It was 1983. I was nineteen, Billy Idol was big, tight ankle nipper jeans were what the hotties would wear, and I was in my first year of college, sowing some mighty oats.
It was the Oktoberfest pub crawl and I was well prepared: a mickey of rye for the bus, a cigarette pack full of weed, and nothing but fun on the mind. We'd hit about four places and drank two drinks at each, and most of us were feeling no pain and having the time of our lives. The bus had divided into two groups: the serious-about-getting-wasted group and the I-hope-my-parents-don't-find-out group. I, of course, was in the former.
As the night wore on, a raven-haired beauty by the name of Heather caught more than just my eye; a couple of healthy pulls on the rye and a bogarting of a joint told me that this was one girl I could learn to love.
At our next stop Heather said she'd buy tequila shots for all brave enough. There were only five takers, me included; from that point on I saw that Heather was able to keep up to me better than any of my newfound classmates save one (and his name was Ripley, believe it or not).
After the shots Heather asked if I felt like smoking another joint and I said sure. We went outside to the parking lot and four of us partook. While giving her a shotgun toke she planted her lips firmly on mine and I realized I may have found everlasting love.
At the end of the crawl I was asked to accompany this fine young lady home; being a gentleman, I complied. It was a night to remember.
Our relationship was now six months old and was good in all respects except one: Heather had a terrible jealous streak, and sometimes, when drinking, she would completely imagine something happening that didn't. She was very difficult to mollify. One evening proved very problematic. We were in a local bar enjoying a Huey Lewis cover band. I was talking with a fellow student and HER BOYFRIEND when Heather decided I was putting the moves on her. I didn't see it but a beer bottle was coming my way -- fortunately it missed, but it hit the wall, and the next thing I knew two bouncers were escorting me out for the trouble I'd caused. It was only eleven P.M.
Pissed off, I walked back to Heather's and prepared to confront her when she finally came home. Her roommate Wendy said when I got there that "she'll be all teary and sorry -- be prepared." When she did come home, an hour later, it was like I was Tina and she was Ike -- she was so sorry, so very sorry, baby, I'll never do it again, just give me one last chance. She did everything she could to make up for it.
I gave her that one last chance.
The next morning we smoked a joint and had some fruit. I made instant coffee and when she went off to class, I hung back and lay in the bathtub, soaking my weary bones. Ten minutes after I got in the bath I heard a terrible pounding was on the front door. Thinking her roommate and her roommate's boyfriend were still there, I didn't bother answering. The pounding went on and on until finally Wendy's boyfriend opened the door. Next there was pounding on the bathroom door.
"Hold on," I said. I got a towel, wrapped it around my waist, and opened the door -- and oh my God, I was pushed aside while Heather ripped down her jeans, which were heavily soiled with the filthiest-smelling ass omelet you've ever encountered. She was screaming for me to get out. I complied as hastily as physics permitted; in fact, atom subdivision would have seemed slow in comparison.
Upon putting on my clothes, I realized that maybe this match was not right for me. Maybe I was too young to not play the field. I wonder how I could extricate myself from this rancid romance. In hindsight, I realize something else motivated me. I finished dressing, gathered my meager belongings, sidled up to the bathroom door, and said, "Call me when you feel better."
She called after school that day. We went for dinner. But from that point on, all I could see was her shit-covered panties around her ankles and shit streaks on her legs -- these areas I had normally kissed on my way to nirvana, now they were bespoiled by bungjuice, caked by crapola, smeared by shitwater. If ever there were a time when men believed women didn't shit I would need it each time I saw her -- but alackaday and fuck my luck, it was never to be.
She was very remorseful, very loving during dinner; but my mind kept reverting to the catastrophe I'd witnessed. I felt trapped and I needed an out, so I said that I thought Judy in my accounting class was really hot, knowing the fire this would invoke in Heather.
Tears welling in her eyes, she called me a fucking bastard and left. I believe she knew it was not her jealousy that destroyed what we had, but rather her poo pancake with a side of shit syrup.
Heather, if you are reading this: I shit myself golfing just last year and now realize how wrong I was. I'm sorry. You were the best. -- Andy
