A Summer of Promised Remorse
Most people who knew me growing up would agree that I wore my feelings on my sleeve. My first experience with romantic vulnerability proved it.
She was a freshman, and I was a senior in high school. Her older sister was one of my classmates; both were farmer’s daughters. Carly was undeniably attractive, petite, and blonde, with great legs, but most importantly for me—she wore glasses. We lived in a time when people whose eyesight required them to wear glasses to see the 20/20 “E” on the eye chart were mercilessly called “four eyes.” Yet those glasses on her adorable face melted my heart. This may have been warped reasoning on my part, induced by a fever dream of desire, believing that other guys would be turned off by her glasses. Not me. I saw them as a mysterious accent to her natural beauty, not a source of deficiency or shame. Nerd was not in the English lexicon in 1969, but neither was she a nerd; I was.
Being a nerd drawn to such a beautiful girl—who was out of my league—made my ill-fated romantic overtures dead on arrival. I would sometimes follow her from our last classes to the buses and just daydream. Not fantasize. There was absolutely nothing prurient or erotic about my desire for her. It was wholesome, pure as the virgin snow, even ‘Doris Day-esque’ romantic attraction. Nothing more. But boy, was it deep. Down to my bones. Just being in her presence was some of the sweetest pain I knew as a 17-year-old. I wore it proudly—on my sleeve.
I recall one instance when I mustered enough courage to talk to her between classes. She humored me by responding thoughtfully to my clumsy, nerdy romanticism. We were talking about her parents’ new car, a Buick Electra 225. I pronounced it ever so coolly as “2-2-fiiiiiiive,” with a slight mischievous growl in my voice, what we call vocal fry today. That was male muscle-car teen-speak where we grew up. At the time, I didn’t know whether 225 was the horsepower, engine displacement, or seating capacity. I never owned a muscle car, or for that matter any car, while in high school. I drove my parents’ navy blue Chevy II Nova. “No va” in Spanish means “it doesn’t go.” Chevrolet has three assembly plants in Mexico now.
One of my best friends was a bona fide nerd. I was a wannabe. He earned credentials. I avoided them. He went to UNC-Chapel Hill, studied physics, earned his doctorate, invented shit, and had a heart attack in his 60s. I went to NC State, studied… no, goofed off, left after two years with a probationary GPA, served in the military, finished college, went to work, and did not have a heart attack in my 60s—knocking on wood in my 70s.
In a moment of poor judgment, my friend became an accomplice and co-conspirator in my only real date with Carly—to that bastion of high school gossip, Senior Prom. At our high school, prom was second only to seniors painting the campus water tank in producing legends that would be repeated long after the school itself was gone. My brother can attest to that. I suspect Carly’s parents told her that Southern young ladies were supposed to be kind and accommodating, within limits, of course, to their suitors. She was indeed kind and accommodating when she accepted my invitation to the Prom. I was stunned.
She was stunning in her full-length, dusty-rose evening gown when I picked her up from home that evening. I’m sure my mom had gotten the inside scoop on her gown color and guided me when I purchased the nosegay. How the hell did a wrist corsage get the moniker “nosegay?” Is that French? Hoosegow, jail; nosegay, corsage. Got it.
Although I was merely an aspiring nerd, I had already adopted certain nerdy traits useful to everyday nerd life. I was terrified of making an idiot of myself in front of the object of my devotion at the prom, so I only made small talk and mostly looked away. If we danced at all, it was a slow dance. We did have our pictures taken and drank Kool-Aid or whatever non-alcoholic drink was served. I was a hot mess, and she knew it. Yet she was cordial, sweet, and bored. After the band stopped playing, we left, and I drove her home.
After arriving at her house, I got out of the car and performed my most daring and stupid romantic act of my young life. After opening the car door for her, taking her by the hand to help her out, I looked up at a full moon, and said, “Wow! Look at that. A full moon.” And then my brain went into full nerd lockdown mode when I finished with, “I’ve heard that it means… good fishing.” Yeah. That’s what I said, all right. Not “romance,” not “love,” not even “moonlight walks.” Stupid. Ass. Fishing.
In retrospect, I’m sure I rationalized my verbal incapacitation with, “Well, at least I didn’t look like an idiot.” Luckily for both of us, this happened near the end of the school year, so she didn’t have to endure any more of my nerdiness. The summer of 1969 had been full of promise. Now it was full of remorse. Maybe the prom held the promise of remorse, but I wasn’t listening. I was going on vacation then to college.
During my fall semester at NC State University, I took general chemistry for engineering students. It took away any aspirations I had for becoming an engineer. You know the kind of course I’m speaking about. The kind that are intentionally designed to find the weaklings and crush their spirits in the mortar and pestle of academia. I was happy to get a D in Chem 101 and even happier to leave engineering behind. What the hell was I thinking?
My grandfather passed away in July 1970. I had to fly back home from my summer job to attend his funeral. While receiving visitors at my grandmother’s house, Carly and her mom dropped in. She looked at me thoughtfully and gave me a warm, sympathetic embrace. Despite my moonstruck nerdiness from the previous summer, she cared enough to offer condolences. I was touched but honestly have no memory of how I reacted to her hug. It must have aroused in me some glimmer of hope for redemption in my romantic pursuits with her. Of course, it never occurred to me at the time Carly may have been encouraged to visit. In my mind, nerdiness and naïveté conspired to find feelings from her that didn’t exist.
In the early winter of 1970, while home from college, I had a serendipitous encounter with Carly. She was with her mother. We talked briefly, and she agreed to let me drive her first to see my parents before taking her home. I remember how thrilled and gushing my mom was when we walked in. “Well, isn’t this a pleasant surprise,” she said in her overcompensating way of motherly joy. You could have cut the parental encouragement and approval with a knife. I do not recall what I said to Carly at this chance meeting, but my feelings, worn on my sleeve, must have betrayed me.
Within a week of returning to college, I received the letter. You know, THE letter. The one that begins, “Dear John….” Mine began Dear Wayne, a surrogate name for anyone about to become a romantic castaway. I was crushed. I was heartbroken. I was sobbing.
“Is it not strange that sheep’s guts can hail men's souls from their bodies?”
—William Shakespeare, From Much Ado About Nothing
I didn’t know anything about Shakespeare in 1970. Since receiving THE letter, I have never spoken to her again. I wasn’t pissed off at her. I was pissed off at myself—for being a nerd.
Carly was the first person to break my heart in a way that felt existentially threatening. I got over it. In 1986, almost as if it were a delayed response to my first episode of unrequited love, another Carly (Simon) sang, “There’s more room in a broken heart.” Touché.
I’m unsure whether I still wear my feelings on my sleeve the way I did back then, which is fine. My emotional intelligence quotient may not be high, but it has taught me to keep my sleeves rolled up.
