturday), Larry asked me to extend my chauffeuring duties by schlepping him over to Miss Adler's house after school, a time when her working parents wouldn't be home. With vague promises that Jill would bring a friend along, I obliged. Jill went to a suburban county high school and, like us, her class was on four-hour shifts. Classes let out around noon, so we had plenty of time to play before her parents got home. Well, three's a crowd, as they say, and I was the odd man out because Jill's phantom friend failed to show—if such a friend even existed and I've had my doubts ever since.

We repaired to Jill's club basement, talked about the Stones concert and TV shows we liked. Gidget came up (it had premiered that fall), along with the show's star, Sally Field, then nineteen. Jill poured us soft drinks, then proudly showed us the just released Stones album she had bought, Out of Our Heads. This was the American version that included Satisfaction, The Last Time and Play with Fire, songs missing from the Decca UK set. She played it on her parents' Magnavox console, more a piece of furniture than anything resembling hi-fi. Things were going along fine until Larry and Jill began necking on the sofa, making me feel even more marginalized. They were both fully clothed, both virgins as far as I knew, but both more experienced than me. I mean, up to that time, you could count on one hand the number of dates I had under my belt. Number of girls kissed: zero. What really infuriated me, though, was when Jill pulled away from Lou's embrace and waved at me, which included this eat your heart out sort of look. She then resumed the make-out while I sat there steaming.

On the way home, I made it clear to Larry that my social chauffeuring duties were over. To his credit, he understood. Not long after that, he and Jill parted ways.

Well, two years went by, two years of dating various people with little to show for it. By the fall of '67, I was still looking for that significant other, and decided to call Jill. No, I hadn't forgotten what happened. But I figured that she had grown up since that day in her club basement. Plus, the girl was undeniably cute—slim, petite and blue-eyed, with high cheek bones, an adorable nose, dimpled cheeks, pouty lips and straight, dirty-blond hair that dropped below her shoulders. To my surprise, she agreed to go out. However, that's all she agreed to, because it didn't take but a couple dates (one of them was to a college fraternity party) for me to realize that she was going out with me simply for the sake of going out. Some guys can't get to first base. Me, I barely made it out of the dugout. Not that I was looking for an easy lay. Or any lay at that point. But even a goodnight kiss was beyond where she was willing to go. End of story with Jill Adler.

And it was, too, through some ten presidential administrations, countless cultural happenings and technological advances that we could only dream about back when LBJ was president. I married and then, years later, divorced. Through a web search, I learned that Jill Adler had become Jill Douglas. Through Facebook, I also learned that her high school class of '68 was preparing for a 50th reunion. Naturally, I couldn't help but wonder if Jill would show up. "Come and find out," Wayne Gosnell said, a friend from Jill's class, although he didn't know her. He agreed to take me as his guest, said he could use the company because his wife had no interest in going. Before we went, he looked up her photo in the yearbook. "She looks familiar," he said. "But don't expect her to be this cute now. Pardon my chauvinistic, political incorrectness, but women don't age as well as men."

They held the affair on a warm Saturday, September afternoon at a waterfront seafood restaurant surrounded by docks and sailboats boats anchored nearby. The Annapolis waterfront was a great setting for a reunion, I thought. Like my own 50th a year before, like most reunions, people wore nametags (some even had their yearbook photos printed on them). Jill didn't have a Facebook account, so I had no idea what she might look like a half century from last we spoke. Wayne and I walked in, got drinks at the open bar, and then began to mingle. Like many of the people here, we wore business causal.

The contrast in the way people age has always fascinated me. Go to any high school reunion and you see people who look younger than their age, older or "just right." You see slim and fat, bald guys and guys who have as much hair as they did back in the day. You see the people who've taken care of their bodies and those that have let their bodies slide into mush. Such was the case with the class of '68, these people in their late sixties returning to connect and share memories. Not to brag, but over fifty years of sweat equity invested in keeping myself fit had paid me rich dividends. Sure, I had my share of health problems, arthritis among them. But few men my age could claim six-pack abs and fifty-mile-plus bike rides pacing at over sixteen miles per hour on hilly terrain. At five-foot ten and one-hundred and seventy-five pounds, I was in great shape and looked it. Wayne, by contrast, was around my height and paunchy. Exercise? He mowed his lawn, he said, and walked his dog around the block. Admittedly, I envied his full head of hair. Never mind that it had turned gray, at least he had it, compared to my balding pate.

