Tuesday, July 17, 2012

Don't Call Me Daddy

Roaming around on Facebook this morning, I discovered that a friend’s daughter just got her driver’s license and a car.

Way back in the early 1990s, I had a massive crush on this friend.  I was far too shy to ever approach her – she was an absolute knockout, what would she want with me?  We were friends of friends, and it took a while to build a friendship of our own.  But it happened. 
One winter night, a bunch of us were at the house she lived in with her brother and mother.  There was a really bad snowstorm, and it was decided that I shouldn’t leave the house.  Driving to work would be too dangerous.  Hesitantly, I agreed to stay overnight.  Funny, weather has NEVER stopped me from driving other than this night.
Eventually, we decided to settle down for the night.  The other 2 friends were a couple, and they took my friend’s room.  This left her and I sleeping in the living room.  Well, we were curled up on the floor and things happened.  Amazing things happened.  Then her mother walked into the room, saw us “in the middle of it,” turned around and rushed back to her bedroom.

The next morning I awoke, arms around my beautiful friend.  My cigarettes were in the kitchen, and I was horrified to realize that her mother was sitting in the kitchen having coffee.  I quietly got up, dressed, and skulked into the kitchen unsure of what was to happen.  “Pour a coffee,” she said.  “We need to talk.”
“Sure,” I replied.  I liked her mum, but knew she had a temper and was very protective of her children.  I poured a coffee, lit a cigarette, and sat down ready to get murdered.
“Her boyfriend’s a waste of space,” she blurted.  “The piece of shit is always in and out of jail.  She deserves better.  I like you.  You’re a good guy, you’re going somewhere with your life.”
I was in shock.  This was not what I’d expected.
“Do you want a relationship with her?  Because if you do, I’d love it.  I'll do anything I can to help.”

Of course I wanted a relationship with her.  And she did too, we had discussed it.  She was going to break up with her loser boyfriend and her and I could start dating!

A week later, I was invited to their house for Christmas.  I showed up, also driving her young cousin to the house.  I walked into the living room and saw my “girlfriend” sitting on the couch beside Loser Boyfriend.  They were holding hands, and she looked very guilty and ready to cry.
Unable to breathe, I rushed to the kitchen as calmly as I could.  “I hate that dick!” her mother spat.  “He got out of jail the other day, and managed to talk her into staying.  We couldn’t get hold of you to warn you he was here.”
Crushed, I made my excuses and left the party.

A month or so later, she phoned me.  She was pregnant.  I nearly had a heart attack.  We’d used protection, but nothing is 100% safe.  “Don’t worry,” she told me, "it's his.”  And it was.  The poor thing looks just like her father.

Not long after this, I left Hometown.  We haven’t actually talked since.  I understand why she did what she did, she was already a single mum (my scare was daughter #2) and wasn’t sure I could commit.
I don’t know how long they lasted as a couple, probably not very long.  A few years ago she met a seemingly great guy, a single dad, and they married.  This I’ve learned from Facebook, and her and I have emailed maybe once a year for the last couple of years. 
She’s very happy.  As am I.  I doubt we would have been happy together.  I probably would have stayed in Hometown and never even glimpsed my life potential.  She might not have met her current husband.

Her daughter, who for a second I thought was mine, got her driver’s license today and a car to drive.  She has no idea who I am, and I know this is a connection to someone I don’t know, but it made me smile.  And it made me feel old.


  1. Old.
    As I'm getting older, I'm seeing old as the thing to achieve. Anything less than that is dead, right?

  2. I really don't mind feeling "old." To me, it feels wise and empowered. And able to refer to myself as curmudgeony or crotchety. Or any other c-word, for that matter...