But what did Jill look like and was she even here among these one-hundred-plus people? I kept that in mind while Wayne strolled around, hugging and back-slapping and sharing laughs with his former classmates. He introduced me to each one, told them I graduated from that city school which produced a future mayor. Meanwhile, I kept scanning the room, focusing on the women, glancing at their name tags. Then, shortly before lunch was served, I zeroed in on a woman in a blue dress hemmed just below her knees standing a few yards away. She was wearing low heels and chatting with two other women. She was slim and blond and, well, I had a feeling.

Excusing myself from Wayne and his group, I strolled up to the threesome and then, discreetly as I could, caught the name tag on the woman in the blue dress. Yes, it was HER. The tag read Jill Douglas, Jill Adler right beneath it. I quickly walked past them, a bit stunned. Damn, she looked good! She didn't look sixty-eight, that's for sure. Her hair, a lighter blond than I recall, dropped just below her shoulders in waves and curls. "That's her!" I told Wayne when I returned all excited. "Now what?"

Wayne laughed. "Now what? You talk to her, that's what. Don't be shy, Dennis. I mean, that's what you came here for."

Of course, he was right, and I knew I'd regret it if I chickened out. So, I approached once again. Then, facing Jill, I said, "Sorry to interrupt, but I think I know you." The two other ladies, a brunette who had to be six feet and a white-haired, wrinkled lady about Jill's average height looked on, their expressions a picture of amused curiosity. Jill glanced at my chest to check for a name tag. "City, class of sixty-seven," I informed her. "No name tag. I'm here as someone's guest."

"Well, the only City boy I once knew is a guy named Larry," she said. "And I doubt you're him. Nobody changes that much."

"No—I mean right—I'm not him. You're thinking of Larry Rudo. I'm Dennis Gilmore. We went out a couple times when you were a senior."

She narrowed her almond shaped eyes and turned her lips inward. "God, I feel terrible, Dennis. Where did we go?"

A fraternity party at the University of Maryland was all I could recall of the two or three times we had gone out. "I was pledging Alpha Epsilon Pi at the time and I took you. We hired The Scotsmen, a local band."

She opened her mouth and slowly nodded her head. "Wait! Were you the guy who drove Larry over to my house that time?"

As noted, it was a painful memory, yet I wanted to hug her simply for remembering. "Yeah, that was me. We were listening to the Stones' Out of Our Heads album and talked about Sally Field and her role in Gidget. You and Larry necked on the sofa while I sat there and watched. It was just after the Stones concert at the Civic Center where you met Larry and also after the great Northeast blackout." Jill's two friends shook their heads and laughed. I didn't want to spoil the mirthful mood by mentioning her condescending wave.

Jill grinned in amazement. "Boy, you took in the whole situation, didn't you?" Pause. "Yes, I remember now. You called me a couple years later. Being still in high school, it felt so cool being asked out by a college fraternity guy. I liked to dance and so did you, if I recall." She was right. I did enjoy dancing then but lost interest by my senior year in college.

Her friends drifted away as we talked about our lives. Both of us were retired, she from teaching and me from a supervisor position with the state. We each had two grown kids, no grand-kids, though she had one on the way. A heart attack took her husband Jim two years ago. Months later, she sold their house and bought a condo. She appreciated my condolences, even let me reach out to give her a comforting hug. "What happened to Jim is one of life's tragic ironies," she said. "He ate healthy, exercised, did everything right. Then early one morning he woke up with chest pains, was rushed to the ER and was gone an hour later. You never know."

I nodded. "No, you sure don't."

"Look at some of these people here," she continued. "Not to be unkind, but some of them look in terrible shape. They're older than Jim was when he died, yet they're still going." She focused on one former classmate, a guy sporting a white mustache wearing a blue, short-sleeve shirt who must have tipped the scales at three-hundred pounds. Then she turned back to me. "It's obvious that you take care of yourself. And so do I. But, like I said, you never know."

We began discussing our exercise regimens when one of the organizers told everyone to find their assigned seats. "Great speaking with you, Dennis, see you around," Jill said before we parted ways. Sitting next to Wayne at one of the round tables, I gave him a rundown on what transpired. He encouraged me to take it further. I was definitely interested, though I wasn't sure if Jill felt the same. Remember, she wouldn't even kiss me, something else I was tempted to bring up but didn't. Our lunch was delicious, a seafood combo of fresh fish, oysters and mussels, served with backed potato and coleslaw.

During coffee and dessert, two women, reunion organizers, gave speeches. Afterward, people began to drift outside to the docks. It was sunny and warm, a rare kind of day after months of above average rainfall. Wayne noticed me turning my head when we joined the crowd. "You're looking for Jill Douglas, I bet," he teased. I couldn't deny it as we leaned over the railing, looking out at the boats sailing by.

Moments later, I got a tap on the shoulder and spun around. "There you are," Jill said. It felt weird as a guest introducing Wayne and Jill, former classmates. Neither remembered the other, understandable considering that my own class of '67, like this one of '68, had hundreds of graduates. Wayne gave me a wink, then let us be. Jill said she was stuffed and suggested we walk. We strolled to the end of the dock, then picked up a brick promenade that stretched along the shoreline. Beginning to sweat, I slipped off my blue blazer and slung it over my shoulder. I couldn't get over how good Jill looked. She wasn't beautiful; she was never that. She was cute, as noted, and somehow, like Sally Field, she managed to retain that cuteness into her sixties.

"I hope I'm not keeping you from your old classmates," I said.

She stopped and looked me in the eye. "As a matter of fact, you are. And I hope you keep it up."

Well golly gee. No, I didn't say that, but that's how I felt. She apparently liked me. What changed in fifty fucking years? I didn't ask. I just smiled and ran my hand down her arm. "Jill, you look great."

She reached out and felt my right bicep, topped by a big rope-like vein. "Well, so do you, Dennis Gilmore." She then sighed and looked away.

"Something wrong?"

She turned back and brushed strands of her bangs away from her eye. "It's all coming back."

"What is?"

"I wouldn't let you kiss me. We came back to my house after the frat party. You walked me up to the porch, then held my arms, leaned in for a kiss and I stepped back and turned away. You never called me again. You remember that, I'm sure."

"Not easy to forget. So why the rejection?"

She shook her head. "Oh, I don't know. Fifty years...such a long time ago. I have a vague memory of feeling you weren't my type. You were kind of shy. And maybe the timing wasn't right either. Timing is such a huge part of life, isn't it?"

"You bet." I ran my fingers through the ends of her blond hair. "So how's your timing now? By the way, I got over most of my shyness."

She chuckled. "I can see that. How's my timing now? I'll show you."

And she did, reached up and wrapped her arms around me and made up for lost time, made up for that rejection on her porch. Flinging my blazer on the grass, I closed my eyes and got into it. I felt the gentle contours of her youthful-senior body, inhaled the subtle scent of her perfume as I pressed my lips to hers. A sense of triumph came over me, a sense of redemption. The girl who once rejected me, even ridiculed me, was now the mature woman who acted as if she couldn't get enough of me. It was a marvel to experience the way time can change the mindset of someone. "Dennis, if I had let you kiss me like that fifty years ago," she said when we took a breather, "I might have lost my virginity before getting out of high school. Woo, that was nice."

Her breathing had picked up; mine too. "Somehow I doubt it," I said. "I wasn't exactly a Latin lover back then. Shy, yes, and way behind the eight ball in social skills."

She rubbed her hand across my salt and pepper, close-cropped beard. "We've come a long way, haven't we?"

I took her hand. "And our journey's not over yet. At least I hope it isn't. You called Jim's death one of life's tragic ironies. Maybe we can turn this into one of life's joyful ironies."

"Does that mean you'd like to see me sometime in the futucha, Mr. Gilmore?" She batted her blue eyes like some Southern belle in a movie melodrama, replete with the faux accent.

I squeezed her hand, and then played with her hair, silky and soft. "Yes, but no turning away on the porch this time, Ms. Douglas. Got it?"

"Well, my condo doesn't have a porch. But if it did, my feeling is that I'd invite you in and then we'd be doing things I never did in high school. You should be forewarned, Dennis, that I haven't dated much since Jim died. And I just bet you look terrific in the buff."

"I'll let you be the judge of that," I said. Thinking along similar lines, I added, "And I bet you look sweet and sexy in lace panties and a push-up bra."

"I bet you can't see yourself talking like that fifty years ago."

"Fifty years ago, I wasn't sure what lace panties even looked like."

We laughed and chatted on the way back, strolling along the dock, holding hands. The air crackled with the squawk of seagulls and the giddy excitement of two people who some would say were way past the age of giddy excitement.